“What’s the matter?” And Ernest turned over crossly. “Who said to wake up?”
“I did. Listen, now! Hear anything?”
At this hour, early dawn, not even the horses were awake, and the ripple of the river sounded low and fitful as if the old San Antonio were talking in its sleep. Ernest strained his ears and his eyes. He could not see a thing, for a thick, saturated fog had settled down, enfolding the bottom and all the world around. And his ears seemed of no more use than his eyes.
“No, I don’t hear anything. Why?”
“Sh! Listen, I tell you,” bade Jim, impatiently. “Hear that?”
“That,” as far as Ernest could guess, was a faint, whiny little sound, scarcely to be distinguished above the murmur of the water. In fact, he wasn’t certain that he heard it at all.
“What?” he demanded. “That? Horse drinking—or maybe a coyote tuning up. Go to sleep. We’ve got plenty sentries.” And he irritably pulled his wet, heavy blanket higher, over his chin, for the dense fog was thrusting its clammy fingers down his neck.
“Sounds to me like one of those Mexican carts squeaking,” asserted Jim. “Don’t hear it now, but I’ve been hearing it, I tell you. If it wasn’t for those sentries I’d say that Cos was crossing a cannon through the river.”
“Well, Henry Karnes is out on guard, and he’ll hear things if anybody can,” retorted Ernest. “So will those fellows in the cupola.” And as fast as possible he took another cat-nap.
Next he was awakened for keeps. In his ears echoed a shrill Texas “Whoo-ee!”—as from a distance. Up and down the lines of prone figures word was being passed for all to tumble out.