“I’ll go to Matamoros, then,” vowed Leo. “Or else I’ll stay home. But you can bet that I don’t sit in that Goliad all winter.”
They agreed on Matamoros; and many were the other protests, on every side. But sure enough, at two o’clock in the afternoon the orders were issued for the camp to break up and march on the back trail at seven o’clock that evening. The siege of Bejar was to be raised.
Sullenly and regretfully the men went about their tasks of preparing to leave—when suddenly, toward sun-down, Leo came running and excited to where Ernest and Jim sat rebelliously putting last patches on their boots, for the prospective journey.
“Hurry up!” bade Leo. “To headquarters, quick! Arnold’s back, and a Mexican deserter, and there’s something going on. If you don’t get there you’ll be too late.”
Away they dashed, following the generous Leo. Before the tent of General Burleson a considerable crowd had gathered. Sion was there, of course; and Dick Carroll, and Henry Karnes, and Captain Dickinson, and Captain Travis, and many others. Colonel Milam could be glimpsed, inside the tent, where voices were arguing.
“Arnold’s all right,” informed Sion. “He was just scouting ’round, preliminary, and met up with that Mexican lieutenant deserting to us, and fetched him along in. The lieutenant says Bejar is our meat—busted wide open, and Cos can’t hardly hold his men together. And they don’t suspect any attack.”
At that moment Colonel Milam abruptly stepped out, through the tent flaps. He faced the crowd, and snatching off his wide-brimmed hat swung it high.
“Who will go with old Ben Milam into San Antonio?” he shouted.