“You’re right he will! He can’t be budged—the bravest, pluckiest man in Texas. And Bowie’s there, and Davy Crockett.”
“What! Davy Crockett the Tennessee hunter?”
“Yes, sir; the same. Davy and his rifle Betsy. He got in about two weeks ago, from Nacogdoches, with a dozen other Tennesseeans, all hankering to help Texas fight for liberty. But there’ll have to be other reinforcements. Fannin may try. Whether he’ll get through I don’t know. The trail in from the east is still open. Who’ll go—and who’ll carry the news on to the government?”
“I will,” spoke a voice. Twas that of Dick Carroll, who, buttoning his clothes, had followed Ernest. “I’m too weak to fight, boys—I’ve been sick, you know; but I can ride. If I don’t get through, Ernest will. Come on, lad; saddle up.”
Without waiting for any answer, he hurried off to the corral. Ernest at his heels.
They quickly buckled the bridles and slapped on the saddles, speaking scarcely a word.
“Finish, and bring the horses,” bade Dick. “Get our fixin’s from the house. I want to see Ponton and that message. Meet me in the square.”
He hastened away through the darkness. Ernest cinched the saddles, ran to the house and got the rifles and ammunition, coats and blankets; and on Duke, leading Dick’s horse, trotted to the square.
Throughout the town lights were glimmering in windows, men and women were stirring, and in the plaza the crowd was larger. The heavy air was full of fear and excitement. But Dick was waiting; he seized the bridle of his horse, as Ernest came up, and vaulted into the saddle.
“Ready?” he uttered, tersely. “We’re off, then.” And with touch of spur he broke his horse into a trot. Ernest drew beside him.