“We’ll make through to Burnam’s,” he said. “Change horses; make San Felipe, and I reckon one of us’ll have to go on up to Washington and find Houston.”
“I’ll do it, Dick,” promised Ernest. “You’ve been sick.”
“I know you will. If I wasn’t so all-fired weak, I’d be for the Alamo. Smith is collecting volunteers. They’ll leave in the morning.” He groaned. “Oh, what’s this country coming to? The state without a governor—or with two of ’em, rather. The council and the people divided. Sam Houston without a command—a regular army of sixty or seventy, they say, and no officers or supplies; rest of ’em mainly volunteers from the States—four hundred with Fannin at Goliad, a hundred and thirty with Johnson and Grant at San Patricio, and only a hundred and fifty regulars and volunteers thrown together at Bejar. Houston sent to treat with the Injuns, when he ought to be right on the spot. And the convention, to set things right, not due till March first, and three thousand Mexicans already across the border, to sweep the state. If those fellows would only get out of the Alamo while they have a chance. They could take to the timber and fetch off some of their artillery, too.”
“Don’t you think they will, Dick?”
“Travis? And Bowie, and Bonham, and Dickinson and Crockett? No! They don’t know the meaning of retreat. They’ll wait for Fannin. Maybe he’ll cut through, if he can move his baggage; but I doubt it. He’ll have a hundred miles to cover and Santa Anna’ll be watching for him. Same with Grant and Johnson. If the boys can hold out, they’ll get reinforcements from the east. The Gonzales batch will likely make it—but they’ll be only a few. Most of the settlers are scattered at their homes. They’ll wake, and they’ll wake too late. Darn ’em! Darn us all!”
“But Sam Houston’ll go,” proffered Ernest, hopefully.
“What can he do alone? The council’s ag’in him and the governor, and the people don’t know which to trust. All sorts of stories are afloat. The convention’s got to settle matters. You’ll see, though, how quick they’ll all turn to Sam Houston, with Santa Anna at their doors. Once let the convention give him authority again, and he’ll act, he’ll act. Just now he’s only a delegate from Refugio, waiting orders. But if he gets ’em, and the Texas people will obey him, he’ll save Texas yet.”
Occasionally hoping and despairing, all night they rode, and at dawn reached Burnam’s on the Colorado. While from here the alarm was carried north and south along the river, they drank, ate, rested a couple of hours, and on fresh horses rode for San Felipe, although other messengers had volunteered.
“No. Go to Gonzales, every one of you,” urged Dick.
They arrived at San Felipe with Dick fagged and barely able to sit the saddle. Ernest, tough and young and well, staggered as he dismounted and helped his partner off. It had been a hard ride—the last stretch the hardest of all.