“I reckon it is,” answered one of the first two men.
The general climbed into his saddle and gathered the lines; Colonel Hockley did the same.
“Very well,” spoke the general. “Gentlemen, I thank you and shall be glad of your society. A dispatch will go to Goliad, directing Colonel Fannin to march at all speed and unite his troops with ours on the Cibolo beyond Gonzales. We may yet rescue Travis. The result is in the hands of an all-wise God, and I rely confidently upon His Providence. Texas shall be free.”
He touched his horse with the spur, and rode off at a smart canter. Colonel Hockley fell in beside him. The two other men followed, and Dick and Ernest closed the rear. Less than an hour had passed since the great speech in the convention hall. But no cheers sent them off. Scarcely anybody paid attention. It seemed to Ernest rather a forlorn start.
All day they steadily rode on the trail that conducted westward across a wide fertile prairie of high grass and flowers broken by tree islands and by bottom-lands where grew the wild rye and the cane. Sixty-five miles was it from Washington on the Brazos to the Colorado at Moore’s Retreat, or Moore’s Ferry, as it was also called. From Moore’s to Gonzales was forty-five miles. From Gonzales to Bejar was seventy or seventy-five.
They passed a number of ranches. Most of the men were at Washington or at Gonzales; and those who were left at home, and the women-folk, appeared terror-stricken by the rumors that they had heard. At dusk the general halted for camp, amidst the luxuriant grasses, by a little stream; the horses were turned out on their picket ropes to graze, a cold supper was eaten, and blankets were spread. Only a few words were spoken. The general seemed depressed and anxious; heavy care had settled on him.
In the morning Ernest was aroused before sunrise. Dick and the other men were astir, and were standing watching the general. He had walked aside, to a clear spot, and was stooping, with his ear against the ground.
“Listening, Injun fashion, for the signal guns of the Alamo,” spoke Dick, in a low voice. “Sound travels far along the earth—you can feel the shaking there when you can’t feel a thing, upright. Smith said he heard the guns when he was a hundred miles away; but we’re too far, too far—a hundred and fifty, at least.”
The sun rose, suddenly flooding the green prairie with golden beams, and illuminating the slight fog which hung in patches over the bottoms. Everybody held himself tense, watching the general. It was the moment for the signal guns. For five minutes—yes, for ten minutes, a long, long space—there was utter silence broken only by the twitter of birds. The general abruptly straightened, shook his head, replaced his big whitish hat, and returned to the camp.
“No go,” remarked Dick. “But,” he hopefully added, “we’re too far, yet, general.”