At the Berry ranch, six miles further, the same conversation resulted. And at four o’clock in the afternoon of this March 11 they entered Gonzales.
XVI
MESSENGERS OF DISTRESS
Gonzales appeared to be safe, and alive with people. As the travel-stained little squad rode up broad East Avenue which led into the centre of the town, they saw, along the river bank below town, the smoke of camp fires and the glimmer of several tents; and on before, toward the main plaza and Market Square, many persons were standing or moving about.
The first house seemed to be abandoned in confusion. In the window of the next was a woman who evidently had been crying. From other houses women with white strained faces looked upon them silently, and even the men made no sign. Household goods cluttered the yards. In the principal part of town, at Market Square, and the plaza, were many men—mostly strangers, bearing shot-guns and rifles and yagers, and clad in settler clothing, but with here and there a figure in a blue uniform of short blouse and straight trousers. These all were volunteers.
There were frightened-faced women, too. Some of them Ernest knew well; but he searched almost in vain for a familiar countenance among the men.
It seemed as though the little party were to dismount without having been greeted; the women said not a word, and the strange volunteers likewise only glanced aside, either carelessly or curiously. But as the general reined his horse in, at the plaza, now a scattered cry rose, of “Houston! Sam Houston! Here’s the general, boys,” and as Ernest was sitting, halted, waiting for the general or Dick to say what next was to be done, he heard his own name shouted.
“Hurrah! Ernest Merrill! Hello, there, pardner!”
Jim Hill was running across the plaza, making for him, and waving his hat.