Ernest gazed dumbly. Higher mounted the glow, as fiercer waxed the flames. There went his and Dick’s little home, then; all the buildings were of thin oak siding—they’d burn furiously. Ho-hum! That was pretty tough. What were the people to do, if they ever went back?
False dawn, which precedes real dawn by an hour, was in the air, and sleepy birds were twittering, when the exhausted column struggled across Peach Creek, at the abandoned McClure ranch, and welcome orders were given for the soldiers to rest on their arms. But many of the refugees from Gonzales pressed right on.
No fires were made. Some of the footmen simply fell upon their knapsacks and lay there. Ernest loosened Duke’s cinches and tethered him out; and was spreading his blanket when Jim found him.
“I’ve been looking for you,” said Jim. “There doesn’t seem to be much order, anyhow. I reckon we’ll just spread our blankets together after this till the cavalry’s formed. I’ll ride with you to-morrow.”
“Good,” replied Ernest, briefly.
In silence they rolled up, side by side, in their blankets. Jim spoke:
“Pretty tough, isn’t it!”
“That’s right,” agreed Ernest.
The fire was brighter, and the refugees continued to pass.