Two days were spent in the mud, crossing the Colorado. All the refugees were ferried over first, so as to be ahead of the column. One woman was found by the general sitting on a log, refusing to move. She was hopeless and crying. Her husband had been killed with Travis in the Alamo, and her things had been burned in Gonzales. The general gave her fifty dollars out of his $200, and told her that she need never pay him back.
Wet and mudded, down the east bank of the Colorado the little army marched until opposite Beason’s place, twelve miles below. This was Beason’s Crossing. Sion lived here, across the river, near the new town of Columbus. And that very evening he appeared in camp, with some recruits.
Jim saw him first, and let out a wild whoop of joy.
“What do you think you’re going to do?” he demanded of Sion—he and Ernest pumping Sion’s hand. “Still got that old pea-shooter, haven’t you!” For Sion was equipped for war.
“Going to do? Fight, of course!” retorted Sion, as pugnacious as ever. “What are you fellows going to do? Keep on running away?”
“No. As soon as we meet up with Fannin or get those cannon from the mouth of the Brazos we’ll capture Santa Anna and go back to ploughing. We’re here to stick. We’re stuck already, in the mud!”
“Have you enlisted, Sion?” queried Ernest.
“Sure. I’ve just been waiting till you came down. I’m in Captain Moseley Baker’s San Felipe company, and I’m here to stick, too. He’s a fighter. We fellows reckon Sam Houston’s gone about far enough.”
“Any news from Leo?”
“No.”