“He does, does he?” responded Sion. “Huh! Maybe he’s the boss and maybe he isn’t. We’ll mighty soon find out, to-morrow.”
The march was resumed in a driving rain. The men trudged heavily, and even the horses seemed to share in the rebellious feeling. But General Houston had given no indication of what he had decided, and rather a pathetic figure he made, as he rode along in the pelting storm. He still wore his thin old black coat; his whitish hat flopped on his head, his legs were clad in baggy snuff-colored trousers and cowhide boots; and his sword was tied around his waist by buckskin thongs. A month’s beard covered his face.
The fife and drum had played a tune at the beginning; but when the Roberts ranch, where the road forked, was reached, the music stopped, and the rear of the column crowded up against the hesitating van. General Houston had spurred ahead. Mr. Roberts the rancher was standing at his gate, talking with several officers, as the general arrived. With the cavalry, in the advance, Ernest heard the words plainly.
“Is that the road to Harrisburg?” demanded the officers.
“Yes, sir,” answered Mr. Roberts; and he pointed. “This right-hand road will carry you down to Harrisburg as straight as a compass.”
“To the right, boys! To the right!” shouted the officers, galloping away.
As the word passed, a great cheer arose. The head of the column promptly turned into the south, on the right-hand trail. The music struck up blithely. The general sat his horse, watching, with a little smile on his haggard face.
And down the Harrisburg road briskly marched the column, to find Santa Anna, now fifty miles in the lead.