“By gravy, I don’t leave my meat, you can bet,” scolded Jim, running, with his laden, smoking stick, for his horse. Ernest followed his example. Men were doing the same. The army “chawed” as they went.
The scouts reported that a few miles before they had encountered an advance guard of the Mexican army—had been chased but had escaped. Nobody killed. By all appearances the Mexican army were marching from New Washington north to cross the San Jacinto and the mouth of the bayou at Lynch’s Ferry. Washington had been burned.
Throughout the ranks, afoot and mounted, rifles began to crack. Jim promptly shot into the air, and swiftly reloaded.
“Go ahead. Clean out your gun,” he bade, to Ernest; and Ernest likewise pulled harmless trigger. His little rifle spoke smartly.
The general came riding furiously down the column.
“Stop that firing!” he fairly bellowed.
“No, we won’t, general,” replied somebody, good-naturedly. “Our guns have been loaded over two weeks and we don’t intend to meet the enemy with our powder wet.”
The general drew his sword.
“I’ll run the next man through who fires without orders,” he declared.