Ernest glanced back. The whole Texas line, two deep, was advancing, the cannon tugged lustily by the straining teams, Colonel Hockley urging with his sword. General Houston was pressing behind, his head bare. The fifer was tooting, the drummer drumming. Before, on the left or southeast, the Mexican camp seemed all unsuspecting, and the breastworks of branches and baggage basked in the warm sunshine.
“Trot!” shouted Colonel Lamar. The little squadron of sixty riders rushed on, through the prairie, the grass brushing their stirrups. Now there were tokens of excitement in the Santa Anna camp. Officers and men were running and gesturing. In the distance their faces looked white with alarm, where the sun shone full upon them.
“We’re surprising ’em!” gasped Jim.
As the cavalry, beginning to loosen bridle reins for swifter pace, preparing to charge, Ernest glimpsed, with the corner of his eye, a speck on the prairie to the westward. A horseman.
BATTLE GROUND OF SAN JACINTO
Texan Charge: — — — — —>
“Gallop!” shouted Colonel Lamar, raising his sword-blade. The horses leaped to the spur—and at that instant Duke, good little yellow Duke, plunged head-first, his leg in a hole amidst the grass. Over his nose dived Ernest—lighting sprawled and helpless. His rifle flew from his grasp, and his head was full of stars.
For a moment or two he lay, half stunned. Then he struggled to his feet, and gazed about him dizzily. The squadron had galloped on and were before. Of course they would not stop. Duke had attempted to follow, and now was standing, uneasily, head up, snorting. The rifle was buried somewhere in the grasses. Ernest took hasty but wavering steps to look for it. He must have that rifle, by all means. His head still swam with his fall.
But see—here was the Texan line, almost parallel with him. How rapidly it had come. The men were beginning to double-quick, through the prairie dip, with guns trailed. Their faces stared before, hard-set and eager under their flaring hat-brims. They had deployed, to wider intervals, so that the men of the rear rank should have space through which to aim. The Twin Sisters were in the advance—no, they had halted, were whirling around—the gunners applied match—Boom! Boom!—and the canister hissed for the Mexican breastworks.