The pony himself broke into an ambling trot, which was his easiest gait, and which carried him faster than might be imagined. This was the pace that he could maintain all day; and this was the pace that an Indian would have ridden him, mile after mile. An Indian pony he was, of Texas mustang stock; wiry and tough and stanch, asking little and giving all.
Ernest let him walk and amble; then with a word and pressure of the knees sent him into a gallop again.
They had passed the Berry ranch, four miles from town; but nobody seemed at home. Doubtless the family already knew of the trouble. At Peach Creek, ten miles, was the McClure ranch. [Ernest barely drew rein, to shout, at a figure in the doorway:]
[“Gonzales attacked! They need men!”]
[ERNEST BARELY DREW REIN TO SHOUT AT A FIGURE IN THE DOORWAY: “GONZALEZ ATTACKED! THEY NEED MEN!”]
And he was away again. Looking back, he could see men and women running. Like a Paul Revere he felt, who bore the word to the minute-men that the British were on the march.
A lonely road, as ever, was this road to San Felipe, via Burnam’s Crossing. Only at long intervals did he have the opportunity to cry, flashing past traveller ahorse or with ox team:
“Gonzales attacked! They need men!”