They figured that they ought to start in number sufficient to break through into Gonzales in case that the Mexicans surrounded it; and anyway, it would take two or three days for the troops from Bejar to get there. By late evening (as afternoon is called, in Texas) some twenty settlers had gathered at Burnam’s; they camped in the yard that night, and at daybreak they started, Ernest and Jim riding side-by-side.
Duke was a bit hobbly, but he had had a good rest and plenty of feed and water, and he was an Indian pony. Gradually he limbered, for the horsemen rode at amble and easy lope, to keep their mounts fresh. The footmen toiled far behind. Broad-hatted or fur-capped, sinewy and bronzed, was the cavalcade—some bearded, some smooth-faced, all armed with gun and knife, and a few had pistols also. Old Captain John H. Moore, from Moore’s Retreat, led.
“That’s a good little hoss of yours,” appraised Jim, to Ernest. “Same one you’ve always had, isn’t he?”
“He sure is,” declared Ernest.
“Good little rifle, too, I reckon,” further appraised Jim. “But I got one to match it.” So he had—a rifle almost the same size.
“Sam Houston’s wife gave it to me, up in the Cherokee nation,” informed Ernest.
“Dad gave me mine,” said Jim. “And I’ve promised no Mexican’ll ever get it. I’ll break it, first. Do you know Sam Houston?”
“Yes, I do,” responded Ernest. “I know him and his wife, too. Knew ’em up at Fort Gibson, before I came into Texas.”
“Sho’; is that so?” commented Jim, with some interest. “He’s a master-hand with Injuns, they say.”
“Yes, and he’s a fine man,” asserted Ernest, loyally. “He’s a General Jackson man and a regular soldier. Expect we’ll need him if we have war with Mexico.”