“Well, he’s a master-hand with Injuns, anyway,” repeated Jim, not committing himself further. “I hear tell he’s been sent out from San Augustine to talk with the East Texas Injuns and get ’em to keep quiet during the fuss. It sure would be bad if we had to fight the Injuns and the Mexicans both at once.”
“It surely would,” agreed Ernest. “But Sam Houston can talk to ’em if anybody can. They all trust him. And that helps Texas.”
“Reckon so,” admitted Jim. “Wonder, now, if Sion Bostick isn’t going to join this fracas. He ought to be coming along. Sort of looked for him at Burnam’s, but maybe he has to stay home and tend school.”
“Who’s Sion Bostick?” demanded Ernest. “Does he live down toward Beason’s?”
“Yep. Smart lad, too. His father died year before last, and that leaves the family short-handed. They came to Texas in ’28; they used to live over at San Felipe. There’s an Irishman teaches school at their house. Expect, though, if this war keep up the school’ll have to quit; and then we’ll see Sion—if his mother’ll let him come, and I rather guess she will, when he’s needed.”
Thudity-thud, thudity-thud, up the Gonzales road they all pushed, steadily rising and falling in their saddles, every eye grimly set before. They crossed the Navidad, and the Lavaca, and shortly after noon they crossed Peach Creek. With Gonzales only ten miles ahead, they strained their ears for cannon-shots. But they heard nothing. The landscape dozed undisturbed and peaceful.
“Gonzales isn’t taken yet,” vouchsafed Jim.
Ten miles to Gonzales—eight—five—three; and, hurrah, there clustered the little town, apparently just as when Ernest had left—so long ago, as seemed to him.
“No Mexicans in sight, boys,” cried voices in the column. “We’re in time.”