Into the hard soldier’s head-piece, appropriate for such purpose, the beans were dropped, and the drawing done as designed. I, who now write of it long after, can truthfully affirm that never in the history of human kind has there been a grander exhibition of man’s courage than was that day given at El Salado. The men who exemplified it were of no particular nation. As a matter of course, the main body of the Texans were of American birth, but among them were also Englishmen, Scotchmen, Irishmen, French, and Germans—even some who spoke Spanish, the language of their captors, now their judges, and about to become their executioners. But when that helmet of horrible contents was carried round, and held before each, not one showed the slightest fear or hesitancy to plunge his hand into it, though knowing that what they should bring up between their fingers might be the sealing of their fate. Many laughed and made laughter among their comrades, by some quaint jeu d’esprit. One reckless fellow—no other than Cris Rock—as he fearlessly rattled the beans about, cried aloud—
“Wal, boys, I guess it’s the tallest gamblin’ I’ve ever took a hand at. But this child ain’t afeerd. I was born to good luck, an’ am not likely to go under—jest yet.”
The event justified his confidence, as he drew blank—not black, the fatal colour.
It was now Kearney’s turn to undergo the dread ordeal; and, without flinching, he was about to insert his hand into the helmet, when the Texan, seizing hold of it, stayed him.
“No, Cap!” he exclaimed; “I’m wownded, putty bad, as ye see,”—(he had received a lance thrust in their struggle with the Guards)—“an’ mayent git over it. Thurfor, your life’s worth more’n mine. Besides, my luck’s good jest now. So let me take your chance. That’s allowed, as these skunks hev sayed themselves.”
So it was—a declaration having been made by the officer who presided over the drawing—from humane motives as pretended—that any one who could find a substitute might himself stand clear. A grim mockery it seemed; and yet it was not so; since, besides Cris Rock, more than one courageous fellow proposed the same to comrade and friend—in the case of two brothers the elder one insisting upon it.
Though fully, fervently appreciating the generous offer, Florence Kearney was not the man to avail himself of it.
“Thanks, brave comrade!” he said, with warmth, detaching his hand from the Texan’s grasp, and thrusting it into the helmet. “What’s left of your life yet is worth more than all mine; and my luck may be good as yours—we’ll see.”
It proved so, a murmur of satisfaction running along the line as they saw his hand drawn out with a white bear between the fingers.
“Thanks to the Almighty!” joyously shouted the Texan, as he made out the colour. “Both o’ us clar o’ that scrape, by Job! An’ as there ain’t no need for me dyin’ yet, I mean to live it out, an’ git well agin.”