Part 7

Occasionally Ernest pulled him down to fast walk and amble, so that he might blow and rest his muscles. Once they halted at a ford, and the pony drank a few swallows, but only a few, to clear his mouth and throat of dust. Then they trotted on, and presently resumed the steady gallop.

The sun set; the golden glow faded from the west and the stars appeared. Through the gloam they sped, pounding away, with Burnam’s ever nearer. Go it, little horse! Prick your ears, hopefully; and go it!

Those last ten miles were the hardest of all. Not of late had Ernest rasped forth his message, with dry tongue and dusty throat. He had met nobody, he had passed no more ranches. His face burned with the breeze and the flying grit, he was blistered from the wet saddle, the rifle scabbard had chafed the inside of his thigh raw, and the stirrups had gouged his insteps to the bone, he thought. And he was hungry, being dinnerless and supperless.

Low to the horizon had dropped the Great Dipper, and he imagined that folks must be long abed, when he sensed the approach to the Colorado. The mist of the bottom-lands and of the river smote him coolly. Before, he could see the line of cottonwoods and other trees, marking the river course. The pony pricked his ears afresh, as if he, too, knew that the goal of the eager race was close at hand.

Ernest rose in his stirrups, and straightened, to make a gallant finish.

“Duke!” he cried; and the nervy little pony leaped with all his reserve strength. Dimly loomed beside the road the ranch outbuildings, and at sound of the thudding hoofs the Burnam hounds burst into fierce challenge.

Before the block-house Ernest pulled his pony to its haunches, and while his mount panted under him he whooped loudly amidst the angry clamor of the dogs. Dark was the Burnam place, for Texas settlers went early to bed.

“Hello! Captain! Oh, captain!” shouted Ernest, his efforts tearing his throat.

Now at last a voice hailed him from a window.

“Who is it? What’s wanted?” And, to the dogs: “Buster! Bravo! Be quiet!”

’Twas Mrs. Burnam.

“It’s Ernest Merrill, from Gonzales,” he called back. “The Mexicans want our cannon. We need help.”

“For goodness’ sake!” he heard Mrs. Burnam ejaculate. “Wait a minute,” she bade.

Now there was a stir within the house; a candle glimmered through the shutter cracks; presently the door was unbarred and Mrs. Burnam herself came out, and hastened to him.

“Down, Buster!” she ordered. “You Bravo, down! Go back!” She was bare-headed, bare-footed, with a blanket thrown over her night garments. She peered at Ernest, to recognize him.

“Want your cannon, you say? You aren’t going to give it to them!”

“No, ma’am!” declared Ernest. “And we’ve told ’em so. But if they try to take it we’ve only eighteen men. Captain Caldwell’s gone up to Mina with the word; and they sent me to alarm you folks and the other Colorado people, and San Felipe. Everybody’s to come as quick as they can. Never mind Cos.”

“For goodness’ sake!” again ejaculated Mrs. Burnam. “Captain Burnam’s over at San Felipe, joining the militia against Cos. But light, light, and come in. We’ll put up your horse.”

“No, I mustn’t,” opposed Ernest. “If you’ll alarm Beason’s and the up-river, I’ll go on to San Felipe.”

“You can’t do it, boy. Your pony’s beat out, and so are you. Come right in. Willie’ll go on to San Felipe, and we’ll tend to the river folks soon as it’s light enough to travel the trails. You come in. You’ve done your stint. When did you leave?”

“This noon.”

“Well, your pony acts it,” said Mrs. Burnam. “He’s surely tuckered.”

Ernest stiffly swung from his drooping horse. Mrs. Burnam already was running for the house; and with a grateful slap on Duke’s steaming neck he followed. The family was awake. By the candle light Will, the oldest boy, met his mother and stared at Ernest. From their beds in the loft the other children called excitedly.

“Will!” exclaimed Mrs. Burnam. “This boy’s from Gonzales. The Mexicans want their cannon and are going to try and take it. Saddle Dandy as quick as ever you can and ride on to San Felipe. Tell ’em to send all the men they’ve got. We’ll tend to up-river and down-river. Captain Caldwell’s gone to Mina, the boy says, and I reckon word’ll travel on to San Felipe, but maybe you can get there first.”

This was a frontier household and accustomed to act quickly without question. For his boots and trousers rushed Will, and dashed out of the door. Within a minute, it seemed, the clatter of his horse’s hoofs echoed as he raced away for the ford. The babble of voices from the children in the loft sounded still more excitedly.

“Sit, sit,” bade Mrs. Burnam, to Ernest. “I’ll put up your horse and then get you a snack.”

“No, I’ll put him up, thank you,” answered Ernest. “He ought to be rubbed down.”

“You’re right,” she approved. “You’ll find an empty stall in the shed. I’ll show you the way and keep the dogs off.” Together they led the wearily stumbling Duke to the shed; the dogs, now more friendly, sniffing at Ernest’s heels. “After you’ve rubbed him down a bit you can throw him an armful of hay from the stack yonder. Wouldn’t give him much water till he’s breathed a while. I’ll be getting your snack.” And Mrs. Burnam bustled back to the house.

Ernest rubbed Duke well with a bunch of straw; and when he came in, a snack of milk and cold corn-bread was waiting for him by the candle light. The other Burnam children had turned out of bed, to cluster around the table and gaze and listen while he answered the good Mrs. Burnam’s numerous questions.

“Well, I declare!” she uttered. “Likely to attack Gonzales, are they? We-all thought you-all at Gonzales were friendly with Bejar. ’Pears like you didn’t want to take part in any of these other uprisings. Goodness mercy! This means war, and hard times in Texas, but we’ve got to defend our rights. Now, you go straight to bed, and don’t you bother. There’s a shake-down in the corner, where you won’t be disturbed. First thing in the morning, soon as it’s light, I’ll send word to Hill’s and Moore’s and down to Beason’s. You rest yourself and your pony. I reckon you’ll be wanting to start back with the first crowd. You couldn’t follow those trails to-night, anyhow.”

This sounded sensible, and Ernest rather gladly went to bed on his shake-down. At any rate, the word was being carried to San Felipe. And in the gray of the morning he was drowsily conscious that two of the other children had galloped out of the yard. Bareback, with rope bridles, they had been dispatched, one south twelve miles to Beason’s Crossing (a place similar to Burnam’s), the other to the Hill place, and Moore’s Retreat further north. This left not a horse, except his yellow pony; for the Burnams were by no means wealthy, yet, in horses.

However, the children returned triumphant in the middle morning; but already had the first of the alarmed settlers arrived, from across the river. Will, on his way to San Felipe, had informed them. Then, hour by hour, more reinforcements came in, by twos and threes; from Beason’s (still known as such, although Mr. Beason himself had been killed by the Indians several years before) and vicinity, down the river, and from the ranches up the river. Young James Monroe Hill was among the earliest, and him Ernest was much pleased to see. They shook hands.

“Pap’s coming, too, when he can,” announced Jim. “But he may cut through direct. What are we going to do? Fight?”

“I guess we are,” assured Ernest.

“Who’s in command there now?” demanded Jim.

“Captain Albert Martin, I reckon,” answered Ernest.

“Well, I bet no Mexicans will take any cannon away from Captain Martin,” asserted Jim. “Not if there are any Americans in Texas! Shucks! Why don’t we go, I wonder. We’ve got enough here now to lick the whole Mexican army.”

That scarcely was true. However, the number was slowly swelling, as settlers continued to arrive――all with their muskets, shot-guns, and long Kentucky and Mississippi rifles, their powder-horns and bullet-pouches; many ahorse, but some afoot, for in Texas even, where horses were cheap, not every man possessed one.

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.”

“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.”

And now at thundering gallop they all forged on, into Gonzales, answering cheer with cheer.

VI

GONZALES KEEPS ITS SIX-POUNDER

Yes, Gonzales was still all right. No more Mexican soldiers had appeared, and this afternoon Almeron Dickinson and a party of the settlers had crossed the river and taken the corporal’s party prisoners. These were now held under guard in the Gonzales jail. The cannon had been buried in George Davis’s peach orchard, and the ground plowed over it. But it was to be dug up again, for the corporal had forwarded Alcalde Ponton’s answer, to Bejar, and also one of the soldiers had escaped; probably troops already were on their way from Bejar, which was only two days’ travel distant. So the cannon would be needed.

However, the original eighteen defenders had been increased by a dozen or more, before Ernest’s return with Jim and the other recruits; the ferry had been hidden in the slough, and every dug-out had been tied up on the east bank of the river; and this afternoon and all night more settlers flocked in――from Mina (which is now Bastrop) on the Colorado above Moore’s, and from Rutersville, beyond Hill’s place, and from Beason’s, below Burnam’s, and from San Felipe; so that in the morning of the 29th a hundred had gathered. More were coming.

John H. Moore was elected colonel, to command operations; Mr. J. W. E. Wallace was elected lieutenant-colonel.

Ernest sought out Jim Hill, the first thing after breakfast, and he and Jim stayed together most of the day. Along toward noon a Mexican soldier appeared on the west bank of the river, and signalled that he bore dispatches. Colonel Moore answered that if he had anything to communicate he might leave his horse and swim and wade across, and so he did, not in very good humor.

He had three dispatches. One was from Colonel Ugartechea, at Bejar, saying he had sent Lieutenant Castañeda and one hundred dragoons for the cannon; and if it was not surrendered, the alcalde and all other citizens who resisted were to be brought as prisoners to Bejar. Another was from the political chief, Angel Navarro, ordering the alcalde to obey him and not to delay for further instructions. The third was from Lieutenant Castañeda himself, saying that he was within a few hours’ march, and wished an interview with the alcalde.

Colonel Moore replied that Alcalde Ponton was again absent, but might return within three hours, when an answer would be made.

“Whoopee!” laughed Jim. “It’s just a little waiting game, while we get reinforcements.”

That afternoon the cannon was dug up out of George Davis’s peach orchard and was mounted on the two front wheels of one of Captain Martin’s cotton wagons; John Sowell and Dick Chisholm, who were blacksmiths, said they would make some cannon-balls for it.

That night Jesse McCoy, Joe Kent, Graves Fulshear, and Will Arrington kept watch at the ford to see that no Mexicans crossed. In the morning they reported that several dragoons had come down to the river to water horses, and could have been easily potted, but weren’t.

In the morning the whole Mexican troop were in sight, camped across the river. Lieutenant Castañeda rode forward to the ford and called over that he would receive the reply from the alcalde, as promised. First Regidor (or councilman) Joseph Clements called back that the alcalde was still absent, but he had been sent for and would reply about four o’clock. So Lieutenant Castañeda retired, because he dared not try to force the ford, in the face of the Texas rifles.

This was the 30th. Now there were some 200 volunteers, all told, in Gonzales. Mr. Chisholm and Mr. Sowell were working hard, cutting ox chains into short pieces, for the cannon, and welding iron scraps into balls. The cannon itself was mounted and ready.

Accordingly, at four that afternoon, Regidor Clements reported to Lieutenant Castañeda. He stood on the Gonzales side of the river, and yelled across to the lieutenant on the other side. Gonzales was not very hospitable; but Mr. Clements had too much sense to trust himself on the dragoons’ side.

Everybody present could hear the message.

“The alcalde is still absent,” shouted Mr. Clements, in very good Spanish. “And in his absence it has fallen to my lot to reply to the communication sent to him asking a second time for the cannon. The right of consulting with our own political chief of the department of the Brazos seems to be denied us. Therefore my reply reduces itself to this: I cannot, nor do I desire to, deliver up the cannon; it was given to us for our defense; and this is the sentiment of all the members of the council now here present. The cannon is in the town, and only through force will we yield. We are weak and few in number, nevertheless we are contending for what we believe to be just principles.”

When Regidor Clements finished reading aloud the paper that he had drawn up, the lieutenant replied. He said that the cannon had only been loaned, and had not been a gift; and that by making prisoners of the corporal and party the town had committed a crime against the dignity of the Mexican republic.

Regidor Clements stood firm, and said that the answer was what he had just read; but if Lieutenant Castañeda really desired the cannon, he might come over and get it. At that the lieutenant shrugged his shoulders, and rather comically replied:

“Many thanks, señor. I suppose I need not come if I don’t want to.” Then he saluted and retired to his troop. Ernest and Jim and all the other Texans cheered. Thus the matter rested.

“Cracky!” blurted Jim. “Wish they would try to cross. Wouldn’t we pepper ’em!”

“There comes the ferry,” informed Ernest “Maybe we’ll cross, ourselves.”

And sure enough, the ferry was being poled down from the mouth of the slough and was tied on the Gonzales side, ready for business.

But Lieutenant Castañeda did not try to cross. He camped his troop back from the river a short distance, on DeWitt’s Mound, as it was called. ’Twas rumored that he had dispatched couriers to Bejar, for help.

To-day the Gonzales volunteers were drilled in companies under the direction of Colonel Moore, and the cannon was loaded with the pieces of ox chains. Young Almeron Dickinson, who had been appointed a lieutenant, was placed in charge of it.

Everything seemed to be ready. Two hundred volunteers were present; the cannon was pointed at the ford. The next noon the Mexican dragoons were observed to ride away, up the river. The scouts who spied upon them reported that they had camped again, this time on Zeke Williams’s farm, seven miles above, but still west of the river, and were eating all the water-melons! Mr. Williams did not like this.

“What are we going to do now, I wonder?” ventured Ernest, to Jim. “Maybe they’re going back to Bejar without the cannon, and there won’t be any fight.”

“Shucks!” derided Jim, who was older and was supposed to know. “Don’t you believe there won’t be any fight. They’ll just wait for reinforcements. If we’re going to lick ’em we’d better lick ’em right away. You can count on old Colonel Moore to fix ’em plenty. Castañeda’s a republican, though, and against Santa Anna despotism, and like as not he doesn’t want to fight us other republicans. But if he’s under orders to take the cannon he’s got to do his best or else join with Texas.”

“Somebody says Ugartechea told him if we were too strong he’d better retreat and not wait to be licked, for if he was licked, that would hurt Mexico and help the Texan cause,” vouchsafed Ernest.

“Reckon that’s so,” responded Jim. “But he’d better get out of here mighty quick. We mean business. Zeke Williams will go after him for stealing those water-melons! That crop means money.”

“Bill Smithers is with ’em. Did you know that?” demanding Ernest. “He’s a Gonzales man, and they’ve caught him and are holding him.”

“So I hear tell,” answered Jim. “That won’t cut much figure. We’ve still got their corporal and several other soldiers.”

The opinion in town was, that the lieutenant had camped either to await reinforcements from his colonel, or to cross the river by the ford above the Williams place, and come down on Gonzales from the north through the timber and the prairie strip. This of course would never do.

“You boys both ready?” queried Dick Carroll, strolling by Jim and Ernest, late in the afternoon. “There’ll be something stirring before dark, so I thought I’d warn you. Looks like we’d get over on the lieutenant’s side, an’ pay him a call.”

“We’re ready,” they assured. And――――

“Ginger! Wish I had more powder,” remarked Jim, to Ernest. “How many loads you got?”

“Ten,” replied Ernest, dubiously. “Hope that’ll be enough. I’ll give you one if you run short.”

“Your bullets don’t fit my gun, though,” reminded Jim. “Maybe I can double patch ’em. But I guess powder alone will fill the bill. It’ll make a noise. Just to hear a gun go off scares those _hombres_ [men] into fits.”

Evidently Jim did not think much of the Mexican soldiery. Neither did most of the other volunteers. Still, the camp of Lieutenant Castañeda, on Zeke Williams’s farm, was known to be a strong position, well chosen; and the dragoons were regulars of the Mexican army, thoroughly equipped with muskets and pistols.

As Dick Carroll had predicted, that night at seven o’clock orders were given to move from Eli Mitchell’s cornfield, where the little army was camped, and to cross the river with the cannon. The cannon was trundled by oxen upon the flatboat ferry; the footmen were ferried over also, by the flatboat and by dug-outs; the horses forded; and Colonel Moore summoned the officers to a council of war. They all could be dimly seen, squatting in a circle. Presently the circle broke up.

“Wonder if we’re going to fight,” queried Ernest, of Jim, as they sat their horses, waiting with the other horsemen.

“Dunno. _Quien sabe?_” responded Jim――which meant, in Spanish, “Who knows?” And he suddenly added: “Reckon we are, though. There comes the parson, to tell us how.”

For the Reverend W. P. Smith, the Methodist preacher who had accompanied the Rutersville volunteers, had mounted his horse and ridden forward from the council, to halt and hold up his hand in signal. He was easily identified by his black, broad-brimmed flat hat, and his long black coat.

“Listen to the parson,” rose the cry; and the ranks were formed to hear him.

The Reverend Mr. Smith made a stirring speech: he told the volunteers that they were about to move against the enemy who were invading their rights, and that the time had come when Texas should strike another blow for human liberties. This was to be a second Battle of Lexington; and everyone should remember the glorious example set by the American minute-men of ’76. Freedom was at stake, and tyranny should not prevail. Wives and children were waiting in Gonzales and elsewhere, for victory; and all Texas also was waiting.

He removed his hat, and while every head was bared likewise, he offered a short prayer for success for the right, in this struggle now begun.

“Bully for the fighting parson,” murmured Jim, when the prayer was concluded; and a hearty cheer went up.

Orders to advance were immediately given. Colonel John Moore and his aides rode ahead; the army followed, cannon in the centre, and scouts out on either flank.

The night was damp and dark. Scarcely anybody had much to say. Even Jim was unusually silent. The words of Preacher Smith had made a deep impression. The war for liberty had actually started――and it was no joking matter.

After a march of about five miles, halt was ordered. Pickets were posted, and the men were told to sleep. It was a free and easy sort of a camp, with no tents and everybody rolled in blankets. Ernest and Jim lay side by side――and they lay side by side through many a night thereafter.

Jim went to sleep first. Ernest felt too excited to sleep, but sleep he did, nevertheless, although he slept cold; and the first thing that he heard, when awakened by a general stir around him, was Jim’s disgusted exclamation:

“Jiminy Christmas, what a fog! Can’t see a thing! Couldn’t hit the side of a barn if my feet were touching it!”