From where he was herding on the prairie Ernest knew that something was happening in the town; and when he came in he learned the whys and wherefores of all the excitement and riding to and fro. Andrew Ponton, the mayor, was conveniently absent, but the letter had been received and opened by Joseph Clements, the first regidor or councilman. He had returned word to the corporal to wait on the west bank until the alcalde should return.

But give up the brass cannon? Never! Bejar had plenty of cannon; it had eighteen pieces unmounted and not being used at all. Then why should Angel Navarro, the political chief, and Colonel Ugartechea demand this one, unless to make Gonzales helpless!

A public meeting was being called to consider what should be done. Only three persons voted to deliver the six-pounder. Everybody else voted to keep it. But what would happen next? Colonel Ugartechea certainly would send a much larger force, to attack the town and seize the cannon.

All that evening and most of the night Gonzales was in a state of high excitement. The families who lived across on the west side of the river hastened to move over to the east side, where they might be more protected. The men in town who feared to have their families exposed to a bombardment prepared to hustle their wives and children away—for the Colorado, east, or north into the timber. Ox-carts were piled with household goods and provisions.

Ernest went out on herd, the next morning, with an anxious heart. He was told to be sharp and ready, in case that Mexican soldiery should appear or that he should be summoned to hurry in, horses and all. On this day Alcalde Ponton was to reply to the corporal (who waited on the west bank) and inform him that he must go back without the cannon.

About noon Dick Carroll came galloping across the prairie, from town. Ernest’s heart thumped, and he stiffened, alert to gather his herd at the first word of warning. But no—not yet. Dick drew up short.

“How’s your pony, Ernest? Fresh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. We need you. Leave everything and ride; ride to Burnam’s and tell them to spread word up and down the river to rally for Gonzales. Ponton’s already sent word to Navarro and Ugartechea that we are going to hold the cannon. Captain Caldwell is riding to Mina [which was a new settlement on the Colorado above Burnam’s Crossing] to alarm ’em there. You strike for Burnam’s. Tell ’em we have only eighteen men, but we’ll stand our ground till reinforcements get here. Send the word down to Beason’s and on to Felipe. Tell ’em never mind Cos, he can be tended to later; but to come, with their guns. The fight begins here, now. Ride, boy; don’t spare your horse. We depend on you.”

Ernest whirled and was away, enlisted in the Texas cause.

Yes, ride, Ernest; ride! But push not your yellow pony too hard, for Burnam’s is fifty miles, and desperate as is the need, the race is to the skillful and not wholly to the swift. Sit light on the saddle, bear evenly on the reins, and talk to your faithful little steed.

He had cut across the prairie; threaded a timber patch, midway of which he dashed through Kerr’s Creek; and emerging from the trees struck down the San Felipe road. His pony’s hoofs hammered steadily on the hard clay. His rifle danced in its scabbard under his left knee, his hat-brim flared back in the breeze, and under him the narrow trail flowed like a ribbon unrolled by the hoof-beats.

With dark mane (for the pony was a true buckskin) rising and falling to every lunge, ears pointed now backward to catch his master’s words, now forward to anticipate any alarm, and nostrils flaring wide to drink deeply of the air, the little horse pulled strongly on the bit. But Ernest, sitting square, and bearing firmly on the ox-bow wooden stirrups, only let him stretch his nose, and there held him to a gallop.

“Steady, boy; steady.” He patted the glossy neck, already wet; and in about five miles pulled him down to a walk and let him puff and grunt.

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!”

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!”

The Lavaca was the next stream; after that the Navidad; and after that, but far, the Colorado. The yellow pony was streaked with sweat-soaked dust; from his lips and neck and flanks the soapy lather drifted in shreds of foam. But he was breathing without effort, he was strong on his legs, his stride faltered not; and as long as he sweat freely and did not stumble, he was good for many a mile yet.

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.