Gonzales appeared to be safe, and alive with people. As the travel-stained little squad rode up broad East Avenue which led into the centre of the town, they saw, along the river bank below town, the smoke of camp fires and the glimmer of several tents; and on before, toward the main plaza and Market Square, many persons were standing or moving about.

The first house seemed to be abandoned in confusion. In the window of the next was a woman who evidently had been crying. From other houses women with white strained faces looked upon them silently, and even the men made no sign. Household goods cluttered the yards. In the principal part of town, at Market Square, and the plaza, were many men—mostly strangers, bearing shot-guns and rifles and yagers, and clad in settler clothing, but with here and there a figure in a blue uniform of short blouse and straight trousers. These all were volunteers.

There were frightened-faced women, too. Some of them Ernest knew well; but he searched almost in vain for a familiar countenance among the men.

It seemed as though the little party were to dismount without having been greeted; the women said not a word, and the strange volunteers likewise only glanced aside, either carelessly or curiously. But as the general reined his horse in, at the plaza, now a scattered cry rose, of “Houston! Sam Houston! Here’s the general, boys,” and as Ernest was sitting, halted, waiting for the general or Dick to say what next was to be done, he heard his own name shouted.

“Hurrah! Ernest Merrill! Hello, there, pardner!”

Jim Hill was running across the plaza, making for him, and waving his hat.

Off tumbled Ernest, and he and Jim shook hands and grinned at one another.

“Where’ve you been, anyhow?” demanded Jim—who carried his little rifle, and looked just about as when Ernest had last seen him, after the capture of San Antonio.

“At the convention at Washington.”

“All this time? Pshaw! I’ve been here nigh a week. Aren’t you going to enlist?”

“I sure am,” asserted Ernest.

“Whom did you come over with? Houston? We need him, or somebody as good.”

“Why, Jim? How’s the Alamo? Anybody heard? Is Travis still there? Where are the Mexicans?”

Jim sobered.

“I don’t know. Nobody knows. We haven’t heard a shot since early Sunday morning. I got in here with the Bastrop company (went up there from home and enlisted) on the fifth. The morning of the fifth, at sunrise, on the march over, we heard Travis’s signal guns; and all that day there was a little cannon shooting yonder in the west. The people here at Gonzales said they’d been hearing the cannonading for more than a week, especially when the wind was right. But before sun-up of Sunday morning, the sixth, there was a tremendous lot of firing—you could almost hear the Mexican muskets in big volleys; sounded like an awful battle, and lasted till long after breakfast. Then, about an hour by the sun, it died down, and suddenly it quit, and we haven’t heard a single shot since.”

“That was the day we left Washington, right after Captain Smith brought the message,” said Ernest. “This is Friday, isn’t it! Things look bad.”

“Yes, they do,” agreed Jim, thoughtfully. “I tell you, this town is mighty blue. Thirty of your Gonzales folks went out with Smith and Captain Martin and broke through to Travis before daylight of the first; and Captain Dickinson and several others are there, too. Of course, maybe Travis and Bowie are holding out, and the Mexicans are just sitting round. But we can’t get a word; the scouts we’ve sent out don’t dare go near. Say,” he added, “your pony’s here. Some of the crowd fetched him and Dick Carroll’s horse back from Burnam’s.”

“Good,” exclaimed Ernest. He would be glad to have Duke again. “Where’s Sion?”

“I saw Sion about a month ago, at San Felipe. He’d been putting in his crops down home. But we’ll meet up with him, all right, before this war’s much older. He’s game. Haven’t heard from Leo at all. He may be with Fannin or Johnson in the south. Hope not. They’re liable to be cut off, if Houston doesn’t hurry. He’s been re-elected general, hasn’t he?”

“Yes; fifty-five votes to one.”

“That’s good; but I’d rather have had Ben Milam. Houston will do, though. We need a military man, right bad. Most of the volunteers in this camp haven’t ever drilled; we’ve got only a few of the old bunch. Most of the veterans seem to have stayed at home to move their families. Everybody’s getting ready to light out for the east. But Burleson’s here, and Neill, and Karnes and Deaf Smith, and there’s one company of United States volunteers—the Newport Volunteers, from Kentucky—those fellows you see in uniform. Sidney Sherman’s their captain—that’s he, the slim man in a blue round-about trimmed with silver lace, with a sword on, talking to General Houston. He’s fine. We haven’t guns enough, and only two or three wagons, and three cannon. But we’ve got a flag—a new one. Sort of a cross between the American flag and the British flag, with the red and white stripes at the end, and the upper quarter next to the pole the British Union Jack and the lower quarter the Lone Star on a green ground; green instead of blue, for Mexico. Shows we’re Texans of Mexico from the United States, of English descent! Huh! Some flag, that! The motto says: ‘Our Country’s Rights or Death’! It belongs to Captain Moseley Baker’s company of militia from San Felipe. The Newport Volunteers brought a flag, too. It’s of heavy white silk, with the Goddess of Liberty in the middle and a gold fringe round the edge. The Newport ladies made it and Captain Sherman’s bride presented it. She gave him her glove, and told the company to carry it as a battle charm, and they’ve got it fastened to the top of the staff.”

Here Jim paused for lack of breath.

“Where are you camped, Jim?”

“Across the river, on outpost duty. Only two companies of us—the Bastrop company and the Newport Volunteers. The main crowd are camped on this side, half a mile below the ferry. Captain Baker’s in command till Houston or some other high officer takes things over. Colonel Neill and General Burleson are helping him. Well, I’ll see you later. Expect you want to get washed up and fed. Come over to camp this evening.” He turned away, but hesitated. “You did good work, carrying that Travis dispatch,” he praised, generously. “But you weren’t the only lad riding courier. When you went on up to Washington there was a copy sent down river to Columbia, and a fifteen-year-old by name of Guy Bryan rode with it on to Brazoria and clear to Velasco at the mouth of the Brazos. Used up one horse and had to find another.”

“Bully for him,” answered Ernest. “I didn’t do anything special.”

“You did your work, just the same,” asserted Jim. “Well, so long. See you later.”

“See you later, sure,” agreed Ernest. But he did not see Jim again that evening or night.

Jim strode away. By this time Dick had exchanged greetings with a number of friends. Everybody was rather solemn. A little crowd had collected around the general. He was talking and listening. There was Deaf Smith, and Henry Karnes, and General Ed. Burleson in blue homespun citizen clothes with a pair of pistols in his belt, and Captain Sidney Sherman (a nice-looking, smooth-faced young man) in close-buttoned, short blue jacket trimmed with silver lace, at his side a handsome sword. Conferring with them, General Houston occasionally nodded his large head.

“Let’s go and eat, Ernest,” bade Dick. “We’ll pick up our own horses on the way and turn these other critters into the corral for the public use. They’ll be needed.”

This was done. Duke appeared to be as glad to see Ernest as Ernest was to see him. During the hasty supper of pork and corn-bread and coffee in the house, Dick ventured his opinion.

“Colonel Neill says there are three hundred and seventy-four men here, part militia and part just volunteers unattached, and most of ’em plumb ignorant how to act. Houston’ll have to whip ’em into some sort of military shape. We’ve got plenty food in Gonzales, but it won’t last long, and we need guns and ammunition and wagons and clothing and all that. The people living here are panicky; some have left already for the east and the rest are packing up. Nobody knows what’s happening at the Alamo. Karnes and Deaf Smith think Travis has been wiped out; Burleson thinks not. What we can do with this mob ag’in a big Mexican army is a problem. Fannin’s got a force of four hundred down at Goliad; mainly United States men and well outfitted. If he can join us on the Cibolo, maybe we can go through. But——.”

“Listen, Dick!” interrupted Ernest.

Dusk had fallen, and through it suddenly sounded hurrying feet, shouts, and the shrill cries of women and children.

“News from the west!” uttered Dick. “Bad news, too. The Mexicans must be coming!” He sprang up; his stool went spinning. He seized gun and pistols and followed by Ernest bolted out.

The clamor had swelled. In the dimness men and women were running; doors slammed; voices called wildly.

“The Alamo’s gone—every man massacred, and Santa Anna’s on his way!” was the quick, panting reply to Dick’s query of a figure passing in headlong haste.

In the plaza a crowd of citizens and soldiers had collected. Two Mexicans of Bejar had arrived, was the story on many lips: Anselmo Bogarro and a companion, they were. They had said that the Alamo had been captured last Sunday morning, and not a man in it had been left alive! Two thousand soldiers were on their way to attack the settlements.

The two Mexicans were being examined by General Houston, at his quarters. Reports continued. Perhaps the two Mexicans had lied. They had now been arrested as spies. The general issued a proclamation stating that he believed the story to be false; and the people gradually dispersed. But all night the town was awake, while families packed their goods, and the women and children wept as they worked. The troops were kept under arms, and out-posts were stationed a mile to the west.

Through the uneasy, fear-smitten night Ernest managed to catch a little sleep, in his own bed once more. The morning dawned amidst confusion. General Houston (who, rumor declared, had not slept at all) ordered the troops across the river to be changed to the east side; and there was a parade of all the troops and an election of regimental officers. General Ed. Burleson was elected colonel, Captain Sidney Sherman was elected lieutenant colonel, and Alex. Somervell was elected major. The general made a stirring address, assuring the army that if they would keep cool there would be no danger. The camp was moved up-river a short distance, to a better spot on the prairie, and was reformed in two long lines of tents and bed rolls, surmounted by the flag of the San Felipe militia and of the Newport Volunteers. Most of the men preferred the Kentucky flag and Mrs. Sherman’s glove. The other flag was too complicated—had too much in it; and what was the use in mixing the British Union Jack with the American stripes?

Evidently General Houston was not so certain that the two Mexicans’ report was false, for he had sent off a dispatch to Colonel Fannin to destroy the fortifications at Goliad, to bring off the settlers, and to retire northeast to Victoria on the Guadalupe instead of marching toward Bejar. The dispatch, it was thought, would reach Colonel Fannin within thirty hours at the most, and catch him before he had gone far.

The day passed uneventfully, except for the fears of the Gonzales people. As for Ernest, he and Dick enlisted in Robert Calder’s company, which was composed partly of men from along the Guadalupe. Dick’s horse was in poor shape, so he joined afoot. The regiment were almost all infantry, anyway. But Ernest clung to Duke. He and Jim agreed that they’d hold out for a cavalry assignment.

The two Mexicans were closely guarded, and no one was permitted to speak with them. Nothing more was heard from the Alamo. That was queer. After breakfast the next morning, which was March 13, it was rumored that the general had ordered Henry Karnes, Deaf Smith and Richard Handy, another scout, to ride toward Bejar and find exactly how things stood. They were to be back with their news within three days.

A few additional volunteers arrived, the majority afoot, until by night the 374 had increased to 400. Now all were waiting for the report of the scouts.

That same night, about half-past eight o’clock, Henry Karnes returned alone. The camp had finished supper, and the men were sitting around visiting, when he rode rapidly in. As he loped past where Jim and Ernest were confabbing together, somebody called to him, sharply:

“What’s the news, Henry?”

“The wust,” answered Henry, without stopping. “All gone under; wiped out complete.” And he continued straight for General Houston’s headquarters tent. He had been riding hard.

Ernest and Jim stared at one another.

“That was true, then,” faltered Jim.

Ernest nodded. He could not speak. The picture was too horrible. Think of it—a hundred and eighty men, brave men, half of whom he knew, and had fought beside, killed—probably slaughtered!

“Come on,” bade Jim. “We’ll go where we can hear.”

Weak in his knees, his feet leaden, Ernest kept up with him. So swiftly had spread the tidings that almost instantly the camp was in a buzz; some of the men remained sitting, as if stunned; others sprang to their feet, and made, like Jim and Ernest, for headquarters, to stand before the tent flaps, murmurous and waiting.

Henry Karnes was talking inside. Colonel Burleson hastily entered. Colonel Hockley, the chief of staff, was there. Presently Henry Karnes emerged, pale through his freckled tan. Now it was no use to conceal matters, and he spoke freely, his voice shaking.

He and Deaf Smith and Richard Handy had ridden only twenty miles out of Gonzales (cautiously, on the watch for danger) when they had sighted a little party coming toward them on the road—a woman on a horse and two men afoot. It was Mrs. Dickinson, carrying her baby, and accompanied by Colonel Travis’s negro boy, Sam, and Ben, another negro who had escaped from Colonel Almonte of the Mexican army.

Mrs. Dickinson said that she and her baby, and Sam, and a Mexican sister-in-law of Colonel Bowie with her little sister, and another Mexican woman, were the only persons left alive who had been in the Alamo. General Santa Anna had sent her with a proclamation from him to tell Texas that the Alamo had fallen, and that now if Texas would submit and lay down its arms he would pardon its rebels. If not——! But imagine a pardon from Santa Anna!

The last attack on the Alamo had begun before daylight on last Sunday morning—just as had been suspected by Jim and the others who had listened from Gonzales. Two thousand five hundred soldiers had attacked on four sides at once, with cannon and scaling ladders. The Mexican bands had played the tune of Cut-Throat—no quarter! The attacks on three of the sides failed; and the attack on the fourth side, by all the soldiers together, had been driven back three times! But the soldiers were so many that the Alamo men could not shoot fast enough to keep them down. They had planted their ladders and had simply poured over the wall. Then there was terrible hand-to-hand fighting, through the buildings. Knives, pistols, and butts of guns! Captain Dickinson (who had been a lieutenant in charge of a cannon) had rushed into Mrs. Dickinson’s room in the Alamo church, and saying: “All is lost. If they spare you, save my child,” had rushed out, and she never saw him again. But he was killed. Colonel Travis was killed. Colonel Bowie was shot in his bed—the Mexican soldiers had been afraid to bayonet him. Davy Crockett had used his rifle as a club until he, too, fell. Colonel Bonham was dead. A man by the name of Walters had been driven right into Mrs. Dickinson’s room and there before her eyes had been tossed on bayonets by half a dozen Mexicans at once. Only five of the men survived the fight—and they had immediately been shot by orders of Santa Anna himself. After that General Santa Anna had all the Texan bodies collected in a pile and heaped with brush and burned. Now General Sesma was on his way with 2000 soldiers to seize Gonzales; and the remainder of the army would follow.

Henry Karnes explained that he had galloped ahead, and had left Mrs. Dickinson’s party to come on with the help of Deaf Smith and Richard Handy.

Look! Listen! To Gonzales town also the dreadful word had travelled. Lights were gleaming in the houses and on the streets; shrieks and screams and hoarse shouts cut through the damp night air: cries of fear and rage and grief—grief for nearly 200 Texans pent up and slaughtered, and especially for the thirty-one of the thirty-two Gonzales citizens who two weeks before had ridden away to help Travis in the Alamo, and would never return. Bluff Captain Albert Martin, who had gone back with his comrades; middle-aged Jacob Darst, Claib Wright, George Cottle, George Tumlinson, Jesse McCoy, Galb Fuqua, and the rest; and young Captain Dickinson—gone, leaving wives and children and brothers and sisters. Travis, Jim Bowie, James Bonham—Davy Crockett!

What a loss Texas had suffered!

The camp was in an uproar of excitement and uncertainty. The Mexicans under General Sesma were rumored to be already at the Cibolo, halfway for Gonzales! Horses thudded away into the darkness, bearing volunteers on the home trail to protect their families. But from his headquarters General Houston was acting—and no time was to be lost. Officers who had been summoned ran hither-thither, shouting orders.

“Companies fall in! This way, men!”

Ernest and Jim separated, to tend to business. Every man was to pack for a march, taking only what he could carry. Don’t delay for stray horses. Hook up those teams! Burn the extra baggage and supplies.

Great bonfires began to crackle and leap, as down came the tents, and armful after armful of canvas and clothing and bacon and flour and coffee were dumped upon the blaze. Figures half in ruddy light and half in gloom bustled to and fro. The wailing in the town never ceased. General Houston’s tent still stood, as a centre, and from it rang his voice, imperative, through all the tumult.

“No, sir! Wait! Don’t be in haste. Wait till all are ready, and let us retreat in good order.”

“Somebody’s getting in too big a hurry and the general’s calling him down,” remarked a man near Ernest.

So retreat it was to be! But nobody objected. Four hundred undrilled men, no matter how brave, could not hold the frontier, here in the open, against an army of several thousand regulars with cannon and cavalry.

About eleven o’clock the companies all were packed and in line. The general had sent word advising the Gonzales people to move out, and had given them two army wagons. A number of the horses at the camp had not been caught yet. But Ernest had made certain of Duke, and he rather guessed that Jim was in the saddle, too. Trust Jim for that!

The general’s tent had vanished. How the bonfires flamed! “Forward, march!” sounded the orders; and in a weaving column four abreast the little army headed from the blaze-lighted camp. There were six companies of infantry, with fifty or sixty men in a company, forming the centre; the sixty horsemen rode on either flank; the three cannon—one iron nine-pounder and two four-pounders—had been thrown into the river, for they could not be taken. One baggage-wagon, hauled by four oxen, brought up the rear.

The general and his staff—Colonel Hockley, Colonel Burleson, Lieutenant-Colonel Sherman and Major Somervell—led, on their horses. A detachment under Captain Handy and Captain John Sharp formed a rear guard. The march to the main road for the east passed through Gonzales. The houses all were lighted, and inside and in the yards the men and women were toiling desperately, packing their valuables and bedding, for flight. The two wagons, piled high, and with women and children atop the loads, joined the march for protection; so did a number of other outfits—on horses, oxen, or afoot, mothers carrying the smallest children, fathers, who had left the ranks, carrying others—whole families trudging and sobbing, but the men grim. Mrs. Dickinson was said to be somewhere in the procession.

General Houston’s voice could be heard, exhorting.

“None must be left behind,” he was saying. “Go to the interior. Keep ahead of the army. That’s the only safe way.”

“Before morning there won’t be a soul in Gonzales,” spoke a rider near Ernest. “This is war, all right.”

Ernest could not see the speaker; the march had proceeded into darkness, and Gonzales and its lights, shining for the last time from those homely casements, were behind.

“Yes,” responded another voice. “And by the time those fellows who’ve skipped out have spread the news, all West Texas will be on the move.”

“When we join Fannin, I reckon we’ll do something.”

“We’ll try hard.”

The enshrouded road became sandy, making bad going for the people afoot. Children whimpered, women panted, and even the volunteers trudged more and more slowly. The air was warm and lifeless.

On a sudden, after the march had continued for two hours, along the straggling column welled a cry, passing on lip to lip from rear to front. Ernest quickly turned his head. He had been half asleep. The western horizon was redly aglow.

“Gonzales! It’s a fire!”

“They’re burning the town!”

“Who’s doing that?”

“Did the rear guard have those orders?”

“There goes the only bit of property I have in the world.”

“Well, let the Mexicans come now. They’ll find nothing.”

Ernest gazed dumbly. Higher mounted the glow, as fiercer waxed the flames. There went his and Dick’s little home, then; all the buildings were of thin oak siding—they’d burn furiously. Ho-hum! That was pretty tough. What were the people to do, if they ever went back?

False dawn, which precedes real dawn by an hour, was in the air, and sleepy birds were twittering, when the exhausted column struggled across Peach Creek, at the abandoned McClure ranch, and welcome orders were given for the soldiers to rest on their arms. But many of the refugees from Gonzales pressed right on.

No fires were made. Some of the footmen simply fell upon their knapsacks and lay there. Ernest loosened Duke’s cinches and tethered him out; and was spreading his blanket when Jim found him.

“I’ve been looking for you,” said Jim. “There doesn’t seem to be much order, anyhow. I reckon we’ll just spread our blankets together after this till the cavalry’s formed. I’ll ride with you to-morrow.”

“Good,” replied Ernest, briefly.

In silence they rolled up, side by side, in their blankets. Jim spoke:

“Pretty tough, isn’t it!”

“That’s right,” agreed Ernest.

The fire was brighter, and the refugees continued to pass.