Читать книгу With Sam Houston in Texas - Edwin L. Sabin - Страница 8

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Ernest went forward, across the little park. Now he was not a particle afraid. Something in the man’s big finger and steady voice put him at his ease. Besides, this was no Indian; it was Sam Houston in Indian clothes. Truly, an astonishing meeting, but a happy one. So Ernest went forward.

“What have you there, my boy?” asked Sam Houston, referring to the haversack.

“It’s a knapsack,” replied Ernest. “I found it under the boat.”

“Whom does it belong to?”

“One of the soldiers. He lost it when the boat capsized; so I took it with me.”

“Where are the soldiers?”

“I don’t know. I guess they swam ashore while I was floating down.”

“Let me see.”

Ernest passed the haversack to him, and squatted down while Sam Houston unbuckled the flap. After all, there wasn’t much of any use in the haversack: only two pairs of socks, and a suit of underclothing, and a razor and strop, and a “housewife” or little case containing needles and thread, and several newspapers, and a tin plate and steel knife and fork and pewter spoon, and some soggy crackers or hardtack, and a cotton night-cap. None of the clothing would fit Ernest. The haversack had weighed so much because it was water-soaked.

Sam Houston stowed everything carefully back again, and buckled the flap.

“We will restore this to the Government when we get to Fort Gibson,” he said. “It is not yours or mine. Can you travel? Come.” And he stood. “I have provision. You can eat as you go. Your uncle is no longer at the cantonment, but never mind. Sam Houston will watch over you.”

His uncle “no longer at the cantonment!” Why? And where, then? Ernest’s heart sank.

“He has been transferred,” quoth Sam Houston, briefly, as he strode, carrying the haversack, Ernest trotting in the wake of his great strides.

Ernest asked no further. He felt that he was in good hands, and that Sam Houston knew what was to be done.

In a few minutes they arrived at the edge of the timber, where a small, bob-tailed pony was tethered to a tree. The pony nickered at their approach. From the tree Sam Houston took down the carcass of a deer, hanging there. He laid it over the horse’s haunches and tied it fast. He slung his quiver at his thigh, and the haversack from the saddle, against the horse’s side. The pony did indeed seem very small; but after handing Ernest a strip of dried meat, extracted from the bosom of his shirt, and saying, “Chew on this, my boy,” Sam Houston untied the animal, lifted Ernest astride the deer carcass behind the rude saddle, and confidently mounted, himself.

Thus they rode away, at an easy amble, Ernest perched high and hanging tight, his legs and the legs of the deer dangling.

Up hill and down, through a rolling prairie land of rich grass and occasional brush and trees, they rode; they saw deer and wild turkeys, and crossed several trails; and at sunset they halted, by a creek, to spend the night. They chewed more of the dried meat, Sam Houston cut some dried grass, spread it, and from the saddle untied a blanket, and laid it out.

“There is our bed, yours and mine,” he said. “Some day you will remember that you shared the couch of Sam Houston.”

Ernest snuggled beside him, and slept soundly until daybreak. After a scanty breakfast they rode on.

It probably was about ten o’clock when, as they topped a little rise, Ernest’s friend pointed ahead.

“Yonder is our destination,” he said, solemnly—and using the high-sounding language of which he evidently was fond. “There lies the cantonment of Fort Gibson; and across the stream from it waits the humble habitation of Sam Houston.”

Slightly to the south of west showed a river, marked by its line of trees. That was the Arkansas. From the north another river joined it; and on the hither shore of this river, a few miles above its mouth, was a group of buildings, occupying a lovely placid site in the sunny open. Across the wide grassy prairie that stretched to the river ambled the pony, with its double burden—Ernest holding fast and peering.

Soon he could make out the Stars and Stripes floating on the breeze, from its tall flag-staff. Several Indians—real Indians—were met, on their ponies. They were dressed much like Sam Houston; some carried bows, some muskets. With them Sam Houston exchanged a dignified word of greeting. And presently the fort itself was reached—but it did not appear to be much of a fort; just a small collection of low, shabby wooden buildings around a parade-ground.

Ernest was disappointed. However, he did not waste many moments by criticizing his port. As the pony entered the parade-ground, apparently being directed straight for the quarters of the commanding officer himself, almost the first white persons that Ernest saw were young Lieutenant Neal, and the tall Texan, crossing the parade-ground together. And they had seen him.

With a little shout of joy, off from the deer carcass tumbled Ernest, and ran forward. The lieutenant and Mr. Carroll met him half way, and there was a great shaking of hands.

“Are you all here?” demanded Ernest, breathless. “I am. Sam Houston brought me.”

“Great Cæsar! Is that Sam Houston?” exclaimed the Texan. “With that Cherokee dress and those whiskers on his chin I didn’t know him. Bless my heart, but I’m glad to see you! Where did you go to? You disappeared completely. We——”

“I was under the boat,” explained Ernest.

“Is that so! We saw the boat but we didn’t sight you. We swam and waded to the high bank——”

“I landed on the other side; the low side,” explained Ernest. “Quite a way down, though. I couldn’t get out from under the boat, at first.”

“Lucky you did get out,” said the lieutenant, soberly. “We never thought of that. Well, we searched along the bank, the best we could; then we told some Indians to keep a watch-out for you, and borrowed some horses from them and rode on to the fort. Got here about midnight.”

“My uncle isn’t here any more, Mr. Houston says,” faltered Ernest, his spirits dropping.

“No, he isn’t, Ernest,” admitted the lieutenant. “He’s been gone about two weeks. But never mind. You’ll be cared for. Now let’s speak with General Houston a minute.”

General Houston, as the lieutenant had entitled him, was sitting with dignified patience on his bob-tailed pony, as if waiting for recognition. Followed by Ernest, the lieutenant and the Texan stepped over to him.

“I am Lieutenant Neal, sir,” addressed the lieutenant. “If I mistake not, I have the honor of addressing General Houston.”

“The same, sir,” bowed the general.

“Allow me to present Mr. Carroll, recently from Texas. You have done a great service, sir, in restoring to his friends this boy, with whom I travelled from the Mississippi River, and who I feared had been lost by an untimely accident.”

“It is one of the few pleasures of my life, sir,” responded the general. “I have informed him that Sergeant John Andrews, his uncle, is no longer stationed at Fort Gibson. Does the further disposal of the boy rest with you or with me?”

“I will take charge of him, and thank you,” answered the lieutenant.

“Then I will consign to you this haversack, also, which is the property of the Government,” continued the general. “Good-by, sirs. Good-by, my boy. Shall you ever need a friend, you will find him in Sam Houston.” He gravely eyed the Texan. “From Texas, eh? I will speak with you anon, sir.” He touched his pony with his heel, and turning aside ambled away.

“A ruined man,” mused the lieutenant, gazing after. “Think of him, as once a congressman, and governor of a state! I fear his violent habits have weighted him down beyond recall.”

“A great character struggling to free itself again,” corrected the Texan. “There is nothing half-way about Sam Houston. Just now he’s like a wounded b’ar, that bites its own flesh and crawls about seeking healing yarbs. But wait till he’s recovered. Why,” added the Texan, “in his Injun clothes, on a bob-tail hoss, he rides as if he were in broadcloth on a thoroughbred!”

And Ernest decided that the Texan was right.

The next thing on the program, for Ernest, was of course a change of clothes. In the lieutenant’s room he was fitted out, after a fashion; and although the clothes were rather large, they were clean. The steamboat with his trunk had not arrived yet. As like as not she was still stuck on the bar.

So Ernest, while awaiting word of his uncle the sergeant, who had been sent out with a scouting detail across country clear to Cantonment Leavenworth in what is to-day Kansas, stayed at Fort Gibson. It was likely, according to the lieutenant, that the sergeant would get his discharge at Leavenworth. Well, what then? Would he come back? Scarcely. Would he send for Ernest to meet him? Nobody seemed to know. Therefore Ernest wrote a letter—a long, long letter—to his mother, and settled down to do the best that he could. He was such a handy lad that he felt he could earn his way; and as he was willing to do anything, he kept very busy performing little jobs for Lieutenant Neal and the other officers.

Fort Gibson, or Cantonment Gibson (a cantonment being deemed not so permanent as a fort), located here on the east bank of the Grand River a few miles above the Arkansas, in the southwest corner of the United States possessions, was only a small post established among the Cherokee, Creek and Choctaw Indians of the Indian Country. Of these, the Cherokees were the most numerous around the post. They had their principal village, named Tah-lon-tees-kee, down the Arkansas about thirty miles; they lived in quite a civilized fashion, with their rulers and councils, and comfortable houses, and well-cultivated farms. White people had married into the tribe, and they even kept slaves.

Sam Houston was a Cherokee; he had been adopted by the old head chief John Jolly—whose Indian name was Oo-loo-te-kah; and took part in the councils that made the laws, and was given the name Col-lon-neh, which meant The Raven. He was one of the few white men who could speak the Cherokee language.

But lately Sam Houston had left the Cherokee town of Tah-lon-tees-kee; he had married a half-Cherokee woman named Tyania Rodgers, and with her had settled across the Grand River opposite Fort Gibson, where he had taken up land, built a log house, and was farming and trading.

Ernest saw him frequently, at the post and also across the river. There was something mysterious about Sam Houston. Nobody appeared to understand what had got into him, except that he had been disappointed in his marriage back in Tennessee, and had separated from his wife there, resigned his governorship of Tennessee, and had fled as far as he could from all his white acquaintances. He never breathed a syllable about the cause of his trouble; people respected him for that. He never permitted a word to be uttered blaming his first wife; and people respected him for that. He “took his medicine,” as the saying was. But no one could respect his habits, especially his drunkenness.

He wore Cherokee Indian costume constantly—usually a slovenly costume, as when Ernest had first seen him, but again a “full dress” of beautiful white doeskin hunting-shirt, yellow buckskin leggins, beaded moccasins, a brilliant red blanket as a cloak, and a kind of crown of wild-turkey feathers. Thus he stalked about.

He hunted much, alone, with bow-and-arrow and with gun. He had spells when he would answer nobody except in Cherokee. And he had other spells when he lay on the ground drunk, even at the fort itself. Then his wife Tyania, who was as large and as stately as himself, would seek him and take him home to the log house across the Grand River. He was known as “Drunken Sam”; and even his Indian brothers called him “Big Drunk” instead of Col-lon-neh, The Raven.

It was a sad step downward for any man to take; and for a man who had been as great as Sam Houston——! Yet, sober or drunk, he still had about him a dignity that bespoke his better days in the past, and perhaps promised better days to come. He almost always greeted Ernest very kindly, and Ernest could not help but like him.

The tall Texan, Dick Carroll, soon left for the down-river and the Mississippi. Whether he had persuaded General Houston to help Texas, nobody knew; but at any rate, he promised to keep an eye out for Ernest’s uncle, in case that the sergeant had returned to the Arkansas as far as Fort Smith, say. As for the trunk, Ernest never saw it again, or the steamboat either!

The fall, crisp and bright, with occasional flurries of snow, merged into winter, and December opened brave and sunny, with bracing days and sharp starry nights. Then, ere a week had passed, through the post circulated the news that Sam Houston had gone. On his bob-tailed pony he had ridden away, as if for Texas at last. Only his wife Tyania remained in the log cabin across the Grand.

Of course there were many reports. One rumor declared that he had gone to Texas by request of President Jackson, to make treaties with the Comanches and the other Texas Indians, for the United States. This rumor afterwards proved true. Another rumor said that he had been asked by the President to investigate the people and affairs in Texas, and to see what the likelihood was that it would separate from Mexico. This rumor also afterwards seemed to be proved true. But John Henry, another trader at Fort Gibson, stated:

“Sam Houston has gone to Texas to stay. He’s been intending that a long time. And not six months ago he said to me, on the bank of the Grand River: ‘Henry, let’s go to Texas. I’m tired of this country and sick of this life. It’s no place or occupation for me. Anyway, I’m going, and in that new land I will make a man of myself again.’ He also said he’d make a fortune for both of us, if I’d go with him.”

“If he’ll make the man of himself, that’s enough; better than fortune,” quoth Lieutenant Neal, standing near. “And I believe he will. I’d feared his ambition was dead; but it isn’t, and anybody with ambition to be something higher is by no means hopeless. I’m glad he’s gone. The Cherokees and other Indians will miss him, though; he was their best friend.”

Ernest missed him, too; missed him already—and rather wanted to go to Texas, himself. However, on the very next day who should come riding into the post but Mr. Carroll the Texan, back from his trip down-river, and eager indeed over the tidings with which he was greeted.

“Sam Houston’s gone, they tell me! Gone to Texas! Pshaw! He must have crossed my trail, then, on his way down to Nacogdoches. But it’s good news. Hello, boy,” he cried, sighting Ernest. “I had word of your uncle. He was at Fort Smith, but he left for Texas before I could catch him. I reckon he didn’t know you were up here. If you’d like to follow him now’s your chance, for I’m off to Texas myself in the morning.”

“All right,” said Ernest. “I’ll go if I can get a horse.”

“A hoss!” laughed Mr. Carroll. “No boy who’s plucky enough to take the long trail into Texas shall lack a hoss. Not much!”

“Besides, he’s earned one,” declared the lieutenant, hearing. “He’s worked hard at whatever he was told to do, and my yellow pony that he’s been riding is his to keep; yes, and saddle and bridle, too.”

So Ernest, outfitted, by the friends whom he had made, not only with the yellow pony, and saddle and bridle, but also with clothes, provisions, and a buck-handled hunting-knife, found himself the next morning prepared to ride southward with Dick Carroll the Texan.

He was shaking hands and exchanging good-byes, when into the midst strode a young Cherokee, the nephew of Tyania, Sam Houston’s wife.

He bore a beautiful light little rifle, beaded hide bullet-pouch, and powder-flask of black buffalo horn scraped smooth and thin. Straight he marched to Ernest’s stirrup.

“Tyania send these,” he said, extending them. “You go to Texas. When you see Sam Houston you tell Sam Houston Tyania love him, she wait here for him, but she never go there.”

And he had hastened away before Ernest had had time even to thank him.

“By jiminy!” exclaimed the Texan, as Ernest, much flustrated and delighted, slung the bullet-pouch and powder-horn upon his shoulders and balanced the little rifle. “Now you’re sure fixed out, and that Mexican government had better mind how it behaves or Texas will be free.”

They left Fort Gibson behind them, and crossed the Arkansas River by means of an Indian flatboat ferry—to which the horses did not object at all. Almost due south they rode; straight for Texas, by a narrow trail that led through the timber and the prairies clear to Nacogdoches, which was the first town of any importance on the Texas northeastern frontier. Mr. Carroll was not certain that he wished to go to Nacogdoches; but he hoped to overtake General Houston, or at least to learn his whereabouts.

All day they rode; at night they camped. They passed through a portion of the Creek Indian nation (the Creeks looked much like the Cherokees); and after that they saw scarcely anybody except Choctaws (another half-civilized Indian people), until before they reached the Red River they sighted, at noon, ahead, three men sitting their horses in the trail, and grouped as if chatting.

“Sam Houston!” ejaculated Mr. Carroll. “Now we’ll know what’s what.” And he added, as they drew near: “Elias Rector, too. He’s United States marshal for Arkansas Territory. T’other one’s name is Harris, I think. Met him down at Little Rock. Major Arnold Harris.”

Sure enough, General Houston it was, his head thrust through a Mexican blanket, draped over his shoulders, and a large-brimmed whitey-gray wool hat on his crown. He looked larger than ever, but it was no wonder that Ernest had not recognized him, for he had been clean shaven. However, Mr. Carroll had sharp eyes.

The spot proved to be the focus of several trails; and as Mr. Carroll and Ernest arrived, the general was heavily dismounting from his bob-tailed pony.

“This bob-tailed pony is a disgrace,” declared the general. “He is continually fighting the flies, and has no means of protecting himself; and his kicks and contortions render his rider ridiculous. I shall be the laughter of all Mexico. I require a steed with his natural weapon, a flowing tail, that he may defend himself against his enemies as his master has done. Harris, good-bye; but first you must trade with me. What are your terms?”

“Very well, Sam, I will,” agreed Major Harris. “But we’ll each keep our own saddle and bridle.”

“So be it,” answered the general. “Now, Jack,” he said to his bob-tailed pony, as he stripped him, “you and I must part. You have been a good and faithful servant to me, but, Jack, there comes a time in the life of every man when he and his friends must separate. You are a faithful pony. You are a hardy pony. You are a sure-footed pony. But cruel man has made you defenseless against the common enemy of your kind, the pesky fly. Where I am going they are very thick. The Almighty in His wisdom gave you a defense, but man has taken it from you, and without a tail you are helpless. I must therefore with pain and anguish part with you.”

So saying, he changed the saddle and bridle to the larger horse, which had a fine long tail.

“Houston,” spoke the third man, the United States marshal, “I’d like to give you some little keepsake before we separate, but I have nothing except my razor. Will you take it? I never saw a better one.” And he extracted it from his saddle-bag and extended it.

“Major Rector,” proclaimed the general, much as if he were making a public speech, “I accept it. This is apparently a gift of little value, but it is an inestimable testimony of the friendship which has lasted many years, and proved steadfast under the blasts of calumny and injustice. Good-bye. God bless you. When next you see this razor it shall be shaving the President of a Republic.”

“How are you fixed for money, Sam?” inquired Major Harris. “You may need some where you’re going.”

“Money?” answered the general, solemnly. “Unfortunately, I am always in need of money.”

“Then let me divide with you. I’ve more with me than I can use, and you can repay me at your leisure.”

“Thank you,” acknowledged the general, pocketing what was proffered. “Remember my words, Harris, I shall yet be the president of a great republic. I shall bring that nation to the United States, and if they don’t watch me closely I shall be the President of the White House some day. Good-by.” And reining his horse around, he rode down one of the trails.

He apparently had not noticed Mr. Carroll and Ernest. But the two other men, taking another trail, saluted civilly as they passed.

“Well,” remarked the Texan, to Ernest, and gazing after the rapidly receding form of the general, “I reckon Sam Houston’s bound for Texas, all right. Didn’t I tell that steamboat captain and the rest of you that Houston would rise again? He’s made up his mind and nothing can stop him.”

Thus speaking, the Texan touched his horse, and with Ernest rode onward into the south.

That evening they half waded, half swam their horses, across a ford of a rapid river. On the farther bank Mr. Carroll raised his hat as if in a salute, and turned to Ernest with a smile.

“Now you’re in Texas, lad,” he said. “That was the Red River.”

They made camp, and lay down together in their wet clothes, feet to the fire, while a flock of turkeys (minus one which had supplied a supper) querulously piped in the trees beside the water before they, also, settled for the night.

Texas! Was ever a land elsewhere so vast and yet so beautiful as this, thought Ernest, as throughout the next day he and the Texan steadily rode onward, threading deeply-grassed prairies, circuiting patches of rich timber, crossing streams and swamps, and seeing scarce a sign of human life, but horses and deer and turkeys in abundance. Where were the Texas settlers?

Mr. Carroll laughed.

“Down yonder we’ll find ’em,” he said. “But the country’s not crowded. Every man has plenty room. This is principally Comanche range—and those fellows we don’t want to see!”

After such long travel that Ernest completely lost track of the days, they came to the first real token of civilization: a straight, well-travelled road, with marks not only of horses’ hoofs but of wheels.

“The Royal Road,” explained Mr. Carroll, pausing. “Laid out by the Spanish before the Texas settlers entered. Runs clean across the middle of Texas between Nacogdoches of the east and San Antonio of the west. But we don’t follow it. We strike down by the San Felipe trace, for Gonzales. If we followed the San Antonio road we’d pass too far north.”

Presently he turned off, to the left, upon a much lesser road—another of those Texas trails or “traces.” Evidently this was the San Felipe trace. Now they met a few people, mainly hunters on horseback; and that night they stopped with a settler family at whose ranch-house, a rude log cabin, glassless and floorless, they were made more than welcome to a supper of corn-bread, venison and honey, and to a husk bunk.

The next afternoon Mr. Carroll pointed ahead.

“San Felipe on the Brazos,” he announced. “First American town founded in Texas, headquarters of Steve Austin’s colony, and sort of capital for the whole outfit of us. We’ll stop there to-night, and at Burnam’s on the Colorado to-morrow night, and day after we’ll push on through to Gonzales.”

San Felipe was a straggling little town, with scattered houses of logs and of thick, rough-sawed siding like clapboards, and dusty but wide streets, centering about two public squares or plazas. There was a tavern, run by a settler named Whitesides, and a double log house where lived Stephen Austin himself, the “Father of Texas.” He was away from town, just now, on business. Mr. Carroll thought that at least 1500 people formed the population of the San Felipe neighborhood. The farms were said to be the most prosperous in Texas.

This night’s lodging was at the house of another friend—Mr. R. M. Williamson, one of whose legs was bent at the knee, so that he moved by help of a crutch. He had been alcalde, or mayor, of San Felipe, and was called “Three-legged Willie.” He seemed to be a fine man, of quick, decisive action.

What he and Mr. Carroll talked upon, late into the night, Ernest did not know—he did not stay awake to hear.

“Thirty miles to-day,” quoth the Texan, as in the morning he and Ernest ambled out of San Felipe. “Fifty to-morrow, and then we’re there.”

The trace continued into the west. And again it was a rather lonesome trail, save for the very few ranches, and an occasional traveller by horse—now and then an American in buckskins or coarse cloth, and now and then a swarthy Mexican enveloped in a blanket. If there were 20,000 Americans settled in Texas, they must be settled at great intervals; and this Ernest soon learned was true.

“Yon’s the Colorado,” informed Mr. Carroll, toward evening, as they jogged slowly, saving their horses for the longer ride to-morrow. “The Burnams live across on the west bank. Hope the captain’s at home. Want you to meet him. He’s four-square. One of the original Austin settlers, he is. Came out hereabouts from East Texas along in ’22. Took sick in the War of 1812, and he was the porest man in Texas, I reckon. Born pore, in fact—and when he married, in Tennessee, his wife had to sell her stockings to get plates to eat off of. But he’s getting ahead, now, and he’s a powerful Injun fighter. That’s the kind of stuff we have in Texas, to make a state; and it’s the right stuff, too.”

Burnam’s Crossing was a ford at the Colorado River, but a ferry was operated here, also, in high water. From the east bank, where another settler lived, the Burnam ranch could be seen, opposite: a log house built like a block-house, and several out-structures. Ernest and his guide plashed through the water.

Yes, Captain Burnam was at home, for when they drew up before the hitching rail in front of the ranch yard a bearded man hastened from the corral to greet them.

“Howdy? Light and come in,” he called, cheerily. “Oh, boys! Put up these gentlemen’s hosses.”

A young man issued from the corral and with a word to Mr. Carroll led the two horses away. Ernest was introduced to Captain Burnam; and in the house to the rest of the family. At supper there was another boy, of dark eyes and hair, whose name was James Hill—or James Monroe, they called him, by his middle name, when they didn’t call him plain Jim.

He was older than Ernest, being fourteen, but he was a boy, just the same; and although there were boys in the Burnam family, Ernest was glad to meet as many boys as possible. It would have been pretty stupid, in Texas, without boys.

“I live out just a small piece,” explained James Monroe. “You going to Gonzales, I reckon?”

“I guess so,” responded Ernest.

“Mr. Carroll some of your kin?”

“No. I’m looking for my uncle.”

“Who’s he?”

“Sergeant John Andrews, of the United States Army. But he’s been discharged, and he’s somewhere in Texas.”

“Wasn’t that an army sergeant named Andrews who was killed by the Karankawas down on the Trinity, couple of months ago, dad?” blurted one of the Burnam boys.

“Sh!” warned his mother; but it was too late.

“That so?” queried Mr. Carroll of Captain Burnam. “Hadn’t heard. What about it?” And Ernest waited, breathless.

“So’s the tell,” acknowledged Captain Burnam, slowly. “There was a party of traders massacred by the Karankawas, and a man by name of John Andrews, from the United States Army, was among ’em. He was a newcomer. They all were newcomers or they wouldn’t have been so careless.”

Silence fell.

“That’s sure too bad,” volunteered Jim Hill, to Ernest. “Maybe ’twasn’t your uncle. Did you know him well?”

“No, I never saw him; but he was to take care of me,” faltered Ernest.

“Well,” said Mr. Carroll, quickly, “don’t you mind, boy. You’re no worse off. I’d sort of adopted you, anyway. So you come along to Gonzales, and I’ll see you don’t suffer, you bet.”

“Of course. Never mind. You stay with Dick Carroll and he’ll make a Texan of you,” spoke Mrs. Burnam. “Just forget your uncle and those Injuns.”

Ernest gulped.

“I guess I will,” he said. They all were trying to be so kind to him that he could not say anything else. And he did like Dick Carroll.

James Monroe Hill left, after supper, to ride over to his home. He told Ernest he’d see him again; and he did.

The start for the fifty-mile ride to Gonzales was made at daybreak, with the hospitable Burnam family waving good-by from the block-house. The winding trace led across numerous streams, and past several isolated ranches; and near sunset Dick Carroll again pointed before.

“Gonzales—little old Gonzales,” he informed. “She’s the last of the white settlements, but she’s home, and it’s good to see her again.”

They entered another straggling town, smaller than San Felipe. Dick exchanged greetings with the people whom he passed; he turned his horse and Ernest’s into the public corral, for the night, and led the way, through the dusk, for supper and bed in his own cabin, which was to be Ernest’s also.