Part 32 (1/2)

”We had better get out now,” whispered Poke Stover, and turned his pony to ride away from the river bank.

”Halt! Who goes?” came the cry, in Spanish, from one of the Mexican guards.

”We are discovered,” whispered Dan. ”Come on!”

He turned away from the river bank and dove straight into the pine brake. Then came a shot of warning, but the Mexican fired high, not daring to take aim for fear of hitting a friend.

The shot caused a commotion, and soon Dan and Stover felt that they were being followed. They tried to make their mustangs move on a run, but the animals could not be urged farther.

”They will catch us, sure,” gasped the boy, as the steps of the enemy sounded nearer and nearer. ”What shall we do?”

”Move to the right, and we'll see if we can't throw them off the trail,” answered Poke Stover.

To the right there was a slight hollow, filled with mesquite-trees and bushes, and beyond this was a sandy plain covered with cacti. But of the latter both were ignorant.

Down into the hollow they dove, their horses glad enough of the chance to get a drink at the pool among the bushes. Under the mesquite-trees they halted, and Stover went back to reconnoitre.

The scout was gone for fully quarter of an hour, and came back chuckling softly to himself.

”We threw 'em nicely,” he said. ”We are safe now, providin' we don't make too much noise.”

”Then let us go on, Poke. We must carry the news to Bexar.”

”It's funny there are no scouts around,” was the old frontiersman's comment. ”They ought to be on the watch.” But none of the Texan soldiers were on guard, the greater portion of them being in attendance at a Mexican fandango in the town, never suspecting the attack so close at hand. Santa Anna heard of this fandango, and would have pushed forward to capture San Antonio at once, but could not get his army across the Medina River.

Leaving the pool, Dan and the frontiersman ascended to the plain, and presently found themselves among the cacti. This was anything but pleasant, and they had to pick their way with great care in the darkness, and even then their steeds often refused to budge, so p.r.i.c.kly were the plants. It was almost morning when they arrived in sight of the _jacals_, or huts, which dotted the outskirts of the city.

The pair at once sought out the commander of the garrison, Lieutenant-Colonel William B. Travis, who was still sleeping. Travis was a das.h.i.+ng young soldier of twenty-eight, a lawyer by profession, and a native of North Carolina. The commander was ”red-hot” for independence, and one who never gave up, as we shall soon see.

”So you wish to see me,” he said to Stover, whom he had met before.

”It's rather an early visit.”

”I have to report that a large body of Mexicans are approaching the town,” answered the old frontiersman, saluting in true military style.

”Young Radbury here and myself were down along the Medina, when we spotted them trying to bring a couple of cannon over on a raft.”

”Mexican soldiers?” exclaimed the lieutenant-colonel. ”You are certain of this?”

”We are.”

”How many of them do you think?”

”At least a thousand.”

The commander knit his brows in perplexity. ”It is odd none of my scouts have brought me word. But a fandango----” He broke off short, as another officer came in. ”What is it, Chester?”

”It is reported that some Mexican dragoons are in the vicinity, colonel.”

”These people here tell me a whole army is coming. Where did your report come from?”