"No," replied Bill, "we feel pretty nearly good enough for anything, but we will not try any such high jumping as that. There’s a pass. You can’t see it from here, because it’s a sort of knife-cut going down deep into the mountains, and they call it the Pass of Angostura. We’ll be there soon." There was much noise as the army began its march, friend calling to friend, the exchange of joke and comment, wagon drivers and cannon drivers shouting to their horses, and the clanking of arms. But they soon settled down into a steady sound, all noises fusing into one made by an army that continued to march but that had ceased to talk. Phil studied the mountains as they came nearer. They were dark and somber. Their outlines were jagged, and they had but little forest or verdure. The peaks seemed to him volcanic, presenting a multitude of sharp edges. As the sun rose higher, the day grew somewhat warmer, but it was still full of chill. The horses blew smoke from their nostrils. Scouts coming out of the passes met them and repeated that Santa Anna was now advancing from San Luis Potosi. Nor had rumor exaggerated his forces. He outnumbered the American army at least five to one, and his front was covered by a great body of cavalry under General Minon, one of the best Mexican leaders. This news quickly traveled through the columns, and Phil and his friends were among the first to hear it. Breakstone gazed anxiously at the peaks. "They don’t know just how far Santa Anna has come," he said, "but it’s mighty important for us going to the south to get through that pass before he, coming to the north, can get through it." "We’ll make it," said Phil, with the sanguine faith of youth. "I don’t believe that Santa Anna is yet near enough to dispute the pass with us." "Likely you are right, Sir Philip of the Brave Heart and the Cheerful Countenance," replied Bill Breakstone. "But we shall soon see for certain. In another hour we will enter the defiles." Phil said nothing, but rode on with his comrades. The city had now dropped behind them and was far out of sight. On their flanks rode scouts who would be skirmishers if need be. They marched on a level and good road, and about six miles from Saltillo they passed a hacienda and tiny village. "What village is that?" asked Phil of some one. "Buena Vista," was the reply.