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.