He found one of the outposts Fannin had indicated on the map, and some twenty men stationed there, patroling for signs that any Mexican soldiers were moving back into Texas. Colonel Sesma was south of the Rio Grande, at or near Matamoros, he was told, awaiting orders. Reports from friendly Mexicans indicated that Santa Anna was somewhere south of Laredo, moving northward. Surely, though, he would wait for spring. He could not possibly haul enough corn in his wagons to feed all the horses his cavalry would be bringing. The horses would need grass.

Relying on his memory of the map, James missed the second outpost he sought and wasted two days backtracking until he found it. Someone there thought he vaguely recalled a Lewis, a tall, gaunt man. Best he remembered, he looked a little like James, except older. It had been two months ago or longer, so he had forgotten if the name was Michael. Could have been, or maybe not. James learned only enough to fire up his hope, yet leave him frustrated and a little angry.

“Can’t you remember anything else? Can’t you remember where he was goin’ the last time you saw him?”

The speaker was not a Texan of long standing. He had come from Alabama back in the fall, just about the time the first blood was being spilled at Gonzales. He had been spoiling for a fight with the Mexicans and, up to now, had seen a lot of Texas but very little of the enemy. “Best I can recollect,” he said, “this Lewis went a-ridin’ out with a patrol that was headed down to the Bravo to whip up on any Mexican stragglers they could find and be damned sure they went on across the river. Ain’t none of that bunch ever come back, as far as I know. Could be they run into too many Mexicans. Me, I’d like to run into a few. I ain’t had the barrel of ol’ Hickory here good and hot since I got to Texas.” He patted the long rifle he cradled across one arm. “I just hope them Mexicans do come. Time we get done, what’s left of them won’t quit runnin’ till they get to Mexico City.”

If all the reports were even half true, James thought, the Alabaman would get his wish. A man ought to be more careful about what he wished for.

Somewhere north of the river was supposed to be another patrol unit, watching for signs. Fannin had warned that it was not permanently stationed at any one place, but remained mobile. It was mobile enough that James almost despaired of finding it. In the end he did not find it; it found him. Three men rose up suddenly out of the chaparral, leveling rifles at him. They startled the bay horse Walker enough that he jumped to one side and almost made James lose his hold on his rifle. One of them shouted a command in Spanish. James had no idea what he said. The men were bearded and dark, but they wore no uniform, so he thought they were probably Americans. He had found that men who spent all their time outdoors, in all kinds of weather, often became dark enough to be mistaken for Mexicans. Probably they mistook him for one.