He was saddened and angered by the melancholy events as Johnson related them in a strained voice. He remembered the battle of Velasco, fought for Travis and others after they had already been released from Mexican custody. Now Travis was dead, and Bowie and all the rest. And Fannin at Goliad, where James had gone first in his search for Michael. So many men, such a terrible loss. Its magnitude was staggering.

The two Mexican soldiers acted for a while as if they contemplated charging the two Texans, but they gave up and rode westward. Johnson said, “They’ll be fetchin’ help to get us, more than likely. I’d as soon disappoint them.”

Johnson rode the black horse out to where his own had fallen. James helped him recover the saddle, which he preferred over the cavalry saddle on the black. They moved eastward then at a good steady trot.

James asked him if there was any kind of Texan army left. Johnson said, “Sam Houston was puttin’ one together over at Gonzales. He’s been retreatin’ to the east lately, stayin’ ahead of Santa Anna. Some of the boys are afraid he’ll retreat plumb into Louisiana, but I think Ol’ Sam is just lookin’ for the right place. When he finds it, he’ll turn around, and we’ll give that Santa Anna the worst case of snakebite he ever had. We could use a fightin’ Lewis. You want to join my outfit?”

James studied on it a little. A few years ago he would have been eager. Now he had seen enough fighting to sicken him. “I’d like to find my family first and be sure they’re safe.”

Johnson pointed northeastward. “They’ll be thataway, more than likely. There’s been thousands of them, pushin’ through the mud, tryin’ to get over into Louisiana. In wagons, carts, horseback, afoot—Houston’s been keepin’ himself between them and the Mexicans to give them time. There’s so many of them, you’re apt to have trouble findin’ your own.”

They came to a parting, after a while. Johnson rode toward a rendezvous with his company. James followed the track of the refugees. It was plainer now, for they had been funneling together in a bigger and broader mass. Wheels had left deep scars in the rain-softened ground. James could imagine that much of the time the people had been pushing by hand, having to help the teams move their wagons and carts through the black mud. In places the sorrel sank almost to its knees in the muck.

He finally began overtaking refugees, some in wagons, some in spoke-wheeled carts, some using the solid-wheeled Mexican-style carts that groaned and squealed like something out of a nightmare as wood rubbed against wood. Some vehicles were drawn by horses and mules, some by oxen. He passed a woman pushing a small handcart, her mud-spattered children following behind her, leading a milk cow. Almost without exception, the people he passed asked him how far behind the Mexicans were. Their anxiety became his anxiety, for he feared that some of them would be overtaken if nothing happened to halt the Santanista advance. Enemy patrols like the one he and Johnson had encountered could not be far in the rear.