He came eventually to a broad plain where it appeared that hundreds of families had come together in a miserable, sodden encampment. Inquiry revealed that they were waiting for a ferry, which could take but a few at a time. Some had already been here several days, awaiting their turn. He inquired about the Lewises, but nobody seemed to know. He found a great deal of sickness, not just among children but adults as well, for the flight from the Mexican advance had been arduous and mean, wet and cold, unmercifully wearing on everyone who had made it. He found one family burying a child in a muddy grave, a victim of typhoid. There were more, the grieving parents said.

He came after a while to a familiar face, that of Marcus Caldwell. The farmer did not recognize James until James told him who he was. Caldwell apologized. He had not been able to see through the beard, he said. The rusty-haired farmer was not the same contented, smiling man James had known before. He was haggard and drawn, his eyes dulled with pain.

“We lost our littlest one,” he said in a breaking voice. “He was already ailin’ when the word came that we’d better pack up and get out. The rain and the cold were too much for him. We buried him back yonder, two days ago.” He rubbed a tear from the corner of his eye. “We marked the grave, but I don’t know if we can ever find it again. All that rain—”

James put his hand on the man’s trembling shoulder. “I’m awful sorry. Whichaway’s your wagon? I’ll go speak to your missus.”

Caldwell went with him. Mrs. Caldwell was dull-eyed, like her husband. James suspected she was sick herself. She spoke to him, but she seemed withdrawn, off in some distant place of her own. James suspected he knew where that was.

Red-haired Libby Caldwell had no insults for James this time. She watched him with sad eyes that reflected the ordeal she had endured. She had seemed but a girl when he had last seen her. She was a woman now, matured before her time.

He felt helpless in the face of all this trouble. He could not think of a thing he could do to lessen this family’s tragedy, to ease the misery in which they found themselves. All he could say to Libby was, “I’m sorry.”

She nodded an acknowledgement. “You don’t look like you’ve had it easy yourself.”

He told her briefly what he had been through, what he had seen. “If I can find my family and be sure they’re all right, I’ll go join up with Houston’s army.”

Her eyes were worried. “You don’t really think they can whip Santa Anna and all his soldiers, do you?”

He shrugged. “Maybe we can keep them fought back till everybody here is across to safe ground. Then we can follow.”

“But we’ll lose Texas,” she said.

He nodded regretfully. That thought was bitter.