He was amazed to see virtually no people, though they traveled several days. They met a few travelers, but they saw no sign of permanent dwellings, of farms, or other settled human activity until they reached the borders of the Austin colony. Then, suddenly, James could almost pretend that he was back in Tennessee. Nothing had the Mexican appearance he had expected. The farms, the houses, the fences, and fields looked pretty much like the ones he had left at home, except that most had the look of being new. No legal American settlers had yet been here as long as ten years. Some of the late arrivals were just beginning to break their first ground, plant their first crops. James would ride out to look over the rail fences at the fields, to examine the newly turned earth. It looked rich, smelled rich. He felt he ought to be out there with a plow, though he had always been more at home with the rifle. That was a Lewis blessing, or perhaps it was a curse, that most of the menfolk were torn between the woods and the field.

They came, in time, to the village of San Felipe de Austin, headquarters for the Austin colony. James had heard much about Austin over the last several years and especially on this trip. He had looked forward to seeing the noted impresario, to determine if he was real or if he was simply a legend. He had heard so many stories back home about Old Hickory Jackson and David Crockett that he sometimes suspected they did not even exist except in the minds of certain shameless old liars. It might have been the same way with Austin.

But Austin was real, for Andrew pointed out his cabin, a double structure with the traditional dog-run in the center and a rocked-up well in front. The place was surrounded by heavy live oak trees, their branches strewn with beards of Spanish moss that waved gently in the breeze.

The town had nothing much Spanish or Mexican about it so far as James could see. It could have been an out-of-the-way Tennessee settlement on the edge of the old frontier from its outward appearance. Most of the buildings were built of logs, for timber was plentiful here along the broad, muddy Brazos River. The style of construction was strictly frontier American.

“I thought this was supposed to be part of Mexico,” Frank remarked to Andrew. “It looks to me like we must’ve gone in a circle and found our way back home.”

“Don’t be sayin’ that too loud,” Andrew said. “The Mexican authorities have noticed the same thing. Some of them say we’re an American island in a Mexican sea. They say we’re fixin’ to crowd everybody else out.”

James offered, “Maybe that wouldn’t be a bad idea. I feel better amongst our own kind.”

He was surprised at the reproach in Andrew’s voice. “Those people didn’t have to let us come in here. They could just as well’ve kept all this themselves. But they opened it to us, and I feel real bad when I hear anybody talkin’ ungrateful.”