There had been worrisome stirrings. Back in 1825, Andrew and Michael had helped Austin and Mexican troops put down a short-lived, overblown rebellion by certain land seekers at Nacogdoches, who had declared themselves the independent republic of Fredonia. Many would have considered it laughable in its pretensions and its futility, but lawmakers in Mexico City had not laughed. Those who distrusted Americans had pointed to it as an ominous forerunner of things to come.

Life had remained peaceful here on the Colorado River west of San Felipe, headquarters of Austin’s colony. Seldom did Andrew think about the Fredonian rebellion anymore. His mind and his efforts were directed toward developing his farm, enlarging his fields, increasing his little bunch of meat hogs running free in the woods, and expanding his modest herd of cattle. Lately he had been thinking about other Lewises, his kin, on their way here from Tennessee. They would find Texas different from the settled land of their birth. It was big and mostly undeveloped, a wilderness except for scattered clusters of settlements. They would probably think his Mexican wife Petra talked funny, as did Michael’s wife Marie. But they would come to love both women when they got to know them. They would come to love this land as Andrew and Michael had learned to love it. Once they knew Texas, they would never want to leave.

After a time he heard Petra clanging a piece of iron against a broken section of wagon tire hanging in the dog-run. It was her signal for him to come to the cabin for dinner. The black dog jumped to its feet and made a start toward the house, then stopped and looked back expectantly. Andrew glanced up at the noon sun for confirmation, then unhooked the plow and left it standing in the row while he walked the blue ox down to the river for a good watering. When the animal drank its fill, Andrew took him to a pen to feed upon last summer’s grass hay until it was time to go back to the field. The dog paced impatiently back and forth until Andrew said, “Go on.” The dog left him and trotted toward the cabin, willfully scattering the multicolored chickens that Petra treasured above all except family and cabin.

Petra waited in the dog-run and uptilted her chin for Andrew to kiss her. More than four years of marriage had not diminished that welcome ritual. She looked at him with eyes big and black and happy. “You are hungry?”

“I could eat the south end of a mule.”

She laughed. “Today we eat pork instead.” She had learned a fair amount of English, though she sometimes used the wrong word, put it in the wrong place, or mispronounced it. His Spanish fell short of perfect, so he could not fault her English. What mattered was that they understood each other in either language. Everybody else would just have to make the best of it.

He kissed her again, because he felt like it, and gave her a fierce squeeze. She laughed and said in Spanish, which came easier, “This is not the time. This is the middle of day.”