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“I live out just a small piece,” explained James Monroe. “You going to Gonzales, I reckon?”

“I guess so,” responded Ernest.

“Mr. Carroll some of your kin?”

“No. I’m looking for my uncle.”

“Who’s he?”

“Sergeant John Andrews, of the United States Army. But he’s been discharged, and he’s somewhere in Texas.”

“Wasn’t that an army sergeant named Andrews who was killed by the Karankawas down on the Trinity, couple of months ago, dad?” blurted one of the Burnam boys.

“Sh!” warned his mother; but it was too late.

“That so?” queried Mr. Carroll of Captain Burnam. “Hadn’t heard. What about it?” And Ernest waited, breathless.

“So’s the tell,” acknowledged Captain Burnam, slowly. “There was a party of traders massacred by the Karankawas, and a man by name of John Andrews, from the United States Army, was among ’em. He was a newcomer. They all were newcomers or they wouldn’t have been so careless.”

Silence fell.

“That’s sure too bad,” volunteered Jim Hill, to Ernest. “Maybe ’twasn’t your uncle. Did you know him well?”