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“No, I never saw him; but he was to take care of me,” faltered Ernest.

“Well,” said Mr. Carroll, quickly, “don’t you mind, boy. You’re no worse off. I’d sort of adopted you, anyway. So you come along to Gonzales, and I’ll see you don’t suffer, you bet.”

“Of course. Never mind. You stay with Dick Carroll and he’ll make a Texan of you,” spoke Mrs. Burnam. “Just forget your uncle and those Injuns.”

Ernest gulped.

“I guess I will,” he said. They all were trying to be so kind to him that he could not say anything else. And he did like Dick Carroll.

James Monroe Hill left, after supper, to ride over to his home. He told Ernest he’d see him again; and he did.

The start for the fifty-mile ride to Gonzales was made at daybreak, with the hospitable Burnam family waving good-by from the block-house. The winding trace led across numerous streams, and past several isolated ranches; and near sunset Dick Carroll again pointed before.

“Gonzales—little old Gonzales,” he informed. “She’s the last of the white settlements, but she’s home, and it’s good to see her again.”