“Looks like it.  I ain’t much of a hand at money, but I like the looks of that man Roylston, an’ I reckon the more rifles and the more ammunition we have the fewer Mexicans will be left.”

The two scouts, having smoked as long as they wished, went to their quarters and slept soundly through the night.  But Houston and the leading Texans with him hardly slept at all.  There was but one course to choose, and they were fully aware of its gravity, Houston perhaps more so than the rest, as he had seen more of the world.  They worked nearly all night in the bare room, and when Houston sought his room he was exhausted.

Houston’s room was a bare little place, lighted by a tallow candle, and although it was not long until day he sat there a while before lying down.  A man of wide experience, he alone, with the exception of Roylston, knew how desperate was the situation of the Texans.  In truth, it was the money of Roylston sent from New Orleans that had caused him to hazard the chance.  He knew, too, that, in time, more help would arrive from the same source, and he believed there would be a chance against the Mexicans, a fighting chance, it is true, but men who were willing to die for a cause seldom failed to win.  He blew out the candle, got in bed and slept soundly.

“Deaf” Smith and Henry Karnes were up early—­they seldom slept late—­and saw the sun rise out of the prairie.  They were in a house which had a small porch, looking toward the Brazos.  After breakfast they lighted their cob pipes again, smoked and meditated.

“Reckon somethin’ was done by our leadin’ statesmen last night,” said Smith.

“Reckon there was,” said Karnes.

“Reckon I can guess what it was.”

“Reckon I can, too.”

“Reckon I’ll wait to hear it offish-ul-ly before I speak.”

“Reckon I will, too.  Lots of time wasted talkin’.”

“Reckon you’re right.”

They sat in silence for a full two hours.  They smoked the first hour, and they passed the second in their chairs without moving.  They had mastered the borderer’s art of doing nothing thoroughly, when nothing was to be done.  Then a man came upon the porch and spoke to them.  His name was Burnet, David G. Burnet.

“Good mornin’.  How is the new republic?” said “Deaf” Smith.

“So you know,” said Burnet.

“We don’t know, but we’ve guessed, Hank an’ me.  We saw things as they was comin’.”

“I reckon, too,” said Karnes, “that we ain’t a part of Mexico any more.”

“No, we’re a free an’ independent republic.  It was so decided last night, and we’ve got nothing more to do now but to whip a nation of eight millions, the fifty thousand of us.”

“Well,” said Smith philosophically, “it’s a tough job, but it might be did.  I’ve heard tell that them old Greeks whipped the Persians when the odds were powerful high against them.”

“That is true,” said Burnet, “and we can at least try.  We give the reason for declaring our independence.  We assert to the world that the Mexican republic has become a military despotism, that our agents carrying petitions have been thrown in dungeons in the City of Mexico, that we have been ordered to give up the arms necessary for our defence against the savages, and that we have been deprived of every right guaranteed to us when we settled here.”