"Come, Phil," he said, "you've done a good deed, so hop down off your high horse, and tell it in your old, easy way. Remember that we are still comrades of the plains."

Phil smiled, too. The official manner was rather hard and stiff, and it was easier to do as Middleton suggested.

"Captain," he said, "I recognized the man, and it was one that we've met more than once. It was de Armijo."

"Ah, de Armijo!" exclaimed the Captain. "He was trying to spy upon us.

He is high in the Mexican councils, and his coming here means much. It is lucky, Phil, that you were the one to stop him, and that you recognized him. But he did not love you much before, and he will not love you any more, since you have spilled some of his blood with a bullet."

"I know it," replied Phil confidently, "but I feel able to take care of myself as far as de Armijo is concerned."

"You go to your tent and sleep," said Middleton, "and I'll put another man in your place. You must not get too much stiffness and soreness in that arm of yours. You will be likely to need it soon--also, every other arm that you have."

Phil, not loth, returned to his tent, which he shared with Breakstone and two or three others. Bill awoke, and, after listening to a narrative of the occurrence, dressed and rebound the arm carefully.

"I agree with the Captain that things are coming to a head," he said.

"When you see a storm bird like de Armijo around, the storm itself can't be far behind. I'm glad he didn't get a good whack at you, Phil, but, as it is, you're so young and so healthy, and your blood is so pure that it won't give you any trouble. I'll dress it again to-morrow, and in a few days it will be well."

Bill Breakstone's prediction was a good one. In three or four days Phil's wound was entirely healed, and two or three days later he could use his arm as well as ever. The boy, meanwhile, was getting better acquainted with the troops, and, like his comrades, was becoming thoroughly a member of the little army. It was reduced now, by the steady drains to strengthen Scott, to 4,610 men, of whom less than five hundred were regular troops. But the volunteers, nearly all from the west and south, little trained though they might be, were young, hardy, used to life in the open air, and full of zeal. They had all the fire and courage of youth, and they did not fear any number of Mexicans.

But the New Year had come, January in its turn had pa.s.sed, and the news drifting in from a thousand sources, like dust from the desert, grew more alarming. The army organized by Santa Anna at San Luis Potosi was the largest that had ever been gathered in Mexico, with powerful artillery and a numerous cavalry. Santa Anna himself was at his best, drilling, planning, and filling his officers with his own enthusiasm.

In Saltillo itself the people grew bolder. They openly said that it was time for the Americans to run if they would save themselves from the invincible Mexican commander and president. It seemed to many of the Americans even that it would be wise to retreat all the way to the Rio Grande, but the old general, his heart full of bitterness, gave no such order. He had begun the campaign in victorious fashion, and then he had been ordered to stop. He had asked to be allowed to serve as second to Scott in the great campaign that would go forward from Vera Cruz, and that had been refused. Then he had asked that more of his troops, especially the regulars, be left to him, and that, too, had been refused. He was expected to yield the ground that he had gained, and retreat in the face of an overwhelming enemy.

Phil saw General Taylor many times in those days. Any one could see him as he pa.s.sed about the city and camp, a gray, silent man, with little military form, a product of the West and the frontier, to which Phil himself belonged. It was for that reason, perhaps, that Phil could enter so thoroughly into the feelings of the general, a simple, straightforward soldier who believed himself the victim of politics, a man who felt within him not the facility for easy and graceful speech and manners, but the rugged power to do great things. He was very gentle and kind to his men in these days. The soldier who had spent a lifetime on the frontier, fighting Indians and dealing with the roughest of his kind, was now more like the head of a great family, a band knitted all the more closely together because they were in a foreign land confronted by a great danger.

Phil was picking up Spanish fast, and his youth, perhaps, caused the people about the city to make more hints, or maybe threats, to him than they would have made to an older man. Santa Anna had with him the whole might of Mexico. He would be before Saltillo in three days, in two days, to-morrow perhaps. The very air seemed to the boy to be charged with gunpowder, and he had his moments of despondency. But he had been through too much danger already to despair, and he allowed no one to think that at any time he was apprehensive.

Bill Breakstone was, for the present, the best man in the army. No other made acquaintances so fast, no other had such a wonderful flow of cheering words, and he was--or had been--an actor. To many of these youths who had never seen a play he must certainly have been the greatest actor in the world. Nor was he like a prima donna, to be coaxed, and then to refuse four times out of five. He recited nearly every evening in front of his tent, and he did more than any other man to keep the army in good heart. General Taylor and his second, General Wool, said nothing, but the younger officers commented openly and favorably. Thus the last days of January went by, and they were deep into February. The menacing reports still came out of the south, and now it was known definitely that Washington expected Taylor to fall back. Gloom overspread the young volunteers. They had not fought their way so far merely to go back, but orders were orders, and they must be obeyed.

Early in the evening Bill Breakstone was reciting again in front of his tent, and at least two hundred stood about listening. This time he was reciting with great fire and vigor his favorite: "Once more unto the breach, dear friends," and, when he had said it once, there was a vigorous call for it again. Obligingly he began the repet.i.tion, but when he was midway in it Middleton strode into the circle and held up his hand. His att.i.tude was so tense, and his air and manner showed so much suppressed excitement that every one turned at once from Breakstone to him. Breakstone himself stopped so short that his mouth was left wide open, and he, too, gazed at Middleton.

"My lads," said Middleton, "an order, an important order has just been issued by the commander-in-chief. You are to prepare at once for breaking camp, and you are to march at daylight in the morning."

Some one uttered a groan, and a bold voice spoke up:

"Do we retreat all the way to the Rio Grande, or do we hide somewhere on the way?"

The speaker could not be seen from the place where Middleton stood, nor would the comrades around him have betrayed him. But Middleton looked in the direction of the voice, and his figure seemed to swell. Phil, who was standing near, thought he saw his eyes flicker with light.

"My lads," said Middleton, and his voice was full and thrilling, "we do not retreat all the way to the Rio Grande, nor do we hide on the way.

We do not retreat at all. We march forward, southward, through the mountains to meet the enemy."

A cheer, sudden, tremendous, and straight from the heart, burst forth, and it was joined with other cheers that came from other points in the camp.

"Now make it three times three for old Rough and Ready!" cried Phil in his enthusiasm, and they did it with zeal and powerful vocal organs.

Middleton smiled and walked on. Immediately everything was haste and excitement. The men began to pack. Arms and ammunition were made ready for the march. Youth looked forward only to victory, thinking little of the risks and dangers. Breakstone smiled to himself and said under his breath the words:

"We would not seek a battle as we are, Nor as we are, we say we will not shun it.

So tell your master.

"Old Rough and Ready perhaps does not seek a battle, but he is willing to go forward and meet it. Ah! these brave boys! these brave boys!"

Then he turned to Phil and Arenberg, who were among his tent-mates.

"We three must stick together through everything," he said. "We've lost Middleton for the time, because he's got to return to his duties as an officer."

"What you say iss good," said Arenberg.

"It's a bargain," said Phil.

They looked to the horses--they were in the cavalry--and at midnight went to sleep. But they were up before dawn, still full of energy and enthusiasm. As the sun cast its first rays on the cold peaks of the Sierra Madre, they mounted, fully armed and equipped, and marched out of Saltillo, although Taylor left a strong guard in the city, wishing to preserve it as a base.

Phil rode knee to knee with Arenberg and Breakstone, and the thrill that he had felt the night before, when Middleton told the news, he felt again this morning. Horse, foot, and artillery, they were only between four and five thousand men, but the whole seemed a great army to the boy. He had never seen so many men under arms before. Breakstone saw his eye kindling.

"They are stained by travel and tanned by weather, but it's fine crowd, just as you think it is, Sir Philip of Saltillo. Don't you agree with me, Hans, Duke of the Sierra Madre?"

"It can fight," said Arenberg briefly.

"And that's what it has come out to do."

Phil saw the people of Saltillo watching them as the army left the suburbs and moved on toward the mountains. But the spectators seemed to be silent. Even the children had little to say. Phil wondered what they thought in their hearts. He did not doubt that most of them were sure that this army, or what was left of it, would come back prisoners of Santa Anna. He was glad when they left them behind, and henceforth he looked toward the mountains, which upreared cold peaks in the chilly sunshine of winter. But the air was dazzlingly clear and crisp. Pure and fresh, it filled all on that high plateau with life, and Phil's mood was one that expected only the best.

"We are not going to ride straight over those mountains, are we?" he said to Bill Breakstone.

"No," replied Bill, "we feel pretty nearly good enough for anything, but we will not try any such high jumping as that. There's a pa.s.s. You can't see it from here, because it's a sort of knife-cut going down deep into the mountains, and they call it the Pa.s.s of Angostura. We'll be there soon."

There was much noise as the army began its march, friend calling to friend, the exchange of joke and comment, wagon drivers and cannon drivers shouting to their horses, and the clanking of arms. But they soon settled down into a steady sound, all noises fusing into one made by an army that continued to march but that had ceased to talk.

Phil studied the mountains as they came nearer. They were dark and somber. Their outlines were jagged, and they had but little forest or verdure. The peaks seemed to him volcanic, presenting a mult.i.tude of sharp edges.

As the sun rose higher, the day grew somewhat warmer, but it was still full of chill. The horses blew smoke from their nostrils. Scouts coming out of the pa.s.ses met them and repeated that Santa Anna was now advancing from San Luis Potosi. Nor had rumor exaggerated his forces.

He outnumbered the American army at least five to one, and his front was covered by a great body of cavalry under General Minon, one of the best Mexican leaders.

This news quickly traveled through the columns, and Phil and his friends were among the first to hear it. Breakstone gazed anxiously at the peaks.

"They don't know just how far Santa Anna has come," he said, "but it's mighty important for us going to the south to get through that pa.s.s before he, coming to the north, can get through it."

"We'll make it," said Phil, with the sanguine faith of youth. "I don't believe that Santa Anna is yet near enough to dispute the pa.s.s with us."

"Likely you are right, Sir Philip of the Brave Heart and the Cheerful Countenance," replied Bill Breakstone. "But we shall soon see for certain. In another hour we will enter the defiles."

Phil said nothing, but rode on with his comrades. The city had now dropped behind them and was far out of sight. On their flanks rode scouts who would be skirmishers if need be. They marched on a level and good road, and about six miles from Saltillo they pa.s.sed a hacienda and tiny village.

"What village is that?" asked Phil of some one.

"Buena Vista," was the reply.

Phil heard it almost without noticing, although it was a reply to his own question. Yet it was a name that he was destined soon to recall and never to forget. How often for years and years afterward that name came back to him at night, syllable by syllable and letter by letter! Now he rode on, taking no thought of it, and the little village and hacienda lay behind him, sleeping peacefully in the sun. His attention was for the mountains, because they were now entering the defile, the pa.s.s of Angostura, which cuts through the spur thrown out by the Sierra Madre.