“MRS. DICKINSON JUMPED WITH fright at the rustle in the tall grass beside the road. She, Angelina and Ben were now across the Salado—well east of San Antonio—and it never occurred to her that anyone else might be near. A head popped out of the brush, and a familiar voice hailed her—it was Joe, Travis’ slave. Leery of Mexican promises, he had fled town on foot and was trying to get to Gonzales too. Hearing horses approach, he was sure the Mexicans were after him and plunged into the grass until h...e saw who it was. Overjoyed, Joe emerged, attached himself to the little group, and happily trudged along beside Mrs. Dickinson’s horse. He was dubious protection—he dived back into the grass at every unusual sound—but at least he was company, and she needed that too. Mile after mile, the little party continued on—all day March the 11th and 12th. By noon on the 13th, they were about twenty miles from Gonzales, when once again Joe plunged into the underbrush. This time it was no deer, no stray cow, no fluttering prairie hen.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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