Gone to Texas by Don Worcester

to you, they won’t take us by surprise. What will you do now?”
    â€œRight now, all I can think about is getting back to the States somehow,” Ellis answered. “I’ve been a Spanish prisoner for ten years.”
    Morelos sighed. “Ten years,” he said. “Maybe you’re fortunate. We’ve been prisoners of Spain for nearly three hundred years. Now we intend to throw off our yokes, but the struggle promises to be long and bitter. Look at us!” He gestured toward the ragged men squatting in the shade, sharpening knives or machetes. “We have to fight them almost with our bare hands.”
    Ellis looked around and shook his head. How could this ragtag army led by a plucky little priest with no military training hope to defeat veteran Spanish troops? Their cause was hopeless—all were doomed to die in battle, or worse, be shot in the back as traitors.
    â€œI don’t see many guns,” he admitted.
    â€œNo, and we have little powder for the few we have.” Ellis thought about that.
    â€œIf you have any sulfur and saltpeter,” he said, “I can at least make some gunpowder for you.”
    â€œWe have a small supply of both. Make all you can.”
    Ellis got some of the women camp followers to grind the saltpeter and sulfur on the stone metates they used for making commeal. He mixed the powder, then approached Morelos again. “If I go back to the royalists, I know I can get at least seventy men to come over. They’ll have guns, too.” The stocky priest looked at Ellis for a moment, and it seemed that he was taking his measure as a man.
    â€œGo ahead, Elias,” he said, “for I trust you not to betray us. But make it appear that you escaped. If they’re the least bit suspicious, they’ll shoot you on the spot. They may, anyway.”
    Ellis and Danlin slipped away that night, and the next day told Cosío about their capture and lucky escape. The captain looked at them through narrowed eyes. “They were going to shoot us in the morning,” Ellis explained. “We had to get away.” Cosío shrugged and ordered them to join the force of regulars and militia again.
    â€œYou’ll have your chance to get even,” he said.
    â€œI sure hope so,” Ellis replied. They marched to Tres Palos, closer to the rebel camp, where they joined a larger force under Captain Francisco Paris, who was preparing to attack the rebels.
    Because none of the militia had uniforms, Paris sent Ellis and others to shoot cranes so they could use the white feathers to distinguish the militia from the rebels. Ellis slipped away to a house where he found two women whose husbands he suspected were with Morelos.
    â€œI’ve got to get word to Morelos,” he told them. One cautiously nodded. “Tell him Elias said to send as many men as he can to that abandoned house by the creek. I’ll meet them there tonight and we’ll capture the royalist camp and artillery.” He hoped Morelos wouldn’t think it was a trap.
    That night Ellis and two Mexicans, who were rebels at heart, slipped out of camp, knowing that the sentry guarding the artillery also favored the rebel cause. In the light of a full moon, they waited anxiously at the abandoned house, listening intently. Overhead, bats squeaked as they flitted after insects, and owls hooted mournfully. “I hope they come,” Ellis said impatiently. “It’s too good an opportunity to miss.” The others agreed.
    About midnight, Ellis heard the muffled sound of footsteps. He and the two Mexicans walked quietly toward the sound, straining their eyes in the moonlight. “Who is it?” Ellis called softly in Spanish.
    Captain Miguel Avila cautiously approached, leaving the others behind. “Elias,” he asked, “is that you?” Ellis stepped forward and shook hands with him.
    â€œHow many men?”
    â€œAbout five hundred,” Avila