THE ALAMO
Two days after the party at the ranch house, Mr. Hartley made a
wonderful announcement at the dinner table.
"What do you say, young ladies, to a visit to San Antonio?" he began.
"Father, could we? Do you mean we can?" cried Genevieve.
"Yes, dear, that's just what I mean. It so happens I've got business
there, so I'm going to take you home 'round by that way. We'll have
maybe a couple of days there, and we'll see something of the surrounding
country, besides. You know Texas is quite a state--and you've seen
mighty little of it, as yet."
"Oh, girls, we'll see the Alamo!" cried Genevieve. "Did you realize
that?"
"Will we, truly?" chorused several rapturous voices.
"Yes."
"And what do you know about the Alamo, young ladies?" smiled Mr.
Hartley.
"We know everything," answered Tilly, cheerfully. "Mr. Jones's
daughter, you know, was our Latin teacher, and she had the History
class, too. Well, we couldn't even _think_ Bunker Hill but what she'd
pipe up about the Alamo. Now I think Bunker Hill is pretty good!"
"Oh, but we want to see the Alamo, just the same," interposed Bertha,
anxiously.
"Of course!" cried five emphatic girlish voices.
"All right," laughed Mr. Hartley. "You shall see it, all of you--if the
train will take us there; and you'll see--well, you'll see a lot of
other things, too."
Cordelia stirred uneasily. The old anxious look came back to her eyes.
When dinner was over she stole to Mr. Hartley's side.
"Mr. Hartley, please, shall we see an oil well?" she asked, in a low
voice.
"Bless you, little lady, what do you know about oil wells?" smiled the
man, good-naturedly. "You haven't got any of those to look up, have
you?"
To his dumbfounded amazement, she answered simply:
"Yes, sir--one."
"Well, I'll be--well, just what is this proposition?" he broke off
whimsically.
"If you'll wait--just a minute--I'll get the paper," panted Cordelia.
"Mr. Hodges wrote down the name."
Very soon she had returned with the paper, and Mr. Hartley saw the name.
His face hardened, yet his eyes were curiously tender.
"I'm afraid, little girl, that this won't come out quite so well as the
Reddy affair--by the way, Reddy left an extra good-by for you this
morning. He went away before you were up, you know. He feels pretty
grateful to you, Miss Cordelia."
"But I didn't do anything, Mr. Hartley. I do wish I could see Mrs.
Granger when he gets there, though. I--I'm afraid she doesn't like
cowboys much better than Mrs. Miller does."
There was a moment's silence. Mr. Hartley was scowling at the bit of
paper in his hand.
"Did you say you _didn't_ know where that oil well was, Mr. Hartley?"
asked Cordelia, timidly.
"Yes. I don't know where it is--and I reckon there doesn't anybody else
know, either," he answered slowly. "I know where it _claims_ to be, and
I know it is just one big swindle from beginning to end."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," sighed the girl.
"So am I, my dear. I'm sorry for Mr. Hodges, and lots of others that I
know lost money in the same thing. But it can't be helped now."
"Then there aren't any oil wells here at all in Texas?" asked Cordelia,
tearfully.
"Bless you, yes, child--heaps of them! You'll see them, too, probably,
before you leave the state. But--you won't see this one."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," mourned Cordelia, again, as sadly she took the bit
of paper back to her room.
* * * * *
It was not many days before the Happy Hexagons said good-by to the
ranch--a most reluctant good-by. It was a question, however, which felt
the worst: Mammy Lindy, weeping on the gallery steps, Mr. Tim and the
boys, waving a noisy good-by from their saddles, or Mrs. Kennedy and the
Happy Hexagons--the latter tearfully giving their Texas yell with "THE
RANCH" for the final word to-day.
"I think I never had such a good time in all my life," breathed
Cordelia.
"I know I never did," choked Tilly. "Genevieve, we can't ever begin to
thank you for it all!"
"I--I don't want you to," wailed Genevieve, dabbing her eyes with her
handkerchief. "I reckon you haven't had any better time than I have!"
Quentina was at the Bolo station; so, too, was Susie Billings.
"O Happy Hexagons, Happy Hexagons, I just had to come," chanted
Quentina, standing some distance away, and extending two restraining
hands, palms outward. "Don't kiss me--don't come near me! I don't think
I've got any whooping germs about me, but we want to be on the safe
side."
"But, Quentina, how are you? How are all of you?" cried Genevieve,
plainly distressed. "I think it's just horrid--staying off at arm's
length like this!"
"But you must, dear," almost sobbed Quentina. "I wouldn't have you go
through what we are going through with at home for anything. Such a
whoop--whoop--whooping time!"
"Couldn't you make a poem on it?" bantered Tilly. "I should think
'twould make a splendid subject--you could use such sonorous, resounding
words."
Quentina shook her head dismally.
"I couldn't. I tried it once or twice; but all I could think of was
'Hark, from the tombs a doleful sound'; then somebody would cough, and I
just couldn't get any further." Her voice was tragic in spite of its
drawl.
"You poor thing," sympathized Genevieve. "But we--we're glad to _see_
you, even for this little, and even if we can't _feel_ you! But,
Quentina, you'll write--sure?"
"Yes, I'll write," nodded Quentina, backing sorrowfully away. "Good-by,
Happy Hexagons, good-by!"
"So that is your Quentina?" said Mr. Hartley in a low voice, as the
girls were waving their hands and handkerchiefs. "Well, she _is_
pretty."
"Oh, but she wasn't half so pretty to-day," regretted Genevieve. "She
looked so thin and tired. I wanted to introduce you, Father, but I
didn't know how to--so far away."
"I should say not," laughed Mr. Hartley. "'Twould have been worse than
your high handshake back East," he added, as he turned to speak to Susie
Billings, who had come up at that moment.
Susie Billings was in her khaki suit and cowboy hat to-day, with the
cartridge belt and holster; so, as it happened, the last glimpse the
girls had of Bolo station was made picturesque by a vision of
"Cordelia's cowboy" (as Tilly always called Susie) waving her
broad-brimmed hat.
* * * * *
The trip to San Antonio was practically uneventful, though it was
certainly one long delight to the Happy Hexagons, who never wearied of
talking about the sights and sounds of the wonderful country through
which they were passing.
"Well, this isn't much like Bolo; is it?" cried Tilly, when at last they
found themselves in the handsome railroad station of the city itself. "I
shouldn't think Texas would know its own self half the time--it's so
different from itself all the time!"
[Illustration: "'THERE, NOW--LOOK!' SHE ADDED"]
"That's all right, Tilly, and I think I know what you mean," laughed
Genevieve; "but I wouldn't advise you to give that sentence to Miss Hart
as your best example of logic."
"Well, I was talking about Texas," retorted Tilly, saucily, "and there
isn't anything logical about Texas, that I can see. There, now--look!"
she added, as they reached the street. "Just tell me if there's anything
logical in that scene!" she finished, with a wave of her hand toward the
passing throng.
Genevieve laughed, but her eyes, too, widened a little as she stepped
one side with the others, for a moment, to watch the curious
conglomeration of humanity and vehicles before them.
In the street a luxurious limousine was tooting for a ramshackle prairie
schooner to turn to one side. Behind the automobile plodded a forlorn
mule dragging a wagon-load of empty boxes. Behind that came an army
ambulance followed by an electric truck. A handsome soldier on a restive
bay mare came next, and behind him a huge touring car with a pompous
black chauffeur. On either side of the touring car rode a grinning boy
on a mustang, plainly to the discomfort of the pompous negro and the
delight of two pretty girls in white who were in the low phaeton that
followed. A bicycle bell jangled sharply for a swarthy Mexican in a tall
peaked hat to get out of the way, and farther down the street two
solid-looking men in business suits were waiting for a pretty Mexican
woman with a rebosa-draped head to precede them into a car. Behind them
a huge negro woman wearing a red bandana about her head, waited her
turn. And still behind her a severe-faced young woman in a tailored suit
was drawing her skirts away from two almost naked pickaninnies.
"Well, no; perhaps it isn't really logical," laughed Genevieve. "But
it's awfully interesting!"
"I chose one of the older hotels," said Mr. Hartley, a little later, as
he piloted his party through the doorway of a fine old building.
"You couldn't have chosen a lovelier one, I'm sure, Father," declared
Genevieve, as she looked about her with shining eyes.
Genevieve was even more convinced of this when, just before dinner, in
response to a summons from Tilly's voice she stepped out on to the
little balcony leading from her room. The balcony overlooked an inner
court, and was hung with riotous moon-vines. Down in the court a silvery
fountain played among palms and banana trees. Here and there a cactus
plant thrust spiny arms into the air. Somewhere else queen's wreath and
devil's ivy made a tiny bower of loveliness. While everywhere were
electric lights and roses, matching one against the other their
brilliant hues.
"Genevieve, I--I think I'm going to c-cry," wailed Tilly's sobbing
voice from the adjoining balcony.
"Cry!--when it's all so lovely!" exclaimed Genevieve.
Tilly nodded.
"Yes. That's why I want to," she quavered. "Honestly, Genevieve, if I
stay here long I shall be writing poetry like Quentina--I know I shall!"
"If you do, just let me read it, that's all," retorted Genevieve,
saucily. "Where's Cordelia?"
"Off somewhere with Elsie and Bertha. She got dressed early--but I
sha'n't get dressed at all if I don't go about it."
At that moment there was the sound of a scream, then the patter of
running feet in the court below.
"Why, there they are now," cried Genevieve, leaning over the railing.
"Girls, girls!" she called, regardless of others in the court. "Look up
here! What's the matter?"
The girls stopped, and looked up. Cordelia, only, cast an apprehensive
glance over her shoulder.
"It's an alligator in the fountain in the other court," explained Elsie.
"Bertha said she heard there was one there, and so we went to see--and
we found out."
"I should say we did," shuddered Cordelia, still with her head turned
backward. "I sha'n't sleep a wink to-night--I know I sha'n't!"
"An alligator--really?" cried Tilly. "Then I'm going to hurry and get
ready so I can see him before dinner," she finished, as she whisked into
her room.
Dinner that night, in the brilliantly lighted, flower-decked dining-room
was an experience never to be forgotten by the girls.
"I didn't suppose there were such bea-_u_-tiful dresses in the world,"
sighed Elsie, looking about her.
Mr. Hartley smiled.
"I reckon you'd think so, Miss Elsie," he said, "if you could see the
place when it's in full swing. It's too early yet for the real tourist
season, I imagine. Anyhow, there aren't so many people here as I've
always seen before."
"Well, I shouldn't ask it to be any nicer, anyway," declared Bertha; and
the rest certainly agreed with her.
Bright and early the next morning the Happy Hexagons and Mr. Hartley
started out sight-seeing. Mrs. Kennedy was too tired to go, she said.
"I'll let business slip for an hour or two," Mr. Hartley remarked as
they left the hotel; "at all events, until I get you young people
started."
"Hm-m; you mean, to--the Alamo?" hinted Genevieve, with merry eyes.
"Sure, dearie! The Alamo it shall be," smiled her father. "Then
to-morrow I'll take you to Fort Sam Houston where there are _live_
soldiers."
"Oh, is there an army post here, truly?" cried Tilly.
"Only the largest in the country," answered the Texan, proudly.
"Really? Oh, how splendid! I just love soldiers!"
"Really?" mimicked Mr. Hartley, mischievously. "They'll be pleased to
know it, I'm sure, Miss Tilly."
The others laughed. Tilly blushed and shrugged her shoulders; but she
asked no more questions about Fort Sam Houston for at least five
minutes.
"Now where's the place--the really, truly place?" demanded Cordelia, in
an awed voice, when the party had reached the Alamo Plaza.
"The place--the real place, Miss Cordelia," replied Mr. Hartley, "where
the fight occurred, was in a court over there; and the walls were pulled
down years ago. But this little chapel was part of it, and this is what
everybody always looks at and talks about. The relics are inside. We'll
go in and see them, if you like."
"If we like!" cried Genevieve, fervently. "Just as if we didn't want to
see everything--every single thing there is to see!" she finished, as
her father led the way into the dim interior under the watchful eyes of
the caretaker.
Even Tilly, for a moment, was silenced in the hush and somberness of
the place. Genevieve stole to her father's side. Mr. Hartley, with bared
head, was wearing a look of grave reverence.
"You appreciate it, don't you, Father?" she said softly. "You have
always talked such a lot about it."
He nodded.
"I don't see how any one can help appreciating it," he rejoined, after a
moment, looking up at the narrow, iron-barred windows. "Why, Genevieve,
this is our Bunker Hill, you know."
"I know," she said soberly. "How many was it? I've forgotten."
"About one hundred and eighty on the inside--here; and all the way from
two to six thousand on the outside--accounts differ. But it was
thousands, anyway, against one hundred and eighty--and it lasted ten
days or more."
Genevieve shuddered.
"And they all--died?"
"Every one--of the soldiers. There was a woman and a young child and a
negro servant left to tell the tale."
"That's what it means on the monument, isn't it?" murmured Genevieve.
"'Thermopylae had its messenger of defeat: the Alamo had none.'"
"Yes," said her father. "I've always wondered what Davy Crockett would
have said to that. You know he was here."
"Wasn't he the one who said, 'Be sure you are right, then go ahead'?"
"Yes. And he went ahead--straight to his death, here."
Genevieve's eyes brimmed with tears.
"Oh, it does make one want to be good and brave and true, doesn't it,
Father?"
"I reckon it ought to, little girl," he smiled gently.
"It does," breathed Genevieve. A moment later she crossed to Tilly's
side.
Tilly welcomed her with subdued joyousness.
"Genevieve, please, _please_ mayn't we get out of this?" she begged.
"Honestly, I feel as if I were besieged myself in this horrid tomb-like
place. And--and I like live soldiers so much better!"
Genevieve gave her a reproachful glance, but in a moment she suggested
that perhaps they had better go.
"Oh, but that was lovely," she sighed, as they came out into the bright
sunshine. "The caretaker told me they call it the 'Cradle of Liberty,'
here; and I don't wonder."
Tilly uptilted her chin--already the sunshine had brought back her usual
gayety of spirits.
"Dear me! what a lot of cradles Liberty must have had! You know Faneuil
Hall in Boston is _one_. Only think how far the poor thing must have
traveled between naps if she tried to sleep in all her cradles!"
Even Genevieve laughed--but she sighed reproachfully, too.
"Oh, Tilly, how you can turn poetry into prose--sometimes!" Then she
added wistfully: "How I wish I could see this Plaza on San Jacinto Day!"
"What is that?" demanded Tilly.
"The twenty-third of April. They have the Battle of the Flowers in the
Plaza here, in front of the Alamo. I've always wanted to see that."
"Hm-m; well, I might not mind that kind of a battle myself," laughed
Tilly.