THE FIRST SHOT.
Four days went by. All the space inside the walls of the fort had a
clean and tidy look. The soldiers of the garrison went hither and
thither with an air of being under more than usual drill, but their
varied uniforms were about the same as ever. A light rain was falling
and the skies overhead were heavy with clouds, as if a storm were
coming.
A shout was heard outside the gate, and then its massive oaken portal
swung wide open, while Colonel Travis stood by the six-pounder, his
handsome face bright with expectation.
"Boys!" he shouted, "the supplies have come!"
Nearing the gate-way was a train of large wagons, and on either side
and in the rear of them rode mounted riflemen.
"Reinforcements, too!" exclaimed Crockett, as he strode forward to the
side of Travis.
Colonel Bowie was already out beyond the wall, scrutinizing the
approaching train and its guard.
"Not a quarter as many men as we needed," he remarked, in a low,
foreboding tone. "I hope there are more coming."
On rolled the wagons, while cheer after cheer went up from the
garrison, to be answered as heartily by the new arrivals.
"Keep right on," shouted Travis to the drivers. "Halt in front of the
church."
The last pair of wheels was in the gate-way when galloping past them
came a half-naked rider.
"Whoop!" he yelled. "Red Wolf want Big Knife. Castro horse dead.
Santa Anna come!"
"All right!" called out Travis. "Come this way. Bowie, bring him in.
Men, go on unloading. Tally all there is."
Down from his panting pony dropped the young Lipan, and his eager
report required few questions to make it clear. Either his father had
not been so well mounted or else he had been too heavy a weight for a
long race. His horse had given out entirely a few miles from the fort,
and Red Wolf had ridden on alone. All the officers of the rangers had
gathered to hear, and when the report was completed they looked at each
other with serious faces.
"It's just about as we expected, after all," said Travis. "I'm glad
there are no Comanches with them. If Castro is right, there are over
five thousand of them. A thousand more or less won't make much
difference. They're about four days' march from us, I should say, but
the lancers could get here sooner. Most likely they will."
A rugged-looking ranger stood before him, touching a ragged hat-brim.
"Well, Sergeant Daly," said Travis, "how do you find the cargo?"
"Bully, far as it goes!" responded the sergeant. "I reckon it gives us
rations for about two weeks. Pretty good lot of rifle powder. Not so
much cannon powder and grape-shot as we'd ought to have. No solid shot
to speak of, but there's some. Forty spare rifles, and I wish we had
men for 'em. But these yer new men are all prime fellers, and we can
foot up one hundred and forty good shots, all told."
"We ought to have at least three times as many," said Travis. "Every
man is worth his weight in gold just now."
"The trouble is," remarked Bowie, "Houston hasn't had time yet to use
those Spanish dollars. He will, though. What we must do is to try and
hold the fort till Austin's riflemen get here. Every day 'll count.
Santa Anna is a slow marcher."
"You're mistaken thar," exclaimed Crockett. "If his Greasers could
fight as well as they kin walk, we'd be gone up sure!"
The next duties related to the unloading of the wagons and to all the
information that could be obtained from the new men. Even while Travis
was talking with them, however, an hour or so later, a hand touched his
arm, and he turned to look into the face of Castro.
"What is it, chief?" he asked.
"Close gate," said Castro. "Load big gun. Lancer! Bring pony in."
"They mean to make a dash for our corral, do they?" replied Travis, and
orders for the care of the horses of the garrison went out at once.
It would not do to lose them all just now, and they, at least, would
have abundant rations within the enclosure. One of the best of them
was turned over to Castro in place of his used-up pony, and another as
good was given to Red Wolf.
While this was going on, Bowie had been busy with the spare rifles that
had just arrived, and now he made his appearance, carrying two weapons
that were more ornamental than the rest, for both were silver mounted.
"Travis," he said, "this is for the chief, and this is the one I
promised Red Wolf."
"They've earned 'em," exclaimed Crockett. "Give 'em a first-rate
outfit. Hope they'll kill a grist of Greasers."
Colonel Travis himself presented the rifles, but his words were few.
Castro took his own and examined it all over.
"Ugh!" he said. "Heap shoot. Travis kill Mexican with big gun. Red
Wolf take rifle. Come!"
Red Wolf's eyes had been glittering with delight. Never before had he
heard of an Indian boy of his age owning a really first-class rifle
with all its accoutrements of wiping-stick, ramrod, powder-horn, and
bullet-pouch. Those were the days of flintlocks, and the
long-barrelled shooting-irons did not need any "cap-box" to go with
them.
He was hardly expected to say much, but he made out to tell the
colonel,--
"Red Wolf shoot a heap. Mexican lose hair. Wipe out Comanche."
As he finished speaking, however, Bowie himself laid a hand on his
shoulder.
"Red Wolf go with his father now," he said. "Come back to Big Knife.
Chief, let him come as soon as you can."
He had understood a sentence that Castro had uttered in his own tongue
with its accompanying "sign."
"Chief send boy," replied Castro. "Go now. Travis fight a heap."
The two Lipans were upon the backs of their fresh mustangs the next
minute, and they rode out of the gate as if some errand of importance
hurried them.
"Reckon they think we've got our work cut out for us," said Crockett.
"They've seen the Mexican army," replied Bowie, "and they know just
what's coming. So do we, but we mustn't say anything to discourage the
men."
A watcher at a loop-hole saw Castro and Red Wolf wheel around the
corner of the wall and gallop westward, but before he could report the
direction they had taken the garrison was startled by the roar of a
cannon from one of the southern embrasures. There had been a reason
for the course taken by the Lipans.
"Who fired that gun?" shouted Travis, angrily. "Who fired without
orders?"
"I did," came promptly back from Sergeant Daly. "I had the best kind
of a bead on that crowd of lancers. It was only a four-pound shot, but
it ploughed right into 'em."
"Not another charge is to be wasted," replied Travis. "We need every
kernel. We were none too quick about the corral, though."
"Travis," said Bowie, quietly, "our time's about come. Houston must
send us more men or we can't so much as man the walls."
It was a matter of course that a strong body of cavalry had been sent
on in advance of the invading army. No doubt there had been an idea of
striking the rebellious Texans at every possible point. The lancers,
however, had not met with anything to strike at, and all they now could
do, apparently, was to reconnoitre the fort. It was in a spirit of
entirely empty bravado that they had approached so near or else they
had forgotten that the Alamo had any artillery. They had at last
halted, while their commander deliberately scanned the post and its
surroundings through his field-glass.
Bang! went the four-pounder, and Daley's aim had been first-rate.
"_Caramba_!" roared the colonel. "My baggage mule! My equipments!
Santa Maria! My cigarettes!"
Over went a fine mule, certainly, as the four pounds of iron arrived,
but not because of anything that prevented him from getting up at once
and braying. Upon his patient back, rising above the panniers that
adorned his flanks, had been a load more large than heavy. It was this
hump of varied luxury and usefulness into which the sergeant's wasteful
shot had ploughed.
Mexico had not lost even so much as a mule, but the ground was strewn
with cigarettes and other merchandise, and the lancer force had been
warned that they were in front of a battery.
"Fellow-citizens!" shouted the angry officer. "Heroes of Mexico!
Yonder is the Alamo! In a few days we will ride into it and teach the
Gringo rebels a lesson they will remember. Forward, right wheel!
Gallop!"
Gallop they did, but Travis's order to save ammunition had already put
them entirely out of danger.
Miles away to the westward rode Castro and his son, but the chief had
now gone far enough for the purpose which had taken him away from the
fort. He drew his rein and Red Wolf imitated him.
"Ugh!" said Castro, holding out a hand. "Rifle!"
The splendid present was handed over, but other commands followed, and
the young warrior was stripped of his bow and arrows, his lance and his
pistols. His only remaining weapon was the knife in his belt. There
was not a shadow of disobedience, not even of dissatisfaction, upon his
face, but he was evidently waiting for an explanation.
"Red Wolf no lose rifle," said Castro, at last. "Great chief take it
to lodge. Hide it with tribe."
"Ugh?" said Red Wolf, but he knew there was something more to come.
"No bad medicine," said Castro, holding out his hand again.
The three gold bars allotted to Red Wolf were tightly secured to his
saddle. They were now untied and handed over. The chief dropped from
his pony and walked to the nearest oak, one of three by which they had
halted. He took out his knife, dug a pretty deep hole, and dropped the
precious but dangerous prizes into it.
Red Wolf had followed him in silence, and now, when the earth and sods
were replaced, Castro stood erect and pointed at the spot under which
lay the gold.
"All Texan lose hair," he said. "Red Wolf hide bad medicine. Find
some day! Die then. Montezuma wicked manitou."
"Ugh!" exclaimed Red Wolf.
Nevertheless, a deep "sign" was cut upon the oak-tree before they
remounted. Then the chief went on to explain to his son the further
duties required of him.
It did not take a great many words, but the meaning of it all was
simple.
The Mexicans and the Lipans were now nominally at peace. Any Lipan was
fairly safe among them, unless he should seem to be on a war-path
against them. At the same time, Mexican cavalry would surely disarm a
mere boy,--that is, they would steal his rifle, even if they then
should let him go unharmed.
So far, so good, but Castro raised his arm and pointed eastward.
"Boy hear!" he said. "Travis send Texan to friend? Mexican catch
ranger. Shoot him. No catch Red Wolf. Go! Ride hard! Tell great
Texan chief Santa Anna here! Say he camp around Alamo. Say Travis
want more Texan. Ugh! Go!"
It was an errand of importance, therefore. It was worthy of a warrior.
It was a message of life and death, but it called for cunning, caution,
hard riding, rather than for sharpshooting. A few further instructions
as to where to go and whom to find were all that was needed, and away
went the ready messenger.
Castro himself rode away, laden with the precious shooting-irons. He
too had need for caution and for cunning if he was ever to rejoin his
tribe, but Red Wolf, riding northward now, was saying to himself,--
"Ugh! Heap young brave. Bring Texan to Big Knife. Heap fight
Mexican."
He may have been perfectly aware that Colonel Travis was the white
chief who was in actual command of the rangers and the fort. To his
mind, however, the Texan armies, if not the republic itself, were best
represented by the stalwart hand-to-hand fighter who had given him the
knife which he now so carefully concealed under his buckskins. Having
done so, he transferred his old, half-despised butcher-knife from his
leggings to his belt, and remarked concerning it, "Mexican take? Ugh!
No lose heap knife. Take Mexican hair."
There was a menacing look in his face, and he rode on with the air of
an adventurer who was quite ready for mischief, if a chance for any
should be given him.
The region of country he was to go through was supposed to be
peaceable, as yet. It contained only scattered ranches and small
settlements, but it might speedily contain almost anything else, for
perils of all sorts were pouring in upon the Texas border.
Matters at the fort were quiet, but the rangers in their quarters, even
while running bullets, and the officers in their hammocks, not one of
them asleep, seemed to have constituted themselves a kind of general
council of war. At least they were discussing every feature of the
situation, and were talking themselves more and more into a state of
mind that bordered closely upon contempt for Santa Anna and his five
thousand men.
The most undemonstrative man among them all was Colonel Bowie. He had
slung his hammock near one of the embrasures, with a cannon at his
side, and, like the cannon, he was continually peering out. Even after
it grew darker and only moonlight remained to show him anything, he
every now and then seemed to take an inquiring look at the surrounding
country.
"I can see that cave," he muttered to himself, "as clear as if I were
in it. What if the fate of a young nation should depend upon our
getting into that hole again? If those old rascals knew we were
coming, they'd pitch it all down the chasm. I'd like to know, just for
curiosity, what fellows and how many of them have been butchered before
that altar. In the old times they used up whole tribes and regiments
of captives that way. Then I'd like to know where all that bullion
came from. I don't believe they mined for it. They didn't know how.
They got it out of river-beds, I reckon, just as they do in Asia and
Africa."
He had hit the mark, for there was no other way imaginable. But where
were the riverbeds, and how much more gold-dust and nuggets might there
be remaining in them?
He could dream and speculate there in his hammock, but that was all he
could do. His young republic was indeed to come and go. Mexico was to
lose Texas and her other northern provinces. The pioneers among whom
he was so daring a leader were to accomplish even more than they were
planning. Beyond all his dreams, however, would be the solution of his
gold problem. Only a few years later the slopes and gulches of the
California mountains were to swarm with hardy miners, and the treasures
of the Montezumas were to sink into insignificance in comparison with
the wealth to be taken out, not by the Aztecs or the Spaniards, but by
the "Gringos."
Would anybody then be found to take note of the fact that Bowie and his
comrades were the advance-guard, the skirmish-line, almost the "forlorn
hope" of the armies of Taylor and Scott? The United States, the world
at large, and even Mexico, owe their memories something of recognition,
and they were not even much "ahead of their time."
"Crockett," said Travis, just before they went to sleep, "Bowie can't
get that cave out of his head."
"It's t'other way," replied Crockett. "He can't get his head out of
the cave, and I'll be glad, you bet, when we all get our heads out of
the cave this push of Santa Anna is putting us into."