The Lost Gold of the Montezumas: A Story of the Alamo

They were barely a minute too late at the end of their long race, but they were just in time to be struck by that deadly storm of grape-shot. Down went horses and men. Down went flashing lance-points and fluttering pennons, while loud cries of pain, and execrations, and shouts of astonishment told how terrible had been the effect of "about the last grist of it that we had in the fort."

"Load up, boys!" said Houston. "Close the gate. That's all there is of that crowd."

"Thar they go, what's left of 'em," replied the sentry.

The fort had not been left without an officer, however, and another voice shouted, —

"Steady! Men! Lanterns! A detail of six. I'll go out and see what we did with that grape."

The lanterns were already coming, and Houston himself marched out with the detail. He stooped to look into the face of a Mexican who had fallen several paces in advance of the others.

"Colonel Jose Canales!" he exclaimed. "Well, boys, Santa Anna has lost one of the bravest men in his whole army. I'm glad he hasn't many more like him."

"Eight killed and three wounded, counting him in," responded a ranger. "It's the uniform of the Tampico regiment. Canales took his best men for this hunt. Mr. Houston, you've had a narrow escape this time. You mustn't ever do it ag'in. You ort to be locked up. You'd no business to run such a risk!"

"Why, boys," said the general, "I was uneasy about the fort. Crockett told me more than I knew before, and I came right on to inspect."

"Inspect thunder!" exclaimed the officer in command, a slight-looking fellow in a buckskin shirt and tow trousers for uniform. "Thar isn't much to inspect. What we want is more men and more rifles, and more powder and lead."

"Tell you what, Houston," added the gunner who had fired off the grape, "don't you know? If the Greasers came into Texas, this is the first p'int they'd make for. They'll want it bad."

"What's more just now, gineral," shouted a half-angry ranger, "'twasn't your place to lose yer skelp a-comin'. The rest o' the boys feel jest as I do. You mustn't try on sech a fool caper ag'in. Texas can't afford to throw ye away 'bout now. Ef you was wiped out things 'ud go to pieces."

The protests of the brave riflemen were exceedingly free, but they were utterly sincere. They were freemen, talking to a man who perfectly understood them. He therefore apologized, explained, promised faithfully to do better next time, and they let him up.

Far away, beyond the belt of chaparral and the long ravine, another Texan patriot, as devoted as Houston, sat by his covered camp-fire in the grove, and it seemed as if he were echoing the words of the garrison of the Alamo.

"Arms and ammunition," he said. "There won't be any lack of men if we can feed 'em. But a Mexican with a machete or a lance might put under a rifleman out o' powder."

He was silent for a moment, and then he added, —

"I mustn't get myself killed on this trip. If I do, Houston 'll never know about that pile in the adobe hole. I'll be more careful than I ever was before."

He was not noted for special care concerning his personal safety, but he now arose and went around the camp, from man to man and from horse to horse. He seemed to be all alert, watchful. There was to be no surprise of that camp for any fault of his.

It was now getting well on into the night. Only a little earlier there had been a slight movement of the shadowy form that was crouching at the side of the boulder at the sink-hole.

"Ugh!" muttered Red Wolf, but he said no more, as he peered eagerly over the rock.

Only such ears as his could have caught a few low sounds that floated toward him on the night-wind. They were cautiously-spoken words in the Comanche tongue, and the speakers were within a hundred feet of him.

"Sink-hole," he heard them say. "No Texans there. Big Knife took them to the water. Go bring Great Bear. We find Big Knife."

There he lost several words, but it was plain enough. These were only an advance party. They had sent a brave back to guide their main body, and were themselves to ride on to make sure of the Texans being at the camp-ground so well known to Indian hunters. One of their number was to remain at the sink-hole.

"Trap Big Knife?" thought Red Wolf. "No. Heap eye. Texan sleep. Great chief wait for Comanches."

He evidently had great confidence in his hero, and he hardly breathed while several horsemen went by, leaving a solitary brave to mount guard at the outer side of the boulder.

He was very near. It was almost certain that before long he would discover whatever might be living near him if it moved. It would be useless, therefore, for Red Wolf to try to escape on foot that he might warn the camp. It would be even greater folly to go down into the sink-hole after his mustang. It was hardly safe, at first, to risk the slight motion required in fitting an arrow to the string. He must wait, he thought. But if he did, what about the Texans if Big Knife should lie down and go to sleep? Even that small party of Comanche warriors might dash in and take a scalp or stampede the horses. They were very dangerous fellows on a warpath or prowling around an enemy's camp.

"Ugh!" exclaimed the Comanche, wheeling his horse and lowering his lance.

Red Wolf's mustang had not been at all comfortable down there in the dark. He had picked grass and he had stepped up and down at the end of his tether. He had heard hoofs go by. Now he was aware of the presence of another horse near him, and he sent up short neighs of inquiry. He uttered the mustang words for, —

"Hullo, pony, who are you?"

The Comanche at once responded, —

"Where are you? Hey?"

"Horse in hole!" exclaimed the warrior. "Where Texan? Where Lipan?"

He listened a moment, and again the animals spoke to each other.

"Ugh!" said the Comanche. "Texan go away and leave pony. Go take him. Heap brave!"

It was a piece of reckless daring, indeed, to go down alone into that blind hollow. There might be something much more dangerous than a pony lurking there. Again assuring himself, however, that he was a great brave and afraid of nothing, he sprang to the ground. He tethered his own pony, laid aside his bow and lance and club and drew his knife. He adjusted his shield upon his left arm, and then he was ready.

His worst peril was not in the hole. While he was making his rapid preparations Red Wolf made his own. His arrow was in its place now, and he was almost lying flat at the corner of the boulder.

There was not light enough for long-range archery, but now the Comanche brave stepped stealthily forward, knife in hand, his shield up, and his short, hard breathing testifying his intense excitement. He slipped along past the rock.

"Twang" went the Lipan boy's bowstring, and he sprang to his feet, drawing his own knife as he did so, – the splendid present of Bowie, the white hero.

Loud, fierce, agonized, was the yell of the stricken warrior, but even in his agony he whirled around to face his unexpected assailant. He had strength yet, for he sprang at Red Wolf like a wounded wildcat.

Away darted the son of Castro, but his enemy, a man of size and muscle, was close behind him. But that he was already mortally hurt he would have made short work of the young bowman.

Back and forth among the shadows bounded and dodged the ill-matched combatants. Red Wolf had no shield, and his knife glanced more than once from the smooth, hard bison-hide of his opponent's round buckler.

"Ugh!" screeched the Comanche at the end of a terrific minute, and he sank into the grass.

He had done his best, all the while failing, but now the end had come, and Red Wolf shortly walked back after the horses. His own mustang was led out of the hollow, the Comanche pony, a fine one, was taken possession of, with his late owner's weapons and ornaments and the much-prized trophy of victory.

"More Comanche come pretty soon," he exclaimed. "Red Wolf take hair. Tell Big Knife. Tell Castro. Who-op!"

Never before had he sounded so loudly, so triumphantly, the war-cry of his tribe, but the whoops which answered him did not come from the direction of the camp. They arose from the northward and told of many whoopers.

As for the scouting-party, if any of them had turned back to assist their comrade at the sink-hole, they as yet were silent. So was Red Wolf now, as he galloped away into the darkness.

The camp was too far away for even a death-whoop to reach it, but Colonel Bowie's tour of guard duty had led him out at last to a tuft of sumach-bushes, beyond the easterly border of the grove.

Here he stood, looking out somewhat listlessly, but before long he uttered a low, sharp exclamation, and brought his rifle to his shoulder.

"They've come!" he said. "I must rouse the boys. It's life or death this time. How they tracked us here I don't know."

As he glanced along the rifle-barrel he could see dim forms on horseback glide between him and the starlit horizon. They were at no great distance, and he turned to send into the camp a piercing whistle. It reached the ear of every ranger, asleep or awake. Even the horses seemed to understand that it was a note of alarm, and they began to step around as if they were in a hurry to get their saddles on. They need not have been in any anxiety, for when the men sprang to their feet, rifles in hand, their first care was for their four-footed comrades.