ed the southeast, in which direction lay Goliad, but the
only human beings he saw were Mexicans. No sound came to his ears but
the note of a Mexican trumpet or the crack of a vaquero's whip.

He was not the only one who looked and listened. They watched that day
and the next through all the bombardment and the more dangerous rifle
fire. But they never saw on the horizon the welcome flash from any of
Fannin's guns. No sound that was made by a friend reached their ears.
The only flashes of fire they saw outside were those that came from the
mouths of Mexican cannon, and the only sounds they heard beyond the
Alamo were made by the foe. The sun, huge, red and vivid, sank in the
prairie and, as the shadows thickened over the Alamo, Ned was sure in
his heart that Fannin would never come.

* * * * *

A few days before the defenders of the Alamo had begun to scan the
southeast for help a body of 300 men were marching toward San Antonio de
Bexar. They were clad in buckskin and they were on horseback. Their
faces were tanned and bore all the signs of hardship. Near the middle of
the column four cannon drawn by oxen rumbled along, and behind them came
a heavy wagon loaded with ammunition.

It was raining, and the rain was the raw cold rain of early spring in
the southwest. The men, protecting themselves as well as they could with
cloaks and serapes, rarely spoke. The wheels of the cannon cut great
ruts in the prairie, and the feet of the horses sank deep in the mud.

Two men and a boy rode near the head of the column. One of these would
have attracted attention anywhere by his gigantic size. He was dressed
completely in buckskin, save for the raccoon skin cap that crowned his
thick black hair. The rider on his right hand was long and thin with the
calm countenance of a philosopher, and the one on his left was an eager
and impatient boy.

"I wish this rain would stop," said the Panther, his ensanguined eye
expressing impatience and anger. "I don't mind gettin' cold an' I don't
mind gettin' wet, but there is nothin' stickier or harder to plough
through than the Texas mud. An' every minute counts. Them boys in that
Alamo can't fight off thousands of Mexicans forever. Look at them
steers! Did you ever see anything go as slow as they do?"

"I'd like to see Ned again," said Will Allen. "I'd be willing to take my
chance with him there."

"That boy of ours is surely with Crockett and Bowie and Travis