the last with their
clubbed rifles. Here lay Travis of the white soul and beside him fell
the brave Bonham, who had gone out for help, and who had returned to die
with his comrades. The Texans who had defended the room against so many
were only fifteen in number, and they were all silent now. Now the whole
attack converged on the church, the strongest part of the Alamo, where
the Texans were making their last stand. The place was seething with
fire and smoke, but above it still floated the banner upon which was
written in great letters the word, "Texas."

The Mexicans, pressing forward in dense masses, poured in cannon balls
and musket balls at every opening. Half the Texans were gone, but the
others never ceased to fire with their rifles. Within that raging
inferno they could hardly see one another for the smoke, but they were
all animated by the same purpose, to fight to the death and to carry as
many of their foes with them as they could.

Evans, who had commanded the cannon, rushed for the magazine to blow up
the building. They had agreed that if all hope were lost he should do
so, but he was killed on his way by a bullet, and the others went on
with the combat.

Near the entrance to the church stood a great figure swinging a clubbed
rifle. His raccoon skin cap was lost, and his eyes burned like coals of
fire in his swarthy face. It was Crockett, gone mad with battle, and the
Mexicans who pressed in recoiled before the deadly sweep of the clubbed
rifle. Some were awed by the terrific figure, dripping blood, and wholly
unconscious of danger.

"Forward!" cried a Mexican officer, and one of his men went down with a
shattered skull. The others shrank back again, but a new figure pressed
into the ring. It was that of the younger Urrea. At the last moment he
had left the cavalry and joined in the assault.

"Don't come within reach of his blows!" he cried. "Shoot him! Shoot
him!"

He snatched a double-barreled pistol from his own belt and fired twice
straight at Crockett's breast. The great Tennesseean staggered, dropped
his rifle and the flame died from his eyes. With a howl of triumph his
foes rushed upon him, plunged their swords and bayonets into his body,
and he fell dead with a heap of the Mexican slain about him.

A bullet whistled past Urrea's face and killed a man beyond him. He
sprang back. Bowie, still suffering severe injuries from a fall from a
platform, was lying on a cot in the arched room to the le