he thirst
from sun and powder-smoke they at last had drained their canteens.

Doubtless the Indians were counting on this; but they had not reckoned
the nerve of the men behind the walls.

Jim Bowie was the commander there. He figured the situation over.
They had to have water; already thirst was torturing, and making his
men reckless. There were twenty-nine white men, and one negro slave,
Jim--his own servant. Jim was the poorest shot and could be the most
easily spared. He turned to Jim, by his side.

"See here, Jim. I want you to take the canteens and fetch us water
from that spring."

It may be readily believed that Jim's eyes popped.

"Out among dem Injuns! No, sar, Marse Jim! Dem Injuns is layin' dare
in dem rocks an' bushes by de t'ousand, an' all dey gotto do is rare up
an' kill dis nigger 'foh he could say 'Scat!' at 'em twice! No, sar; I
cain't fill dem cainteens. Dey won't let me. No, sar!"

The white Jim looked for a moment at the black Jim, with those steady
gray eyes that never wavered even when, six years later, they gazed
from a sickbed and waited the attack of a hundred Mexicans in the
tragic Alamo.

"Jim!" he said, "Which are you most afraid of: me, or those Indians?"

Black Jim's knees shook, and he scratched his woolly thatch.

"Well, now, Marse Jim, if de boys got to have water 'foh dey kin lick
dem Injun, an' you 'sist on me goin,' 'cose den I'll volunteer. Jes'
gimme dem cainteens."

"All right, Jim." And white Jim smiled grimly. "You'll be safe.
We'll cover every head with our guns and you sha'n't be hurt. The
spring's in short range. Just fill the canteens, and come back with
them."

Out went Negro Jim, as brave as the bravest. Sure enough, he made the
spring and not a shot was fired at him; he filled the canteens, and
started back with his load--and no Indian had managed to get sight of
him. But the canteens clinked, a warrior peeked and saw, and the whoop
of alarm rang.

The Indians' guns spoke; the fort replied briskly; dark forms sprang
from shelter, to cut the water-carrier off, and through the whizz of
balls black Jim legged for the fort, with the canteens bouncing on his
back and shanks.

One warrior gained rapidly on him--tomahawk raised to strike. Jim's
voice rose in a panting wail.

"Marse Jim! Oh, Marse Jim! Shoot dis hyar Injun, quick! He's gwine
to hurt somebody d'rec'ly!"

That looked likely. Most of the guns in the fort had been emptied,