him to cover, and get sight of his slayer,
if possible, received a ball through the body.

"Into the chaparral," ordered Jim Bowie. "We'll stand 'em off from
there. Never mind the horses."

Carrying their wounded, they dived for the lane into the mesquite and
cactus. From here they raked the creek bed, and cleared it. That was
better. They had good view of the hill and prairie, too. They fought
cunningly. The Indians could locate them only by the powder smoke from
the gun muzzles; but the instant that they fired, the Texans squirmed
aside for six or eight feet, and the answering bullets were wasted.

The Indians were still getting the worst of it. A large number were
lying dead or wounded. The sun was high.

"What they up to, next, I wonder?"

"They're goin' to smoke us out! I see a fellow crawlin' through the
grass to windward."

"Can't you get him?" demanded Captain Jim.

"No. He's foxy."

"Whereabouts?"

Bob Armstrong's heavy rifle interrupted.

"I fetched him, boys! Plumb through the head. Dead center."

Bob had scored at two hundred and fifty yards, with a snap-shot. He
was one of the best rifle-shots on the border.

The grass was fired, nevertheless, in several spots. It was dry, and
caught like tinder; the flames crackled and leaped, and raced down upon
the thicket. The smoke rose densely. The Indians might be dimly seen,
running about in the drifting veil and carrying off their killed and
wounded.

Jim Bowie's voice pealed like a trumpet.

"We're not dead yet. Clean away the brush and leaves as far as you can
reach, some of you. The rest of us pile up rocks and dirt for a
breastworks for the wounded."

They labored madly. The horses tore loose and bolted. The Indians
whooped, gleeful, and shot briskly. But the wind changed, into the
north, and the fire surged past, just grazing the thicket; the slowly
creeping back-fire was easily smothered with blankets.

Had they been saved? No! The Indians started another fire, on the
north. The dried grass was even higher here. The flames roared in a
front ten feet in air; the pungent smoke drifted chokingly.

"Put the wounded and baggage in the center," were the orders. "Then
every man clear his own space. When it comes, lay on with blankets,
robes, anything. We may be roasted here, but it's sure death for us
outside."

The heat and smoke became terrific. "The Indians," said Rezin Bowie,
"fired about twenty shots a minut