Ned took no part in it except that of a spectator. But Crockett, Bowie
and a dozen others were crouched on the wall with their rifles.
Presently an incautious Mexican showed above the earthwork. It was
Crockett who slew him, but Bowie took the next. Then the other rifles
flashed fast, eight or ten Mexicans were slain, and the rest fled. Once
more the deadly Texan rifles had triumphed.

Ned wondered why Santa Anna had endeavored to place the battery there in
the daytime. It could be done at night, when it was impossible for the
Texans to aim their rifles so well. He did not know that the pride of
Santa Anna, unable to brook delay in the face of so small a force, had
pushed him forward.

Knowing now what might be done at night, Ned passed the day in anxiety,
and with the coming of the twilight his anxiety increased.

CHAPTER X

CROCKETT AND BOWIE

Unluckily for the Texans, the night was the darkest of the month. No
bonfires burned in San Antonio, and there were no sounds of music. It
seemed to Ned that the silence and darkness were sure indications of
action on the part of the foe.

He felt more lonely and depressed than at any other time hitherto in the
siege, and he was glad when Crockett and a young Tennesseean whom he
called the Bee-Hunter joined him. Crockett had not lost any of his
whimsical good humor, and when Ned suggested that Santa Anna was likely
to profit by the dark he replied:

"If he is the general I take him to be he will, or at least try, but
meanwhile we'll just wait, an' look, an' listen. That's the way to find
out if things are goin' to happen. Don't turn little troubles into big
ones. You don't need a cowskin for a calf. We'll jest rest easy. I'm
mighty nigh old enough to be your grandfather, Ned, an' I've learned to
take things as they come. I guess men of my age were talkin' this same
way five thousand years ago."

"You've seen a lot in your life, Mr. Crockett," said Ned, to whom the
Tennesseean was a great hero.

Crockett laughed low, but deep in his throat, and with much pleasure.

"So I have! So I have!" he replied, "an', by the blue blazes, I can say
it without braggin'. I've seen a lot of water go by since I was runnin'
'roun' a bare-footed boy in Tennessee. I've ranged pretty far from east
to west, an' all the way from Boston in the north to this old mission,
an' that must be some thousands of miles. An' I've had some big times in
New York, too."

"You've been in New York," said Ned, with quick interest. "It must be a
great town."

"It is. It's certainly a bulger of a place. There are thousands an'
thousands of houses, an' you can't count the sails in the bay. I saw the
City Hall an' it's a mighty fine buildin', too. It's all marble on the
side looking south, an' plain stone on the side lookin' north. I asked
why, an' they said all the poor people lived to the north of it. That's
the way things often happen, Ned. An' I saw the great, big hotel John
Jacob Astor was beginnin' to build on Broadway just below the City Hall.
They said it would cost seven hundred thousand dollars, which is an
all-fired lot of money, that it would cover mighty nigh a whole block,
an' that there would be nothin' else in America comin' up to it."

"I'd like to see that town," said Ned.

"Maybe you will some day," said Crockett, "'cause you're young. You
don't know how young you look to me. I heard a lot there, Ned, about
that rich man, Mr. Astor. He got his start as a fur trader. I guess he
was about the biggest fur trader that ever was. He was so active that
all them animals that wore furs on their backs concluded they might as
well give up. I heard one story there about an otter an' a beaver
talkin'. Says the otter to the beaver, when he was tellin' the beaver
good-by after a visit: 'Farewell, I never expect to see you again, my
dear old friend.' 'Don't be too much distressed,' replies the beaver,
'you an' I, old comrade, will soon meet at the hat store.'"

Ned and the Bee-Hunter laughed, and Crockett delved again into his past
life and his experiences in the great city, relatively as great then to
the whole country as it is now.

"I saw a heap of New York," he continued, "an' one of the things I liked
best in it was the theaters. Lad, I saw the great Fanny Kemble play
there, an' she shorely was one of the finest women that ever walked this
troubled earth. I saw her first as Portia in that play of Shakespeare's
called, called, called----"

"'The Merchant of Venice,'" suggested Ned.

"Yes, that's it, 'The Merchant of Venice,' where she was the woman
lawyer. She was fine to see, an' the way she could change her voice an'
looks was clean mirac'lous. If ever I need a lawyer I want her to act
for me. She had me mad, an' then she had me laughin', an' then she had
the water startin' in my eyes. Whatever she wanted me to see I saw, an'
whatever she wanted me to think I thought. An' then, too, she was many
kinds of a woman, different in turn. In fact, Ned, she was just like a
handsome piece of changeable silk--first one color an' then another, but
always clean."

He paused and the others did not interrupt him.

"I don't like cities," he resumed presently. "They crowd me up too much,
but I do like the theater. It makes you see so many things an' so many
kinds of people that you wouldn't have time to see if you had to travel
for 'em. We don't have much chance to travel right now, do we,
Bee-Hunter?"

"A few hundred yards only for our bodies," replied the young
Tennesseean, "but our spirits soar far;

    "'Up with your banner, Freedom,
       Thy champions cling to thee,
    They'll follow where'er you lead them
       To death or victory.
    Up with your banner, Freedom.'"

He merely hummed the words, but Ned caught his spirit and he repeated to
himself: "Up with your banner, Freedom."

"I guess you've heard enough tales from an old fellow like me," said
Crockett. "At least you won't have time to hear any more 'cause the
Mexicans must be moving out there. Do you hear anything, Ned?"

"Nothing but a little wind."

"Then my ears must be deceivin' me. I've used 'em such a long time that
I guess they feel they've got a right to trick me once in a while."

But Ned was thinking just then of the great city which he wanted to see
some day as Crockett had seen it. But it seemed to him at that moment as
far away as the moon. Would his comrades and he ever escape from those
walls?

His mind came back with a jerk. He did hear something on the plain.
Crockett was right. He heard the tread of horses and the sound of wheels
moving. He called the attention of Crockett to the noises.

"I think I know what causes them," said Crockett. "Santa Anna is
planting his battery under the cover of the night an' I don't see, boys,
how we're goin' to keep him from doin' it."

The best of the Texan sharpshooters lined the walls, and they fired
occasionally at indistinct and flitting figures, but they were quite
certain that they did no execution. The darkness was too great. Travis,
Bowie and Crockett considered the possibility of a sortie, but they
decided that it had no chance of success. The few score Texans would be
overwhelmed in the open plain by the thousands of Mexicans.

But all the leaders were uneasy. If the Mexican batteries were brought
much closer, and were protected by earthworks and other fortifications,
the Alamo would be much less defensible. It was decided to send another
messenger for help, and Ned saw Bonham drop over the rear wall and slip
away in the darkness. He was to go to Goliad, where Fannin had 300 men
and four guns, and bring them in haste.

When Bonham was gone Ned returned to his place on the wall. For hours he
heard the noises without, the distant sound of voices, the heavy clank
of metal against metal, and he knew full well that Santa Anna was
planting his batteries. At last he went to his place in the long room of
the hospital and slept.

When dawn came he sprang up and rushed to the wall. There was the
battery of Santa Anna only three hundred yards from the entrance to the
main plaza and to the southeast, but little further away, was another.
The Mexicans had worked well during the night.

"They're creepin' closer, Ned. They're creepin' closer," said Crockett,
who had come to the wall before him, "but even at that range I don't
think their cannon will do us much harm. Duck, boy, duck! They're goin'
to fire!"

The two batteries opened at the same time, and the Mexican masses in the
rear, out of range, began a tremendous cheering. Many of the balls and
shells now fell inside the mission, but the Texans stayed well under
cover and they still escaped without harm. The Mexican gunners, in their
turn, kept so well protected that the Texan riflemen had little chance.

The great bombardment lasted an hour, but when it ceased, and the smoke
lifted, Ned saw a heavy mass of Mexican cavalry on the eastern road.

Both Ned and Crockett took a long look at the cavalry, a fine body of
men, some carrying lances and others muskets. Ned believed that he
recognized Urrea in the figure of their leader, but the distance was too
great for certainty. But when he spoke of it to Crockett the Tenesseean
borrowed Travis' field glasses.

"Take these," he said, "an' if it's that beloved enemy of yours you can
soon tell."

The boy, with the aid of the glasses, recognized Urrea at once. The
young leader in the uniform of a Mexican captain and with a cocked and
plumed hat upon his head sat his horse haughtily. Ned knew that he was
swelling with pride and that he, like Santa Anna, expected the trap to
shut down on the little band of Texans in a day or two. He felt some
bitterness that fate should have done so much for Urrea.

"I judge by your face," said Crockett whimsically, "that it is Urrea.
But remember, Ned, that you can still be hated and live long."

"It is indeed Urrea," said Ned. "Now what are they gathering cavalry out
there for? They can't expect to gallop over our walls."

"Guess they've an idea that we're goin' to try to slip out an' they're
shuttin' up that road of escape. Seems to me, Ned, they're comin' so
close that it's an insult to us."

"They're almost within rifle shot."

"Then these bad little Mexican boys must have their faces scorched as a
lesson. Just you wait here, Ned, till I have a talk with Travis an'
Bowie."

It was obvious to Ned that Crockett's talk with the commander and his
second was satisfactory, because when he returned his face was in a
broad grin. Bowie, moreover, came with him, and his blue eyes were
lighted up with the fire of battle.

"We're goin' to teach 'em the lesson, Ned, beginnin' with a b c," said
Crockett, "an' Jim here, who has had a lot of experience in Texas, will
lead us. Come along, I'll watch over you."

A force of seventy or eighty was formed quickly, and hidden from the
view of the Mexicans, they rushed down the plaza, climbed the low walls
and dropped down upon the plain. The Mexican cavalry outnumbered them
four or five to one, but the Texans cared little for such odds.

"Now, boys, up with your rifles!" cried Bowie. "Pump it into 'em!"

Bowie was a product of the border, hard and desperate, a man of many
fierce encounters, but throughout the siege he had been singularly
gentle and considerate in his dealings with his brother Texans. Now he
was all warrior again, his eyes blazing with blue fire while he shouted
vehement words of command to his men.

The sudden appearance of the Texan riflemen outside the Alamo look Urrea
by surprise, but he was quick of perception and action, and his
cavalrymen were the best in the Mexican army. He wheeled them into line
with a few words of command and shouted to them to charge. Bowie's men
instantly stopped, forming a rough line, and up went their rifles.
Urrea's soldiers who carried rifles or muskets opened a hasty and
excited fire at some distance.

Ned heard the bullets singing over his head or saw them kicking up dust
in front of the Texans, but only one of the Texans fell and but few were
wounded. The Mexican rifles or muskets were now empty, but the Mexican
lancers came on in good order and in an almost solid group, the yellow
sunlight flashing across the long blades of their lances.

It takes a great will to face sharp steel in the hands of horsemen
thundering down upon you, and Ned was quite willing to own afterward
that every nerve in him was jumping, but he stood. All stood, and at the
command of Bowie their rifles flashed together in one tremendous
explosion.

The rifles discharged, the Texans instantly snatched out their pistols,
ready for anything that might come galloping through the smoke. But
nothing came. When the smoke lifted they saw that the entire front of
the Mexican column was gone. Fallen men and horses were thick on the
plain and long lances lay across them. Other horses, riderless, were
galloping away to right and left, and unhorsed men were running to the
rear. But Urrea had escaped unharmed. Ned saw him trying to reform his
shattered force.

"Reload your rifles, men!" shouted Bowie. "You can be ready for them
before they come again!"

These were skilled sharpshooters, and they rammed the loads home with
startling rapidity. Every rifle was loaded and a finger was on every
trigger when the second charge of Urrea swept down upon them. No need of
a command from Bowie now. The Texans picked their targets and fired
straight into the dense group. Once more the front of the Mexican column
was shot away, and the lances fell clattering on the plain.

"At 'em, boys, with your pistols!" shouted Bowie. "Don't give 'em a
second chance!"

The Texans rushed forward, firing their pistols. Ned in the smoke became
separated from his comrades, and when he could see more clearly he
beheld but a single horseman. The man was Urrea.

The two recognized each other instantly. The Mexican had the advantage.
He was on horseback and the smoke was in Ned's eyes, not his own. With a
shout of triumph, he rode straight at the boy and made a fierce sweep
with his cavalry saber. It was fortunate for Ned that he was agile of
both body and mind. He ducked and leaped to one side. He felt the swish
of the heavy steel over his head, but as he came up again he fired.

Urrea was protected largely by his horse's neck, and Ned fired at the
horse instead, although he would have greatly preferred Urrea as a
target. The bullet struck true and the horse fell, but the rider leaped
clear and, still holding the saber, sprang at his adversary. Ned
snatched up his rifle, which lay on the ground at his feet, and received
the slash of the sword upon its barrel. The blade broke in two, and
then, clubbing his rifle, Ned struck.

It was fortunate for Urrea, too, that he was agile of mind and body. He
sprang back quickly, but the butt of the rifle grazed his head and drew
blood. The next moment other combatants came between, and Urrea dashed
away in search of a fresh horse. Ned, his blood on fire, was rushing
after him, when Bowie seized his arm and pulled him back.

"No further, Ned!" he cried. "We've scattered their cavalry and we must
get back into the Alamo or the whole Mexican army will be upon us!"

Ned heard far away the beat of flying hoofs. It was made by the horses
of the Mexican cavalry fleeing for their lives. Bowie quickly gathered
together his men, and carrying with them two who had been slain in the
fight they retreated rapidly to the Alamo, the Texan cannon firing over
their heads at the advancing Mexican infantry. In three or four minutes
they were inside the walls again and with their comrades.

The Mexican cavalry did not reappear upon the eastern road, and the
Texans were exultant, yet they had lost two good men and their joy soon
gave way to more solemn feelings. It was decided to bury the slain at
once in the plaza, and a common grave was made for them. They were the
first of the Texans to fall in the defence, and their fate made a deep
impression upon everybody.

It took only a few minutes to dig the grave, and the men, laid side by
side, were covered with their cloaks. While the spades were yet at work
the Mexican cannon opened anew upon the Alamo. A ball and a bomb fell in
the plaza. The shell burst, but fortunately too far away to hurt
anybody. Neither the bursting of the shell nor any other part of the
cannonade interrupted the burial.

Crockett, a public man and an orator, said a few words. They were
sympathetic and well chosen. He spoke of the two men as dying for Texas.
Others, too, would fall in the defence of the Alamo, but their blood
would water the tree of freedom. Then they threw in the dirt. While
Crockett was speaking the cannon still thundered without, but every word
could be heard distinctly.

When Ned walked away he felt to the full the deep solemnity of the
moment. Hitherto they had fought without loss to themselves. The death
of the two men now cast an ominous light over the situation. The Mexican
lines were being drawn closer and closer about the Alamo, and he was
compelled to realize the slenderness of their chances.

The boy resumed his place on the wall, remaining throughout the
afternoon, and watched the coming of the night. Crockett joined him, and
together they saw troops of Mexicans marching away from the main body,
some to right and some to left.

"Stretchin' their lines," said Crockett. "Santa Anna means to close us
in entirely after a while. Now, by the blue blazes, that was a close
shave!"

A bullet sang by his head and flattened against the wall. He and Ned
dropped down just in time. Other bullets thudded against the stone.
Nevertheless, Ned lifted his head above the edge of the parapet and took
a look. His eyes swept a circle and he saw little puffs of smoke coming
from the roofs and windows of the jacals or Mexican huts on their side
of the river. He knew at once that the best of the Mexican sharpshooters
had hidden themselves there, and had opened fire not with muskets, but
with improved rifles. He called Crockett's attention to this point of
danger and the frontiersman grew very serious.

"We've got to get 'em out some way or other," he said. "As I said
before, the cannon balls make a big fuss, but they don't come so often
an' they come at random. It's the little bullets that have the sting of
the wasp, an' when a man looks down the sights, draws a bead on you, an'
sends one of them lead pellets at you, he gen'rally gets you. Ned, we've
got to drive them fellers out of there some way or other."

The bullets from the jacals now swept the walls and the truth of
Crockett's words became painfully evident. The Texan cannon fired upon
the huts, but the balls went through the soft adobe and seemed to do no
harm. It was like firing into a great sponge. Triumphant shouts came
from the Mexicans. Their own batteries resumed the cannonade, while
their sheltered riflemen sent in the bullets faster and faster.

Crockett tapped the barrel of Betsy significantly.

"The work has got to be done with this old lady an' others like her," he
said. "We must get rid of them jacals."

"How?" asked Ned.

"You come along with me an' I'll show you," said Crockett. "I'm goin' to
have a talk with Travis, an' if he agrees with me we'll soon wipe out
that wasps' nest."

Crockett briefly announced his plan, which was bold in the extreme.
Sixty picked riflemen, twenty of whom bore torches also, would rush out
at one of the side gates, storm the jacals, set fire to them, and then
rush back to the Alamo.

Travis hesitated. The plan seemed impossible of execution in face of the
great Mexican force. But Bowie warmly seconded Crockett, and at last the
commander gave his consent. Ned at once asked to go with the daring
troop, and secured permission. The band gathered in a close body by one
of the gates. The torches were long sticks lighted at the end and
burning strongly. The men had already cocked their rifles, but knowing
the immense risk they were about to take they were very quiet. Ned was
pale, and his heart beat painfully, but his hand did not shake.

The Texan cannon, to cover the movement, opened fire from the walls, and
the riflemen, posted at various points, helped also. The Mexican
cannonade increased. When the thunder and crash were at their height the
gate was suddenly thrown open and the sixty dashed out. Fortunately the
drifting smoke hid them partially, and they were almost upon the jacals
before they were discovered.

A great shout came from the Mexicans when they saw the daring Texans
outside, and bullets from the jacals began to knock up grass and dust
about them. But Crockett himself, waving a torch, led them on, shouting:

"It's only a step, boys! It's only a step! Now, let 'em have it!"

The Texans fired as they rushed, but they took care to secure good aim.
The Mexicans were driven from the roofs and the windows and then the
Texans carrying the torches dashed inside. Every house contained
something inflammable, which was quickly set on fire, and two or three
huts made of wood were lighted in a dozen places.

The dry materials blazed up fast. A light wind fanned the flames, which
joined together and leaped up, a roaring pyramid. The Mexicans, who had
lately occupied them, were scuttling like rabbits toward their main
force, and the Texan bullets made them jump higher and faster.

Crockett, with a shout of triumph, flung down his torch.

"Now, boys," he cried. "Here's the end of them jacals. Nothin' on earth
can put out that fire, but if we don't make a foot race back to the
Alamo the end of us will be here, too, in a minute."

The little band wheeled for its homeward rush. Ned heard a great shout
of rage from the Mexicans, and then the hissing and singing of shells
and cannon balls over his head. He saw Mexicans running across the plain
to cut them off, but his comrades and he had reloaded their rifles, and
as they ran they sent a shower of bullets that drove back their foe.

Ned's heart was pumping frightfully, and myriads of black specks danced
before his eyes, but he remembered afterward that he calculated how far
they were from the Alamo, and how far the Mexicans were from them. A
number of his comrades had been wounded, but nobody had fallen and they
still raced in a close group for the gate, which seemed to recede as
they rushed on.

"A few more steps, Ned," cried Crockett, "an' we're in! Ah, there go our
friends!"

The Texan cannon over their heads now fired into the pursuing Mexican
masses, and the sharpshooters on the walls also poured in a deadly hail.
The Mexicans recoiled once more and then Crockett's party made good the
gate.

"All here!" cried Crockett, as those inside held up torches. He ran over
the list rapidly himself and counted them all, but his face fell when he
saw his young friend the Bee-Hunter stagger. Crockett caught him in his
arms and bore him into the hospital. He and Ned watched by his side
until he died, which was very soon. Before he became unconscious he
murmured some lines from an old Scotch poem:

    "But hame came the saddle, all bluidy to see.
     And hame came the steed, but never hame came he."

They buried him that night beside the other two, and Ned was more solemn
than ever when he sought his usual place in the hospital by the wall. It
had been a day of victory for the Texans, but the omens, nevertheless,
seemed to him to be bad.

The next day he saw the Mexicans spreading further and further about the
Alamo, and they were in such strong force that the Texans could not now
afford to go out and attack any of these bands. A light cold rain fell,
and as he was not on duty he went back to the hospital, where he sat in
silence.

He was deeply depressed and the thunder of the Mexican cannon beat upon
his ears like the voice of doom. He felt a strange annoyance at the
reports of the guns. His nerves jumped, and he became angry with himself
at what he considered a childish weakness.

Now, and for the first time, he felt despair. He borrowed a pencil and a
sheet of paper torn from an old memorandum book and made his will. His
possessions were singularly few, and the most valuable at hand was his
fine long-barreled rifle, which he left to his faithful friend, Obed
White. He bequeathed his pistol and knife to the Panther, and his
clothes to Will Allen. He was compelled to smile at himself when he had
finished his page of writing. Was it likely that his friends would ever
find this paper, or, if finding it, was it likely that any one of them
could ever obtain his inheritance? But it was a relief to his feelings
and, folding the paper, he put it in the inside pocket of his hunting
shirt.

The bombardment was renewed in the afternoon, but Ned stayed in his
place in the hospital. After a while Davy Crockett and several others
joined him there. Crockett as usual was jocular, and told more stories
of his trips to the large eastern cities. He had just finished an
anecdote of Philadelphia, when he turned suddenly to Ned.

"Boy," he said, "you and I have fought together more than once now, an'
I like you. You are brave an' you've a head full of sense. When you grow
older you'll be worth a lot to Texas. They'll need you in the council.
No, don't protest. This is the time when we can say what is in us. The
Mexican circle around the Alamo is almost complete. Isn't that so,
boys?"

"It is."

"Then I'll say what we all know. Three or four days from now the chances
will be a hundred to one against any of us ever gettin' out of here. An'
you're the youngest of the defence, Ned, so I want you to slip out
to-night while there's yet time. Mebbe you can get up a big lot of men
to come to our help."

Ned looked straight at Crockett, and the veteran's eyes wavered.

"It's a little scheme you have," said Ned, "to get me out of the way.
You think because I'm the youngest I ought to go off alone at night and
save my own life. Well, I'm not going. I intend to stay here and fight
it out with the rest of you."

"I meant for the best, boy, I meant for the best," said Crockett. "I'm
an old fellow an' I've had a terrible lot of fun in my time. About as
much, I guess, as one man is entitled to, but you've got all your life
before you."

"Couldn't think of it," said Ned lightly; "besides, I've got a password
in case I'm taken by Santa Anna."

"What's that?" asked Crockett curiously.

"It's the single word 'Roylston.' Mr. Roylston told me if I were taken
by Santa Anna to mention his name to him."

"That's queer, an' then maybe it ain't," said Crockett musingly. "I've
heard a lot of John Roylston. He's about the biggest trader in the
southwest. I guess he must have some sort of a financial hold on Santa
Anna, who is always wantin' money. Ned, if the time should ever come,
don't you forget to use that password."

The next night was dark and chilly with gusts of rain. In the afternoon
the Mexican cannonade waned, and at night it ceased entirely. The Alamo
itself, except for a few small lights within the buildings, was kept
entirely dark in order that skulking sharpshooters without might not
find a target.

Ned was on watch near one of the lower walls about the plaza. He wrapped
his useful serape closely about his body and the lower part of his face
in order to protect himself from the cold and wet, and the broad brim of
his sombrero was drawn down to meet it. The other Texans on guard were
protected in similar fashion, and in the flitting glimpses that Ned
caught of them they looked to him like men in disguise.

The time went on very slowly. In the look backward every hour in the
Alamo seemed to him as ten. He walked back and forth a long time,
occasionally meeting other sentinels, and exchanging a few words with
them. Once he glanced at their cattle, which were packed closely under a
rough shed, where they lay, groaning with content. Then he went back to
the wall and noticed the dim figure of one of the sentinels going toward
the convent yard and the church.

Ned took only a single glance at the man, but he rather envied him. The
man was going off duty early, and he would soon be asleep in a warm
place under a roof. He did not think of him again until a full hour
later, when he, too, going off duty, saw a figure hidden in serape and
sombrero passing along the inner edge of the plaza. The walk and figure
reminded him of the man whom he had seen an hour before, and he wondered
why any one who could have been asleep under shelter should have
returned to the cold and rain.

He decided to follow, but the figure flitted away before him down the
plaza and toward the lowest part of the wall. This was doubly curious.
Moreover, it was ground for great suspicion. Ned followed swiftly. He
saw the figure mounting the wall, as if to take position there as a
sentinel, and then the truth came to him in a flash. It was Urrea
playing the congenial role of spy.

Ned rushed forward, shouting. Urrea turned, snatched a pistol and fired.
The bullet whistled past Ned's head. The next moment Urrea dropped over
the wall and fled away in the darkness. The other sentinels were not
able to obtain a shot at him.

CHAPTER XI

THE DESPERATE DEFENCE

Ned's report created some alarm among the defenders of the Alamo, but it
passed quickly.

"I don't see just how it can help 'em," said Crockett. "He's found out
that we're few in number. They already knew that. He's learned that the
Alamo is made up of a church an' other buildings with walls 'roun' them.
They already knew that, too, an' so here we all are, Texans an'
Mexicans, just where we stood before."

Nevertheless, the bombardment rose to a fiercer pitch of intensity the
next day. The Mexicans seemed to have an unlimited supply of ammunition,
and they rained balls and shells on the Alamo. Many of the shells did
not burst, and the damage done was small. The Texans did not reply from
the shelter of their walls for a long time. At last the Mexicans came
closer, emboldened perhaps by the thought that resistance was crushed,
and then the Texan sharpshooters opened fire with their long-barreled
rifles.

The Texans had two or three rifles apiece, and they poured in a fast and
deadly fire. So many of the Mexicans fell that the remainder retreated
with speed, leaving the fallen behind them. But when the smoke lifted
others came forward under a white flag, and the Texans allowed them to
take away their dead.

The cannonade now became spasmodic. All the Mexican cannon would fire
continuously for a half hour or so, and then would ensue a silence of
perhaps an hour.

In the afternoon Bowie was taken very ill, owing to his great exertions,
and a bed was made for him in the hospital. Ned sat there with him a
while. The gentle mood that had distinguished the Georgian throughout
the siege was even more marked now.

"Ned," he said, "you ought to have gone out the other night when we
wanted you to go. Fannin may come to our help or he may not, but even if
he should come I don't think his force is sufficient. It would merely
increase the number of Texans in the trap."

"I've quite made up my mind that I won't go," said Ned.

"I'm sorry," said Bowie. "As for me, it's different. I'm a man of
violence, Ned. I don't deny it. There's human blood on my hands, and
some of it is that of my own countrymen. I've done things that I'd like
to call back, and so I'm glad to be here, one of a forlorn hope,
fighting for Texas. It's a sort of atonement, and if I fall I think it
will be remembered in my favor."

Ned was singularly impressed. Crockett had talked in much the same way.
Could these men, heroes of a thousand dangers, have really given up? Not
to give up in the sense of surrender, but to expect death fighting? But
for himself he could not believe such a thing possible. Youth was too
strong in him.

He was on the watch again for part of the next night, and he and
Crockett were together. They heard sounds made by the besiegers on every
side of them. Mexicans were calling to Mexicans. Bridle bits rattled,
and metal clanked against metal.

"I suppose the circle is complete," said Ned.

"Looks like it," said Crockett, "but we've got our cattle to eat an'
water to drink an' only a direct attack in force can take us. They can
bang away with their cannon till next Christmas an' they won't shake our
grip on the Alamo."

The night was fairly dark, and an hour later Ned heard a whistle.
Crockett heard it, too, and stiffened instantly into attention.

"Did that sound to you like a Mexican whistling?" he asked.

"No, I'd say it came from American lips, and I'd take it also for a
signal."

"An' so it is. It's just such a whistle as hunters use when they want to
talk to one another without words. I've whistled to my pardners that way
in the woods hundreds of times. I think, Ned, that some Texans are at
hand waitin' a chance to slip in."

Crockett emitted a whistle, low but clear and penetrating, almost like
the song of a night bird, and in a half minute came the rejoinder. He
replied to it briefly, and then they waited. Others had gathered at the
low plaza wall with them. Hidden to the eyes, they peered over the
parapet.

They heard soft footsteps in the darkness, and then dim forms emerged.
Despite the darkness they knew them to be Texans, and Crockett spoke
low:

"Here we are, boys, waitin' for you! This way an' in a half minute
you're in the Alamo!"

The men ran forward, scaled the wall and were quickly inside. They were
only thirty-two. Ned had thought that the Panther, Obed, and Will Allen
might be among them, but they were not there. The new men were shaking
hands with the others and were explaining that they had come from
Gonzales with Captain Smith at their head. They were all well armed,
carried much ammunition, and were sure that other parties would arrive
from different points.

The thirty-two were full of rejoicings over their successful entry, but
they were worn, nevertheless, and they were taken into one of the
buildings, where food and water were set before them. Ned stood by, an
eager auditor, as they told of their adventures.

"We had a hard time to get in here to you," said Captain Smith, "and
from the looks of things I reckon we'll have as hard a time to get out.
There must be a million Mexicans around the Alamo. We tried to get up a
bigger force, but we couldn't gather any more without waiting, and we
thought if you needed us at all you needed us in a hurry."

"Reckon you're right about the need of bein' in a hurry," said Crockett.
"When you want help you want it right then an' there."

"So you do," said Smith, as he took a fresh piece or steak, "and we had
it in mind all the time. The wind was blowing our way, and in the
afternoon we heard the roaring of cannon a long distance off. Then as we
came closer we heard Mexicans buzzing all around the main swarm, scouts
and skirmishers everywhere.

"We hid in an arroyo and waited until dark. Then we rode closer and
found that there would never be any chance to get into the Alamo on
horseback. We took the saddles and bridles off our horses, and turned
them loose on the prairie. Then we undertook to get in here, but it was
touch and go. I tell you it was touch and go. We wheeled and twisted and
curved and doubled, until our heads got dizzy. Wherever we went we found
Mexicans, thousands of 'em."

"We've noticed a few ourselves," said Crockett.

"It was pretty late when we struck an opening, and then not being sure
we whistled. When we heard you whistle back we made straight for the
wall, and here we are."

"We're mighty glad to see you," said Crockett, "but we ain't welcomin'
you to no picnic, I reckon you understand that, don't you, Jim Smith?"

"We understand it, every one of us," replied Smith gravely. "We heard
before we started, and now we've seen. We know that Santa Anna himself
is out there, and that the Mexicans have got a big army. That's the
reason we came, Davy Crockett, because the odds are so heavy against
you."

"You're a true man," said Crockett, "and so is every one of these with
you."

The new force was small--merely a few more for the trap--but they
brought with them encouragement. Ned shared in the general mental
uplift. These new faces were very welcome, indeed. They gave fresh vigor
to the little garrison, and they brought news of that outside world from
which he seemed to have been shut off so long. They told of numerous
parties sure to come to their relief, but he soon noticed that they did
not particularize. He felt with certainty that the Alamo now had all the
defenders that it would ever have.

Repeated examinations from the walls of the church confirmed Ned in his
belief. The Mexican circle was complete, and their sheltered batteries
were so near that they dropped balls and shells whenever they pleased
inside the Alamo. Duels between the cannon and the Texan sharpshooters
were frequent. The gunners as they worked their guns were forced to show
themselves at times, and every exposure was instantly the signal for a
Texan bullet which rarely missed. But the Mexicans kept on. It seemed
that they intended to wear out the defenders by the sheer persistency
of their cannon fire.

Ned became so hardened to the bombardment that he paid little attention
to it. Even when a ball fell inside the Alamo the chances were several
hundred to one that it would not hit him. He had amused himself with a
mathematical calculation of the amount of space he occupied compared
with the amount of space in the Alamo. Thus he arrived at the result,
which indicated comparatively little risk for himself.

The shrewdest calculations are often wrong. As he passed through the
convent yard he met Crockett, and the two walked on together. But before
they had gone half a dozen steps a bomb hissed through the air, fell and
rolled to their feet. It was still hissing and smoking, but Ned, driven
by some unknown impulse, seized it and with a mighty effort hurled it
over the wall, where it burst. Then he stood licking his burned fingers
and looking rather confusedly at Crockett. He felt a certain shyness
over what he had done.

The veteran frontiersman had already formed a great affection for the
boy. He knew that Ned's impulse had come from a brave heart and a quick
mind, and that he had probably saved both their lives. He took a great
resolution that this boy, the youngest of all the defenders, should be
saved.

"That was done well, Ned," he said quietly. "I'm glad, boy, that I've
known you. I'd be proud if you were a son of mine. We can talk plainly
here with death all around us. You've got a lot in that head of yours.
You ought to make a great man, a great man for Texas. Won't you do what
I say and slip out of the Alamo while there's still a chance?"

Ned was much moved, but he kept his resolution as he had kept it before.
He shook his head.

"You are all very good to me here," he said. "Mr. Bowie, too, has asked
me to go, but if I should do so and the rest of you were to fall I'd be
ashamed of myself all the rest of my life. I'm a Texan now, and I'm
going to see it through with the rest of you."

"All right," said Crockett lightly. "I've heard that you can lead a
horse to the water, but you can't make him drink, an' if a boy don't
want to go you can't make him go. So we'll just go into this little
improvised armory of ours, an' you an' I will put in our time moldin'
bullets."

They entered one of the adobe buildings. A fire had been built on the
hearth, and a half dozen Texans were already busy there. But they
quickly made room for Crockett and Ned. Crockett did not tell Ned that
their supplies of powder and lead were running low, and that they must
reduce their fire from the walls in order that they might have
sufficient to meet an attack in force.

But it was a cheerful little party that occupied itself with molding
bullets. Ned put a bar of lead into a ladle, and held it over the fire
until the bar became molten. Then he poured it into the mold until it
was full, closed it, and when he opened it again a shining bullet
dropped out. He worked hour after hour. His face became flushed with the
heat, but with pride he watched his heap of bullets grow.

Crockett at last said they had done enough for one day, and Ned was glad
when they went outside and breathed the fresh air again. There was no
firing at that time, and they climbed once more upon the church wall.
Ned looked out upon the scene, every detail of which was so familiar to
him now. But conspicuous, and seeming to dominate all, was the blood-red
flag of no quarter floating from the tower of the church of San
Fernando. Wind and rain had not dimmed its bright color. The menace in
its most vivid hue was always there.

Travis, who was further along the wall with a pair of strong field
glasses, came back and joined Ned and Crockett.

"If you would like to see Santa Anna you can," he said to Ned. "He is on
the church of San Fernando now with his generals looking at us. Take
these glasses and your gaze may meet his."

Ned took the glasses, and there was Santa Anna standing directly under
the folds of the banner with his own glasses to his eyes, studying the
Alamo and its defenders. About him stood a half dozen generals. Ned's
heart swelled with anger. The charm and genius of Santa Anna made him
all the more repellent now. Ned knew that he would break any promise if
it suited him, and that cunning and treachery were his most potent
tools.

Santa Anna, at that very moment, was discussing with Sesma, Cos, Gaona
and others the question of an immediate assault with his whole army upon
the Alamo. They had heard rumors of an advance by Fannin with help for
the Texans, but, while some of the younger spirits wished prompt attack,
Santa Anna decided on delay.

The dictator doubted whether Fannin would come up, and if he did he
would merely put so many more rats in the trap. Santa Anna felt secure
in his vast preponderance of numbers. He would take the Texans in his
own good time, that is, whenever he felt like it. He did not care to
hurry, because he was enjoying himself greatly in San Antonio. Capable
of tremendous energy at times, he gave himself up at other times to
Babylonian revels.

Ned handed the glasses to Crockett, who also took a long look.

"I've heard a lot of Santa Anna," he said, "an' maybe I'll yet meet him
eye to eye."

"It's possible," said Travis, "but, Davy, we've got to wait on the
Mexicans. It's always for them to make the move, and then we'll meet it
if we can. I wish we could hear from Bonham. I'm afraid he's been
taken."

"Not likely," said Crockett. "One man, all alone, an' as quick of eye
an' foot as Bonham, would be pretty sure to make his way safely."

"I certainly hope so," said Travis. "At any rate, I intend to send out
another letter soon. If the Texans are made to realize our situation
they will surely come, no matter how far away they may be."

"I hope they will," said Crockett. But Ned noticed that he did not seem
to speak with any great amount of confidence. Balancing everything as
well as he could, he did not see how much help could be expected. The
Texan towns were tiny. The whole fringe of Texan settlements was small.
The Texans were but fifty or sixty thousands against the seven or eight
millions of Mexico, and now that they knew a great Mexican army was in
Texas the scattered borderers would be hard put to it to defend
themselves. He did not believe that in any event they could gather a
force great enough to cut its way through the coil of Santa Anna's
multitude.

But Travis' faith in Bonham, at least, was justified. The next night,
about halfway between midnight and morning, in the darkest hour, a man
scaled the wall and dropped inside the plaza. It proved to be Bonham
himself, pale, worn, covered with mud and dust, but bringing glad
tidings. Ned was present when he came into the church and was met by
Travis. Bowie, Crockett and Smith. Only a single torch lighted up the
grim little group.

"Fannin has left Goliad with 300 men and four cannon to join us," Bonham
said. "He started five days ago, and he should be here soon. With his
rifles and big guns he'll be able to cut his way through the Mexicans
and enter the Alamo."

"I think so, too," said Travis, with enthusiasm.

But Ned steadily watched Bowie and Crockett. They were the men of
experience, and in matters such as these they had minds of uncommon
penetration. He noticed that neither of them said anything, and that
they showed no elation.

Everybody in the Alamo knew the next day that Bonham had come from
Fannin, and the whole place was filled with new hope. As Ned reckoned,
it was about one hundred and fifty miles from San Antonio de Bexar to
Goliad; but, according to Bonham, Fannin had already been five days on
the way, and they should hear soon the welcome thunder of his guns. He
eagerly scanned 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 and the
others, helping to fight off Santa Anna and his horde," said Obed White.
"Bonham couldn't have made any mistake about him. If we had seen Bonham
himself we could have gone with him to the Alamo."

"But he gave Ned's name to Colonel Fannin," said Will, "and so it's sure
to be he."

"Our comrade is certainly there," said Obed White, "and we've got to
help rescue him as well as help rescue the others. It's hard not to
hurry on by ourselves, but we can be of most help by trying to push on
this force, although it seems as if everything had conspired against
us."

"It shorely looks as if things was tryin' to keep us back," exclaimed
the Panther angrily. "We've had such a hard time gettin' these men
together, an' look at this rain an' this mud! We ought to be at Bexar
right now, a-roarin', an' a-t'arin', an' a-rippin', an' a-chawin' among
them Mexicans!"

"Patience! Patience!" said Obed White soothingly. "Sometimes the more
haste the oftener you trip."

"Patience on our part ain't much good to men sixty or eighty miles away,
who need us yelling' an' shootin' for them this very minute."

"I'm bound to own that what you say is so," said Obed White.

They relapsed into silence. The pace of the column grew slower. The men
were compelled to adapt themselves to the cannon and ammunition wagon,
which were now almost mired. The face of the Panther grew black as
thunder with impatience and anger, but he forced himself into silence.

They stopped a little while at noon and scanty rations were doled out.
They had started in such haste that they had only a little rice and
dried beef, and there was no time to hunt game.

They started again in a half hour, creeping along through the mud, and
the Panther was not the only man who uttered hot words of impatience
under his breath. They were nearing the San Antonio River now, and
Fannin began to show anxiety about the fort. But the Panther was
watching the ammunition wagon, which was sinking deeper and deeper into
the mire. It seemed to him that it was groaning and creaking too much
even for the deep mud through which it was passing.

The driver of the ammunition wagon cracked his long whip over the oxen
and they tugged at the yoke. The wheels were now down to the hub, and
the wagon ceased to move. The driver cracked his whip again and again,
and the oxen threw their full weight into the effort. The wheels slowly
rose from their sticky bed, but then something cracked with a report
like a pistol shot. The Panther groaned aloud, because he knew what had
happened.

The axle of the wagon had broken, and it was useless. They distributed
the ammunition, including the cannon balls, which they put in sacks, as
well as they could, among the horsemen, and went on. They did not
complain, but every one knew that it was a heavy blow. In two more hours
they came to the banks of the muddy San Antonio, and stared in dismay at
the swollen current. It was evident at once to everybody that the
passage would be most difficult for the cannon, which, like the
ammunition wagon, were drawn by oxen.

The river was running deep, with muddy banks, and a muddy bottom, and,
taking the lightest of the guns, they tried first to get it across. Many
of the men waded neck deep into the water and strove at the wheels. But
the stream went completely over the cannon, which also sank deeper and
deeper in the oozy bottom. It then became an effort to save the gun. The
Panther put all his strength at the wheel, and, a dozen others helping,
they at last got it back to the bank from which they had started.

Fannin, not a man of great decision, looked deeply discouraged, but the
Panther and others urged him on to new attempts. The Panther, himself,
as he talked, bore the aspect of a huge river god. Yellow water streamed
from his hair, beard, and clothing, and formed a little pool about him.
But he noticed it not at all, urging the men on with all the fiery
energy which a dauntless mind had stored in a frame so great and
capable.

"If it can be done the Panther will get the guns across," said Will to
Obed.

"That's so," said Obed, "but who'd have thought of this? When we started
out we expected to have our big fight with an army and not with a
river."

They took the cannon into the water a second time, but the result was
the same. They could not get it across, and with infinite exertion they
dragged it back to the bank. Then they looked at one another in despair.
They could ford the river, but it seemed madness to go on without the
cannon. While they debated there, a messenger came with news that the
investment of the Alamo by Santa Anna was now complete. He gave what
rumor said, and rumor told that the Mexican army numbered ten or twelve
thousand men with fifty or sixty guns. Santa Anna's force was so great
that already he was sending off large bodies to the eastward to attack
Texan detachments wherever they could be found.

Fannin held an anxious council with his officers. It was an open talk on
the open prairie, and anybody who chose could listen. Will Allen and
Obed White said nothing, but the Panther was vehement.

"We've got to get there!" he exclaimed. "We can't leave our people to
die in the Alamo! We've got to cut our way through, an', if the worst
comes to the worst, die with them!"

"That would benefit nobody," said Fannin. "We've made every human effort
to get our cannon across the river, and we have failed. It would not
profit Texas for us to ride on with our rifles merely to be slaughtered.
There will be other battles and other sieges, and we shall be needed."

"Does that mean we're not goin' on?" asked the Panther.

"We can't go on."

Fannin waved his hand at the yellow and swollen river.

"We must return to Goliad," he said, "I have decided. Besides, there is
nothing else for us to do. About face, men, and take up the march."

The men turned slowly and reluctantly, and the cannon began to plough
the mud on the road to Goliad, from which they had come.

The Panther had remounted, and he drew to one side with Will and Obed,
who were also on their horses. His face was glowing with anger. Never
had he looked more tremendous as he sat on his horse, with the water
still flowing from him.

"Colonel Fannin," he called out, "you can go back to Goliad, but as for
me an' my pardners, Obed White an' Will Allen, we're goin' to Bexar, an'
the Alamo."

"I have no control over you," said Fannin, "but it would be much better
for you three to keep with us."

"No," said the Panther firmly. "We hear the Alamo callin'. Into the
river, boys, but keep your weapons an' ammunition dry."

Their horses, urged into the water, swam to the other bank, and, without
looking back the three rode for San Antonio de Bexar.

While the Panther, Obed White and Will Allen were riding over the
prairie, Ned Fulton sat once more with his friend. Davy Crockett, in one
of the adobe buildings. Night had come, and they heard outside the
fitful crackle of rifle fire, but they paid no attention to it. Travis,
at a table with a small tallow candle at his elbow, was writing his last
message.

Ned was watching the commander as he wrote. But he saw no expression of
despair or even discouragement on Travis' fine face. The letter, which a
messenger succeeded in carrying through the lines that night, breathed a
noble and lofty courage. He was telling again how few were his men, and
how the balls and bombs had rained almost continuously for days upon the
Alamo. Even as his pen was poised they heard the heavy thud of a cannon,
but the pen descended steadily and he wrote:

"I shall continue to hold it until I get relief from my countrymen, or
perish in its defence."

He wrote on a little longer and once more came the heavy thud of a great
gun. Then the pen wrote:

"Again I feel confident that the determined spirit and desperate courage
heretofore exhibited by my men will not fail them in the last struggle,
and, although they may be sacrificed to the vengeance of a Gothic enemy,
the victory will cost that enemy so dear that it will be worse than a
defeat."

"Worse than a defeat!" Travis never knew how significant were the words
that he penned then. A minute or two later the sharp crack of a half
dozen rifles came to them, and Travis wrote:

"A blood-red flag waves from the church of Bexar and in the camp above
us, in token that the war is one of vengeance against rebels."

They heard the third heavy thud of a cannon, and a shell, falling in the
court outside, burst with a great crash. Ned went out and returned with
a report of no damage. Travis had continued his letter, and now he
wrote:

"These threats have no influence upon my men, but to make all fight with
desperation, and with that high-souled courage which characterizes the
patriot who is willing to die in defence of his country, liberty and his
own honor, God and Texas.

"Victory or death."

He closed the letter and addressed it. An hour later the messenger was
beyond the Mexican lines with it, but Travis sat for a long time at the
table, unmoving and silent. Perhaps he was blaming himself for not
having been more watchful, for not having discovered the advance of
Santa Anna. But he was neither a soldier nor a frontiersman, and since
the retreat into the Alamo he had done all that man could do.

He rose at last and went out. Then Crockett said to Ned, knowing that it
was now time to speak the full truth:

"He has given up all hope of help."

"So have I," said Ned.

"But we can still fight," said Crockett.

The day that followed was always like a dream to Ned, vivid in some
ways, and vague in others. He felt that the coil around the Alamo had
tightened. Neither he nor any one else expected aid now, and they spoke
of it freely one to another. Several who could obtain paper wrote, as
Ned had done, brief wills, which they put in the inside pockets of their
coats. Always they spoke very gently to one another, these wild spirits
of the border. The strange and softening shadow which Ned had noticed
before was deepening over them all.

Bowie was again in the hospital, having been bruised severely in a fall
from one of the walls, but his spirit was as dauntless as ever.

"The assault by the Mexicans in full force cannot be delayed much
longer," he said to Ned. "Santa Anna is impatient and energetic, and he
surely has brought up all his forces by this time."

"Do you think we can beat them off?" asked Ned.

Bowie hesitated a little, and then he replied frankly:

"I do not. We have only one hundred and seventy or eighty men to guard
the great space that we have here. But in falling we will light such a
flame that it will never go out until Texas is free."

Ned talked with him a little longer, and always Bowie spoke as if the
time were at hand when he should die for Texas. The man of wild and
desperate life seemed at this moment to be clothed about with the mantle
of the seer.

The Mexican batteries fired very little that day, and Santa Anna's
soldiers kept well out of range. They had learned a deep and lasting
respect for the Texan rifles. Hundreds had fallen already before them,
and now they kept under cover.

The silence seemed ominous and brooding to Ned. The day was bright, and
the flag of no quarter burned a spot of blood-red against the blue sky.
Ned saw Mexican officers occasionally on the roofs of the higher
buildings, but he took little notice of them. He felt instinctively
that the supreme crisis had not yet come. They were all waiting,
waiting.

The afternoon drew its slow length away in almost dead silence, and the
night came on rather blacker than usual. Then the word was passed for
all to assemble in the courtyard. They gathered there, Bowie dragging
his sick body with the rest. Every defender of the Alamo was present.
The cannon and the walls were for a moment deserted, but the Mexicans
without did not know it.

There are ineffaceable scenes in the life of every one, scenes which,
after the lapse of many years, are as vivid as of yesterday. Such, the
last meeting of the Texans, always remained in the mind of Ned. They
stood in a group, strong, wiry men, but worn now by the eternal
vigilance and danger of the siege. One man held a small torch, which
cast but a dim light over the brown faces.

Travis stood before them and spoke to them.

"Men," he said, "all of you know what I know, that we stand alone. No
help is coming for us. The Texans cannot send it or it would have come.
For ten days we have beaten off every attack of a large army. But
another assault in much greater force is at hand. It is not likely that
we can repel it. You have seen the red flag of no quarter flying day
after day over the church, and you know what it means. Santa Anna never
gives mercy. It is likely that we shall all fall, but, if any man wishes
to go, I, your leader, do not order him to stay. You have all done your
duty ten times over. There is just a chance to escape over the walls and
in the darkness. Now go and save your lives if you can."

"We stay," came the deep rumble of many voices together. One man slipped
quietly away a little later, but he was the only one. Save for him,
there was no thought of flight in the minds of that heroic band.

Ned's heart thrilled and the blood pounded in his ears. Life was
precious, doubly so, because he was so young, but he felt a strange
exaltation in the face of death, an exaltation that left no room for
fear.

The eyes of Travis glistened when he heard the reply.

"It is what I expected," he said. "I knew that every one of you was
willing to die for Texas. Now, lads, we will go back to the walls and
wait for Santa Anna."

CHAPTER XII

BEFORE THE DICTATOR

Ned's feeling of exaltation lasted. The long siege, the incessant danger
and excitement, and the wonderful way in which the little band of Texans
had kept a whole army at bay had keyed him up to a pitch in which he was
not himself, in which he was something a little more than human. Such
extraordinary moments come to few people, and his vivid, imaginative
mind was thrilled to the utmost.

He was on the early watch, and he mounted the wall of the church. The
deep silence which marked the beginning of the night still prevailed.
They had not heard any shots, and for that reason they all felt that the
messenger had got through with Travis' last letter.

It was very dark that night and Ned could not see the red flag on the
tower of the church of San Fernando. But he knew it was there, waving a
little in the soft wind which blew out of the southwest, herald of
spring. Nothing broke the silence. After so much noise, it was ominous,
oppressive, surcharged with threats. Fewer lights than usual burned in
the town and in the Mexican camp. All this stillness portended to Ned
the coming storm, and he was right.

His was a short watch, and at 11 o'clock he went off duty. It was silent
and dark in the convent yard, and he sought his usual place for sleep in
the hospital, where many of the Texans had been compelled to go, not
merely to sleep, but because they were really ill, worn out by so many
alarms, so much fighting and so much watching. But they were all now
asleep, overpowered by exhaustion. Ned crept into his own dark little
corner, and he, too, was soon asleep.

But he was awakened about four hours later by some one pulling hard at
his shoulder. He opened his eyes, and stared sleepily. It was Crockett
bending over him, and, Bowie lying on his sick bed ten feet away, had
raised himself on his elbow. The light was so faint that Ned could
scarcely see Crockett's face, but it looked very tense and eager.

"Get up, Ned! Get up!" said Crockett, shaking him again. "There's great
work for you to do!"

"Why, what is it?" exclaimed the boy, springing to his feet.

"It's your friends, Roylston, an' that man, the Panther, you've been
tellin' me about," replied Crockett in quick tones. "While you were
asleep a Mexican, friendly to us, sneaked a message over the wall,
sayin' that Roylston, the Panther, an' others were layin' to the east
with a big force not more'n twenty miles away--not Fannin's crowd, but
another one that's come down from the north. They don't know whether
we're holdin' out yet or not, an' o' course they don't want to risk
destruction by tryin' to cut through the Mexican army to reach us when
we ain't here. The Mexican dassent go out of San Antonio. He won't try
it, 'cause, as he says, it's sure death for him, an' so somebody must go
to Roylston with the news that we're still alive, fightin' an' kickin'.
Colonel Travis has chose you, an' you've got to go. No, there's no
letter. You're just to tell Roylston by word of mouth to come on with
his men."

The words came forth popping like pistol shots. Ned was swept off his
feet. He did not have time to argue or ask questions. Bowie also added a
fresh impetus. "Go, Ned, go at once!" he said. "You are chosen for a
great service. It's an honor to anybody!"

"A service of great danger, requirin' great skill," said Crockett, "but
you can do it, Ned, you can do it."

Ned flushed. This was, in truth, a great trust. He might, indeed, bring
the help they needed so sorely.

"Here's your rifle an' other weapons an' ammunition," said Crockett.
"The night's at its darkest an' you ain't got any time to waste. Come
on!"

So swift was Crockett that Ned was ready almost before he knew it. The
Tennesseean never ceased hurrying him. But as he started, Bowie called
to him:

"Good-by, Ned!"

The boy turned back and offered his hand. The Georgian shook it with
unusual warmth, and then lay back calmly on his blankets.

"Good-by, Ned," he repeated, "and if we don't meet again I hope you'll
forget the dark things in my life, and remember me as one who was doing
his best for Texas."

"But we will meet again," said Ned. "The relieving force will be here in
two or three days and I'll come with it."

"Out with you!" said Crockett. "That's talk enough. What you want to do
now is to put on your invisible cap an' your seven league boots an' go
like lightnin' through the Mexican camp. Remember that you can talk
their lingo like a native, an' don't forget, neither, to keep always
about you a great big piece of presence of mind that you can use on a
moment's notice."

Ned wore his serape and he carried a pair of small, light but very warm
blankets, strapped in a pack on his back. His haversack contained bread
and dried beef, and, with his smaller weapons in his belt, and his
rifle over his shoulder, he was equipped fully for a long and dangerous
journey.

Crockett and the boy passed into the convent yard.

The soft wind from the southwest blew upon their faces, and from the
high wall of the church a sentinel called: "All's well!" Ned felt an
extraordinary shiver, a premonition, but it passed, unexplained. He and
Crockett went into the main plaza and reached the lowest part of the
wall.

"Ought I to see Colonel Travis?" asked Ned, as they were on the way.

"No, he asked me to see to it, 'cause there ain't no time to waste. It's
about three o'clock in the mornin' now, an' you've got to slip through
in two or three hours, 'cause the light will be showin' then. Now, Ned,
up with you an' over."

Ned climbed to the summit of the wall. Beyond lay heavy darkness, and he
neither saw nor heard any human being. He looked back, and extended his
hand to Crockett as he had to Bowie.

"Good-by, Mr. Crockett," he said, "you've been very good to me."

The great brown hand of the frontiersman clasped his almost
convulsively.

"Aye, Ned," he said, "we've cottoned to each other from the first. I
haven't knowed you long, but you've been like a son to me. Now go, an'
God speed you!"

Ned recalled afterward that he did not say anything about Roylston's
relieving force. What he thought of then was the deep feeling in
Crockett's words.

"I'm coming back," he said, "and I hope to hunt buffalo with you over
the plains of a free Texas."

"Go! go! Hurry, Ned!" said Crockett.

"Good-by," said Ned, and he dropped lightly to the ground.

He was outside the Alamo after eleven days inside, that seemed in the
retrospect almost as many months. He flattened himself against the wall,
and stood there for a minute or two, looking and listening. He thought
he might hear Crockett again inside, but evidently the Tennesseean had
gone back at once. In front of him was only the darkness, pierced by a
single light off toward the west.

Ned hesitated. It was hard for him to leave the Alamo and the friends
who had been knitted to him by so many common dangers, yet his errand
was one of high importance--it might save them all--and he must do it.
Strengthening his resolution he started across an open space, walking
lightly. As Crockett had truly said, with his perfect knowledge of the
language he might pass for a Mexican. He had done so before, and he did
not doubt his ability to do so again.

He resolved to assume the character of a Mexican scout, looking into the
secrets of the Alamo, and going back to report to Santa Anna. As he
advanced he heard voices and saw earthworks from which the muzzles of
four cannon protruded. Behind the earthwork was a small fire, and he
knew that men would be sitting about it. He turned aside, not wishing to
come too much into the light, but a soldier near the earthwork hailed
him, and Ned, according to his plan, replied briefly that he was on his
way to General Santa Anna in San Antonio.

But the man was talkative.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Pedro Miguel Alvarado," replied Ned on the spur of the moment.

"Well, friend, it is a noble name, that of Alvarado."

"But it is not a noble who bears it. Though a descendant of the great
Alvarado, who fought by the side of the glorious and mighty
conquistador, Hernando Cortez, I am but a poor peasant offering my life
daily for bread in the army of General Santa Anna."

The man laughed.

"You are as well off as I am," he said. "But what of the wicked Texans?
Are they yet ready to surrender their throats to our knives? The dogs
hold us over long. It is said that they number scarce two hundred within
the mission. Truly they fight hard, and well they may, knowing that
death only is at the end."

Ned shuddered. The man seemed to take it all so lightly. But he replied
in a firm voice:

"I learned little of them save that they still fight. I took care not to
put myself before the muzzle of any of their rifles."

The Mexican laughed again.

"A lad of wisdom, you," he said. "They are demons with their rifles.
When the great assault is made, many a good man will speed to his long
home before the Alamo is taken."

So, they had already decided upon the assault. The premonition within
the Alamo was not wrong. It occurred to Ned that he might learn more,
and he paused.

"Has it been finally settled?" he asked. "We attack about three days
from now, do we not?"

"Earlier than that," replied the Mexican. "I know that the time has been
chosen, and I think it is to-morrow morning."

Ned's heart beat heavily. To-morrow morning! Even if he got through, how
could he ever bring Roylston and the relief force in time?

"I thank you," he said, "but I must hurry with my report."

"Adios, Señor," said the man politely, and Ned repeated his "Adios" in
the same tone. Then he hurried forward, continually turning in toward
the east, hoping to find a passage where the Mexican line was thinnest.
But the circle of the invaders was complete, and he saw that he must
rely upon his impersonation of a Mexican to take him through.

He was in a fever of haste, knowing now that the great assault was to
come so soon, and he made for a point between two smoldering camp fires
fifty or sixty yards apart. Boldness only would now avail, and with the
brim of his sombrero pulled well down over his face he walked
confidently forward, coming fully within the light of the fire on his
left.

A number of Mexican soldiers were asleep around the fire, but at least a
half dozen men were awake. They called to Ned as he passed and he
responded readily, but Fortune, which had been so kind to him for a long
time, all at once turned her back upon him. When he spoke, a man in
officer's uniform who had been sitting by the fire rose quickly.

"Your name?" he cried.

"Pedro Miguel Alvarado," replied Ned instantly. At the same moment he
recognized Urrea.

"It is not so!" cried Urrea. "You are one of the Texans, young Fulton. I
know your voice. Upon him, men! Seize him!"

His action and the leap of the Mexicans were so sudden that Ned did not
have time to aim his rifle. But he struck one a short-arm blow with the
butt of it that sent him down with a broken head, and he snatched at his
pistol as three or four others threw themselves upon him. Ned was
uncommonly strong and agile, and he threw off two of the men, but the
others pressed him to the ground, until, at Urrea's command, his arms
were bound and he was allowed to rise.

Ned was in despair, not so much for himself but because there was no
longer a chance that he could get through to Roylston. It was a deep
mortification, moreover, to be taken by Urrea. But he faced the Mexican
with an appearance of calmness.

"Well," he said, "I am your prisoner."

"You are," said Urrea, "and you might have passed, if I had not known
your voice. But I remind you that you come from the Alamo. You see our
flag, and you know its meaning."

The black eyes of the Mexican regarded Ned malignantly. The boy knew
that the soul of Urrea was full of wicked triumph. The officer could
shoot him down at that moment, and be entirely within orders. But Ned
recalled the words of Roylston. The merchant had told him to use his
name if he should ever fall again into the hands of Santa Anna.

"I am your prisoner," he repeated, "and I demand to be taken before
General Santa Anna. Whatever your red flag may mean, there are reasons
why he will spare me. Go with me and you will see."

He spoke with such boldness and directness that Urrea was impressed.

"I shall take you to the general," he said, "not because you demand it,
but because I think it well to do so. It is likely that he will want to
examine you, and I believe that in his presence you will tell all you
know. But it is not yet 4 o'clock in the morning, and I cannot awaken
him now. You will stay here until after daylight."

"Very well," said Ned, trying to be calm as possible. "As you have
bound me I cannot walk, but if you'll put me on a blanket there by the
fire I'll sleep until you want me."

"We won't deny you that comfort," replied Urrea grimly.

When Ned was stretched on his blanket he was fairly easy so far as the
body was concerned. They had bound him securely, but not painfully. His
agony of mind, though, was great. Nevertheless he fell asleep, and slept
in a restless way for three or four hours, until Urrea awoke him, and
told him they were going to Santa Anna.

It was a clear, crisp dawn and Ned saw the town, the river, and the
Alamo. There, only a short distance away, stood the dark fortress, from
which he had slipped but a few hours before with such high hopes. He
even saw the figures of the sentinels, moving slowly on the church
walls, and his heart grew heavy within him. He wished now that he was
back with the defenders. Even if he should escape it would be too late.
At Urrea's orders he was unbound.

"There is no danger of your escaping now," said the young Mexican.
"Several of my men are excellent marksmen, and they will fire at the
first step you take in flight. And even should they miss, what chance do
you think you have here?"

He swept his right hand in a circle, and, in the clear morning air, Ned
saw batteries and troops everywhere. He knew that the circle of steel
about the Alamo was complete. Perhaps he would have failed in his errand
even had he got by. It would require an unusually strong force to cut
through an army as large as that of Santa Anna, and he did not know
where Roylston could have found it. He started, as a sudden suspicion
smote him. He remembered Crockett's hurried manner, and his lack of
explanation. But he put it aside. It could not be true.

"I see that you look at the Alamo," said Urrea ironically. "Well, the
rebel flag is still there, but it will not remain much longer. The trap
is about ready to shut down."

Ned's color rose.

"It may be so," he said, "but for every Texan who falls the price will
be five Mexicans."

"But they will fall, nevertheless," said Urrea. "Here is food for you.
Eat, and I will take you to the general."

They offered him Mexican food, but he had no appetite, and he ate
little. He stretched and tensed his limbs in order to restore the full
flood of circulation, and announced that he was ready. Urrea led the
way, and Ned followed with a guard of four men about him.

The boy had eyes and ears for everything around him, but he looked most
toward the Alamo. He could not, at the distance, recognize the figures
on the wall, but all those men were his friends, and his eyes filled
with tears at their desperate case. Out here with the Mexicans, where he
could see all their overwhelming force and their extensive preparations,
the chances of the Texans looked worse than they did inside the Alamo.

They entered the town and passed through the same streets, along which
Ned had advanced with the conquering army of the Texans a few months
before. Many evidences of the siege remained. There were tunnels,
wrecked houses and masses of stone and adobe. The appearance of the
young prisoner aroused the greatest curiosity among both soldiers and
people. He heard often the word "Texano." Women frequently looked down
at him from the flat roofs, and some spoke in pity.

Ned was silent. He was resolved not to ask Urrea any questions or to
give him a chance to show triumph. He noticed that they were advancing
toward the plaza, and then they turned into the Veramendi house, which
he had cause to remember so well.

"This was the home of the Vice-Governor," said Urrea, "and General Santa
Anna is here."

"I know the place," said Ned. "I am proud to have been one of the Texans
who took it on a former occasion."

"We lost it then, but we have it now and we'll keep it," said Urrea. "My
men will wait with you here in the courtyard, and I'll see if our
illustrious general is ready to receive you."

Ned waited patiently. Urrea was gone a full half hour, and, when he
returned, he said:

"The general was at breakfast with his staff. He had not quite finished,
but he is ready to receive you now."

Then Urrea led the way into the Veramendi house. Luxurious fittings had
been put in, but many of the rents and scars from the old combat were
yet visible. They entered the great dining room, and, once more, Ned
stood face to face with the most glorious general, the most illustrious
dictator, Don Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. But Ned alone stood. The
dictator sat at the head of the table, about which were Castrillon,
Sesma, Cos, Gaona, the Italian, Filisola and others. It seemed to Ned
that he had come not only upon a breakfast but upon a conference as
well.

The soldiers who had guarded Ned stepped back, Urrea stood by the wall,
and the boy was left to meet the fixed gaze of Santa Anna. The dictator
wore a splendid uniform, as usual. His face seemed to Ned fuller and
more flushed than when they had last met in Mexico. The marks of
dissipation were there. Ned saw him slip a little silver box from the
pocket of his waistcoat and take from it a pinch of a dark drug, which
he ate. It was opium, but the Mexican generals seemed to take no note of
it.

Santa Anna's gaze was fixed and piercing, as if he would shoot terror
into the soul of his enemy--a favorite device of his--but Ned withstood
it. Then Santa Anna, removing his stare from his face, looked him slowly
up and down. The generals said nothing, waiting upon their leader, who
could give life or death as he chose. Ned was sure that Santa Anna
remembered him, and, in a moment, he knew that he was right.

"It is young Fulton, who made the daring and ingenious escape from our
hospitality in the capital," he said, "and who also departed in an
unexpected manner from one of the submarine dungeons of our castle of
San Juan de Ulua. Fate does not seem to reward your courage and
enterprise as they deserve, since you are in our hands again."

The dictator laughed and his generals laughed obediently also. Ned said
nothing.

"I am informed by that most meritorious young officer, Captain Urrea,"
continued Santa Anna, "that you were captured about three o'clock this
morning trying to escape from the Alamo."

"That is correct," said Ned.

"Why were you running away in the dark?"

Ned flushed, but, knowing that it was an unworthy and untruthful taunt,
he remained silent.

"You do not choose to answer," said Santa Anna, "but I tell you that you
are the rat fleeing from the sinking ship. Our cannon have wrecked the
interior of the Alamo. Half of your men are dead, and the rest would
gladly surrender if I should give them the promise of life."

"It is not true!" exclaimed Ned with heat. "Despite all your fire the
defenders of the Alamo have lost but a few men. You offer no quarter and
they ask none. They are ready to fight to the last."

There was a murmur among the generals, but Santa Anna raised his hand
and they were silent again.

"I cannot believe all that you say," he continued. "It is a boast. The
Texans are braggarts. To-morrow they die, every one of them. But tell us
the exact condition of everything inside the Alamo, and perhaps I may
spare your life."

Ned shut his teeth so hard that they hurt. A deep flush surged into the
dark face of Santa Anna.

"You are stubborn. All the Texans are stubborn. But I do not need any
information from you. I shall crush the Alamo, as my fingers would smash
an eggshell."

"But your fingers will be pierced deep," Ned could not keep from
replying. "They will run blood."

"Be that as it may," said Santa Anna, who, great in some things, was
little enough to taunt an enemy in his power, "you will not live to see
it. I am about to give orders to have you shot within an hour."

His lips wrinkled away from his white teeth like those of a great cat
about to spring, and his cruel eyes contracted. Holding all the power of
Mexico in his hands he was indeed something to be dreaded. The generals
about the table never spoke. But Ned remembered the words of Roylston.

"A great merchant named John Roylston has been a good friend to me," he
said. "He told me that if I should ever fall into your hands I was to
mention his name to you, and to say that he considered my life of
value."

The expression of the dictator changed. He frowned, and then regarded
Ned intently, as if he would read some secret that the boy was trying to
hide.

"And so you know John Roylston," he said at length, "and he wishes you
to say to me that your life is of value."

Ned saw the truth at once. He had a talisman and that talisman was the
name of Roylston. He did not know why it was so, but it was a wonderful
talisman nevertheless, because it was going to save his life for the
time being, at least. He glanced at the generals, and he saw a look of
curiosity on the face of every one of them.

"I know Roylston," said Santa Anna slowly, "and there are some matters
between us. It may be to my advantage to spare you for a while."

Ned's heart sprang up. Life was sweet. Since he was to be spared for a
while it must mean ultimately exchange or escape. Santa Anna, a reader
of the human face, saw what was in his mind.

"Be not too sanguine," he said, "because I have changed my mind once it
does not mean that you are to be free now or ever. I shall keep you
here, and you shall see your comrades fall."

A sudden smile, offspring of a quick thought and satanic in its nature,
passed over his face.

"I will make you a spectator of the defeat of the Texans," he said. "A
great event needs a witness, and since you cannot be a combatant you can
serve in that capacity. We attack at dawn to-morrow, and you shall miss
nothing of it."

The wicked smile passed over his face again. It had occurred to Ned, a
student of history, that the gladiatorial cruelty of the ancient Romans
had descended to the Spaniards instead of the Italians. Now he was
convinced that it was so.

"You shall be kept a prisoner in one of our strongest houses," said
Santa Anna, "and Captain Urrea, whose vigilance prevented your escape,
will keep guard over you. I fancy it is a task that he does not hate."

Santa Anna had also read the mind of the young Mexican. Urrea smiled. He
liked this duty. He hated Ned and he, too, was not above taunting a
prisoner. He advanced, and put a hand upon Ned's shoulder, but the boy
shook it off.

"Don't touch me," said Ned. "I'll follow without resistance."

Santa Anna laughed.

"Let him have his way for the present, Captain Urrea," he said. "But
remember that it is due to your gentleness and mercy. Adios, Señor
Fulton, we meet again to-morrow morning, and if you survive I shall
report to Mr. Roylston the manner in which you may bear yourself."

"Good-day," said Ned, resolved not to be outdone, even in ironical
courtesy. "And now, Captain Urrea, if you will lead the way, I'll
follow."

Urrea and his soldiers took Ned from the Veramendi house and across the
street to a large and strong stone building.

"You are fortunate," said Urrea, "to have escaped immediate death. I do
not know why the name of Roylston was so powerful with our general, but
I saw that it was."

"It seemed to have its effect," said Ned.

Urrea led the way to the flat roof of the house, a space reached by a
single narrow stairway.

"I shall leave you here with two guards," he said. "I shall give them
instructions to fire upon you at the slightest attempt on your part to
escape, but I fancy that you will have sense enough not to make any such
attempt."

Urrea departed, but the two sentinels sat by the entrance to the
stairway, musket in hand. He had not the faintest chance to get by them,
and knowing it he sat down on the low stone coping of the roof. He
wondered why Urrea had brought him there instead of locking him up in a
room. Perhaps it was to mock him with the sight of freedom so near and
yet unattainable.

His gaze turned instinctively to the Alamo like the magnet to the pole.
There was the fortress, gray and grim in the sunshine, with the dim
figures of the watchers on the walls. What were they doing inside now?
How were Crockett and Bowie? His heart filled with grief that he had
failed them. But had he failed them? Neither Urrea nor any other Mexican
had spoken of the approach of a relieving force under Roylston. There
was no sign that the Mexicans were sending any part of their army to
meet it.

The heavy thud of a great gun drew his attention, and he saw the black
smoke from the discharge rising over the plain. A second, a third and a
fourth cannon shot were fired, but no answer came from the walls of the
Alamo. At length he saw one of the men in the nearest battery to the
Alamo expose himself above the earthwork. There was a flash from the
wall of the church, a little puff of smoke, and Ned saw the man fall as
only dead men fall. Perhaps it was Davy Crockett, the great marksman,
who had fired that shot. He liked to think that it was so, and he
rejoiced also at this certain evidence that the little garrison was as
dauntless as ever. He watched the Alamo for nearly an hour, and he saw
that the firing was desultory. Not more than a dozen cannon shots were
fired during that time, and only three or four rifles replied from the
Alamo. Toward noon the firing ceased entirely, and Ned knew that this
was in very fact and truth the lull before the storm.

His attention wandered to his guards. They were mere peons, but,
although watchful, they were taking their ease. Evidently they liked
their task. They were resting with the complete relaxation of the body
that only the Southern races know. Both had lighted cigarritos, and were
puffing at them contentedly. It had been a long time since Ned had seen
such a picture of lazy ease.

"You like it here?" he said to the nearest.

The man took the cigarrito from his mouth, emitted smoke from his nose
and replied politely:

"It is better to be here lying in the sun than out there on the grass
with a Texan bullet through one's body. Is it not so, Fernando?"

"Aye, it is so," replied his comrade. "I like not the Texan bullets. I
am glad to be here where they cannot reach me. It is said that Satan
sights their rifles for them, because they do not miss. They will die
hard to-morrow. They will die like the bear in its den, fighting the
hunters, when our army is poured upon them. That will be an end to all
the Texans, and we will go back to the warm south."

"But are you sure," asked Ned, "that it will be an end of the Texans?
Not all the Texans are shut up in the Alamo."

"What matters it?" replied Fernando, lightly. "It may be delayed, but
the end will be the same. Nothing can resist the great, the powerful,
the most illustrious Santa Anna. He is always able to dig graves for his
enemies."

The men talked further. Ned gathered from them that the whole force of
Santa Anna was now present. Some of his officers wanted him to wait for
siege artillery of the heaviest caliber that would batter down the walls
of the Alamo, but the dictator himself was impatient for the assault. It
would certainly take place the next morning.

"And why is the young señor here?" asked Fernando. "The order has been
issued that no Texan shall be spared, and do you not see the red flag
waving there close by us?"

Ned looked up. The red flag now flaunted its folds very near to him. He
could not repress a shiver.

"I am here," he replied, "because some one who has power has told
General Santa Anna that I am not to be put to death."

"It is well for you, then," said Fernando, "that you have a friend of
such weight. It is a pity to die when one is so young and so straight
and strong as you. Ah, my young señor, the world is beautiful. Look how
green is the grass there by the river, and how the sun lies like gold
across it!"

Ned had noticed before the love of beauty that the humblest peon
sometimes had, and there was a certain touch of brotherly feeling
between him and this man, his jailer.

"The world is beautiful," said the boy, "and I am willing to tell you
that I have no wish to leave it."

"Nor I," said Fernando. "Why are the Texans so foolish as to oppose the
great Santa Anna, the most illustrious and powerful of all generals and
rulers? Did they not know that he would come and crush them, every one?"

Ned did not reply. The peon, in repose at least, had a gentle heart, and
the boy knew that Santa Anna was to him omnipotent and omniscient. He
turned his attention anew to the Alamo, that magnet of his thoughts. It
was standing quiet in the sun now. The defiant flag of the defenders,
upon which they had embroidered the word "Texas," hung lazily from the
staff.

The guards in the afternoon gave him some food and a jug of water, and
they also ate and drank upon the roof. They were yet amply content with
their task and their position there. No bullets could reach them. The
sunshine was golden and pleasant. They had established friendly
relations with the prisoner. He had not given them the slightest
trouble, and, before and about them, was spread the theater upon which a
mighty drama was passing, all for them to see. What more could be asked
by two simple peasants of small wants?

Ned was glad that they let him remain upon the roof. The Alamo drew his
gaze with a power that he could not break if he would. Since he was no
longer among the defenders he was eager to see every detail in the vast
drama that was now unfolding.

But the afternoon passed in inaction. The sun was brilliant and toward
evening turned to a deep, glowing red. It lighted up for the last time
the dim figures that stood on the walls of the Alamo. Ned choked as he
saw them there. He felt the premonition.

Urrea came upon the roof shortly before twilight. He was not sneering or
ironical, and Ned, who had no wish to quarrel at such a time, was glad
of it.

"As General Santa Anna told you," said Urrea, "the assault is to be made
in overwhelming force early in the morning. It will succeed, of course.
Nothing can prevent it. Through the man Roylston, you have some claim
upon the general, but it may not be strong enough to save you long. A
service now might make his pardon permanent."

"What do you mean by a service now?"

"A few words as to the weaker points of the Alamo, the best places for
our troops to attack. You cannot do anything for the defenders. You
cannot alter their fate in any particular, but you might do something
for yourself."

Ned did not wish to appear dramatic. He merely turned his back upon the
young Mexican.

"Very well," said Urrea, "I made you the offer. It was for you to accept
it or not as you wish."

He left him upon the roof, and Ned saw the last rim of the red sun sink
in the plain. He saw the twilight come, and the Alamo fade into a dim
black bulk in the darkness. He thought once that he heard a cry of a
sentinel from its walls, "All's well," but he knew that it was only
fancy. The distance was far too great. Besides, all was not well.

When the darkness had fully come, he descended with his two benevolent
jailers to a lower part of the house, where he was assigned to a small
room, with a single barred window and without the possibility of escape.
His guards, after bringing him food and water, gave him a polite good
night and went outside. He knew that they would remain on watch in the
hall.

Ned could eat and drink but little. Nor could he yet sleep. The night
was far too heavy upon him for slumber. Besides, it had brought many
noises, significant noises that he knew. He heard the rumble of cannon
wheels over the rough pavements, and the shouts of men to the horses or
mules. He heard troops passing, now infantry, and then cavalry, the
hoofs of their horses grinding upon the stones.

He pressed his face against the barred window. He was eager to hear and
yet more eager to see. He caught glimpses only of horse and foot as they
passed, but he knew what all those sights and sounds portended. In the
night the steel coil of the Mexicans was being drawn closer and closer
about the Alamo.

Brave and resolute, he was only a boy after all. He felt deserted of all
men. He wanted to be back there with Crockett and Bowie and Travis and
the others. The water came into his eyes, and unconsciously he pulled
hard at the iron bars.

He remained there a long time, listening to the sounds. Once he heard a
trumpet, and its note in the night was singularly piercing. He knew that
it was a signal, probably for the moving of a regiment still closer to
the Alamo. But there were no shots from either the Mexicans or the
mission. The night was clear with many stars.

After two or three hours at the window Ned tried to sleep. There was a
narrow bed against the wall, and he lay upon it, full length, but he did
not even close his eyes. He became so restless that at last he rose and
went to the window again. It must have been then past midnight. The
noises had ceased. Evidently the Mexicans had everything ready. The wind
blew cold upon his face, but it brought him no news of what was passing
without.

He went back to the bed, and by and by he sank into a heavy slumber.

CHAPTER XIII

TO THE LAST MAN

Ned awoke after a feverish night, when there was yet but a strip of gray
in the east. It was Sunday morning, but he had lost count of time, and
did not know it. He had not undressed at all when he lay down, and now
he stood by the window, seeking to see and hear. But the light was yet
dim and the sounds were few. Nevertheless the great pulse in his throat
began to leap. The attack was at hand.

The door of the room was unlocked and the two peons who had guarded him
upon the roof came for him. Ned saw in the half gloom that they were
very grave of countenance.

"We are to take you to the noble Captain Urrea, who is waiting for you,"
said Fernando.

"Very well," said Ned. "I am ready. You have been kind to me, and I hope
that we shall meet again after to-day."

Both men shook their heads.

"We fear that is not to be," said Fernando.

They found Urrea and another young officer waiting at the door of the
house. Urrea was in his best uniform and his eyes were very bright. He
was no coward, and Ned knew that the gleam was in anticipation of the
coming attack.

"The time is at hand," he said, "and it will be your wonderful fortune
to see how Mexico strikes down her foe."

His voice, pitched high, showed excitement, and a sense of the dramatic.
Ned said nothing, and his own pulses began to leap again. The strip of
gray in the east was broadening, and he now saw that the whole town was
awake, although it was not yet full daylight. Santa Anna had been at
work in the night, while he lay in that feverish sleep. He heard
everywhere now the sound of voices, the clank of arms and the beat of
horses' hoofs. The flat roofs were crowded with the Mexican people. Ned
saw Mexican women there in their dresses of bright colors, like Roman
women in the Colosseum, awaiting the battle of the gladiators. The
atmosphere was surcharged with excitement, and the sense of coming
triumph.

Ned's breath seemed to choke in his throat and his heart beat painfully.
Once more he wished with all his soul that he was with his friends, that
he was in the Alamo. He belonged with them there, and he would rather
face death with those familiar faces around him than be here, safe
perhaps, but only a looker-on. It was with him now a matter of the
emotions, and not of reasoned intellect. Once more he looked toward the
old mission, and saw the dim outline of the buildings, with the
dominating walls of the church. He could not see whether anyone watched
on the walls, but he knew that the sentinels were there. Perhaps
Crockett, himself, stood among them now, looking at the great Mexican
coil of steel that was wrapping itself tighter and tighter around the
Alamo. Despite himself, Ned uttered a sigh.

"What is the matter with you?" asked Urrea, sharply. "Are you already
weeping for the conquered?"

"You know that I am not," replied Ned. "You need not believe me, but I
regret that I am not in the Alamo with my friends."

"It's an idle wish," said Urrea, "but I am taking you now to General
Santa Anna. Then I leave, and I go there! Look, the horsemen!"

He extended his hand, and Ned saw his eyes kindling. The Mexican cavalry
were filing out in the dim dawn, troop after troop, the early light
falling across the blades of the lances, spurs and bridles jingling. All
rode well, and they made a thrilling picture, as they rode steadily on,
curving about the old fortress.

"I shall soon be with them," said Urrea in a tone of pride. "We shall
see that not a single one of your Texans escapes from the Alamo."

Ned felt that choking in his throat again, but he deemed it wiser to
keep silent. They were going toward the main plaza now, and he saw
masses of troops gathered in the streets. These men were generally
silent, and he noticed that their faces expressed no elation. He divined
at once that they were intended for the assault, and they had no cause
for joy. They knew that they must face the deadly Texan rifles.

Urrea led the way to a fortified battery standing in front of the main
plaza. A brilliant group stood behind an earthen wall, and Ned saw Santa
Anna among them.

"I have brought the prisoner," said Urrea, saluting.

"Very good," replied the dictator, "and now, Captain Urrea, you can join
your command. You have served me well, and you shall have your share in
the glory of this day."

Urrea flushed with pride at the compliment, and bowed low. Then he
hurried away to join the horse. Santa Anna turned his attention.

"I have brought you here at this moment," he said, "to give you a last
chance. It is not due to any mercy for you, a rebel, but it is because
you have been so long in the Alamo that you must know it well. Point
out to us its weakest places, and you shall be free. You shall go north
in safety. I promise it here, in the presence of my generals."

"I have nothing to tell," replied Ned.

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely sure."

"Then it merely means a little more effusion of blood. You may stay with
us and see the result."

All the ancient, inherited cruelty now shone in Santa Anna's eyes. It
was the strange satanic streak in him that made him keep his captive
there in order that he might see the fall of his own comrades. A half
dozen guards stood near the person of the dictator, and he said to them:

"If the prisoner seeks to leave us, shoot him at once."

The manner of Santa Anna was arrogant to the last degree, but Ned was
glad to stay. He was eager to see the great panorama which was about to
be unrolled before him. He was completely absorbed in the Alamo, and he
utterly forgot himself. Black specks were dancing before his eyes, and
the blood was pounding in his ears, but he took no notice of such
things.

The gray bar in the east broadened. A thin streak of shining silver cut
through it, and touched for a moment the town, the river, the army and
the Alamo. Ned leaned against an edge of the earthwork, and breathed
heavily and painfully. He had not known that his heart could beat so
hard.

The same portentous silence prevailed everywhere. The men and women on
the roofs of the houses were absolutely still. The cavalry, their line
now drawn completely about the mission, were motionless. Ned, straining
his eyes toward the Alamo, could see nothing there. Suddenly he put up
his hand and wiped his forehead. His fingers came away wet. His blood
prickled in his veins like salt. He became impatient, angry. If the mine
was ready, why did they not set the match? Such waiting was the pitch of
cruelty.

"Cos, my brother," said Santa Anna to the swart general, "take your
command. It was here that the Texan rebels humiliated you, and it is
here that you shall have full vengeance."

Cos saluted, and strode away. He was to lead one of the attacking
columns.

"Colonel Duque," said Santa Anna to another officer, "you are one of the
bravest of the brave. You are to direct the attack on the northern wall,
and may quick success go with you."

Duque glowed at the compliment, and he, too, strode away to the head of
his column.

"Colonel Romero," said Santa Anna, "the third column is yours, and the
fourth is yours, Colonel Morales. Take your places and, at the signal
agreed, the four columns will charge with all their strength. Let us see
which will be the first in the Alamo."

The two colonels saluted as the others had done, and joined their
columns.

The bar of gray in the east was still broadening, but the sun itself did
not yet show. The walls of the Alamo were still dim, and Ned could not
see whether any figures were there. Santa Anna had put a pair of
powerful glasses to his eyes, but when he took them down he said nothing
of what he had seen.

"Are all the columns provided?" he said to General Sesma, who stood
beside him.

"They have everything," replied Sesma, "crowbars, axes, scaling ladders.
Sir, they cannot fail!"

"No, they cannot," said Santa Anna exultantly. "These Texan rebels fight
like demons, but we have now a net through which they cannot break.
General Gaona, see that the bands are ready and direct them to play the
Deguelo when the signal for the charge is given."

Ned shivered again. The "Deguelo" meant the "cutting-of-throats," and
it, too, was to be the signal of no quarter. He remembered the red flag,
and he looked up. It hung, as ever, on the tower of the church of San
Fernando, and its scarlet folds moved slowly in the light morning
breeze. General Gaona returned.

"The bands are ready, general," he said, "and when the signal is given
they will play the air that you have chosen."

A Mexican, trumpet in hand, was standing near. Santa Anna turned and
said to him the single word:

"Blow!"

The man lifted the trumpet to his lips, and blew a long note that
swelled to its fullest pitch, then died away in a soft echo.

It was the signal. A tremendous cry burst from the vast ring of the
thousands, and it was taken up by the shrill voices of the women on the
flat roofs of the houses. The great circle of cavalrymen shook their
lances and sabers until they glittered.

When the last echo of the trumpet's dying note was gone the bands began
to play with their utmost vigor the murderous tune that Santa Anna had
chosen. Then four columns of picked Mexican troops, three thousand
strong, rushed toward the Alamo. Santa Anna and the generals around him
were tremendously excited. Their manner made no impression upon Ned
then, but he recalled the fact afterward.

The boy became quickly unconscious of everything except the charge of
the Mexicans and the Alamo. He no longer remembered that he was a
prisoner. He no longer remembered anything about himself. The cruel
throb of that murderous tune, the Deguelo, beat upon the drums of his
ears, and mingled with it came the sound of the charging Mexicans, the
beat of their feet, the clank of their arms, and the shouts of their
officers.

Whatever may be said of the herded masses of the Mexican troops, the
Mexican officers were full of courage. They were always in advance,
waving their swords and shouting to their men to come on. Another silver
gleam flashed through the gray light of the early morning, ran along the
edges of swords and lances, and lingered for a moment over the dark
walls of the Alamo.

No sound came from the mission, not a shot, not a cry. Were they asleep?
Was it possible that every man, overpowered by fatigue, had fallen into
slumber at such a moment? Could such as Crockett and Bowie and Travis be
blind to their danger? Such painful questions raced through Ned's mind.
He felt a chill run down his spine. Yet his breath was like fire to his
lips.

"Nothing will stop them!" cried Santa Anna. "The Texans cower before
such a splendid force! They will lay down their arms!"

Ned felt his body growing colder and colder, and there was a strange
tingling at the roots of the hair. Now the people upon the roofs were
shouting their utmost, and the voices of many women united in one
shrill, piercing cry. But he never turned to look at them. His eyes were
always on the charging host which converged so fast upon the Alamo.

The trumpet blew another signal, and there was a crash so loud that it
made Ned jump. All the Mexican batteries had fired at once over the
heads of their own troops at the Alamo. While the gunners reloaded the
smoke of the discharge drifted away and the Alamo still stood silent.
But over it yet hung a banner on which was written in great letters the
word, "Texas."

The Mexican troops were coming close now. The bands playing the Deguelo
swelled to greater volume and the ground shook again as the Mexican
artillery fired its second volley. When the smoke drifted away again the
Alamo itself suddenly burst into flame. The Texan cannon at close range
poured their shot and shell into the dense ranks of the Mexicans. But
piercing through the heavy thud of the cannon came the shriller and more
deadly crackle of the rifles. The Texans were there, every one of them,
on the walls. He might have known it. Nothing on earth could catch them
asleep, nor could anything on earth or under it frighten them into
laying down their arms.

Ned began to shout, but only hoarse cries came from a dry throat through
dry lips. The great pulses in his throat were leaping again, and he was
saying: "The Texans! The Texans! Oh, the brave Texans!"

But nobody heard him. Santa Anna, Filisola, Castrillon, Tolsa, Gaona and
the other generals were leaning against the earthwork, absorbed in the
tremendous spectacle that was passing before them. The soldiers who were
to guard the prisoner forgot him and they, too, were engrossed in the
terrible and thrilling panorama of war. Ned might have walked away, no
one noticing, but he, too, had but one thought, and that was the Alamo.

He saw the Mexican columns shiver when the first volley was poured upon
them from the walls. In a single glance aside he beheld the exultant
look on the faces of Santa Anna and his generals die away, and he
suddenly became conscious that the shrill shouting on the flat roofs of
the houses had ceased. But the Mexican cannon still poured a cloud of
shot and shell over the heads of their men at the Alamo, and the troops
went on.

Ned, keen of ear and so intent that he missed nothing, could now
separate the two fires. The crackle of the rifles which came from the
Alamo dominated. Rapid, steady, incessant, it beat heavily upon the
hearing and nerves. Pyramids and spires of smoke arose, drifted and
arose again. In the intervals he saw the walls of the church a sheet of
flame, and he saw the Mexicans falling by dozens and scores upon the
plain. He knew that at the short range the Texan rifles never missed,
and that the hail of their bullets was cutting through the Mexican ranks
like a fire through dry grass.

"God, how they fight!" he heard one of the generals--he never knew
which--exclaim.

Then he saw the officers rushing about, shouting to the men, striking
them with the flats of their swords and urging them on. The Mexican army
responded to the appeal, lifted itself up and continued its rush. The
fire from the Alamo seemed to Ned to increase. The fortress was a living
flame. He had not thought that men could fire so fast, but they had
three or four rifles apiece.

The silence which had replaced the shrill shouting in the town
continued. All the crash was now in front of them, and where they stood
the sound of the human voice would carry. In a dim far-away manner Ned
heard the guards talking to one another. Their words showed uneasiness.
It was not the swift triumphal rush into the Alamo that they had
expected. Great swaths had been cut through the Mexican army. Santa Anna
paled more than once when he saw his men falling so fast.

"They cannot recoil! They cannot!" he cried.

But they did. The column led by Colonel Duque, a brave man, was now at
the northern wall, and the men were rushing forward with the crowbars,
axes and scaling ladders. The Texan rifles, never more deadly, sent down
a storm of bullets upon them. A score of men fell all at once. Among
them was Duque, wounded terribly. The whole column broke and reeled
away, carrying Duque with them.

Ned saw the face of Santa Anna turn purple with rage. He struck the
earthwork furiously with the flat of his sword.

"Go! Go!" he cried to Gaona and Tolsa. "Rally them! See that they do not
run!"

The two generals sprang from the battery and rushed to their task. The
Mexican cannon had ceased firing, for fear of shooting down their own
men, and the smoke was drifting away from the field. The morning was
also growing much lighter. The gray dawn had turned to silver, and the
sun's red rim was just showing above the eastern horizon.

The Texan cannon were silent, too. The rifles were now doing all the
work. The volume of their fire never diminished. Ned saw the field
covered with slain, and many wounded were drifting back to the shelter
of the earthworks and the town.

Duque's column was rallied, but the column on the east and the column on
the west were also driven back, and Santa Anna rushed messenger after
messenger, hurrying up fresh men, still driving the whole Mexican army
against the Alamo. He shouted orders incessantly, although he remained
safe within the shelter of the battery.

Ned felt an immense joy. He had seen the attack beaten off at three
points. A force of twenty to one had been compelled to recoil. His heart
swelled with pride in those friends of his. But they were so few in
number! Even now the Mexican masses were reforming. The officers were
among them, driving them forward with threats and blows. The great ring
of Mexican cavalry, intended to keep any of the Texans from escaping,
also closed in, driving their own infantry forward to the assault.

Ned's heart sank as the whole Mexican army, gathering now at the
northern or lower wall, rushed straight at the barrier. But the deadly
fire of the rifles flashed from it, and their front line went down.
Again they recoiled, and again the cavalry closed in, holding them to
the task.

There was a pause of a few moments. The town had been silent for a long
time, and the Mexican soldiers themselves ceased to shout. Clouds of
smoke eddied and drifted about the buildings. The light of the morning,
first gray, then silver, turned to gold. The sun, now high above the
earth's rim, poured down a flood of rays.

Everything stood out sharp and clear. Ned saw the buildings of the Alamo
dark against the sun, and he saw men on the walls. He saw the Mexican
columns pressed together in one great force, and he even saw the still
faces of many who lay silent on the plain.

He knew that the Mexicans were about to charge again, and his feeling of
exultation passed. He no longer had hope that the defenders of the Alamo
could beat back so many. He thought again how few, how very few, were
the Texans.

The silence endured but a moment or two. Then the Mexicans rushed
forward in a mighty mass at the low northern wall, the front lines
firing as they went. Flame burst from the wall, and Ned heard once more
the deadly crackle of the Texan rifles. The ground was littered by the
trail of the Mexican fallen, but, driven by their officers, they went
on.

Ned saw them reach the wall and plant the scaling ladders, many of them.
Scores of men swarmed up the ladders and over the wall. A heavy division
forced its way into the redoubt through the sallyport, and as Ned saw he
uttered a deep gasp. He knew that the Alamo was doomed. And the Mexicans
knew it, too. The shrill screaming of the women began again from the
flat roofs of the houses, and shouts burst from the army also.

"We have them! We have them!" cried Santa Anna, exultant and excited.

Sheets of flame still burst from the Alamo, and the rifles still poured
bullets on the swarming Mexican forces, but the breach had been made.
The Mexicans went over the low wall in an unbroken stream, and they
crowded through the sallyport by hundreds. They were inside now, rushing
with the overwhelming weight of twenty to one upon the little garrison.
They seized the Texan guns, cutting down the gunners with lances and
sabers, and they turned the captured cannon upon the defenders.

Some of the buildings inside the walls were of adobe, and they were soon
shattered by the cannon balls. The Texans, covered with smoke and dust
and the sweat of battle, were forced back by the press of numbers into
the convent yard, and then into the church and hospital. Here the cannon
and rifles in hundreds were turned upon them, but they still fought.
Often, with no time to reload their rifles, they clubbed them, and drove
back the Mexican rush.

The Alamo was a huge volcano of fire and smoke, of shouting and death.
Those who looked on became silent again, appalled at the sights and
sounds. The smoke rose far above the mission, and caught by a light
wind drifted away to the east. The Mexican generals brought up fresh
forces and drove them at the fortress. A heavy column, attacking on the
south side, where no defenders were now left, poured over a stockade and
crowded into the mission. The circle of cavalry about the Alamo again
drew closer, lest any Texan should escape. But it was a useless
precaution. None sought flight.

In very truth, the last hope of the Alamo was gone, and perhaps there
was none among the defenders who did not know it. There were a few wild
and desperate characters of the border, whom nothing in life became so
much as their manner of leaving it. In the culminating moment of the
great tragedy they bore themselves as well as the best.

Travis, the commander, and Bonham stood in the long room of the hospital
with a little group around them, most of them wounded, the faces of all
black with powder smoke. But they fought on. Whenever a Mexican appeared
at the door an unerring rifle bullet struck him down. Fifty fell at that
single spot before the rifles, yet they succeeded in dragging up a
cannon, thrust its muzzle in at the door and fired it twice loaded with
grape shot into the room.

The Texans were cut down by the shower of missiles, and the whole place
was filled with smoke. Then the Mexicans rushed in and the few Texans
who had survived the grape shot fell fighting to 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 left of the
entrance. Unable to walk, he had received at his request two pistols,
and now he was firing them as fast as he could pull the triggers and
reload.

"Shoot him! Shoot him at once!" cried Urrea.

His own pistol was empty now, but a dozen musket balls were fired into
the room. Bowie, hit twice, nevertheless raised himself upon his elbow,
aimed a pistol with a clear eye and a steady hand, and pulled the
trigger. A Mexican fell, shot through the heart, but another volley of
musket balls was discharged at the Georgian. Struck in both head and
heart he suddenly straightened out and lay still upon the cot. Thus died
the famous Bowie.

Mrs. Dickinson and her baby had been hidden in the arched room on the
other side for protection. The Mexicans killed a Texan named Walters at
the entrance, and, wild with ferocity, raised his body upon a half dozen
bayonets while the blood ran down in a dreadful stream upon those who
held it aloft.

Urrea rushed into the room and found the cowering woman and her baby.
The Mexicans followed, and were about to slay them, too, when a gallant
figure rushed between. It was the brave and humane Almonte. Sword in
hand, he faced the savage horde. He uttered words that made Urrea turn
dark with shame and leave the room. The soldiers were glad to follow.

At the far end of the church a few Texans were left, still fighting
with clubbed rifles. The Mexicans drew back a little, raised their
muskets and fired an immense shattering volley. When the smoke cleared
away not a single Texan was standing, and then the troops rushed in with
sword and bayonet.

It was nine o'clock in the morning, and the Alamo had fallen. The
defenders were less than nine score, and they had died to the last man.
A messenger rushed away at once to Santa Anna with the news of the
triumph, and he came from the shelter, glorying, exulting and crying
that he had destroyed the Texans.

Ned followed the dictator. He never knew exactly why, because many of
those moments were dim, like the scenes of a dream, and there was so
much noise, excitement and confusion that no one paid any attention to
him. But an overwhelming power drew him on to the Alamo, and he rushed
in with the Mexican spectators.

Ned passed through the sallyport and he reeled back aghast for a moment.
The Mexican dead, not yet picked up, were strewn everywhere. They had
fallen in scores. The lighter buildings were smashed by cannon balls and
shells. The earth was gulleyed and torn. The smoke from so much firing
drifted about in banks and clouds, and it gave forth the pungent odor of
burned gunpowder.

The boy knew not only that the Alamo had fallen, but that all of its
defenders had fallen with it. The knowledge was instinctive. He had been
with those men almost to the last day of the siege, and he had
understood their spirit.

He was not noticed in the crush. Santa Anna and the generals were
running into the church, and he followed them. Here he saw the Texan
dead, and he saw also a curious crowd standing around a fallen form. He
pressed into the ring and his heart gave a great throb of grief.

It was Crockett, lying upon his back, his body pierced by many wounds.
Ned had known that he would find him thus, but the shock, nevertheless,
was terrible. Yet Crockett's countenance was calm. He bore no wounds in
the face, and he lay almost as if he had died in his bed. It seemed to
Ned even in his grief that no more fitting death could have come to the
old hero.

Then, following another crowd, he saw Bowie, also lying peacefully in
death upon his cot. He felt the same grief for him that he had felt for
Crockett, but it soon passed in both cases. A strange mood of exaltation
took its place. They had died as one might wish to die, since death must
come to all. It was glorious that these defenders of the Alamo, comrades
of his, should have fallen to the last man. The full splendor of their
achievement suddenly burst in a dazzling vision before him. Texans who
furnished such valor could not be conquered. Santa Anna might have
twenty to one or fifty to one or a hundred to one, in the end it would
not matter.

The mood endured. He looked upon the dead faces of Travis and Bonham
also, and he was not shaken. He saw others, dozens and dozens whom he
knew, and the faces of all of them seemed peaceful to him. The shouting
and cheering and vast chatter of the Mexicans did not disturb him. His
mood was so high that all these things passed as nothing.

Ned made no attempt to escape. He knew that while he might go about
almost as he chose in this crowd of soldiers, now disorganized, the ring
of cavalry beyond would hold him. The thought of escape, however, was
but little in his mind just then. He was absorbed in the great tomb of
the Alamo. Here, despite the recent work of the cannon, all things
looked familiar. He could mark the very spots where he had stood and
talked with Crockett or Bowie. He knew how the story of the immortal
defence would spread like fire throughout Texas and beyond. When he
should tell how he had seen the faces of the heroes, every heart must
leap.

He wandered back to the church, where the curious still crowded. Many
people from the town, influential Mexicans, wished to see the terrible
Texans, who yet lay as they had fallen. Some spoke scornful words, but
most regarded them with awe. Ned looked at Crockett for the second time,
and a hand touched him on the shoulder. It was Urrea.

"Where are your Texans now?" he asked.

"They are gone," replied Ned, "but they will never be forgotten." And
then he added in a flash of anger. "Five or six times as many Mexicans
have gone with them."

"It is true," said the young Mexican thoughtfully. "They fought like
cornered mountain wolves. We admit it. And this one, Crockett you call
him, was perhaps the most terrible of them all. He swung his clubbed
rifle so fiercely that none dared come within its reach. I slew him."

"You?" exclaimed Ned.

"Yes, I! Why should I not? I fired two pistol bullets into him and he
fell."

He spoke with a certain pride. Ned said nothing, but he pressed his
teeth together savagely and his heart swelled with hate of the sleek and
triumphant Urrea.

"General Santa Anna, engrossed in much more important matters, has
doubtless forgotten you," continued the Mexican, "but I will see that
you do not escape. Why he spares you I know not, but it is his wish."

He called to two soldiers, whom he detailed to follow Ned and see that
he made no attempt to escape. The boy was yet so deeply absorbed in the
Alamo that no room was left in his mind for anything else. Nor did he
care to talk further with Urrea, who he knew was not above aiming a
shaft or two at an enemy in his power. He remained in the crowd until
Santa Anna ordered that all but the troops be cleared from the Alamo.

Then, at the order of the dictator, the bodies of the Texans were taken
without. A number of them were spread upon the ground, and were covered
with a thick layer of dry wood and brush. Then more bodies of men and
heaps of dry wood were spread in alternate layers until the funeral pile
was complete.

Young Urrea set the torch, while the Mexican army and population looked
on. The dry wood flamed up rapidly and the whole was soon a pyramid of
fire and smoke. Ned was not shocked at this end, even of the bodies of
brave men. He recalled the stories of ancient heroes, the bodies of whom
had been consumed on just such pyres as this, and he was willing that
his comrades should go to join Hercules, Hector, Achilles and the rest.

The flames roared and devoured the great pyramid, which sank lower, and
at last Ned turned away. His mood of exaltation was passing. No one
could remain keyed to that pitch many hours. Overwhelming grief and
despair came in its place. His mind raged against everything, against
the cruelty of Santa Anna, who had hoisted the red flag of no quarter,
against fate, that had allowed so many brave men to perish, and against
the overwhelming numbers that the Mexicans could always bring against
the Texans.

He walked gloomily toward the town, the two soldiers who had been
detailed as guards following close behind him. He looked back, saw the
sinking blaze of the funeral pyre, shuddered and walked on.

San Antonio de Bexar was rejoicing. Most of its people, Mexican to the
core, shared in the triumph of Santa Anna. The terrible Texans were
gone, annihilated, and Santa Anna was irresistible. The conquest of
Texas was easy now. No, it was achieved already. They had the dictator's
own word for it that the rest was a mere matter of gathering up the
fragments.

Some of the graver and more kindly Mexican officers thought of their own
losses. The brave and humane Almonte walked through the courts and
buildings of the Alamo, and his face blanched when he reckoned their
losses. A thousand men killed or wounded was a great price to pay for
the nine score Texans who were sped. But no such thoughts troubled Santa
Anna. All the vainglory of his nature was aflame. They were decorating
the town with all the flags and banners and streamers they could find,
and he knew that it was for him. At night they would illuminate in his
honor. He stretched out his arm toward the north and west, and murmured
that it was all his. He would be the ruler of an empire half the size of
Europe. The scattered and miserable Texans could set no bounds to his
ambition. He had proved it.

He would waste no more time in that empty land of prairies and plains.
He sent glowing dispatches about his victory to the City of Mexico and
announced that he would soon come. His subordinates would destroy the
wandering bands of Texans. Then he did another thing that appealed to
his vanity. He wrote a proclamation to the Texans announcing the fall of
the Alamo, and directing them to submit at once, on pain of death, to