"No," Jim Bowie replied. "You are our brothers; your hearts are strong; we thank you but we cannot accept. If they are so many, you would only die with us. We do not wish to fight. If we travel fast we shall reach the old mission and the walls will protect us. Adios."
He and his Texans rode one way, the Comanches rode the other.
They had hoped to arrive at the old mission or Spanish fort by night. And they might have done so had the trail not become so rocky that their horses' feet gave out; therefore they made camp in a small prairie island of live-oaks. The clump was bounded on the west by a stream; on the north by a thick growth of mesquite trees and prickly-pear cactus about ten feet high.
"That's where we'll 'fort,' boys, in case we have to hunt a hole," Jim Bowie said.
So they posted a look-out; cut a crooked lane into the midst of the mesquite and cactus; cleared a fighting space there, hobbled their horses among the live-oaks, ate supper, refilled their canteens, and with night guards on watch they rolled in their blankets, until morning. They still had hopes of getting to the San Saba ruins.
That was not to be. They were just cooking breakfast by the first gray of daylight, when the guard called:
"Whoopee! They're a-comin', boys."
"Get your guns and lie low, boys," rapped Jim Bowie, the captain. "See that your horses are tied short."
The guards ran in, to join the line.
"How many?"