They toiled, piling their rampart ring higher, while they constantly peered right, left, before, behind, expecting a charge.
Bob Armstrong cheered.
"The reds are going! They've had enough!"
That seemed true. The Indians had taken away their dead and wounded; they were commencing to follow, but some of them remained in sight.
The sun set. It had been a short day. In the dusk the Texans got fresh water, at the creek. Soon they were ready for the morrow. All that night the Indian death chants sounded. Morning came. There was silence, while inside their little circle of rocks and sod amidst the scorched brush the five able-bodied white men and two boys waited.
No Indians appeared near. They were somewhere, burying their dead. It was found out afterward that they were in a cave, not far off.
This night Bob Armstrong and Caephus Ham stole away, and examined the other side of the hill.
"Forty-eight blood signs we counted," Bob reported, "where Injuns had been laid."
"I reckon we'd best stay here awhile, just the same," Captain Jim Bowie counseled. "And we've got a man or two who ought not to be moved yet."
On the ninth morning after the fight they started home, with their three wounded and their baggage on horses, but themselves mainly afoot; traveled ten days, and reached San Antonio in early night.