“But don’t fire unless you are sure of your Injun,” said Crockett, who knew there was only a limited supply of powder in the party; and as there was no knowing how long the attack would continue, he wished to be as sparing as possible.
Sure enough, as the old Texan had said, when the Comanches had finished loading they showed a desire to know the exact position of their intended victims. A tufted head appeared around the side of a mustang. Dolph’s rifle cracked like a whip; there was a yell of pain and then silence.
“I got him,” said the old Texan, and he calmly reloaded his rifle.
Again came the flight of arrows and the reports of the Comanche rifles; but as before, the shafts and bullets did no harm. Crockett fired when he saw the plumes of a savage show above the back of a horse. It so chanced that the speeding bullet struck the mustang; it leaped up, forgetting its training; its rider was now exposed to the fire of the whites. Three rifles cracked; and the Comanche threw up his arms and sank back.
Seeing the deadly nature of the white men’s marksmanship, the savages grew wary. Only now and then an arrow flew; occasionally a bullet lodged in the ground or in a tree trunk.
An hour passed in this way. It was now almost three o’clock; and Davy Crockett as he crouched behind his tree grew both weary and restless.
“They are cunning varmints,” said he, “and they are holding off until nightfall. Under cover of darkness they’ll creep up on us and beat us down by weight of numbers.”
“Darkness will favor them,” spoke old Dolph. “And if we are here when it falls, we are goners.”
“Well,” said Crockett, in his dry way, “I don’t see how we can get away with thirty pairs of eyes watching us.”
Here Walter Jordan spoke.