Through this jungle, directly opposite the Fort, there is an opening, through which passes a path—the shortest that leads to the head waters of the Nueces. It is a sort of natural avenue among the trees that stand closely crowded on each side, but refrain from meeting. It may be artificial: some old “war-trail” of the Comanches, erst trodden by their expeditionary parties on the maraud to Tamaulipas, Coahuila, or New Leon.
The trackers knew that it conducted to the Alamo; and, therefore, guided the expedition into it.
Shortly after entering among the trees, one of the latter, who had gone afoot in the advance, was seen standing by the edge of the thicket, as if waiting to announce some recently discovered fact.
“What is it?” demanded the major, spurring ahead of the others, and riding up to the tracker. “Sign?”
“Ay, that there is, major; and plenty of it. Look there! In that bit of sottish ground you see—”
“The tracks of a horse.”
“Of two horses, major,” said the man, correcting the officer with an air of deference.
“True. There are two.”
“Farther on they become four; though they’re all made by the same two horses. They have gone up this openin’ a bit, and come back again.”
“Well, Spangler, my good fellow; what do you make of it?”