If the rancour could possibly have been augmented, an incident had just transpired calculated to produce that effect. A band of Comanche warriors had offered their services to the commander-in-chief of the American army. They held the following language:—
“Let us fight on your side. We have no quarrel with you. You are warriors: we know it, and respect you. We fight against the cowardly Mexicans, who robbed us of our country. We fight for Moctezuma!”
These words, uttered along the whole northern frontier of Mexico, are full of strange import.
The American commander prudently declined the Comanche alliance; and the result was the bitter triangular war in which, as already noticed, we were now engaged.
If, then, the approaching horsemen were Indians of the Comanche tribe, Rube’s forecast was correct; we had “got to fight.”
With this understanding, we lost no time in putting ourselves in an attitude of defence.
Hastily dismounting, and sheltering our bodies behind those of our horses, we awaited the approach of the band.