The Texans again moved steadily forward, but hardly more than a quarter of a mile had been gained before Bowie shouted,—
"Here they are, men! The whole band has got in on us this time. They're gathering for a rush. Ready! Die game!"
A swarm,—a cloud,—an overwhelming torrent of the fierce cavalry of the plains, was forming in loose but effective array to sweep in upon their victims. What could six rifles and two bows do against such a storm as was now about to burst?
"Die like men!" shouted Bowie. "Kill every redskin you can draw a bead on!"
Crack, crack, went rifle after rifle, and not a shot was thrown away; but the Comanches were whooping forward upon their charge and all would soon be over.
"Hullo! What's that?" shouted the colonel.
"Whoop!" yelled Castro. "Rifle!"
"Ugh!" said Red Wolf. "Heap Texan! Comanche lose hair!"
Sharp, rapid, utterly unexpected, was the rattle of rifle-shots from away beyond the cloud of pony riders. Down went horse and man in quick succession.
"Travis and the rangers!" yelled Jim Cheyne.