It was a curious spectacle. There stood Crockett, the rough old bear hunter, the sarcastic humorist, the lank, lantern-jawed frontiersman, hugging Colonel Bowie. It almost seemed as if he were crying.
"Hurrah!" he shouted. "I kind o' knowed they hadn't wiped him out."
"Crockett, old boy!" said Travis. "Give him a chance to speak. You are choking him."
"Jest what I want to do," said Davy. "Now, Bowie, whar have you been?"
"Let go, Crockett," said Bowie, "and I'll tell you. But some of the men are hurt——"
"The boys are 'tending to 'em," replied Travis. "How about Tetzcatl?"
"Not a word of him now!" burst from Bowie, vehemently. "Travis! I've found cash enough to pay for all the ammunition we need to whip Mexico. I'll tell you as we go along. Where's Sam Houston?"
"He's to be at the fort to-day," said Crockett. "But whar on earth did you pick up any dollars?"
The first answer was Bowie's finger on his lips. Then they three mounted and rode on together.
As for the rest of the rangers, they were indeed caring for the wounded, and even for the dead, but the story of the cash found in the ruined adobe house was travelling fast from man to man.