"Ugh!" he said. "Heap shoot. Travis kill Mexican with big gun. Red Wolf take rifle. Come!"
Red Wolf's eyes had been glittering with delight. Never before had he heard of an Indian boy of his age owning a really first-class rifle with all its accoutrements of wiping-stick, ramrod, powder-horn, and bullet-pouch. Those were the days of flintlocks, and the long-barrelled shooting-irons did not need any "cap-box" to go with them.
He was hardly expected to say much, but he made out to tell the colonel,—
"Red Wolf shoot a heap. Mexican lose hair. Wipe out Comanche."
As he finished speaking, however, Bowie himself laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Red Wolf go with his father now," he said. "Come back to Big Knife. Chief, let him come as soon as you can."
He had understood a sentence that Castro had uttered in his own tongue with its accompanying "sign."
"Chief send boy," replied Castro. "Go now. Travis fight a heap."
The two Lipans were upon the backs of their fresh mustangs the next minute, and they rode out of the gate as if some errand of importance hurried them.
"Reckon they think we've got our work cut out for us," said Crockett.