"That's jest what I am," came from the brave ranger who had volunteered. "I've crept through a band of Chickasaws. My skelp isn't wuth as much as Bowie's is, anyhow. It's no use in talkin'. I'm off."
"You bet he is," quietly remarked a voice behind them, "and I'm goin' with him the first stretch."
There stood Davy Crockett, rifle in hand.
"I'd feel better if you would," said Bowie. "You're an older hand than he is. See him as far as their lines and take note of everything,—and come back."
"Come back?" chuckled Davy. "Of course I will. I'll have some fun, too. Get along, Carson. I'm goin' to take keer of ye. You're young."
Off they went, and Travis laughed aloud as they disappeared.
"You wait now," he said. "Davy's goin' to stir up the Greasers somehow before he gets done with 'em, but I can't guess what the sell is."
It would have been only a very sombre life-and-death affair to men of another kind, but these were hardly excited to any unusual feeling. They were in the daily habit of looking death in the face, and they could laugh at him. Nevertheless, during many minutes that followed, they and a changing group of rangers waited in the gate-way, listening silently to every sound that came to them from the hostile camps. A troop of horse went trampling by within a hundred yards of them and they heard the words of command. More minutes passed and the stillness seemed to increase.
"We'd have heard something if the Greasers had sighted 'em," whispered one of the men. "They're not took yet——"
"Hear that gun!" shouted Travis, the next instant. "That means something!"