"Good!" replied Travis. "Just the thing. Let him set out as soon as the fight is over. I'd like to have old Sam know just how it turns out. So far, we've beaten 'em every time."
"Castro heap friend," said the chief, and took from under his blanket a deerskin-covered parcel closely tied. "Big Knife want powder. Take present. Shoot heap."
About two pounds of the best rifle powder, therefore, was his last contribution to the defence of the fort.
"Now if that isn't just what we wanted!" shouted Crockett. "I say, Bowie, divide fair. I've only five charges myself. Pistols empty."
Some of the others were as badly off, and shortly afterwards it might have been noted that Bowie's belt fairly bristled with the short-barrelled but deadly weapons known as "Derringers," from the name of their manufacturer.
"There is going to be a use for them," he quietly remarked to Travis. "If I'm not mistaken, every bullet 'll find a mark to-morrow."
"Look out," returned Travis. "Don't you go and get yourself only wounded."
"No!" almost shouted Bowie. "But what if I am? Could I quit if there was a breath of life left in me? Travis, they don't intend to take any prisoners."
"There won't be any to take," he replied, but his friend drew him aside, farther out of any risk of being heard by others.
"One thing more," said Bowie. "I want to get together all the men that went down into Mexico with me. Crockett, too. The chief and his son are going. They don't count just now. They'll never tell anyhow, but somebody ought to live and keep that treasure-secret. It must be found for Texas some day."