e," riddling the thicket. "The sparks
were flying about so thickly that no man could open his powder horn
without running the risk of being blown up." If the Indians charged in
after the fire, under cover of the smoke, the Texans could only empty
their guns and meet the charge with knives and hatchets.

Now the flames were upon them. The branches and the cactus twisted and
popped. Cowering and shielding their wounded, the men "lay to" with
whatever came to hand--blankets, buffalo robes, bear-skins, coats,
shirts--and beat out the ground-fire. Their hair, beards and eye-brows
were singed; they could scarcely see. And leaping overhead, or
splitting, the storm passed on.

It left the thicket bare to the blackened branches and shriveled
cactus-lobes. Every inch fumed with the acrid smoke.

"Raise that breastworks. It's all we've got, boys. We'll have to
fight from inside it."

"Dat Jim nigger 'lowed he was in a toler'ble fight, but 'twa'n't
nothin' 'side ob dis," chattered boy Charles.

They toiled, piling their rampart ring higher, while they constantly
peered right, left, before, behind, expecting a charge.

Bob Armstrong cheered.

"The reds are going! They've had enough!"

That seemed true. The Indians had taken away their dead and wounded;
they were commencing to follow, but some of them remained in sight.

The sun set. It had been a short day. In the dusk the Texans got
fresh water, at the creek. Soon they were ready for the morrow. All
that night the Indian death chants sounded. Morning came. There was
silence, while inside their little circle of rocks and sod amidst the
scorched brush the five able-bodied white men and two boys waited.

No Indians appeared near. They were somewhere, burying their dead. It
was found out afterward that they were in a cave, not far off.

This night Bob Armstrong and Caephus Ham stole away, and examined the
other side of the hill.

"Forty-eight blood signs we counted," Bob reported, "where Injuns had
been laid."

"I reckon we'd best stay here awhile, just the same," Captain Jim Bowie
counseled. "And we've got a man or two who ought not to be moved yet."

On the ninth morning after the fight they started home, with their
three wounded and their baggage on horses, but themselves mainly afoot;
traveled ten days, and reached San Antonio in early night.

They met with a great reception. The Comanches had been there, to tell
of the danger and to say that