[Illustration: THE RIFLE RANG OUT]




  IN TEXAS WITH
  DAVY CROCKETT

  _By_
  JOHN T. McINTYRE

  _Author of_
  “In Kentucky with Daniel Boone,”
  “In the Rockies with Kit Carson”

  _Illustrations by_
  JOHN A. HUYBERS

  [Illustration]

  THE PENN PUBLISHING
  COMPANY PHILADELPHIA
  1914




  COPYRIGHT
  1914 BY
  THE PENN
  PUBLISHING
  COMPANY

  [Illustration]




Contents


     I. DOWN THE MISSISSIPPI                        7

    II. THE PLOT                                   21

   III. THE QUARREL                                33

    IV. THE FIGHT                                  48

     V. DAVY CROCKETT                              64

    VI. BEAR HUNTING                               81

   VII. SURPRISING NEWS                            99

  VIII. A LITTLE JOKE                             112

    IX. TEXAS                                     121

     X. ATTACKED BY COMANCHES                     136

    XI. THE BUFFALO HUNT                          149

   XII. A FIGHT WITH MEXICANS                     162

  XIII. THE PLOTTERS ONCE MORE                    172

   XIV. THE BATTLE OF THE ALAMO                   189

    XV. SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF DAVID CROCKETT      202




Illustrations


                                                 PAGE

  THE RIFLE RANG OUT                   _Frontispiece_

  “DON’T LET HIM CRIPPLE YOU”                      54

  THE COMANCHES HAD REMOUNTED                     141

  A DESPERATE HAND-TO-HAND CONFLICT ENSUED        198




In Texas With Davy Crockett




CHAPTER I

DOWN THE MISSISSIPPI


The towering stacks of the steamboat “Mediterranean” sent their clouds
of smoke, black and wind rent, across the sky; her sharp bow cut the
yellow waters of the Mississippi and dashed the spray as high as her
rails.

The cabins were thronged with passengers; the forward deck was tiered
high with bales and barrels and boxes of merchandise.

Two boys sat by the rail upon the upper deck; their faces were earnest
and they talked in low tones.

“Are you quite sure that Sam Davidge is on board, Walt?” asked one.

“I’d know him among a whole city-full, let alone a cabin-full,”
answered Walter Jordan. “And I’ve seen him three times to-day.”

The other boy frowned and looked out over the wide river toward the
Arkansas shore.

“It’s queer,” said he. “It’s very queer that he should just happen to
be going down the river at the same time we are.”

Walter Jordan gave his friend a quick look.

“Ned,” said he, “chance has nothing to do with it--as I think you know.”

Ned Chandler nodded.

“He’s on board because we are; he’s trying to find out where we are
going.” The boy ran his fingers through his short light hair, and his
blue eyes snapped. “I never did think much of Davidge; and I think less
of him now than I did before.”

Walter Jordan leaned back in his chair and clasped one knee with his
hands. He was a tall, well-built young fellow of eighteen with a broad
chest and shoulders, and a good-looking, resolute face.

“When we boarded the ‘General Greene’ at Louisville,” said he, “I
thought I saw Davidge in the crowd. But you know what a miserable, wet
night it was and how the lamps on the pier flickered. So I couldn’t be
sure.”

“You never mentioned it to me,” said Ned, complainingly.

“I didn’t want to until I was sure. I thought there was no use getting
up an excitement about a thing that might turn out to have nothing
behind it.”

From somewhere around the high tiers of bales, a negro deck hand picked
a tune out of a banjo; and the rhythmic shuffle and pit-pat-pit of feet
told of another who danced to the music.

“All the way down the Ohio on the ‘Greene’ I noticed you were very
quiet and watchful,” spoke young Chandler. “But to me it only meant
that you were careful. I never thought of anything else.”

Walter Jordan looked at his friend, and there was a troubled look in
his eyes.

“And Sam Davidge isn’t all we have to worry us,” said he, in a lower
tone. “When we reached the Mississippi, and changed to this boat, I
noticed something else.”

Ned caught the troubled look, and though he did not in the least
suspect the cause of it, his own round face took on one just like it.

“What was it?” he asked.

“Have you seen a man on board whom they all call Colonel Huntley?”

Ned’s eyes went to the cabin door where he had noticed two persons a
few moments before; the two were still there and intently examining
them.

“Yes,” said Ned. “I know whom you mean.”

“I didn’t understand it, and I don’t like it,” said Walter, the
troubled look growing deeper, “but there is never a time I look toward
him that I don’t find his eyes upon me.”

“Humph!” said Ned. And then: “Well, Walt, he’s not changed his ways
any. Don’t look around just yet, or he’ll see that we’ve been speaking
of him. He’s over by the cabin door behind you, and he’s looking this
way for all he’s worth.”

“Alone?” asked Walter.

“No. That fellow Barker is with him.”

“Barker’s like his shadow,” said Walter. “You never see one without the
other.”

Colonel Huntley was a man of perhaps forty years, tall and powerfully
built. He wore a long frock coat of gray cloth, doe-skin trousers, and
long shining boots. Upon his head was a bell-crowned beaver hat with
a curling brim. In the immaculately white stock about his neck was a
large diamond set in rough gold.

The person beside him was a young fellow of perhaps twenty, with huge,
thick shoulders and a round bullet head.

“Tell me,” said Ned, his eyes upon the two but his mind, apparently,
upon a subject altogether foreign to them, “do you think Colonel
Huntley has anything to do with Davidge?”

“I feel sure of it,” replied Walter. “When either of us is about, Sam
keeps hidden. But when the coast’s clear, or they think it is, he is to
be seen in out-of-the-way corners, earnestly discussing something with
Colonel Huntley.”

“I can see that I’ve been missing a great deal,” said young Chandler.
“But that’s past. In the future I’m going to keep both eyes wide open.
Earnest conversation in out-of-the-way corners means only one thing.
And that is: that something is under way which has a good bit to do
with our trip to Texas.”

There was a silence for a space. Ned continued covertly to inspect
the two at the cabin door. Walter gazed ahead along the broad stretch
of the Mississippi; on the left was the thickly timbered shore of
Tennessee; and that of Arkansas frowned at them from the right.

The “Mediterranean” was a large boat; she was deeply loaded with cargo
and carried a great throng of passengers. But passengers were always
plentiful in those early days of the year 1836; for the situation
between Texas and Mexico had grown acute; war had spread its sombre
wings for a terrible flight across that new land; the adventurers and
soldiers of fortune of the States were swarming toward the southwest.

Those men who had fought in the many wars with the Indians, who had
carried the line of the frontier forward step by step, who had leveled
the wilderness and subdued the forces which spring up in the path of
civilization, had long ago turned their eyes toward the vast empire
north of the Rio Grande. They saw it loosely held by an inferior race;
they saw a hardy, fearless band of Americans resisting oppression and
preparing to repulse the advance of Santa Anna. And so each steamer
down the Mississippi carried a horde of them, armed and ready to do
their part.

Since boarding the boat the boys had heard little else but Texas. The
name seemed to be on every tongue. And even now, as they sat thinking
over the turn that seemed to have taken place in their own affairs, the
loud voices that came to their ears from the cabin held to the subject.

“A pack of mongrels, that’s what they are,” said a voice above the
clatter. “And not a good fight among them. The idea of their trying to
dictate to a free people like the Texans what shall and what shall not
be done.”

Another man seemed stunned by the immense area of the new land.

“Just think of the size of it!” cried he, in high admiration. “Eight
hundred and twenty-five miles long, and seven hundred and forty miles
wide. It’s twice as big as Great Britain and Ireland, and bigger than
France, Holland, Belgium and Denmark put together.”

“Who says a country like that is not worth fighting for?” shouted
another voice. “Who says it shouldn’t belong to these United States?”

“Let Santa Anna poke his nose across the Coahuila line, and he’ll get
it cut off with a bowie knife,” said still another adventurer.

“It seems to me,” said Walter Jordan, “that we couldn’t have had a
worse time to carry out our errand to Texas than just now. The closer
we get to it, the more war-like things are.”

Ned Chandler looked at his friend in surprise.

“What, Walter,” said he, “you’re not holding back because things are
not all quiet and orderly, are you?”

Walter smiled.

“I’m headed for Texas, and going as fast as this boat will take me,”
said he. “And I mean to keep on going until I get there and do what we
set out to do.”

Ned laughed in a pleased sort of way. There was a light of adventure in
his eyes.

“Why do you object to the coming war with the Mexicans, then?” said he.
“That will make only the more fun on our trip south.”

“But fun is not what we’ve come for,” said Walter. “We’ve got a purpose
in view, and until that’s accomplished, we must think of nothing else.”

Ned grew more sober.

“Right you are,” said he. “Not a thing must enter our minds but the one
thing, until it’s done. But after that,” and his eyes began to dance
once more, “we can take time to look around us a bit, can’t we?”

“Why, I suppose that would do no harm. But mind you, Ned, not until
then.”

“Not for a moment,” said Ned Chandler. “You can count on me, Walt.”

Again there was a silence between them, and once more the voices came
from the cabin.

“I know the settlement of Texas from start to finish,” said the
loud-voiced man. “First the French built a fort; then they left, and
the Spanish came and built missions, and called the state the New
Philippines, and began to fight the Comanche and Apache. When the
United States bought the Louisiana territory from France, trouble began
with Spain. We claimed everything north of the Rio Grande; but the
Spaniards said the Sabine was the natural line.”

“I recall the things that followed that,” said another voice. “I was
quite a youngster then, and was in New Orleans. Every little while
expeditions were formed to invade Texas and fight the Spanish. One, I
remember, was while the war with England was going on; and the Spanish
were licked, losing a thousand men.”

“Then Steve Austin went into the territory and planted a colony,” went
on the first speaker. “The new Mexican republic stuck Coahuila on to
Texas and tried to make one state of them. But when the Americans in
the country got a little stronger they rebelled against this, passed
a resolution and sent it to Santa Anna, asking that Texas be admitted
into the republic as a separate state.”

“They might have known that he wouldn’t listen to such a thing,” said
the other man. “‘The Napoleon of the West’ he likes to be called, but a
more detestable tyrant never oppressed an honest people.”

“Well, when he tried to go against the will of Texas, they gave him
right smart whippings at Goliad and Concepcion, elected Smith governor,
and Sam Houston commander of the army. Then they smashed into San
Antonio and ran the Mexicans out of Texas.”

“Nothing will ever come of it until they cut away from Mexico for good
and all,” said the second man. “I’m not for Texas as an independent
state in the Mexican Republic. What I want to see, and what thousands
of others want to see, is Texas, a republic itself, entirely free of
Mexico, or else Texas, a state in our own Union.”

This saying met with much favor; the babble of voices arose, mingled
with the clapping of hands.

“For,” went on the speaker, raising his voice that he might be heard,
“as long as they stick to Mexico, just that long will they keep in hot
water. Santa Anna may be, at this minute, marching against them with
an army. And he will keep on marching against them until they make
themselves altogether independent of him and his gang.”

Here Walter Jordan arose.

“Let’s go inside,” said he. “They all seem to be quite interested.”

Ned also got up.

“Do you think there will ever be such a thing as the Texas republic?”
said he.

Walter shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s hard to say. But if the Texans are anything at all like what I
hear they are, it wouldn’t surprise me if it came about some day.”

And so they turned toward the cabin door, and Walter found himself face
to face with Colonel Huntley.




CHAPTER II

THE PLOT


Colonel Huntley had cold gray eyes which, when he chose, had an insult
in their every glance. And now, as Walter Jordan’s eyes met his, he
never stirred from the cabin door. Quietly the lad stood and looked at
him; and the cold, valuing eyes were filled with mockery.

“Do you want anything?” he asked, sneeringly.

“I wish to go into the cabin,” replied the boy. “Will you kindly step
out of the way?”

Colonel Huntley laughed in an unpleasant manner, but did not move.

“I think,” said he, “I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

“Perhaps,” said the boy.

“You’re the son of Carroll Jordan, attorney, at Louisville?” said
Colonel Huntley.

“I am,” said Walter.

“I knew your father,” sneered Huntley.

“If you did,” came the boy’s swift reply, “you knew one of the finest
gentlemen in Kentucky.”

The mockery in Huntley’s eyes increased.

“That depends altogether on how one looks at it,” said he.

When Walter Jordan spoke there was a ring in his voice which Ned
Chandler knew well.

“Looked at in the right way,” said the lad, “and by that I mean the way
in which any fair and honest person would look at it, there can be only
one opinion. And that is the one which I have given.”

The bullet-headed young man grinned widely, showing a row of strong
teeth, with wide spaces between them. He nodded to Colonel Huntley.

“That’s talking,” said he. “Right to your face, too.”

Huntley had a satisfied look in his face; his cold eyes examined Walter
from head to foot. Ned Chandler plucked at his friend’s sleeve, and
breathed into his ear.

“Look out! He’s trying to get you into some kind of a muss.”

“So,” spoke Huntley, and his tones were as cold as his eyes, “you don’t
consider me either fair or honest, then?”

Walter met the man’s look steadily.

“I have not mentioned you,” said he. “I referred to those persons who
might, as you suggested, speak ill of my father. _You_ have not said
what you thought, sir.”

Again Huntley laughed his unpleasant laugh.

“You are something of a diplomat,” said he. “Or, had I better say, a
dodger.”

“Why, if I cared to,” said Walter, quietly, “I might say almost the
same thing of yourself. Put yourself on record--say openly what you
mean, and I will give you an answer, plain enough for you or anybody
else.”

There was a silence after the boy’s bold words. Ned Chandler’s eyes
snapped with delight, for here was a chance for excitement. Colonel
Huntley hesitated--not at all because he had not a ready word or
act, but apparently because he feared to trust himself. It was his
bullet-headed companion who spoke.

“I’ve heard of your father,” said he. “I’ve been told of the little
game he’s up to; and I think he’s trying to feather his own nest.”

Apparently stung to the quick, young Jordan whirled upon the speaker,
his hand drawn back for a blow. But he felt an iron clutch on his
wrist, and saw the burly chief mate of the “Mediterranean” at his side.

“None of that,” said the mate, sternly. “No fighting here. There are
women passengers, you know.”

The bullet-headed youth had stepped aside at Walter’s first swift
motion; this left a space in the cabin doorway, and seizing the chance,
Ned Chandler crowded his friend through and pushed him along the full
length of the men’s cabin, in spite of his efforts to halt.

“Now,” said the light-haired boy, when they finally brought up in an
unoccupied corner, “before you say anything, let me tell you what I
think.” He shoved his hands down into his trousers pockets, and eyed
his friend calmly.

“You were a little excited out there,” said he, “and maybe you didn’t
see what I saw.”

“I saw that Colonel Huntley deliberately set out to insult me,” said
Walter, his eyes glinting with anger, his fists clenched.

“That’s true,” said Ned, coolly. “So he did. And more than that.”

Walter looked at his friend, for in his tone he noted a something which
attracted his attention.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“The whole thing was arranged,” said Ned, nodding his head assuredly.
“Those two planted themselves in the doorway to wait for you. Colonel
Huntley was to provoke you, and that fellow Barker was to step in at
the right moment and pick a fight with you.”

Walter threw up his hand and his angry eyes sought the length of the
men’s cabin.

“Well,” said he, his hands tightly clenched, “it’s not too late, if
he’s still of the same mind.”

But Ned Chandler shook his head; apparently he did not agree with his
friend’s present humor.

“I know how you must feel,” said he, “to hear your father badly spoken
of in a thing like this. He’s giving his money and his time and his
learning to do a thing which will never bring him a penny of gain. He’s
sending you on a mission to a distant place like Texas, just because
he wants to see right done. And to hear people say things, like those
Huntley and Barker have said, is hard to bear. But you must bear it.”

“I will not!” said Walter steadily, his eyes still searching the cabin
for the two men.

As a rule, young Jordan was the cooler and more thoughtful of the
two boys. Ned was the impulsive one, the plunger into adventure, a
rollicking, harum-scarum youngster. But, so it seemed, what had been
said against his father had stirred Walter deeply and made him throw
his usual caution aside. And seeing this, Ned, who was observant enough
when he was so inclined, had seized the helm and was now guiding the
craft of their fortunes.

“Such people as those,” said Walter, “are of the sort who make a
business of bullying. They try to browbeat every one they meet; and
they are encouraged by people’s giving in to them. And I don’t mean to
do that.”

“That Barker has a bad look,” said Ned, “and he’s a pretty
strong-looking fellow. No, no,” hastily, as he caught sight of the
expression that came into his friend’s face, “of course his strength
wouldn’t make any difference to you. But take a look at it from the
other side. These two haven’t planned this thing with just the idea of
getting you into a fight. They are deeper than that.” He put his hand
upon Walter’s arm. “Suppose,” said he, in a lower tone, “you were hurt.
What then?”

Walter looked at young Chandler, and gradually the expression of his
face changed.

“Our trip to Texas would be delayed,” said he.

“That’s it,” said Ned. “And they would get there ahead of you; and the
thing your father is so set on doing for this girl in Texas would never
be done.”

The anger had now altogether left Walter Jordan’s face; he laid his
hand upon Ned’s shoulder.

“You are right,” said he. “I see it now. That’s just what they are
after. And I see Sam Davidge’s hand in it. He’s planned it with them.”

The two sat down upon chairs in the corner to discuss this new
aspect. The men’s cabin was crowded with all sorts of travelers; and
the clatter and rumble of voices went on with the regularity of the
engine’s throb. Almost every walk of life was represented among the
passengers. Planters on the way down the river to Natchez or New
Orleans; sharpers on the lookout for some easy means of gaining money;
slave dealers, the sellers of plantation requirements, steamboat
men, drovers, adventurers and desperadoes on their way to the new
country--Texas.

These latter were easily known by their dress and manner. Some were
elegantly attired in the fashion of the time, others wore flannel
shirts and wide-rimmed hats, and had the legs of their trousers
stuffed into long leather boots. Still another class possessed the
hunting shirt, deerskin leggings and coonskin cap of the backwoodsman.
All were armed with pistol, knife and rifle; and all had the free,
loud, independent ways of their kind.

“Texas,” declared the man with the strong voice which the lads had
heard while upon the deck, “was never made for Mexicans. It’s a great
country, and none but white men are fit to own it. I, for one, am going
down there with a rifle that can snuff out a candle at fifty yards, and
I’m going to have a personal word for Santa Anna if I ever run across
him.”

A shout went up from the adventurers, rifle butts rattled upon the
cabin floor and brawny fists thumped tables and the arms of chairs.

“Now you’re shouting!” cried another man, a lank backwoodsman in a
fringed buckskin shirt. “Let them stop palavering and get to work.
Greasers’ll never do anything but talk if you talk with them. Lead’s
my way of conversing with such folks--lead out of a rifle barrel, and
with a good eye behind it.”

“What’s the committee that’s got charge of things doing down there?”
asked a booted and burly man in a soiled flannel shirt and a huge
Remington revolver sticking in his belt. “Why don’t they get to some
kind of an agreement, and let Sam Houston loose to march against the
Greasers. As my friend here says, talk’s no good, if it’s not backed
up by rifles. What they need is to give Houston about five thousand
men who know how to shoot, and in three months’ time you’ll never hear
another word from Santa Anna and his gang.”

While they talked, the boys kept their eyes fixed upon the people in
the cabin, watching for Huntley or his shadow. Just then the whistle
of the steamboat shrieked and the engine slowed down in answer to the
pilot’s bell.

“We’re about to make a landing,” said Ned, his gaze going to a window.
“See how near the Tennessee shore is.”

“It’s a place called Randolph,” said a planter who sat near by.

“Going to take on some passengers, I suppose,” said Ned.

“And while the boat’s doing that,” said Walter, steadily watching two
figures who were pushing their way through the crowded cabin toward
them, “I think you and I’ll be entertaining Colonel Huntley and his
friend Mr. Barker.”




CHAPTER III

THE QUARREL


Ned Chandler looked toward the place indicated by his friend and, sure
enough, he saw Huntley and Barker approaching.

“Take care,” said Ned, warningly, but with his blue eyes snapping.
“Don’t get yourself hurt. But if they crowd trouble on you, don’t step
back. Give them all they want.”

If Walter Jordan expected Colonel Huntley to open hostilities when he
approached, he merely showed that he did not know the methods of that
gentleman. As a matter of fact, Huntley did not appear to notice either
of the two young fellows; Barker, however, gave Walter a lowering
sidelong look as he took a vacant chair near the one newly occupied by
the colonel.

“Well, Huntley,” said one of those near by, “it’s rather a surprise to
see you on board.”

“I didn’t expect to be, up to a very few days ago,” said the colonel.
He placed his feet, with insolent deliberation, upon the small table
upon which young Jordan was leaning, and began to slap at his boot leg
with the light stick which he carried. “A thing came up which I had to
attend to in a hurry.”

“I see,” said the other. “Going down to New Orleans, I suppose?”

“No,” replied Colonel Huntley, “I’m going to Texas.”

The cold eyes of the man, as he said this, fixed themselves upon
Walter; the sneer was once more upon his lips. The young fellow
regarded him with no trace of the hot anger of a short time before;
nevertheless there was that in his manner which said as plainly as
words that he was no more inclined to accept an affront then than he
had been before.

“Go on,” said the steady, watchful eyes. “I’ll say nothing if I’m not
pushed to it. But, you know, there’s a line which you must not cross.”

The man whom Huntley addressed looked amazed at his statement.

“Texas!” exclaimed he. “Why, I had no idea that you were interested in
the liberation of that territory.”

Both Colonel Huntley and Barker laughed.

“I’m not,” said the colonel. “My mission is something else.” He looked
at the other inquiringly. “You remember Tom Norton, who once ran a
newspaper at Nashville?”

“Of course,” said the other. “Very well. And his wife and little
daughter.”

“Tom went to Texas,” said Huntley.

“I understood he started another paper at Natchez,” said the man.

Huntley nodded.

“He did. But like the one at Nashville, it didn’t last long. He took
his family to Texas, and settled at San Antonio. Both Tom and his wife
are dead. The girl is grown up and is still at San Antonio.”

“I see,” said the other, and looked at Huntley with the expression of a
man who knows that more is coming.

“Norton had some rich relations at Louisville; they’ve gone too, and
have left a fortune to the girl, who knows nothing at all of it.”

“And so you are on your way to San Antonio to tell her?”

“Yes, to tell her; and also to keep her out of the clutches of a hawk
of a Louisville lawyer who’s interested himself in the case.”

Ned Chandler looked at his friend; but Walter was still quiet and still
had the steady look in his eyes.

“Good enough,” thought Ned. “He’ll not do anything unless they force
him.”

“So,” said the planter, who was conversing with Colonel Huntley, “the
birds of prey have smelled out the money, have they?”

“Yes,” replied the colonel, switching at his boot leg with the stick.
“As soon as the news went abroad that there was a rich haul to be
had, this particular shark began to stir himself. He claims to be the
executor of the estate; he has a lot of useless papers, and has sent
emissaries to Texas to get possession of the girl.”

The planter laughed.

“Well, he’s energetic, at all events,” said he. “But what’s his name?”

“Jordan,” answered Huntley.

An exclamation of surprise came from the planter.

“Not Carroll Jordan!” said he.

“The same,” said Huntley, nodding.

“You amaze me,” said the planter. “This is the first time I ever heard
anything said against Counsellor Jordan. As far as I’ve ever been able
to learn, he’s rated as high as justice itself.”

Huntley shook his head; from the corners of his cold eyes he watched
the young man opposite him.

“That’s what the public thinks,” said he. “And the public seldom gets
at the truth of things.”

The planter seemed puzzled.

“Maybe so,” said he, not at all convinced. “But somehow I can’t get it
into my mind as a fact. If you were talking of a sharper such as Sam
Davidge, that other Louisville attorney, I could understand it.”

Ned Chandler noted the expression that crossed the face of Colonel
Huntley at this and he choked back a chuckle. Young Jordan leaned
forward, quietly.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said he to the planter; “but it might
interest you to know that, in the case you are discussing, Sam Davidge
is on the other side.”

The planter seemed surprised both at the statement and at Walter’s
interruption. His eyes went to Huntley. But the latter said nothing.
It was Barker who spoke.

“Look here,” said the bullet-headed personage to young Jordan. “What do
you mean by forcing yourself into a conversation which does not concern
you?”

The young fellow looked at him, still quietly.

“I think you are mistaken,” said he. “The conversation does concern me
intimately.” Then turning to the planter he added, “You’ll understand
that, sir, when I tell you that I am the son of Carroll Jordan whom
Colonel Huntley has seen fit to slander.”

Huntley’s cold eyes stared into those of the speaker; he lounged back
in his chair, and when he spoke his voice was menacing.

“This is the second time in the last half hour,” said he, “that you’ve
taken occasion to rub me the wrong way. If you were well acquainted
with me you wouldn’t do it.”

“I think,” returned the young man, calmly, “that I am as well
acquainted with you as I care to be. Your method of doing things,
Colonel Huntley, is not to my taste. I dislike a man who sets out to
insult some one whom he’s opposed to, and then steps aside so that some
one in his pay may do the dirty work.”

“What’s that?” snarled Barker, rising to his feet.

“Your plan, Colonel Huntley,” went on Walter Jordan, disregarding
the bullet-headed young man entirely, and addressing himself to his
principal, “is rather a good one, as plans go. You would get the result
you are after, and yet would not actively figure in the matter. I
suppose Sam Davidge arranged that with you in the secret consultations
you’ve been having in the last little while.”

Barker, an ugly expression upon his face, tapped young Jordan on the
shoulder.

“Talk to me,” said he. “You’ve said I do some one’s dirty work; and so
I’m going to give you a chance to prove it.”

But here Ned Chandler pushed himself between the two.

“In a few minutes,” said he to Barker, and there was no mistaking his
meaning, “you’ll have everything proved to your satisfaction, and in
any way you care to have it done. So step back and don’t worry.”

“The whole thing,” proceeded Jordan to Colonel Huntley, and still
in the coolest possible manner, “looks like one of Davidge’s shrewd
tricks. He knew, somehow, where I was going. He followed, skulking
in the background. In some way he must prevent my getting to Texas.
He took you into his council. You had a way. You’d provoke me into
a quarrel and then set this hound on me,” pointing to the snarling
Barker, “in the hope that he’d injure me.”

Slowly Colonel Huntley took his booted feet from off the table; with
equal slowness he arose to his feet. His cold, light eyes had the
deadly look that comes into those of the cat tribe when about to spring.

“I’ve listened to what you’ve had to say,” said he, evenly. “And now
you will listen to me. You’ve openly and deliberately insulted me.”

The palm of young Jordan’s hand came down with a smack upon the table.

“I am the insulted one,” said he. “You put yourself in my way a while
ago to insult me. You followed me here to renew your slander when I
tried to avoid you. But what I have said concerning you is the truth.
You are associated with Davidge in his plot to get possession of Ethel
Norton’s estate. I charge you with that to your teeth; and here I am to
back it up.”

The cold look in Huntley’s face was now one of triumph.

“If you were old enough and worth my attention in a practical way,”
said he, calmly, “I’d take you ashore and shoot you after the accepted
code. But as I can’t bother myself with you, I’ll turn you over to my
friend here; for you have affronted him as much as you have myself. And
perhaps he’ll care to pay some attention to you.”

Ned Chandler grinned at this.

“Still sticking to your little arrangement, eh, colonel?” said he. “Ah,
well, there’s nothing in the world like being steadfast.”

“Colonel Huntley can suit himself in this thing,” said Barker, his
heavy face fixed in a scowl. “But I’ll do the same. If it’s his notion
to pass this matter by, all very well. But I will not. You’ve said
something to me, and about me, that was meant to be offensive; and
you’ve got to give me satisfaction.”

During the progress of this altercation, all other conversation in the
cabin of the “Mediterranean” had gradually ceased. All eyes were now
upon Water Jordan and the threatening figure of Barker; for it looked
as though the bullet-headed one would spring at the young fellow’s
throat at any instant. And the idea of an impending fight was pleasing
to the wild spirits which crowded the boat; for conflict was the breath
of their nostrils.

“Who’s the fellow who’s looking so tarnation mad?” asked a lank
backwoodsman who nursed a long rifle across his knees. “He puts his
head down like a wild buffalo.”

“His name’s Barker,” said a traveler. “I’ve been up and down the river
for the last five years, and in that time he’s gained a wide reputation
as a rough-and-tumble fighter.”

“I’ve heard of him,” spoke a flannel-shirted adventurer, hitching at
the belt which supported a pair of huge revolvers. “Almost killed a man
at Nashville not long ago.”

“The other one don’t look to be the same kind of a critter,” said the
backwoodsman. “Kind of better bred and not so rugged in the shoulders.”

“He looks as though he could give a good account of himself, though,”
put in the commercial drummer. “I’d give a nice sum to see Barker
beaten soundly. He’s got the reputation of being the most troublesome
bruiser on the river.”

Nearer and nearer the “Mediterranean” swung toward the Tennessee shore;
the negro roustabouts upon the wharf stood ready to carry and trundle
aboard the miscellaneous articles of cargo which awaited the craft.
A thin array of passengers was also waiting. Upon the decks of the
steamboat stood the captain and his mates; their orders were given
curtly and the deck hands sprang alertly to obey them.

Noting the boat’s proximity to the shore, Colonel Huntley said
something to Barker in a low voice. Barker’s eyes went to a cabin
window as though in reply to some suggestion and an evil look came into
his dull face.

“Let us see,” said he to Walter, “if you are as ready with your fists
as you are with your tongue. The officers of the boat don’t care to
have any trouble aboard, so, as we’ll tie up to a wharf in a few
minutes, let’s take our affairs ashore, and have it out without any
interference.”

“Good!” cried Ned Chandler. “That suits us down to the ground. Let it
be ashore, by all means.”

Acting upon one impulse the passengers streamed out upon the deck;
there was a hurrying of deck hands, a sharp calling of orders and the
jingling of the pilot’s bell. Then with a great splashing of her wheels
and a straining of hawsers, the “Mediterranean” lay quietly at the
wharf.

Instantly the gangplank was run out and the singing negroes began to
roll on the cargo. Walter Jordan and Ned vaulted over the rail; a
horde of passengers followed, among them being Colonel Huntley and
Barker.




CHAPTER IV

THE FIGHT


At the head of the wharf was an open space, and when they reached this
Barker halted, and stripped off his coat.

“No use going any farther, gentlemen,” said he with a wicked grin. “I’d
just as lief smash him here as anywhere else.”

Walter promptly pulled off his own coat and waistcoat; then he turned
up his cuffs. Ned Chandler, his hand upon Walter’s arm, whispered
advice, his blue eyes all the time fixed upon Barker.

“Watch him,” cautioned Ned. “Don’t let him get hold of you, or throw
you, if you can help it. Stand off, and hit him back as he comes into
you.”

Both of the young fellows were fully aware of the lawless nature of
the combat into which Walter was about entering. Those were rough
days; and the river-men, the pioneers, adventurers and planters who
used the great stream were rough men; and so their ways of settling
disputes were apt to be primitive. Force was what usually told; the man
who fought the most savage and relentless battle was almost invariably
the victor. Skill was little considered, as is usually the case in
the outposts of the world; the man with the bulging muscles and the
flail-like arms was the man figured on to conquer; and now as young
Jordan and Barker prepared for the fight there were few who considered
that the former had a chance to escape being maimed.

“Barker’s like a bull,” said an interested river-man. “There’s no one
between here and New Orleans that’s got a chance with him. He’ll eat
this young fellow up.”

And the fact that the bullet-headed young man was considered the sure
winner made him popular with a great number of the onlookers. That
he was a noted bruiser had been passed about, and the crowd desired a
specimen of his quality.

“Hurry up about it, Barker,” suggested a planter in a huge rimmed soft
hat. “Don’t forget that the boat will be here only a quarter of an
hour.”

“A quarter of an hour!” cried another. “Why, Barker’ll lick a half
dozen like this fellow in that time.”

A loud laugh went up, and the rough throng gathered into a circle
tighter than before.

“Sail into him, Bark,” advised one.

“Show him your mettle,” encouraged another.

“He’ll know better next time,” said a third.

“Barker’ll break his bones like match-sticks,” maintained a fourth.

One of those who stood gazing at the preparation for battle was a
tall, raw-boned man of almost fifty, with a good-natured face, and a
manner which was upon the verge of the eccentric. He wore a coonskin
cap, a long fringed hunting shirt of buckskin, leggings and tanned
moccasins. In the hollow of his arm he carried a handsome rifle. He had
been one of those who stood upon the wharf awaiting the tying of the
“Mediterranean,” apparently for the purpose of taking passage. But the
crowd streaming over the rail had attracted his attention and he had
followed.

“You all seem to set a sight of store on Barker,” said this person,
after he’d listened to the admiring remarks, and eager encouragement
given the bruiser.

“Why not?” demanded a burly steamboat man, turning to the speaker.
“He’s beaten every man along the river.”

The man in the hunting shirt laughed good-naturedly.

“Oh, come now,” said he. “His record’s not quite so good as that. What
you mean is that he’s beaten all he’s fought; but that doesn’t say
much. For fellows like Barker seldom pick a man they’re not sure of.”

“I take it,” said the steamboat man, “that you’ve seen him fight.”

“Lots of times,” said the other, smiling. “In fact, anybody in the
habit of seeing young Barker at all must have seen him fight. For it’s
the thing he’s usually doing.”

The planter with the wide-rimmed hat surveyed the man in the hunting
shirt.

“I think,” said he, “Barker’s going to come out on top.”

The backwoodsman fixed his keen eyes on Walter, who stood with his arms
folded across his chest listening to Ned’s last words. And then he
smiled.

“Maybe,” said he. “But if that youngster meets him right, he’ll have no
easy time of it.”

And with this he worked his way through the throng until he stood at
Walter’s side.

“Youngster,” said he in a low voice, “here’s a word of advice. Use your
feet. Step around. And don’t hit him around the face or head. You’ll
only hurt your hands, and do him no harm. Go for his body when you get
the chance. He can’t stand such blows, and anybody who can keep hitting
him there can beat him.”

Except for Ned’s caution, “Don’t let him cripple you,” the words of the
backwoodsman were the last that young Jordan heard before the battle
opened.

He saw Barker advancing toward him, and stepped out to meet him. The
bruiser held his arms awkwardly, his small round head was lowered, and
coming within distance he leaped at his opponent without any ceremony.
Swish! swish! went his short, powerful arms. Young Jordan allowed the
first to swing by him and “ducked” under the other. Then his left
went out, catching Barker flush in the mouth, and the right hand
followed like a flash, landing on the bruiser’s jaw.

[Illustration: “DON’T LET HIM CRIPPLE YOU”]

However, though both had been strong blows, sufficient to have
staggered most persons, Barker did not seem to regard them at all,
but pressed on, his arms lunging and swinging wickedly. But both
Jordan’s hands felt the impact against the fellow’s bony front, and
as he stepped actively here and there avoiding the other’s rushes and
watching him narrowly, this thought formed itself in his mind:

“Whoever it was that just spoke to me seems to know what he was talking
about as far as Barker’s head and face go. They’re like iron. And, so,
if he was right in that, maybe he was right in the other thing. I’ll
give it a trial.”

A dozen times he had opportunities to land blows upon Barker’s face,
but he refused to strike. The ring of onlookers seized upon his
disinclination and began to jeer.

“He’s afraid!” cried one.

“Barker’s got him scared, so’s he dasn’t lift a hand.”

But the backwoodsman who had spoken to Walter smiled approvingly as he
watched him.

“Not too quick with your judgments, gentlemen,” said he. “You’ll see
something before long. Barker’s got some one at last who fights him in
the right way.”

Like a bull, the bullet-headed bruiser lurched after his nimbly
stepping opponent. His arms swung wildly and savagely. Suddenly
grasping an opportunity, Walter stepped in and drove his right fist
into the other’s short ribs. Barker’s heavy face twitched with pain,
and he wavered for an instant. Then young Jordan’s left hand shot out
and found a landing place in the pit of the bully’s stomach.

That these two blows had a serious effect was instantly evident.
Barker’s face turned a sort of sickly gray and he shook his round head
in a fury. But he had courage; and so once more he came on, thrashing
out with his fists more awkwardly than before.

Ned Chandler, never missing a move of the two contestants, had seen the
landing of Walter’s blows with delight. But he also saw the tremendous
power in the bully’s awkward swings, and his pleasure was mingled with
a fear that by some chance one of them would find a mark.

“Watch yourself, Walt,” he kept repeating. “Don’t let him get one of
those in on you.”

But Walter was careful, and he stepped about actively and with a
purpose in every movement. Getting the bruiser into the right position
he feinted him into a mad whirling of fists--then, one--two--the
powerful body blows were driven home once more.

“That’s it!” cried the tall backwoodsman, much pleased, and wearing a
wide smile. “That’s it! Keep it up, youngster. You’ll bring him down
like a coon out of a gum tree.”

Barker flinched more under this second pair of blows than he had under
the first. And his attack grew slacker.

“Now!” cried Ned Chandler. “Now, Walt, go in. This is your time.”

“But keep up your guard!” cautioned the tall backwoodsman.

Walter dashed at his opponent. The fists of Barker whirled with
ponderous inaccuracy; some of the blows struck Walter, some of them
were glancing, others landed as he was stepping away, and so lost their
power. None of them did any damage. But the blows which he was sending
in, in return, were most effective. Sharp, straight and all directed at
the body, few of them failed of their work. The gray of Barker’s face
increased; his knees began to tremble.

“Come on, Barker, do something,” cried Colonel Huntley, furiously.
“Are you going to let a fellow like that beat you?”

“Get your grapplers on him, Bark,” suggested a river-man. “Get your
grapplers on him, and let’s see you twist him up like a pipe lighter.”

Apparently Barker had been turning some such idea over in his own mind,
for he at once set about putting it into play. Evidently he saw that,
for all his power and reputation as a bully, he was no match for young
Jordan in a stand-up fight. And so now he’d put his huge strength of
body and arm to the test.

“That’s right, Bark,” encouraged the river-man. “That’s it! Work in
close!”

“Don’t let him clinch you!” cried Ned Chandler, to his friend. “Hit him
off!”

Such was Walter’s intention. He had no desire to come to a grapple
with a fighter of Barker’s note; for in such a struggle, no matter who
gained the victory, there would be a strong chance of severe injury.
And that above everything else was what he wished to avoid. So, as
Barker moved in, he was met with a shower of blows. But the bully had
learned craft; he did not attempt to strike back, but guarded with his
arms crossed before him and with his head held low.

His small eyes were glaring between his arms and watching Walter with
savage purpose. He made a move as though to the left; young Jordan
stepped aside to avoid him. But the thing had only been a feint, and as
Walter moved, Barker shifted suddenly and the next instant his exultant
clutch was upon his active foe.

“Now!” cried Colonel Huntley. “Now you’ve got him. Go to work!”

“Fight him off, Walt!” shouted Ned, his face paling a little at his
friend’s danger. “Fight him off.”

The ring of spectators was in a tumult. A turning point of the battle
had been reached. Almost to a man they felt that the ruffianism of
Barker would carry him through.

Once he felt the band-like arms of the bruiser close about him, Walter
Jordan’s plan of battle changed. He heard Ned’s cry to fight the other
off. But this was impossible. He felt Barker bracing himself for an
effort, and he knew what it meant. Once the bully had thrown him to
the ground he’d have him at his mercy; he would not be allowed to rise
until he was helpless.

It required only a second or two for all this to pass through his mind;
then he caught sight of the tall backwoodsman over Barker’s shoulder.
And that personage made a swift and suggestive motion with his arms.

“The elbow!” cried he. “Don’t forget the elbow!”

Instantly the young fellow understood. With a powerful wriggle he freed
his right arm, and drove the elbow under the chin of Barker, pressing
with all his might against the bruiser’s throat.

“You fool!” shouted Huntley, to Barker. “Don’t let him do that!”

But it was too late. The more strongly Barker heaved and strained to
throw young Jordan, the more deadly became the thrust of the elbow into
his throat. And it was his own efforts that were doing it. Panting,
purple of face, he realized this; to relieve the deadly pressure he
would have to slip the grip he’d fought so hard to obtain, and trust to
luck to secure another as good.

His arms unlocked; breathless, he attempted to step back for a moment’s
rest before plunging at his opponent once more. But here he received
the surprise of his career as a Mississippi river bully. Instead of
young Jordan’s remaining upon the defensive as he had done almost from
the start, he now leaped forward. His strong young arms pinned the
breathless and momentarily helpless bruiser, and with a dexterous
twist lifted him from his feet. Then the fellow was hurled to the
ground, where he lay breathless, almost unconscious, and absolutely
defeated.




CHAPTER V

DAVY CROCKETT


As the ring of river-men, adventurers, planters and border characters
closed in about the prostrate form of Barker, Walter Jordan felt a hand
laid on his arm. Turning, he saw the tall backwoodsman at his side.

“They’ve got all the cargo on board the boat,” said the man, “and in
a moment they’ll blow the whistle for every one to get back on board.
There’ll be a rush; and I reckon you’d better not be in it.”

Ned Chandler, who caught the words, understood their meaning instantly.

“That’s so,” said he, helping Walter on with his coat. “Barker seemed
to have quite a number of friends in that crowd. And maybe one of them
would try to get some sort of a sneaking revenge, Walt, if he saw a
chance.”

So, together with the stranger, they walked toward the end of the
wharf. And as they stepped upon the deck of the “Mediterranean,”
her whistle shrieked a shrill warning. There was an instant rush of
passengers; and from the upper deck the three saw Barker helped on
board by a couple of negroes.

“Colonel Huntley doesn’t look any too well pleased,” said Ned with a
grin, as he caught sight of the sombre face of that gentleman. “His
little plot was rather mussed up.”

The tall backwoodsman looked interested.

“What’s this?” said he. “Plot? Colonel Huntley?”

“The colonel,” spoke Walter, “for an hour or two before the boat landed
at Randolph spent his time in laying the foundation for a quarrel with
me.”

“He wanted to pick a fight,” put in Ned. “He wanted to have Walt
injured by that blackguard Barker so’s to prevent him from going to
Texas.”

The long man’s interest deepened.

“So you are going to Texas, are you?” said he to young Jordan.

“We both are,” replied the latter.

“Might I ask what part?”

“San Antonio.”

The backwoodsman whistled.

“Well,” said he, “you’ve picked out what seems likely to be a mighty
interesting section of the new country.”

Here the lines were cast off, and the “Mediterranean” steamed out into
the stream; then gathering headway she once more split the muddy waters
on her journey southward. The battle upon the pier at Randolph was, for
a time, the chief subject of conversation. But as Barker had retired
to his stateroom, where his friends and some of the steamboat’s people
were striving to make him presentable once more, and Walter held to a
corner of the upper deck with Ned and the stranger, making himself no
more conspicuous than was necessary, the matter gradually died down,
and finally almost completely ceased to be discussed.

A planter, who appeared to be a man of some consequence, appeared upon
the deck with some friends; and catching sight of the stranger in
the hunting shirt who stood talking with the two young travelers, he
advanced with a surprised greeting.

“What, colonel! Going down the river?”

The man in the hunting shirt smiled in his good-natured way, and shook
the planter’s hand cordially.

“Glad to see you, Mr. Burr,” said he. “Yes, going down the river. A
little expedition, you see.”

“Gentlemen,” said the planter, addressing those who accompanied him,
“shake hands with Colonel Crockett, the finest rifle shot, the greatest
stump speaker and the most complete bear hunter in Tennessee.”

“Colonel Crockett,” said Walter to Ned as the backwoodsman laughingly
shook hands with Mr. Burr’s friends. “Can it be the celebrated Davy
Crockett of whom we’ve always heard so much?”

“I’ll bet it is,” said Ned, his eyes on the colonel. “I’ve seen
pictures of him more than once; and they looked just as he does now.”

“How is it, Crockett,” asked Mr. Burr, “that I find you in your old
back settlement togs, your rifle and hunting knife with you, headed
south? Surely you are not going to Texas?”

Crockett nodded.

“Mr. Burr,” said he, “I surely am. Down there’s a new country to be
fought for and freed. And down there I am going to give what help I
can.”

“But,” protested Burr, “are you going to give up your career in
Tennessee? You, as a member of Congress, have work to do.”

Crockett laughed; and there was a trace of bitterness in it.

“As a member of Congress I _had_ work to do,” corrected he. “But, you
see, that’s an office that I no longer hold.”

The planter looked amazed.

“Why, you don’t mean to tell me you were defeated for reëlection in
your district,” said he.

“I tell you just that,” said Colonel Crockett.

“Well, I’d never believed it,” said Burr, looking at his friends,
wonder in his face. “Why, colonel, you were the most popular candidate
that ever stumped Tennessee.”

Davy Crockett smiled, good-naturedly.

“Yes; the boys set some store by me,” said he. “And they liked to hear
me talk. But politics is a queer kind of thing. The man who gets the
votes may not always win.”

Mr. Burr looked grave.

“Why,” said he, “I’m afraid that is true.”

The party had settled themselves in chairs and the colonel addressed
them generally.

“President Andy Jackson is no friend of mine,” said he. “I say this,
mind you, knowing that Jackson is a perfectly honest man, a good friend
to those who like him, and a fine fighter. But he’s no friend of mine;
and that’s why I’m on my way to Texas to-day.”

“Jackson opposed your reëlection, then,” said one of the listeners.

“He opposed it early and late,” said the backwoodsman. “He fought
me as hard as he could; and when you say that of Andy, why, you are
saying that it was a pretty hefty battle. For he has the mettle and the
backbone of the true fighter.”

There was a short pause; Colonel Crockett fingered the butt of his long
rifle reminiscently and looked across the river toward the Arkansas
shore.

“You see, I fought with Jackson against the British and against the
Creeks, and I know him pretty well. But when I was a member of the
Tennessee Legislature, there was a movement to beat John Williams for
the United States senatorship. Williams had always done his work as
well as a man could do it; I didn’t see any reason for not sending him
back, and I said so. But they put up Jackson. And, although I then
thought Andy the biggest man in the country, I voted against him, and
so made him an enemy, along with his whole following. Chickens come
home to roost,” added the backwoodsman. “They remembered it against me,
and they’ve fought me ever since.”

“And,” said Mr. Burr, “is this the reason you are leaving
Tennessee--because your enemies have beaten you? Why not stay and fight
them?”

The colonel cracked the joints of his strong fingers and smiled drolly.

“It doesn’t put much into a man’s life to spend it fighting people who
should be his friends,” said he. “At least, that’s what I think. And,
accordingly, here I am on my way to Texas to join Sam Houston and the
rest against Santa Anna and his crew.”

“There seems to be a strong tide set in toward that country,” spoke
another of the party. “I hear that there’s hundreds go down the river
every week.”

“They’ll be needed,” nodded Colonel Crockett. “Everything looks
promising for a long war; and Texas, so I’ve heard, is just the place
where one can be carried out to any length by men who fight and run as
the Mexicans do.”

The talk between the men continued for some time; it was mainly about
Texas and Crockett’s political fortunes, and the boys listened with
much interest. But finally Burr and his friends got up, and moved away
to a place where some other people had gathered.

For some little time after this the backwoodsman sat nursing his rifle
and gazing toward the wooded Arkansas shore. Finally he spoke.

“And so,” said he, “you have some kind of a difficulty with Colonel
Huntley?”

“Yes, it would seem so,” replied Walter Jordan.

“I’ve known him for a good many years, off and on,” spoke Crockett.
“Once he owned a big plantation in Carolina and worked a hundred
slaves. Then he was interested in a steamboat company. But I heard some
time ago that he’d lost all his money and was, so to speak, living by
his wits.”

“That accounts for his being in the confidence of Sam Davidge, then,”
said Ned Chandler, to his friend. “I guess Sam has hired Huntley, and
Huntley hired Barker.”

Walter laughed.

“Suppose,” said he, “that Barker would now take it into his head to
hire some one. Why, the thing might go on that way and there would be
no end to our enemies.”

Ned joined in the laugh at this idea; but at the same time he shook his
head.

“But the matter’s no joke,” said he. “They mean business, and will try
in every way they know to prevent our carrying out your father’s plans.”

The name and fame of Davy Crockett, rifleman, bear hunter, backwoods
philosopher, had traveled at that time into every corner of the United
States. He was spoken of at every fireside, and his homely wisdom and
basic honesty were admitted by all. Walter Jordan knew this, and as
he sat gazing at the man, whose face was at once droll, shrewd and
fearless in expression, an idea occurred to him.

“Here is a man,” he told himself, “who has put himself out of his way
to be my friend. And he’s just the kind of a man whose advice would be
worth following and whose help would be worth having in the adventure
we are now started upon.”

He leaned over toward Ned, and whispered:

“Don’t you think it would be a good thing to tell Colonel Crockett
about our affair, and hear what he has to say?”

“Good,” approved young Chandler at once. “Do it.”

So Walter turned toward the backwoodsman.

“Colonel Crockett,” said he, “if you have the time to listen, and are
willing, I’d like to tell you the story.”

Crockett turned his shrewd eyes upon the boy and nodded.

“All right, youngster,” said he. “Go ahead.”

Thereupon Walter related the story of the journalist, Tom Norton; of
his going to Texas with his wife and daughter; how both he and his wife
died at San Antonio, leaving the girl an orphan. Then came the matter
of the fortune left the girl.

“It was an uncle of her father’s who willed it to her,” said Walter.
“He was an odd sort of an old man, and had for his lawyer his only
other relative, one Sam Davidge, who is known throughout Kentucky as a
double-dealer and a man who does not stop at small things to gain his
ends.”

“I’ve heard of him,” said Crockett.

“But the old man finally dropped Davidge. My father never knew why,
but suspects he found him out in some dishonest work. Davidge had been
named as executor to the estate; but the old gentleman now altered
this. In a sort of codicil, my father was named as executor. When the
old gentleman died some few weeks ago, Davidge set up a claim that he
had been influenced, that he was of weak mind when the codicil was
attached to the will.”

Then the young fellow related the nature of his trip to Texas; of
Davidge’s following him, and of the appearance of Colonel Huntley
and Barker upon the scene. And Crockett listened to it all with much
attention, nodding his head at points well made, and putting in a
helpful word here and there.

When Walter had finished, the colonel lay back in his chair in a
careless, lounging fashion and spoke.

“Their idea is, as you say, to reach the girl first,” said he, “and to
let them do that would be dangerous. Of course they may mean only to
influence her; but then, again, they may mean worse.”

“You don’t mean----” but Walter was afraid to finish the sentence.

Crockett nodded.

“That is _just_ what I mean,” said he. “Davidge is the only other
relative, you say. Well, if the girl never appeared in Louisville,
Davidge would come into the money.”

Both boys were appalled by this; but at length Walter said:

“Knowing the matter, Colonel Crockett, and understanding what these men
are after, what would you advise us to do?”

Crockett stroked the stock of the handsome rifle upon his knee.

“Do?” said he, and he smiled drolly. “Why, that’s simple enough,
youngster. Get to San Antonio first; tell the girl the facts, and leave
it to her to decide whether she’ll go north with you and your friend
here, or with Huntley and the legal shark. If you talk to her right and
get her ear first, I’ve got no doubt about the result.”

Walter Jordan smiled.

“You seem to lay great stress on the importance of being first,” he
said.

Crockett nodded.

“And why not?” said he, his shrewd eyes upon the boy. “There’s an old
saying, ‘The first blood’s half the battle!’ And it’s as true a one as
was ever put into words. I found it out years ago in the wilderness
among the redskins and the prowling varmints. Let them act first and
you had an almighty job getting the best of them. But be sharp and
watchful--strike the first blow, and the rest was pretty easy.”

Walter looked puzzled.

“But,” said he, “Colonel Huntley is on board this boat; he’ll arrive
at New Orleans as quickly as we shall. There’s nothing that I know of
to hinder his pressing on to San Antonio with as much speed as we can
make--perhaps more.”

“That’s true enough,” said Crockett. “In the natural course of things
he might get better mounts than you boys, and so cross the Injun
country ahead of you. But,” with a quizzical look in his eye, “why let
things take their natural course? That’s what the fellow does who picks
out a shady place under a tree--he lets things take care of themselves.
But that kind of proceeding never got any wood split. Interfering with
the natural course of things is what we call work; and work is the
thing that gets results.”

“But,” said Ned Chandler, “just how shall we go to work to win, in this
matter, do you think?”

“Why not take a leaf from Huntley’s book?” suggested Crockett. “He had
the right kind of a notion. He wanted to stop you from getting into
Texas. So why not do the same thing for him--only in another way?”

“Good!” Walter Jordan slapped Ned upon the back with a force that
made that young gentleman cough. “That’s it. We’ll carry the war
into Africa, and give Davidge, Huntley and Co. a dose of their own
medicine.”




CHAPTER VI

BEAR HUNTING


Gradually it became known throughout the “Mediterranean” that the
celebrated Davy Crockett was on board, and it was seldom, from then
on, that the genial backwoodsman was not at the center of a knot of
laughing friends, old and new, who listened to his stories and jokes,
and encouraged him to give them more of the same kind.

But, one evening, as he sat out upon the deck with Walter Jordan and
Ned Chandler near by, the planter, Mr. Burr, induced him to tell of one
of his hunting exploits.

“Give us a bear hunting story, colonel,” suggested the planter. “It’s
been a long time since I heard you tell one.”

Crockett shook his head.

“There’ll come a time, and it’s mighty near at hand,” said he, “when
bear stories in this part of the world will be few enough. The bear
is going fast, and I reckon he’ll sing his death song, in Tennessee
anyhow, in the next ten years.”

“But there were lots of them some years ago,” encouraged Mr. Burr.

“Heaps,” said Crockett. “I’ve been into the Tennessee wilderness where
their tracks were pretty plenty. And there was good hunting, fresh meat
to be smoked and salted away for winter, and furry pelts to keep out
the cold of the ground when a fellow went to sleep. Yes, there was fine
hunting, and lots of bears and panthers and deer and fur animals beyond
counting, in the woods and along the streams.

“I remember once,” said he, continuing, “that I had a dream of a
nigger; and when I dreamed of a nigger that always meant--bear! So off
I sets with a couple of dogs, my rifle and a good horn of powder and
plenty of ball. It’d been raining all the night before; then it had
turned cold, and the rain changed to sleet.

“‘Good bear weather,’ says I to myself. ‘I ought to get a whopper.’

“The sleet was bad and stung my face almost to bleeding; but I thought
of the bear that I was sure was waiting for me somewhere, and so I held
on. But I’d tramped a half dozen miles and the only thing the dogs
turned up was a flock of turkeys; I got a couple of big ones, and sat
down on the end of a log to rest, for the tramp had played me out.

“But I hadn’t sat there long before I noticed that one of the dogs, an
old hound, was acting rather excited. He was sniffing around as though
he’d got scent of something. Then he put his nose in the air, and let
out a yowl that brought me up with rifle ready.

“Off starts the hounds, and me after them. They seemed to have struck
the trail of something and hung to it like good fellows. A couple of
times they lost the scent, and I made up my mind each time that the
varmint, whatever it was, had them licked; but they picked it up again
and were off once more as good as ever.

“The woods were pretty thick,” proceeded Crockett, “and the two old
hounds seemed to pull me through the worst of it; and with two big
gobblers on my back, I had all I could do to keep up with them. But
suddenly there was a sort of clearing--a natural one--and right there I
saw the biggest black bear I’d ever seen in Tennessee!

“The hounds stood as close to him as they dared to go; the hair on
their backs was standing as stiff as brushes; and they were yelping all
the names at him that they could lay their tongues to.

“A black bear won’t pay much attention to hounds. But they are kind of
shy of men being around--especially men with rifles in their hands.
It may be that the daddy of all the bears has handed it down that a
man with a rifle is a thing to be afraid of. Anyway, when this black
fellow got sight of me, he turns to and breaks for a thicket which was
close by. In after him went the hounds; and after the hounds went I. It
was as dense a growth, that thicket, as any I’d ever seen, and I had
to squirm through it; also it was hard to see far through the growth,
and so I had to trust to the dogs to tell me when the bear was close at
hand.”

“Tight work,” observed Mr. Burr.

“It just was,” replied Colonel Crockett. “But it wasn’t long before I
heard a noise ahead; and there was the bear climbing an oak tree. When
he reached a good heavy branch he stopped, got out on it and turned.
Then he began to look around for me. And now I had a chance to get
another look at him, and still I felt he was the biggest bear I’d ever
seen in those woods. If I’d had a scale along and could have induced
him to get on them I’ll venture the critter’d weighed an easy six
hundred pounds.

“I was less than a hundred yards from him, and to make sure of my shot
I reprimed my gun. Then I drew a bead on him and fired.”

“Did you get him?” asked Ned Chandler, who had been listening intently.

“Not then. The bullet must have hit him somewhere, though, for he gave
a kind of a yawp; but he looked none the worse, and went on sticking
to the limb of the oak. So I rammed home another charge of powder and
ball, primed as carefully as I could, and let him have it again. This
time the shot counted. He fell out of the tree with a yell, his big
paws going like mad, and his red mouth wide open. One of the hounds
forgot his training and rushed in on him, thinking he was a goner.

“But that black fellow had lots of fight in him still. He scooped the
hound up as a squirrel scoops up a nut; and he hugged him tight. The
hound yowled something scandalous; and his comrade barked fit to split.
As they were down on the ground through this part of the affair I
couldn’t see much of them because of the denseness of the thicket. But,
thinking I was about to lose a pretty fair kind of a hound, I dropped
my rifle, drew my knife and tomahawk, and with one in one hand, and one
in the other, I broke my way toward the place of action.”

“I suppose there wasn’t much left to the hound by that time,” said Burr.

“Oh, yes. He’d lots of life in him, for he yelled like a whole pack.
You see the bear hadn’t got a proper pressure on him, and he was just
shifting his grip when I busts through the thicket. And no sooner had
I showed my nose than Mr. Bear seemed to understand that he’d been
blaming his misfortunes on the wrong party. Right away he knew it
wasn’t the hound that had tumbled him out of the tree, but me.

“And so, quick as a wink, he dropped the dog, and gave his attention
to me. Now the knife I had in my left hand was a good enough knife, as
such things go; and the hatchet was a fair kind of a weapon. But when I
looked at them and then at that six hundred pounds of bear, they looked
foolish; and so back I went, with all the speed I could get up, to the
place where I had dropped my rifle.

“I picked it up, and saw, or rather heard, the bear coming for me;
and as I was about to lift the piece to my shoulder, to wait for him,
it struck me that it wasn’t loaded. I’ve done some quick pouring of
powder in my time, but I think that was the quickest I ever undertook.
I pulled the stopper from my powder horn and let the charge run into
the barrel of that old rifle without paying much attention to how
much, then I rammed it home, and the bullet, too, and then primed as
carefully as I could under the circumstances.

“Along came the black bear, wounded, growling and as mad as tarnation.
And up went the rifle, and I fired. Down went the critter on his side;
he gave a couple of kicks and was dead.”

“Quite an experience,” said Mr. Burr. “Suppose you had, in your hurry,
loaded your rifle improperly and it had missed fire. What would you
have done?”

“Run,” said Crockett, promptly; “run as fast as my legs could carry me.
A wounded bear is no kind of a beast to stand and reason with.”

“What did you do with him after you got him?” asked Ned Chandler.

“Well, as he was all of six hundred pounds, I couldn’t do much myself.
So I got back to my cabin as quick as I could, got some friends and
some horses, and we started out to find the carcass. I’d blazed the way
with my tomahawk, and we hadn’t much trouble in coming to the place.
Then we dressed the critter, loaded the meat on the horses’ backs and
took it home.”

The genial hunter told many quaint and stirring tales of his
experiences in the Indian wars, in the deep forests of the southwest,
and of the wild and dangerous animals with which those forests were
overrun. The lawless character who is always to be found on the
outskirts of civilization also came into his conversation.

“Wherever you go in the southwest country, you run across him,” said
Colonel Crockett. “He’s to be found in every settlement, in every camp,
traveling every trail. He’s always armed, he’s usually got courage, he
never fails to cause trouble.”

“I’ve met that sort of fellow myself,” nodded the planter, Burr. “He’s
to be avoided.”

But Crockett shook his head.

“Not always,” said he. “The fact that people give him the width of the
trail in passing is one of the things that encourages him to go even
further than he’d gone before. That kind of a fellow should always be
shown his proper place. He should be opposed when he makes a move to
interfere with the rights of others.”

Just then there was a clatter of chairs on the deck and looking around
Walter Jordan saw Huntley and a sharp-faced man dressed in black.

“Hello!” said Ned Chandler in a low tone to Walter, “there’s Sam
Davidge now.”

“He’s seen that it’s no use hiding any longer,” said Walter; “and now
he’s come out in the open. But,” his eyes on the two men, “I wonder
what they’re up to?”

“No good, I’ll say that,” said Ned, with a promptness that made Walter
smile.

The two men made way for themselves among the chairs; and when they had
reached the party of which Crockett and the boys were members, they
paused.

“How are you, Mr. Burr?” cried Huntley, with great cordiality. “I
thought I saw you on board to-day.”

“How do you do, sir?” said Burr, who did not seem at all sure who
Huntley was. “I’m pleased to see you again.”

“I met you--in Nashville, I think it was. Abe Sterrit, I think,
introduced us,” said Huntley, seeing that Burr was not certain of him.

The planter’s face fell; and Crockett chuckled at the sight.

“Abe Sterrit’s a horse jockey at Nashville,” whispered the backwoodsman
to Ned, a wide grin upon his face. “And I don’t think Mr. Burr sets
much store by him.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” said the planter to Huntley, “I think I remember you. I
trust you’ve been well, sir.”

“Tolerable,” said Huntley. Then, looking at Crockett, “How are you,
colonel?”

“Good-evening,” replied the backwoodsman.

“Haven’t seen you since you were electioneering for your second term in
Congress,” said the man.

“I don’t think I’ve run across you, either,” said Crockett, evenly.
“But I remember seeing you then, well enough. You were making speeches
right and left against me.”

Huntley laughed loudly.

“Ah, well, colonel,” said he, “it’s these little differences of opinion
that make life worth living. I did work against you, that’s a fact,
but because I was of opposite beliefs, and not through any sort of ill
will.”

Crockett smiled drolly.

“Have it your own way,” said he.

Huntley seemed especially earnest; he took a step nearer to the
backwoodsman.

“I’ve always felt a strong regard for your type of man, Colonel
Crockett,” said he. “And I’ve always had a strong regard for your work
and aims. And,” here he cast a swift glance in the direction of the
boys, “I mean to prove that to you, right now.”

Walter nudged Ned with his elbow.

“I see it coming,” whispered Ned in return. “It’s something about us.”

Crockett, with the droll smile still upon his face, replied to Huntley:

“Well, I’m a sight obliged for your interest, sir.”

“It’s come to my ears,” said Huntley, “that you are going to Texas.”

“Well, that’s the plain truth,” replied Crockett. “But what is there
against that?”

“Nothing,” answered the man, hastily. “That is, nothing against that in
itself. But I understand, colonel, that you mean to accompany these two
young men to San Antonio upon a certain mission----”

“Eh?” cried Colonel Crockett.

He looked in amazement at the speaker and then at the two boys.

“This is the first time I’ve heard of it,” said he.

But Huntley disregarded the statement, evidently not believing it.

“I take this occasion to warn you,” he went on, “that you are being
deceived. The errand of these two young men to San Antonio is not at
all the sort of thing they claim. As a matter of fact, it’s just the
reverse. They are engaged in a piece of obvious rascality, and it is
only right that you should know it before you get into it too far.”

Here the sharp-faced man in the black clothes stepped forward.

“My name is Davidge, Colonel Crockett,” said he. “Samuel Davidge; and
I’m a councilor at law, in Louisville. It is possible that you have
heard of me.”

“Yes,” replied the backwoodsman, and there was a world of significance
in his look and tone, “I have heard of you--often!”

His meaning was so plain that some in the party laughed outright.
Davidge swallowed once or twice; but he was a man hardened to affront
and he went on without a change of tone.

“There is a conspiracy in progress, and these two boys are
participators in it. They have, no doubt, told you some cock-and-bull
story as to why they are going to Texas. But, believe me, sir, they are
deceiving you. If you will give me a few moments I will inform you as
to the true facts, and let you know in plain words----”

But here he was interrupted by Davy Crockett suddenly arising to his
feet, sending his chair tipping over with an angry kick as he did so.

“Look here, Mr. Davidge,” said he. “Before you go any further in this
talk of yours I want to say this to you, and,” his eyes going to
Huntley, “to you also. These two boys have struck me as being of good
mettle. They stick to what they set out to do, and they are willing
to fight for what they believe is right. I’ve got the whole story from
them of why they are going to Texas----”

“A pack of lies!” cried Huntley.

“Take care, Colonel Crockett,” warned Davidge. “Take care. They are
sharp, young as they are. They’ll lead you into trouble.”

“Well,” said Crockett, and he turned a quaint smile upon Walter and
Ned, “I’ve been in trouble before now, and I guess I can take care of
myself, and get out of it again, if they get me in. As to their being
sharpers and telling me a pack of lies, I take leave to doubt it.
But they _have_ told me of your little scheme, Mr. Davidge,” nodding
to the sharp-faced man, “and of how you crept on board this boat in
secret pursuit of them. And of you, Huntley,” to the burly man, “and
your hiring a bruiser to injure one of them and so prevent him from
finishing his journey. And I _do_ believe that, for it’s about the
kind of thing you’d both be likely to do.”

“Sir,” cried Davidge, with dignity, “you are insulting!”

“Take care!” spoke Huntley, his face turning a deep red as he strove to
control himself.

“But,” went on Crockett, “there has been no understanding between
these youngsters and myself about going to San Antonio with them. That
little bit of steamboat gossip, if you really heard such, is not true.
However,” and the droll smile came into his face once more, and he
nodded his head shrewdly, “now that the thing’s been suggested to me,
it wouldn’t be a half bad idea. I’ve got lots of time on my hands, and
the freedom of Texas can wait a bit longer. I _will_ go to San Antonio
de Bexer with these youngsters, and I’d like to see any man, black,
white or red, lay another straw in their way!”




CHAPTER VII

SURPRISING NEWS


David Crockett, as is well known, was a man of eccentric manner and
character; and eccentric people are given to whims and caprices. And it
was one of these latter which gave Walter Jordan and Ned Chandler most
invaluable aid.

“Do you mean it, Colonel Crockett?” asked Ned, after Huntley and
Davidge had gone away, and the deck party was breaking up.

“I do,” answered the backwoodsman, in his downright way. “If I’ll not
be a hindrance to you, and can help in any way, count on me.”

Needless to say the boys warmly assured him that he’d be of the
greatest help to them.

“With you to post us on what to do,” said Walter, “we’ll have no
trouble at all in the new country.”

Crockett smiled.

“Well, you know,” said he, “I’ve had no experience there myself.”

“But you’ve been in places that were pretty similar,” said Walter.
“It’ll not be new to you.”

The boys were in high feather all the way down the river; any fear they
might have had of Huntley and his friends left them; with so noted a
fighting man as Davy Crockett as a companion, they felt that they were
safe from the attempts of even the most hardy.

Huntley and his comrades seemed also to feel something of this; the
lads now rarely saw them on deck; they kept themselves close, and did
nothing to interfere with the young travelers, neither in look, word,
nor act.

“But, somehow,” observed Ned Chandler, “I can’t think that they’ve
forgotten us.”

“They haven’t,” replied Walter. “They are keeping us in mind, right
enough. Only from now on they are going to be less open in what they
do.”

Steadily upon her course down the broad, yellow Mississippi steamed
the “Mediterranean.” She stopped at many places to take on or put off
cargo or passengers; and Crockett, so it seemed, was constantly meeting
old friends and making speeches to gatherings which came together to
cheer him at wharves and landing places. The whole country, so it
seemed as they got further south, was aflame at the idea of Texas and
Mexico engaging in a conflict. And that such a popular and picturesque
personage as Crockett should be on his way to take part in the struggle
greatly added to the excitement.

Everything proceeded without any stirring events, except those noted,
until the boat drew in at the mouth of the White River and Crockett
encountered an old friend and fellow keeper of the border, Captain
William Cumby.

“Dave,” said Cumby, as he shook the backwoodsman’s hand, “I haven’t
seen you in years; and I’m ’tarnal glad of the chance to do it now, old
boy.”

They conversed for some little time and Crockett introduced his young
friends.

“All going to Texas, eh?” said Cumby, after he had favored each of
the lads with a hand-shake which was like the grip of a vise. “Well,
if it’s entertainment you’re looking for, you’ll find it in plenty,
youngsters. A friend of mine just came up from there and he tells
me things are biling to such a degree that they’ve got considerable
trouble keeping the lid on the pot half the time.”

A small, elderly man with a parchment face and many deep wrinkles was
tying a pair of horses to a fence some little distance away. Captain
Cumby called to him.

“Here, Dolph,” said he. “I want you to shake hands with Davy Crockett.”

Dolph looked interested.

“Not _the_ Davy Crockett?” said he.

“That very same gentleman,” answered Captain Cumby.

Dolph approached and gripped Crockett’s hand.

“Colonel,” said he, “I’m glad to see you. I’ve heard of you for years
and ain’t never had the pleasure of setting eyes on you before.”

“Dolph,” said Cumby, after he’d introduced the boys to the old man,
“they are all on their way to Texas.”

Dolph shook his head.

“I know Texas,” said he. “I’ve lived there for fifteen years, off and
on; and it’s a fine country. But it’s pizen just now; and unless you’re
going there for a special purpose, such as helping to fight old Santa
Anna, or such, I’d advise you to keep away.”

Captain Cumby laughed.

“Dolph don’t believe in strangers going into Texas without being
warned,” laughed Captain Cumby. “But he’s going back himself in a day
or two.”

“I know what’s to be expected,” stated the old man, who evidently was
hardy and had many years of border experience. “And I belong down
there. And when the fighting starts once more I want to be in it.”

“How comes it,” asked Crockett, “that you left just when things was
a-shaping themselves for the big smash-up?”

“I had to,” replied Dolph. “Just plumb had to. It all come of me being
in the party that went with Colonel Milan to attack San Antonio.”

“So you were with that lot!” said Crockett.

Dolph nodded.

“And I never want to see a worse organized gathering of white men,”
said he. “They’d come together from all parts of Texas and the
southwest, thinking that war was to start at once. The lot of them
moved toward San Antonio, and were then halted. As we didn’t attack,
they got disgusted, and the whole crowd was just melting away. Burleson
was at the head of the force, and one night he made up his mind to
retreat. This almost brought on a mutiny among those who were left. And
so then Colonel Milan goes to Burleson and asks permission to call for
volunteers to attack the town. And Burleson gave it.

“Then the colonel jumped out in front of the crowd of men, who were
just biling with vexation, and waves his hat.

“‘Who’ll go with old Ben Milan into San Antonio?’ shouts he.

“And in a minute the lot of them were around him and shouting like
mad. Well, we attacked the town, and after a long fight from street to
street, and house to house, we beat the greasers. But right in the
middle of it whom should I run across but an American girl, who was
living with a Spanish family in one of the houses which we broke into.”

“An American girl!” Walter Jordan gazed at the speaker eagerly, and
then turned his glance upon Ned.

“Who was she?” asked the latter of Dolph.

“She hadn’t an American friend nearer than New Orleans,” said the old
man. “I found that out next day. We didn’t know what to do with her;
but after putting our heads together, the officers made up their minds
to send her with a family party which was headed northeast, and they
sent me as guide. I left her a month ago, safe and sound, with friends
at New Orleans.”

“What was her name?” insisted Ned Chandler.

Dolph looked puzzled.

“It was Ethel,” said he, scratching his head. “But consarn me if I can
think of the other name.”

“Norton,” suggested Walter.

“That’s right!” said Dolph. Then, in surprise: “But how’d you know it?”

“Wait,” said Davy Crockett.

Walter halted in the answer he was about to make.

“Don’t look around,” said Crockett. “But I see that sneaking fellow
Davidge watching us from the upper deck.”

The place where the little party stood upon the wharf was in the great
shadow cast by the “Mediterranean” as she lay at her moorings; and by a
sly glance upward, Ned Chandler saw the black-clad, sharp-faced lawyer
leaning over the rail of the boat, and evidently doing his best to hear
what was being said.

At once, though with an assumption of carelessness, they walked up the
wharf, and when out of hearing and also out of sight behind some bales
of cotton, they began to question the old Texan.

In a few moments they were convinced of the welcome fact that Ethel
Norton, the girl whom they were going to San Antonio to seek, was in
New Orleans.

“It looks,” said Ned Chandler, to Walter, “that all we’ve got to do now
is to keep on board the boat until she reaches New Orleans. It’s turned
out no kind of a job at all.”

“Dad will be delighted,” said Walter. “We’ll have her in Louisville on
the next up-river boat.”

“Don’t hurry your horses,” said Colonel Crockett, who seemed to be
turning the situation over in his mind. “If you do, you’ll wear them
out.”

The boys looked at him quickly, for there was something in his voice
which caught their attention.

“There is one thing that’s sure,” said the backwoodsman, “and that
is that Davidge and Huntley will keep you youngsters in view until
they see you have set out for San Antonio. If you stick to the
‘Mediterranean’ all the way down the river, they will too. At New
Orleans they’ll follow you; they’ll find out that the girl is there.
And so you’ll lose all the advantage which Dolph’s information has
given you.”

The point of this argument was plain to both boys.

“What do you think we’d best do?” asked Walter.

“I have a plan,” said the backwoodsman. “Let me carry it out for you.”

Both lads agreed eagerly.

“Very well,” said Colonel Crockett, smiling in his droll way. Then to
Captain Cumby and the old Texan, “Wait here a bit for us. We’ll be
back.”

With the two boys he started toward the “Mediterranean.”

“Now,” said he in a low tone as they went, “you are to order out your
baggage as coolly as you please. Try and make it look as though you’d
intended leaving the boat at this place from the first.”

When they reached the boat, the boys did as directed; they had their
belongings in the clumsy traveling bags of that period, and they got
them out on deck and down the gangplank--Crockett doing the same. When
they reached the place where Captain Cumby and Dolph awaited them,
Crockett said humorously:

“Cumby, you ain’t got no kind of knowledge of what’s going on yet. But
keep a stiff upper lip, and just do what you’re told, and we’ll post
you by and by.”

Looking around the edge of the cotton bales, Ned Chandler saw the
hurrying forms of Huntley and Davidge and Barker, baggage in hand,
hurrying down the plank from the steamboat. Reporting this to Crockett,
the latter laughed as one well pleased, and then said to the old Texan:

“Dolph, see if you can get us some kind of a trap for ourselves and
our belongings. Captain Cumby, if you don’t mind,” to that astonished
gentleman, “we’ll pay a little visit to your plantation, and if you
treat us well, we may stay there for a couple of days.”




CHAPTER VIII

A LITTLE JOKE


The Texan secured a conveyance, and Crockett and the two boys, with
their baggage, tumbled in. Captain Cumby and Dolph mounted their
horses, and away they went along the dirt road that led from the river.
The last sight they had of Davidge and his friends, they were standing
upon the wharf eagerly questioning some negroes and pointing after the
wagon.

“They’ll know where we’re going,” said Ned to Crockett.

The backwoodsman nodded.

“So they will, youngster,” said he. “And that’s what I calculate on
their doing.”

Once at the huge farm, or plantation of Captain Cumby, that genial
gentleman made them feel at home; and then, after a splendid dinner
in which game and fish from the streams formed a part, Crockett took
both Cumby and Dolph aside and plunged at once into a long, low-voiced
conversation.

The two boys sitting comfortably in the two big cane chairs heard a
series of chuckles and guffaws from the three.

“The colonel’s got some sort of a joke on foot,” said Ned.

“And it’s about this matter of ours,” said Walter. “He’s hiding it from
us, because I can see he wants to make it a surprise.”

That night as the host, Crockett and the two boys were sitting quietly
together in the captain’s big living-room, the young fellows listening
to the stories of the veterans, Dolph entered, a broad smile upon his
wrinkled, tanned face.

“Well, colonel,” said he, to Crockett, “you’re a cute one. They did
just what you said they’d do.”

Captain Cumby gave a shout of laughter.

“What!” cried he. “Were you talking to them, Dolph?”

Dolph nodded, still grinning gleefully.

“According to instructions,” said he, “I just took to hanging around
a fence corner. And by and by a stranger comes up the road--one of
the men I see leave the steamboat in such a hurry. And he gets me in
conversation about the country. I told him I thought Arkansas was a
great place, but that I was going to take the trail back to Texas
to-morrow at sundown. He perked up at that and got almighty interested.

“‘Back to Texas?’ says he.

“‘Yes,’ says I.

“‘That’s a mighty long journey to take alone,’ says he, cunningly
enough.

“‘It would be if I was going alone,’ says I.

“‘Oh,’ says he, ‘somebody’s going along with you.’

“‘Three of them,’ says I. ‘We’re off for San Antonio to-morrow night.’

‘How are you going?’ asks he, very innocent like.

“‘Oh, horseback to the Red River. Then down that on a boat to
Natchitoches. Then horseback across Texas.’”

Crockett was vastly amused at this repetition of the conversation
between Dolph and the man at the fence corner; both he and Captain
Cumby laughed and slapped their knees. And now, for the first time, the
boys got a glimpse of the backwoodsman’s intent.

“I think I see what you mean to do,” said Ned Chandler, eagerly. “You
intend throwing them off the scent by letting them think we are going
on to Texas.”

“And they’ll be on their way there, while we are steaming down toward
New Orleans,” put in Walter, well pleased.

“That’s about the size of it,” said Colonel Crockett. “But to succeed
we can’t let it rest as it lies. We must do something further; for
they are pretty cute and not of the sort that fly off on a thing
without feeling as sure as they can that it’s all right.”

But just what further step he meant to take the colonel didn’t say;
apparently he enjoyed the suspense and excitement of the boys as much
as he did the joke on Huntley and his companions.

Next day the boys spent in riding over the country with Crockett
and Captain Cumby and interviewing a number of gentlemen who were
interested in recruiting men and forwarding war material down the
Red River to be used in the Texans’ war with Mexico. They arrived at
Cumby’s plantation once more in about the middle of the afternoon;
after supper they sat and talked of the doings of the day, and the
prospects of success for Texas. Then Dolph entered.

“The whole lot of them’s snooping around and waiting,” said he. “And
they’ve got their horses down the trail a piece.”

Crockett chuckled.

“All right, Dolph,” said he. “You might as well get our mounts ready.
And then we’ll be off.”

In a half hour there came a clatter of hoofs outside.

“Now, youngsters,” said Crockett, “just do what I do; and say what I
say, and ask no questions.”

They followed him outdoors. He had his long rifle across his back;
his knife and hatchet were in his belt. The boys were attired, at
Crockett’s request, as though for a long journey.

Dolph sat astride a tall horse and held three others by the bridles.
Crockett climbed into the saddle of one and the boys mounted the
others. Slowly they rode down the path to the trail, Captain Cumby
walking at the side of Crockett. And when they reached the trail they
drew rein.

“Well, Cumby,” said Davy Crockett, “I’ll bid you good-bye.” He spoke
in a loud voice and leaned over in his saddle and shook the captain’s
hand. “Texas is a long way off and war is mighty uncertain, so I don’t
know if we’ll meet again or no.”

“Anyway, colonel,” said Cumby, “take care of yourself. Do all you can
for Texas, but don’t forget to keep an eye out for yourself.”

“Good-bye, Captain Cumby,” said Walter Jordan, also shaking their host
by the hand.

“Good-bye, youngster,” returned the captain, genially. “And you, too,
boy,” to Ned. “Good luck to you.”

And so, with a call from Dolph to the captain, and a chorus of
good-byes from all, they shook their reins and set off along the
westward trail. A mile from the Cumby place Crockett said:

“Halt!”

They all drew up; the backwoodsman got down from his nag, and,
stooping, laid his ear to the trail. Then he remounted once more, and
the boys heard him laugh.

“They are coming,” said he. “I heard them pounding along at a good
smart pace.”

For at least two miles further they kept to the trail, their horses
going at an easy lope. Then at a word from Crockett they left it, and
drew up in the deep shadows of a thick grove. Fifteen minutes later
three horsemen appeared, their nags going at a sharp trot, and their
voices lifted in conversation.

“They’ll probably hold to this trail till they get to Hamlin,” said the
voice of Huntley. “We’ll leave it and strike straight across country
and so beat them to the river. If we can get a boat ahead of them we
might get into San Antonio three days in advance.”

Davidge was replying to this when the distance became too great for the
listeners to hear. Fainter and fainter grew the hoof beats on the soft
trail, and finally they died away altogether.

“Well,” said Davy Crockett, and the boys noted a pleased chuckle in his
voice, “now that we’ve seen them well on their way, youngsters, suppose
we mount once more and ride back to Captain Cumby’s. He’ll be expecting
us.”




CHAPTER IX

TEXAS


It was a few days after this little hoax practiced on the sharpers by
Colonel Crockett that the steamboat “General Morgan” tied up at the
wharf and Walter Jordan and Ned Chandler got on board.

“This’ll get you into New Orleans in a little while,” said the genial
backwoodsman as he shook hands with them. “And like as not you’ll get
your business over and be on your way home before I leave this section.”

“You’ll stay a while, then,” said Walter.

“Cumby tells me it’ll be to my advantage,” said Crockett. “They are
raising money to put a regiment into the Texan service, and he thinks I
ought to join it.”

“Then,” said Ned, “as we come up the river we’ll stop off and see if
you’re still around.”

“Good!” cried Crockett, and he shook hands with them again. “Do that,
sure. And I’ll be glad to see you.”

When the “General Morgan” steamed out into the river, they saw him
waving his coonskin cap to them; and they stood at the rail as long as
they could see the wharf, replying.

“Now that,” said Ned, putting his hat firmly upon his head, “is one of
the finest men I ever saw.”

“I think so, too,” said Walter. “He’d do anything to serve any one he
took a fancy to, or any one in need of help.”

The “General Morgan” was one of the swiftest steamers on the river;
and it was not a great while before the boys found themselves in the
city of New Orleans. Here the war rumors from Texas were thicker than
further up the river. The recruiting of volunteers was openly going
on. Upon posts and dead walls were loud sounding placards calling
for volunteers. All this interested the boys greatly; but they were
naturally still more interested in the finding of Ethel Norton.

The address given them by Dolph was not at all difficult to locate.
But when they reached it and talked to the people who lived there they
received some shattering intelligence.

The girl had gone back to San Antonio!

“But why?” asked Walter, amazed. “Why should she go back there at such
a time? Texas is expected to be in a blaze of war.”

“I know it,” said the woman to whom they spoke. “And she knew it. But
she saw a newspaper, from Louisville, I think, and it had something in
it about a relative dying and leaving her some money. She was afraid
she couldn’t establish her identity without some papers which she’d
left behind at San Antonio.”

“Surely,” said Ned Chandler, “she didn’t go alone.”

“No,” said the woman. “My two sons went with her.”

A little questioning showed that the girl’s party had gone almost a
week before; they had a wagon and a number of saddle horses; the woman
had been told the way they’d take, but she had forgotten.

“Well,” said Walter, a short time afterward when the two had talked the
matter over from all sides, “the best thing I can think of is to go
back up the river, if we can get a boat, and go down into Texas with
Colonel Crockett.”

“Good,” said Ned Chandler, his blue eyes snapping with pleasure. “We’re
going to get down there after all. For a while I thought we’d be
cheated out of it.”

As Walter reasoned the matter out, while they’d probably reach San
Antonio after the rival party of Sam Davidge, those gentlemen would
be so far ahead that it would work against them rather than in their
favor.

“They’ll get into the town before Miss Norton gets back there,” said
the boy to Ned. “And they’ll be told that she left with Dolph months
ago. Then they’ll head for New Orleans, and so miss her altogether. If
Colonel Crockett’s ready to start soon, we’ll reach Texas not much, if
any, behind a party that’s traveling overland with a wagon. They’ll
have the trails to contend with all the way; also they’ll have to go
slow and save their horses.”

They inquired about boats; and to their gratification there was one
that very evening. They boarded her, counting themselves in great luck.
She was the “Arkansas City,” a strong, bustling little craft, which
steamed against the dark waters of the Mississippi with much valor.

Reaching Montgomery’s Point again, they went ashore. Once more luck
was with them. Crockett was still at the Cumby plantation, but upon
the eve of starting for Texas.

“I’m ’tarnal glad to see you,” said the backwoodsman, heartily, as he
clasped their hands, “and I’m also sorry about what’s happened. But if
the girl’s gone to Texas--all right. We’ll find her there, if it can be
done any way at all.”

While the two boys had been traveling up and down the Mississippi
upon their hunt for Ethel Norton, Colonel Crockett had been working
industriously. A great sum of money had been subscribed by numerous
southern gentlemen to what was known as the “Crockett Fund.” This was
to be devoted to the liberation of Texas.

The backwoods orator had made good his reputation; his speeches for
the Texan cause had drawn great throngs of people; his words had a
wide appeal, and people to whom the cry of the new country for aid had
been faint and far away now heard it plainly for the first time. So,
in consequence of all this, Crockett had grown much in reputation and
influence.

Crockett had arranged to travel into Texas with a small party which
was then ready for the journey. The recruiting was to go on, and the
parties of volunteers were to be sent after them into the new country
as they were armed and equipped.

As Walter and Ned saw a long journey ahead of them through a dangerous
region, they set about preparing themselves for it. First they
purchased, with the aid of Dolph, a couple of saddle horses of that
small, tough breed common to the southwest.

“Those ponies,” said the old Texan, valuing the purchases with an
expert eye, “will give you good service and are worth all you’ve paid
for them. They are of the kind that without much corn will stand hard
riding and still not be any the worse for it.”

Next the lads bought themselves a rifle each. Both knew the use of the
weapon, having hunted in the Kentucky mountains and woods many times.
Also they purchased good, heavy, broad-bladed hunting knives and a
couple of small hatchets, such as are used by woodsmen.

“And don’t forget a derringer each,” said Colonel Crockett. “It’s a
small thing, has very little weight, and can be carried in the pocket
without trouble. It’s a weapon that’s saved more lives at time of
sudden danger than any other I know of.”

And so, with their derringers, hunting knives, hatchets and rifles, the
two young fellows felt themselves very well armed indeed. Mounted upon
their ponies, attired in fringed hunting shirts and broad brimmed hats,
they looked very well fitted to cope with both the savage region and
savage men ahead of them.

It was early one morning that the word was given; and off they started
across Arkansas to Fulton, where they were to get the steamboat. The
state of Arkansas was at that time very well settled; its hospitable
people never failed to do what they could for the travelers on their
way to the war; good food and good beds were to be had without trouble.
At Fulton, which they made without any mishap, they boarded a boat
which was to take them down the Red River as far as Natchitoches.

This latter proved to be a small place on the south bank of the river;
the party spent one night in the town, and then set off toward the
Texan town of Nacogdoches, which lay a hundred and twenty miles away
over the old Spanish trail.

This latter lay through a wild country in which ranged great herds
of buffalo, and droves of small, active mustangs, wild for many
generations.

“Tough little critters,” said old Dolph as he rode with the boys in
advance of the party. “You never felt such hard mouths in your lives.
Don’t care no more for a bit than if it was of soft rubber.”

“Oh, they are caught, then, and broken!” said Ned, looking at the hardy
little fellows as they tore away over the prairies like the wind, their
tails flying like banners.

“Lots of Mexicans and some Americans make a business of it,” replied
old Dolph. “Them two you boys are riding now once raced, wild, on these
very plains.”

It took three days between Natchitoches and Nacogdoches; they camped by
the side of the old trail at places where they could get water; the air
was bracing, the game they shot during the day was dressed, cooked and
eaten, and the lads enjoyed every moment of the time.

About sundown upon the third day they sighted Nacogdoches and were
warmly greeted by the people of the town. Nacogdoches lay a day’s ride
west of the Sabine River. At that time it had a population of about a
thousand people; but as it was a trading place and a stopping point
for the flow of northern emigration into Texas, there was usually two
or three times that number upon its streets. There was an old French
fort, built more than a hundred years before to guard against the
attacks of the Indians.

But there were now Indians a-plenty in the town. All the tribes for
many miles into the wilderness came there to trade, and on the evening
of the arrival of the party under Davy Crockett there were scores of
them to be seen in the streets. Their nodding eagle feathers, their
fringed buckskin leggings and beaded moccasins, their quivers of
arrows and their long bows and sheathed knives gave them a wild and
savage look. There were also many Mexicans in Nacogdoches, and their
picturesque costumes, huge, jingling spurs, great sombreros, and
viciously careening horses, contrasted strongly with the red or blue
shirts of the American adventurers, their long boots, and modern
equipment of arms and horse gear. Also there were a number of men in
the backwoods garb of Crockett and the boys. These stood in quiet
places, as a rule, leaning on their long rifles and looking bewildered
at the bustle all around them, so different from the solitude of their
native forests.

“Rather a lively sort of a town,” said Crockett, after they had put up
their mounts at the tavern and were about to go in to supper. “Didn’t
expect to see anything quite so stirring, Dolph.”

“You’ll not see another for some time again,” said the old Texan. “This
country is not given to towns of any size, though I dare say we’ll grow
some as we go along.”

They had a good supper, a good night’s rest and an excellent breakfast
at Nacogdoches; and then they took horse and started upon the long
journey toward the San Antonio River and the seat of war.

“Take it easy, youngsters,” said old Dolph. “Don’t wear out yourselves
or your ponies. You have a good bit of prairie to cross, and it’s not
to be done in a hurry if you hope to keep yourselves in condition.”

At high noon the party stopped at a hurrying little stream that moved
through a grove of tall trees. Here they rested and ate and drank.
Away in the distance, across the level plains, could be seen a herd of
grazing buffalo; and Crockett watched them, reclining upon his elbow.

“There hasn’t been no such critters as them in Tennessee for many a
year,” said he. “And I’d like pretty well to have a shot or two at them
before we leave this country behind.”

Both Walter and Ned eagerly assented to this. The mighty bison appealed
to them as a worthy subject for the chase.

“Let’s have a try at them now,” said Ned.

But Crockett smiled in his droll fashion.

“It’s not so easy as you seem to think, youngster,” said he. “It won’t
do to mount horse and ride out after game like that. They know what
a horseman is, and they know what a rifle means when it speaks. And
they are as shy as antelope, for all their size. You’ve got to get to
windward of them or they’ll scent you; and once they do that they are
off like sixty.”

Crockett had no sooner uttered the last words than there came a queer
shrilling sound such as neither of the boys had ever heard before,
followed by a sudden shock of one body striking against another.

“Indians!” cried Davy Crockett as he threw himself flat upon the
ground, his rifle in his hands, his keen eyes searching the green of
the noonday prairie.

“Look!” said Ned Chandler, as he and Walter crouched low.

Walter looked in the direction indicated by his friend’s pointing
finger. There, quivering in the trunk of a tree, was a long Indian
arrow.

“So that’s what it was,” said young Jordan, drawing in his breath
sharply. “Look, Ned, it’s sunk an inch into the wood. It’s good the red
rascal made a bad shot of it.”

“Down all,” warned old Dolph. “There’s quite a party of them; and they
have rifles as well as bows.”

“What do you think they are, Dolph?” asked Crockett, coolly, looking to
his rifle.

“Comanches,” replied the Texan. “I can tell by their head-dress.”

There came a rattle of rifle shots and a cloud of arrows; and the boys
saw a line of savage horsemen lift out of the long dry grass and come
dashing toward the grove.




CHAPTER X

ATTACKED BY COMANCHES


There were four men in the party in the grove beside Crockett and
Dolph. The two lads made up eight in all.

“Hold your fire,” cautioned Davy Crockett. “Don’t waste any of it,
boys; because we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

There were at least twoscore of the savages dashing down upon the
grove upon the backs of their hardy mustangs. Crockett had no idea of
the marksmanship of his companions. Eight rifles in the hands of men
who knew how to use them would work deadly havoc among the oncoming
Indians; but if it should prove that the men were not skilled with the
weapon, things would not be so well.

But the backwoodsman set his teeth.

“It won’t be long before I know,” said he, grimly.

He threw forward his rifle.

“Ready!” said he.

The other weapons went forward; eight black muzzles peered out at the
oncoming savages.

“Fire!” said Crockett.

The rifles spoke sharply; down in their tracks went several of the
mustangs; and several others went dashing riderless across the prairie.
Shrill yells went up from the Comanches; their ponies, startled at the
sudden blaze of fire from ahead, and the fall of their fellows, reared,
bucked, and tried to bolt off to one side. The Comanches fought with
their mounts and at last headed them around, together, in the proper
direction. But by this time the whites had reloaded.

“Fire!” ordered Colonel Crockett, once more.

Again the rifles cracked; and down went more horses and riders in a
plunging heap, while the savage band, unable to face the deadly tubes
which threw death into their faces, turned and bounded away over the
grassy plain beyond range of the white men’s fire.

Crockett rammed a fresh charge home.

“Good shooting,” said he, approvingly. “One way or another, boys, we’ve
accounted for a full dozen of the red rapscallions.”

The old Texan, together with the others, was also charging his piece.

“They’re not done yet, colonel,” said he. “The Comanche is a fighting
Injun, and it takes a good bit to make him change his mind, once he’s
taken to the war-path.”

“I didn’t hear nothing ’bout them being at war with the whites,”
remarked one of the men.

“No more did I,” said Dolph. “But, then, you can never tell. They are
always rising. Let some rascal of a white man cheat a Comanche at a
trading place and that Injun goes and tells his friends. Like as not,
a small war follows, until they think they’ve got satisfaction.”

“Well, that might be what this is,” said Crockett, his eyes upon the
party of savages which had come to a halt about a half mile out upon
the prairie and were listening, apparently, to the eloquence of a
chief. “But I’ve got an idea of my own.”

“What’s that?” asked the Texan.

“These redskins had some of their people in Nacogdoches last night and
they were watching for some small party that was to leave the town. We
happened to be that party. It’s my idea they have taken a leaf from the
white man’s book, and are nothing more or less than robbers.”

Old Dolph nodded.

“Well,” said he, “I’ve heard of them doing things like that before now.
But, whatever they’re after, they mean to give it another try.”

As he spoke the Texan pointed out across the prairie. The Comanches
had remounted and were riding forward in an open fashion, their bows
and rifles held ready for use. But at some distance from the grove they
halted; dismounting, they made their ponies lie down. Then stretched at
full length behind this living breastwork, they leveled their guns, and
fitted arrows to their bows.

From behind trees and logs, the white men watched the preparations of
the savages.

“That is a kind of a cute little dodge,” spoke Crockett. “I never see
an Injun do it before.”

Old Dolph nodded and said:

“It’s a favorite trick with the Comanche and the Apache. These Injuns
of the plain are ‘horse’ Injuns; and they’re different in their ways
from the redskins you meet with in the wooded countries and the
mountains. They spend most of their time catching and breaking ponies
and learning tricks in riding. There are some fine horsemen on these
southwestern plains; but the finest of all are the Comanches.”

[Illustration: THE COMANCHES HAD REMOUNTED]

Here the rifles of the Indians spoke. But, if they were excellent
horsemen, as the Texan said, they were not good marksmen, for their
bullets went wide. Their arrows, however, flew true, and many a
feathered shaft struck with a deadly thud into the trunk of a tree
behind which stood one of the whites.

A man near Crockett fired, rather excitedly, in return, and the bullet
did no more than knock up the dust.

“Take care of your powder,” said Crockett, from behind his tree, but
never shifting his eyes from the dry grass where the savages lay behind
their horses. “Don’t waste a single charge. Take good aim; and don’t
fire until you see the whites of some one’s eyes.”

There was an interval of inaction; the savages were apparently
reloading.

“When they have loaded,” said old Dolph, “they’ll take a peep around
their ponies to see what things look like over this way. So watch for
them.”

“But don’t fire unless you are sure of your Injun,” said Crockett, who
knew there was only a limited supply of powder in the party; and as
there was no knowing how long the attack would continue, he wished to
be as sparing as possible.

Sure enough, as the old Texan had said, when the Comanches had finished
loading they showed a desire to know the exact position of their
intended victims. A tufted head appeared around the side of a mustang.
Dolph’s rifle cracked like a whip; there was a yell of pain and then
silence.

“I got him,” said the old Texan, and he calmly reloaded his rifle.

Again came the flight of arrows and the reports of the Comanche rifles;
but as before, the shafts and bullets did no harm. Crockett fired when
he saw the plumes of a savage show above the back of a horse. It so
chanced that the speeding bullet struck the mustang; it leaped up,
forgetting its training; its rider was now exposed to the fire of the
whites. Three rifles cracked; and the Comanche threw up his arms and
sank back.

Seeing the deadly nature of the white men’s marksmanship, the savages
grew wary. Only now and then an arrow flew; occasionally a bullet
lodged in the ground or in a tree trunk.

An hour passed in this way. It was now almost three o’clock; and Davy
Crockett as he crouched behind his tree grew both weary and restless.

“They are cunning varmints,” said he, “and they are holding off until
nightfall. Under cover of darkness they’ll creep up on us and beat us
down by weight of numbers.”

“Darkness will favor them,” spoke old Dolph. “And if we are here when
it falls, we are goners.”

“Well,” said Crockett, in his dry way, “I don’t see how we can get away
with thirty pairs of eyes watching us.”

Here Walter Jordan spoke.

“Colonel Crockett,” said he, “I have an idea.”

“Good!” said the backwoodsman.

“We can’t see the Comanches as they lie behind their mustangs,” said
the lad. “But suppose I climbed one of these trees. I could have a good
sight of them then, and could drive them off with a couple of shots,
maybe.”

Crockett smiled and twisted his good-humored mouth drolly to one side.

“That’s a very good plan, youngster,” said he. “But it has one big
drawback. How are you going to get up the tree? The redskins would
tumble you over before you’d get half-way.”

He saw the disappointed look upon the boy’s face, and added:

“If we were hard pressed and had to do something on the jump, it would
be a thing we could try. But, as it stands, I think I’ll make a little
experiment that’ll be safe.”

Then turning his head he glanced toward the tree which concealed the
old Texan.

“Dolph, who do you reckon’s the best shot in the lot of us?”

“You are,” replied the veteran, promptly.

“Who’s next?” asked Crockett.

“I’d like to say I am,” spoke Dolph, humorously. “But I can’t, and
stick close to the truth. Jed Curley’s the best shot here after
yourself, colonel.”

Jed Curley was a young adventurer of about twenty-five with whom both
Walter and Ned had become very friendly. He was a powerfully built
fellow, and his clear eyes and steady nerves gave him the working basis
of a sharp-shooter.

“All right,” said Crockett. “Just where are you located, Jed?”

“Right here, colonel,” came the voice of the young man.

“All right. Lie low, but listen to what I’m going to say to you.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m going to fire at that pinto Injun pony,” said Crockett. “Not to
kill it, though; I’ll be careful of that. You see, that pony jumping up
a while ago gave me a notion.”

“I see it, colonel,” came the voice of Jed. “You scare up the mustang,
that leaves the Injun uncovered, and before he can get shelter, I draw
a bead on him.”

“Exactly,” answered Crockett. “Ready, Jed?”

“All ready.”

There was a moment’s silence; then Crockett’s rifle rang out. One of
the ponies leaped up with a snort; Jed Curley’s piece cracked instantly
and the red rascal behind it lay silent in the grass.

Quickly the two men reloaded; again Crockett fired; once more a wounded
mustang uncovered its master; a second time the sharp-shooter’s rifle
spoke, and the master lay as silent as the other.

Within twenty minutes this performance had been gone through three
times; then a panic seemed to strike the savages; they leaped up, urged
their horses to their feet, mounted and turned to flee.

“A volley, boys!” yelled Crockett. “Take good aim.”

The volley pealed from the six rifles that were still loaded, and
four more of the Comanches fell. Then the remainder of the band, with
startled yells, went flying toward the east.




CHAPTER XI

THE BUFFALO HUNT


Rapidly reloading, the little party of whites stood upon the verge of
the grove and watched the band of redskins race away across the plains.

“From the looks of things,” said old Dolph, “I’d say they’ll not be
back this way.”

Crockett shook his head and laughed.

“No,” said he, “those Comanche gentlemen are completely scared. That
was a trick they’d not thought about; and as they hadn’t time to work
it out, they thought, very like, it was some kind of ‘bad medicine.’”

However, they made up their minds not to trust to appearances; and
mounting their horses they rode away toward the southwest, going at a
long, slow lope.

Night fell, and still they continued.

“It’s best to put all the distance between ourselves and that party of
reds that we can,” said Crockett. “They’re the kind of varmints you can
never count on to do anything.”

When they went into camp an hour or so after dark, they lighted no
fires, but ate food that required no cooking.

“It makes hard chewing,” grumbled old Dolph. “But then it can’t be
helped. Better a tough bite of grub than an Injun arrow that’d make me
bite the dust.”

The night was cool, but they made beds of grass, wrapped themselves in
their blankets, and with their saddles for pillows, they slept soundly.
For the first time since they started from the Mississippi River,
however, they had a guard for the camp, Jed Curley, Ned Chandler and
old Dolph taking turns until sunrise and breakfast.

They pushed on rapidly that day, keeping a sharp lookout for the
savages. But none came in sight; and so, to rest their ponies, which
had been severely tried, they halted a good two hours before sundown
and went into camp upon the banks of a small creek whose margin was
thick with trees.

Walter Jordan and Ned Chandler had, during the day, tried their
marksmanship upon some flocks of prairie chickens; and though these
were difficult game to bring down with a rifle, they had bagged a
couple of brace. The chickens were now stripped of their feathers and
dressed; each was skewered with a ramrod, and put to roast over the red
coals. Flour was mixed and baked into flap-jacks; and so they ate a
meal such as was enjoyed by the riders of the plains.

A guard was kept that night, also; but there were no signs of
Comanches, and they slept undisturbed. After breakfast next morning
they mounted once more and started upon their journey.

It was a splendid country which they now crossed, not so level as that
of the previous day’s journey, but rich in promise of the yield to the
farmer in the days to come.

“A wonderful range for grazing live stock,” said Crockett, his
observant eye taking in all the details and possibilities of the
region. “There’ll be grass in long seasons, and there’s plenty of
water.”

Old Dolph agreed with this.

“It’s the best grazing country in the southwest,” said he. “To prove
that just notice the herds of buffalo and wild mustangs that roam
through this country. They know the places where the good grass grows.”

There was a silence for some little time, and then Ned Chandler said:

“I’ve heard a good deal about buffalo hunting, and I’d like to have a
try at it before we reach San Antonio.”

“So should I,” spoke Jed Curley. “It seems as though it would be fine
sport.”

“Well,” said Davy Crockett, “as I’ve said, I shouldn’t despise the
chance myself, boys. It’s been many a year since I’ve had a run after
a herd of buffalo, and if we sight any, we’ll take half a day off our
journey and have a shot at them.”

This filled both Ned and Walter with enthusiasm; and all day they
looked forward eagerly to the possibility of sport. But they were
disappointed; the sun was getting low, and they were casting about
for a camping ground when suddenly old Dolph was heard to call out to
Crockett:

“Hello! Look there!”

All turned and they saw him pointing to the ground some little distance
away. It was near the brink of a spring that oozed from the ground in a
sort of hollow; and all about it were the marks of trampling hoofs.

“Buffalo!” said Colonel Crockett.

The entire party gathered about the spring and examined the tracks.

“There were only about half a dozen,” said the old Texan, as his sharp
eyes followed out the hoof prints. “But there’s a herd near by. These
were only stragglers, come to look for water.”

Supper was cooked and eaten that evening amid considerable excitement;
and as they lay wrapped in their blankets afterward, the boys listened
to the stories told by Crockett and old Dolph of mighty buffalo hunters
who had gone before and of hunts that had come to be parts of the
history of the west. Story after story followed, the other men taking
part, telling of their own experiences in chase of the mighty beast of
the plains, or those of others whom they had known. Both youngsters
dropped off to sleep with the voices still coming out of the shadows
around the camp-fire; and little wonder that they dreamed of great
herds of buffalo whose hoof beats were like the thunder, and whose
mighty rush seemed to shake the earth.

At sunup all were astir, and breakfast was quickly over; then they
looked at their arms and ammunition, and climbed upon their horses’
backs.

“Now, boys,” said Crockett, to the two young fellows who rode beside
him, “as you never rode the buffalo range before, it’s just as well
that you know something about the matter. Above all, look out for the
buffalo bull; you’ve heard of the grizzly bear and the panther and
other dangerous beasts, and they are dangerous enough, to be sure. But
the buffalo bull, especially when he’s wounded, is one of the worst
brutes that a man ever faced.”

“So, when you draw a bead on one,” said old Dolph, who rode near by,
“be sure and aim at a place that’ll make the shot fatal. If you don’t,
you’ll have a job on your hands that’ll be hard to finish.”

The tracks of the buffalo they’d been following finally merged into a
wide, much trampled trail, evidently made by hundreds of the animals.

“Just as I thought,” said the old Texan, in a satisfied tone. “They
belonged to a big herd, and now have joined the rest of them.”

Along the broad, trampled track of the buffalo rode the hunters, their
eyes ahead to catch the first glimpse of the game.

“Some ponies don’t like the smell of buffalo,” said Dolph; “and they
are hard to get up to a herd. Others again don’t care anything about
them and are likely to run you into danger if you don’t look out.
The best kind of a horse is the kind that understands what you are
about--that the thing’s a hunt--that there’s a time for getting in
close, and a time for getting away.”

“I suppose,” said Walter, “they must be trained to that.”

“Mostly, yes,” said Dolph. “But not always. Some mustangs take to the
thing naturally. This one that I’m riding is one of that kind. He
knows all about buffalo. But it may be that none of the others know
anything. So give one eye to the game and the other to your pony.”

It was about noon that they sighted the herd; far off on the plains
the great shaggy beasts were grazing on the dry grass, scattered over
a great extent of country. The hunters halted at the first glimpse of
them, and held a consultation.

“The wind is dead from the west,” said Crockett.

“It’d be well if some of us stayed here,” said old Dolph, “and if some
others rode around to the east, and others to the north. Then at a
signal--say a rifle shot--we could all ride down on them from three
directions and scatter them all over the prairie.”

This was considered a good idea. So Dolph and two of the men were left
at the halting place and the other five pushed around to the east. Here
Jed Curley and one other man were left; Crockett and the two boys held
on until they reached a point south of the grazing buffalo.

The great animals were slowly moving about upon the range, never
suspecting that their hunters were so close at hand.

“All ready?” asked Colonel Crockett.

“All ready,” answered the boys in a breath.

They rode forward at a sharp gallop. Crockett’s rifle rang out in
signal to the others waiting to the north and east; and the shot also
served to bring down a cow which stood near. Startled at the shot, the
great heads lifted and the bulls stared about for a sight of the enemy.
Then the rifles of the boys spoke and another of the beasts fell.

The air was filled with bellowings; away toward the north moved the
herd. But in a few moments the reports of rifles from that point turned
them toward the south and east. Jed Curley and his companion were now
heard from; and as their rifles were discharged, the buffalo halted in
a panic. For a moment there was a pause; then helter skelter they went
in every direction over the plains, their tails up and their heads down.

The hunters had all reloaded their pieces and they now dashed in among
the scattered herd, each selecting his particular quarry. The pony
which Walter Jordan rode was a hard-mouthed little beast, with a temper
all its own. He fancied he’d have some trouble with it if it proved
to be one of those mounts which Dolph said didn’t like the smell of
buffalo.

But it was the contrary. The mustang seemed to enter into the spirit of
the chase with such excellent good will that the boy was delighted. He
passed several cows and yearling bulls; but held his fire for bigger
game. His eyes traveling over the racing buffalo had lighted upon a
huge bull, a monstrous black fellow with a huge head and the shoulders
and hump of a giant of his kind.

Fired with ambition and encouraged by the willingness of his horse,
Walter dashed toward the black bull. When within fifteen yards he
dropped the reins, steadied his pony with his knees and raised his long
rifle. Clear and sharp the report rang out; the great bull stopped in
his tracks, threw up his huge black head and bellowed with rage.

“Watch that fellow!” yelled Jed Curley as he dashed away in pursuit of
another bull. “He’s only wounded!”

Walter remembered what old Dolph had said regarding wounded bulls, and
wheeled his horse away. Rapidly he began recharging his rifle; his eyes
went from this operation to the wounded bull; for the moment he forgot
his horse entirely. Suddenly the mustang went to his knees; he had
planted a forefoot in a prairie-dog’s hole, and Walter, unable to stop
himself, went flying over his head, his rifle dropping from his hands.

Like a cat, the mustang scrambled to its feet and darted away; and the
boy stood dismounted and weaponless, facing the great black bull.




CHAPTER XII

A FIGHT WITH MEXICANS


The bull which faced Walter Jordan was apparently the monarch of the
herd. He had wicked little eyes which were now red with rage and the
pain of his wound. His hoofs tore at the sod, his jaws champed, and a
rumbling bellow sounded deep in his throat. Before him was his foe.
Somehow this creature which stood before him had wounded him. And now
he was going to be revenged!

Lowering his giant head the bull charged at Walter; the boy stood his
ground until the animal was almost upon him; then he sprang aside, and
the great bulk of the maddened brute tore by him like a tornado.

Then Walter leaped to the place where his rifle had fallen. The charge
of powder and ball had been rammed home; the piece only required
priming, and the boy was hurriedly attending to this very necessary
thing when the black bull wheeled, sighted him, and charged once more.
But this time the beast was more cunning. Apparently he had profited by
the one fruitless charge; he seemed to have weighed the situation and
planned to overcome it.

The charge was slow; the head was not held so low; the little angry
eyes were fixed upon the boy. This time Walter knew he could not wait
until the last moment and then leap aside out of danger. The bull meant
to trample him under his sharp hoofs and gore him to death. But for all
he realized this, his hands were steady as they worked at the priming
of his rifle. The seconds passed and he realized, with a cold feeling
at his heart, that the piece would not be ready to fire before the
monster was upon him. His breath stopped, as though to meet the shock.
Then he heard a voice cry out:

“Steady, boy!”

Like the crack of a whip a rifle rang out; the black bull halted; the
great head drooped; then a shudder ran through its mighty frame, and it
toppled over on its side--dead.

“I call that a close shave,” came the voice of Crockett. “Another
moment, youngster, and you’d have been under his feet.”

Dazed, and with a sense of everything being a very long distance away,
Walter turned and saw Colonel Crockett and old Dolph ride up. Crockett
slipped from his horse and began to reload his gun, while the old Texan
sat admiring the huge beast which had fallen before the backwoodsman’s
aim.

“Well, Colonel Crockett,” said the young fellow, as his wits slowly
came back to him, and he realized what had happened, “I have you to
thank for that.”

Crockett drove home the charge of powder, and smiled in his usual droll
way.

“I have _you_ to thank,” said he, “for giving me a shot at the finest
bull I ever saw. What do you think, Dolph?”

The wrinkled veteran shook his head.

“He’s a mighty beast,” said he. “There are not many like him on these
prairies, if any.”

In a half hour the herd of buffalo had so scattered over the plain
that the hunters had brought down a dozen or so in all; and as the
ponies were tired by the sharp work, and they had no desire uselessly
to slaughter the bison, they halted in the pursuit and returned to the
place where their leader had been left.

“Well,” said Crockett, “we’ve had a very good little hunt of it while
it lasted. And now if we’re going to have any of the meat, we’d better
set about it and then be on our way.”

They cut sufficient tender meat from the carcass of a yearling which
old Dolph had been careful to shoot for just that purpose, and with
this carefully packed, they resumed their journey toward the southwest.

The day’s ride was filled with “buffalo” talk; and the camp-fire that
night saw a roasting of juicy strips of the yearling’s meat and a
fervent wishing that the party might fall in with such royal sport at
least once more before they had reached their journey’s end.

Next day they crossed the Brazos; and a few days further the Colorado
came in sight. As they caught the sheen of its waters under the
afternoon sun, they also caught the glint of something harder.

“Cold steel,” said Crockett, shading his eyes with both hands, and
looking keenly ahead.

A party of almost a score of horsemen were advancing, the sun striking
their rifle barrels. But it was the glitter of the points of long
lances they carried that had attracted the attention of the band under
Crockett.

“Mexicans,” said old Dolph as he took a long look at the party. “No one
else carries a spear, except the Comanche; and these ain’t redskins.”

“Well,” said Colonel Crockett, and he turned his eyes from the oncoming
horsemen to the country round about, “I reckon the Mexicans, as a
class, ain’t any too well disposed toward Americans. So we might just
as well pick out a place to meet them.”

Some little distance to the left was a sort of knoll, heavily wooded
and overlooking the river; this seemed a likely sort of place for a
stand against an enemy, so Crockett gave the order, the mustangs were
headed toward the knoll, and the Americans took their station upon it.

As they were ascending its side, the Mexicans saw them for the first
time, and halted. Then a half dozen of them rode forward to have a
closer look at the northerners; having gained a knowledge of their
scanty numbers, the Mexicans uttered loud cries of triumph, shook
their weapons at the party upon the knoll, and then rode back to their
friends.

Crockett ordered his men dismounted; the mustangs were placed among the
trees and fastened by the bridles. Then with ready rifles the little
band faced the opposing riders of the plains.

With a sudden fan-like movement the Mexicans spread out in a sort of
half circle and dashed at the rising ground upon which the Americans
had taken their station.

“Ready?” said Crockett.

“All ready,” was the answer.

“Fire!” came the order.

The deadly rifles spoke; a half dozen of the Mexicans went down in the
dust.

Swiftly the long weapons were reloaded. Once more they were leveled and
again they flashed out their messages of death. This time the Mexicans
halted in their rush; half their company lay upon the ground. With one
accord they tugged at their bridles, whirled their active little horses
around, and bolted off across the plains.

“Hello,” cried Walter Jordan, as he rose up and gazed after the flying
horsemen. “Look there!”

“It’s a boy,” shouted Ned Chandler, “and he’s tied to one of the
ponies.”

“An American, too,” said old Dolph, as he drove home the ball into the
barrel of his rifle.

In the rear of the Mexicans raced a pony which bore upon its back,
evidently tightly bound to the saddle, an American boy of about sixteen
years.

“A prisoner,” said Jed Curley, throwing forward his deadly rifle.

“Take care, Jed,” warned Crockett. “Don’t kill or cripple the mustang
so that it’ll fall! The boy might be hurt; for tied up as he is, he
can’t help himself.”

Jed’s rifle sounded; but apparently he missed, for the pony continued.

“I was _too_ careful,” said Jed. “You try, colonel.”

Crockett threw his long rifle to his shoulder; its report was answered
by a leap from the running horse; the animal went painfully on for
some little distance upon three legs; then it slowed down and finally
stopped altogether.

At this the Americans mounted in haste and rode across the prairie
to the place where the wounded pony stood, with the boy, trussed and
helpless, upon his back.

Jed Curley cut the bonds with his hunting knife. The young fellow
slipped from the back of the horse and sat upon the ground rubbing the
circulation back into his arms and legs.

“They had these ropes so tight,” said he, “that I could hardly breathe.”

He was about sixteen years of age, a bright-looking lad with,
apparently, plenty of spirit and good sense.

“What’s your name, sonny?” inquired old Dolph, as he sat on his horse
looking down at him.

“Sid Hutchinson,” answered the boy. “And I thank you, gentlemen, for
saving me from the Mexicans.”

The party dismounted and Walter and Ned helped young Hutchinson rub
back his circulation.

“How did they come to get you?” asked Davy Crockett. “Where are you
from?”

“From New Orleans,” answered the boy. “I was crossing Texas to San
Antonio with a wagon, my brother, and a girl.”

Both Walter and Ned paused in their operations; they gazed at the boy
and then at each other.

“A girl?” demanded Walter.

“What was her name?” asked Ned.

“Ethel Norton,” replied Sam Hutchinson. “And I haven’t even the
smallest idea where she or my brother is now.”




CHAPTER XIII

THE PLOTTERS ONCE MORE


For a moment after the statement by Sid Hutchinson, the two boys and
Crockett looked at each other in wonder.

“Well,” said the colonel, finally, “it’s like finding a needle in a
haystack, boys; but we’ve found it--all by chance.”

In a few words Walter had told young Hutchinson the necessary facts of
his hunt for Ethel Norton; and Sid looked amazed.

“Well, look at that!” said he. “Did you ever hear anything like it
before!”

“But tell us what’s happened,” urged Ned Chandler. “How did the
Mexicans come to get you?”

The boy got upon his feet.

“We had about as nice and quiet a journey as you’ve ever seen,” said
he. “Nothing happened until yesterday, when we crossed the Colorado
and went into camp. Then we met three Americans.”

“Three!” said Walter.

“Yes,” replied the other boy. “They were, strangely enough, coming from
San Antonio, and were on their way to New Orleans.”

Again Ned and Crockett and Walter exchanged glances. The eyes of the
backwoodsman were full of laughter.

“Well, well!” said he. “And of course you all got to talking and saying
how queer it was that you were going _from_ New Orleans _to_ San
Antonio.”

“Yes, of course,” admitted the boy.

“Did the three Americans seem interested?” asked the backwoodsman.

“They did,” said Sid Hutchinson. “That is, for a while. Then they
seemed to shut up tight; and they didn’t say much more about anything.”

“Did they give any names?” asked Walter.

“One’s name was Huntley--I think they called him colonel. Then there
was a sharp looking man in black--Davidge they called him. I forget the
name of the third one.”

“Well,” asked Davy Crockett, “what happened?”

“We thought they meant to camp with us that night,” said Sid. “But they
changed their minds and went away a little after dark.”

“When were you attacked by the Mexicans?” asked Crockett.

“This morning. We’d just broken camp and had got the mules hitched to
the wagon, when they came down on us.”

“What became of Miss Norton?” asked Ned, feverishly.

“The last I saw of her,” said Sid, “she was on a mustang, tearing away
toward the southwest with my brother Bill beside her. Then I was cut
off, and headed for the river, meaning to swim my pony across. I’d
got to this side, but the Mexicans knew the country and in a little
while had me surrounded. Then they took me back across the river and
began following the trail of those of their band who’d rode after Ethel
Norton and my brother Bill.”

“Yes, yes,” said Walter and Ned in a breath.

“We’d gone about six or eight miles,” said the boy, “and then we heard
firing ahead; some of the Mexicans went forward to find out what it
meant; they came back in a little while full tilt and away we struck
back for the river once more. We’d crossed and had ridden about an hour
on this side when we sighted you folks.”

“Haven’t you any idea what the firing meant that you heard when the
party stopped and turned back?”

Sid shook his head.

“I’m not sure,” said he. “But if my judgment’s any good, I’d say that
the lot that had gone in chase of Ethel and my brother had been given
a good stiff run, and in the end had fallen in with some Americans
who’d sailed into them.”

“In that case,” said Walter, “Miss Norton would be all right.”

Sid nodded.

“That’s what I think,” said he.

“There’s only one way to make sure,” said Davy Crockett. “And that’s to
cross the river and find out.”

The pony which Sid Hutchinson had been bound upon was not fit to ride;
but there were a number of riderless mustangs standing and trotting
about on the plain, belonging to Mexicans who had fallen in the fight.
One of these was caught without trouble, and Sid mounted at once.

In the course of an hour they reached a ford of the Colorado and
crossed; Sid led them to the site of the encampment where the Mexicans
had first attacked them; and at once Crockett and Dolph caught the
trail of the pursuers of Ethel Norton and Sid’s brother Bill, and away
they rode, the remainder of the party following with ready rifles.
After a hard ride they came to a place which was thickly grown with
timber.

Sid Hutchinson called to Crockett.

“Here’s where we stopped when we heard the firing,” said he. “It was
somewhere on the other side of the timber.”

The party pushed their way through the trees; and in a little while
they came upon the scene of what must have been a hard fight.

“And once more the Mexicans got the worst of it,” said Jed Curley.

Dead men and horses lay about; but of living men there was no trace.
Dolph rode about the field and narrowly scanned the field for
indications.

“Here’s the way the Mexicans went when they left,” said he, pointing to
the ground. “And here’s the direction the people took who fought them.”

Both Walter and Ned examined the last trail eagerly; both had the same
thought in his mind.

“Wagon tracks,” said Walter. “Here they are.”

“Hurrah!” shouted Ned excitedly.

“Ethel and Bill’s gone off with the party that rescued them,” spoke
young Hutchinson.

“And toward San Antonio,” said Davy Crockett.

The little band followed the trail for a few miles and then went into
camp. Early in the morning they were off once more. But the party ahead
of them were evidently hard riders, for the distance between them did
not seem to decrease.

“It’s my private opinion,” said Colonel Crockett, “that this trail is
a half dozen hours old. More than likely the folks ahead have ridden a
good part of the night.”

In the afternoon they crossed the Guadalupe River and pushed toward
San Antonio de Bexer. They did not reach the town until long after
nightfall; and then Crockett rode directly to the headquarters of
Colonel Travis, where he was warmly welcomed.

Travis was a stalwart young man who had gone into Texas much as
Crockett himself had done; and he shook hands with the two boys
cordially.

“I’m glad to see you,” said he. “Every state in the Union seems to be
sending men and boys to help the cause along. In a little while we
shall have an army large enough for work against Santa Anna. And then
we can begin active operations.”

The boys were then introduced to “Jim” Bowie, known throughout the
southwest as the first user of the celebrated “Bowie knife.” He was
a big light-haired man, with the blue eyes of the fighter, and had
crossed the prairies from Louisiana, where he had his home, to take
part in the coming struggle.

“There’s hardly a day,” said he, after he had greeted the party with
rare good will, “that I don’t meet a few newcomers. To-day it’s
Colonel Crockett and his friends; yesterday it was an American girl and
boy who were racing across the plains near the Colorado with a crew of
Mexicans after them full tilt.”

Both Ned and Walter grasped Colonel Bowie’s arm.

“A girl!” said Ned.

“Where is she now?” demanded Walter.

Bowie looked from one to the other of the boys in surprise.

“She’s just now with Mrs. Allison, and, I reckon, sound asleep,” said
he. “But there’s the boy in the next room there.”

Sid Hutchinson leaped through the door and into the adjoining room with
a whoop. A young fellow of about nineteen sat reading an old newspaper
in a corner; and in a moment he and Sid had their arms about each other
and were prancing about the room like mad. When the first great rush
of joy was over, Sid introduced his brother to Walter and Ned who had
followed him into the room, and in a few words explained the facts of
his capture and rescue and of Walter and Ned’s search for Ethel Norton.

Bill Hutchinson listened in surprise.

“Well,” said he, at length, “it does beat all how things come about,
doesn’t it? Ethel will be glad to see you.” Then turning to his brother
he added, “Do you remember those three men who rode up to our camp the
other night and then rode away?”

“I do,” said Sid.

“Well, what would you say if I told you I saw them among the Mexicans
who chased me and Ethel?”

“I’d believe it,” said Sid, quietly and promptly. And then he told his
brother who the three were, and the nature of their errand to Texas.
Bill listened, amazed.

“Hello!” said he. “Hello! What’s this!”

“They are rogues,” said Walter. “And as Sam Davidge is to come into the
estate in case Ethel Norton does not claim it, there’s no telling what
they would do, should she fall into their hands.”

“That’s good sense,” remarked Bill Hutchinson. “And I say the same.
Well, I guess Ethel’s all right now, though. She’s with Mrs. Allison,
and _she_ is an American woman of the right kind.”

“Where does Mrs. Allison live?” asked Ned Chandler.

“At the end of town which you must have entered,” replied Bill. “It’s a
small ’dobe house with a garden about it. It stands all alone.”

Both Walter and Ned remembered the house, for they had passed by its
very door. There had been a light burning in one of the windows and
they had remarked how lonely it looked, as they rode toward it over the
trail. And now, when they learned that the girl they had come so far to
see was there, and recalled the loneliness of the place, they looked at
each other.

“Suppose,” suggested Walter, “we go over that far and take a look at
things.”

Ned was willing and eager, and the two Hutchinsons showed an interested
willingness.

As the boys passed through the room where Crockett sat with Travis and
Bowie and some others, they, in a low voice, told him where they were
going.

“It’s rather late,” said the backwoodsman. “And like as not they’ll all
be abed. But,” with a nod of the head, “it never does any harm to have
a look around.”

San Antonio was one of the oldest Spanish settlements in Texas. The
site was first occupied in 1715 as a military post to protect the
region from the French, then occupying Louisiana, and also to guard the
Franciscan friars whose missions, planted along the San Antonio River,
were liable to attack from the Indians.

It was an important town, having a population of about twenty-five
hundred, and was a celebrated trading place for the Indians and the
Mexicans of the northern provinces.

Under the Franciscans, a great number of Indians had been taught the
laws of civilization and religion; great irrigation ditches had been
cut to water the soil; fine stone buildings and churches had been
erected. But during the period of American filibustering expeditions,
and the revolution during which the Mexicans threw off the rule of
Spain, the town had been left practically unprotected; the attacks of
the fierce people of the plains, the Comanches and Apaches, had been
frequent; and so the churches and stone buildings were now ruins, the
great ditches choked and useless, the civilized Indians had disappeared.

So it was a very much decayed San Antonio through which the four boys
passed on their way to Mrs. Allison’s house.

The moon was shining, and the little ’dobe building stood silent and
pale under its cold light. As the boys stood some little distance away,
they heard the whinny of a horse and the stamp of hoofs. But they did
not attribute any importance to this; horses were to be heard and seen
anywhere in towns like San Antonio. But when they saw two indistinct
forms holding close to the shadows thrown by the house, they became all
attention.

“Take it quietly now,” warned Walter Jordan. “It might mean nothing at
all.”

Upon their hands and knees they approached the house; or at least three
of them did, for Sid Hutchinson had noiselessly left them, walked
softly along the deserted street for a space, and was now speeding as
hard as he could go for the American headquarters.

Walter and Ned had left their rifles behind them, but each possessed
a derringer which Crockett had advised them to buy at the beginning
of the journey west from the Mississippi. But Bill Hutchinson had no
weapon except a hatchet which he carried in his belt.

There now came a rattling sound and a jingling as though something had
dropped to the ground.

“They are forcing the door,” whispered Ned Chandler.

The boys pressed forward, cautiously, but with more speed. The door of
the house was open; as they stood beside it, not sure of their next
movement, and not wanting to make a false one, there came a sudden and
startling scream from the interior. At this they sprang inside, the
derringers and the tomahawk held ready for use.

Upon their appearance there came a shot and a confusion of voices which
Walter and Ned recognized as those of Huntley and Barker. Then there
was a smashing of glass.

“This way!” cried the voice of Colonel Huntley.

“He’s going through the window at the other side of the house,” cried
Ned.

The three lads darted out, and around the house. Under some trees
not far from the trail were a dozen or more mounted men. Huntley was
running toward these, the fainting form of a girl in his arms.

Like young panthers both Walter and Ned sprang upon him; he dropped the
girl under the weight of their attack, and with the fury of a giant
fought them off. Barker scrambled upon his horse, and his voice was now
heard shouting to the Mexicans.

“Shoot, you yellow idiots! Why don’t you shoot!”

“Five hundred dollars to the man who gets the girl!” came the voice of
Sam Davidge.

Rifles and small arms were flung forward in the moonlight; Huntley drew
a derringer and advanced upon the boys. But before a shot could be
fired there came a rush of hoofs; old Dolph, Jed Curley and a dozen
more, with Sid Hutchinson in their midst, dashed upon the scene.

Huntley, seeing them, leaped upon his horse and, after firing a wild
shot at the boys from the pistol, wheeled his mount and tore away down
the trail with the Mexicans.

Like the wind, Dolph, Jed and Sid Hutchinson and their party tore by in
pursuit. From the distance came the sound of hoofs and the rattle of
shots; then the boys lifted up the fainting Ethel Norton and carried
her back to the house.




CHAPTER XIV

THE BATTLE OF THE ALAMO


The scream and the pistol shot had awakened Mrs. Allison; and when the
boys appeared in the doorway with the fainting girl, she was awaiting
them.

“Put her down there,” she directed calmly, pointing to a couch covered
with a huge buffalo robe.

Under the attentions of Mrs. Allison, who was one of the women of
the border, and had been for years accustomed to sudden dangers and
calls for help, Ethel Norton quickly revived. In a very little while
she had recovered from her fright and was able to talk; and then Bill
Hutchinson introduced Walter and Ned, and they told their story once
more.

“Oh!” cried the girl, when she had heard it all and realized the
nature of the danger she had just escaped, “how can people be so cruel
and so wicked! And,” looking from one to the other of them, “how can I
thank you all for what you have done for me?”

They were still talking the situation over eagerly when the sound of
horses’ hoofs came from the trail. It was the party under old Dolph and
Jed.

“They never stopped,” cried Sid Hutchinson as he slid from the horse of
Jed, for he had been mounted behind that adventurer. “They fired back
at us, but kept right on running.”

“He means,” said Jed, with a laugh, “all of them that were able to.”

“What of Huntley and Davidge and Barker?” asked Ned, anxiously.

Old Dolph shook his head.

“They are among the ones not able to,” said he. “You youngsters need
never be uneasy about them varmints any more.”

For about a week after this Ethel Norton was quite ill, and still
another week passed before she felt able to travel; and the boys
remained in San Antonio watching the preparations going on for
receiving Santa Anna and his army; and also preparing for their own
long journey across the plains toward the Red River.

Davy Crockett gave them much good advice upon this point.

“Wait a few days,” said he; “I think a party will be going your way and
you can join them. And if there is not, we’ll have old Dolph guide you
back. We can spare one man, I suppose.”

The boys waited well into the third week; but there was no sign of a
party traveling in this direction. So Crockett consulted with Travis,
Bowie and old Dolph, and it was decided that they delay no longer.

“You were sent to get the girl to Louisville,” said Crockett to the
boys, “and I guess you’d better do it right away. In a country as
unsettled as this one is, too much delay is dangerous.”

“But you are going to stay, colonel?” said Walter.

“As long as Texas has a foe out in the open, I’ll stay,” replied the
backwoodsman. “Some day I may go back to Tennessee; but that all
depends on how things go with me. War, you know,” and he smiled in his
droll way, “is a mighty uncertain thing.”

During the remainder of that day the boys, together with the Hutchinson
brothers and old Dolph, looked to their arms and horses. A mustang
was presented to Ethel by Colonel Crockett; and at noon on the day
following the girl, the veteran Texan and the four boys mounted and
waved a good-bye to the heroes they were leaving behind--and heroes
they were--heroes such as the world has seldom seen.

Upon the day on which the young travelers recrossed the Colorado,
sentinels upon a roof top at San Antonio noted the advance of a
Mexican force. It proved to be Santa Anna with an army of seven
thousand men. The Texans quickly retreated across the river to the
Franciscan mission buildings, known as the Alamo. For there were only
one hundred and fifty men in the garrison, and they could not hope to
face seven thousand in the open.

The Alamo buildings consisted of a church, with a convent and hospital
behind it. Then there was a yard enclosed by a stone wall. The entire
place was too much for so small a force to defend; so Travis very
wisely stationed his men in the church, which was a stone structure
with powerful walls and facing the river and town.

“We have fourteen guns mounted on the walls,” said the young North
Carolinian as he swept the plaza before the mission with his keen eyes.
“And I reckon the Mexicans will know they’ve been in a fight if they
ever get within reach of them.”

Behind these cannon the Texan riflemen awaited the movements of the
force of Santa Anna. That commander at once grouped his guns in battery
formation and opened fire; the defenders of the Alamo replied with
their guns; but their deadly rifles were the most effective weapon;
with them they picked off the gunners as berries are picked from a bush.

Travis, while the way was yet open, sent out a message to the Texas
government asking that aid be sent them. All the time the force of
the Mexicans was growing larger. Colonel Fannin set out from Goliad
with three hundred men and four pieces of artillery, to the aid of the
Texans at the Alamo. But he had little provision, his ammunition wagon
broke down, and he hadn’t enough oxen to get his cannon across the
river. Fannin at length gave up the attempt and returned to Goliad.
However, a bold leader, at the head of thirty-two daring followers,
arrived on the night of March first and slipped through the Mexican
lines. This was Captain Smith and his little command from Gonzales; and
the defenders welcomed them with cheers.

On March fourth Travis sent off a last message to the Texan
authorities; this was carried by the brave Captain Smith, who set his
comrades’ lives above his own safety. The message said in part:

“... although we may be sacrificed to the vengeance of a Gothic enemy,
the victory will cost that enemy so dear that it will be worse than
a defeat.... A blood red flag waves from the church of Bexer and in
the camp above us, in token that the war is one of vengeance against
rebels. These threats have had no influence upon my men but to make
all fight with desperation and with that high souled courage which
characterizes the patriot who is willing to die for his country;
liberty and his own honor; God and Texas; victory or death!”

On the day following the sending of this message, Santa Anna assembled
his troops for an assault upon the Alamo; but it was not until the
succeeding day that the attack was delivered. Twenty-five hundred
troops were divided into four columns commanded by Colonels Duque,
Romero and Morales; they had bars, axes and scaling ladders. All the
Mexican cavalry were drawn up around the mission to see that no one
escaped.

Early in the morning the four columns, at the sound of the bugle,
dashed forward; the Texan cannon and the long rifles spat death in
their faces. The column under Duque recoiled from the north wall, their
commander badly wounded. East and west the attack also failed; the
Mexicans swarmed in a shouting mob upon the north side. Their officers
shouted and struck at them, forcing them to scale the walls. Once more
the sleet of bullets from the American rifles came forth, and once
more the attackers fell back. But again the officers forced them to
the walls; this time they scaled it and fell over it in crowds. By
sheer weight of numbers they forced the Texans across the convent yard
and into the hospital.

The captured cannon were turned upon the ’dobe walls of the hospital
and smashed them in; a howitzer, loaded with musket balls and broken
iron, was fired into the building and the Texans fell like sheep. Then
a desperate hand-to-hand conflict ensued. Crockett, Travis and Bonham
fought like the heroes of old. Knife, pistol and clubbed rifle played
their parts. Jim Bowie had been wounded while defending the wall early
in the fight. He lay upon a bed, coolly firing one pistol after another
as the Mexicans showed themselves. But he was finally killed by a
musket shot.

From room to room fought the Texans, contesting every step of the
way; the proof of their desperation is the great number of Mexicans
who fell in this bloody close-quarters fight; forty-five bodies were
counted in one spot after all was over.

[Illustration: A DESPERATE HAND-TO-HAND CONFLICT ENSUED]

Travis fell here, and so did the brave Colonel Bonham. With his loved
rifle clubbed in his hands and with many a foeman stretched beside him,
fell that gallant Tennessean, Davy Crockett, defending a doorway. Like
fiends, the Mexicans, urged by the bloody minded Santa Anna, stabbed
and shot, and when the fight was done, every Texan in the Alamo was
dead.

       *       *       *       *       *

News traveled slowly in those days and the boys had reached the
Mississippi once more, they had said good-bye to Sid and Bill
Hutchinson and Dolph, and were about to embark upon a steamboat for
Louisville, when a New Orleans newspaper caught their eyes. And in it
they saw the first news of the fall of the Alamo, and of the noble
death of Colonel Crockett.

Ethel Norton was as shocked at the news as they were, for the boys had
been telling her of the backwoodsman’s good nature and rare qualities
of heart.

“And to think,” said she, the big tears starting in her eyes, “that all
his high hopes should end in death.”

“But it will not be for nothing,” said Walter Jordan. “Men like Colonel
Crockett and Travis and Bowie do not die this way without making a
stir. Who knows but their death will so arouse Texas and the Texans
that they will not wait to be attacked--that it may make them carry the
war to Santa Anna, and so set their country free.”

And it was not long after the three had arrived in Louisville, and
Ethel Norton with the services of the elder Mr. Jordan had proved her
identity, that news from far-away Texas showed Walter’s judgment to
have been good. Texas had declared herself free; Santa Anna had marched
another army against her, and was met by a force under the celebrated
Sam Houston on the San Jacinto River. The Mexicans were utterly
defeated, Santa Anna was a prisoner, and the Lone Star flag had taken
its place among the emblems of the world.




CHAPTER XV

SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF DAVID CROCKETT


David Crockett was born August 17, 1786, at Rogersville, Tennessee.
He came of Irish ancestry, his grandparents settling in Pennsylvania.
Afterward they traveled southwest and made their home in what was then
the wilderness of Tennessee. In one of the almost countless Indian
attacks upon the settlers they were both killed.

It is not known if John Crockett, their son, and father of David, was
born on the ocean crossing to America, or in Ireland. At any rate, he
grew up in America, and fought gallantly in the Revolution.

He married a Mary Hankins who lived in that rich farming region near
the town of York, Pa. They had three daughters and six sons; David was
the fifth child, and first saw the light of day on the banks of the
Nolachuky River, Tennessee.

At the age of eight years David was engaged by a drover to help take
care of his cattle. But after two weeks on the road he ran away, joined
a wagon train and returned home.

Soon after this young Davy got into a scrape at school. He had a fight
with a boy much larger and older than himself and thrashed him; then,
fearing what the schoolmaster would say, he played truant. When Davy’s
father heard of this he sought out his son. But the boy eluded him. And
so we find him in the situation of fearing to go to school and also
fearing to go home. So he ran away, engaged with another drover and
traveled into Virginia.

The boy drifted about the country for a time, working for drovers and
wagoners; once at Baltimore he was upon the point of going to sea, but
the teamster with whom he was then engaged refused to allow him to go.

After suffering a great deal of bad usage, he made up his mind to go
back home to Tennessee. To escape a whipping at the hands of his father
he had endured hardships that were worse than a thousand whippings.
He dreaded what they’d say to him and more than once hesitated on the
journey home. But he was welcomed with open arms.

Now came the time for Davy to show the stuff he was made of; his father
was in debt, and the boy, now large and strong and fifteen years of
age, set to work to pay this off. It was accomplished in a year’s time,
and by hard, steady toil, such as none of the family had ever dreamed
him capable of.

The boy up to this time had little or no education; and so he set about
getting one. In six months he had learned to read and write and do sums
in arithmetic; this was all the schooling he ever had.

And through all this time the woods offered the young man a fair
chance to gratify his love for wandering and hunting. Little by little
his skill grew, and before many years he was considered the most deadly
marksman in all Tennessee.

While still very young, Crockett married an Irish girl, Polly Finlay;
and they began their housekeeping in a log cabin. Attracted by the
hunting grounds and an opportunity to better his condition in life, he,
his wife, and two boys later crossed the mountains with their household
goods into Lincoln County and settled on Elk River.

Here in this paradise of the hunter Crockett’s skill grew and grew.
There were many mighty hunters in that day, but not one whose celebrity
approached that of Crockett.

But then the second war with England came on; Tecumseh rallied the
Indian tribes against the white settlers who had begun to occupy their
hunting grounds.

The Creek chief, Weatherford, attacked Fort Mimms with a war party of
fifteen hundred braves. The fort was taken by surprise, and out of the
garrison of two hundred and seventy-five only seventeen escaped.

This was the beginning of the Creek War. General Andrew Jackson was
made commander of the American army sent against the savages. And in
this army Crockett served as a volunteer.

During the campaign against the Creeks, Crockett undertook many
dangerous scouting trips and took part in the battle of Tallushatchee,
and also that of Taladega. His daring brought him prominently before
the public eye in all the movements of the army against the Indians.
Afterward he reënlisted and joined Russell’s Spies, with whom he
performed many difficult feats of enterprise and courage. After
the battle of Enotochopko his time again expired, and once more he
reënlisted and fought to the end of the Creek War.

Two years after his return home his wife died; and not a great while
afterward he married once more. It was about this time that he went
upon an exploring expedition into the Creek country, where he was taken
dangerously ill.

Later he removed with his family into the section bought by the
government from the Chickasaw Nation. He established a home at the head
of Shoal Creek, and was shortly after elected justice of the peace, and
later still, colonel of a regiment of frontier militia.

As time went on, Crockett grew more and more in the public eye; he was
just the sort of picturesque character that would please the rough and
ready settlers; his marksmanship, his ready, backwoods eloquence made
him the popular choice and he was sent to the Legislature. Afterward he
ran for Congress and was defeated.

But it takes more than a single defeat to discourage a man like
Crockett; and so the following election he ran again and was elected.
He created a sensation in Washington during his stay in the city during
his first and second terms as a Congressman. All the big cities of the
east were also delighted to greet and entertain him upon one occasion
when he visited them. But on his third attempt for the Congressional
seat, he was defeated. Then he went to Texas.

There is not a great deal known of Colonel Crockett’s trip across the
plains to the town of San Antonio; and even less of his doings after
he got there. But that he fought as brave a fight as any of the other
heroic defenders of the Alamo, those who knew him best were positive;
and his name will live always in the annals of the Great West.


  Other Stories in this Series are:

  IN KENTUCKY WITH DANIEL BOONE
  IN THE ROCKIES WITH KIT CARSON




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.