The Lost Gold of the Montezumas: A Story of the Alamo

He had pulled in his panting pony, and he now unslung his bow and put an arrow on the string.

"Red Wolf young chief!" he said. "Wait for Comanche! Tell Big Knife!"

It was not altogether imprudence or bad management to let his hard-pushed mustang breathe for a few moments. It might be called cunning to let his enemies go by him if they would. But stronger than any cunning, or than any prudence concerning his horse, was his burning ambition to do something that he could boast of afterwards. What is called Indian boasting is only the white man's love of fame in another form. Each red hero is his own newspaper, and has to do his own reporting of his feats of arms.

The hoof-beats came nearer, swiftly, upon a path which crossed his own at the bushes behind which he had halted.

Twang went the bow, the arrow sped, and a screeching death-whoop followed. The Lipan boy did but prove himself altogether a son of Castro when he sprang to the ground and secured his bloody war-trophy at the risk of his life. The pony and the weapons of the fallen brave were also taken. Then once more Red Wolf was on the sorrel dashing onward, while behind him rose the angry yells of the Comanches, who had heard the death-cry and knew that one of their number had "gone under."

"Ugh! Heap boy! Save hair!" was the hoarse-toned greeting given to his son by Castro three minutes later.

"Comanche!" said Red Wolf, holding up his gory prize. "Great Bear come. Not many braves right away. Too many pretty soon. Heap run. Ugh!"

Castro understood the situation well enough without much explanation, and his prospects did not seem to be very good. He and his braves were too few to win a pitched battle and too many for concealment.

"Ugh!" he replied to Red Wolf. "Great chief no run. Die hard. Heap fight."

The one thing in his favor was the first mistake made by Great Bear. It had kept him from being in person among the next half-dozen of the braves who had gone to the left, so very close upon the heels of Red Wolf. Even their wrath for the fate of their foremost man did but send them on the more recklessly to avenge him. They whooped savagely as they galloped past his body at the crossing of the paths. They still believed they had only one Lipan to deal with, but they were terribly undeceived, for their blind rush into the presence of Castro and his warriors was as if they had fallen into a skilfully set ambuscade. They were taken by surprise, outnumbered, almost helpless, and down they went, not one of them escaping.

Away behind them, the fast-arriving main body of the Comanches listened to the death-shouts and to the Lipan whoops of triumph, and they obeyed the astonished yell with which their leader summoned them to gather to him at the spot where he had halted.

"Too many Lipan," he said, to a brave who rode in with a kind of report. "Castro great chief. Heap snake. No let him catch Great Bear in chaparral trap. Wait. Comanche fool. Lose hair for nothing. Red Wolf heap young brave. Kill him dead."

That was indeed fame for the young Lipan warrior. Not only had he been recognized by his pursuer, but the great war-chief of the Comanches believed that the son of his old enemy was proving himself another Castro, as courageous and as cunning as his father. A mere boy, not yet sixteen, had become of such importance that he must be killed off, if possible, to prevent the future harm that he would be likely to do.

Red Wolf's ambuscade had not been of his own planning, but he had performed his accidental part of it remarkably well.

"Red Wolf, young chief! Son of Castro!" said his father, proudly. "Big Knife good medicine. Saw boy. Old friend tell name. Ugh! Good!"

To his mind, therefore, Colonel Bowie had been a kind of war-prophet, declaring the capacity of the boy he had named, giving him "good medicine," or tremendous good luck, and now his correctness as a prophet had been unexpectedly established. So said more than one of the Lipans who had been at the fort and had witnessed the performance with the wonderful medicine knife.

Now, during a number of minutes, all the chaparral was still, for even the wild creatures were hiding and the human beings talked by motions and not by spoken words. Not one of the latter, on either side, could as yet shape for himself a trustworthy idea concerning the numbers or the precise locality of his enemies. All had dismounted, however, and the hard-ridden horses had a chance to recover their wind. No less than seven of them, that had been very good Comanche ponies that morning, had now changed their tribe and had become Lipans, whether they would or not.

CHAPTER V.
AMONG THE BUSHES

The Texan rangers had arrived just in time to see the finish of a very fine race. They had not actually seen Red Wolf win it, but they were in no doubt as to why his pursuers made such a frantic dash into the chaparral.

"Not after the Comanches!" shouted Bowie. "Into the cover and find the Lipans! Charge!"

They went in at a point that was nearer than were Great Bear and his braves, to the spot where the Lipans worked their unintentional ambush. They heard all that whooping, and the stillness which followed it did not puzzle old Indian fighters.

"There's been a sharp brush."

"Those were scalp-whoops."

"We're in for it, boys. Shoot quick if you've got to, but hold your fire to the last minute. There are none too many of us."

Those were their orders, but there was no shooting to be done right away.

Hardly had Bowie pulled in, calling a halt, in some doubt as to which path, if any, it was best for him to follow, before a sorrel mustang came out in an opening before him, somewhat as if he had been dropped like an acorn from one of the scrub oaks.

"Red Wolf!" exclaimed Bowie. "Where is Castro?"

"Big Knife, come!" replied Red Wolf, pointing rapidly. "Castro there. Great Bear there. Heap Comanches. Young chief take hair! Ugh!"

He was holding up, with intense pride, his proof that he had been a victor in a single-handed fight. To the mind of any man of Bowie's experience it was entirely correct, and he said so.

"All right," he told his young friend. "Go ahead. Be a chief some day. Now I must see your father short order. Go ahead."

It was but a few minutes after that that the Lipan chief and Big Knife were shaking hands, but their questions and answers were few.

"Glad I got here before things were any worse," said Bowie. "I can make Great Bear pretend to give it up as soon as he knows I'm here."

"Ugh!" replied Castro. "Great Bear heap lie. Say go home. Then kill horse to catch Lipan."

"Just so," said Bowie. "Of course he will. Chief, hear old friend. Do as I say."

"Ugh!" came back assentingly. "Big Knife talk. Chief hear."

"I'll keep him back while you get a good start," said Bowie. "But do you and your braves ride for the Rio Grande. Ride fast. Get back to your lodges by that way. I'll follow to-morrow with a squad."

"Ugh!" said Castro, doubtfully. "No go to lodge now. Rio long water. Where wait for Big Knife? Bravo there, along river."

"I don't exactly know just where to say," began Bowie.

"Hacienda Dolores!" sounded gruffly out of one of the bushes near them. "Across the river. Tetzcatl."

Castro almost set free a whoop in his surprise, but he checked it in time, and only exclaimed, —

"Black Panther hide deep. Good. No let Comanche see him. How Big Knife find hacienda?"

"All right," said Bowie. "I know. It's the abandoned ranch on the other side. Pretty good buildings, too. Just as good a place as any, if I can get there with a whole skin. Reckon I can."

"Red Wolf lead horse to hacienda for Big Knife," said his father; but the voice from the bushes added, "Tetzcatl."

"That's it," said Bowie. "I'll get there. You and the youngster meet me and my men at about this place to-morrow any time I can get here. Say it 'll probably be toward noon. Now I must have a talk with Great Bear."

A chorus of friendly grunts responded to him from the Lipans who had gathered around, and they seemed to follow his instructions at once. Even Red Wolf and his pony had already disappeared.

There was a bugle among the varied outfit of the rangers, and now it was unslung by its bearer. He really knew what to do with it. As the band of white men rode cautiously forward in the direction given them, the martial music sounded again and again at short intervals. It was an announcement to the Comanches that they had more than Lipans to deal with, and it was also a plain invitation to a parley.

Just how many red foemen he might have in front of him Great Bear did not know. Neither had he any count of the white riflemen, but their presence settled his mind.

"Great Bear no fight Texan now!" was his immediate declaration to his warriors. "Heap fool Big Knife. Put him in Alamo. No see through wall. Then find Castro in bushes. No let Lipan get away."

His next business, therefore, was to ride forward, with a cunning semblance of friendly frankness, to talk with Bowie and send him back to the fort, leaving the bushes clear of rifles. Not even then did the rangers expose themselves unduly, and Great Bear knew that he was covered by more than one unerring marksman while he was shaking hands so heartily.

"Heap friend," he said. "Great Bear glad Texan come. Glad to see Big Knife. Lipan kill Comanche. Gone now."

"Great Bear lie a heap," returned Bowie, coldly. "Said he would go home to his lodge. Break word. Stay and fight Lipan."

"Ugh!" returned Great Bear, insolently. "Great Bear chief! What for Big Knife ride in bushes? Hunt Lipan dog? Take Castro hair? Shut mouth. No talk hard. Go to fort. Go sleep!"

"Heap bad talk," said Bowie, with steady firmness. "Great Bear is in a trap. Better get out. Lose all his braves. This isn't your land. Go to lodge."

The chief again spoke boastfully, and Bowie became argumentative. One of his present objects was to use up time in talk, and he was quite willing to stir Great Bear's vanity to all sorts of assertions of the right and power of himself and his tribe to fight their enemies wherever they could be found.

He was succeeding very well, and every minute was of importance to the Lipans, who were now threading their southward way through the chaparral with all the speed they could reasonably make. With the sun overhead to guide by, they could dispense with a compass. Here and there, moreover, some of them, who seemed to have been there before, found marks upon tree-trunks and branches which may have meant more to their eyes than to those of other people.

"Great Bear is a great chief," said Bowie, at last, looking at the subtle Comanche steadily. "He has talked enough. What does he say? Will he fight now, or will he go to his lodge? – Bugle, ready!"

The bugler raised to his lips his hollow twist of brass, but a storm of "Ughs" broke out among the Comanche warriors.

Most of them had been near enough to hear the conversation. They were on dangerous ground and were becoming altogether willing to get out of it. At this moment they saw rifles cocked and half lifted. They knew that every white man before them was a dead shot, and none of them felt any desire to hear a bugle blow or a rifle crack.

The chief himself considered that he had talked long enough, and that he had been sufficiently insolent to preserve his dignity. He could therefore pretend to yield the required point.

"Good!" he replied. "Great chief go. Big Knife ride to fort. Lipan dogs run away. Save hair. Comanches take all some day. Not now. Texan heap friend. Shut mouth. Ugh!"

He offered his hand, and Bowie took it, but after that he and his rangers sat upon their horses in grim, menacing silence, while the Comanche warriors rode out of the chaparral. They did so glumly enough, for they had been outwitted and they had lost some of their best braves.

"Now, men," said Bowie, "it was touch and go. They were too many for us if it was a fight. We're out of it this time, but they won't forget or forgive it."

"You bet they won't," replied a ranger; "but I had a sure bead on Great Bear's throat medal, and he knew it. He'd ha' jumped jest once."

"Back to the Alamo," said Bowie. "We must make good time."

Away they went, and in an instant the appearance of military discipline had vanished. The leader and his hard-fighting comrades were once more fellow-frontiersmen rather than "soldiers." Differences of rank, indeed, were but faintly marked upon the dress or trappings of any of them.

There were no epaulets or sashes, but at no moment of time could an observer have been in doubt as to who was in command. The roughest and freest spoken of them all showed marked deference whenever he addressed or even came near to the man whom Great Bear himself, with all his pride, had acknowledged to be his superior.

"Jim," said Bowie to a tall horseman who was at his side when they came out into the open prairie, "have you made up your mind to go with me into Chihuahua?"

"Go!" exclaimed Jim. "Why, colonel, I ain't enlisted. Travis can't stop me. Of course I'll go. Wouldn't miss it for a pile. It 'll be as good as a spree."

So said more than one of the other rangers when opportunity came to ask them the same question. To each the romantic legend of the hidden treasures of the Aztec kings had been mentioned confidentially. No doubt it acted as a bait, but every way as attractive, apparently, was the prospect of a raid into Mexico, a prolonged hunting and scouting expedition, and a fair chance for brushes with Bravo's lancers.

"A Comanche or Lipan is worth two of 'em," they said, "and one American's worth four. We shall outnumber any lot of Greasers we're at all likely to run against."

There was a great deal too much of arrogance and overbearing self-confidence among the men of the Texas border, and at no distant day they were to pay for it bitterly.

They had gone and the chaparral seemed to be deserted, but it was not entirely without inhabitants.

"Tetzcatl!"

"Ugh! Red Wolf!"

There they sat, once more confronting each other, the young Lipan on his pony and the old tiger on his mule.

"Boy heap fool," said Tetzcatl. "Comanches in chaparral. Castro gone."

"Ugh!" said Red Wolf. "See one Comanche ride away. Keep arrow."

Tetzcatl's eyes were angry. Part of his disappointment had been the renewal of the feud between the tribes. He had hoped for their joint help in working out his own revenges. Nevertheless he now listened to a further explanation, and learned that a noted Comanche warrior had no use for bow or lance just then, because of an arrow that was yet sticking through his right arm above the elbow. Red Wolf could not follow him, but he had captured a dropped lance, which he was now somewhat boastfully exhibiting.

"Boy go now," said Tetzcatl. "Tell Castro, Texans gone to the fort."

"No! no!" replied Red Wolf. "Big Knife say wait. Tetzcatl wait. Hide in bushes."

No further persuasion was attempted by the old Tlascalan, although he did not conceal his preference for being without young company.

"Come," said Red Wolf. "No stay. Heap eat. Where water?"

That seemed a useless question to be asked in such a place, but there were secrets of the chaparral which were unknown to the red men of the plains. This was not their hunting-ground and never had been so. Moreover, there had been local changes and wide bush-growths during the years which had elapsed since the tribes of the Guadalupe and Nueces River country had been exterminated.

Less than half an hour of brisk riding brought Tetzcatl and his companion to the hiding-place of one of those secrets of the chaparral.

"Whoop!" burst from Red Wolf. "Old lodge. Heap water. Great medicine. Tetzcatl white head. Know heap!"

Except for its being there, unknown to almost everybody, there was nothing to be seen that could be called remarkable. There were some tumbling walls of adobe, or sunburned brick, of no great extent or number, near the margin of a bright-looking pond. There might be two acres of water, but no rill could be seen running into it. One that ran out, feebly, on the farther side, shortly disappeared in the sandy soil. Red Wolf knew, for he at once rode to investigate.

"Ugh!" he exclaimed, when he reached the bit of marsh where the tiny rivulet ended. "Dead water."

A deer sprang out of a covert at the border of the marsh, but Red Wolf's bow had been all the while in his hand, ready for instant use. The bowstring twanged, the arrow sped, and in a moment more a thrust of a lance followed.

"Heap meat," said the young hunter, as he sprang to the ground and tethered his mustang.

He did not have to cut up his game unaided. Tetzcatl came to join him with his heavy machete already out, and he proved himself an expert butcher.

"Good!" said Red Wolf. "Where go now? Heap fire tell Comanche."

"Come," said Tetzcatl, slinging the venison across his mule, but he said no more about what he intended doing.

They rode back to the pond and around it to the southerly side. Here, scattered over several acres of open, grassy ground, were the ruins, none of them more than one-story buildings. At one place, near the middle of them, there remained almost a complete house, roofed over. Into this, leaving his mule at the door, Tetzcatl led the way. On the floor in a corner smouldered the embers of a fire, suggesting that he had been there before, on that very day. Fragments of dry wood lay near, and were at once thrown on to make a blaze, in spite of the remonstrances of Red Wolf.

"Smoke tell Comanche," he said, as the blue vapor began to curl out at an opening in the shattered roof.

"No!" replied Tetzcatl. "Small smoke. Much wind. Comanches are a great way off."

Red Wolf had to give it up, and he was very ready to enjoy broiled venison.

The best part of his unexpected good luck, however, was the water. The deer had been a sudden arrival truly, but deer were plentiful in Texas in those days. They were to be met with at any time, but a pond in a desert was quite another affair.

The riding and the fighting and the after-lurking among the bushes had consumed the day. The sun was going down when the two cooks in the adobe turned away from their dinner and carefully covered their fire-embers. The mule and the mustang had also been doing very well upon the grass of the clearing. Everything was peaceful, even comfortable, therefore, when Red Wolf remarked to Tetzcatl, "Dark come. Heap sleep. Ugh!"

"Bueno!" he replied. "Boy sleep. Old man too old."

With thorough-going Indian caution, however, the son of Castro did not think of sleeping in any house, to be found there, perhaps, by his enemies. He took his pony with him and went in among the bushes. Then he tied the sorrel securely, but left him to whatever might be coming. As for himself, no other young wolf hunted for a more perfect cover before consenting to shut his eyes. Then, indeed, it was quickly proved that the toughest kind of red Indian boy could be completely tired out.

CHAPTER VI.
THE OLD CASH-BOX

The morning sun of the next day was well up in the sky before it could manage to look in over the bushes and find out what was going on around the pond and the ruins. Long before that, however, a bright young face of a dusky-red tint came to the side of a sumach-bush and peered out a little anxiously. Nothing living was to be seen excepting a mule at the end of a lariat and pin. As if satisfied by what he saw, the young redskin disappeared, but he shortly came out again, leading a pony. Another pin was driven to hold the pony's lariat, but the two animals were not picketed near each other. They belonged to different tribes and they might be at war.

Then once more Red Wolf glanced swiftly in all directions. He saw a large rabbit sitting still and looking at the mule, but he did not see any Tetzcatl.

"Heap water," he remarked, and he at once went to the margin of the pond. He took a long draught. It was pure, but he could not say that it was very cold. "Ugh!" he exclaimed, as he threw aside his weapons and took off his buckskins.

In he waded, but the pond grew deeper a few yards out, and he dashed ahead in a manner that proved him a tip-top swimmer. Such a morning bath was a rare luxury, but, as soon as he had paddled around long enough, he swam ashore and sat down to dry. Perhaps it was also for a thinking spell, and he had quite a number of things to think of. One among them came to the front pretty soon, and he put on his small allowance of clothing. Then he picked up his lance, his bow, and his arrows and walked toward the adobe. He found it as empty as he expected, and he at once stirred up the fire. There was plenty of venison, and he knew nothing at all about bread, coffee, and the other superfluous accompaniments of a white man's breakfast.

What, indeed, could be better for an already celebrated Lipan warrior, intending to be a chief some day, than a whole pond of water, very nearly a whole deer, and a good fire to cook by?

He was satisfied thus far, but there was one trait of his character which had been showing itself ceaselessly. Red Wolf was a born investigator. It was something more than mere curiosity. It worked well, too, with all his training as a hunter and as a warrior, for it led him to try and find out the meaning, if it had any, of every thing and circumstance he might happen to meet. His eyes were hardly ever quiet, and they were a very keen, penetrating pair of eyes.

He broiled and ate his last cutlet, went to the pond for a draught, and then he set himself to a close study of the ruins. He went from one to another of them rapidly at first, until he was able to say of them, counting upon his fingers, —

"Heap old fort. Many lodges. No big gun. Heap fight one day."

What he meant by that was that in several places he had discovered skulls and bones, which told of men who had fallen there with none to care for their burial. Some of these were inside of the walls of the houses. Others were scattered in the open. All were dry, white, decayed, ready to crumble entirely.

The first inspection had been of a hasty kind, as if for fear of interruption. When it was over, Red Wolf stood still for a moment, and stared at the openings in the chaparral. Somebody, an old man with white hair, for instance, ought to be coming out at one of them at about this time. Why did he not come?

"Great Bear in bushes," he remarked. "Heap Comanche. Big Knife come. Texan. Red Wolf want Tetzcatl."

He could not have him right away, that was plain, however much he might want him. So he turned to the ruins for another search, and this time he went more slowly, and scrutinized with greater care every square foot of each in turn.

Nothing could have been left in any of them, of course, but he was on the lookout for "sign." There seemed to be none for him to read, until at last, in one of the most completely broken quadrangles of old walls, he stood still and uttered a loud "Ugh!" of astonishment.

"Hole in wall," he said. "Heap dollar."

A considerable mass of adobe had been shattered in falling. Just under its former base there had been a kind of brickwork box. It had been built over so as to conceal it completely, but it had never been provided with either door or lid. In it had been placed a number of deerskin bags. One of these had split in falling, and there on the ground lay a number of silver coins. They were Spanish-Mexican dollars, halves, quarters, all more or less blackened by corrosion, exposed as they were to rain and sun, but all as good as ever.

Red Wolf had seen silver money, and any coin was to him a "dollar," but it was a matter concerning which he knew very little. It was altogether "white man's medicine," and of a very powerful kind. He knew that, at least, and his next thought was uttered aloud.

"Tetzcatl not see dollars. No find. Red Wolf talk to Big Knife. Great chief know. Heap take."

Very strong was his convictions that if Tetzcatl had at any time discovered that stuff, he would have hidden it again or carried it away. He did not regard the Tlascalan as his friend by any means, nor did he consider him as any kind of white man. Colonel Bowie was his chief just at this time, and he would know what to do with dollars. Therefore there could be no hesitation as to the right course to be pursued. Somehow or other this affair was to be reported to the Texan hero and to him only.

All that Red Wolf said or did, nevertheless, brought clearly out a well-known trait of savage character. That is, he had no clear idea of "value," and so he was not ready for "money." All of his thorough education as a brave of the Lipans had not taught him to count. He would have been as poor a hand at a bargain as if he had been a whole council of great chiefs selling half a new State to the agents of the United States.

His most exciting idea concerning his discovery was that he had found something which he believed would be of especial interest to Big Knife.

He gathered the scattered coins and put them into the hole. He lifted the uppermost bags to find out how heavy they were, but he did not open any of them. He put down the last bag that he lifted with a low-toned exclamation of "heap medicine," as if it awed him.

Only a few minutes of work were then required to cover the opening with fragments of adobe. After that the young treasure-finder, who did not know what he had found, turned and walked away toward the pond.

He must have been thinking of other matters while he walked, for he turned quickly and went to his mustang. Up came the lariat-pin, and once more the sorrel, after being watered was led into the greater security of the chaparral.

"No Tetzcatl come," he remarked, as he went. "Too many Comanche."

He had been a reckless, foolhardy young fellow, and he said so, in remaining so long out of cover, when he knew what enemies were hunting for him. He tethered the pony and found for himself a thicket from which he had a good view of the pond and its surroundings. No smoke was now arising from the adobe.

Patiently, silently, he lay and waited and an hour passed slowly by. Then he suddenly crouched lower and fitted an arrow to his bow-string.

"Ugh!" he said. "Horse foot come!"

More than one set of hoofs was falling upon the soft sand of a pathway near him, but only a faint sound was made after their gait changed from a "lope" or canter to a slow walk. At the moment when this was done four pairs of eyes were swiftly scanning the open. Low-voiced exclamations indicated that they had discovered something altogether new to them, and then they rode out from the chaparral to examine it more thoroughly.

"No Lipan," he heard them say. "No pony. Castro gone."

They had been led there by the trail of Red Wolf's mustang and the mule. They now proceeded to search for any other tell-tale footprints, and Red Wolf followed them with his eyes. They were not likely to discover even the fireplace, unless they should dismount. He thought of the dollars, but he believed them to be altogether safe. His most troublesome thought was his pony, for if that unwise animal should see fit to send out a neigh of inquiry to either of the Comanche ponies concealment would be no longer possible.

"Red Wolf lose hair," he said. "Strike Comanche brave! Kill a heap! Too many."

He was determined to die fighting, but his enemies were now riding out beyond the ruins, not in his direction. He was only too sure that they would come back again. It was a question of life or death that would be settled speedily, one way or the other.

Crack! It was the loud report of a rifle ringing out of the southerly border of the chaparral, and the taller of the four Comanches pitched heavily to the ground.

Loud yells of rage and astonishment were uttered by the three remaining braves, but they did not wait for a second shot. They wheeled their mustangs and galloped wildly away through the nearest opening in the shrubbery.

"Heap dead," said Red Wolf. "Ugh! Texan!"

He lay as still as before, however, during several minutes, and no white rifleman made his appearance. The slain Comanche lay on the grass where he had fallen, and his riderless pony fed quietly near him. It was only one, after all, of the numberless, unexplained tragedies of the border, and Red Wolf was too wise a young Indian to go out and hunt around for its meaning. He untethered his pony, however, and made ready for a run, if that should prove to be the next demand made upon him.

"Ugh!" he suddenly exclaimed. "Tetzcatl. No Comanche."

Out from the chaparral beyond the pond walked the somewhat mysterious Tlascalan, but Red Wolf sent toward him a kind of warning cry, as like the croak of a crow as if a very skilful crow had made it.

Tetzcatl himself might be such another crow from the response that came back. In a few minutes more he and Red Wolf were behind the same thicket, exchanging reports of their situation.

The old man seemed to care very little about the hidden rifleman or the dead warrior. Red Wolf told all other things, but he did not mention the dollars. He did, however, take note of every square inch of the white-haired tiger he was talking to, and he came very near uttering an exclamation when his keen eyes detected a stain of powder in the middle of Tetzcatl's left hand. The thought which at once arose in his mind was, "Load rifle. Powder stick on hand. Hide in the bushes. Shoot Comanche. Leave gun there. Ride around pond. Heap fool, Red Wolf. Boy! Ugh!"

It was what lawyers call circumstantial evidence, but there was no direct proof that the Comanche had not fallen by the hand of a Texan ranger.

"Follow Tetzcatl," said the old man. "See Big Knife."

Not another word did he utter, but he and Red Wolf rode on together during about twenty minutes side by side.

If the young Lipan expected to meet any of the rangers or their leader at the place named the previous day, he was mistaken. Bowie had indeed kept his appointment, much earlier than he had suggested, and there had been important consequences.

Part of what had happened began to be understood by Red Wolf when he and Tetzcatl came to so sharp a halt as they did.