A
number of his comrades had been wounded, but nobody had fallen and they
still raced in a close group for the gate, which seemed to recede as
they rushed on.
"A few more steps, Ned," cried Crockett, "an' we're in! Ah, there go our
friends!"
The Texan cannon over their heads now fired into the pursuing Mexican
masses, and the sharpshooters on the walls also poured in a deadly hail.
The Mexicans recoiled once more and then Crockett's party made good the
gate.
"All here!" cried Crockett, as those inside held up torches. He ran over
the list rapidly himself and counted them all, but his face fell when he
saw his young friend the Bee-Hunter stagger. Crockett caught him in his
arms and bore him into the hospital. He and Ned watched by his side
until he died, which was very soon. Before he became unconscious he
murmured some lines from an old Scotch poem:
"But hame came the saddle, all bluidy to see.
And hame came the steed, but never hame came he."
They buried him that night beside the other two, and Ned was more solemn
than ever when he sought his usual place in the hospital by the wall. It
had been a day of victory for the Texans, but the omens, nevertheless,
seemed to him to be bad.
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