They were clad in buckskin and they were on horseback. Their
faces were tanned and bore all the signs of hardship. Near the middle of
the column four cannon drawn by oxen rumbled along, and behind them came
a heavy wagon loaded with ammunition.
It was raining, and the rain was the raw cold rain of early spring in
the southwest. The men, protecting themselves as well as they could with
cloaks and serapes, rarely spoke. The wheels of the cannon cut great
ruts in the prairie, and the feet of the horses sank deep in the mud.
Two men and a boy rode near the head of the column. One of these would
have attracted attention anywhere by his gigantic size. He was dressed
completely in buckskin, save for the raccoon skin cap that crowned his
thick black hair. The rider on his right hand was long and thin with the
calm countenance of a philosopher, and the one on his left was an eager
and impatient boy.
"I wish this rain would stop," said the Panther, his ensanguined eye
expressing impatience and anger. "I don't mind gettin' cold an' I don't
mind gettin' wet, but there is nothin' stickier or harder to plough
through than the Texas mud. An' every minute counts. Them boys in that
Alamo can't fight off thousands of Mexicans forever.
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