His raccoon skin cap was lost, and his eyes burned like coals of
fire in his swarthy face. It was Crockett, gone mad with battle, and the
Mexicans who pressed in recoiled before the deadly sweep of the clubbed
rifle. Some were awed by the terrific figure, dripping blood, and wholly
unconscious of danger.
"Forward!" cried a Mexican officer, and one of his men went down with a
shattered skull. The others shrank back again, but a new figure pressed
into the ring. It was that of the younger Urrea. At the last moment he
had left the cavalry and joined in the assault.
"Don't come within reach of his blows!" he cried. "Shoot him! Shoot
him!"
He snatched a double-barreled pistol from his own belt and fired twice
straight at Crockett's breast. The great Tennesseean staggered, dropped
his rifle and the flame died from his eyes. With a howl of triumph his
foes rushed upon him, plunged their swords and bayonets into his body,
and he fell dead with a heap of the Mexican slain about him.
A bullet whistled past Urrea's face and killed a man beyond him. He
sprang back. Bowie, still suffering severe injuries from a fall from a
platform, was lying on a cot in the arched room to the left of the
entrance.
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