Meanwhile, what had become of the twelve men whom we had left in the island?  Were they still there, or had they fallen back upon the mission in dismay at the overwhelming force of the Mexicans?  If the latter, it was a bad business for us, for they were all capital shots, and well armed with rifles and pistols.  We heartily wished we had brought them with us, as well as the eight men at the mission.  Cut off from us as they were, what could they do against the whole of the cavalry and two companies of infantry which were now approaching the island?  To add to our difficulties, our ammunition was beginning to run short.  Many of us had only had enough powder and ball for fifteen or sixteen charges, which were now reduced to six or seven.  It was no use desponding, however; and, after a hurried consultation, it was agreed that Fanning and Wharton should open a fire upon the enemy’s centre, while I made a dash at the field-piece before any more infantry had time to come up for its protection.

The infantry-men who had re-manned the gun were by this time shot down, and, as none had come to replace them, it was served by an officer alone.  Just as I gave the order to advance to the twenty men who were to follow me, this officer fell.  Simultaneously with his fall, I heard a sort of yell behind me, and, turning round, saw that it proceeded from the wild spectre-looking stranger, whom I had lost sight of during the last few minutes.  A ball had struck him, and he fell heavily to the ground, his rifle, which had just been discharged, and was still smoking from muzzle and touchhole, clutched convulsively in both hands; his features distorted, his eyes rolling frightfully.  There was something in the expression of his face at that moment which brought back to me, in vivid colouring, one of the earliest and most striking incidents of my residence in Texas.  Had I not myself seen him hung, I could have sworn that Bob Rock, the murderer, now lay before me.

A second look at the man gave additional force to this idea.

“Bob!” I exclaimed.

“Bob!” repeated the wounded man, in a broken voice, and with a look of astonishment, almost of dismay.  “Who calls Bob?”

A wild gleam shot from his eyes, which the next instant closed.  He had become insensible.

It was neither the time nor the place to indulge in speculations on this singular resurrection of a man whose execution I had myself witnessed.  With twelve hundred foes around us, we had plenty to occupy all our thoughts and attention.  My people were already masters of the gun, and some of them drew it forwards and pointed it against the enemy, while the others spread out right and left to protect it with their rifles.  I was busy loading the piece when an exclamation of surprise from one of the men made me look up.