Evans, who had commanded the cannon, rushed for the magazine to blow up the building.  They had agreed that if all hope were lost he should do so, but he was killed on his way by a bullet, and the others went on with the combat.

Near the entrance to the church stood a great figure swinging a clubbed rifle.  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.  Unable to walk, he had received at his request two pistols, and now he was firing them as fast as he could pull the triggers and reload.

“Shoot him!  Shoot him at once!” cried Urrea.

His own pistol was empty now, but a dozen musket balls were fired into the room.  Bowie, hit twice, nevertheless raised himself upon his elbow, aimed a pistol with a clear eye and a steady hand, and pulled the trigger.  A Mexican fell, shot through the heart, but another volley of musket balls was discharged at the Georgian.  Struck in both head and heart he suddenly straightened out and lay still upon the cot.  Thus died the famous Bowie.

Mrs. Dickinson and her baby had been hidden in the arched room on the other side for protection.  The Mexicans killed a Texan named Walters at the entrance, and, wild with ferocity, raised his body upon a half dozen bayonets while the blood ran down in a dreadful stream upon those who held it aloft.

Urrea rushed into the room and found the cowering woman and her baby.  The Mexicans followed, and were about to slay them, too, when a gallant figure rushed between.  It was the brave and humane Almonte.  Sword in hand, he faced the savage horde.  He uttered words that made Urrea turn dark with shame and leave the room.  The soldiers were glad to follow.

At the far end of the church a few Texans were left, still fighting with clubbed rifles.  The Mexicans drew back a little, raised their muskets and fired an immense shattering volley.  When the smoke cleared away not a single Texan was standing, and then the troops rushed in with sword and bayonet.