The cannonade now became spasmodic.  All the Mexican cannon would fire continuously for a half hour or so, and then would ensue a silence of perhaps an hour.

In the afternoon Bowie was taken very ill, owing to his great exertions, and a bed was made for him in the hospital.  Ned sat there with him a while.  The gentle mood that had distinguished the Georgian throughout the siege was even more marked now.

“Ned,” he said, “you ought to have gone out the other night when we wanted you to go.  Fannin may come to our help or he may not, but even if he should come I don’t think his force is sufficient.  It would merely increase the number of Texans in the trap.”

“I’ve quite made up my mind that I won’t go,” said Ned.

“I’m sorry,” said Bowie.  “As for me, it’s different.  I’m a man of violence, Ned.  I don’t deny it.  There’s human blood on my hands, and some of it is that of my own countrymen.  I’ve done things that I’d like to call back, and so I’m glad to be here, one of a forlorn hope, fighting for Texas.  It’s a sort of atonement, and if I fall I think it will be remembered in my favor.”

Ned was singularly impressed.  Crockett had talked in much the same way.  Could these men, heroes of a thousand dangers, have really given up?  Not to give up in the sense of surrender, but to expect death fighting?  But for himself he could not believe such a thing possible.  Youth was too strong in him.

He was on the watch again for part of the next night, and he and Crockett were together.  They heard sounds made by the besiegers on every side of them.  Mexicans were calling to Mexicans.  Bridle bits rattled, and metal clanked against metal.

“I suppose the circle is complete,” said Ned.

“Looks like it,” said Crockett, “but we’ve got our cattle to eat an’ water to drink an’ only a direct attack in force can take us.  They can bang away with their cannon till next Christmas an’ they won’t shake our grip on the Alamo.”

The night was fairly dark, and an hour later Ned heard a whistle.  Crockett heard it, too, and stiffened instantly into attention.

“Did that sound to you like a Mexican whistling?” he asked.

“No, I’d say it came from American lips, and I’d take it also for a signal.”

“An’ so it is.  It’s just such a whistle as hunters use when they want to talk to one another without words.  I’ve whistled to my pardners that way in the woods hundreds of times.  I think, Ned, that some Texans are at hand waitin’ a chance to slip in.”

Crockett emitted a whistle, low but clear and penetrating, almost like the song of a night bird, and in a half minute came the rejoinder.  He replied to it briefly, and then they waited.  Others had gathered at the low plaza wall with them.  Hidden to the eyes, they peered over the parapet.

They heard soft footsteps in the darkness, and then dim forms emerged.  Despite the darkness they knew them to be Texans, and Crockett spoke low: