"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.