CHAPTER 30 “If I was a Injun, you’d be dead.”
Hunkered behind the gnarled clump of mesquite, Bowie wiped his brow with a sleeve. The merciless sun had already dispatched the wispy ocean clouds, and now seemed intent on burning the blue from the sky.
He had eased the pistol’s hammer gently back, wincing at the faint click, and returned the knife to its sheath to prevent a giveaway flash of blade. There was still no scent of Karankawa on the wind, but all his senses told him someone was near.
Bowie found himself strangely ill at ease. He feared no foe, savage or civilized, singly or in groups. Nor did he have any particular fear of death. But he was responsible for others now, and his survival mattered. In any case, he did not like this laying in ambush. He preferred to look his enemies s
