CHAPTER 49 “Cunning, dastardly and dangerous.”
Bowie hated mosquitoes. Given the choice, he would sooner face a pack of wolves or a family of alligators. But the bugs were certainly fond of him. The buzzing, biting mass swarmed about him tight as a sweater—and his knife was useless against them.
Even more irritating, the pests had no interest at all in Sam, providing the black man no end of amusement.
The two lay flat on the sandy earth, barely concealed in a field of foot-tall grass. Spread out before them was the Karankawa village, and at its end rose a huge wooden teepee.
The camp appeared empty, but at the far end of the clearing, a hundred yards beyond the teepee, a large group of Indians milled about on a small hill topped by two ominous-looking stakes.
Bowie tugged McQuiddy’s t
