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His words sounded plainly. "Who's loaded?" cried Jim Bowie, as he rammed the powder into his gun, and most of the men seemed to be doing likewise. "I am." That was Caephus Ham. "Then shoot that chief yonder." Caephus drew careful bead, and fired. It was long range, but the chief's pony fell kicking and the chief hopped wildly about on one leg.
There was silence, while inside their little circle of rocks and sod amidst the scorched brush the five able-bodied white men and two boys waited. No Indians appeared near. They were somewhere, burying their dead. It was found out afterward that they were in a cave, not far off. This night Bob Armstrong and Caephus Ham stole away, and examined the other side of the hill.
These were Comanches, and the Comanches had turned friendly; had announced that they did not war with the Texans, but with the Spanish. Besides, Caephus Ham was a Comanche, himself; that is, he had gone out with a band of Comanches, from San Antonio; had been adopted in a chief's family; and had lived and traded among them for five months. They had treated him well.
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