Yes, Sion it was; and Jim Sylvester and Joel Robinson, also of the Captain Baker command. Jim had a man behind his saddle. Sion was guarding on one side, and Joel at the rear on the other.
A prisoner that was, then: a little man, with black side-whiskers, in private’s uniform of enamel leather flat cap, blue striped cotton blouse, dirty white cotton pants, and heavy coarse socks. He looked well frightened.
“Shucks! No Santa Anna, again,” deplored Leo.
“Sion’ll have some big story,” chuckled Ernest.
But as the three horsemen reached the guard line before the camp, a stir sounded from amidst those 700 prisoners herded by the picket ropes stretched among the oaks, and an awed murmur and clapping of hands spread.
“El general! (the general!)”
“El presidente! (the president!)”
“Santa Anna!”
“That’s he!” the men exclaimed, springing to their feet.