Swiftly the long weapons were reloaded. Once more they were leveled and again they flashed out their messages of death. This time the Mexicans halted in their rush; half their company lay upon the ground. With one accord they tugged at their bridles, whirled their active little horses around, and bolted off across the plains.
“Hello,” cried Walter Jordan, as he rose up and gazed after the flying horsemen. “Look there!”
“It’s a boy,” shouted Ned Chandler, “and he’s tied to one of the ponies.”
“An American, too,” said old Dolph, as he drove home the ball into the barrel of his rifle.
In the rear of the Mexicans raced a pony which bore upon its back, evidently tightly bound to the saddle, an American boy of about sixteen years.
“A prisoner,” said Jed Curley, throwing forward his deadly rifle.
“Take care, Jed,” warned Crockett. “Don’t kill or cripple the mustang so that it’ll fall! The boy might be hurt; for tied up as he is, he can’t help himself.”
Jed’s rifle sounded; but apparently he missed, for the pony continued.
“I was too careful,” said Jed. “You try, colonel.”
Crockett threw his long rifle to his shoulder; its report was answered by a leap from the running horse; the animal went painfully on for some little distance upon three legs; then it slowed down and finally stopped altogether.