At this the Americans mounted in haste and rode across the prairie to the place where the wounded pony stood, with the boy, trussed and helpless, upon his back.
Jed Curley cut the bonds with his hunting knife. The young fellow slipped from the back of the horse and sat upon the ground rubbing the circulation back into his arms and legs.
“They had these ropes so tight,” said he, “that I could hardly breathe.”
He was about sixteen years of age, a bright-looking lad with, apparently, plenty of spirit and good sense.
“What’s your name, sonny?” inquired old Dolph, as he sat on his horse looking down at him.
“Sid Hutchinson,” answered the boy. “And I thank you, gentlemen, for saving me from the Mexicans.”
The party dismounted and Walter and Ned helped young Hutchinson rub back his circulation.
“How did they come to get you?” asked Davy Crockett. “Where are you from?”
“From New Orleans,” answered the boy. “I was crossing Texas to San Antonio with a wagon, my brother, and a girl.”
Both Walter and Ned paused in their operations; they gazed at the boy and then at each other.