THE PROSPECTORS.
On, swiftly on over the rolling prairie dashed the horse bearing the
darkey rider and Ralph Radcliffe, for the plunge into the cold waters
of the stream had greatly refreshed the animal, and the ground seemed
to fairly fly under his hoofs.
But when a goodly distance had been placed between them and their
pursuers, the darkey pulled rein and brought the horse to a walk.
“Mussen tiah de hoss clean out,” said the nig. “Well, Massa Ralph, how
you come for to be in sich company?”
“I couldn’t help it,” said Ralph, who from living in the town with the
darkey was perfectly familiar with him. “I was taken from my bed at the
dead of night by that big rascal you rescued me from, made to dress
myself, follow him to the stable, get upon a horse and ride swiftly out
of town. I don’t know anything of him, not even his name, and what his
idea could have been in carrying me away in that style is more than I
can imagine.”
“Fo’ de lan’s sake” exclaimed Pomp. “Wha’ fo’ he bin gone done datar’,
I wonner. Massy on us for de Lord! Yerm suah yo’ fodder is well?”
“The last I saw of him he was as well as he had been in months,”
returned the boy, who did not know that James Van Dorn had stabbed his
father to the heart the same hour that he abducted him from the mansion.
Had he known the truth, Ralph would have been overwhelmed with the
deepest sorrow for his father’s fate.
“Him bad man,” said Pomp. “Better look out for dis coon when I gits my
paws on him. He’s too bad to live. By golly, but won’t I jist knock him
if I cotch de rascal agin.”
“Look!” cried Ralph.
“Where?”
“East,” said the boy, pointing with his right hand; “a race for life!”
Pomp pulled in short and followed the direction of the outstretched
hand.
A mounted party of Indians were in hot pursuit of a number of white men
on foot.
The Indians, numbered very nearly to a score, seemed well mounted and
armed, and full of a devilish desire to kill and destroy.
The white party consisted of about a dozen stalwart, hardy-looking
fellows, carrying quite a number of odd traps in addition to their
arms, and they seemed pretty well tired out.
They, the whites, were making for a pretty little grove some little
distance away, and the reds were making for them.
Every moment one of the men on foot would pause, wheel, take a rapid
aim and fire, and then, without stopping for an instant to note the
effect of his shot, he would dash on with his comrades.
The grove was still pretty nearly a quarter of a mile away, and a
quarter of a mile to a man on foot represents a few moments of time,
and on such occasions as these the time seems fearfully precious.
Onward, straining every nerve, they all dashed for their haven of rest,
while the red fiends in their rear plied whip and spur to their steeds.
Pursuers and pursued were separated by fully half a mile, but the
flying hoofs could soon close that gap if the white men failed to gain
the grove, in which they were capable of keeping the Indians at bay.
Pomp’s revolver flashed in his hand as he took in the scene.
His little, beady eyes glowed and flashed like black diamonds.
There was fun and fighting ahead, and that was enough to set the black
dead-shot wild with joy.
He ran his eyes hastily over the chambers of his Colt, and saw that
everything was in working order.
“What can you do with me on?” cried his boy friend. “I’ll slip off and
let you go to their aid.”
“No, no!” cried Pomp.
“I will.”
“You get killed suah!”
“Then you can bury me,” said Ralph, who was a plucky little fellow.
“Here goes for the grove on foot.”
And in spite of Pomp’s earnest appeal for him to stay, Ralph leaped
from the saddle, hit the horse a deuce of a crack across the hind
quarters, and sent him flying to the rescue.
With immense leaps the horse, relieved of half his burden, rushed
across the plains, the darkey standing erect in the saddle, the
gleaming revolver in his hand.
His strange, defiant cry rang out like a shrill bugle note as he dashed
madly onward; and the surprised Indians turned in their saddles to see
what was the matter.
Crack!
A bullet told them that they were pursued in turn, although by one man
only.
Pomp’s opening shot knocked a red-skin from his saddle.
“Out on de fly!” roared the much-tickled darkey, and again that deadly
revolver flew up.
Bang! and this time he effected a neat double play by killing an Indian
and wounding a horse.
The Indians didn’t like it.
Ordinary riders and ordinary marksmen they were in no great fear of;
but when a man could stand erect on the back of a madly-leaping steed,
and, with an unerring aim, send destruction into their midst, then they
felt appalled.
“De high golly!” cried the delighted nig. “Dar’s no use talkin’, dis
yere am de spot to hab a libely time. Yes, sah! Golly, why for I can’t
plum dat ar’ chap in de head what am got de black fedders stuck in his
top-knot? Heah she goes!”
The chap he referred to was a tall young sub-chief, mounted upon a
beautiful bay horse.
The chap had half a dozen black feathers stuck around his head in an
attempt at ornamentation.
Those feathers made him an extra prominent mark, and really were the
cause of his death.
Pomp pulled up on him, and--well, the boys can guess what happened, as
long as the pistol went off all right.
“Yah, yah--h--h!” roared Pomp. “Guess he won’t play dandy no moah in
dis world. De idea of him sportin’ eagle fedders! G’way, chile!”
The Indians halted, and formed to meet this terrible single foe.
This gave the fugitives on foot the extra time of which they stood so
greatly in need, and in a moment they were safely sheltered in the
grove; for Pomp pulled up, even as the Indians had done, and purposely
sat motionless on his horse, in order that the little band might gain
the grove.
He cast a rapid glance over the green plain.
Ralph Radcliffe was not visible at any point.
The darkey looked again.
No signs whatever of the boy, and he knew full well that Ralph could
not have reached the grove.
What could have become of him?
While looking for him, Pomp and his horse had not moved; neither had
the Indians, who seemed waiting for the darkey to do something.
So Pomp struck off at right angles, to gain the grove by describing a
half-circle, for he could not help clinging to the wishful idea that
the boy had managed to reach the trees by some means, and whether he
had got to the place or not, it was the best spot for the darkey just
now.
The Indians raided down after him at a lively rate; but the darkey had
a good start, and kept it, too.
Again he stood up in the saddle, and with terrible certainty discharged
the remaining chambers of his revolver at the foe, and his fatal
marksmanship told fearfully.
Every bullet found a mark.
With a wild cheer the darkey pricked the horse with his bowie, and
yelled in shrill tones to him.
The spirited creature uttered a scream and sprang forward like a
rocket, and in less than two minutes Pomp was safely in the grove.
The horse fell, half exhausted, to the green sward, and half a dozen
hands were stretched forth to pluck the little darkey from the saddle.
But with a hearty “Yah, yah--h--h,” the active nig turned a somersault
over their hands, landed lightly on the turf, and then curving his
enormous feet over, walked on his black paws up to the man who
appeared to be the leader, and then turned a hand-spring and stood
erect.
“Hope I sees yer well, sah,” said this ebony-hued wonder.
“Oh, very well indeed,” laughed the man, eyeing him with amusement,
while the rest of the men grinned pleasantly at the odd-appearing coon.
“I need not ask you how you are, because I can see for myself.”
“Whoop!”
The Indians were pouring down upon the grove in the wake of the darkey.
The men sprang to their feet and held their rifles in readiness, using
the trees for forts.
But the red-skins were far too wise and too well skilled in the
business of war on the plains to rush recklessly down upon a dozen
level rifles, peeping out from behind sheltering trees.
They pulled rein and came to a standstill just out of gunshot.
Here they caused their horses to lie down, and in less than five
minutes they had erected eight or ten little tents before the eyes of
the surprised men in the grove.
“Dat means biz,” said Pomp.
“It means a siege,” said the leader of the party; “and we are but
poorly prepared for one.”
“What am yer?”
“Prospectors. We’re marching on foot over the country to find gold and
silver, for we’re satisfied that there’s plenty of it to be found, and
we’ve had some pretty tough times getting away from the red devils.”
“Guess you’ll lose yer har afore yer finds de pay dirt,” said Pomp.
“But whar am dat boy?”
“What boy?”
Before the nig could make answer a shrill scream arose.
Then a chorus of yells followed, and Pomp rushed to the edge of the
grove to see what was up.
Ralph Radcliffe was running through the grass towards the trees, and
three tall red braves were bounding down upon the boy.
The boy ran fleetly, but he was no match for the tall red-skins, and
they were rapidly overhauling him.
Like a flash Pomp turned back, leaped on the back of one of the men in
his eagerness, tore the weapons from his belt, and made grand flying
leaps out upon the grassy plain.
The Indians were closing in upon the poor boy, when, with a mighty
bound, the black athlete leaped upon them.