POMP SLINGS HIMSELF.
Like some colored edition of a ground-hog or rolling porcupine the
darkey traveled towards the three redskins who were about pouncing upon
Ralph Radcliffe.
He bore down upon them like a small black whirlwind.
As he flew through the air he hurled his knife.
He was a regular Spaniard when it came to throwing a knife, and this
time, although the cast was made while he was going at full speed, his
aim was as true as the pliant steel of the blade he hurled.
It struck fairly upon the broad brow of the foremost savage, and seemed
to sink to the hilt.
The savage uttered a piercing cry, threw up his hands with a despairing
gesture, and then fell heavily backwards to the grassy plain.
Then Pomp’s pistol went up, and as his finger pressed the trigger the
second one went down to rise no more, and the last of the three leaped
upon him while the echo of the report still lingered upon the air.
They rolled to the ground, carried off of their feet by the terrific
force of the shock with which they met.
Like two tigers they rolled over the soft grass.
Ralph Radcliffe got a clip alongside the head.
Pomp’s pistol had been forced from his hand, and by accident had hit
the boy.
Ralph promptly picked it up, waited for the rolling pair to perform
one more revolution, and then, as the Indian came upon top, the boy
coolly put a leaden ball through his copper-colored body, and thus put
a sudden end to this lively little unpleasantness.
And just as Pomp untangled himself from the entwining limbs of his
tough Indian foe, his ears caught the sound of many hoofs beating the
plains.
He looked away to the west and beheld James Van Dorn and his newly
acquired command bearing down rapidly upon him.
He snatched the pistol from the hands of the excited boy.
Fierce yells rang out, and from the other side the Indians began
pouring out from their little tents, and to the number of a dozen
dashed fleetly towards him and the boy.
Pomp was in his glory, for the plucky little darkey really loved the
excitement of danger, and was always delighted with a big rumpus that
afforded him full scope to use his wonderful skill in shooting.
He had four shots left.
The knife he plucked from the breast of the Indian he had struck down
so cleverly, and placed the reeking blade in his belt.
“Run for the grove,” he said to Ralph in a commanding tone that started
the boy off at a steady trot for the trees, and then the darkey turned
to the mounted reds.
Crack!
Down went the warrior who was riding beside Black Arrow, falling
headlong to the earth.
But, before he had fallen, Pomp had turned on his heel and swiftly
fired at the foremost man of the party on foot as they dashed out of
their tents.
Without a cry the doomed redskin fell stone dead.
Pomp didn’t wait to see the effect of his shot, for he never doubted
the accuracy of his aim, and when the savage fell into the arms of one
of his comrades the little darkey dead-shot wheeled again and let drive
at the mounted gang.
Down dropped Black Arrow with a ball between his shoulders, and had not
James Van Dorn caught him by the arm and hauled him up on the saddle he
would surely have toppled headlong to the ground.
And then, like lightning, Pomp turned on his heel once more and banged
away with his remaining charge, bringing down his game as usual.
This bang-bang and kill-kill sort of thing did not please the reds.
They grew somewhat shy of this wonderful marksman, whose aim always
meant danger if not death.
“Halt!” cried Van Dorn. “That black cuss must be the devil.”
His party pulled up, and Black Arrow, bleeding profusely and dying
fast, was placed upon the grass.
The leader of the Indians who had so valiantly rushed down upon Pomp
from their tents with the charitable intention of gobbling him up
alive, were convinced that it was rather dangerous for them to advance
against this terrible marksman, and therefore they pulled up with great
dispatch, and vented their chagrin in loud yells.
“Hope you’ll yell yer darned heads off!” cried Pomp. “Don’t yer fool
wid the court-house no more, honeys. I’m dar every time. Yes, I is, and
don’t yer go fo’ to forget dat ax nudder. When dis chile o’ darkness
sot out to sling hisself, den yer must look out for de har to fly, by
gum.”
And then, with a loud yell of derision and scorn, the ebony wonder
bounded away to the grove.
Ralph Radcliffe had been so frightened by the yells of redskins that
he made very rapid time for that grove, and was soon safe among the
members of the much excited prospecting party, who regarded the
fighting darkey’s wonderful exploits with wide-open eyes.
Pomp made for the grove at a rate of speed that would have bothered
anything but a race-horse to compete with, and with one of his
victorious yells bounded fairly into the shelter of the trees.
“Ker flew dar!” cried Pomp. “Didn’t dis yar colored gemmen jes’ sling
hisself fo’ ’bout free minutes? I guess. Gorra mighty, but dem dar
Injuns mus’ had awful pain in dere heads when dey took dem ar pills.
G’way, chile; don’t yer git courtin’ wid der fool-house.”
“You’re a tearer,” said one of the men. “I’ll bet that there isn’t your
match anywhere around the country for shooting with a revolver.”
“Yes, dar am,” said Pomp. “Dar’s one man in dis yar benighted lan’ what
kin take de shine out ob dis yar colored pusson, but I guess he’s de
only chile what’ll car to swap shots with little Pomp.”
“Who is he?”
“Tell us his name?” they cried.
“Yer knows him well ’nough,” returned the little nig. “He’s de toughest
little cuss in dis yar western lan’, an’ he taught Pomp how to handle a
’volver. De little screamer what I refers to am called Little Gilmore.
’Spose yourn heard o’ de cuss?”
“Heard of him!” Rather. Who had not heard of Little Gilmore, the most
expert hand at the revolver in the West--the man who had freed a
Navajoe city from four immense bears that had proved a terror to the
superstitious inhabitants for years. Of course they had heard of him,
and when they knew that Pomp was his pupil, they did not marvel so much
at his remarkable skill.
Black Arrow died, and then Van Dorn and his party encamped alongside of
the other reds, only waiting for night to fall to crawl down upon the
few inmates of the grove.
“For I must have that boy,” grimly said the villain to himself, as he
stowed away his portion of antelope steak; “and when he’s in my hands
again, I’ll take care not to let him get away again. Guess I’ll pay one
of these reds to slit his little throat for him.”
Meantime, in the grove, they had eaten their supper and drank their
whisky and water, and then they posted themselves in positions to guard
against surprise.
Pomp searched through his clothes, found the rocket he had placed
there, attached it to a stick, and sent it up, and, as the reader
knows, it was seen by the driver of the Steam Man and those with him,
and a moment later a distant whistle told the darkey that his signal
had been seen, and that the man was coming to his rescue.