THE BATTLE AT THE GROVE.
As the answering whistle came faintly to the ears of the little darkey,
he thought he saw a shadowy form moving in the grass some few feet away.
He grasped his knife and dropped silently to the ground.
He was now on a line with the object, and could see it better.
It was a top-knotted Indian, a scout in all probability, who was
crawling upon the grove.
“High golly!” muttered the darkey, “if dat ar chap am comin’ fo’
information, dis chile guess he won’t carry de news to Mary. Not much.
Guess I kin a’most jump down his froat.”
He waited until the Indian crawled a few feet further in towards him,
and then he coiled himself up like some queer snake.
He undoubled himself with a sudden jerk, and flew swiftly through the
thin air, alighting directly on top of the redskin’s shoulders.
“Whoop!” yelled the red, giving utterance to a call for aid.
“Dat am yer last yawp,” cried Pomp; and with a quick blow he drove the
heavy knife nearly through the poor scout’s heart.
Without another sound the redskin fell backwards.
A chorus of yells rang out not more than a hundred yards away, telling
very plainly that the enemy hovered close upon the trail of the scout
he had killed.
That darkey didn’t lose any time in getting back to the trees, and it
was well that he did so, for the next moment the enemy came down in a
grand rush, evidently with the idea of carrying all before them by the
force of their assault.
However, the prospecting party were well secured, were in the deep
shadows and could see a little distance out on the level plain, and,
likewise, were well prepared to receive them.
“Fire!” yelled Pomp, and his own favorite weapon, the long-range Colt,
spoke out as he gave the command.
A series of shots rang out, and almost at the same instant a succession
of very painful yells told that the bullets found many a living mark.
But the rush was too impetuous even for a volley to check, and the next
moment the Indians piled into the grove.
The prospectors met them bravely, and it was lucky for them that the
darkness of the night was in their favor, for, greatly outnumbered as
they were, they must have inevitably been gobbled up by their savage
foes.
A hand-to-hand fight in the dark is always a terrible thing.
One is as apt to strike a deadly blow at a friend as at a foe.
It is difficult to fight, even at arm’s length, in the gloom, and this
causes foes to grapple, making the contest a deadly one.
Ralph Radcliffe was not old enough nor large enough to contend with any
of the enemy, and therefore got out of the way of danger by burying
himself in a cluster of bushes.
The thundering sound of mighty feet were heard on the hard roadway of
the plains, a bright light, steady and brilliant, suddenly shot up,
a ringing cheer from four throats, mingled with a clear whistle, and
then the Steam Man and the four brave fellows it brought to the rescue,
dashed swiftly up to the grove.
The man came to a sudden halt about ten feet from the trees, and, with
Harry Hale at their head, the four rough customers leaped from the
wagon to the ground.
“Hurrah!” they yelled, and leaped like tigers into the thickest of the
fight, the spot where Pomp was slashing left and right, dealing telling
blows with his long, heavy knife.
The detective came upon the redskins like a miniature tornado, and his
path was marked with the bodies of the fallen slain.
An immense redskin, a giant in size and strength, and armed with a
heavy war-club, a terrible weapon in the hands of a powerful man,
leaned swiftly upon Hale.
The detective turned savagely upon his gigantic foe, and swung his
heavy bowie-knife full at the Indian’s broad bosom, and with such good
aim that it went in like a bolt.
But the Indian was not checked by the blow.
Onward, with upraised club, he came.
Hale dodged swiftly, but the blow was made too quickly for him, and he
got a terrible clip on the top of the head that stretched him out.
As he fell to the ground his big enemy also dropped.
The red giant fell forward, and as he reached the ground the hilt of
the knife was fairly forced through his body.
With a deep groan and a gasping cry he expired.
The bright chemical blaze streaming up from the wagon of the Steam Man
shed its brilliant glow far around, and the grove and its surroundings
were well lit up.
A villainous-looking half-breed, a tall, well-built fellow, crawled up
to the wagon while the fight was going on, and after a moment’s search
succeeded in finding Pomp’s banjo.
He dashed swiftly away to the cluster of tents with this, and after
placing it in a safe spot, grabbed up a long war-club and rushed back
to the scene of the battle.
He made straight for Pomp.
He was wise, this half-breed, for he knew better than to hit a darkey
on the head, even with such a ponderous club as he grasped.
He dashed upon the little nig, and made a clip at him.
Pomp saw the blow coming, and very naturally supposed that it was
intended for his head.
That’s just where he was mistaken, and where the half-breed exhibited a
great amount of knowledge.
The heavy club hummed through the air and descended fairly across the
darkey’s shins.
Down dropped Pomp, as though he had come slap up against a big
locomotive.
That’s a mighty sure thing on almost any colored individual.
As soon as he fell, the half-breed made a few rapid blows with the
club, and rapidly cleared a space.
Then he bent down, picked up the little nig, and ran off with him,
before anything could be done to prevent his departure.
The battle was still raging fiercely, but the addition of the four
slap-dash Indian fighters had made so much difference that the redskins
did not care to continue the affair in the widespreading light from the
wagon.
Several signal yells rang out, and a shout from the lips of James Van
Dorn was also heard, and than the enemy beat a rapid retreat to their
tents, leaving the dead and dying of their combined parties on the
field.
In common with the fracas at the Pass, the battle was over; but the
victory was not with either side.
When search was made for friends on the field, Harry Hale was picked up
and, after a time, brought back to life; but he had an awful headache.
Charley Gorse was unharmed, but his other two comrades were slightly
cut up, and many of the prospectors were either dead or wounded.
After searching carefully among the bodies for ten minutes, and
shouting vainly, it was determined that the little nig was not to be
found in that vicinity, and then they cried out, as Frank and Dwight
had called out, for the jolly Irishman:
“Where is Pomp?”