ON THE PLAINS.
The scene of our story now undergoes a great change.
We will transfer the reader from Readestown to the plains of the Far
West. Fully five hundred miles from civilization, and right in the heart
of the region of the hostile Sioux.
Frank Reade, Jr., had transported the Steam Man as far as possible by
rail.
From thence he had journeyed the rest of the ways overland.
Nothing of thrilling sort had as yet marked their journey. But they were
upon the verge of the most exciting adventures as the reader will
hereafter agree, possible to be experienced by man.
With the broad expanse of rolling plain upon every hand, one morning in
June the Steam Man might have been seen making its way along at a
moderate gait.
Frank Reade, Jr., with Barney and Pomp were in the wagon.
Frank held the reins and his keen gaze swept the prairie in every
direction.
As far as the eye could reach there remained the same broad expanse.
There was little to break the monotony.
Barney and Pomp had taken advantage of a lull in their duties to play a
social game of poker in the rear of the wagon.
These two unique characters, although the warmest of friends, were
nevertheless always engaged in badgering each other or the perpetration
of practical jokes.
“Bejabers, I’ll go yez ten betther on that, yez black ape,” cried
Barney, throwing down a handful of chips. “I’ll take me worrud it’s a
big bluff yez are playin’. Yez can’t fool me.”
“Youse will jest find out dis nigger neber plays a bluff game,” retorted
Pomp with a chuckle. “Jest yo’ look out fo’ yo’sef, Pish.”
“Begorra, I ain’t afraid av yez an’ I’ll go ye the tin,” cried Barney.
There was a broad grin upon Pomp’s face. He quietly picked up ten chips
and then put in ten more.
“Hold on, Pish, I’ll go youse ten better.”
“Call yez, be hivens!” cried Barney, chucking in ten more.
Then he threw down his hand.
“Can yez bate that?” he cried, triumphantly. “Give us the pot, naygur.
Yez are no good.”
But Pomp put one black paw over the pile of chips.
“‘Jes’ wait one minnit, Pish.”
“Whurro! Yez can’t bate it!” cried Barney, confidently.
He had thrown a good hand containing four kings and two aces. But Pomp
quietly laid down four aces!
The picture was one well worthy of an artist. For a moment the two card
players gazed at the six aces in amazement. It was a very curious
anomaly that there should be six aces in one pack of cards.
Then Barney sprang up furiously.
“Begorra, it’s a big cheat ye are!” he cried, angrily. “Whoever saw the
loikes av that? Be me sowl, the hull pile is mine!”
“Don’ yo’ put yo’ hands on dem chips, Pish!” cried Pomp, angrily.
“P’raps yo’ kin tell me wharfore youse got dem two aces, maybe youse
can?”
“Bejabers, they war in the pack, but yez kin tell me perhaps where yez
got those four aces yez put down there?”
“I tell yo’, Pish, dey was in de pack.”
“Be jabers it’s the fust pack av cards I ever saw with six aces in it,”
retorted Barney.
“Now don’ yo’ gib me any mo’ ob yo’ sass, Pish!” blustered Pomp. “I’ll
jes’ make yo’ sorry if yo’ does.”
“Bejabers yez ain’t the size!”
“Look out fo’ yo’self, Pish!”
“Whurroo!”
Over went the table leaf, down went the chips in the bottom of the
wagon, and the two angry poker players closed in a lively wrestle.
For a moment Barney had the best of it, then Pomp tripped the Celt up
and both fell in a heap in the bottom of the wagon.
They chanced to fall against the wire screen door in the rear of the
wagon.
It was unlocked and gave way beneath the pressure, and the two practical
jokers went through it and out upon the hard floor of the prairie.
They were rolled about in a cloud of dust, and had they not been of
something more than ordinary composition they would have suffered from
broken bones.
But as it was both picked themselves up unhurt.
The Steam Man had gone on fully one hundred yards before Frank Reade,
Jr., perceived that his companions were missing, and at once closed the
throttle and brought the Man to a halt.
“Serves the rascals right,” muttered Frank, as he saw them pick
themselves up from the dust. “They are always skylarking, and no good
comes of it.”
Frank had stopped the Steam Man. He waited for the two jokers to pick
themselves up and return to the wagon.
But at that moment a thrilling thing occurred.
Barney and Pomp had fallen near a clump of timber.
From this with wild yells a band of mounted Sioux Indians now dashed.
They were a war party—painted and bedecked with feathers, and in the
full paraphernalia of war.
The peril which threatened the two jokers was one not to be despised.
It was quite evident that the savages meant to cut off their rejoining
the Steam Man. In that case their fate would be sealed.
But Barney was quick-witted, and saw the situation at a glance.
With a wild howl he broke into a mad run for the Steam Man. It was a
question of life or death and he ran as he had never ran before.
Pomp was not so lucky. While Barney was distancing his pursuers, and
actually succeeded in reaching the wagon, the darky suddenly found
himself cut off.
Indian ponies were circling about him, the red riders whooping and
yelling like veritable demons.
The poor darky was beside himself with terror and perplexity.
“Golly sakes alibe!” he yelled, with his wool literally standing on end.
“Whatebber am dis yer nigger gwine fo’ to do? I’se a gone coon fo’
suah.”
It certainly looked that way. The savages circled nearer and half a
dozen of them dismounted and rushed upon Pomp.
Now the darky was unarmed.
He had not even a pistol or a knife. Of course he was at their mercy.
In less time than it takes to tell it, the savages had closed in about
the terrified darky, and he was quickly thrown upon his back and bound.
Then he was laid across the back of a pony and tied on securely.
Then a lariat was attached to the pony’s bridle, and the savages with
their prisoner in their midst dashed away.
Barney had reached the Steam Man and climbed into the wagon.
Frank Reade, Jr., had seen the whole affair, and for a moment was too
astounded to act.
Then as Barney came tumbling into the wagon, Frank turned the man around
and sent him flying toward the savages.
This move was quickly made, and the Steam Man ran forward rapidly. But
quick as it had been, the savages had yet succeeded in making Pomp a
prisoner and getting away with him.
“Be jabers, they’ve got the naygur bound to a horse,” cried Barney,
wildly. “Wud yez luk at the loikes, Misther Frank. We must catch the
omadhouns and give them a lessin of the right sort.”
“I hope we may,” replied Frank, with great anxiety, “but I fear the red
fiends will get to cover before we can overtake them.”
“Whurroo! It’s mesilf as will sphoil the loike av some av thim,” cried
Barney, as he picked up his rifle.
The savages were racing like mad across the prairie.
They had caught sight of the Steam Man, which was to them some fiend
incarnate, some evil spirit which would seek their certain destruction.
Terror of the wildest sort made them whip their ponies to the utmost.
It was a mad race.
But the Steam Man was gaining.
He took tremendous strides. Frank pulled the whistle valve, and the
shrieks sent up on the air were of a terrifying kind.
The savages had all gazed with wonder upon the white man’s iron horse
that followed its steel track across their prairies.
But this latest appearance, the Steam Man, was too much for their
nerves. They could not bear it, and fled.
The Steam Man would certainly have overtaken them.
But, not visible until one had turned the timber line and made a rise in
the prairie was a distant range of hills.
Toward this the savages were going. If they reached them, they would
certainly succeed in eluding their pursuer.
And the chances seemed good.
Frank saw, with a peculiar chill, that they were really liable to reach
the point aimed at.
He sent the man on at full speed.
Barney placed himself at a loop-hole, and commenced firing as rapidly as
he could at the fleeing foe.
The result was that many of them fell, and the others redoubled their
exertions to make an escape.
On went the chase toward the distant range of hills.
Nearer and nearer drew the ponies to the objective point.
With sinking heart Frank saw that the Indians were likely to reach them
before the Steam Man could overtake them.
Of course this would mean safety for the savages, for the Steam Man
could not hope to follow the ponies over the rough surfaces there
encountered.
“Heavens, we are not going to save Pomp!” cried Frank, with a thrill of
despair in his voice. “What shall we do, Barney? Is it not awful?”
Barney was busily engaged in placing fresh cartridges in his Winchester.
“Begorra, it’s save the naygur I will if I sacrifice me own loife!”
cried the big-hearted Celt. “It’s me own fault, for sure, that he iver
fell troo the door and got picked up by the red min.”
Frank put on all the steam he dared, and the man took tremendous strides
forward.
“We will make a mighty effort,” he gritted, as he piled on the steam.
“Bejabers, here goes for wan av the spalpeens!” cried Barney.
Then the Irishman’s rifle cracked.
One of the savages tumbled from his pony’s back.
Barney continued to load and fire as fast as he could. But the
opportunity was not long granted him.
Suddenly the cavalcade of savages dashed into the mouth of the pass.
They were out of sight in a twinkling. The Steam Man was obliged to come
to a halt.
There were huge bowlders and piles of stones to block the passage.
Barney and Frank Reade, Jr., exchanged glances of despair.
“That is the end of Pomp,” declared the young inventor, with a chill. “I
have no doubt that is a part of Black Buffalo’s band, and he never
spares a life.”