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.