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.