His strange, defiant cry rang out like a shrill bugle note as he dashed madly onward; and the surprised Indians turned in their saddles to see what was the matter.
Crack!
A bullet told them that they were pursued in turn, although by one man only.
Pomp’s opening shot knocked a red-skin from his saddle.
“Out on de fly!” roared the much-tickled darkey, and again that deadly revolver flew up.
Bang! and this time he effected a neat double play by killing an Indian and wounding a horse.
The Indians didn’t like it.
Ordinary riders and ordinary marksmen they were in no great fear of; but when a man could stand erect on the back of a madly-leaping steed, and, with an unerring aim, send destruction into their midst, then they felt appalled.
“De high golly!” cried the delighted nig. “Dar’s no use talkin’, dis yere am de spot to hab a libely time. Yes, sah! Golly, why for I can’t plum dat ar’ chap in de head what am got de black fedders stuck in his top-knot? Heah she goes!”
The chap he referred to was a tall young sub-chief, mounted upon a beautiful bay horse.