The chap had half a dozen black feathers stuck around his head in an attempt at ornamentation.
Those feathers made him an extra prominent mark, and really were the cause of his death.
Pomp pulled up on him, and—well, the boys can guess what happened, as long as the pistol went off all right.
“Yah, yah—h—h!” roared Pomp. “Guess he won’t play dandy no moah in dis world. De idea of him sportin’ eagle fedders! G’way, chile!”
The Indians halted, and formed to meet this terrible single foe.
This gave the fugitives on foot the extra time of which they stood so greatly in need, and in a moment they were safely sheltered in the grove; for Pomp pulled up, even as the Indians had done, and purposely sat motionless on his horse, in order that the little band might gain the grove.
He cast a rapid glance over the green plain.
Ralph Radcliffe was not visible at any point.
The darkey looked again.
No signs whatever of the boy, and he knew full well that Ralph could not have reached the grove.