What could have become of him?
While looking for him, Pomp and his horse had not moved; neither had the Indians, who seemed waiting for the darkey to do something.
So Pomp struck off at right angles, to gain the grove by describing a half-circle, for he could not help clinging to the wishful idea that the boy had managed to reach the trees by some means, and whether he had got to the place or not, it was the best spot for the darkey just now.
The Indians raided down after him at a lively rate; but the darkey had a good start, and kept it, too.
Again he stood up in the saddle, and with terrible certainty discharged the remaining chambers of his revolver at the foe, and his fatal marksmanship told fearfully.
Every bullet found a mark.
With a wild cheer the darkey pricked the horse with his bowie, and yelled in shrill tones to him.
The spirited creature uttered a scream and sprang forward like a rocket, and in less than two minutes Pomp was safely in the grove.
The horse fell, half exhausted, to the green sward, and half a dozen hands were stretched forth to pluck the little darkey from the saddle.
But with a hearty “Yah, yah—h—h,” the active nig turned a somersault over their hands, landed lightly on the turf, and then curving his enormous feet over, walked on his black paws up to the man who appeared to be the leader, and then turned a hand-spring and stood erect.