And away they dashed on the trail of the darkey’s stolen horse.
As the reader knows, the riders of the stallion had not gone very far, and when two or three miles had been passed over, the ears of Black Arrow and some of his men were assailed with the sound of firearms.
“Halt!” said the chieftain.
The band pulled up.
In a moment came the steady crack of the darkey’s revolver, for at that very moment he was about a mile away, standing up on the saddle and sending destruction into the midst of the Indians who were pursuing the prospecting party.
“That is the black rider,” said the chief. “On.”
“How do you know?” asked Van Dorn.
“I know by the sharp crack of that big revolver he carries,” said Black Arrow, in confident tones. “Ah,” as they passed over a little swell in the prairie, “there he is, fighting against a party. But the boy is not with him. We will halt and watch him, for he cannot escape us now.”
They sat motionless on their horses and saw the fight and its result, and also saw Pomp’s safe flight to the cluster of trees where the white party lay.
“Are they friends or foes?” asked Van Dorn, pointing to the redskins who were putting up their tents.