Then the conversation was interrupted by the flying members of the mixed band dashing up behind them, escaping from the death-dealing hoofs of the Steam-Horse.
They rode rapidly onward for a half a dozen miles, and then halted in a small clearing, and Barney and his fiddle were conducted to a bed of leaves in the darkness and left alone.
“It’s a quare counthry,” said Barney. “The idea of an Irish squire playing fiddle for a blackguard’s weddin’. Howly Moses!”
[CHAPTER XXI.]
POMP SLINGS HIMSELF.
Like some colored edition of a ground-hog or rolling porcupine the darkey traveled towards the three redskins who were about pouncing upon Ralph Radcliffe.
He bore down upon them like a small black whirlwind.
As he flew through the air he hurled his knife.
He was a regular Spaniard when it came to throwing a knife, and this time, although the cast was made while he was going at full speed, his aim was as true as the pliant steel of the blade he hurled.
It struck fairly upon the broad brow of the foremost savage, and seemed to sink to the hilt.