He snatched the pistol from the hands of the excited boy.
Fierce yells rang out, and from the other side the Indians began pouring out from their little tents, and to the number of a dozen dashed fleetly towards him and the boy.
Pomp was in his glory, for the plucky little darkey really loved the excitement of danger, and was always delighted with a big rumpus that afforded him full scope to use his wonderful skill in shooting.
He had four shots left.
The knife he plucked from the breast of the Indian he had struck down so cleverly, and placed the reeking blade in his belt.
“Run for the grove,” he said to Ralph in a commanding tone that started the boy off at a steady trot for the trees, and then the darkey turned to the mounted reds.
Crack!
Down went the warrior who was riding beside Black Arrow, falling headlong to the earth.
But, before he had fallen, Pomp had turned on his heel and swiftly fired at the foremost man of the party on foot as they dashed out of their tents.
Without a cry the doomed redskin fell stone dead.