Pomp didn’t wait to see the effect of his shot, for he never doubted the accuracy of his aim, and when the savage fell into the arms of one of his comrades the little darkey dead-shot wheeled again and let drive at the mounted gang.
Down dropped Black Arrow with a ball between his shoulders, and had not James Van Dorn caught him by the arm and hauled him up on the saddle he would surely have toppled headlong to the ground.
And then, like lightning, Pomp turned on his heel once more and banged away with his remaining charge, bringing down his game as usual.
This bang-bang and kill-kill sort of thing did not please the reds.
They grew somewhat shy of this wonderful marksman, whose aim always meant danger if not death.
“Halt!” cried Van Dorn. “That black cuss must be the devil.”
His party pulled up, and Black Arrow, bleeding profusely and dying fast, was placed upon the grass.
The leader of the Indians who had so valiantly rushed down upon Pomp from their tents with the charitable intention of gobbling him up alive, were convinced that it was rather dangerous for them to advance against this terrible marksman, and therefore they pulled up with great dispatch, and vented their chagrin in loud yells.
“Hope you’ll yell yer darned heads off!” cried Pomp. “Don’t yer fool wid the court-house no more, honeys. I’m dar every time. Yes, I is, and don’t yer go fo’ to forget dat ax nudder. When dis chile o’ darkness sot out to sling hisself, den yer must look out for de har to fly, by gum.”
And then, with a loud yell of derision and scorn, the ebony wonder bounded away to the grove.