Ralph Radcliffe had been so frightened by the yells of redskins that he made very rapid time for that grove, and was soon safe among the members of the much excited prospecting party, who regarded the fighting darkey’s wonderful exploits with wide-open eyes.
Pomp made for the grove at a rate of speed that would have bothered anything but a race-horse to compete with, and with one of his victorious yells bounded fairly into the shelter of the trees.
“Ker flew dar!” cried Pomp. “Didn’t dis yar colored gemmen jes’ sling hisself fo’ ’bout free minutes? I guess. Gorra mighty, but dem dar Injuns mus’ had awful pain in dere heads when dey took dem ar pills. G’way, chile; don’t yer git courtin’ wid der fool-house.”
“You’re a tearer,” said one of the men. “I’ll bet that there isn’t your match anywhere around the country for shooting with a revolver.”
“Yes, dar am,” said Pomp. “Dar’s one man in dis yar benighted lan’ what kin take de shine out ob dis yar colored pusson, but I guess he’s de only chile what’ll car to swap shots with little Pomp.”
“Who is he?”
“Tell us his name?” they cried.
“Yer knows him well ’nough,” returned the little nig. “He’s de toughest little cuss in dis yar western lan’, an’ he taught Pomp how to handle a ’volver. De little screamer what I refers to am called Little Gilmore. ’Spose yourn heard o’ de cuss?”
“Heard of him!” Rather. Who had not heard of Little Gilmore, the most expert hand at the revolver in the West—the man who had freed a Navajoe city from four immense bears that had proved a terror to the superstitious inhabitants for years. Of course they had heard of him, and when they knew that Pomp was his pupil, they did not marvel so much at his remarkable skill.
Black Arrow died, and then Van Dorn and his party encamped alongside of the other reds, only waiting for night to fall to crawl down upon the few inmates of the grove.