He waited until the Indian crawled a few feet further in towards him, and then he coiled himself up like some queer snake.
He undoubled himself with a sudden jerk, and flew swiftly through the thin air, alighting directly on top of the redskin’s shoulders.
“Whoop!” yelled the red, giving utterance to a call for aid.
“Dat am yer last yawp,” cried Pomp; and with a quick blow he drove the heavy knife nearly through the poor scout’s heart.
Without another sound the redskin fell backwards.
A chorus of yells rang out not more than a hundred yards away, telling very plainly that the enemy hovered close upon the trail of the scout he had killed.
That darkey didn’t lose any time in getting back to the trees, and it was well that he did so, for the next moment the enemy came down in a grand rush, evidently with the idea of carrying all before them by the force of their assault.
However, the prospecting party were well secured, were in the deep shadows and could see a little distance out on the level plain, and, likewise, were well prepared to receive them.
“Fire!” yelled Pomp, and his own favorite weapon, the long-range Colt, spoke out as he gave the command.
A series of shots rang out, and almost at the same instant a succession of very painful yells told that the bullets found many a living mark.