Pomp, sitting at his side, saw several dark tubes turned upon him.
The darkey made up his mind that diving alone might not save him from getting a bullet through his woolly head, as he seemed to have been picked out by the enemy as the most dangerous foe opposed to them.
He didn’t hesitate a moment, but made a frog-like jump to the ground, and the bullets clipped over Charley’s head with a merry whirr, cutting part of the feather in his cap in their flight.
Pomp bounded from the ground like some huge rubber ball.
He had dropped one of his revolvers into the wagon as he jumped.
The other he now thrust hastily into his belt, and then dashed in among the mixed band in a perfectly fearless manner, and leaped upon the leader.
While the bullets were singing their song of death, the daring darkey grasped the leader by the leg, and tore him from the back of his steed.
Head down to the plain went the leader of the outlaws, and like a monkey, Pomp leaped up and was instantly in the saddle.
As Charley Gorse had told his cousin, the darkey was one of the most expert riders of the day.
He could do more with a horse than an ordinary rider.