They were just about a quarter of a mile behind, well together, and coming on at a swinging gallop.
They set up a loud shout as Pomp stood up so carelessly, and the little darkey sent back a cry of defiance.
“’Tain’t all you fellers what kin hit on de fly,” he said. “Dis chile’ll show you what a darkey kin do.”
His remaining Colt’s long range revolver was in his belt.
He drew it, cocked it, and stood for a moment selecting his mark from out of the many.
In the front of the band of pursuers rode a tall Indian, mounted upon a beautiful cream stallion.
Both man and horse were decorated in fancy style, and Pomp knew that the Indian must be a person of consequence.
The cream stallion could have left the rest behind if his rider had let him have his head, but it is likely that the gayly-tricked-out red-skin did not care about getting too close to Pomp.
“Dat are stallion am jest a little bit too good a hoss for to be chasin’ me,” said the nig. “He’s de only one what could catch dis chile, so I guess I’ll send him free over the plain, wi’out a rider.”
His long right arm went up, and the gleaming weapon in his hand was extended toward the pursuers.