Pomp stood upon the saddle so as to get a clear view, and held his reloaded weapon in his right hand.
The maddened buffaloes were leaping and prancing in that immense circle, their deep-toned lowing sounding like distant thunder.
There appeared to be two sides to the fight, for there were about half a dozen on one side and half a dozen on the other, but instead of rushing forward and locking horns, as a domesticated bull would have done, they continued their fierce battle in that big ring, and a desperate battle it was, too.
Even as the darkey stood up one of the big beasts made a desperate leap upon one of his foes, the other in turn attacking a foe ahead of him; but the fierce charge of the first-named brute was well directed, and the second buffalo sank dying to the plain, a gash fully a yard long in his side, showing where he had been disemboweled as quickly and as neatly by a cruel horn as the sharpest sword could have done.
Pomp’s horse was heading direct for the fighting beasts.
The pursuers, thundering rapidly up in the rear, thought that Pomp’s ride was over now, and they set up a loud shout of expectant triumph.
But Pomp didn’t have any idea of giving up just then.
His powerful eyes recognized the features of the pallid boy at James Van Dorn’s side, and he made up his mind to rescue the lad if the thing could be done.
He turned lightly in the saddle, and his keen eyes ranged over his foes.