They were gaining on him, but his horse was still in good wind, and Pomp was sure that he could keep them back.
His arm went up, and again that long muzzled Colt covered one of the advancing band of outlaws.
It spoke out sharply.
“Dar goes one,” said Pomp, as he re-cocked his weapon. “Here we are again.”
Again that long-range weapon sent forth its unerring bullet.
“Down goes anudder,” roared the delighted darkey, as his enemies wavered and broke up in some confusion. “Now for dat ar’ poor little boy.”
He thrust his pistol in his belt, and with a firm grip seized the reins, pulled up on them taut, almost lifting the horse from his feet, and with a loud yell urged him on.
Forward bounded the steed at a fearful pace, dashing down directly upon the swiftly-moving circle of buffaloes, and the darkey’s steady hand and quick eyes guided him through a slight gap in the living ring.
As he gained the inside of the ring, his enemies came thundering down upon his track, their rifles ready for either the buffaloes or himself.
Pomp leaned far out from the saddle and clutched Ralph Radcliffe by the arm, swinging him before him with but small effort of his cable-like muscles, and then he yelled at the horse again, and pulled him up with one hand, short and sharp, and as the animal was going at full speed it caused him to leap.