But little was said as the two vehicles rolled swiftly over the ground; both the man and the horse planking out at a lively rate.

For ten minutes the high rate of speed was kept up, and then Pomp’s voice was heard above the clatter of the iron feet:

“Dar dey is!”

And he pointed in a direction a point or two off their course.

Frank Reade heard him, and glanced ahead over the plain.

He could just make out two flying bands of mounted horsemen, not a quarter of a mile afront, and as he looked one of the leading band tumbled to the ground.

“More speed,” said Hale, who was peering over his shoulder.

“More speed it is,” said Frank, and pulling his reins sharply, at the same time altering his course slightly.

Charley Gorse did likewise, and at an increased rate they rushed onward to the aid of the little handful of fugitive men.

Pomp had reloaded his revolvers, and was now perched up by Charley once more, the deadly weapons flashing in the afternoon sunlight.

Barney and Harry Hale, standing up in the truck of the Steam Horse, grasped their guns with an eager grip, telling how they longed to use them.

The immense spurt of speed brought them rapidly upon the course passed over by the flying band of white men, and the man and horse out in between the two parties.

Two shrill whistles rang out, and then the white horsemen—Harry Hale’s men—pulled up sharp, and dashed back to take a hand in the fight, feeling confident that the mixed band of red and white rascals could not contend successfully with the wonderful inventions of Frank Reade.

The prisoners seemed to have no wish to meet with the man and horse, for they checked their steeds sharply when they discovered the rescuing party, and endeavored to cut away.

“Half circle, and cut them off!” yelled Frank to Charley.

The latter obeyed.

The two monsters spread out and made a half moon dash for the flying band of frightened cutthroats.

Hale’s men kept on in a straight line for the rascals they had so lately run away from.

In a few minutes the man and the horse had dashed ahead of the band, and then Charley and Frank wheeled in and closed the circle.

Harry Hale’s men were thundering up in their rear, and the rascals were forced to pull up.

They were cut off, and unless they were willing to run the gauntlet between the rapidly converging man and horse they would be forced to fight.

For a moment they hesitated, not knowing whether to stand at bay or run the risk of trying to cut through.

That moment’s hesitation signed and sealed many death warrants.

The man and horse closed in upon them.

Pomp’s long-range Colts rang out with a frightful sound.

Barney and Hale poured in a storm of bullets from their carbines, each one of which held sixteen lives.

Several of the men and horses of the mixed band were wounded, and one red rider was killed outright by the sharp little volley.

Hale’s men dashed up like rockets in the rear.

Their wild terrific cheer rang out like a bugle-note of defense, and their ready rifles cracked sharply.

The band thus forced to stand at bay did not deliberate longer.

The voice of the leader arose above the reports of the guns.

“Fire! shoot down the men in the wagons.”

And then Harry Hale and Barney wisely dropped down into the bottom of the truck, just as the Steam Horse ceased to move, and Frank tumbled from his seat just in time to escape being perfectly riddled by the hail of whistling bullets that passed over his seat just as he fell.

Charley Gorse had just brought the man to a standstill as the order was shouted forth.

He merely ducked his head with an involuntary dive.

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.

He seized the reins, gave them a peculiar twitch, and the horse reared upon his hind legs.

Pomp yelled at him, and the animal began striking viciously with his iron-shod hoofs.

His heavy blows knocked men from their saddle, and caused other horses to leap away in fear.

Pomp kept yelling at him and twitching the reins, and the horse continued striking in a ferocious manner.

Hale and Barney had leaped from the body of the wagon to the ground.

Here they kept dancing about like two uneasy hornets, and banging away right and left.

A bullet raised the skin on Barney Shea’s arm, and the Irishman’s carbine fell from his hand.

One of the horsemen charged down upon him, a huge bowie flashing in his hand.

Frank Reade had rolled fairly under the bottom of his wagon.

His little revolver, made by himself, and as true as a die, was peeping out from his belt, and as the outlaw dashed down upon the Irishman, the weapon gleamed in Frank’s hand.

Crack, went the deadly little pop-gun, and with a shattered wrist the outlaw passed by Barney, the bowie dropping from his nerveless fingers.

Barney snatched the bowie as it reached the ground, and hurled it after the man who had intended it for his breast.

“Take that wid me compliments, and don’t feel cut up over the little affair,” cried the Patlander.

He was not a remarkable thrower of the knife, but on this occasion he made a good shot.

The keen blade went quivering into the back of the receding outlaw, and the latter fell from his horse.

“Aha!” roared the delighted gentleman from Clonakilty; “I can bate the Aist Ingy jugglers, so I can. Would ye look at that, now?”

Charley Gorse had fallen from his seat in trying to regain his balance, and had landed astride the shafts of his wagon, from which place he toppled to the plain.

All this time Pomp had been raising the deuce with his striking horse, until the animal grew perfectly wild.

He tore and plunged around like some lunatic.

Pomp drew hard and sharp on the rein, and the leather snapped.

Like a bolt the horse leaped forward as soon as he found himself free from the rein.

With immense strides he dashed away over the prairie.

He was the leader’s horse, and the other animals had been accustomed to follow in his footsteps, and as he bounded away they all leaped after him, and in all probability their riders did not care about stopping them.

In an instant the battle was over, and the cavalcade of horsemen were going like streaks over the prairie in a line, following in the wake of Pomp and the maddened horse the darkey clung to with accustomed ease.

“After them!” yelled Harry Hale.

Frank tumbled up from under the body of the wagon, and leaped nimbly on to his seat.

Hale and Barney leaped over the rear of the wagon.

Charley Gorse sprang up to his seat and pulled the reins.

The Steam Man started, ran forward for a hundred yards or so, and then pulled up.

Charley leaped to the ground, with an odd expression on his face, and ran to the man.

He flung open the furnace door in the Steam Man’s belly.

His fire was almost out, and therefore his steam had become hot water.

“Go on,” shouted Hale to his men, as they looked at him for orders. “Follow them, and if you can’t reduce their number by picking them off, you must try to finish them in a desperate charge. Away!”

And like a cloud the western riders hurried away, dashing on swiftly after the pursuers of the darkey.

“Now, lively!” he cried to Frank.

The boy was yanking away on the reins even as he spoke.

No move on the part of the Steam Horse answered the pull.

Frank pulled again.

No better effects.

“What’s the matter?” asked Hale.

“Has the harse the heaves, or has the haythenish baste foundered?” asked Barney.

“Darned if I know what’s the matter,” said Frank; and then he saw that Gorse was stuck, too.

“What’s the matter, Charley?” he yelled.

“Fire almost out,” yelled back Gorse, and ran to his coal box.

“Maybe mine is too,” said Frank. “Barney, see to the fire.”

“I will that,” said Shea, and ran to the breast of the horse.

“A fire hot enough to singe the bristles o’ Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan’s pigs,” said the rollicking Irishman.

“Jump down lively,” requested Hale, “and see what is the matter. Those fellows may eat my boys up, if we don’t follow them in a moment.”

Frank sprang from his seat, and first looked at his gauge.

It registered thirty pounds of steam.

“That’s all right” said Hale, who was at his side. “Look at your boiler and steam chest proper, and see if there’s anything blocking up the way.”

Frank did so, but found everything all right until he discovered that one of the important pipes, the tube conducting the steam, was bent in such a manner as to render the passage of the vapor power impossible.

In a moment he was back to the wagon, and seized his box of tools, so necessary for keeping the machine in repair.

“It’ll be all right in five minutes,” he said, and began tinkering at the tube, handling his machinery in the most careful and expert manner.

“Hurry up,” shouted Charley Gorse from his wagon. “I’m getting up steam very rapidly.”

“I’ll be ready as soon as you,” shouted back his cousin, sticking steadily to his delicate repairing.

“I’ll ride with Charley,” said Harry Hale, leaving Frank’s side, “and Barney can keep you company.”

“All right,” said Frank. “Barney, jump into the wagon and load up the guns and pistols.”

“I will that,” said Barney.

By the time that the weapons were loaded, the repairing was completed, and then the young genius leaped up to his box with a cry of triumph.

“Away!” he cried, and once more pulled on his reins.

At the same instant Charley Gorse got under headway, and sending forth their shrill whistles, the Steam Horse and his human-shaped brother trotted away.