We left Pomp dashing away over the vast plains on the horse belonging to the leader of the outlaws.

The racket just suited the darkey, for above all things he liked racing and excitement, and certainly this sort of race was exciting enough, for the stake at issue was his own life.

Like a rocket he dashed on, for the horse he bestrode was one of the fleetest mustangs of the plains; barrel bodied, full chested, thin nosed, clean limbed, bright eyed, and full of bottom and speed.

After him in a perfect cloud came the outlaws.

As the reader knows, the mounted men of Hale’s command did not leave their captain until it was ascertained that something was the matter with the machines, therefore Pomp and his pursuers had a big start and a clear course.

With the most practiced ease the little darkey stood on his head in the saddle, and kicked up his legs.

“Come on,” he yelled. “Don’t yer go for to be getting bashful, kase I’se out for fun, I is, and I likes company. Come right ’long dar, and don’t be hanging back. What fo’ you think dis nigga want to go trablin’ lone for, hey?”

A chorus of shouts, shots, shrieks, yells and curses rang out.

Several bullets whistled around the little darkey, but none hit either him or the horse.

His enemies were wild over his cool mode of treatment.

It was decidedly contemptuous, and they did not like it.

So they banged away at him, but it is not every marksman who can hit even a very large sized mark when he has to fire from the back of a bounding steed, and Pomp knew that as long as they aimed at him he was pretty safe, whereas if they had only banged away in a promiscuous manner, he would have felt insecure.

He knew that they were not likely to hit what they aimed at.

He stood their firing for a few minutes, and then he stood up in his saddle and took a view of them.

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.

His keen black eyes flashed for a mere instant over the barrel, and then he pulled the trigger.

Bang!

With a terrible yell the Indian leaped fairly from the back of his horse, and went down to the ground under the hoofs of the flying steeds, while the noble cream stallion, freed from its load, dashed away from the band in frightened style, making wonderful bounds that soon carried it out of sight.

Again the revolver in Pomp’s hand sent forth its death-note, and another riderless steed bounded away after the cream stallion.

An answering volley rang out from the pursuers.

A well-aimed bullet struck against the lock of the revolver, and the heavy weapon was torn from the hands of the surprised darkey.

Away it flew through the air, whirling over and over.

It struck some few hundred yards ahead of the horse, and directly in the course the darkey was traveling.

A cheer went up from the pursuers when they saw their plucky enemy thus suddenly disarmed, for in the hands of such a marksman that very revolver was not a proper thing to ride behind.

But Pomp performed a marvelous feat from the back of the horse that caused them to give another shout, this time in admiration of the plucky darkey.

The revolver landed and stopped, and then Pomp put one foot over the pommel of the saddle, the other one curved dexterously over the horse’s neck, and then Pomp went head down and made a quick grab at the butt of the weapon as it lay on the ground.

He got it, and holding it firmly in his right hand, he caught the mane with the strong fingers of his left paw, and rapidly swung himself up again.

He looked over the weapon.

It was uninjured, and two charges were still in the chambers.

In an instant the darkey was standing erect again in the saddle, and his two remaining bullets were sent shrieking into the closely-packed crowd of howling pursuers, tumbling two more of them from their horses, and creating a little panic among the band.

Then the darkey plunged down into the saddle and caught his reins up.

His horse was making splendid time running, and the gait, a long, swinging gallop, was not tiresome.

The darkey possessed very powerful eyes, but he looked in vain for anything in the shape of rescuing friends.

Nothing was to be seen but the howling enemies in his rear.

“Den dis yere am a ride for life,” said the darkey to himself, as he sat cross-legged on the saddle and proceeded to reload his weapon. “Well, I kinder guess dis chile kin do de ridin’.”

And the shooting, too, he might have added, for he had already sent several of his enemies to their last account, and he was as yet totally uninjured.

He glanced ahead, and a cry of surprise, if not of fear, burst from his lips.

The plain was here intersected by a rapidly-flowing stream, hemmed in by long spurs of rock.

On the bank which the darkey was rapidly approaching, a strange and thrilling scene was being enacted.

A dozen buffaloes, wounded, covered with blood, and evidently maddened to a desperate degree, were fighting a terrific running fight, continually dashing around and around in a big circle, describing the distance of a hundred yards.

Their sides and horns were reeking with gore and their bellowing sounded like the moans of a dying army.

In the center of this immense circle, and fairly hemmed in by the beasts as they tore around, were two trembling horses, and upon their backs were seated a man and a boy.

These latter were none others than James Van Dorn and Ralph Radcliffe, the son of the man Van Dorn had so brutally murdered in his house at Clarkville.

“For de land’s sake!” cried Pomp, fully surprised by the wonderful sight. “Dey is hemmed in by dem bufflers, an’ dey is not able to get out. Why de debbil don’t de man pop some of de bufflers ober?”

But when he looked again he saw that the man had no rifle; and a revolver, in the hands of an ordinary marksman, and used upon the tough hide of a bison, doesn’t amount to much.

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.

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.

Straight over the fighting circle arose the horse and his double burden.