“Hurrah!”

With a wild cheer the two monsters of the plains were directed upon the startled robbers as they came into view.

The outlaws were taken by surprise, and were thrown into confusion by the very unlooked-for charge.

Sinyaro, the outlaw leader, was the only man of his party who seemed to retain possession of his coolness.

Drawing his revolvers from his belt, the leader of the robber band shot down one of his own men who had turned his horse with the intention of running from the terrifying monsters.

As the man fell dead from the back of his horse the chieftain reined in, and his voice rang out in command:

“Stand, firm! The man who flies from the enemy dies by my hand.”

His voice reassured his men, but they shook, nevertheless, when Pomp gave them the benefit of his deadly long-range Colts.

The darkey opened the ball.

He led off with a neat double shot, picking the men off who sat on either side of the prisoners.

As the men fell, Sinyaro shrieked out in angry tones:

“Stab the prisoners to the heart!”

Two of his followers sprang from their horses and leaped upon the poor old people.

The aged couple were pulled from the backs of the horses they rode and hurled to the ground.

Then the assassins bent over them with knives upraised.

Frank Reade had done wisely in selecting the darkey to protect the old couple from assassination.

As the knives went up in the air, so did Pomp’s hands.

Each one grasped a revolver.

Crack! Crack!

Almost together the reports rang out on the breeze, and the assassins went down to rise no more.

Then the man and the horse plunged swiftly into the ranks of the determined robbers, and steam was shut off.

Pomp, Pedro and Harry Hale leaped to the old folks’ rescue.

They pulled them erect, and then Pedro seized their hands and ran off with them to the village.

Then the rest of our friends piled into the fight in their usual spatter-and-dash style, knocking everything in a reckless manner that was enough to terrify an ordinary foe.

Sinyaro’s sneering laugh rang out loudly when he saw the handful of men opposed to his band.

Indeed, two out of the few were mere boys—Charley Gorse and Frank Reade; but Charley was a regular rough-and-tumble Indian fighter, and our hero was arrayed in his invincible suit of mail.

He did not descend from his wagon-seat, but with cool nerve sat up high and picked off his foes at pleasure.

Spat, spat, ping! the bullets struck against his breast, but he laughed in derision.

Only his eyes were visible through the close-laced bars of his visor.

With a pistol in either hand he coolly sat there, keeping an eye upon his friends, and sending in a helping shot whenever he thought any of them were in need of it.

Barney Shea sprang into the midst of his enemies with a wild Irish yell, grasping his heavy black-thorn stick, and twirling it with a practiced hand.

“Hoora, boys,” he shouted; “gintlemin, it’s plased I am to mate yez all this foine summer’s avening. There’s me compliments on top o’ yez head, ye spalpeen, an’ don’t yez be afther saying Barney Shea ever forgot his manners whin he thraveled through a strange counthry. It’s a rale dacint lookin’ mon ye are, and sure it’s not meself that would think o’ passin’ ye by so aisely, so take another wan in token o’ my estame.”

And then the robber to whom he paid particular attention tumbled from his saddle with a broken head, very much knocked out of tune by Barney’s token of esteem.

Jared Dwight was not fighting reds now, but he went to work in a very systematic manner with his heavy rifle.

He took the end of the barrel firmly in his hands, and with the iron-bound butt revolving rapidly around his head, he sailed in.

Men who came within the sweep of the reversed arm, were knocked over like tenpins, and by their prancing and shying it seemed that the horses didn’t like it very well.

Our friends fought on this plain.

They were outnumbered ten to one.

They could not reasonably hope to get the best of such numbers; therefore, they had determined to strike a few sharp, quick blows, fight like furies for about two or three minutes and throw their foe into confusion or terrify them if possible, and then make tracks while they had a chance to save their lives.

Pomp was a perfect battery.

With a revolver in either hand he kept up a constant fire.

Harry Hale, a splendid shot, followed suit.

As we have said, Dwight proved to be a host with his clubbed gun, for he was a man of immense muscular strength, and could handle such a weapon as he wielded.

Our boys rapidly emptied their loaded weapons, and then they thought of making a retreat.

Frank gave the signal for the homeward march by jerking on the whistle-cord of his machine.

The loud shriek that came from the horse frightened the steeds of the robbers, and they began cavorting around the place like mad.

Charley Gorse leaped back to his seat, and the others made for the wagons with all speed.

Just then a loud shout rang out at hand, and when Frank Reade turned his head to see what it meant he dropped the reins and did not put on steam.

The battle was not yet over.

In a well-formed body, and around in every conceivable style, the villagers were pouring down upon the robbers.

With exultant shouts they precipitated themselves upon the outlaws, led by young Pedro, the Mexican boy, who sought to avenge a parent’s wrongs.

They greatly outnumbered the bandits, as they termed them, but these latter were armed in a superior manner, and the villagers would never have dared to tackle them had not our friends opened the way to victory for them by half demoralizing the foe.

Pedro leaped upon the horse bestrode by Sinyaro.

He caught the bold outlaw by the throat and yelled in his ear:

“Revenge!”

And then he sheathed his knife in the chieftain’s heart.

Their leader dead, the rest sought to fly from the overwhelming force, but the villagers were determined to exterminate them, and with rude but effective weapons they hemmed them in and cut them down.

The terrible battle was short and sharp, but it was a decisive victory for the long-suffering villagers.

Many of their number lay dead upon the ground, but of all that gayly-dressed band that came riding in not one was left to ride out again, for the band was completely wiped out.

“Worra, worra!” cried Barney Shea, as he put some balsam on a wound in his left arm. “Did anybody iver see the loikes of this counthry for ructions? I’d loike to attind a wake in this land.”