CHAPTER XXII.

THE BATTLE AT THE GROVE.

As the answering whistle came faintly to the ears of the little darkey, he thought he saw a shadowy form moving in the grass some few feet away.

He grasped his knife and dropped silently to the ground.

He was now on a line with the object, and could see it better.

It was a top-knotted Indian, a scout in all probability, who was crawling upon the grove.

“High golly!” muttered the darkey, “if dat ar chap am comin’ fo’ information, dis chile guess he won’t carry de news to Mary. Not much. Guess I kin a’most jump down his froat.”

He waited until the Indian crawled a few feet further in towards him, and then he coiled himself up like some queer snake.

He undoubled himself with a sudden jerk, and flew swiftly through the thin air, alighting directly on top of the redskin’s shoulders.

“Whoop!” yelled the red, giving utterance to a call for aid.

“Dat am yer last yawp,” cried Pomp; and with a quick blow he drove the heavy knife nearly through the poor scout’s heart.

Without another sound the redskin fell backwards.

A chorus of yells rang out not more than a hundred yards away, telling very plainly that the enemy hovered close upon the trail of the scout he had killed.

That darkey didn’t lose any time in getting back to the trees, and it was well that he did so, for the next moment the enemy came down in a grand rush, evidently with the idea of carrying all before them by the force of their assault.

However, the prospecting party were well secured, were in the deep shadows and could see a little distance out on the level plain, and, likewise, were well prepared to receive them.

“Fire!” yelled Pomp, and his own favorite weapon, the long-range Colt, spoke out as he gave the command.

A series of shots rang out, and almost at the same instant a succession of very painful yells told that the bullets found many a living mark.

But the rush was too impetuous even for a volley to check, and the next moment the Indians piled into the grove.

The prospectors met them bravely, and it was lucky for them that the darkness of the night was in their favor, for, greatly outnumbered as they were, they must have inevitably been gobbled up by their savage foes.

A hand-to-hand fight in the dark is always a terrible thing.

One is as apt to strike a deadly blow at a friend as at a foe.

It is difficult to fight, even at arm’s length, in the gloom, and this causes foes to grapple, making the contest a deadly one.

Ralph Radcliffe was not old enough nor large enough to contend with any of the enemy, and therefore got out of the way of danger by burying himself in a cluster of bushes.

The thundering sound of mighty feet were heard on the hard roadway of the plains, a bright light, steady and brilliant, suddenly shot up, a ringing cheer from four throats, mingled with a clear whistle, and then the Steam Man and the four brave fellows it brought to the rescue, dashed swiftly up to the grove.

The man came to a sudden halt about ten feet from the trees, and, with Harry Hale at their head, the four rough customers leaped from the wagon to the ground.

“Hurrah!” they yelled, and leaped like tigers into the thickest of the fight, the spot where Pomp was slashing left and right, dealing telling blows with his long, heavy knife.

The detective came upon the redskins like a miniature tornado, and his path was marked with the bodies of the fallen slain.

An immense redskin, a giant in size and strength, and armed with a heavy war-club, a terrible weapon in the hands of a powerful man, leaned swiftly upon Hale.

The detective turned savagely upon his gigantic foe, and swung his heavy bowie-knife full at the Indian’s broad bosom, and with such good aim that it went in like a bolt.

But the Indian was not checked by the blow.

Onward, with upraised club, he came.

Hale dodged swiftly, but the blow was made too quickly for him, and he got a terrible clip on the top of the head that stretched him out.

As he fell to the ground his big enemy also dropped.

The red giant fell forward, and as he reached the ground the hilt of the knife was fairly forced through his body.

With a deep groan and a gasping cry he expired.

The bright chemical blaze streaming up from the wagon of the Steam Man shed its brilliant glow far around, and the grove and its surroundings were well lit up.

A villainous-looking half-breed, a tall, well-built fellow, crawled up to the wagon while the fight was going on, and after a moment’s search succeeded in finding Pomp’s banjo.

He dashed swiftly away to the cluster of tents with this, and after placing it in a safe spot, grabbed up a long war-club and rushed back to the scene of the battle.

He made straight for Pomp.

He was wise, this half-breed, for he knew better than to hit a darkey on the head, even with such a ponderous club as he grasped.

He dashed upon the little nig, and made a clip at him.

Pomp saw the blow coming, and very naturally supposed that it was intended for his head.

That’s just where he was mistaken, and where the half-breed exhibited a great amount of knowledge.

The heavy club hummed through the air and descended fairly across the darkey’s shins.

Down dropped Pomp, as though he had come slap up against a big locomotive.

That’s a mighty sure thing on almost any colored individual.

As soon as he fell, the half-breed made a few rapid blows with the club, and rapidly cleared a space.

Then he bent down, picked up the little nig, and ran off with him, before anything could be done to prevent his departure.

The battle was still raging fiercely, but the addition of the four slap-dash Indian fighters had made so much difference that the redskins did not care to continue the affair in the widespreading light from the wagon.

Several signal yells rang out, and a shout from the lips of James Van Dorn was also heard, and than the enemy beat a rapid retreat to their tents, leaving the dead and dying of their combined parties on the field.

In common with the fracas at the Pass, the battle was over; but the victory was not with either side.

When search was made for friends on the field, Harry Hale was picked up and, after a time, brought back to life; but he had an awful headache.

Charley Gorse was unharmed, but his other two comrades were slightly cut up, and many of the prospectors were either dead or wounded.

After searching carefully among the bodies for ten minutes, and shouting vainly, it was determined that the little nig was not to be found in that vicinity, and then they cried out, as Frank and Dwight had called out, for the jolly Irishman:

“Where is Pomp?”