CHAPTER XI.

WITH THE VIGILANTS.

In another moment the Steam Man would have been in the ranks of the vigilants.

It would have been a great point scored, for Cliff would then be a prisoner and the way to save Jim Travers from the gallows would have been paved.

But it was not to be.

The villain had come to in the meanwhile, but cunning rascal that he was, had laid inanimate in the bottom of the wagon.

He had seen all that was going on, and when he saw that the Steam Man was certain to escape he knew that only desperate action upon his part would save him now.

Accordingly while Frank and Barney were occupied at their posts, he made a sudden lightning leap for the door in the cage.

Unfortunately Barney had not fastened it.

A little scream of warning came from Bessie, but it was too late.

The villain flung open the door and sprung out.

He tumbled heels over head down the decline.

This was partly done on purpose to avoid any bullets sent after him. But none struck him, and he was the next moment in the ranks of his men.

Frank turned just in time to see the daring escape.

The young inventor’s disappointment was so great that he came near leaving the wagon to pursue the villain.

“Begorra, av ther divil ain’t got clane away entoirely!” cried Barney in dismay.

“I’m sorry,” returned Frank. “But take the precaution now, Barney, to bolt that door.”

Barney complied with alacrity.

Then he was obliged to return to his post, for the enemy were thick in the rear.

But the next moment the Steam Man topped the rise.

A volley from the Vigilants drove the cowboys back for the time.

Then Frank Reade, Jr., brought the machine to a halt upon the plateau.

The Vigilants were wild with delight, and crowded about the Steam Man. Frank Reade, Jr., opened the door and descended among them.

In an instant Harmon was by his side and had gripped his hand.

“God bless ye, Mr. Reade!” cried the whole-souled plainsman. “It’s like takin’ the paw of one brought back from the dead. Dogdast it, but I’d given ye up entirely when I see that your Steam Man was in the hands or that coyote. It’s all like a kind of miracle.”

“I think we may congratulate ourselves,” said Frank, “but do you know that we are in a tight box?”

“Nobody knows it better,” declared Harmon.

“I doubt if we pull out of it.”

“What kin we do?”

“Is there no avenue open for retreat?” asked Frank.

“Not a one.”

“Then we can only stay here and fight to the last. Of course I might be able to elude them with the Steam Man, but I’d never try that while any of your band are left.”

“P’raps it would be ther best way.” said Harmon, generously. “At least you could save the gal. It don’t matter so much about us. We’re only rough men, and not a one of us afeared to die.”

“You are heroes!” cried Frank, with fervor, “and if I should desert you, I would forswear my honor as a man. No, the Steam Man, will stay here and fight for you until the last, depend on it.”

“In course we need your help,” replied Harmon. “Mebbe we’ll whip ther skunks yet.”

“We’ll try it.”

“Begorra, that we will,” cried Barney. “Whurroo! av’ I only had a good whack at that baste av’ a Cliff now I’d sphoil his beauty foriver.”

Walter Barrows and Bessie had been holding a joyful conference. But now the order went up:

“Every man to his post. The enemy are coming.”

There were no delinquents. Not one in that heroic little band hung back.

It was true that the foe were coming again to the attack.

With Cliff leading them they were charging furiously up the hill. But the Vigilants stood firm and gave them a raking volley.

For a moment they wavered. Then once more they came on.

Cliff’s voice could be heard as he rallied them.

“Curse ye, go on up thar and kill the hull crew of ‘em!” he yelled. “Don’t let one of them escape alive! Kill ‘em, every one, and don’t give any quarter!”

“We’ll see about that,” muttered Frank Reade, Jr. “It may not be so easy to do all that, Mr. Cliff.”

Frank and Barney, from their position aboard the Steam Man, could pour a terrible fire into the ranks of the foe.

It was a terrible battle!

The cowboys were mowed down like grain before the sickle; yet they did not waver, but came on faster.

Every moment they drew nearer the top of the rise. If they surrounded it the sequel would be brief.

Overpowering muscles would quickly tell the story, and the little band of vigilants would be wiped out of existence.

It was, without doubt, Cliff’s purpose to give no quarter. A wholesale massacre would be the result.

The Vigilants were now fighting for their lives. As well die facing the foe as with back turned. Every man was resolute in this.

But the tremendous body of men swept over the rise and gained the plateau. In a twinkling the Vigilants were surrounded, and it seemed as if no power would intervene to save them from sure and total extinction.

Frank Reade, Jr., took in the situation at a glance, and cried despairingly:

“Barney, we are lost! Our end has come, and we are as good as dead men already!”

* * * * *

Poor Pomp saw no way out of the awful situation in which he was placed.

Death in its most awful form was upon him.

A worse fate could not be imagined.

The savages piled the brushwood about him, and danced with demoniac yells about the pile.

If Pomp could have turned pale, he would have been whiter than chalk at that moment.

But for all this, the darky’s fears were even now more for his friends than for himself.

“Golly Massy!” he chattered, shivering like one with the ague. “Whatebber will be de end ob all dis. Yere Ise gwine fo’ to be burned to death, and Marse Frank in de clutches ob dat rascal Cliff, an’ nobody to rescue him. Oh, good Lor’ it am dretful.”

It was indeed a dreadful thing.

But Pomp was certainly powerless. Higher the brushwood was heaped, and then one of the savages advanced with a torch.

In a moment he had applied it to the pile.

The dry wood burned like tinder. In an instant great flames sprang up.

But they were at the edge of the pile. However, Pomp felt their heat and they would soon reach him.

The poor darky was nearly insane with a frenzy of desperation.

The savages now began a fiendish dance about the pile. They leaped and ran, and swung their tomahawks and made hideous faces at their victim.

But fate had not ordained that this was to be Pomp’s end.

Even while death seemed certain, rescue was close at hand.

Suddenly there smote upon the air the ring of horses’ hoofs, and a quick sharp order, followed by the crash of carbines.

Indians fell in heaps before that volley. A panic resulted and the next moment through the smoke Pomp saw the gleam of uniforms, and knew that a body of United States cavalry had happened upon the spot just in the nick of time.

The darky was beside himself with the realization.

He tried to break his bonds, and cried:

“Sabe me, sogers—sabe Pomp! He am gwine fo’ suah to burn to death ef yo’ don’ sabe him!”

But the call was not necessary.

Through the smoke sprang two dismounted soldiers. In a twinkling the burning brush was kicked aside, and Pomp’s bonds were cut.

Then the darky was face to face with a tall, handsome young officer.

The Indians had been dispersed and the fight was over.

“I am Col. Clark, of the United States Seventh Cavalry,” said the young officer. “Who are you?”

“I am Pomp!” was the darky’s prompt reply.

The officer smiled.

“Well, who do you belong to?”

“I belongs to Marse Frank Reade, Jr.,” replied Pomp, with emphasis. “I’se a free nigger, but I goes wherebber Marse Frank goes jest de same.”

“Oh, I see,” replied the officer; “well, where is your master just now?”

“Golly, for goodness!” cried Pomp, excitedly. “He am in a heap ob trubble, an’ yo’ kin help him out of it.”

With this Pomp told Clark all about the Steam Man and their mission in the West.

The young colonel listened with deep interest, and then when apprised of the fact that the Steam Man and its passengers were in the hands of Cliff, he cried, excitedly:

“By Jupiter! that man Cliff is just the chap I am after. Word was brought to the fort some time ago of a den of thieves up here with a rendezvous called Ranch V. Do you know of it?”

“Golly sakes, Marse colonel,” cried Pomp, excitedly, “yo’ kin jest bet I does! Jes’ yo’ find de cowboys and rescue Marse Frank and he done show yo’ where de Ranch V. are.”

“It shall be done if we are able,” said Colonel Clark.

He turned to his men who were scattered about the vicinity, having been engaged in driving the savages out of the valley.

But the bugle quickly recalled them.

A spare horse was brought forward for Pomp and then the cavalrymen in solid body rode out of the valley.

As they struck the prairie below, the distant sounds of firing came to their ears.

It was the din of the conflict between the Vigilants and the cowboys. Aided by the sounds Colonel Clark was able to gallop straight to the scene.

Through a pass in the hills they reached the plateau. They burst upon the cowboys in the rear just at the critical moment when it seemed as if Harmon’s heroic little band was doomed.

It required but a glance for Clark to take in the situation.

Whirling his sabre aloft he spurred his horse forward with the thrilling command:

“Forward! Charge!”