CHAPTER IX.

POMP’S MISTAKE.

Frank Reade, Jr., felt comparatively safe as he rolled himself up in a blanket and went to sleep. He did not believe that the villain, Cliff, would be able to molest them that night.

It was Barney’s first watch.

The Hibernian, until midnight, kept a good lookout in the cage. Then he called Pomp to succeed him.

The darky kept a good lookout until the early morning hours.

The darkness was most intense.

At about this time Pomp experienced a deadly faintness at the pit of the stomach and a great longing for water.

His thirst became most consuming, and it seemed as if he must, at any cost, gratify it.

But he found, upon looking in the tank, that it was empty.

There was not a gill of cold water in the wagon. Pomp grew sober with this dampening reflection.

“I jes’ fink if I had a bit of watah I would be a’ right,” he muttered; “but how ebber am dis niggah gwine fo’ to get it, dat’s what I’d like to know.”

Pomp went to the steel screen and tried to penetrate the darkness.

He knew that not ten yards distant were the waters of a small creek. He could hear them rippling now.

It was directly at variance with his orders to open the cage door. Yet it seemed to Pomp as if he must do so.

The risk did not seem great.

There seemed little likelihood of the proximity of a foe.

Pomp felt certain that he could reach the creek, get his drink, and get back safely to the wagon.

He was sorely tempted. The desire was most powerful.

“Golly!” he muttered, with a wry face. “What am I gwine fo’ to do? I don’ beliebe dar’s any danger ob going out dar, but if Marse Frank knew it he’d fix me putty quick. Sakes alibe! but what am a chile gwine fo’ to do? I am mos’ dyin’ fo’ a drink ob watah.”

Pomp thought of awakening Barney and enlisting his aid.

But he reflected that the Celt would be certain to disagree with his scheme.

There was no other way but to assume the responsibility himself. Pomp drew a deep breath.

Then he fell to listening.

All was silent as the grave.

“Sho!” he muttered. “Dar ain’t no danger at all. I’ll jest hab dat watah as suah as I’m born.”

He quickly slid back the bolt in the door and opened it.

Then he stepped out of the wagon. In another moment he glided down to the water’s edge.

Pomp flung himself flat and began to drink of the creek water.

But he had not taken one drink when he became aware of an appalling sensation. He turned his head and glanced back at the Steam Man.

The lantern hanging in the cage showed the open door and all as plain as day. But, great heavens! What did he see?

Dark forms were swarming about the machine. One was already in the wagon.

Pomp saw this much, and then his attention was claimed by another matter. He suddenly felt a heavy body descend upon him and talon fingers clutched his throat.

In that flash of time Pomp had turned partly over.

He was just in time to see the flash of a knife blade. He made a convulsive upward blow, and grasped the wrist of his unknown assailant.

By the merest chance the death blow had been averted.

But it was a close call.

Then with a herculean effort Pomp rolled over the edge of the bank, and the next moment, with a powerful swing, he had brought himself and assailant into the water of the creek.

The sudden bath caused Pomp’s adversary to relax his grip.

The darky had no further motive for continuing the struggle, and striking out swam for the opposite bank.

He clambered out of the water, and crawled into a thicket.

There he lay shivering, and witnessed a thrilling scene upon the other bank of the creek.

The occupants of the wagon had all been aroused, and were every one prisoners, in the power of Cliff and his cowboys.

The outlaw had managed to cover the twenty miles, skillfully following the trail by means of a dark lantern.

He had been hovering with his minions about the Steam Man, just as Pomp committed the indiscretion of leaving the door open.

Of course it was an easy matter for the cowboys to board the wagon and make prisoners of all on board.

The glee of Cliff was beyond expression.

He danced and clapped his hands with fiendish joy. He pinched Bessie’s arms until she screamed with agony, and with brutal laughter roared:

“Oh, I’ll make ye all dance. Ye thought ye’d git away from me, did ye, gal? I’ll show ye that ye can’t get away from Artemas Cliff. Ha, ha, ha! What a good joke.”

He laughed uproariously.

“All mine,” he continued, “And this Steam Man, this wonderful invention, is just what I want. I can travel around in great style. Oh, Mr. Frank Reade, Jr., I’ll dance on your grave yet.”

“Monster!” cried Frank, writhing in his bonds. “You’ll never succeed. A righteous God will never permit it.”

The villain gave his men carte blanche to make camp and indulge in a carousal.

They did so until daybreak, and then Cliff stated that it was his purpose to go back to Ranch V.

It did not lake him long to understand the mechanism of the Steam Man.

He quickly found out how to use the throttle reins. He was aided by the fact that he had once been a locomotive engineer.

With the early morning light the start for Ranch V. was made.

And Pomp, wet and shivering and horrified, crouched in the thicket upon the bank of the creek, saw the Steam Man and his friends, all in the power of the foe, take departure.

When they had gone Pomp came out of his hiding-place.

“Golly!” he muttered, with distended eyeballs, “I jes’ fink dis nigger hab done de berry awfulest fing eber known. Dar am only one way fo’ Pomp to sabe his honor, an’ dat am to fix some way to rescue Marse Frank an’ all ob de odders, an’ I’ll do it if I can.”

Pomp was very much in earnest.

He was a brave and generous fellow, and willing at any time to sacrifice his life for his master.

In some manner he must certainly vindicate himself. He crossed the creek again and stood upon the spot where the Steam Man had been.

Of course the machine was out of sight by this time, but nevertheless, Pomp took the trail and proceeded to follow it.

For some hours he trudged on over the prairie. All the while the darky was revolving in his mind some plan for the relief of his friends.

He was bound to admit that it was a puzzle. Yet he did not lose hope.

The hills were every moment becoming plainer. Already Pomp had covered five of the twenty miles.

The darky was a good walker, and no distance was too great for his trained muscles.

The sun was beginning to run high in the heavens, and a brisk breeze blew across the prairie.

Pomp kept on steadily.

The trail kept on toward the hills, and the sagacious darky reflected that Cliff was likely going to join the main body of his men.

“I jes’ fink I can see what dat rascal am up to,” muttered Pomp. “He am jus’ too sharp to let de game slip him once he gits his clutches onto it. He am jus’ goin’ fo’ to take de Steam Man to his Ranch V., and dar’s whar dis darky must go an’ try fo’ to work some leetle plan fo’ to rescue Frank Reade, Jr., an’ de odders. Dat am a fac’.”

With this logical conclusion Pomp trudged on.

He was now on the last five miles of his journey to the hills. The sun was long past the noon hour when Pomp, by dint of rapid walking, had made the hills.

There was no sign visible of the Steam Man or of the cowboys.

But Pomp saw that the trail continued around the base of the hills.

This puzzled the darkey a moment.

He paused and scratched his head in deep thought.

“Dat am a dretful queer thing,” he muttered. “Dat ain’t de way to go to Ranch V, if I’se right in mah conjeckshun.”

Then he paused, and a light of comprehension broke across his face.

A distant sound had come to his hearing. It was the faint rattle of firearms far up in the hills.

“Golly!” he ejaculated. “I see de trick ob dat berry sharp fox, Artemus Cliff. He am gwine fo’ to gib de Vigilants a good lickin’ afore he goes to Ranch V. Dat am jus’ my bes’ way for to jine Marse Harmon an’ his men, an’ help dem trash the cowboys.”

Pomp’s mind was made up.

He would join the vigilants and do his best to give the cowboys a good drubbing. He at once struck into the hills.

But alas for Pomp!

Luck seemed against the darky for the time being. He had not more than fairly entered a narrow pass when an appalling incident occurred.

The air was suddenly broken by wild yells, and in an instant he was surrounded by half a hundred painted savages, who burst from niches and crevices in the rocks about.

They pounced upon him, and before Pomp had even time to think of resistance he was a prisoner.

The savages swarmed about him like bees. Words cannot express Pump’s dismay at this turn.

His eyes bulged, and his knees shook as with the ague.

“Fo’ de good Lor’ dis am dretful!” he groaned. “I’se done fo’ dis time, an’ dar am nobody to rescue Marse Frank!”

* * * * *

It was truly a dubious outlook. The savages were of Black Buffalo’s gang of Sioux, and they seemed much elated at getting the prisoner once more into their clutches.

They chattered and gesticulated like a flock of magpies, and some of them approached Pomp with their tomahawks as though they would fain make an end of him then and there.

But the others held them back and an excited wrangle followed.

All this while Pomp was writhing in his bonds. In vain he tried to break them.

For some while the savages wrangled. Then a compromise was made and Pomp was picked up bodily, and carried through the pass and into a small glade among some trees.

Here he was tied to a tree and a great heap of fagots were piled at his feet.

With a chill of horror, the darky saw that the savages meant to take his life in a horrible manner.

He was to suffer death in the flames. Pomp felt sick and faint. But even in that moment he thought not of himself, brave fellow, but of Frank Reade, Jr., and the others.

“Golly sakes, whoebber am gwine fo’ to sabe Marse Frank, now?” he groaned.