Next moment a board in the house creaked softly, as if it had been trodden on; but the boards often did so after a change of temperature, and Jake sat still. Their colored servant had asked leave to go down to the camp and was perhaps now coming back. One had to be careful not to give one’s imagination too much rein in these hot countries. Payne seemed to have done so and had got an attack of nerves, which was curious, because indulgence in native caña generally led to that kind of thing, and Payne was sober. Moreover, he was of the type that is commonly called hard.
Jake took out a cigarette and was lighting it when he heard a swift, stealthy step close behind him. He dropped the match as he swung round, pushing back his canvas chair, and found his eyes dazzled by the sudden darkness. Still he thought he saw a shadow flit across the veranda and vanish into the mist. Next moment there were heavier footsteps, and a crash as a man fell over the projecting legs of the chair. The fellow rolled down the shallow stairs, dropping a pistol and then hurriedly got up.
“Stop right there, Pepe!” he shouted. “What were you doing in that room?”
Nobody answered and Jake turned to the man, who was rubbing his leg.
“What’s the trouble, Payne?” he asked.
“He’s lit out, but I reckon I’d have got him if you’d been more careful how you pushed your chair around.”
“Whom did you expect to get?”
“Well,” said Payne, “it wasn’t Pepe.”
“Then why did you call him?”
“I wanted the fellow I was after to think I’d made a mistake.”