"Call the halt or we'll be going over with him, the whole pack and parcel of us."
The bugle sounded its warning short and sharp.
On the very brink of the precipice stood a giant spreading oak, and into it's broad shadow the world-famous desperado drove his mount, a veritable living projectile in its undeviating flight.
The notes of the bugle trilled again and the horses of the troopers slid to their haunches perilously near the brink.
"Fire!" rang the stern command.
Once more the heavy Winchesters crashed.
A wild yell greeted the volley.
But whether of pain or triumph they did not know.
With a scream of awful fright, the pony leaped high in the air and plunged far out and over the terrible precipice. They heard his body buffeted from rock to rock in its descent. And finally as they listened they caught the sound of the impact when it struck for the last time on the rocks far below.
Not a man spoke. They were too full of wonder and horror for speech.