“Keep low,” cried the corporal, warningly, in the excitement of the moment. “A ricochet—anything will do. Get his horse.”
The horseman was twenty yards from the crest of the hill. Fifteen. The carbines again rattled out their hurried fire.
Ten yards—in a moment he would be——
A cloud of dust arose suddenly among the feet of the fugitive’s horse. It cleared. Fyles gave a sigh of relief and raced Peter forward. The man’s horse had crashed to the ground.
Fyles was gazing down upon the body of the fallen man. The horse was lying a few yards away, struggling to rise. A great welter of blood flooded the sandy track all about it.
A trooper walked up to the horse. He placed the muzzle of his carbine close behind the poor creature’s ear. The next moment there was a sharp report. The head dropped heavily to the ground and remained quite still.
The corporal looked up at his superior. He was kneeling beside the body of Charlie Bryant.
“I’m afraid it’s all up with him, sir,” he said seriously. “But he wasn’t hit. I can’t find a sign of a hit. I—think his neck’s broken—or—or something. It was the fall. He’s dead, sir—sure.”
The officer’s face never changed its stern expression. But the suspicion of a sigh escaped him. He was by no means an unfeeling man, but he had his duty to do. In this case there was more than his duty concerned. Hence the sigh. Hence any lack of appreciation.