Pepper hung his clever little head.
His master leaned far out of the window, and his eyes met those of the little stallion.
"Pepper," he said, "jump."
Pepper jumped. Cuddlehead slid over his tail, and for a full minute remained seated in the dust. The Brazilian colonel reeled in his saddle with choking laughter.
"Good old horse, good Pepper," called Hemming, gently.
The stallion cantered away, riderless.
The object of the colonel's uncomfortable mirth got painfully to his feet. His face was purple with the fury that raged within him. He cast discretion to the winds, and, drawing a revolver, emptied it at the smoking-room window. He looked under the cloud of dirty smoke, and saw Hemming's face bent toward him, set and horrible.
"Go away," said a voice that rang like metal, "or I will kill you where you stand. You have crossed my trail once too often, Penthouse, and, by God! this will be the last time. But now you may go away, you poor fool."
Scott twitched once or twice, where he lay on the smoking-room floor, with his head on Smith's knee.
But he was dead, sure enough, with a hole in his neck and another in his heart.