extremity of the building. Convinced as to this probability I dragged my
body slowly forward until I could touch the log wall. I could see better
now, being myself in the denser shadow, and knew the passage was clear
to the corner.

Assured of this I rose to my feet, revolver in hand, and pressing close
against the side of the building, advanced quickly and silently. At the
corner I peered about, scarcely daring to breathe, but with heart
pounding, as I caught sight of the fellow, not over three feet distant.
He was seated on an overturned bucket, his back toward me, both hands
clasping a musket, his head bent slightly forward. He seemed listening
to some noise in the distance, totally unconscious of my approach. The
man's fingers were nowhere near the trigger of his gun, and my straining
eyes could perceive no sign of any other weapon. This had to be silent
work--silent and swift. With one step forward I had my revolver pressed
hard against his cheek, my other hand crushing his fingers to
the musket.

"Keep quiet, man! Not a move! I'll blow your head off if you lift a
hand!"

"Oh! Good God!"

He was but little more than a boy; I could see his face now under the
slouch hat, and I had already frightened the life half out of him.

"Drop your gun! Now stand up!" He obeyed like an automaton, his brain
seemingly paralyzed. There was nothing to fear from this fellow, yet I
knew better than to become careless--terror has been known to drive men
crazy. I caught him by the collar, whirling him about, my Colt still