"Hold up!" said The Duke. "Was that a shot?" We stood listening. A
rifle-shot rang out, and we rode hard. Again The Duke halted us, and
there came from the shack the sound of singing. It was an old Scotch
tune.

"The twenty-third Psalm," said Moore, in a low voice.

We rode into the bluff, tied up our horses and crept to the back of the
shack. Looking through a crack between the logs, I saw a gruesome thing.
Bruce was sitting up in bed with a Winchester rifle across his knees and
a belt of cartridges hanging over the post. His bandages were torn off,
the blood from his wound was smeared over his bare arms and his pale,
ghastly face; his eyes were wild with mad terror, and he was shouting at
the top of his voice the words:

"The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want,
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green, He leadeth me
The quiet waters by."

Now and then he would stop to say in an awesome whisper, "Come out here,
you little devils!" and bang would go his rifle at the stovepipe, which
was riddled with holes. Then once more in a loud voice he would hurry to
begin the Psalm,

"The Lord's my Shepherd."

Nothing that my memory brings to me makes me chill like that
picture--the low log shack, now in cheerless disorder; the ghastly