delirium. It's the whisky more than the bullet. Shakes, you know."
In ten minutes we three were on the trail, for Moore, though not invited, quietly announced his intention to go with us.
"Oh, all right," said The Duke, indifferently, "he probably won't recognize you any way."
We rode hard for half an hour till we came within sight of Bruce's shack, which was set back into a little poplar bluff.
"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
