e 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
object upon the bed in the corner, with blood-smeared face and arms and
mad terror in the eyes; the awful cursings and more awful psalm-singing,
punctuated by the quick report of the deadly rifle.

For some moments we stood gazing at one another; then The Duke said, in
a low, fierce tone, more to himself than to us:

"This is the last. There'll be no more of this cursed folly among the
boys."

And I thought it a wise thing in The Pilot that he answered not a word.

CHAPTER VIII

THE PILOT'S GRIP

The situation was one of extreme danger--a madman with a Winchester
rifle. Something must be done and quickly. But what? It would be death
to anyone appearing at the door.

"I'll speak; you keep your eyes on him," said The Duke.

"Hello, Bruce! What's the row?" shouted The Duke.

Instantly the singing stopped. A look of cunning delight came over his
face as, without a word, he got his rifle ready pointed at the door.

"Come in!" he yelled, after waiting for some moments. "Come in! You're
the biggest of all the devils. Come on, I'll send you down where you
belong. Come, what's keeping you?"

Over the rifle-barrel his eyes gleamed with frenzied delight. We
consulted as to a plan.

"I don't relish a bullet much," I said.

"There are pleasanter things," responded The Duke, "and he is a fairly
good shot."

Meantime the singing had started again, and, looking through the chink,
I saw that Bruce had got his eye on the stovepipe again. While I was
looking The Pilot slipped away from us toward the door.

"Come back!" said the Duke, "don't be a fool! Come back, he'll shoot you
dead!"

Moore paid no heed to him, but stood waiting at the door. In a few
moments Bruce blazed away again at the stovepipe. Immediately the Pilot
burst in, calling out eagerly:

"Did you get him?"

"No!" said Bruce,