"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.