He fell back inside and proceeded to shoot fast and straight with his revolvers, his head burning as though on fire.

When he had vented the dangerous pressure of his anger he went below and tried to fish the rifle in with a long stick.

It was obdurate, so he sent three more shots into the door, and, receiving no reply, ran out around the corner of his shelter and grasped the weapon.

When half way back he sank to the ground.

Before another shot could be fired at him with any judgment a ripping, spitting rifle was being frantically worked from the barn.