He practiced at night, under the direction of Duncan, until he grew sure in the use of his revolver.

He cut a stout hickory cudgel, with a knot on the end as big as his fist; this never left his hand.

What he thought in those first days he himself could not recall clearly afterward.
His heart stood still every time he saw the beautiful marsh-grass begin a sinuous waving AGAINST the play of the wind, as McLean had told him it would.

He bolted half a mile with the first boom of the bittern, and his hat lifted with every yelp of the sheitpoke.

Once he saw a lean, shadowy form following him, and fired his revolver.