“Careful, Slim—go slow!” Bruce’s eyes were blazing now between their narrowed lids, but he did not move. His voice was a whisper.
“That’s what I said! I’ll bet your father toted mortar for a plasterer and your mother washed for a dance hall!”
Slim’s taunting, devilish face, corpse-like in its pallor above his black beard, was all Bruce saw as he sprang for his throat. He backed him against the door and held him there.
“You miserable dog—I ought to kill you!” The words came from between his set teeth. He drew back his hand and slapped him first on the right cheek, then on the left. He flung Slim from him the length of the cabin, where he struck against the bunk.
Slim got to his feet and rushed headlong toward the door. Bruce thought he meant to snatch his rifle from the rack, and was ready, but he tore at the fastening and ran outside. Bruce watched the blackness swallow him, and wondered where he meant to go, what he meant to do on such a night. He was not left long in doubt.
He heard Slim coming back, running, cursing vilely as he came. The shaft of yellow light which shot into the darkness fell upon the gleaming blade of the ax that he bore uplifted in his hand.
“Slim!”
The answer was a scream that was not human. Slim was a madman! Bruce saw it clearly now. Insanity blazed in his black eyes. There was no mistaking the look; Slim was violently, murderously insane!
“I’m goin’ to get you!” His scream was like a woman’s screech. “I’ve meant to get you all along, and I’m goin’ to do it now!”
“Drop it, Slim! Drop that ax!”