A detachment of soldiers came up to the cabin, and, seeing Joe in flight, the others already out of range, levelled their guns upon him.
"Hold!" cried an officer, in the uniform of a United States captain, as he galloped up to the group.
He was too late, before the word was fairly uttered, a dozen rifle shots drowned it.
"Great God, you have hit him!" cried Captain Abner Tompkins, as, through the smoke of the muskets, he saw Joe throw up his hands, reel, and fall. "You have hit him, and he was a poor, crazy fellow."
In a moment Abner was beside the prostrate form. He sprang from his horse and raised Joe from the ground. A deadly pallor had overspread his face; his blue eyes were glazed and he was gasping for breath.
"Who is it? Is he hurt?" cried Major Fleming, riding up to the spot, where the young captain was supporting the dying man on his knee.
"It is a poor fellow called Crazy Joe, and some of our men have shot him by mistake," said Abner, a moisture gathering in his eyes.
"He may not be badly hurt; perhaps he is only stunned," said the major.
But while they yet spoke, Joe breathed his last. Crazy Joe was dead; dead, without one ray of light piercing the dark cloud he had so vainly tried to lift; dead, with the dark mystery of his life unexplained; dead, not knowing who or what he was.
A musket ball had struck him in the back, passing out at the breast, and he lived but a few minutes after Abner had reached his side; he was past recognition then, and never spoke after he was shot.