shot from the timber, and, noiseless as a shadow, darted across the open. There was a grating of iron as the hasp slipped over the strong staple. The "King of Cameron Creek" heard the sound and, with a loud cry, sprang to the door and wrenched mightily. But the staple and hasp held—would have held to the pull of forty men—and through the rifle-slits came the sound of a laugh—a light, boyish laugh, as Connie Morgan drove a stout plug into the eye of the staple.
High Light leaped to the gun rack, and the next instant the wicked blue-black muzzle of a rifle protruded from a slit. Then, a small hand covered the muzzle, and a small face appeared at the opening.
"You mustn't shoot folks," said a boyish voice. "It isn't nice, and besides, you are under arrest"
"Who in the name of Sam Hill are you?" roared the man behind the gun. "Open that door, or I will shoot!"
"Oh, no, you won't!" laughed the boy, "I'm Constable Morgan, of the Mounted, and you are my prisoners." There was a swift movement within, and the voice of High Light rang loud:
