"Don't shoot a kid, Bill! Duck kid!" And at the same instant, Connie heard the futile snap of a hammer descending upon a firing-pin, and, with the bellow of a wild beast, Bill Cosgrieve slammed the rifle onto the floor and reached for another—and another—and another—all the time yelling, and all but frothing with an insane rage, from the noise of which, Connie caught fragments of sentences: "Double-crossed—Imp o' Satan—stole them shells—trapped like a rat!" The passion wore itself out, the man subsided into low, vicious mutterings, and Connie peeked in at a rifle slit.
"Don't fuss, Willie. Eat your breakfast,—and don't bite the poker. I'm going to call McCarty, now—he'll want some breakfast, too." Then, suddenly dropping the note of mockery, the young voice sounded dry, and hard: "And you shut up! You try to warn him and it will go hard with you. In the Mounted we don't stand for fooling. One yip out of you, and you'll get yours—pronto!"
The boy walked to the edge of the cliff so that the sound would carry far out over the Cameron valley, and drew the revolver from its holster:
