rattling down the creek, and at the sound a strange sense of elation possessed Connie Morgan, his heart felt light and his small hands gripped tightly his carbine as he curbed a desire to dash madly into the thick of the fray. Just one short mile away a real battle was raging—a battle that was his to command, and that he must win against fearful odds. The thought steadied his nerves and his jaw clamped firm. The canoe was drawn from the water and cached in the thicket.
"They're a-wastin' shells!" exclaimed Tex Gordon.
"Dem droonk—'Soapy' White, she trade um de firewater," explained Ick Far.
Connie nodded: "I knew it," he said, quietly. "That's why I told him I would tend to his case later." He dug the butt of his carbine viciously into the gravel. "I'll fix his clock! I'll take him down to Dawson and he'll stand trial, not only for boot-legging, but for murder—and I'll see to it that he gets a separate trial for every person—white or red, that's killed or wounded in this fight! We've been after him for a long time, and I guess what we've got on him now will hold him for a while."
