The other man moved stealthily toward the rifle.
"Back up, there! Back away!" cried the boy, and stepping past the "prospector," he secured the gun. Then he answered the man who could scarce restrain his impatience:
"Your wife and the kids are safe and sound a couple of miles down the Stewart." The man's face went white. He groped for words. "And now," broke in Connie, "I've got to take you two along. You're my prisoners. I charge you with running liquor to the Indians."
"You'll take me where they are?" asked the "prospector." Connie nodded.
"Look-a here! What in thunder's th' meanin' o' this? What's th' game?" The other man was staring from Connie to the "propector" in bewilderment.
"You shut up!" commanded Dubro. "Another word out of you, and you'll wish you hadn't said it! You heard what the kid said, didn't you? Well, he talked like he meant it—the Mounted generally does." Then, turning to Connie, he added: "We're ready."
The boy pointed down the trail. "Hike!" he
