ward into the snow. Hastily he shook off a mitten and his fingers explored the ragged gash that Connie's bullet had ripped in the side of his parka-hood. Then, without a word, he unslung the bag and tossed it to the feet of the boy.
"Get up!" commanded Connie shortly.
The man scrambled hastily to his feet. A look of fear had replaced the hateful gleam in his eyes, and Connie pointed to the rifle. "Pick that up an' smash it against a tree." The man reached for the harmless gun and banged it against the trunk of a near-by sapling. "Smash it, I said!" And with one terrified glance at the muzzle of the carbine the man sent it crashing against the tree-trunk with a force that sent the walnut stock spinning into the brush. Whereupon Connie turned upon his heel and walked towards his waiting dogs. The man followed him to the edge of the scrub.
"Hey," he called, "w'at you goin' to do?"
Connie ignored him and swung the leader into the trail.
"Hey," he persisted, "mebbe ye be the Mounted after all. Le's git t'gether. Ye can't handle us all. They's four of us an' I'm tellin' ye we're hard! Wat you goin' to do w'en ye git us 'rested."
