Clement grabbed the gun and shouted: “Here, stow that, sonny! You aren’t Buffalo Bill, you know.”
“I ain’t a bit afraid of you,” said the kid, pretending that what they thought crying was merely dust in his eye.
“No need, kiddo,” grinned Gatineau. “We ain’t the bad men; we’re just plain policemen.”
“Ho,” said the kid, visibly disappointed. Then he brightened. “That other feller wuz bad as bad.”
“Worse!” chuckled Clement. “He was a robber and a murderer, and everything.”
Young Canada swelled visibly with pride.
“Golly—an’ he might have gunned me any time, ’cos I was here, see? I didn’t run away.”
There was an uproar from the front of the shack, men shouting at each other, threatening. Clement and Gatineau went out. In the clearing was a wild-eyed homesteader, brandishing a club and threatening to brain the man they had put on guard. Again Clement played a soothing part.
“Easy on him, old son!” he shouted. “We don’t mean harm. We’re the police.”
“That’s right, pop,” said young Canada, leaning over the porch rail. “You stop being mad; there ain’t no call for it. I’m just putting things straight with these fellers here. Put up your gun, pard.”