I sat there, studying my pile, feeling sure a revolver bullet couldn't possibly come up through all that stuff. But before I had much time to think about this my corporal of the R. N. W. M. P. (which means, Matilda Anne, the Royal North-West Mounted Police) came through the door on the run. He looked relieved when he saw me triumphantly astride that overturned table loaded up with about all my household junk. "I've got him for you," I calmly announced. "You've got what?" he said, apparently thinking I'd gone mad. "I've got your man for you," I repeated. "He's down there in my cellar." And in one minute I'd explained just what had happened. There was no parley, no deliberation, no hesitation. "Hadn't you better go outside," he suggested as he started piling the things off the trap-door. "You're not going down there?" I demanded. "Why not?" he asked. "But he's got a revolver," I cried out, "and he's sure to shoot!" "That's why I think it might be better for you to step outside for a moment or two," was my soldier boy's casual answer. I walked over and got Dinky-Dunk's repeater. Then I crossed to the far side of the shack, with the rifle in my hands. "I'm going to stay," I announced. "All right," was the officer's unconcerned answer as he tossed the mattress to one side and with one quick pull threw up the trap-door. A shot rang out, from below, as the door swung back against the wall. But it was not repeated, for the man in the red coat jumped bodily, heels first, into that black hole. He didn't seem to count on the risk, or on what might be ahead of him. He just jumped, spurs down, on that other man with the revolver in his hand. I could hear little grunts, and wheezes, and a thud or two against the cellar steps. Then there was silence, except for one double "click-click" which I couldn't understand. Oh, Matilda Anne, how I watched that cellar opening! And I saw a back with a red coat on it slowly rise out of the hole. He, the man who owned the back of course, was dragging the other man bodily up the narrow little stairs. There was a pair of handcuffs already on his wrists and he seemed dazed and helpless, for that slim-looking soldier boy had pummeled him unmercifully, knocking out his two front teeth, one of which I found on the doorstep when I was sweeping up. "I'm sorry, but I'll have to take one of your horses for a day or two," was all my R. N. W. M. P. hero condescended to say to me as he poked an arm through his prisoner's and helped him out through the door. "What--what will they do with him?" I called out after the corporal. "Hang him, of course," was the curt answer.