Tom started after Pete, intent on another kick. Bad Pete sped down the trail blindly. Like most of his gun-play kind, he had little courage when deprived of his implement of murder.
“What’s up, Tom?” demanded Harry Hazelton, leaping to the spot.
“What’s the row, chief?” asked one of the university boys eagerly. “Anyone you want us to catch? Whoop! Lead the way to the running track while we show you our best time!”
“There’s nothing to be done, I think,” laughed Tom. “Do you all know Black by sight?”
“Yes,” came the answer from a score of throats.
“Well,” Tom continued, “if any of you ever catch sight of him in the camp again you are hereby authorized to run him out by the use of any kind of tactics that won’t result fatally.”
On the way up the trail Tom told the rescue party something about the late affair.
However, Reade referred to it only as a personal quarrel, refraining from making any mention of the treachery of Black and of the plots of which that treacherous engineer was a part.
“If you’ve many friends like that one, chief, you had better strap a gun on to your belt.”
“I don’t like revolver carrying,” Tom replied bluntly. “It always makes a coward of a fellow.”