Snatching up his sombrero, Bad Pete vanished into a clump of brush.
Jack Rutter leaped up from his haven of safety, advancing swiftly to his cub assistant.
“Reade,” he exclaimed, with ungrudging admiration, “you’re the coolest young fellow I ever met, without exception. But you’re foolhardy, boy. Bad Pete is a real shot. One of these days, when you’re just as cool, he’ll fill you full of lead!”
“If he does?” retorted Tom, again bending over his transit, “and if I notice it, I’ll throw a bigger stone at him than I did that time, and it’ll land on him a few inches lower down.”
“But, boy, don’t you understand that the days of David and Goliath are gone by,” remonstrated Rutter. “It’s true you’re turned the laugh on Pete, but that fellow won’t forgive you. He may open on you again within two minutes.”
“I don’t believe he will,” replied Tom, with his quiet smile. “At the same time, I’ll be prepared for him.”
Bending to the ground, and rummaging about a bit, Reade selected three stones that would throw well. These he dropped into one of his pockets.
“Now, let the bad man trot himself on, if he has to,” added the cub engineer, waving a signal to the rodman, who had just halted at the next stake.
“Well, of all the cool ones!” grunted Rutter, under his breath. “But, then, Reade’s a tenderfoot. He doesn’t understand just how dangerous a fellow like Pete can be.”
The chainman started away to measure the distance. From up the hillside came sounds of smothered but very bad language.