“I’ll run after him,” Tom decided. “Pete wants a little money, and this will be a chance for him to earn it—-if he can find some man to drive a load of ice to camp.”
Being a trained runner, Tom did not consume much time in nearing the spot where he had last seen Bad Pete. The lad put two fingers up to his mouth, intending to whistle, when he heard a twig snap behind him. Tom turned quickly, then, warned by some instinct, stepped noiselessly behind high brush. The newcomer was ’Gene Black.
“Pete!” called Black softly.
“Oy!” answered a voice some distance away.
“That you, Pete?” called the engineer.
“Yep.”
“Then close in here. I have doings for you.”
Tom Reade should have stepped out into sight. He was neither spy nor eavesdropper. For once, something within urged him to keep out of sight and silent.
“Where be you, pardner?” called Pete’s voice, nearer at hand now.
“Right here, Pete,” called Black.