Young Engineers Omnibus

by

H. Irving Hancock

BOOK INDEX

Book 1

The Young Engineers in Colorado

At Railroad Building in Earnest

Book 2

The Young Engineers in Arizona

Laying Tracks on the Man-killer Quicksand

Book 3

The Young Engineers in Nevada

Seeking Fortune on the Turn of a Pick

Book 4

The Young Engineers in Mexico

Fighting the Mine Swindlers

Book 5

The Young Engineers on the Gulf

The Dread Mystery of the Million Dollar Breakwater

THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN COLORADO

or

At Railroad Building in Earnest

CONTENTS

I. The Cub Engineers Reach Camp

II. Bad Pete Becomes Worse

III. The Day of Real Work Dawns

IV. "Trying Out" the Gridley Boys

V. Tom Doesn't Mind "Artillery"

VI. The Bite from the Bush

VII. What a Squaw Knew

VIII. 'Gene Black, Trouble-Maker

IX. "Doctored" Field Notes?

X. Things Begin to go Down Hill

XI. The Chief Totters from Command

XII. From Cub to Acting Chief

XIII. Black Turns Other Colors

XIV. Bad Pete Mixes in Some

XV. Black's Plot Opens With a Bang

XVI. Shut Off from the World

XVII. The Real Attack Begins

XVIII. When the Camp Grew Warm

XIX. Sheriff Grease Drops Dave

XX. Mr. Newnham Drops a Bomb

XXI. The Trap at the Finish

XXII. "Can Your Road Save Its Charter Now?"

XXIII. Black's Trump Card

XXIV. Conclusion

I. THE CUB ENGINEERS REACH CAMP

"Look, Tom! There is a real westerner!" Harry Hazelton's eyes sparkled, his whole manner was one of intense interest.

"Eh?" queried Tom Reade, turning around from his distant view of a sharp, towering peak of the Rockies.

"There's the real thing in the way of a westerner," Harry Hazelton insisted in a voice in which there was some awe.

"I don't believe he is," retorted Tom skeptically.

"You're going to say, I suppose, that the man is just some freak escaped from the pages of a dime novel?" demanded Harry.

"No; he looks more like a hostler on a leave of absence from a stranded Wild West show," Tom replied slowly.

There was plenty of time for them to inspect the stranger in question. Tom and Harry were seated on a mountain springboard wagon drawn by a pair of thin horses. Their driver, a boy of about eighteen, sat on a tiny make-believe seat almost over the traces. This youthful driver had been minding his own business so assiduously during the past three hours that Harry had voted him a sullen fellow. This however, the driver was not.

"Where did that party ahead come from, driver?" murmured Tom, leaning forward. "Boston or Binghamton?"

"You mean the party ahead at the bend of the trail?" asked the driver.

"Yes; he's the only stranger in sight."

"I guess he's a westerner, all right," answered the driver, after a moment or two spent in thought.

"There! You see?" crowed Harry Hazelton triumphantly.

"If that fellow's a westerner, driver," Tom persisted, "have you any idea how many days he has been west?"

"He doesn't belong to this state," the youthful driver answered. "I think he comes from Montana. His name is Bad Pete."

"Pete?" mused Tom Reade aloud. "That's short for Peter, I suppose; not a very interesting or romantic name. What's the hind-leg of his name?"

"Meaning his surnames" drawled the driver.

"Yes; to be sure."

"I don't know that he has any surname, friend," the Colorado boy rejoined.

"Why do they call him 'Bad'?" asked Harry, with a thrill of pleasurable expectation.

As the driver was slow in finding an answer, Tom Reade, after another look at the picturesque stranger, replied quizzically:

"I reckon they call him bad because he's counterfeit."

"There you go again," remonstrated Harry Hazelton. "You'd better be careful, or Bad Pete will hear you."

"I hope he doesn't," smiled Tom. "I don't want to change Bad Pete into Worse Pete."

There was little danger, however, that the picturesque-looking stranger would hear them. The axles and springs of the springboard wagon were making noise enough to keep their voices from reaching the ears of any human being more than a dozen feet away.

Bad Pete was still about two hundred and fifty feet ahead, nor did he, as yet, give any sign whatever of having noted the vehicle. Instead, he was leaning against a boulder at the turn in the road. In his left hand he held a hand-rolled cigarette from which he took an occasional reflective puff as he looked straight ahead of him as though he were enjoying the scenery. The road—trail—ran close along the edge of a sloping precipice. Fully nine hundred feet below ran a thin line of silver, or so it appeared. In reality it was what was left of the Snake River now, in July, nearly dried out.

Over beyond the gulch, for a mile or more, extended a rather flat, rock-strewn valley. Beyond that were the mountains, two peaks of which, even at this season, were white-capped with snow. On the trail, however, the full heat of summer prevailed.

"This grand, massive scenery makes a human being feel small, doesn't it?" asked Tom.

Harry, however, had his eyes and all his thoughts turned toward the man whom they were nearing.

"This—er—Bad Pete isn't an—er—that is, a road agent, is he?" he asked apprehensively.

"He may be, for all I know," the driver answered. "At present he mostly hangs out around the S.B. & L. outfit."

"Why, that's our outfits—the one we're going to join, I mean," cried Hazelton.

"I hope Pete isn't the cook, then," remarked Tom fastidiously. "He doesn't look as though he takes a very kindly interest in soap."

"Sh-h-h!" begged Harry. "I'll tell you, he'll hear you."

"See here," Tom went on, this time addressing the driver, "you've told us that you don't know just where to find the S.B. & L. field camp. If Mr. Peter Bad hangs out with the camp then he ought to be able to direct us."

"You can ask him, of course," nodded the Colorado boy.

Soon after the horses covered the distance needed to bring them close to the bend. Now the driver hauled in his team, and, blocking the forward wheels with a fragment of rock, began to give his attention to the harness.

Bad Pete had consented to glance their way at last. He turned his head indolently, emitting a mouthful of smoke. As if by instinct his right hand dropped to the butt of a revolver swinging in a holster over his right hip.

"I hope he isn't bad tempered today!" shivered Harry under his breath.

"I beg your pardon, sir," galled Tom, "but can you tell us——"

"Who are ye looking at?" demanded Bad Pete, scowling.

"At a polished man of the world, I'm sure," replied Reade smilingly. "As I was saying, can you tell us just where we can find the S.B. & L.'s field camp of engineers?"

"What d'ye want of the camp?" growled Pete, after taking another whiff from his cigarette.

"Why, our reasons for wanting to find the camp are purely personal," Tom continued.

"Now, tenderfoot, don't get fresh with me," warned Pete sullenly.

"I haven't an idea of that sort in the world, sir," Tom assured him. "Do you happen to know the hiding-place of the camp?"

"What do you want of the camp?" insisted Pete.

"Well, sir, since you're so determined to protect the camp from questionable strangers," Tom continued, "I don't know that it will do any harm to inform you that we are two greenhorns—tenderfeet, I believe, is your more elegant word—who have been engaged to join the engineers' crowd and break in at the business."

"Cub engineers, eh, tenderfoot?"

"That's the full size of our pretensions, sir," Tom admitted.

"Rich men's sons, coming out to learn the ways of the Rookies?" questioned Bad Pete, showing his first sign of interest in them.

"Not quite as bad as that," Tom Reade urged. "We're wholly respectable, sir. We have even had to work hard in order to raise money for our railway fare out to Colorado."

Bad Pete's look of interest in them faded.

"Huh!" he remarked. "Then you're no good either why."

"That's true, I'm afraid," sighed Tom. "However, can you tell us the way to the camp?"

From one pocket Bad Pete produced a cigarette paper and from another tobacco. Slowly he rolled and lighted a cigarette, in the meantime seeming hardly aware of the existence of the tenderfeet. At last, however, he turned to the Colorado boy and observed:

"Pardner, I reckon you'd better drive on with these tenderfeet before I drop them over the cliff. They spoil the view. Ye know where Bandy's Gulch is?"

"Sure," nodded the Colorado boy.

"Ye'll find the railroad outfit jest about a mile west o' there, camped close to the main trail."

"I'm sure obliged to you," nodded the Colorado boy, stepping up to his seat and gathering in the reins.

"And so are we, sir," added Tom politely.

"Hold your blizzard in until I ask ye to talk," retorted Bad Pete haughtily. "Drive on with your cheap baggage, pardner."

"Cheap baggage, are we?" mused Tom, when the wagon had left Bad Pete some two hundred feet to the rear. "My, but I feel properly humiliated!"

"How many men has Bad Pete killed?" inquired Harry in an awed voice.

"Don't know as he ever killed any," replied the Colorado boy, "but I'm not looking for trouble with any man that always carries a revolver at his belt and goes around looking for someone to give him an excuse to shoot. The pistol might go off, even by accident."

"Are there many like Mr. Peter Bad in these hills nowadays?" Tom inquired.

"You'll find the foothills back near Denver or Pueblo," replied the Colorado youth coldly "You're up in the mountains now."

"Well, are there many like Peter Bad in these mountains?" Tom amended.

"Not many," admitted their driver. "The old breed is passing. You see, in these days, we have the railroad, public schools, newspapers, the telegraph, electric light, courts and the other things that go with civilization."

"The old days of romance are going by," sighed Harry Hazelton.

"Do you call murder romantic?" Reade demanded. "Harry, you came west expecting to find the Colorado of the dime novels. Now we've traveled hundreds of miles across this state, and Mr. Bad wore the first revolver that we've seen since we crossed the state line. My private opinion is that Peter would be afraid to handle his pistol recklessly for fear it would go off."

"I wouldn't bank on that," advised the young driver, shaking his head.

"But you don't carry a revolver," retorted Tom Reade.

"Pop would wallop me, if I did," grinned the Colorado boy. "But then, I don't need firearms. I know enough to carry a civil tongue, and to be quiet when I ought to."

"I suppose people who don't possess those virtues are the only people that have excuse for carrying a pistol around with their keys, loose change and toothbrushes," affirmed Reade. "Harry, the longer you stay west the more people you'll find who'll tell you that toting a pistol is a silly, trouble-breeding habit."

They drove along for another hour before a clattering sounded behind them.

"I believe it's Bad Pete coming," declared Harry, as he made out, a quarter of a mile behind them, the form of a man mounted on a small, wiry mustang.

"Yep; it is," nodded the Colorado boy, after a look back.

The trail being wider here Bad Pete whirled by them with a swift drumming of his pony's hoofs. In a few moments more he was out of sight.

"Tom, you may have your doubts about that fellow," Hazelton remarked, "but there's one thing he can do—ride!"

"Humph! Anyone can ride that knows enough to get into a saddle and stick there," observed the Colorado boy dryly.

Readers of the "Grammar School Boys Series" and of the "High School Boys Series", have already recognized in Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton two famous schoolboy athletes.

Back in old Gridley there had once been a schoolboy crowd of six, known as Dick & Co. Under the leadership of Dick Prescott, these boys had made their start in athletics in the Central Grammar School, winning no small amount of fame as junior schoolboy athletes.

Then in their High School days Dick & Co. had gradually made themselves crack athletes. Baseball and football were their especial sports, and in these they had reached a degree of skill that had made many a college trainer anxious to obtain them.

None of the six, however, had gone to college. Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes had secured appointments as cadets at the United States Military Academy, at West Point. Their adventures are told in the "West Point Series." Dave Darrin and Dan Dalzell, feeling the call to the Navy, had entered the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis. Their further doings are all described in the "Annapolis Series."

Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton, however, had found that their aspirations pointed to the great constructive work that is done by the big-minded, resourceful American civil engineer of today. Bridge building, railroad building, the tunneling of mines—in a word, the building of any of the great works of industry possessed a huge fascination for them.

Tom was good-natured and practical, Harry at times full of mischief and at others dreamy, but both longed with all their souls to place themselves some day in the front ranks among civil engineers.

At high school they had given especial study to mathematics. At home they had studied engineering, through correspondence courses and otherwise. During more than the last year of their home life our two boys had worked much in the offices of a local civil engineer, and had spent part of their school vacations afield with him.

Finally, after graduating from school both boys had gone to New York in order to look the world over. By dint of sheer push, three-quarters of which Tom had supplied, the boys had secured their first chance in the New York offices of the S.B. & L. Not much of a chance, to be sure, but it meant forty dollars a month and board in the field, with the added promise that, if they turned out to be "no good," they would be promptly "bounced."

"If 'bounced' we are," Tom remarked dryly, "we'll have to walk home, for our money will just barely take us to Colorado."

So here they were, having come by rail to a town some distance west of Pueblo. From the last railway station they had been obliged to make thirty miles or more by wagon to the mountain field camp of the S.B. & L.

Since daybreak they had been on the way, eating breakfast and lunch from the paper parcels that they had brought with them.

"How much farther is the camp, now that you know the way." Reade inquired an hour after Bad Pete had vanished on horseback.

"There it is, right down there," answered the Colorado youth, pointing with his whip as the raw-boned team hauled the wagon to the top of a rise in the trail.

Of the trail to the left, surrounded by natural walls of rock, was an irregularly shaped field about three or four acres in extent. Here and there wisps of grass grew, but the ground, for the most part, was covered by splinters of rock or of sand ground from the same.

At the farther end of the camp stood a small wooden building, with three tents near try. At a greater distance were several other tents. Three wagons stood at one side of the camp, though horses or mules for the same were not visible. Outside, near the door of one tent, stood a transit partially concealed by the enveloping rubber cover. Near another tent stood a plane table, used in field platting (drawing). Signs of life about the camp there were none, save for the presence of the newcomers.

"I wonder if there's anyone at home keeping house," mused Tom Reade, as he jumped down from the wagon.

"There's only one wooden house in this town. That must be where the boss lives," declared Harry.

"Yes; that's where the boss lives," replied the Colorado youth, with a wry smile.

"Let's go over and see whether he has time to talk to us," suggested Reade.

"Just one minute, gentlemen," interposed the driver. "Where do you want your kit boxes placed? Are you going to pay me now?"

"Drop the kit boxes on the ground anywhere," Tom answered. "We're strong enough to carry 'em when we find where they belong."

And—yes: we are going to pay you now. Eighteen dollars, isn't it?"

"Yes," replied the young driver, with the brevity of the mountaineer.

Tom and Harry went into their pockets, each producing nine dollars as his share of the fare. This was handed over to the Colorado youth.

"'Bliged to you, gentlemen," nodded the Colorado boy pocketing the money. "Anything more to say to me?"

"Nothing remains to be said, except to thank you, and to wish you good luck on your way back," said Reade.

"I wish you luck here, too, gentlemen. Good day."

With that, the driver mounted his seat, turned the horses about and was off without once looking back.

"Now let's go over to the house and see the boss," murmured Tom.

Together the chums skirted the camp, going up to the wooden building. As the door was open, Tom, with a sense of good manners, approached from the side that he might not appear to be peeping in on the occupants of the building. Gaining the side of the doorway, with Harry just behind him, Reade knocked softly.

"Quit yer kidding, whoever it is, and come in," called a rough voice.

Tom thereupon stepped inside. What he saw filled him with surprise. Around the room were three or four tables. There were many utensils hanging on the walls. There were two stoves, with a man bending over one of them and stirring something in a pot.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Tom. "I thought I'd find Mr. Timothy Thurston, the chief engineer, here."

"Nope," replied a stout, red-faced man of forty, in flannel shirt and khaki trousers. "Mr. Thurston never eats between meals, and when he does eat he's served in his own mess tent. Whatcher want here, pardner?"

"We're under orders to report to him," Tom answered politely.

"New men in the chain gang?" asked the cook, swinging around to look at the newcomers.

"Maybe," Reade assented. "That will depend on the opinion that Mr. Thurston forms of us after he knows us a little while. I believe the man in New York said we were to be assistant engineers."

"There's only one assistant engineer here," announced the cook. "The other engineers are Just plain surveyors or levelers."

"Well, we won't quarrel about titles," Tom smilingly assured the cook. "Will you please tell us where Mr. Thurston is?"

"He's in his tent over yonder," said the cook, pointing through the open doorway.

"Shall we step over there and announce ourselves?" Tom inquired.

"Why, ye could do it," rejoined the red-faced cook, with a grin. "If Tim Thurston happens to be very busy he might use plain talk and tell you to git out of camp."

"Then do you mind telling us just how we should approach the chief engineer?"

"Whatter yer names?"

"Reade and Hazelton."

"Bob, trot over and tell Thurston there's two fellows here, named Reade and Hazelnut. Ask him what he wants done with 'em."

The cook's helper, who, so far, had not favored the new arrivals with a glance, now turned and looked them over. Then, with a nod, the helper stepped across the ground to the largest tent in camp. In a few moments he came back.

"Mr. Thurston says to stay around and he'll call you jest as soon as he's through with what he's doing," announced Bob, who, dark, thin and anemic, was a decrepit-looking man of fifty years or thereabouts.

"Ye can stand about in the open," added the cook, pointing with his ladle. "There's better air out there."

"Thank you," answered Tom briskly, but politely. Once outside, and strolling slowly along, Reade confided to his chum:

"Harry, you can see what big fellows we two youngsters are going to be in a Rocky Mountain railroad camp. We haven't a blessed thing to do but play marbles until the chief can see us."

"I can spare the time, if the chief can," laughed Harry. "Hello—look who's here!"

Bad Pete, now on foot, had turned into the camp from the farther side. Espying the boys he swaggered over toward them.

"How do you do, sir?" nodded Tom.

"Can't you two tenderfeet mind your own business?" snarled Pete, halting and scowling angrily at them.

"Now, I come to think of it," admitted Tom, "it was meddlesome on my part to ask after your health. I beg your pardon."

"Say, are you two tenderfeet trying to git fresh with me?" demanded Bad Pete, drawing himself up to his full height and gazing at them out of flashing eyes.

Almost unconsciously Tom Reade drew himself up, showing hints of his athletic figure through the folds of his clothing.

"No, Peter," he said quietly. "In the first place, my friend hasn't even opened his mouth. As for myself, when I do try to get fresh with you, you won't have to do any guessing. You'll be sure of it."

Bad Pete took a step forward, dropping his right hand, as though unconsciously, to the butt of the revolver in the holster. He fixed his burning gaze savagely on the boy's face as he muttered, in a low, ugly voice:

"Tenderfoot, when I'm around after this you shut your mouth and keep it shut! You needn't take the trouble to call me Peter again, either. My name is Bad Pete, and I am bad. I'm poison! Understand? Poison!"

"Poison?" repeated Tom dryly, coolly. "No; I don't believe I'd call you that. I think I'd call you a bluff—and let it go at that."

Bad Pete scowled angrily. Again his hand slid to the butt of his revolver, then with a muttered imprecation he turned and stalked away, calling back threateningly over his shoulder:

"Remember, tenderfoot. Keep out of my way."

Behind the boys, halted a man who had just stepped into the camp over the natural stone wall. This man was a sun-browned, smooth-faced, pleasant-featured man of perhaps thirty-two or thirty-three years. Dressed in khaki trousers, with blue flannel shirt, sombrero and well-worn puttee leggings, he might have been mistaken for a soldier. Though his eyes were pleasant to look at, there was an expression of great shrewdness in them. The lines around his mouth bespoke the man's firmness. He was about five-feet-eight in height, slim and had the general bearing of a strong man accustomed to hard work.

"Boys," he began in a low voice, whereat both Tom and Harry faced swiftly about, "you shouldn't rile Bad Pete that way. He's an ugly character, who carries all he knows of law in his holsters, and we're a long way from the sheriff's officers."

"Is he really bad?" asked Tom innocently.

"Really bad?" laughed the man in khaki. "You'll find out if you try to cross him. Are you visiting the camp?"

"Reade! Hazelton!" called a voice brusquely from the big tent.

"That's Mr. Thurston calling us, I guess," said Tom quickly. "We'll have to excuse ourselves and go and report to him."

"Yes, that was Thurston," nodded the slim man. "And I'm Blaisdell, the assistant engineer. I'll go along with you."

Throwing aside the canvas flap, Mr. Blaisdell led the boys inside the big tent. At one end a portion of the tent was curtained off, and this was presumably the chief engineer's bedroom. Near the centre of the tent was a flat table about six by ten feet. Just at present it held many drawings, all arranged in orderly piles. Not far from the big table was a smaller one on which a typewriting machine rested.

The man who sat at the large table, and who wheeled about in a revolving chair as Tom and Harry entered, was perhaps forty-five years of age. His head was covered with a mass of bushy black hair. His face was as swarthy, in its clean-shaven condition, as though the owner had spent all of his life under a hot sun. His clothing like that of all the rest of the engineers in camp was of khaki, his shirt of blue flannel, with a long, flowing black tie.

"Mr. Thurston," announced the assistant engineer, "I have just encountered these young gentlemen, who state that they are under orders from the New York offices to report to you for employment."

Mr. Thurston looked both boys over in silence for a few seconds. His keen eyes appeared to take in everything that could possibly concern them. Then he rose, extending his hand, first to Reade, next to Hazelton.

"From what technical school do you come?" inquired the engineer as he resumed his chair.

"From none, sir," Tom answered promptly "We didn't have money enough for that sort of training."

Mr. Thurston raised his eyebrows in astonished inquiry.

"Then why," he asked, "did you come here? What made you think that you could break in as engineers?"

II. BAD PETE BECOMES WORSE

Timothy Thurston's gaze was curious, and his voice a trifle cold. Yet he did not by any means treat the boys with contempt. He appeared simply to wonder why these young men had traveled so far to take up his time.

"We couldn't afford to take a college course in engineering, sir," Tom Reade continued, reddening slightly. "We have learned all that we possibly could in other ways, however."

"Do you expect me, young men, to detail an experienced engineer to move about with you as instructor until you learn enough to be of use to us?"

"No, indeed, we don't, sir," Tom replied, and perhaps his voice was sharper than usual, though it rang with earnestness. "We believe, sir, that we are very fair engineers. We are willing to be tried out, sir, and to be rated exactly where you find that we belong. If necessary we'll start in as helpers to the chainmen, and we have pride enough to walk back over the trail at any moment when you decide that we're no good. We have traveled all the way from the east, and I trust, sir, that you'll give us a fair chance to show if we know anything."

"It won't take long to find that out," replied Mr. Thurston gravely. "Of course you both understand that we are doing real engineering work and haven't any time to instruct amateurs or be patient with them."

"We don't want instruction, Mr. Thurston," Hazelton broke in. "We want work, and when we get it we'll do it."

"I hope your work will be as good as your assurance," replied the chief engineer, with a slight twinkle in his eyes. "What can you do?"

"We know how to do ordinary surveying, sir," Tom replied quickly. "We can run our courses and supervise the chaining. We know how to bring in field notes that are of some use. We can do our work well within the limits of error allowed by the United States Government. We also consider ourselves competent at leveling. Give us the profile plan and the notes on an excavation, and we can superintend the laborers who have to make an excavation. We have a fair knowledge of ordinary road building. We have the strength of usual materials at our finger's ends, and for beginners I think we may claim that we are very well up in mathematics. We have had some all-around experience. Here is a letter, sir, from Price & Conley, of Gridley, in whose offices we have done quite a bit of work."

Mr. Thurston took the letter courteously, though he did not \ immediately glance at it.

"Country surveyors, these gentlemen, I suppose?" he asked, looking into Tom's eyes.

"Yes, sir," nodded Reade, "though Mr. Price is also the engineer for our home county. Both Mr. Price and Mr. Conley paid us the compliment of saying that we were well fitted to work in a railway engineering camp."

"Well, we'll try you out, until you either make good or convince us that you can't," agreed the chief engineer, without any show of enthusiasm. "You may show them where they are to live, Mr. Blaisdell, and where they are to mess. In the morning you can put these young men at some job or other."

The words sounded like a dismissal, but Blaisdell lingered a moment.

"Mr. Thurston," he smiled, "our young men ran, first thing, into Bad Pete."

"Yes?" inquired the chief. "Did Pete show these young men his fighting front?"

Blaisdell repeated the dialogue that had taken place between Tom and Bad Pete.

The chief listened to his assistant in silence. Tom flushed slightly under the penetrating glance Mr. Thurston cast upon him during the recital.

When the assistant had finished, the chief merely remarked: "Blaisdell, I wish you could get rid of that fellow, Bad Pete. I don't like to have him hanging about the camp. He's an undesirable character, and I'm afraid that some of our men will have trouble with him. Can't you get rid of him?"

"I'll do it if you say so, Mr. Thurston," Blaisdell answered quietly.

"How?" inquired his chief.

"I'll serve out firearms to five or six of the men, and the next time Pete shows his face we'll cover him and march him miles away from camp."

"That wouldn't do any good," replied Mr. Thurston, with a shake of his head. "Pete would only come back, uglier than before, and he'd certainly shoot up some of our men."

"You asked me, a moment ago, Mr. Thurston, what I could do," Tom broke in. "Give me a little time, and I'll agree to rid the camp of Peter."

"How?" asked the chief abruptly. "Not with any gun-play! Pete would be too quick for you at anything of that sort."

"I don't carry a pistol, and don't wish to do so," Tom retorted. "In my opinion only a coward carries a pistol."

"Then you think Bad Pete is a coward, young man?" returned the chief.

"If driven into a corner I'm pretty sure he'd turn out to be one, sir," Tom went on earnestly. "A coward is a man who's afraid. If a fellow isn't afraid of anything, then why does he have to carry firearms to protect himself?"

"I don't believe that would quite apply to Pete," Mr. Thurston went on. "Pete doesn't carry a revolver because he's afraid of anything. He knows that many other men are afraid of pistols, and so he carries his firearms about in order that he may enjoy himself in playing bully."

"I can drive him out of camp," Tom insisted. "All I'll wait for will be your permission to go ahead."

"If you can do it without shooting," replied the chief, "try your hand at it. Be careful, however, Reade. There are plenty of good natural lead mines in these mountains."

"Yes—sir?" asked Reade, looking puzzled.

"Much as we'd like to see Pete permanently out of this camp, remember that we don't want you to give the fellow any excuse for turning you into a lead mine."

"If Peter tries anything like that with me," retorted Tom solemnly, "I shall be deeply offended."

"Very good. Take the young men along with you, Blaisdell. I'll hear your report on them tomorrow night."

The assistant engineer took Tom and Harry over to a seven by nine tent.

"You'll bunk in here," he explained, "and store your dunnage here. There are two folding cots in the tent, as you see. Don't shake 'em out until it's time to turn in, and then you'll have more room in your house. Now, come on over and I'll show you the mess tent for the engineers."

This Blaisdell also showed them. There was nothing in the tent but a plain, long table, with folding legs, and a lot of camp chairs of the simplest kind.

"What's that tent, Mr. Blaisdell?" inquired Harry, pointing to the next one, as they came out of the engineers' mess.

"Mess tent for the chainmen and rod men laborers, etc.," replied their guide. "Now, the fellows will be in soon, and supper will be on in half an hour. After you get your dunnage over to your tent amuse yourselves in any way that you care to. I'll introduce you to the crowd at table."

Tom and Harry speedily had their scanty dunnage stored in their own tent. Then they sat down on campstools just outside the door.

"Thurston didn't seem extremely cordial, did he?" asked Hazelton solemnly.

"Well, why should he be cordial?" Tom demanded. "What does he know about us? We're trying to break in here and make a living, but how does he know that we're not a pair of merely cheerful idiots?"

"I've an idea that Mr. Thurston is always rather cool with his staff," pursued Harry.

"Do your work, old fellow, in an exceptionally fine way, and I guess you'll find that he can thaw out. Mr. Thurston is probably just like other men who have to employ folks. When he finds that a man can really do the work that he's paid to do I imagine that Thurston is well satisfied and not afraid to show it."

"What's that noise?" demanded Harry, trying to peer around the corner of their tent without rising.

"The field gang coming in, I think," answered Tom.

"Let's get up, then, and have a look at our future mates," suggested Harry Hazelton.

"No; I don't believe it would be a good plan," said Tom. "We might be thought fresh if we betrayed too much curiosity before the crowd shows some curiosity about us."

"Reade!" sounded Blaisdell's voice, five minutes later. "Bring your friend over and inspect this choice lot of criminals."

Tom rose eagerly, followed by Harry. As they left the tent and hurried outside they beheld two rows of men, each before a long bench on which stood agate wash basins. The toilet preceding the evening meal was on.

"Gentlemen," Mr. Blaisdell, as the two chums drew near, "I present two new candidates for fame. One is named Reade, the other Hazelton. Take them to your hearts, but don't, at first, teach them all the wickedness you know. Reade, this is Jack Rutter, the spotted hyena of the camp. If he ever gets in your way just push him over a cliff."

A pleasant-faced young man in khaki hastily dried his face and hands on a towel, then smilingly held out his right hand.

"Glad to know you, Reade," he laughed. Hope you'll like us and decide to stay."

"Hazelton," continued the announcer, "shake hands with Slim Morris, whether he'll let you or not. And here's Matt Rice. We usually call him 'Mister' Rice, for he's extremely talented. He knows how to play the banjo."

The assistant engineer then turned away, while one young man, at the farther end of the long wash bench stood unpresented.

"Oh, on second thoughts," continued Blaisdell, "I'll introduce you to Joe Grant."

The last young man came forward.

"Joe used to be a good fellow—once," added the assistant engineer. "In these days, however, you want to keep your dunnage boxes locked. Joe's specialty is stealing fancy ties—neckties, I mean."

Joe laughed good-humoredly as he shook hands, adding:

"We'll tell you all about Blaisdell himself, boys, one of these days, but not now. It's too far from pay day, and old Blaze stands in too thickly with the chief."

"If you folks don't come into supper soon," growled the voice of the cook, Jake Wren, from the doorway of the engineer's mess tent, "I'll eat your grub myself."

"He'd do it, too," groaned Slim Morris, a young man who nevertheless weighed more than two hundred pounds. "Blaze, won't you take us inside and put us in our high chairs?"

There was infinite good humor in this small force of field engineers. As was afterwards learned, all of them were graduates either of colleges or of scientific schools but not one of them affected any superiority over the young newcomers.

Just as the party had seated themselves there was a step outside, and Bad Pete stalked in looking decidedly sulky.

"Evening," he grunted, and helped himself to a seat at the table.

"Reade and Hazelton, you've had the pleasure of meeting Pete, I believe?" asked Blaisdell, without the trace of a smile.

"Huh!" growled Pete, not looking up, for the first supply of food was on the table.

"We've had the pleasure, twice today, of meeting Mr. Peter," replied Tom, with equal gravity.

"See here, tenderfoot," scowled Bad Pete, looking up from his plate, "don't you call me 'Peter' again. Savvy?"

"We don't know your other name, sir," rejoined Tom, eyeing the bad man with every outward sign of courtesy.

"I'm just plain Pete. Savvy that?

"Certainly, Plain Pete," Reade nodded.

Pete dropped his soup spoon with a clatter letting his right hand fall to the holster.

"Be quiet, Pete," warned Blaisdell, his eyes shooting a cold glance at the angry man. "Reade is a newcomer, not used to our ways yet. Remember that this is a gentleman's club."

"Then let him get out," warned Pete blackly.

"He belongs here by right, Pete, and you're a guest. Of course we enjoy having you here with us, but, if you don't care to take us as you find us, the fellows in the chainmen's mess will be glad to have you join them."

"That tenderfoot is only a boy," growled Pete. "If he can't hold his tongue when men are around, then I'll teach him how."

"Reade hasn't done anything to offend you," returned Blaisdell, half sternly, half goodhumoredly. "You let him alone, and he'll let you alone. I'm sure of that."

"Blaisdell, if you don't see that I'm treated right in this mess, I'll teach you something, too," flared Bad Pete.

"Threatening the president of the mess is a breach of courtesy on the part of any guest who attempts it," spoke Blaisdell again. "Gentlemen, what is your pleasure?"

"I move," suggested Slim Morris quietly, "that Pete be considered no longer a member or guest of this mess."

"Second the motion," cried Rutter, Rice and Grant together.

"The motion appears to have been carried, without the necessity for putting it," declared Mr. Blaisdell. "Pete, you have heard the pleasure of the mess."

"Huh!" scowled Bad Pete, picking up his soup plate and draining it.

Jake Wren, at this moment, entered with a big platter of roast beef, Bob, the helper, following with dishes of vegetables. Then Bob came in with plates, which he placed before Blaisdell. The latter counted the plates, finding eight.

"We shan't need this plate, Bob," declared Blaisdell evenly, handing it back. Then he began to carve.

"Put that plate back with the rest, Bob, you pop-eyed coyote," ordered Bad Pete.

Bob, looking uneasy, started to do so, but Blaisdell waved him away. At that instant Jake Wren came back into the tent.

"For the present, Jake," went on the assistant engineer, "serve only for seven in this tent. Pete is leaving us."

"Do you mean——" flared Pete, leaping to his feet and striding toward the engineer.

"I mean," responded Blaisdell, without looking up, "that we hope the chainmen's mess will take you on. But if they don't like you, they don't have to do so."

For ten seconds, while Pete stood glaring at Blaisdell, it looked as though the late guest would draw his revolver. Pete was swallowing hard, his face having turned lead color.

"Won't you oblige us by going at once, Pete?" inquired Blaisdell coolly.

"Not until I've settled my score here," snarled the fellow. "Not until I've evened up with you, you——"

At the same time Pete reached for his revolver in evident earnest. Both his words and his movement were nipped short.

Morris and Rice were the only men in the engineers' party who carried revolvers. They carried weapons, in the day time, for protection against a very real foe, the Rocky Mountain rattlesnakes, which infested the territory through which the engineers were then working.

Both these engineers reached swiftly for their weapons.

Before they could produce them, however, or ore Pete could finish what he was saying, Tom Reade leaped up from his campstool, closing in behind the bad man.

"Ow-ow! Ouch!" yelled Pete. "Let go, you painted coyote."

"Walk right out of the tent, and I shall rejoice to let you depart," responded Tom steadily.

Standing behind the fellow, he had, with his strong, wiry fingers, gripped Pete hard right over the biceps muscle of each arm. Like many another of his type Pete had developed no great amount of bodily strength. Though he struggled furiously, he was unable to wrench himself free from this youth who had trained hard in football training squads.

"Step outside and cool off, Peter," advised Tom, thrusting the bad man through the doorway. "Have too much pride, man, to force yourself on people who don't want your company."

Reade ran his foe outside a dozen feet, then released him, turning and reentering the tent.

"No, you don't! Put up your pistol," sounded the warning voice of Cook Jake Wren outside. "You take a shot at that young feller, Pete, and I'll never serve you another mouthful as long as I'm in the Rockies!"

Bad Pete gazed fiercely toward the engineers' tent, hesitated a moment, and then walked wrathfully away.

III. THE DAY OF REAL WORK DAWNS

The meal was finished in peace after that. It was so hearty a meal that Tom and Harry, who had not yet acquired the keen edge of appetite that comes to hard workers in the Rockies, had finished long before any one else.

"You fellers had better hurry up," commanded Jake Wren finally. "It'll soon be dark, and I'm not going to furnish candles."

As the cook was an autocrat in camp, the engineers meekly called for more pie and coffee, disposed of it and strolled out of the mess tent over to their own little village under canvas.

"Bring over your banjo, Matt," urged Joe. "Nothing like the merry old twang to make the new boys feel at home in our school."

Rice needed no further urging. As darkness came down a volume of song rang out.

"What time do we turn out in the morning?" Tom asked, as Mr. Blaisdell brought over a camp stool and sat near them.

"At five sharp," responded the assistant engineer. "An hour later we hit the long trail in earnest. This isn't an idling camp."

"I'm glad it isn't," Reade nodded.

Then Blaisdell chatted with the boys, drawing out of them what they knew, or thought they knew, of civil engineering, especially as applied to railroad building.

"I hope you lads are going to make good," said Blaisdell earnestly. "We're in something of a fix on this work at best, and we need even more than we have, of the very best hustling engineers that can be found."

"I am beginning to wonder," said Tom, "how, when you have such need of men of long training, your New York office ever came to pick us out."

"Because," replied the assistant candidly, "the New York office doesn't know the difference between an engineer and a railroad tie. Tim Thurston has been making a long yell at the New York offices of the company for engineers. Knowing the little that they do, our New York owners take anyone who says he's an engineer, and unload the stranger on us."

"I hope we prove up to the work," sighed Harry.

"We're going to size up. We've got to, and that's all there is to it," retorted Tom. "We've been thrown in the water here, Harry, and we've got to swim—which means that we're going to do so. Mr. Blaisdell," turning to the assistant, "you needn't worry as to whether we're going to make good. We shall!"

"I like your spirit, at any rate, and I've a notion that you're going to win through," remarked the assistant.

"You try out a lot of men here, don't you?" asked Harry.

"A good many," assented Blaisdell.

"From what I heard at table," Hazelton continued, "Mr. Thurston drops a good many of the new men after trying them."

"He doesn't drop any man that he doesn't have to drop," returned Blaisdell. "Tim Thurston wants every competent man that he can get here. Let me see——"

Blaisdell did some silent counting on his fingers. Then he went on:

"In the last eleven weeks, Thurston has dropped just sixteen new men."

"Whew!" gasped Harry, casting a sidelong glance at his shoes, with visions of a coming walk at least as far back as Denver or Pueblo.

"Mr. Thurston isn't going to drop us," Tom declared. "Mr. Blaisdell, Hazelton and I are here and we're going to hang on if we have to do it with our teeth. We're going to know how to do what's required of us if we have to stay up all night finding out. We've just got to make good, for we haven't any money with which to get home or anywhere else. Besides, if we can't make good here we're not fit to be tried out anywhere else."

"We're in an especially hard fix, you see," the assistant engineer explained. "When we got our charter something less than two years ago we undertook to have every mile of track ballasted and laid on the S.B. & L., and trains running through, by September 30th of this year. There are three hundred and fifty-four miles of road in all. Now, in July, less than three months from the time, this camp is forty-nine miles from the terminus of the road at Loadstone, while the constructing engineers and the track-layers are thirty-eight miles behind us. Do you see the problem?"

"You can get an extension of time, can't you?" asked Tom.

"We can—not! You see, boys, the S.B. & L. is the popular road. That is, it's the one that the people of this state backed in the main. When we got our charter from the legislature there was a lot of opposition from the W.C. & A. railroad. That organization wishes to add to their road, using the very locations that our preliminary engineering force selected for the S.B. & L. The W.C. & A. folks have such a bewildering number of millions at their back that they would have won away from us, had they been an American crowd. The W.C. & A. has only American officers and a few small stockholders in this country. The W.C. & A. is a foreign crowd throughout in reality, and back of them they have about all the money that's loose in London, Paris and Berlin. The W.C. & A. spent a lot of money at the state capital, I guess, for it was common report that some of the members of the legislature had sold out to the foreign crowd. So, though public clamor carried our charter through the legislature by sheer force, the best concession we could get was that our road must be built and in operation over the entire length by September 30th, or the state has the privilege of taking over our road at an appraised value. Do you see what that means?"

"Does it mean that the state would then turn around and sell this road to the W.C. & A. at a good profit?" asked Reade.

"You've hit it," nodded Mr. Blaisdell. "The W.C. & A. would be delighted to take over our road at a price paid to the state that would give Colorado quite a few millions in profits. The legislature would then have a chance to spend those millions on public improvements in the state. I think you will understand why public clamor now seems to have swung about in favor of the W.C.& A."

"Yet it seems to me," put in Harry, "that, even if the S.B. & L. does fail to get the railroad through in time, the stockholders will get their money back when the state takes the road over."

"That, one can never count on," retorted Blaisdell, shaking his head. "The state courts would have charge of the appraising of the value of the road, and one can never tell just what courts will award. Ten chances to one the appraisal wouldn't cover more than fifty per cent. of what the S.B. & L. has expended, and thus our company would be many millions of dollars out of pocket. Besides, if the courts could be depended upon to appraise this uncompleted road at twenty per cent. more than has been expended upon it, our company would still lose, for what the S.B. & L. really expects to do is to bag the big profits that can be made out of the section of the state that this road taps. Take it from me, boys, the officials of this road are crazy with anxiety to get the road through in time, and not lose the many millions that are waiting to be earned by the S.B. & L. getting this road through is all that Tim Thurston dreams of, by night or day. His reputation—and he has a big one in railroad building—is wholly at stake on his carrying this job through. It'll be a big prize for all of us, professionally, if we can back Thurston's fight to win."

"I'll back it to win," glowed Tom ardently "Mr. Blaisdell, I am well aware that I'm hardly more than the lens cap on a transit in this outfit, but I'm going to do every ounce of my individual share to see this road through and running on time, and I'll carry as much of any other man's burden as I can load onto my shoulders!"

"Good!" chuckled Blaisdell, holding out his hand. "I see that you're one of us, heart and soul, Reade. What have you to say, Hazelton?"

"I always let Tom do my talking, because he can do it better," smiled Harry. "At the same time, I've known Tom Reade for a good many years, and his performance is always as good as his promise. As for me, Mr. Blaisdell, I've just told you that Tom does my talking, but I back up all that he promises for me."

"Pinkitty-plank-plink!" twanged Matt Rice's banjo, starting into another rollicking air.

"I guess it's taps, boys," called Blaisdell in his low but resonant voice. "Look at the chief's tent; he's putting out his candles now."

A glance at the gradually darkening walls of the chief engineers big tent showed that this was the case.

"We'll all turn in," nodded Blaisdell.

So Tom and Harry hastened to their tent, where they unfolded their camp cots and set them up. There was not much bed-making. The body of the cot was of canvas, and required no mattress. From out of their baggage each took a small pillow and pair of blankets. At this altitude the night was already rather chilly, despite the fact that it was July.

Rapidly undressing in the dark the young engineers crawled in between their blankets.

"Well, at last," murmured Harry, "we're engineers in earnest. That is," he added rather wistfully, "if we last."

"We've got to last," replied Tom in a low voice, hardly above a whisper, "and we're going to. Harry, we've left behind us the playtime of boyhood, and we're beginning real life! But in that playtime we learned how to play real football. From now on we'll apply all of the best and most strenuous rules of football to the big art of making a living and a reputation. Good night, old fellow! Dream of the folks back in Gridley. I'm going to."

"And of the chums at West Point and Annapolis," gaped Hazelton. "God bless them!"

That was not the only short prayer sent up, but within five minutes both youngsters had fallen sound asleep. The man who can sleep as they did, when the head touches the pillow, has many successes still ahead of him!

Nor did they worry about not waking in season in the morning. Slim Morris had promised to see to it that they were awake on time.

Slam! Bump! Tom Reade was positive he had not been asleep more than a minute when that rude interruption came. He awoke to find himself scrambling up from the ground.

Tom had his eyes open in time to see Harry Hazelton hit the ground with force. Then Slim Morris retreated to the doorway of the tent.

"Are you fellows going to sleep until pay days" Slim demanded jovially.

Tom hustled into his clothes, reached the doorway of the tent and found the sun already well up in the skies.

"The boys are sitting down to breakfast," called Slim over his shoulder. "Want any?"

"Do I want any?" mocked Tom. He had laid out his khaki clothing the night before, and was now in it, save for his khaki jacket, which he caught up on his arm as he raced along toward the wash bench.

Nor had he gone very far with the soap and water when Harry Hazelton was beside him.

"Tom, Tom!" breathed Harry in ecstacy. "Do you blame people for loving the Rocky Mountains? This grand old mountain air is food and drink—almost."

"It may be for you. I want some of the real old camp chuck—plenty of it," retorted Reade, drawing a pocket comb out and running it through his damp locks while he gazed into the foot-square camp mirror hanging from a tree.

"May we come in?" inquired Tom, pausing in the doorway of the engineers' mess tent.

"Not if you're in doubt about it," replied Mr. Blaisdell, who was already eating with great relish. The boys slid into their seats, while Bob rapidly started things their way.

How good it all tasted! Bacon and fried eggs, corn bread and potatoes, coffee and a big dish of that time-honored standby in engineers' camp—baked beans. Then, just as Tom and Harry, despite their appetites, sat back filled, Bob appeared with a plate of flapjacks and a pitcher of molasses.

"Ten minutes of six," observed Mr. Blaisdell, consulting his watch as he finished. "Not much more time, gentlemen."

Tom and Harry followed the assistant engineer out into the open.

"Can you tell us now, Mr. Blaisdell, what we're to do today?" Reade inquired eagerly.

"See those transits?" inquired Blaisdell, pointing to two of the telescoped and compassed instruments used by surveyors in running courses. "One for each of you. Take your choice. You'll go out today under charge of Jack Rutter. Of course it will be a little bit slow to you the first two or three days, but between you, I hope to see you do more than Rutter could do alone. You'll each have two chainmen. Rutter will give you blank form books for your field notes. He'll work back and forth between the two of you, seeing that you each do your work right. Boys, don't make any mistakes today, will you, So much depends, you know, upon the way you start in at a new job."

"We'll do the best that's in us," breathed Tom ardently.

"Engineer Rutter," called Blaisdell, "your two assistants are ready. Get your two sets of chainmen and make a flying start."

Animated by the spirit of activity that pervaded the camp, Tom and Harry ran to select their instruments, while Rutter hastened after his chainmen.

Bad Pete had not appeared at either mess this morning. He had small need to, for, in the still watches of the night, he had burglarized the cook's stores so successfully that not even that argus-eyed individual had noticed the loss.

Having breakfasted heartily in a deep thicket, Pete now looked down over the camp, his eyes twinkling in an evil way.

"I'll get bounced out of mess on account of two pasty-faced tenderfeet like those boys, will I?" Pete grumbled to himself. "Before this morning is over I reckon I'll have all accounts squared with the tenderfeet!"

IV. "TRYING OUT" THE GRIDLEY BOYS

The chainmen picked up the transits, carrying also the chains and rods. Rutter led the way, Tom and Harry keeping on either side of him, except when the rough mountain trail narrowed. Then they were obliged to walk at his heels.

"We are making this survey first," Rutter explained, "and then the leveling over the same ground follows within a few days. Both the surveying and the leveling have to be done with great care. They must tally accurately, or the work will all go wrong, and the contractors would be thrown out so badly that they'd hardly know where they stood. A serious mistake in surveying or leveling at any point might throw the work down for some days. As you've already heard explained, any delay, now, is going to lose us our charter as sure as guns."

For more than a mile and a half the brisk walk continued. At last Rutter halted, pointing to a stake driven in the ground.

"See the nail head in the top of the stake?" he inquired.

"Yes," Tom nodded.

"You'll find a similar nail head in every stake. The exact point of the plummet of your bog-line must centre on the middle of that nail head. You can't be too exact about that, remember."

Turning to one of the chainmen, Rutter added:

"Jansen, take a rod and hustle along to the next stake."

"Yes, sir," answered the man, and started on a run. Nor did he pause until he had located the stake. Then he signaled back with his right hand. Tom Reade, in the meantime, had quickly set up his transit over the first stake on his part of the course. He did some rough shifting, at first, until the point of the plummet was exactly over the nail head. Then followed some careful adjusting of the instrument on its supports until two fine spirit levels showed that the compass of the instrument was exactly level. "Now, let me see you get your sight," urged Rutter.

Tom did so, coolly, manipulating his instrument as rapidly as he could with safety, yet not with speed enough to cause himself confusion or worry.

"I've got a sight on the rod," announced Reade, without emotion.

"Are the cross-hairs, as you see them through the telescope, just on the mark?" Rutter demanded.

"Yes, sir."

"Let me have a look," ordered Rutter. "A fine, close sight," he assented, after taking a careful look through the telescope. "Now, take your reading."

This showed the course by the compass, and was expressed in degrees, minutes and seconds. The poor reading of a course is one of the frequent faults of new or careless engineers.

"Here is a magnifier for the vernier," continued Rutter, just after Tom had started to make his reading.

"Thank you; I have a pretty good one of my own," Tom answered, diving into one of his pockets and bringing to light a small but powerful reading glass with an aplanatic lens.

"You carry a better magnifier than I do," laughed Rutter. "Hazelton, do You carry a pocket glass?"

"Yes, sir," nodded Harry "I have one just like Reade's."

"Good! I can see that you youngsters believe in good tools."

Tom in the meantime was busy with the vernier of his transit. This is an ingenious device for showing the smaller divisions into which the circles of the compass are divided. Tom quickly jotted down his field note in degrees, minutes and seconds. One chainman now held an end of a hundred-link chain at the nail head on the stake, while a second man started toward the rodman, unfolding the chain as he went.

Tom remained over his transit. The traveling chainman frequently glanced back for directions from Reade whether or not he was off the course of a straight line to the next stake.

Soon the chain-bearer was a little to the left of the line.

Tom held a hand over the telescope of the transit, moving it very slowly to the right. The chain-bearer, glancing slowly back, stepped slowly to the right of the course until Tom's hand fell abruptly. Then the chain-bearer stopped, knowing that he was on the right line. A metal stake, having a loop at the top from which fluttered a marker of red flannel, the man stuck upright in the ground. Tom took a peep, signaling so gently that the man moved the stake just half an inch before Reade's hand again fell.

"That stake is right; go ahead," ordered Tom, but he said it not by word of mouth, but merely with a slight gesture of pushing forward.

"You've been well trained, I'll bet a hat," smiled Butter. "I can tell that by the practiced way that you signal. O'Brien!"

"Yes, sir," answered another chainman, stepping forward.

"Take Thane with you, and carry Mr. Hazelton's transit to Grizzly Ledge. Mr. Hazelton and I will be there presently."

Two more chainmen started away.

Now, both of Tom's chainmen started forward, the rear one moving to the first metal stake that displayed the red marker. Tom still remained at the transit, motioning to the men whenever they got the least out of a true straight line to the rodman. It was not hard work for Reade at this point, but it required his closest attention.

After some time had passed the chainmen had "chained" the whole distance between Tom's stake and the rod resting on the next stake. Now the rodman, after making a close measurement, signaled back. Nine downward sweeps of his right arm signified nine chains; next the movements of his arm signaled the forty-four links of a tenth chain. Then seven movements of the left hand across in front of the eyes, and Reade knew that stood for seven-tenths of a link. Hence on the page of his field note book Tom wrote the distance between the stakes as nine chains and forty-four and seven-tenths links.

"That's good," nodded Rutter, who had been watching every move closely. The forty-four signaled by the rodman's left arm, instead of being made up of forty-four downward strokes, had consisted of four such strokes, followed by a pause, and then four more strokes.

"I'll go along and see you get the course and distance to the third rod," said Rutter.

This course and distance, too, in time, had been measured and carefully noted by Reade.

"You'll get along all right, if you pay strict attention and don't become confused or careless," nodded Jack Rutter. "Now, I'll write 'Reade' on this starting stake of yours, and I'll write Hazelton on your friend's starting stake. After you've surveyed to Hazelton's starting stake let your rodman bring you forward until you overhaul me."

"Very good, sir," nodded Tom coolly.

Rutter and Harry moved along the trail, leaving Tom with his own "gang."

"Nothing very mentally wearing in this job," reflected Tom, when he found himself left to his own resources. "All a fellow has to do is to keep his head clear, be faithful and exactly honest with his work, and move with all the speed that good, straight work will allow."

So Reade moved ahead, getting courses and distances to five more stakes. Then, as he reached the sixth, he gazed ahead and smiled. A mountain pond lay right in his straight path to the seventh stake.

"Can that pond be easily forded?" Reade asked the nearer chainman.

"No, sir; it's about ten feet deep in the centre."

Tom smiled grimly to himself.

"Rutter didn't say anything about this to me," Tom muttered to himself. "He put this upon me, to see how I'd get over an obstacle like an unfordable pond. Well, it's going to take a lot of time but I'll show Mr. Jack Rutter!"

Accordingly, Reade allowed his chainmen to proceed measuring until they were fairly close to the pond. Then he went forward to the metal stake that had just been driven. From this stake he laid out a new course to the north and at exact right angles with the proper course, sending his chainmen forward with markers. When he had thus passed the end of the pond Reade took another course at exactly right angles to the northerly course, but now going westerly. This he extended until it passed the pond by a few feet. Once more Reade laid out a course, southerly, at exact right angles with the westerly course, the southerly line being exactly four chains in length, as the northerly line had been. Now, the young engineer was able to resume his surveying toward the seventh stake. The extra route that he had followed made three sides of a square. Tom was now in line again, with the pond passed, and the exact distance between the sixth and seventh stakes.

"I guess that was where Rutter was sure he'd have me," chuckled Tom quietly. "He's probe ably waiting ahead to see me come hot-footing over the trail to ask for orders."

At the tenth stake Tom found "Hazelton" written thereon.

"Men," said the young engineer, "I guess this is where we go forward and look for the crowd. Get up the stuff and we'll trot along."

Nearly an hour of solid tramping over the trail followed before Tom and his party, guided by the rodman, came upon Harry Hazelton. Jack Rutter, chewing a blade of grass, sat under a tree at a little distance from where Harry was watching and signaling to two chainmen who were getting a distance.

"Is your own work all done?" asked Rutter.

"Yes, sir," Tom answered.

"Let me see your field notes."

Reade passed over the book containing them. From an inner pocket Rutter drew out his own field note book. Before another minute had passed Tom had opened his eyes very wide.

"Your field notes are all straight, my boy. If you've made any errors, then I've made the same."

"You've already been over this work that we've been doing?" demanded Tom, feeling somewhat abashed.

"Of course," nodded the older and more experienced engineer. "You don't for a moment suppose we'd trust you with original work until we had tried you out, do you? We have all the field notes for at least three miles more ahead of here. Hazelton!"

"Coming," said Harry, after jotting down his last observations and the distance.

"Let me see your last notes, Hazelton," directed Rutter. "Yes; your work is all right."

"What do you know about this, Harry?" laughingly demanded Reade.

"I've suspected for the last two hours that Mr. Rutter was merely trying us out over surveyed courses," laughed Harry.

"If you don't know how to do anything other than transit work," Rutter declared, "the chief can use all your time at that. He'll be pleased when I tell him that you're at least as good surveyors as I am. And, Reade, I see from your notes that you knew how to measure across a pond that your chainmen couldn't ford."

"Mr. Price taught me that trick, back in Gridley," Tom responded.

Suddenly Jack Rutter sprang to his feet sniffing vigorously.

"Boys," he announced, "an adventure is coming our way. Can you guess what it is?"

Tom and Harry gazed at him blankly.

V. TOM DOESN'T MIND "ARTILLERY"

"I give it up," Reade replied.

"Well, it's dinner time," declared Rutter, displaying the face of his watch.

"Do we have to walk all the way back to camp?" queried Harry, who knew that no provisions had been brought with them.

"No; camp is going to be brought to us," smiled Rutter. "At least, a part of the camp will be brought here. Look up the trail there, at that highest rise. Do you see dust near there?"

"Yes," nodded Tom.

"A burro pack-train, conveying our food and that of the other surveying parties ahead of us," nodded Rutter. "You'll find the cook's helper, Bob, in charge of it."

"Is that the way the meals are brought out every day?" asked Hazelton.

"No; but now we're getting pretty far from camp, and it would waste a lot of our time to go back and forth. So our noon meals will come by burro route. Tomorrow or the day after the camp will be moved forward."

"How long before that train will be here?" Tom wanted to know.

"Probably ten minutes," guessed Rutter.

"Then I'm going to see if I can't find some little stream such as I've passed this morning," Tom went on. "I want to wash before I'm introduced to clean food."

"I'll go along presently," nodded Harry to his chum. "There's something about the spirit level on this transit of mine that I want to inspect."

So Tom Reade trudged off into the brush alone. After a few minutes he returned.

"That burro outfit in sight?" he called, as he neared the trail.

"No," answered Rutter. "But it's close. Once in a while I can hear a burro clicking his hoofs against stones."

Harry appeared two minutes later, just as the foremost burro, with Bob by its head, put in an appearance about fifty yards away.

"All ready for you, Bob," called Rutter good-humoredly.

"You gentlemen of the engineer corps are always ready," grunted the cook's helper.

A quick stop was made, Bob unloading tin plates, bowls and cups.

"Soup!" cried Rutter in high glee. "This is fine living for buck engineers, Bob!"

"There's even dessert," returned the cook's helper gravely, exposing an entire apple pie.

There was also meat, still fairly warm, as well as canned vegetables in addition to potatoes. A pot of hot coffee finished the repast that Bob unloaded at this point.

"Everything but napkins!" chuckled Rutter, as he and the boys quickly "set table" on the ground.

"No; something else is missing," answered Tom gravely. "Bob forgot the finger-bowls."

The helper, beginning to feel that he was being "guyed," took refuge in cold indifference.

"Just stack the things up at this point when you're through," directed Bob. "I'll pick 'em up when I come back on the trail."

Rutter, like a good chief, saw to it that his two assistants and the chainmen were started on their meal ere he himself began. In half an hour every morsel of food and the final drop of coffee had disappeared.

"Twenty minutes to loaf," advised Rutter, throwing himself on the ground and closing his eyes. "I'll take a nap. You'd better follow my example."

"Then who'll call us?" asked Tom.

"I will," gaped Rutter.

"Without a clock to ring an alarm?"

"Humph! Any real backwoods engineer can wake up in twenty minutes if he sets his mind on it," retorted Jack.

This was a fact, though it was the first that Tom or Harry had heard of it.

"See the time?" called Rutter, holding out his watch. "Twenty minutes of one. I'll call you at one o'clock—see if I don't."

In that fine air, with all the warmth of the noon hour, there was no difficulty in going to sleep. Truth to tell, Tom and Harry had tramped so far that forenoon that they were decidedly tired. Within sixty seconds both "cubs" were sound asleep.

"One o'clock!" called Rutter, sitting up and consulting his watch. "Fall to, slaves! There is a big batch of work awaiting us. Hazelton, you can go right on where you left off. Survey along carefully until you come upon a stake marked 'Reade.' Then come forward until you find us. Reade, I'll go along with you and show you where to break in."

Preceded by their chainmen, Rutter and Reade trudged along the trail for something like a mile.

"Halt," ordered Jack Rutter. "Reade, write your autograph on that stake and begin."

Tom stepped over to the transit, adjusting it carefully and setting the hanging plummet on dead centre with the nail head in the top of the short stake.

"Never set up a transit again," directed Rutter, "without making sure that your levels are absolutely true, and that your vernier arrangement is in order."

"I don't believe you'll ever catch me at that, Mr. Rutter," Tom answered, busying himself with the finer adjustments of the transit. "Mr. Price pounded that into me every time that he took me out in the field."

"Nevertheless," went on Rutter, "I have known older engineers than you, Reade, who became careless, and their carelessness cost their employers a lot of wasted time and money. Now, you——"

At this juncture Jack Rutter suddenly crouched behind a low ledge at the right.

"Get behind here, quickly, Reade!" called Rutter. "Bad Pete is up the hillside, about two hundred yards from you——"

"I haven't time to bother with him, now," Tom broke in composedly.

"Duck fast, boy! Pete has an ugly grin on his face, and he's reaching for his pistol. He's got it out—he's going to shoot!" whispered Rutter, drawing his head down where it would be safe from flying bullets.

The chainmen, lounging nearby, had wasted no time in getting safely to cover.

"Going to shoot, is he?" murmured Tom, without glancing away from the instrument. "Does Peter really know how to shoot,"

"You'll find out! Jump—like a flash, boy!"

Tom went calmly on tinkering with the mechanism of his instrument.

Bang! sounded up the trail. Tom's fingers didn't falter as he adjusted a small, brass screw.

Bang! came the second shot. Tom betrayed no more annoyance than before. Bad Pete was aiming to drive bullets into the ground close to the young engineer's feet, making him skip about. The sixth shot Pete was saving for clipping Reade's hat from his head.

The shots continued to ring out. Tom, though he appeared to be absorbed in his instrument, counted. When he had counted the sixth shot Reade dropped suddenly, picked up a stone that lay at his feet, and whirled about.

Tom Reade hadn't devoted years to ball-playing without knowing how to throw straight. The stone left his hand, arching upward, and flew straight toward Bad Pete, who had advanced steadily as he fired.

Whiff! Though Pete tried, too late, to dodge the stone, it landed against his sombrero, carrying that away without injuring the owner.

"Kindly clear out!" called Tom coolly. "You and your noise annoy me when I'm trying to do a big afternoon's work."

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.

"There's our friend Peter again," Tom chuckled to Rutter.

"Yes, and the ruffian may open on you again at any moment," warned Jack, keeping an anxious glance turned in the direction whence came the disturbing voice of Bad Pete.

"Oh, I don't think he will," drawled Tom, making a hand signal to the leading chainman to step a little more to the left. "I hope not, anyway, for the noise of revolver shots takes my thoughts away from my work."

Jack Rutter said no more after that, though through the rest of the afternoon he kept an alert lookout for signs of Pete. There were none, however. Rather earlier than usual, on account of the distance back to camp, Rutter knocked off work for the entire party and the start on the return to camp was made.

Harry Hazelton was considerably excited when he heard the news of the firing on his chum. Reade, however, appeared to be but little interested in the subject.

Pete was not in camp that evening.

Rutter went at once to the tent of the chief, to tell him how well the "cubs" had done during the day. Nor did Jack forget to relate the encounter with Bad Pete.

Just as the underlings of the staff were seating themselves around the table in their mess, Mr. Thurston thrust his head in at the doorway.

"Reade," called the chief engineer, "I have heard about your trouble with Pete today."

"There wasn't any real trouble, sir," Tom answered.

"Fortunately for you, Reade, Pete didn't intend to hit you. If he had meant to do so, he'd have done it. I've seen him shoot all the spots out of a ten of clubs. Don't provoke the fellow, Reade, or he'll shoot you full of fancy holes. Of course it showed both grit and coolness on your part in keeping steadily on with your work all the time the fellow was firing at you. Still, it was unwise to expose yourself needlessly to danger."

"I didn't consider Bad Pete particularly dangerous," Tom rejoined.

"A lawless man with a loaded revolver is hardly a safe person to trifle with," retorted Mr. Thurston dryly.

"I see that I shall have to make a confession," smiled Tom. "It was this way, sir. When Hazelton and I were on our way west Harry insisted that we were coming into a dangerous country and that we'd need firearms. So Harry bought two forty-five six-shooters and several boxes of cartridges, too. I was provoked when I heard about it, for we hadn't any too much money, and Harry had bought the revolvers out of our joint treasury."

"I felt sure we'd need the pistols," interrupted Hazelton. "Today's affair shows that I was right. Tom, you'll have to carry one of the revolvers after this."

"I'm no gun-packer," retorted Tom scornfully. "Young men have no business carting firearms about unless they're hunting or going to war. Any fellow who carries a pistol as he would a lead pencil is either a coward or a lunatic."

"I'm glad to hear you say that, Reade," nodded Mr. Thurston approvingly. "Two of my staff carry pistols, but they do so under my orders. In the first place they're grown men, not boys. In the second place, they're working over a stretch of ground where rattlesnakes are thick. Your coolness today served you better than a pistol would have done. If you had had a revolver, and had drawn it, Pete would have drilled you through the head."

"Drilled me through the head—with what?" asked Tom, smiling.

"With a bullet, of course, young man," retorted Mr. Thurston.

"I don't believe he would have gone as far as that," laughed Tom. "You see, sir, it was like this: When I found Harry so set on carrying a pistol, I went down deep in my own pocket and bought two boxes of blank cartridges to fit the forty-fives. I thought if Harry were going to do some shooting, it would be the part of friendship to fix him so that he could do it in safety to himself and others."

Harry's face turned decidedly red. He was beginning to feel foolish.

"Now, this morning," Tom continued, "when I got the khaki out of my dunnage, I ran across the blanks. I don't know what made me do it, but I dropped the box of blanks into one of my pockets. This noon, when I went off to find a stream where I could wash up, I almost stepped on our friend Peter, asleep under a bush. For greater comfort he had taken off his belt and holster. Somehow, I didn't like the idea of his being there. As softly as I could I crept close. I emptied his revolver and fitted in blanks from my own box. Then I took about twenty cartridges out of Peter's belt and replaced them with blanks."

"Do you mean to tell me," broke in Rutter, "that Bad Pete, when he turned his revolver loose on you, was shooting nothing but blanks?"

"That was all he had to shoot," Tom returned coolly. "And blanks were all he had in his belt to reload with. Don't you remember when we heard him making a noise up the hillside, and talking in dots and dashes!"

"I do," nodded Rutter, looking half dazed.

"That," grinned Reade, "was when he started in to reload? and discovered that he had nothing on hand but temperance cartridges. Here——" Tom began to unload one of his pockets upon the wooden table before the astonished eyes of the others. There was a mixture of his own blank cartridges with the real ammunition that he had stealthily abstracted from Bad Pete's revolver and belt.

Such a whoop of glee ascended that the head chainman came running from the other nearby mess tent to see what was up.

"Just a little joke among our youngsters, my man," explained Mr. Thurston. "The young gentlemen are going to keep the joke to themselves for the present, though."

So the mystified and disappointed chainman returned to his own crowd.

"Let me see, Reade," continued Mr. Thurston, turning once more to Tom, "what is your salary?"

"I was taken on, sir, at forty dollars a month, as a starter," Tom replied.

"A young man with your size of head is worth more than that to the company. We'll call it fifty a month, Reade, and keep our eyes on you for signs of further improvement," said the chief engineer, as he turned to go back to his own waiting dinner.

VI. THE BITE FROM THE BUSH

From the time that they parted in the morning, until they started to go back to camp in the afternoon, Tom and Harry did not meet the next day. Each, with his chainmen, was served from Bob's burro train at noon.

"Did you see Bad Pete today?" was Harry's greeting, as they Started back over the trail.

"No."

"Did you hear from him or of him in any way?" pressed Hazelton.

"Not a sign of any sort from Peter," Tom went on. "I've a theory as to what's keeping him away. He's on a journey."

"Journey?"

"Yes; between you and me, I believe that Peter has gone in search of someone who can sell him, or give him, a few forty-five cartridges."

"He'd better apply to you, then, Tom," grinned Harry.

"Why, I couldn't sell him any," Tom replied.

"What did you do with those you had last night?"

"You remember the unfordable pond that came in one of my courses yesterday?"

"Yes."

"To-day I threw all of Peter's .45's into the middle of the pond. They must have sunk a foot into the mud by this time."

"Seriously, Tom, don't you believe that you'd better take one of the revolvers that I bought and wear it on a belt?"

"Not I," retorted Reade. "Harry, I wish you could get that sort of foolishness out of your head. A revolver is of no possible use to a man who hasn't any killing to do. I'm trying to learn to be a civil engineer, not a man-killer."

"Then I believe that Bad Pete will 'get' you one of these days," sighed Hazelton.

"Wait until he does," smiled Tom. "Then you can have the fun of coming around and saying 'I told you so.'"

Their chainmen were ahead of the "cub" engineers on the trail. Tom and Harry were talking earnestly when they heard a pony's hoofs behind them. Hazelton turned with a start.

"Oh, it's Rutter mounted," Hazelton said, with a sigh of relief. "I was afraid it was Bad Pete."

"Take my word for it, Harry. Peter is a good deal of a coward. He won't dare to show up until he has some real cartridges. The temperance kind do not give a man like Peter any real sense of security in the world."

Rutter rode along on his sure-footed mountain pony at a rapid jog. When he came close, Tom and Harry stepped aside into the brush to let him go by on the narrow trail.

"Don't get off into the brush that way," yelled Rutter from the distance.

"We're trying to give you room," Tom called.

"I don't need the room yet. I won't run over you, anyway. Stand out of the brush, I tell you."

Tom good-humoredly obeyed, Harry moving, too, though starting an instant later.

Prompt as he was, however, Tom Reade was a fraction of a second too late.

Behind them there was a half-whirring, half-clicking sound.

Then Reade felt a stinging sensation in his left leg three or four inches from the heel.

"Look out!" yelled Rutter, more excitedly than before. "Get away from there!"

Tom ran some distance down the trail. Then he halted, laughing.

"I wonder what's on Rut's mind," he smiled, as Hazelton joined him.

Jack Rutter came at a gallop, reining up hard as he reached where Tom had stood.

Again that whirring, clicking sound. Rutter's pony reared.

"Still, you brute!" commanded Rutter sternly. Then, without waiting to see whether his mount would stand alone, Rutter leaped from saddle, going forward with his quirt—a rawhide riding whip—uplifted.

Into the brush from which Tom had stepped Rutter went cautiously, though he did not lose much time about it.

Swish! swish! swish! sounded the quirt, as Rutter laid it on the ground ahead of him. Then he stepped out. The pony had drawn back thirty or forty feet and now stood trembling, nostrils distended.

"Is that the way you take your exercise?" Reade demanded.

Rutter, however, came running along the trail, his face white as though from worry.

"Reade," he demanded, "Did that thing strike you?"

"What thing," asked Tom in wonderment.

"The rattler that I killed!"

"Rattler?" gasped both cub engineers.

"Yes. From the distance I thought I saw it strike out at you. There's a nest of the reptiles at some point near that brush. That's why I warned you to get away from there. Never stand in brush, in the Rockies, unless you've looked before stepping. Were you struck?"

"I believe something did sting me," Reade admitted, remembering that smarting sensation in his left leg.

"Which leg was it? demanded Rutter, halting beside the cub.

"Left—a little above the ankle," replied Tom.

"Take off your legging. I must have a look. Hazelton, call to one of your chainmen and send him back to make sure of my pony."

Harry hastened to obey, then came back breathless. Rutter, in the meantime, had turned up enough of Tom's left trousers' leg to bare a spot on the flesh that was red. There were fang marks in the centre of this reddened surface.

"You got it, boy," spoke Rutter huskily. "Now we'll have to go to work like lightning to save you."

"How are you going to do it?" asked Tom coolly, though he felt decidedly queer over the startling news.

"Hazelton," demanded Rutter, turning upon the other cub engineer, "have you nerve enough to put your lips to that wound, and draw, draw draw as hard as you can, and keep on until you've drawn all the poison out?"

"I have," nodded Harry, sinking to his knees beside his chum. "I'll draw all the poison out if I have to swallow enough to kill me."

"You won't poison yourself, Hazelton," replied Rutter quickly, as one of the chainmen came near with the recaptured pony. "Snake venom isn't deadly in the stomach—only when it gets into the blood direct. There's no danger unless you've a cut or a deep scratch in your mouth. Spit the stuff out as you draw."

Having given these directions, Jack Rutter turned, with the help of one of the chainmen to fasten a blanket behind the saddle to make a sort of extra saddle. The blanket had been lying rolled at the back of the saddle.

Harry, in the meantime, without flinching, performed his task well. Had he but known it, Rutter's explanation of the lack of danger was true; but in that moment, with his chum's life at stake, Harry didn't care a fig whether the explanation were true or not. All he thought of was saving Tom.

"I reckon that part of the job has been done well," nodded Rutter, turning back from the horse. "Now, Reade, I want you to mount behind me and hold on tightly, for we're going to do some hard, swift riding. The sooner we get you to camp the surer you will be of coming out of this scrape all right."

"I've never had much experience in horsemanship, and I may out a sorry figure at it," laughed Reade, as, with Harry's help he got up behind Rutter.

"Horsemanship doesn't count—speed does," replied Rutter tersely. "Hold on tightly, and we'll make as good time as possible. I'm going to start now."

Away they went, at a hard gallop, Tom doing his best to hold on, but feeling like a jumping-jack.

"It won't take us more than twenty minutes," promised Jack Rutter.

VII. WHAT A SQUAW KNEW

All the way to camp Rutter kept the pony at a hard gallop.

"Thurston! Mr. Thurston!" he shouted. "Be quick, please!"

Even as the young man called, Mr. Thurston ran out of his tent.

"You know something about rattlesnake bites, I believe?" Rutter went on hurriedly, as Tom Reade slipped to the ground. "The boy has been bitten by one and we'll have to work quickly."

"Don't bring any liquor, though," objected Reade, leaning up against a tree. "If liquor is your cure for snakebites I prefer to take my chances with the bite."

"Get the shoe off and roll up the trousers," directed the chief engineer, without loss of words. "Fortunately, I believe we have someone here who knows more about treating the bites than I do. Squaw!"

An Indian woman who had been sitting on the grass before the chief's tent, a medley pack of Indian baskets arranged before her, glanced up.

"Snake! You know what to do," went on Mr. Thurston hurriedly. "You know what to do——eh? Pay you well."

At the last three magic words the aged squaw rose and hobbled quickly forward.

"Take boy him tent," directed the Indian woman.

"I can walk," remarked Tom.

"No; they take you. Heap better," commanded the woman.

Instantly Mr. Thurston and Rutter took hold of Tom, raising him into their arms. Through the flap of his tent they bore him, depositing him on his cot. The Indian woman followed them inside.

"Now you go out," she ordered, with a sweep of her hand. "Send him cookman. Hot water—heap boil."

Thus ordered, Jake Wren came on the run with a kettle of boiling water. The Indian squaw received it with a grunt, ordering that bowls and cups be also brought. When Wren came the second time he lingered curiously.

"You go out; no see what do," said the squaw.

So Jake departed, the squaw tying the flap of the tent after he had gone. Then, from the bosom of her dress she drew out a few small packages of herbs. The contents of these she distributed in different bowels and cups.

"I'd like to see what the old witch is doing, and how she's doing it," declared Rutter in a whisper.

"She'll stop short if she catches you looking in on her," replied the chief, with a smile. "For some reason these Indians are very jealous of their secrets in treating snakebites. They're wizards, though, these same red-skinned savages."

"You believe, then, that she can pull Reade through?" asked Rutter eagerly.

"If she knows her business, and if there's any such thing as saving the boy she'll do it," declared Mr. Thurston, as they reached the door of the chief's tent. "Will you come inside, Rutter! You look badly broken up."

"I am, and I shall be, just as long as Reade is in any danger," Rutter admitted. "Reade is a mighty fine boy and I'm fond of him. Besides, more than a little of our success in getting the road through on time depends on the boy."

"Is Reade really so valuable, then?"

"He goes over the course, Mr. Thurston, as rapidly as any man in our corps, and his work is very accurately done. Moreover, he never kicks. If you told him to work half the night, on top of a day's work, he'd do it."

"Then Reade, if he recovers, must be watched and rewarded for anything he does for us," murmured Mr. Thurston.

"Don't say, 'if he recovers,' chief," begged Jack. "I hate to think of his not pulling through from this snakebite."

"What became of the reptile that did the trick?" asked Mr. Thurston.

"That crawler will never bite anything else," muttered Rutter. "I got the thing with my riding quirt."

Not very long after Harry Hazelton reached camp, well in advance of the chainmen, for Harry, good school athlete that he was, had jog-trotted every step of the way in.

"Where's Tom?" Hazelton demanded.

"Here," called a voice from Reade's tent.

Hazelton turned in that direction, but Mr. Thurston looked out from the large tent, calling:

"Don't go there now, Hazelton. You wouldn't be admitted. Come here."

Despite his long run, Harry's face displayed pallor as he came breathlessly into Mr. Thurston's field abode. In a few words, however, the lad was acquainted with the situation as far as it had developed.

In the meantime what was the squaw doing with Tom? It must be admitted that Reade hadn't any too clear an idea. The gaunt old red woman poured hot water, small quantities at a time, into the bowls and cups in which she had distributed the herbs. Then she stirred vigorously, in the meantime muttering monotonously in her own language.

"She isn't relying on the herbs alone," muttered Tom curiously to himself. "She's working up some kind of incantation. I wonder what effect she expects an Indian song to have on snake poison?"

Presently the squaw turned, bringing one of the cupfuls to the wounded boy.

"Sit up," she ordered. "Drink!"

Tom nearly dropped it, it was so hot.

"Drink!" repeated the squaw.

"But it's so hot it'll burn my gullet out," remonstrated Reade.

"You know more I do?" demanded the squaw stolidly. "Drink!"

Tom took a sip, and shuddered from the intense heat of the stuff.

"Humph! White man him heap papoose!" muttered the squaw, scornfully. "You want live, drink!"

Tom took a longer swallow of the hot stuff. Whew, but it was bitter!

"The bronze lady is trying to turn me inside out!" gasped the boy to himself.

"Drink—all down!" commanded the squaw with scarcely less scorn than before in her voice.

This time Tom took a hard grip on himself and swallowed all the liquid. For a moment, he thought the nauseating stuff would kill him.

"Now, eat grass," ordered the squaw.

"Meaning eat these herbs," demanded Tom, glancing up.

"Yes. Heap quick."

"To make a fellow eat these herbs after drinking the brew from them is what I call rubbing it in," grimaced Reade.

"Now, this," continued the squaw, calmly handing a second cup to Tom.

"It's all right for you to be calm," thought Tom, as he took the cup from her. "All you have to do is to stand by and watch me. You don't have to drink any of these fearful messes."

However, Tom brought all his will power into play, swallowing a second brew, compared with which the first had been delicious.

"Eat this grass, too"? inquired Tom, gazing at the squaw.

"Yes."

Tom obeyed.

"I shall be very, very careful not to meet any more snakes," he shuddered, after getting the second dose down.

Now the squaw busied herself with spreading soaked herbs on a piece of cloth that she had torn from one of Tom's white shirts' to which she had helped herself from his dunnage box.

"What's a dollar shirt, anyway, when an interesting young man's life is at stake" mused Reade. "Ow—ow—ooch!"

"You baby—papoose?" inquired the squaw calmly. She had slapped on Tom's leg, over the bite, a poultice that, to his excited mind, was four hundred degrees hotter than boiling water.

"Oh, no," grimaced Tom. "That's fine and soothing. But it's growing cool. Haven't you something hotter?"

Just five seconds later Reade regretted his rashness, for, snatching off the first poultice, the squaw slapped on a second that seemed, in some way, ten times more powerful—and twenty times hotter.

"It's queer what an awful amount of heat a squaw can get out of a kettle of hot water, thought the suffering boy. I'll wager some of the heat is due to the herbs themselves. O-o-o-o-ow! Ouch!"

For now the third poultice, most powerful of all, was in place, and Mrs. Squaw was binding it on as though she intended it never to come off.

Two minutes after that Tom Reade commenced to retch violently. With a memory of the messes that he had swallowed he didn't wonder. The squaw now stepped outside, calling for coffee. This was brought. Tom was obliged to drink several cupfuls, after which he began to feel decidedly more comfortable.

"Now, take nap," advised the squaw, and quitted the tent.

"The bronze lady seems to know what she's doing," thought Tom. "I guess I'll take the whole of her course of treatment." Thereupon he turned his face to the wall. Within sixty seconds he slept.

"How's Reade?" demanded Harry, rising eagerly as the squaw stepped inside the chief's tent.

"He sleep," muttered the squaw.

"He—he—isn't dead!" choked Harry, turning deathly pale.

"You think I make death medicine?" demanded the squaw scornfully. "You think me heap fool?"

"The young man will be all right, squaw?" asked Mr. Thurston.

"Humph! Maybe," grunted the red woman. "Yes, I think so. You know bimeby."

"That's the Indian contempt for death," explained the chief engineer, turning to Harry. "I imagine that Reade is doing all right, or she wouldn't have left him."

However, Hazelton was not satisfied with that. He slipped out, crossed camp and stealthily peeped inside of the tent. Then Hazelton slipped back to Mr. Thurston to report.

"If Tom doesn't swallow some of those big snores of his, and choke to death, I think he'll get well," said Harry, with a laugh that testified to the great relief that had come to his feelings. With that all hands had to be content for the time being.

VIII. 'GENE BLACK, TROUBLE-MAKER

In the morning Tom Reade declared that he was all right. The old Indian squaw had pronounced him safe, and had gone on her way.

"You'll stay in camp today, Reade," announced Mr. Thurston, dropping into the mess tent.

"With all the work there is ahead of us, sir?" cried Reade aghast.

"That's why you'll stay," nodded Mr Thurston. "Your life has been saved, but after the shock you had yesterday you're not as strong as you may feel. One day of good rest in camp will fit you for what's ahead of us in the days to come. The strain of tramping miles and working like a steam engine all day is not to be thought of for you today. Tomorrow you'll go out with the rest."

Tom sighed. True, he did not feel up to the mark, and was eating a very light breakfast. Still he chafed at the thought of inaction for a whole day.

"The chief wouldn't order you to stay in," remarked Blaisdell, after Mr. Thurston had gone, "unless he knew that to be the best thing for you."

So, after the engineers, their chainmen and rodmen had left camp Tom wandered about disconsolately. He tried to talk to the cook, but Jake and his helper were both rushed in getting the meal that was to be taken out over the trail by burro train.

"Lonely, Reade?" called the chief from his tent.

"Yes, sir," Tom nodded. "I wish I had something to do."

"Perhaps I can find work for you in here. Come in."

Tom entered eagerly. Mr. Thurston was seated at the large table, a mass of maps and field notes before him.

"How are you on drawing, Reade?" queried his chief.

"Poor, sir."

"Never had any training in that line?"

"I can draw the lines of a map, sir, and get it pretty straight, as far as the mathematics of map-drawing goes," Tom answered. "But another man has to go over my work and put in the fine touches of the artist. You know what I mean, sir; the fancy fixings of a map."

"Yes, I know," nodded Mr. Thurston. "I can sympathize with you, too, Reade, for, though I always longed to do artistic platting (map-work) I was always like yourself, and could do only the mathematical part of it. You can help me at that, however, if you are careful enough. Take a seat at that drawing table; and I'll see what you can do."

First, Reade stepped to a box that held map paper. Taking out a sheet, he placed it on the surface of the drawing table, then stuck in thumb-tacks at each of the four corners.

"All ready, sir," he announced.

Mr. Thurston stepped over with an engineer's field note book.

"See if these notes are all clear," directed the chief engineer.

"Yes, sir; I know what the notes call for," Tom answered confidently.

"Then I'll show you just what's wanted Reade," continued the chief.

After some minutes of explanation Tom picked up the T-square, placing the top at the side of the drawing surface. Then against the limb of the "T" Tom laid the base of a right-angled triangle. Along this edge he drew his perpendicular north-and-south line in the upper left-hand corner. He crossed this with a shorter line at right angles, establishing his east-and-west line. Mr. Thurston, standing at the cub engineer is back, looked on closely.

Tom now settled on his beginning point, and made the dot with his pencil. From that point he worked rapidly, making all his measurements and dotting his points. Then he began to draw in. The chief engineer went back to his table.

After Tom had worked an hour the chief interrupted him.

"Now, Reade, get up and let me sit down there for a little while. I want to go over your work."

For some minutes Mr. Thurston checked off the lad's work.

"You really know what you are doing, Reade," he said at last. "Your line measurements are right, and your angles tally faultlessly, I'm glad I kept you back today. You can help me here even more than in the field. Tomorrow, however, I shall have to keep Rice back. He's our ornamental draughtsman, and puts in the fine, flowery work on our maps. Here's some of his work."

Tom gazed intently at the sheet that Mr. Thurston spread for his inspection.

"Rice does it well," remarked Reade thoughtfully. "You've one other man in the corps who can do the pretty draughting about as well."

"Who is he?"

"Hazelton. Harry doesn't do the mathematical part as easily as I do, but he has a fine talent for fancy drawing, sir."

"Then I'll try Hazelton tonight," decided Mr. Thurston aloud. "You may go on with your drawing now, Reade. Hello; someone is coming into camp."

Mr. Thurston stepped over to the doorway in time to see a young man riding up on a pony.

"Where's the chief engineer?" called the newcomer.

"You're looking at him," replied Mr. Thurston.

The young man, who appeared to be about twenty-eight years of age, rode his horse to a near-by tree, then dismounted gracefully and tied his mount.

The young man was well-built, dark-haired and smooth-faced, with snapping black eyes. There was an easy, half-swaggering grace about him suggesting one who had seen much of free life in the open air. For one attired for riding in saddle over mountain trails the stranger was not a little of a dandy in appearance. His khaki trousers and leggings, despite his probably long ride, were spotless. His dark-blue flannel shirt showed no speck of dust; his black, flowing tie was perfection; his light-hued sombrero looked as though it had just left the store.

"If you are Mr. Thurston, I have the honor to present a letter," was the stranger's greeting as he entered the large tent.

Mr. Thurston glanced at the envelope, reading: "Mr. Eugene Black."

"Be seated, Mr. Black," requested the chief, then opened the letter.

"Oh, you're a new engineer, sent out from the offices in New York," continued the chief.

"Yes," smiled the newcomer.

"An experienced engineer, the vice-president of the company informs me."

"Six years of experience," smiled the newcomer, showing his white, handsome teeth.

Tom glanced up just in time to see that smile. "Somehow, I don't quite like the looks of Mr. Black," Reade decided.

"What is your especial line of work, Mr. Black?" Thurston continued.

"Anything in usual field work, sir."

"This letter states that you expect one hundred and twenty-five dollars a month."

"Then the letter is correct, sir."

"All right, Mr. Black; we'll put you at work and let you prove that you're worth it," smiled Mr. Thurston pleasantly.

"How soon shall I go to work, sir?" asked Black.

"I expect my assistant, Mr. Blaisdell, here in about an hour. I'll send you out with him when he returns to field."

"Then, if you're through with me at present, sir, I'll step outside and be within call."

Tom and his chief were again alone. Reade kept steadily on with his work, and no word was spoken for half an hour. Then there came a commotion in camp, for four drovers came in with two dozen horses that had been ordered for the use of the engineering party.

"Step outside, Reade, and see the horses, if you care to do so," suggested Mr. Thurston, reaching for his sombrero.

"Thank you, sir; but the horses will keep, and I'm greatly interested in finishing my drawing so that I can take up more work."

"That young cub, Reade, is no idler." thought the chief, as he stepped into the open.

Tom kept steadily at work.

Ten minutes later, Thurston still being absent, Eugene Black strolled into the tent. He glanced at Tom's drawing with some contempt, then inquired:

"Drawing, boy?"

"Why, not?" laughed Tom. "I'm only one of the stable boys, and, as you can see, I'm currying a horse."

"Stop that sort of nonsense with me, right at the start," flashed Black angrily, striding closer. "I don't allow boys to be fresh with me."

"Where's the boy?" drawled Tom, turning slightly, for a better view \ of the stranger's face.

"You're one," snapped Black.

"What are you?" Tom asked curiously.

"I'm an engineer."

"If that is anything to be chesty about, then I'm an engineer also," Reade replied, rising.

"Sit down, boy!" commanded Black angrily.

The trace of frown on Reade's face disappeared. He smiled good-humoredly as he observed.

"Black, I'm a bit uncertain about you."

"Mister Black, boy!" warned the other, his dark eyes snapping. "Why are you uncertain about me?"

"I'm wondering," purred Tom gently, "whether you are just trying to be offensive, or whether you don't know any better than to talk and act the way you do?"

"You young puppy, I'll teach you something right now," cried Black, stepping closer and raising a clenched fist.

"Look out," begged Tom. "You'll upset my drawing table."

Eugene Black closed in, striking out. Reade who felt that the situation didn't call for any fighting, retreated, still smiling.

Whether by accident or design, Black, as he made a half turn to start after the cub engineer anew, brushed a corner of the unstable drawing table hard enough to tip it over. A bottle of drawing ink fell, too, splashing ugly black blotches over Tom's carefully drawn outlines of a map.

"Now, you've done it!" exclaimed Tom.

"I haven't quite finished," snapped the stranger, rushing after Reade.

"I'm going to box your ears soundly, boy!"

"Are you, indeed?" demanded Tom, halting. He was still smiling, but there was a stern look in his eyes. Tom no longer retreated, but stood awaiting Black's assault.

Blanks fist shot out straight, but Reade didn't stop the blow. Instead, he ducked low. When he came up his arms enveloped Black's legs in one of the swift football tackles that Tom had learned with the Gridley High School football team.

"You annoy me," drawled Tom, and hurled the fellow ten feet away. Black landed on his back with an angry roar, followed by cursing.

"Profanity is always objectionable to a gentleman," declared Tom dryly, running over ere the newcomer could regain his feet. Once more Reade bent and rose. As he did so, Eugene Black shot through the tent doorway, landing on the ground a dozen feet beyond.

Tom stood in the doorway, smiling. Black leaped to his feet.

"You puppy!" gasped Black, sending his right hand back to his hip pocket. Tom didn't wait to see what he would bring out, but darted forward. This time he seized the stranger in a dead tackle, dropping him over on his back without throwing him.

"Now, roll over," ordered Reade grimly. "I'm curious to see what you have in your pocket. Ah! So—this is it! You're another Peter Bad, are you?"

Tom held in one hand a silver-plated revolver with ivory handle that he had snatched out of Black's pocket.

"I wonder why it is," mocked Tom, grinning, "that nine out of every ten dude tenderfeet from the east come west with one of these things."

Black charged the cub, intent on recapturing his pistol, but Reade shot out a foot, tripping him. Then Tom ran nimbly over to the cook tent. Here he halted, breaking the weapon at the breech and allowing the cartridges to drop into his hand. He transferred them to his pocket, then wheeled and picked up Jake's kitchen hatchet.

With a few swift strokes from the head of the hatchet Tom put that firearm on the retired list for good.

"Give me my pistol, boy!" choked Black, running up.

"Certainly," rejoined Reade, wheeling and politely offering the ruined firearm. "I don't want it. I've no use for such things"

Black took his weapon, gasped, then, seizing it by the barrel, leaped at Tom, intent on battering his head.

"Here, what's the trouble?" cried Mr. Thurston, appearing around the corner of the cook house and promptly seizing Black by the collar of his flannel shirt.

"Nothing much, sir," laughed Tom. "Mr. Black has just been showing me how bad men behave out in this part of the country."

"This boy is a troublesome cub, Mr. Thurston," declared Black hotly. "Do you see what he has done to my revolvers"

"How did Reade come to have it?" inquired Mr. Thurston.

"He snatched it away from me."

"Reade, is this true?" demanded the chief engineer, turning to the youth.

"Yes, sir; as far as the story goes."

"Tell me the whole truth of this affair," ordered Mr. Thurston sternly.

Tom started to do so, modestly, but Black broke in angrily at points in the narrative.

"The principal thing that I have against Mr. Black," Tom said, "is that he spoiled all my drawing work of this morning."

"Yes; but how did I come to do it?" insisted the newcomer. "You pushed me against your drawing table."

Tom started with astonishment.

"My friend," he remarked, "Baron Munchausen never had anything on you!"

"Careful, Reade! Don't pass the lie," ordered the chief engineer sternly. "I shall look fully into this matter, but at present I'm inclined to believe that you're more at fault than is Black. Return to the tent and start your drawing over again."

There was a smile again on Tom's face as he turned back to make his spoiled work good.

Mr. Thurston went back to his inspection of the ponies. Later, the chief engineer was able to pick up some details of the trouble from Jake Wren, who had seen Black reach for his revolver.

"Understand two things, Mr. Black," said the chief briskly. "In the first place, it is not expected that the engineers of this corps will find any real cause for fighting. Second, I will tolerate no pistol nonsense here."

Then he went back to Tom Reade and spoke to him more quietly.

"Reade, if Black doesn't turn out to be a valuable man here he won't last long. If he is a good man, then you will find it necessary, perhaps, to use a little tact in dealing with him. Did you notice what snapping black eyes the man has? Men with such black eyes are usually impulsive. Remember that."

"I never thought of that before, sir," Tom admitted dryly. "I really didn't know that people with black eyes are impulsive. This I do know, however, people who are too impulsive generally get black eyes!"

IX. "DOCTORED" FIELD NOTES?

There was no more trouble—immediately. When the other engineers heard of the row—which news they obtained through Jake, not from Reade—they soon made it plain to 'Gene Black that Tom Reade was a favorite in the corps. Black was therefore treated with a coldness that he strove hard to overcome.

In the matter of being a capable civil engineer 'Gene Black speedily proved himself efficient. Assistant Chief Engineer Blaisdell soon reported at headquarters that the new member of the corps was an exceedingly valuable man. Black was therefore placed at the head of a leveling squad that obtained the field notes from which were to be estimated the cost of making excavations in several cuts that must be made ere the coming tracks could be laid.

In the days that passed Tom and Harry saw little of the field work. They were kept at the chief's tent. Hence Reade had but little to do with 'Gene Black, which may have been fortunate, as Tom still retained his first instinctive dislike for the black-eyed fellow.

* * * * * * * * *

"Reade and Hazelton, you two young men are going to forge ahead rapidly, and you are sure to earn good salaries, if you don't make the too common mistake of young engineers first starting out," Mr. Thurston told the cubs one forenoon.

"And what is that mistake, sir, if you please?" Tom queried.

"Don't make the mistake of getting too large an idea of the value of your services," replied the chief. "Just work hard all the time and be wholly unassuming.

"I think we can follow that advice, sir," Tom replied, with a smile.

"If you can, you'll get along rapidly. I have already written to our officers in New York, thanking them for having sent you two young men."

"Here's the map I have just finished, sir," said Harry, rising from his drawing table on which were arranged the various draughtsman's inks and washes—the latter being thin solutions of water colors with which some parts of the maps were colored.

"Very handsomely done, Hazelton. Reade, what are you doing?"

"I'm at work on Black's field notes of the leveling," Tom answered.

"I am very much pleased with Black's work," replied Mr. Thurston. "His notes show that we are going to get out of the excavating in the cuts at about one third of the trouble and expense that I had looked for."

"Black's field notes certainly do look good, sir, for they show that you can get the work through on this division in much less time than you had supposed."

As he turned around to speak, Tom sat where he could easily see the colored field map that Harry had just turned in to the chief.

"Hold on, there, Harry," Tom objected.

"You've lined in a pretty high hill on Section Nineteen. You'll have to cut that down a bit."

"The surveyor's field notes call for that hill," Hazelton retorted.

"But, as it happens," objected Tom, "I'm just working out the profile drawing of Section Nineteen from Black's notes. See here——" Tom rested a pencil point on a portion of the hill depicted on Hazelton's map. "You've drawn that pretty steep. Now, as you'll see by Black's notes, the upgrade at that point is only a three per cent. grade."

"Humph! It's all of an eight per cent. grade," grunted Hazelton. "See, here are the surveyor's field notes."

"Three per cent. grade," insisted Tom, holding forward Black's leveling notes.

"There's a difference there, then, that must be reconciled," broke in Mr. Thurston, rising, a look of annoyance on his face. "We can't have any such disagreement as that between the field map and the profile sheet. Let us find out, at once, where the trouble lies."

Yet the more the three pondered over the matter the greater became the puzzle. The notes of the surveyor, Matt Rice, and of the leveler, 'Gene Black, were at utter variance.

"We must get hold of these men as soon as they come in tonight," exclaimed Mr. Thurston, much disturbed. "We must find out just which one is at fault."

"Rice is a very reliable man, sir," spoke up Tom.

"Yes; but Blaisdell reports that Black thoroughly understands his work, too," grumbled the chief. "We must settle this tonight."

"May I make a suggestion, sir?" asked Tom.

"Certainly. Go ahead."

"There is no use, sir, in my going ahead with this profile drawing, if there's a chance that the sights turned in by Black are wrong. Until we know, my time at this drawing board may all be wasted. Trotter, one of the rodmen, is in camp today. I might take him, and a level along, and go over the foresights and backsights myself. All of the stakes will be in place. In two hours I ought to have a very good set of leveling notes. Then I can bring them back and compare them with Black's sights."

"Can you run a level well?" inquired Mr. Thurston.

"Of course I can, sir. It's simple enough work, and I've done a good bit of it in the east."

"Go along, then, and see if you can throw any light on this," sighed the disturbed chief.

"Reade really ought to have two rodmen," broke in Harry eagerly. "May I go along, sir, to serve as the other rodman?"

"Run along," assented Mr. Thurston. "Remember, boys, I can't go any further until this tangle is settled. Come back as speedily as you can."

Tom and Harry snatched up their sombreros, hurrying forth. Trotter was found readily, and was ordered to saddle three ponies. Tom busied himself in picking out the best leveling instrument in camp, while Hazelton secured the rods and a chain. Then the party set forth in Indian file, Tom riding in advance.

A trot of half an hour brought them to Section Nineteen. Here Tom speedily adjusted his instrument, taking up his post over the first stake at the bottom of the hill.

Leveling is not difficult work, though it calls for some judgment and a good deal of care. For instance, when Tom set his telescope exactly level and took a reading of the rod at the second stake, which Harry held, he read the height as eight feet and four inches. Then he trudged forward, carrying his instrument, while Trotter held his rod exactly perpendicular over the first stake. From the second stake Tom sighted back through his telescope, reading two feet three inches. The difference between these two readings was six feet and one inch, showing that, for the distance between first and second stakes the rise in the hillside was six feet one inch. Thereupon Reade turned and sighted, from stake number two to stake number three, noting in his book the reading he secured from the rod at number three. Once at number three he turned his telescope backward, taking a reading from Trotter's rod at number two. Ten stakes were thus covered, and not only were the foresights and backsights read and recorded, but the distance between each pair of stakes was measured with the chain and the distances entered on the record.

At stake number ten Tom halted.

"Harry," he directed, "you take Black's leveling notes and hold them while I read my own notes. Stop me every time that you note a difference between the two records."

After that Harry steadily stopped his chum at every reading. By the time that they had finished the comparisons Hazelton's face looked blank from sheer astonishment.

"Why, every single one of Blacks foresights and backsights is wrong!" gasped Harry. "And yet Mr. Blaisdell reported that 'Gene Black is such a fine engineer."

Tom turned to make sure that Trotter was resting out of hearing before he replied:

"Harry, Black isn't such a fool as to bring in an absolutely wrong record of sights, and yet do it innocently. If he didn't do it unintentionally, then he must have tangled the record purposely."

"But why should he do it purposely?" Harry insisted. "He would know that, sooner or later, his blunders or lies would be discovered, and that he would be discharged. Now, Black really wants to hold his job with this outfit."

"Does he?" asked Tom bluntly.

"Why, what do you mean?"

"I don't know," Reade confessed. "I never heard of any such bungle as this before by an engineer. Why, Harry, this hillside averages an eight and a third grade, yet Black's field notes show it to be only a three per cent. grade. Hang it, the fellow must have played the trick purposely!"

"Yet why?" pressed Hazelton.

"I'll admit that I can't understand. Unless, well—unless——"

"Say it!"

"Unless Black joined this outfit with the express purpose of queering all the work of the entire corps as he could easily do. Harry, do you think that Black could possibly be serving with this outfit as the paid tool of the rival road, the W.C. & A.? Can he be the enemy's spy within our lines—sent to prevent our finishing the road on time?"

X. THINGS BEGIN TO GO DOWN HILL

"I suppose I'm thick," Harry murmured. "How would Black, by turning in some wrong backsights and foresights, expect to delay the building of the road, even if he wanted to do it?"

"How?" repeated Tom Reade, showing an amount of heat and excitement that he rarely displayed. "Why, Harry, this same old Section Nineteen is one of the hard spots on the road. A lot of excavating has to be done before the tracks can be laid here. It's not a mere matter of scooping up dirt and removing it, either. A large amount of solid rock has to be blasted out here before the roadbed can be laid."

"I know it," Harry nodded.

"Well, then, at the present moment our chief, Mr. Thurston, is preparing the estimates for the work that must be done. On his estimates will be based the strength of the laboring gangs that must come forward to do the work."

"Yes."

"Then, suppose that Mr. Thurston has been misled into making a certain estimate as to the number of thousand cubic yards of stuff that must be taken out of the outs that are to be made. After he gets his laborers here, and at work, he finds that he has at least three times as much rock and dirt to get out——"

"I see," cried Hazelton. "Before the chief could get men and wagons, and make all necessary changes in the work, the time would have slipped by so far that the finishing of the road would be blocked."

"And the S.B. & L. would lose its charter," finished Tom grimly.

"It's mighty lucky that we came out here today, then," exclaimed Hazelton, now fully alive to the danger that menaced their employers. "Come, we must hustle back to camp and show Mr. Thurston how he has been imposed on. There can't be a doubt that 'Gene Black has been deliberately crooked."

"Go slowly," advised Tom. "Don't be in a rush to call any other man a crook. Mr. Thurston can hear our report. Then he can look into it himself and form his own opinion. That's as far as we have any right to go in the matter."

"Thurston is at fault in not having come out here himself," Harry continued. "The chief engineer in charge of a job should know every foot of the way."

"Thurston, from the nature of his own work, is obliged to leave much of the detail to his assistant, Mr. Blaisdell," Tom explained.

"Then why doesn't Blaisdell look out that no such treacherous work is done by any member of the engineer corps?" flared Harry.

"'Gene Black is plainly a very competent man," Reade argued. "The work has had to be rushed of late, and, on so simple a matter as leveling, I don't suppose Blaisdell has thought it at all necessary to dig into Black's field notes."

"I hope Black is fired out of this outfit, neck and crop!" finished Hazelton.

"That's something with which we have nothing to do," Reade retorted. "Harry, we'll confine ourselves to doing our work well and reporting our results. Mr. Thurston is intelligent enough to form all his own conclusions when he has our report. Come, it's high time for us to be putting the ponies to real speed on the trail back."

Not long afterwards the young engineers rode into the engineer camp. Harry dismounted, seating himself on the ground, while Tom hurried toward the chief's big tent.

It was Blaisdell who sat in the chief's chair when Tom entered.

"Oh, hello, Reade," was the assistant's pleasant greeting.

"Where's the chief?"

"Gone back to the track builders. You know, they're within fourteen miles of us now."

"When will Mr. Thurston be back?"

"I don't know," Blaisdell answered. "In the meantime, Reade, you know, I'm acting chief here."

"I beg your pardon," Tom murmured hastily.

"The chief told me, just before leaving, that you thought some of Black's sights on Section Nineteen are wrong," Blaisdell pursued.

"They're all wrong," Reade rejoined quietly.

"All?" echoed Blaisdell, opening his eyes very wide.

"Yes, sir; everyone of them."

"Come, come, Reade!" remonstrated the acting chief. "Don't try to amuse yourself with me. All of the sights can't be wrong."

"But they are, sir. Hazelton and I have been over them most carefully in the field. Here are our notes, sir. Look them over and you'll find that Section Nineteen calls for three or four times as much excavating as Black's notes show."

"This is strange!" mused Blaisdell, after comparing the two sets of notes. "I can't credit it. Reade, you and Hazelton are very young—mere cubs, in fact. Are you sure that you know all you owlet to know about leveling?"

"Mr. Blaisdell, I'll answer you by saying, sir, that though Hazelton and I are nothing but cubs, we have the success of this railroad building game at heart. We're deeply in earnest. We'll work ourselves to our very bones in order to see this road get through in time. I don't ask you, sir, to take our word about these sights, but we both beg you, sir, to go out with a gang of men and go over some of the work yourself. Keep on surveying, sir, until you're satisfied that Black is wrong and that Hazelton and I are right. You know what it would mean, sir, if we're right and you don't find it out in time. Then you simply couldn't get the cut through Section Nineteen in time and the S.B. & L. would lose its charter."

"By Jove, you're right," muttered Blaisdell uneasily, as he slowly stood up. "Reade, I'm going to take men and go out, carrying your notes and Black's. Let me warn you, however, that if I find that Black is right and you're wrong, then it will give you two cubs such a black eye that the chief will run you out of camp."

"If we had made any such gigantic blunder as that," returned Tom firmly, "then we'd deserve to be run out. We wouldn't have the nerve to put in another night in camp."

"Hey, you, don't unsaddle those ponies. Hold yourselves ready to go out," called Blaisdell from the doorway of the tent.

"Will you give us our orders on drawing before you go, sir?" asked Reade.

"No," smiled Blaisdell. "If you've made a blunder out on Nineteen, then you're not to be trusted with drawing. Wait until I return. Take it easy until then."

"Very good."

"And—Reade!"

"Yes, sir."

"Neither you nor Hazelton are to let a word cross your lips regarding the disagreement over Section Nineteen."

"You'll never have any trouble, sir, over our talking when we ought not to do it," promised Reade.

Two minutes later the assistant engineer rode out with a pair of rodmen whom he picked up on the way to Nineteen.

"What happened?" asked Harry, coming into the big tent.

Tom told him all that had taken place, adding the caution that nothing was to be said about the matter for the present.

"Whew! I wish Mr. Blaisdell had let me go along," murmured Hazelton. "I'd like to have seen his face when he finds out!"

Hearing footsteps approaching outside, Reade signaled for silence. Then the flap of the tent was pulled back and Bad Pete glanced in.

"Howdy, pardners?" was the greeting from the bad man, that caused Tom Reade almost to fall from his campstool.

"How are you, Peter?" returned Tom. "This is, indeed, a pleasure."

"Where's the boss?" continued Bad Pete.

"If you mean Mr. Thurston, he's away."

"Where's Blaisdell, then?"

"He hit the trail, just a few minutes ago," Tom responded.

"Then I suppose you have no objections if I sit in here a while?"

"Peter," replied Tom solemnly, "you'll be conferring a great honor on us."

The bad man's present mood was so amiable that Harry did not deem it desertion to go outside. Bad Pete had his cartridge belt restocked with sure-enough cartridges, and his revolver swung as jauntily in its holster as ever. Pete seemed to have no idea, however, of trying to terrify anyone with his hardware.

"You've been away?" suggested Tom, by way of making conversation, after an awkward silence had endured for nearly two minutes.

"Yep," admitted the bad one. "Pardner, it seems like home to get back. Do you know, Reade, I've taken a big liking to you?"

"Peter," protested Tom, "if you don't look out you'll make me the vainest cub on earth."

"I mean it," asserted Pete. "Pardner, I've a notion me and you are likely to become big friends."

"I never dared to hope for so much," breathed Tom, keeping back a laugh.

"'Cause," continued Bad Pete, "I reckon you're one of the kind that never goes back on a real pardner."

"I should hope not," Tom assured him.

"Have a cigar?" urged Pete, doffing his sombrero and taking out a big, black weed that he tendered the cub.

"What's the matter with it?" asked Tom curiously.

For just a second Bad Pete's eyes flashed. Then he choked back all signs of anger as he drawled:

"The only matter with this cigar, pardner, is that it's a gen-u-wine Havana cigar."

"I couldn't tell it from a genuine Baltimore," asserted Tom. "But I suppose that is because I never smoked."

"You never smoked? Pardner, you've got a lot to learn," replied Bad Pete, as he put the cigar back in his hat and replaced the latter on his head. "And, while we're talking about such matters, pardner, you might just hand me a twenty for a few days."

"Twenty dollars?" returned Tom. "Peter, until payday gets around I won't have twenty cents."

Bad Pete gazed at the cub keenly.

"Fact!" Tom assured him.

"Huh!" grunted Pete, rising. "I've been wasting my time on a pauper!"

Saying which, he stalked out.

Tom discreetly repressed his desire to laugh. Hazelton glided into the tent, grinning.

"Tom, be careful not to string Bad Pete so hard, or, one of these days, you'll get him so mad that he won't be able to resist drilling you through with lead."

"Let's go over to the cook tent and either beg or steal something to eat," proposed Reade.

It was two hours later when a rodman rode hurriedly into camp.

"Hey, you cubs," he called, "come and help me get Mr. Blaisdell's bed ready for him. He's coming back sick."

"Sick?" demanded Reade, thunderstruck. "Why, he looked healthy enough when he went out of camp a little while ago."

"He's sick enough, now," retorted the rodman.

"What ails Mr. Blaisdell?" asked Harry.

"It's mountain fever, I reckon," rejoined the rodman. "Blaisdell must have been off color for days, and didn't really know it."

All three worked rapidly getting everything in readiness for the coming of the assistant engineer. Then Mr. Blaisdell was brought in, on a stretcher rigged between two ponies. The acting chief is face was violently flushed, his eyes seemed bright as diamonds.

"Reade," said the acting chief thickly, as they lifted him from the litter to his cot, "if I'm not better by morning you'll have to get word to the chief."

"Yes, sir," assented Reade, placing a hand on Blaisdell's forehead. It felt hot and feverish. "May I ask, sir, if you verified any of the sights on Nineteen?"

"I—I took some of 'em," replied the acting chief hesitatingly. "Reade, I'm not sure that I remember aright, but I think—I think—you and Hazelton were correct about that. I—wish I could—remember."

Bill Blaisdell closed his eyes, and his voice trailed off into murmurs that none around him could understand. Even Reade, with his very slight experience in such matters, realized that the acting chief was a very sick man.

"You cubs better clear out of here now," suggested one of the rodmen. "I know better how to take care of men with mountain fever."

"I hope you do know more about nursing than I do, Carter," replied Tom very quietly. "In the future, however, don't forget that, though I may be a cub, I am an engineer, and you are a rodman. When you speak to me address me as Mr. Reade. Come, men, all out of here but the nurse."

Once in the open Tom turned to Harry with eyes ablaze.

"Harry, could anything be tougher? The chief away, the acting chief down with fever and on the verge of delirium—and a crooked engineer in our crowd who's doing his best to sell out the S.B. & L.—bag, baggage and charter!"

XI. THE CHIEF TOTTERS FROM COMMAND

It was not like Tom Reade to waste time in wondering what to do.

"Harry," he continued, once more turning upon his chum, "I want you to get a pony saddled as fast as you can. You know that the telegraph wire is being brought along as fast as it can be done. This morning I heard Rutter say that it was hardly five miles back of us on the trail. Get into saddle, wire the chief at the construction camp, and bring back his orders as fast as you can ride."

Hazelton replied only with a nod, then broke into a sprint for the spot where the saddle animals were tethered. Two minutes later Harry, though not a crack horseman, left camp at a gallop.

In Blaisdell's tent matters dragged along. Ice was needed, but none was to be had. Cloths were wrung out in spring water and applied to the sick man's head. Within half an hour Tom received word that the acting chief was "out of his head."

Later on Hazelton galloped back into camp bearing this despatch:

"Reade, Engineer Corps. Take charge of camp until Rutter returns. Then turn over charge to him. Rush for the nearest physician; engage him to remain at camp and look after Blaisdell. I return tonight. (Signed) Thurston, Chief Engineer."

"Men," called Tom striding over to the little party of rodmen, "tell me where the nearest physician is to be found."

"Doe Jitney, at Bear's Cave," replied one of the men.

"How far is that?"

"Fourteen miles, by the trail."

"Get on to a pony, then, and go after Dr. Gitney. Bring him here and tell him we'll want him here for the present. Tell the doctor to bring all the medicines he'll need, and both of you ride fast."

"I'm not going on your orders," retorted the man sullenly.

"Yes, you are," Tom informed him promptly. "I'm in charge, for the present, and acting under Mr. Thurston's orders. If you don't go, you won't eat any more in this camp, or draw any more pay here. It's work or jump for you—and discharge if you lose or waste any time on the way. Mr. Blaisdell's life is at stake. Rustle!"

The man so ordered scowled, but he rose, went over and saddled a pony and rode out of camp.

"That part is attended to," sighed Tom. "Hang it, I wish we could get hold of some ice. I don't know much, but I do know that ice is needed in high fevers. I wonder if anyone here knows where ice can be had? By Jove, there's Peter! He knows more about this country than anyone else around here."

It was now within an hour of the time when the engineer parties might be expected hack into camp. Reade, however, was not of the sort to lose an hour needlessly.

Tom had just caught sight of Bad Pete as the latter stepped through a little gully an eighth of a mile below the trail and vanished into some green brush.

"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.

"What do you want, pardner?" demanded the bad man, coming through the brush.

"Lend me a couple of hundred dollars, Pete," laughed 'Gene Black.

"Did you call me here for any such fool talk as that?" scowled Pete.

"No," Black admitted. "Pete, I don't believe you have two hundred dollars. But you'd like to have. Now, wouldn't you!"

"Two hundred silver bricks," retorted Bad Pete, his eyes gleaming, "is the price of shooting up a whole town. Pardner, just get me an extra box of cartridges and lead me to that town! But have you got the money?"

"Yes," laughed Black, holding up a roll of greenbacks. "This and more, too!"

Bad Pete surveyed the money hungrily.

"Some men who know me," he muttered thickly, "would be afraid to show me a whole bankful of money when there was no one else looking."

"I'm not afraid of you, Pete," replied Black quietly. "You might shoot me, if you felt you could get away with it. Do you notice that my left hand is in my pocket! I'm a left-handed shooter, you see."

Pete glanced covertly at that bulging left trousers' pocket of the engineer.

"You won't have to do anything like that to get the money, Pete. Save your cartridges for other people. There, I've let go of my gun. Come close and listen to what I have to say—but only in your ear."

There followed some moments of whisperings Try as he would, Reade could not make out a word of what was being said until at last Bad Pete muttered audibly, in a low, hoarse voice:

"You're not doing that on your own account, Black?"

"No, Pete; I'm not."

"Then you must really be working for the road that wants to steal the charter away—the W.C. & A.?"

"Perhaps so, Pete. You don't need to know that. All you have to know is what I want done. I'm a business man, Pete, and money is the soul of business. Here!"

Black peeled some banknotes from his roll.

"Ten twenties, Pete. That makes the two hundred I was talking to you about. Understand, man, that isn't your pay. That's simply your expense money, for you to spend while you're hanging about. Stick to me, do things just as I want them done, and your pay will run several times as high as your expense money."

"Do you know how long I've been looking for this sort o' thing, pardner?" Pete inquired huskily.

"No; of course not," rejoined 'Gene Black rather impatiently.

"All my life," returned Bad Pete solemnly. "Pardner, I'll sell myself to you for the money you've been talking about."

"Come along, then. We're too near the camp. I want to talk with you where we're not so likely to be interfered with by people who have too much curiosity."

"If that means me," quoth Tom Reade inwardly, "the shoe fits to a nicety."

Tom followed the pair for a little way, with a stealth that was born in him for the present need. Then the plotters stepped into a rocky, open gully, where the cub engineer could not have followed without being seen.

"Oh, dear! I never wanted to follow anyone as much in my life!" groaned Reade in his disappointment.

There was nothing to do but to go back. Then, too, with a guilty start, Tom remembered the great need of ice for poor, fever-tossed, big-hearted Bill Blaisdell, who had been so kind to the two cubs from the hour of their arrival in the field camp.

Just as he stepped into the camp area Tom espied Jack Rutter, who also saw him and came quickly forward.

"I've been looking everywhere for you, Reade," said Rutter, in a tone that was close to carrying reproach with it.

"I've been absent on real business, Rutter," Tom answered, with a flush, nevertheless. "Mr. Blaisdell must have ice a lot of it."

"Great Scott! Where shall we find it in these mountains in midsummer?" Rutter demanded.

"We've got to have it, haven't we?" Tom urged. "It will be the first thing that the doctor will call for."

"Then he should bring it with him," returned Rutter.

"Would you want the doctor to be hampered with a ton or so of ice!" asked Reade.

"Would we need that much?" Rutter seemed hopelessly ignorant in such matters.

"I imagine we'd want a lot of it," Tom answered. "By the way, Mr. Rutter——"

"Well?" Jack inquired.

Tom was on the point of giving a hint of what he had heard in the gully during the meeting between Black and Bad Pete. Then, on second thought, the cub engineer decided to hold that news for the ear of Mr. Thurston alone.

"What were you going to say?" pressed Rutter.

"Probably Hazelton has told you," Tom continued, "that you're in charge here until Mr. Thurston arrives."

"Yes; and I'm mighty glad that the chief will be here before daylight tomorrow," returned Jack. "I may be a fair sort of engineer, but I'm not cut out for a chief engineer."

Later, one of the rodmen was sent to guide Harry to the nearest small town, twenty-eight miles away, for ice. If they succeeded in obtaining it they might be back by dark of the following day.

Supper in camp was a gloomy meal. No one felt light-hearted.

"Mr. Rutter," asked Tom, approaching the temporary chief, soon after the evening meal, "what do you want Hazelton and myself to do this evening?"

"Don't ask me," returned Jack, with a shrug of his shoulders. "What have you been doing? Drawing?"

"Yes."

"Why don't you go on with it?"

"We're at a point where we need orders, for we've had to lay down one part of the work while waiting for further instructions."

"I can't help you any, then," replied Rutter. "Sorry, but before I could give any orders I'd need a few myself."

At eleven o'clock that night Dr. Gitney arrived, with saddle-bags full of medicines and other necessaries. He saw Blaisdell, and pronounced the assistant engineer a very sick man.

Shortly after midnight Mr. Thurston rode into camp. He tottered from saddle and reeled until Tom, on the lookout for him, ran forward and supported the chief engineer to his tent.

Then Dr. Gitney was sent for and came.

"Your chief has mountain fever, too," said the medical attendant to Tom, after stepping outside the tent.

"How long will it take them to get well?" asked Wade anxiously.

"Weeks! Hard to say," replied the physician vaguely.

"Weeks!" groaned Tom Reade. "And the camp now in charge of Jack Rutter, who's a fine workman but no leader! Doc Gitney doesn't know it, but he has sentenced the S.B. & L. railroad to death!"

It was a trying situation. The cub engineer felt it keenly, for he had set his heart on seeing the S.B. & L. win out over its rival.

Then, too, all in a flash, the memory of 'Gene Black's treachery to his employers came back to the mind of Tom Reade.

XII. FROM CUB TO ACTING CHIEF

Tom didn't sleep that night. He sat by, silently, in the big tent, nursing the patient as Dr. Gitney directed.

In the morning, at five, Matt Rice came. Tom gladly surrendered the post to him and took a scant hour of deep slumber on the bare ground outside.

"Wake up, Reade," ordered Rutter, at last shaking the cub and hauling him to his feet. "This is no place to sleep. Go to your tent and stretch out full length on your cot."

"On my cot?" demanded Tom, rubbing his eyes fiercely. "You can't spare me from the day's work?"

"I don't believe there will be any day's work," Rutter answered.

"You're in charge, man! You must put us to work," Tom insisted.

"I don't know just what ought to be done," complained Rutter. "I shall have to wait for orders."

"Orders?" repeated Tom, in almost breathless scorn. "From whom can you get orders?"

"Howe is Thurston's assistant at the lower camp," Rutter rejoined. "He'll have to come over here and take real charge. I'm going to send a messenger to the telegraph station and wire Mr. Howe to come here at once."

"See here, Rutter," blazed Tom insistently, "Mr Howe is in charge of the construction forces. He's laying the bed and the tracks. He can't be spared from the construction work for even a day, or the road will fail to get through, no matter what we do here. Man, you've simply got to be up and doing! Make some mistakes, if you have to, but don't lie down and kill the S.B. & L. with inaction."

"Cub," laughed Rutter good-humoredly, "you speak as if this were a big personal matter with you."

"Oh, isn't it, thought" retorted Tom Reade with spirit. "My whole heart is centered on seeing the S.B. & L. win out within the time granted by its charter. Rutter, if you don't take hold with a rush and make a live, galloping start with your new responsibilities, I'm afraid I'll go wild and assault you violently!"

"Ha, ha, ha!" Jack laughed loudly.

"Here, stop that cackling," ordered Reade in the same low voice that he had been using. "Let's get away from the chief's tent. We'll disturb him with our noise."

Dr. Gitney, entering the big tent five minutes later, found Mr. Thurston very much awake, for he had heard the low-voiced conversation outside the tent. Mr. Thurston was not quite as ill as was Blaisdell, and had not as yet reached the stage of delirium.

"Doctor, I want you to summon the engineer corps here," begged the patient.

"When you're better," replied the doctor, with a hand on the sick man's pulse.

"Doc, you'd better let me have my way," insisted Mr. Thurston in a weak voice. "If you don't, you'll make me five times more ill than I am at present."

Watching the fever glow in the man's face deepen, and feeling the pulse go up several beats per minute, Dr. Gitney replied:

"There, there, Thurston. Be good, and I'll let you have three minutes with your engineers."

"That's all I ask," murmured the sick man eagerly.

Dr. Gitney went outside and rounded them up. All were present except 'Gene Black, who, according to Matt Rice, had taken a little walk outside of camp.

"I hope you'll soon be better, sir," began Rutter, as the engineers gathered at the cot of their stricken chief.

"Don't say anything unnecessary, and don't waste my time," begged Mr. Thurston. "Rutter, do you feel equal to running this field corps until either Blaisdell or I can take charge again?"

"No, I don't chief," replied Jack. "I've sent a wire to Howe, urging him to come here and take charge."

"Howe can't come," replied the chief. "If he does, the construction work will go to pieces. This corps will have to be led by someone now present."

Morris and Rice gazed eagerly at their chief. Butter showed his relief at being allowed to hack out from full control.

As for Timothy Thurston, he let his gaze wander from face to face.

"Reade!" he almost whispered.

"Yes, sir!" answered Tom, stepping gently forward. "What can I do for you, sir?"

"Reade," came in another whisper, "can you—have you the courage to take the post of acting chief?"

Several gasps of astonishment broke on the air, but the greatest gasp of all came from Reade himself.

"I think you need a little sleep now, sir," urged Tom.

"I'm not out of my head," smiled Timothy Thurston wanly. "Doc Gitney will tell you that. Come—for I'm growing very tired. Can you swing this outfit and push the S.B. & L. through within charter time?"

"I—I—hardly know what to say," stammered Tom, who felt dizzy from the sudden rush of blood to his head.

"Have you the courage to try?"

"Yes, sir—I have!" came, without further hesitation from Tom Reade. "I believe I'll succeed, at that, for I'll stake health, and even life, on winning out!"

"That's what I like to hear," breathed Mr. Thurston, an added flush coming to his own face.

"Gentlemen, it's time to leave," warned Dr. Gitney, watching his patient.

"One moment more, Doc," insisted the chief engineer feebly. "Gentlemen, you've heard what has just been said. Will everyone of you pledge himself on his honor to drop all feeling that might interfere? Will you all stand loyally by Reade, take his orders and help boost him and all the rest of us through to victory in this big game?"

"I will!" spoke Jack Rutter earnestly and with a deep sigh of relief.

The others added their promises.

"Reade, you will take full charge here," continued Timothy Thurston. "Notify Mr. Howe, too, at once. You and he will not need to conflict with each other in any way. Also notify the president of the road, at the New York offices. Wire him at once. Now—thank you all, gentlemen. I believe I shall have to stop and go to sleep."

"Get out, all of you," came firmly from bearded, middle-aged Dr. Gitney. "You fellows now have your acting chief to look to, and you don't need to bother a sick man any more."

When Tom Reade stepped outside, on the heels of the others, he certainly didn't feel as though treading on air. Instead, he wondered if he were going to reel and totter, so dizzy did he feel over the sudden realization of the responsibilities he had taken upon himself.

"Give us our orders, chief," begged Matt Rice, with a grin, when Tom joined the others over by the mess tent.

"Wait a few moments," urged Reade. "I don't really know whether I am chief or a joke."

"Great Scott! After lecturing me the way you did, you are not going to get cold feet, are you?" gasped Jack Rutter.

"You'll know what I mean before long," Tom murmured. "I signaled to Dr. Gitney to follow me as soon as he could."

"How does it seem to know that you have only to beckon and that men must follow?" laughed Joe Grant. It is doubtful whether Tom, gazing at the chief's big tent, even heard.

Presently Dr. Gitney stepped outside and came toward them.

"Doctor," began Tom, "will you give me your word of honor that Mr. Thurston is in his right mind?"

"He certainly impresses me as being so," the physician replied.

"You fully believe that he knew just what he was doing?" Tom insisted.

"I do, Reade. But why should you care? You have the reins in your own hands now."

"I wish to keep the reins there," Tom returned quickly. "Still I don't want to hold the power for an instant if there is reason to believe that Mr. Thurston didn't know what he was doing."

"If that is all you required of me, Reade, rest easy and go ahead with the big trust that has been placed in your hands," replied Dr. Gitney.

"Then help me to get a few things out of the chief's tent that we shall need," replied Tom.

"Tell me what the things are," rejoined the physician, "and I'll pass them out. I don't want one of you in there, or Thurston will soon be as delirious as Blaisdell is, poor fellow."

By stealth, drawing tables and instruments, several boxes of maps, books and papers and other necessary articles were taken from Mr. Thurston tent without awaking the sick man.

These were removed to a tent that was not occupied at the moment.

"Supper's ready, folks," announced Bob, the cook's helper, stepping softly through camp.

Tom joined the other engineers, taking a few hasty mouthfuls. Hardly had the party gathered in the mess tent when 'Gene Black, bright and cheery, stepped in swiftly, nodding here and there.

"Well, Rutter, I take it you are running the camp from now on?" asked Black.

"Guess just once more," replied Jack.

"Who is, then?"

"Mr. Reade."

Black gulped, then grinned.

"The cub? That's good!"

Black leaned back on his stool, laughing loudly.

"But who is going to boss the camp?" insisted Black, after he had had his laugh.

"Mr. Reade!" flung back the other engineers in one voice.

"What have you to say to this, cub?" asked 'Gene Black, turning to Tom.

"Mr. Thurston placed me in charge because no one else would assume the responsibility," smiled Tom good-humoredly.

"Then you're going to stay boss for the present?"

"Unless Mr. Thurston changes his mind."

"Oh, what a fool I was to be away this afternoon!" groaned Black to himself. "I could have gotten this chance away from a cub like Reade. Oh, but my real task would have been easy if I had been here on deck, and had got Thurston to turn matters over to me. Reade will be easy! He's only a cub—a booby. Even if he proved shrewd—well, I have at my disposal several ways of getting rid of him!"

Then, aloud, Black went on:

"Reade, I'm a candidate for the post of acting assistant chief engineer."

"That goes to Rutter, if he'll take it," replied Tom, with a smile.

"Oh, I'll take it," nodded Jack Rutter. "I can follow orders, when I have someone else to give them."

Tom was intentionally pleasant with 'Gene Black. He intended to remain pleasant—until he was quite ready to act.

Immediately after supper Tom ordered one of the chainmen to saddle a pony and be ready to take a message back to the telegraph service that was rapidly overtaking them.

"I want you to be sure to get a receipt for the message from the operator," Tom explained. "Direct the operator to get the message through to New York at once."

"What's the use?" demanded the chainman. "It's night in New York, the same as it is here. If the message goes through at any time tonight it will do."

"I didn't ask you that," Tom replied quietly. "I told you to instruct the operator, from me, to send the message at once. Then, if there is any delay on the way, the message will still be in New York in the morning when the company's offices open."

Then Tom Reade went to the new headquarters' tent, seated himself at the desk and picked up a pen.

"Whew!" he muttered suddenly. "This message is going to be harder to write than I thought! When the president of the S.B. & L. gets my telegram, informing him that a cub is in command here, he'll blow up! If he recovers he'll wire me that he's sending a grown man for the job!"

XIII. BLACK TURNS OTHER COLORS

Through the night Tom Reade managed to get some sound sleep.

Had he been less exhausted physically the excitement caused by his sudden and dizzying promotion might have interfered with his rest. As it was, he slept like a log, though, by his own orders, he was called twice in the night to be informed as to the condition of the two sick men.

In the morning a male nurse for whom Dr. Gitney had arranged arrived in camp. Thereafter the physician had a little opportunity for rest.

Mr. Thurston reached the delirium stage in his illness that forenoon.

"Reade, I don't feel like going out this morning," announced 'Gene Black, approaching the young head of the camp after early breakfast.

"What's the matter?" Tom asked pleasantly.

"I have rather a bad headache," complained Black.

"That's a woman's complaint," smiled Tom.

"Just the same, I'm not fit for duty," retorted Black rather testily. "I hope I'm not going to come down with the fever, but I can't be sure."

"You'd better stay in camp, then," nodded Reade. "Don't go out into the field again until you feel like work."

"Humph! He takes it easily enough," grunted Black to himself as the young chief strode away to confer with Butter. "I wonder if the cub suspects the game I'm playing here? Oh, pshaw! Of course he doesn't suspect. Why should he? The truth is that Cub Reade doesn't realize how much every man is needed in the field. Reade doesn't understand the big need for hustle here. Well, that all helps to make my task the easier."

Within five minutes Rutter and the other engineers had their full instructions. As they started away Tom called after them:

"Gentlemen, if there is any possible way of putting fifty per cent. more work into each day, now, I know I can rely upon you all to do it. The S.B. & L. must run its first train over the completed road within charter time."

Now, Tom had opportunity to wonder what had happened to Harry Hazelton, who should have been back in camp the preceding evening. "He must have had to go farther for ice than we imagined," was the only conclusion Reade could form. "At any rate, Harry won't come back until he has it. He won't bring back merely an excuse when his commission was for a ton of ice."

Tom wandered into the new headquarters' tent, heaved a big sigh as the weight of his new responsibilities struck him with full force, and began a systematic examination of all the piles of papers and maps now under his charge.

By nine o'clock Harry Hazelton and his guide returned, followed by a four-mule transport wagon.

Tom, hearing the approach, came out and beckoned. Harry rode up, dismounting.

"Well, I got the ice, you see," announced Hazelton.

"Did you have to go very far for it?"

"No; but you and I forgot to allow for the time that mules would need for rest on such a steep, uphill climb. Where is the ice to go?"

"Send the man over to Jake Wren. Jake knows more about such things than you or I will know within the next ten years."

Harry carried the order to the driver, then hurried back.

"How are our sick men?" he asked.

"Both alive, but delirious. Doc Gitney has a man nurse to help him now."

"Did Mr. Rutter leave any orders for me?" pressed Harry.

"No; Rutter is in charge of the actual field work only."

"Who gives the main orders?"

"I do—unless New York changes the plan."

Tom hastily narrated what had taken place in Mr. Thurston's tent the day before. Harry listened, his eyes growing larger as he heard.

"Tom! I'm mighty glad!" he cried delightedly. "You're going to do the trick, too! You're going to put the S.B. & L. through within the time allowed by the charter!"

"I'm going to do it or wear myself out," replied Reade, with a glint of determination in his eyes. "But, Harry, the road isn't going to go through on mere wind. We've got to work—not talk! Come into the new headquarters' tent. Throw the front of your shirt open, take a few deep breaths, tie down the safety valve and get ready to make the steam fly. I'm going over the maps and documents, the field notes, the reports and what not. I want you to help me untangle them and set all matters straight."

For two hours the cub engineers worked as they had never toiled before. Then a horseman drew up before their tent.

"Telegram for Reade, acting chief engineer," called the man from saddle. "The czar over at the cook house told me I'd find my man here."

"I'm Reade," admitted Tom, stepping outside and receiving the envelope. "Do you belong with the telegraph construction crowd?"

"Yes, sir," replied the young horseman.

"How long before you expect to have the line up with the camp?"

"By tomorrow night, unless you move the camp forward again."

"That's good news," nodded Reade. "Wait until I see whether there is to be an answer to this message."

Tom stepped inside, breaking the flap of the envelope. From head to foot he trembled as his eyes took in the following message:

"Reade, Acting Chief Engineer.

"Relying upon Thurston's judgment, and from your satisfactory wire, conclude that Thurston chose right man for post. Assume all responsibilities. Advise New York offices daily as to condition of work, also condition Thurston and Blaisdell. Spare no expense in their care. Shall join you within five days."

(Signed) "Newnham, President S.B. & L. R.R."

Having read the telegram, Tom turned to pick up a sheet of paper. After jotting down the address of President Newnham, he added:

"Shall hustle job through rapidly if there is any way of doing it. Shall engage extra engineers in this state. Hope to be able to show you, on arrival, things moving at speed."

(Signed) Reade, "Acting Chief Engineer."

Then Tom shoved both despatches under his chum's eyes. Naturally Hazelton read the one from New York first.

"Whew! The president seems to trust you," murmured Harry.

"No; he doesn't," Tom retorted. "He doesn't know anything about me. His wire shows that he knows and trusts Mr. Thurston, the man who picked me out for this job."

Then Tom wrote a second despatch, addressed to the State University. It ran as follows:

"Have heard that your university has party from engineering school in field this summer. Can you place me in immediate wire communication with professor in charge of party? Have practical work to offer students."

This also Tom showed briefly to his chum. Then, picking up the two telegrams, Tom stepped outside, turning them over to the rider. "Ask your operator to rush both of these, the one to New York going first."

As the pony's hoofs clicked against the gravel, Reade stepped inside the tent.

"What are you going to do with the State University students?" asked Harry curiously.

"Put 'em at work on the smaller jobs here," Tom answered. "At least, as many of them as the professor will vouch for."

Three hours later Tom received an answer to his local despatch. It was from Professor Coles, sixty miles away, in camp with a party of thirty engineering students. The professor asked for further particulars. Tom wired back:

"Can use your entire lot of students in practical railroad work, if they want experience and can do work. Will you bring them here with all speed and let us try them out? For yourself, we offer suitable pay for a man of your attainments. Students engaged will be paid all they are worth."

"Gracious, but you're going in at wholesale! What will President Newnham say to you for engaging men at such a wholesale rate!"

"By the time he reaches here," replied Tom in a tone that meant business, "either he will see results that will force him to approve—or else he'll give me my walking papers."

"Now, what shall we do?" inquired Hazelton.

"Nothing. It's nearly time for the field force to be back in camp."

"We'd better work every minute of the time," urged Harry.

"We're going to take things more easily after this," Tom yawned.

"Is that what you mean by hustling?"

"In a way, yes," Tom nodded. "See here, Harry, in the field we tried to do the work of a man and a half each, didn't we? And here at the drawing tables, too."

"Of course."

"Now there is need of hustling, and, if we work too hard, we simply won't have time to plan for others, or even to know what they're doing. There are a lot of students coming, Harry. Most of them will be good men, for they're young, full of enthusiasm, and just crazy to show what they can do. Some of them will doubtless be good draughtsmen. You'll take these men and see to it that the drawing is pushed forward. But you won't work too hard yourself. You'll see to it that the force under you is working, and in that way you'll be three times as useful as if you merely ground and dug hard by yourself. I shall go light on real work, just in order that I may have my eyes and brains where they will do the most good every minute of the time."

Someone was approaching. Tom threw open the flap of the tent, thus discovering that the man was Black.

"Howdy, Reade," was the greeting of the idle engineer. "I'm glad to say that my headache is better. I'm not going to have the fever, after all. Tomorrow I'll be out on the leveling job."

Tom shook his head.

"I want you to rest up tomorrow, Black."

"I won't do it," retorted the other flatly. "Tomorrow I go out and continue running my levels."

"Then I may as well tell you," Tom continued, "what I would have preferred to break to you more easily later on."

"What do you mean?" questioned the other sharply, an uneasy look creeping into his face.

"You're not going to do any more work for us, Black," replied the young chief coolly.

"Not do any more work, What do you mean, Reade? Am I discharged from this corps?"

"Not yet, Black, for I haven't the money at hand to pay you to date. So you may stay here until the paymaster comes. Then, when you have your full amount of pay, you can leave us."

"What does this mean?" demanded 'Gene Black angrily, as he stepped closer, his eyes blazing.

Some young men would have shrunk back before Black's menacing manner. Tom had never yet met the man who could make him really afraid.

"I've already told you the whole story, Black."

"Why am I discharged?"

"I am not obliged to give you my reasons."

"You'll find you'll have to do so!" stormed 'Gene Black.

"Well, then," Tom answered, "you get through here because you kicked one of the tripod legs of your leveling instrument the other day, and left a mark on the wood."

"Don't you try to be funny with me, you young hound!" hissed Black, stepping so close that Tom gently pushed him back. "You young idiot! Do you think you can fire me—and get away with it?"

"We won't talk about it any more," Tom answered. "Your time will be all your own until the paymaster arrives. After you've received your money you will leave camp."

"Are any of the others going?"

"No."

"Then you're discharging me for personal reasons!" snarled 'Gene Black. "However, you can't do it! I'll wire the president of the road, at New York."

"He won't receive your wire," Tom assured the irate one. "President Newnham is on his way here. Probably he'll arrive here before the paymaster does. You may take your case to President Newnham in person if you wish."

"That's what I'll do, then!" breathed 'Gene Black fiercely. "And I'll take your place in charge here, cub! If I don't, you shall never finish the S.B. & L!"

XIV. BAD PETE MIXES IN SOME

Forty-Eight hours later Professor Coles arrived in camp with thirty healthy, joyous young students of engineering.

It didn't take Tom half an hour to discover that he had some excellent material here. As for the professor himself, that gentleman was a civil engineer of the widest experience.

"I shall need you to advise me, professor," Tom explained. "While I had the nerve to take command here, I'm only a boy, after all, and you'll be surprised when you find out how much there is that I don't know."

"It's very evident, Mr. Reade," smiled the professor, "that you know the art of management, and that's the important part in any line of great work."

The student party had brought their own tents and field equipment with them. Their arrival had been a total surprise in camp, as none of the other engineers, save Harry, had known what was in the wind.

"If these boys don't make mistakes by wholesale," declared Jack Butter, "we'll just boost the work along after this. I wonder why Mr. Thurston never hit upon the idea of adding such a force?"

"It's very likely he has been thinking of it all along," Tom rejoined. "The main point, however, is that we seem to have a bully field force."

Four of the students had been selected to serve as map-making force under Harry Hazelton. The rest were going out into the field, some of them as engineers in embryo, the rest as chainmen and rodmen.

Though the field outfit now presented a lively appearance, all was kept as quiet as possible in and near the camp, for neither Mr. Thurston nor Mr. Blaisdell knew what was going on about them. Both were still delirious, and very ill.

"Now I see why you could afford to 'fire' me and let the work slack up for a while," sneered Black, meeting Reade after dark.

"Do you?" asked Tom.

"These boys will spoil the whole business. You don't seem to have any idea of the numbers of fool mistakes that boys can make."

"They're good fellows, anyway, and honest," Tom rejoined.

"Give some of 'em leveling work out on Section Nineteen," suggested 'Gene, apparently seized with a sudden thought. "Then compare their field notes with mine, and see how far out they are."

"I happen to know all about your leveling notes on Nineteen," Reade retorted rather significantly.

"What do you mean?" flared Black.

"Just before Mr. Thurston was taken ill, as it happened, Hazelton and I took a leveling instrument out on Nineteen one day and ran your sights over after you."

"So that's why you 'fired'——" began Black, his thoughts moving swiftly. Then, realizing that he was about to say too much, he went on: "What did you find wrong with my sights on Nineteen?"

"I didn't say that anything was wrong with your work," Reade rejoined. "What I was about to say was that, if I put any of the students at leveling on Nineteen, by way of test, I shall have my own notes with which to compare theirs."

"Humph!" muttered the fellow. Then shaking with anger, he walked away from the young chief.

"Now, Black knows that much against himself," smiled Reade inwardly. "He doesn't yet know, however, that I heard him talking with Bad Pete."

Though he was pretending to take things easily, Tom's head was all but whirling with the many problems that presented themselves to him. To get away from it all for a while Tom strolled a short distance out of camp, seating himself on the ground under a big tree not far from the trail.

Five minutes later the young chief heard halting footsteps that struck his ear as being rather stealthy. Someone, from camp, was heading that way. Stealth in the other's movements made Reade draw himself back into the shadow.

'Gene Black halted not far from the tree. Turning back toward the camp, the fellow shook his fist violently in that direction.

"He's certainly thinking of me," grimaced Reade.

"You young cub, you may laugh for a day or two more!" muttered Black, with another shake of his fist.

"If that's meant for me, I'm much obliged, I'm sure," thought Reade. "Laughing is always a great pleasure for me."

"It's your turn now," continued Black, in the same low, passionate tone, "but I'll soon have you blocked—or else under the sod!"

"Oho!" reflected the young acting chief engineer, not without a slight shudder. "Is assassination in the plans of the people behind 'Gene Black's treachery? Or is putting me under the sod merely an addition that Black has made for his own pleasure?"

The plotter, still unaware of the eavesdropper, had now turned and was walking down the trail. He was now so far from camp that he did not need to be soft-footed.

Out of the shadow, after a brief pause, stole Tom Reade.

"If Black is going to meet anyone tonight I'd better be near to the place of meeting. I might hear something that would teach me just what to do to checkmate the plotters against us."

For fully half a mile the chase continued. Two or three times Reade stepped against some slight obstacle in the darkness, making a sound which, he feared, would travel to the ears of Black. But the latter kept on his way.

Finally 'Gene Black halted where three trees grew in the form of a triangle and threw a dense shadow. In the same instant the young chief engineer dropped out of sight behind a boulder close to the path.

Black's low, thrilling whistle sounded. A night bird's call answered. Soon afterwards, another form appeared, and Tom, peering anxiously, was sure that he recognized the man whom he expected to see—Bad Pete.

What Tom heard came disjointedly—a few words here and there, but enough to set him thinking "at the rate of a mile a minute," as he told himself.

Up the trail came the pair, after some minutes. Tom crouched flat behind his boulder.

"Great! I hope they'll halt within a few feet and go on talking about the things that I want to hear—must hear!" quivered Reade.

It was provoking! Black and Bad Pete passed so close, yet the only sound from either of them, while within earshot, was a chuckle from Pete.

"That's right! Laugh," gritted disappointed Tom. "Laughing is in your line! You're planning, somehow, to put the big laugh over the whole line of the S.B. & L. railroad. If I could only hear a little more I might be able to turn the laugh on you!"

The pair went on out of sight. Tom waited where he was for more than half an hour.

"Now, the coast is surely clear," thought Reade at last. He rose and started campward.

"The soft-foot, the rubber shoe won't work now," Tom decided. "If I were to go along as if trying not to run into anyone, and that pair got first sight of me, it would make them suspicious. I haven't been eavesdropping—oh, no! I'm merely out taking a night stroll to ease my nerves."

Therefore the cub chief puckered his lips, emitting a cheery whistling as he trudged along up the trail.

As it happened the pair whom Tom sought had not yet parted. From behind a boulder a man stepped out in his path. From the other side of the boulder another man moved in behind him.

"Out for the air, Reade?" asked the sneering voice of 'Gene Black.

"Hello, Black—is that you?"

"Now, Black," broke in the voice of Bad Pete, "you wanted this cub, and he's all yours! What are you going to do with him?"

XV. BLACK'S PLOT OPENS WITH A BANG

"Some mistake here, gentlemen," interjected Tom Reade coolly. "Unless I'm very badly informed I don't belong to either of you. If anyone owns me, then I belong to the S.B. & L."

"I told you I'd make you settle with me for throwing me out of the camp," remarked Black disagreeably.

"You're not out yet—more's the pity," Tom retorted. "You will be, however, as soon as the paymaster arrives."

"You're wrong," jeered 'Gene. "You're out—from this minute!"

"What do you mean?" Tom inquired, looking Black steadily in the eye.

Yet the young chief engineer had a creepy realization of just what the pair did mean. Black must have confederates somewhere in the mountains near. It was evidently the rascal's intention to seize Tom and carry him away where he would be held a prisoner until he had lost all hope of regaining his position at the head of the railroad's field force.

"You say that I'll be thrown out of camp very soon," sneered Black. "The fact is, you are not going back to camp."

"What's going to stop me?" Reade inquired, with no sign of fear.

"You're not going back to camp!" Black insisted.

"Someone has been giving you the wrong tip," smiled Tom.

He started forward, brushing past Black. It was mainly a pretense, for Reade had no notion but that he would be stopped.

With a savage cry Black seized him by the shoulders.

Tom made a quick turn, shaking the fellow off. While he was thus occupied Bad Pete slipped about, and now confronted Reade. The muzzle of a revolver was pressed against the young engineer's belt.

"Hoist your hands!" ordered Pete warningly.

Tom obeyed, though he hoisted his hands only as far as his mouth. Forming a megaphone, he gave vent to a loud yell of:

"Roo-rup! roo-rup! roo-rup!"

It was one of the old High School yells of the good old Gridley days—one of the yells sometimes used as a signal of distress by famous old Dick & Co., of which Tom Reade had been a shining member.

On the still air of the mountain night that yell traveled far and clearly. It was a call of penetrating power, traveling farther than its sound would suggest.

"You do that again, you young coyote, and I'll begin to pump!" growled Bad Pete savagely.

"I won't need to do it again," Tom returned. "Wait a few minutes, and you'll see."

"Shall I drop him, Black?" inquired Pete.

'Gene Black was about to answer in the affirmative, when a sound up the trail caught his attention.

"There's someone coming," snarled Black, using his keen powers of hearing.

"Wait and I'll introduce you," mocked Tom Reade.

"We won't wait. Neither will you," retorted Black. "You'll come with us. About face and walk fast!"

"I'm not going your way tonight," replied Reade calmly.

"If he doesn't obey every order like a flash, Pete, then you pull the trigger and wind this cub up."

"All right," nodded Pete. "Cub, you heard what Black said?"

"Yes," replied Tom, looking at Pete with smiling eyes.

"Then come along," ordered Black, seizing Tom by one arm.

"I won't!" Tom declared flatly.

"You know what refusal means. Pete is steady on the trigger."

"Is he?" asked Reade coolly.

Watching like a cat through his sleepy-looking eyes, Reade suddenly shot his right hand across his abdomen in such fashion as to knock away the muzzle of the revolver. Bad Pete felt himself seized in a football tackle that had been the terror of more than one opposing High School football player.

Crash! Pete struck the ground, Reade on top of him.

'Gene Black darted to the aid of his companion, but shrank back as he caught the glint of the revolver that Tom had twisted out of the hand of the bad man.

"Duck, Black!" warned Tom, in a quiet tone that nevertheless had a deadly note in it.

"Where are you?" called the voice of Harry Hazelton, not two hundred yards up the trail now.

"Here!" called Tom.

"Wow-ow-ow! Whoop!" yelled a chorus of college boys.

It all took place in a very few seconds. Black, hesitating whether or not to close with Reade, decided on flight. He turned and fled.

Whizz-zz-zz! The sound was made by the captured revolver as Tom, leaping to his feet, threw it as far from him as he could. It sailed through space, next disappearing over the edge of a steep precipice.

"What's your hurry, Peter?" drawled Reade, as, jerking Bad Pete to his feet, he planted a kick that sent the bad man down the trail a dozen feet.

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."

Two mornings later the telegraph wire, one end of which now rested in a tent in camp, brought word that President Newnham was at the construction camp, and would be along in the course of the day.

Tom, Harry and the draughtsmen were the only engineers in camp at the hour when the message arrived.

"Big doings coming our way!" announced Tom, after he had broken the news to the others.

"Is Mr. Newnham likely to make much of a shake-up?" asked Watson, one of the college-boy draughtsmen.

"I've never met him," Tom answered, "and I don't know. We're going along at grand old speed, and Mr. Newnham had better let things run just as they're going now, if he wants to see the S.B. & L. open for traffic within charter time."

"He may give all of us university boys the swift run," laughed another of the draughtsmen.

"I don't believe it," Tom replied. "The added help that you fellows have given us has enabled us to double our rush forward. I've a notion that President Newnham is a man of great common sense."

"How are the sick men this morning," inquired Harry. "Is either one of them fit to talk with the president?"

"Doc Gitney says he won't allow any caller within a thousand feet of his patients," Tom smiled. "And Doc seems to be a man of his word."

Both Mr. Thurston and Mr. Blaisdell were now weakly conscious, in a half-dazed sort of way. Their cases were progressing favorably on the whole, though it would be weeks ere either would be fit to take charge of affairs.

The camp had been moved forward, so as to leave the sick men about a fifth of a mile away from the scenes of camp activity. This insured quiet for them until they were able to endure noise once more.

"You'll be amazingly busy until the president gets here, I take it," remarked Bushrod, another college boy, without glancing up from his drawing table.

"Yes," drawled Tom, with a smile. "When you get time to breathe look out of the door and see what I'm doing."

Tom walked over to his favorite seat, a reclining camp chair that he had placed under a broad shade tree. Seating himself, the cub chief opened a novel that he had borrowed from one of the college boys.

"It looks lazy," yawned Tom, "but what can I do? I've hustled the corps, but I'm up with them to the last minute of work they've done. There is nothing more I can do until they bring me more work. I might ride out and see how the fellows are coming along in the field, but I was out there yesterday, and I know all they're doing, and everyone of their problems. Besides, if I rode afield, I'd miss Mr. Newnham."

So he opened the book and read for an hour. Then he glanced up as a stranger on horseback rode into camp.

"Tell me where I can find Mr. Reade," said the new arrival.

"You're looking at hire," Tom replied.

"No, son; I want your father," explained the horseman.

"If you go on horseback it will take you months to reach him," Tom explained. "My father lives 'way back east."

"But I want the chief engineer of this outfit," insisted the stranger.

"Then you're at the end of your journey."

"Don't tell me, young man, that you're the chief engineer," protested the horseman.

"No," Tom admitted modestly. "I'm only the acting chief. Hold on. If you think I'm not responsible for that statement you might ask any of the fellows over in the headquarters tent."

At that moment Harry Hazelton thrust his head out through the doorway.

"Young man," hailed the stranger, "I want to find the chief."

"Reach out your hand, and you can touch him on the shoulder," answered Hazelton, and turned back.

"I know I don't look entirely trustworthy," grinned Tom, "but I've been telling you the truth."

"Then, perhaps," continued the stranger, looking keenly at the cub engineer, "you'll know why I'm here. I'm Dave Fulsbee."

"You're mighty welcome, then," cried Tom, reaching out his hand. "I've been wondering where you were."

"I came as soon as I could get the wagon-load of equipment together," grinned Fulsbee.

"Where is the wagon?"

"Coming along up the trail. It will be here in about twenty minutes."

"I'll be glad to see your equipment, and to set you at work as soon as we're ready," Reade went on. "Harry, show Mr. Fulsbee the tent we've set aside for himself and his helper."

"Who is that party?" questioned Watson, as Hazelton started off with the newcomer in tow.

"Oh, just a new expert that we're taking on," Tom drawled.

Ten minutes later all other thoughts were driven from Reade's mind. A mountain wagon was sighted coming up the trail, drawn by a pair of grays. The stout gentleman, on the rear seat, dressed in the latest fashion, even to his highly polished shoes, must surely be all the way from Broadway.

"Mr. Newnham?" queried Tom, advancing to the wagon as it halted.

"Yes; is Mr. Reade here?"

"You're speaking to him, sir," smiled the cub engineer.

Mr. Newnham took a quick look, readjusted his spectacles, and looked once more. Tom bore the scrutiny calmly.

"I expected to find a very young man here, Mr. Reade, but you're considerably younger than I had expected. Yet Howe, in charge of the construction corps, tells me that you've been hustling matters at this field survey end. How are you, Reade?"

Mr. Newnham descended from the wagon, at once holding out his hand.

"I'm very comfortable, thank you, sir," Tom smiled.

"You're dreadfully busy, I'm sure," continued the president of the S.B. & L. "In fact, Reade, I feel almost guilty in coming here and taking up your time when you've such a drive on. Don't let me detain you. I can go right on into the field and talk with you there."

"It won't be necessary, sir," Tom answered, with another smile. "I'm not doing anything in particular."

"Nothing in particular? Why, I thought——"

"I don't do any tearing around myself," laughed Reade. "Since you were kind enough to make me acting chief engineer here I've kept the other fellows driving pretty hard, and I have every bit of work done right up to the minute. Yet, as for myself, I have little to do, most of the day, except to sit in a camp easy chair, or else I ride a bit over the ground and see just where the fellows are working."

"You take it mighty easily," murmured President Newnham.

"A chief may, if he has the sense to know how to work his subordinates," Tom continued. "I don't believe, sir, that you'll find any fault with the way matters have gone forward."

"Let me see the latest reports," urged Mr. Newnham.

"Certainly, sir, if you'll come into the head-quarters tent."

Leading the way into the tent where Harry Hazelton and his draughting force were at work, Tom announced:

"Gentlemen, Mr. Newnham, president of the S.B. & L., wishes to look over the reports and the maps with me. You may lay off until called back to work."

As the others filed out of the tent, Tom made Harry a sign to remain. Then the three went over the details of what the field survey party was doing.

"From all I can see," remarked President Newnham, "you have done wonderfully well, Reade. I can certainly find no fault with Tim Thurston for recommending that you be placed in charge. Thurston will certainly be jealous when he gets on his feet again. You have driven the work ahead in faster time than Thurston himself was able to do."

"It's very likely, sir," replied Tom Reade, "that I have had an easier part of the country to work through than Mr. Thurston had. Then, again, the taking on of the engineer student party from the State University has enabled us to get ahead with much greater speed."

"I wonder why Thurston never thought to take on the students," murmured Mr. Newnham.

Bang! sounded an explosion, a mile or two to the westward.

"I didn't know that you were doing any blasting, Reade," observed the president of the S.B. & L.

"Neither did I, sir," Tom replied, rising and listening.

Bang! bang! bang! sounded a series of sharp reports.

Tom ran out into the open Mr. Newnham following at a slower gait.

Bang! bang! bang!

"Hi, there, Riley!" roared Tom promptly. "Saddle two horses as quickly as you can. Harry, make ready to follow with me as soon as the horses are ready."

"Is anything wrong?" inquired the president. He was answered by more explosions in the distance.

"I'm afraid so," Tom muttered, showing his first trace of uneasiness. "However, I don't want to say, Mr. Newnham, until I've investigated."

Before the horses were ready Tom descried, half a mile away, on a clear bit of trail, a horseman riding in at a furious gallop.

"There comes a messenger, Mr. Newnham," Tom went on. "We'll soon know just what the trouble is."

"Trouble?" echoed Mr. Newnham, in astonishment. "Then you believe that is the word, do you?"

"I'm afraid, Mr. Newnham, that you've reached here just in time to see some very real trouble," was Reade's quick answer. "But wait just two minutes, sir, and we'll have exact information. Guessing won't do any good."

Once or twice, through the trees, they caught sight of the on-rushing rider. Then Jack Rutter, a big splotch of red on the left sleeve of his shirt, rode hard into camp.

"Reade," he shouted, "we're ambushed! Hidden scoundrels have been firing on us."

"You've ordered all the men in?" called Tom, as Rutter reined up beside him.

"Every man of them," returned Jack. "Poor Reynolds, of the student party, is rather seriously hit, I'm afraid. Some of the fellows are bringing him in."

"You're hit yourself," Tom remarked.

"What? That little scratch?" demanded Rutter scornfully. "Don't count me as a wounded man, Reade. There are some firearms in this camp. I want to get the men armed, as far as the weapons will go, and then I want to go back and smoke out the miserable rascals!"

"It won't be wise, Jack," Tom continued coolly. "You'll find that there are too many of the enemy. Besides, you won't have to fatigue yourselves by going back over the trail. The scoundrels will be here, before long. They doubtless intend to wipe out the camp."

"Assassins coming to wipe out the camp?" almost exploded President Newnham. "Reade, this is most extraordinary!"

"It is—very," Tom assented dryly.

"But who can the villains be?"

"A picked-up gang of gun-fighters, sent here to blow this camp off the face of the earth, since that is the only way that the backers of the rival road can find to set us back," Tom rejoined. "If they drive us away from here, they'll attack the construction force next!"

XVI. SHUT OFF FROM THE WORLD

Five horsemen belonging to the field party rode in furiously, Matt Rice at their head.

"It's a shame," yelled Rice, as he threw himself from his horse. "I'd have stayed behind—so would the others—if we had had rifles with us. The scoundrels kept up a fire at a quarter of a mile range. Then we passed the men who are carrying Reynolds—they're almost here now—but it wouldn't have done any good for us to stand by them. We'd have made the other party only a bigger mark. Where are the revolvers, Reader? We've got to make a stand here. We can't run away and leave our camp to fall into their hands."

"We're not going to run away," said Reade grimly. "But I'll tell you what a half dozen of you can do. Hustle for shovels and dig a deep hole here. This gentleman is Mr. Newnham, president of the company that employs us. If the camp is attacked we can't afford to have the president of the road killed."

"Mr. Newnham would do far better to ride down the trail as fast as he can go, and try to join the construction camp," offered Rutter.

The president of the S.B. & L. had been silent during the last few exciting moments. But now he opened his mouth long enough to reply very quickly:

"Mr. Newnham hasn't any thoughts of flight. I am not a fighting man, and never saw a shot fired in anger in my life, but I'm going to stand my ground in my own camp."

"Dig the hole, anyway," ordered Tom. "We'll want a safe place to put young Reynolds. We can't afford to leave him exposed to fire."

"Where are the revolvers?" Rice insisted, as others started to get shovels and dig in a hurry.

"Oh, never mind the revolvers," replied Tom. "We won't use 'em, anyway. We can't, for they wouldn't carry far enough to put any of the enemy in danger."

"Mr. Reade," remarked Mr. Newnham, in a quiet undertone, "does it occur to you that you are making no preparations to defend the camp! That, in fact, you seem wholly indolent in the matter?"

"Oh, no; I'm not indolent, sir," smiled Tom. "You'll find me energetic enough, sir, I imagine, when the need for swift work comes."

"Of course you couldn't foresee the coming of any such outrage as this," Mr. Newnham continued.

"Oh, I rather guessed that this sort of thing was coming," Tom confessed.

"You guessed it—and yet the camp has been left undefended? You haven't taken any steps to protect the company's rights and property at this point?" gasped Mr. Newnham.

"You will find, sir, that I am not wholly unprepared," Reade remarked dryly, while the corners of his mouth drew down grimly.

Tom was apparently the only one in camp, after the excitement started, who had noted that Dave Fulsbee, at the first shots, had leaped to his horse and vanished down the trail to the eastward.

At this moment a party of a dozen, headed by Professor Coles, came in on foot, bearing young Reynolds with them.

"Harry, mount one of the saddled horses and rush down yonder for Doc Gitney," Tom ordered. "Give him your horse to come back on. He must see to young Reynolds promptly."

Some of the field party came in on horseback, followed soon by still others on foot. Many of the field engineering party, in their haste, had left their instruments, rods and chains behind.

Tom, after diving into and out of the headquarters tent, held up a pair of powerful binocular field glasses. With these he took sweeping views of the near-by hills to the westward.

"The scoundrels haven't gotten in at close quarters yet, sir," Reade reported to President Newnham. "At least, I can't make out a sign of them on the high ground that commands this camp."

"This whole business of an armed attack on us is most incomprehensible to me," remarked Mr. Newnham. "I know, of course, that the W.C. & A. haven't left a stone unturned to defeat our efforts in getting our road running within the limits set in the charter. However, the W.C. & A. people are crazy to send armed assassins against us in the field in this fashion. No matter, now, whether we finish the road on time, this rascally work by the opposition will defeat their hopes of getting the charter away from us."

"It might prevent them from doing so, sir," Tom rejoined quietly, "if you were able to prove that the scoundrels who fired on our engineering parties this morning were really employed by the W.C. & A. railroad crowd."

"Prove it?" snorted the man from Broadway. "Who else would have any interest in blocking us?"

"Would that statement go in court, or before a legislature?" Tom pressed.

"No, it wouldn't," President Newnham admitted thoughtfully. "I see the point, Reade. After the scoundrels have done their worst against us, they can disperse, vanishing among the hills, and the W.C. & A. people will simply deny that they were behind the attack, and will call upon us to prove it."

"Not only that, sir," continued the cub chief engineer, "but I doubt if any of the officials of the W.C. & A. have any real knowledge that such a move is contemplated. This trick proceeds from the fertile mind of some clever, well-paid scoundrel who is employed in the opposition railroad's gloom department. It is a cleverly thought-out scheme to make us lose three or four days of work, which will be enough to prevent us from finishing the road on time. So, the enemy think that we must lose the charter, sir."

"That trick will never work," declared Mr. Newnham angrily. "Reade, there are courts, and laws. If the State of Colorado doesn't protect us in our work, then we can't be held to am count for not finishing within a given time."

"That's as the legislature may decide, I imagine, sir," hazarded the young engineer. "There are powerful political forces working to turn this road's charter over to the W.C. & A. crowd. Your company's property, Mr. Newnham, is entitled to protection from the state, of course. The state, however, will be able to reply that the authorities were not notified, and could not send protection to us."

"But we have a telegraph running from here out into the world!" cried the man from Broadway way, wheeling like a flash. "Reade, we're both idiots not to have remembered, at the first shots, to send an urgent message to Denver. Where's your operating tent?"

"Over there. I'll take you there, sir," offered Tom, after pointing. "Still it won't do any good, Mr. Newnham, to think of telegraphing."

"Not do us any good?" echoed the other, aghast. "What nonsense are you talking, Reade? If we are hindered the feet of our having wired to the governor of the state will be our first proof of having appealed to the state for protection. Can't you see that, Reade?"

The pair now turned in at the operator's tent.

"Operator," said Reade, to the young man seated before the keys on a table, "this gentleman man is President Newnham, of the S.B. & L. Send any messages that he dictates."

"Get Denver on the wire," commanded Mr. Newnham. "Hustle!"

Click-click-click! rattled the sounder.

"It won't do a particle of good," Tom uttered calmly. "'Gene Black, the engineer discharged from this camp, is serving the enemy. Black has brains enough to see that our wire was cut before he started a thing moving."

Click-click-click! spoke the sounder again.

"I can't get a thing," explained the operator. "I can't even get a response from the construction camp. Mr. Reade must be right—our wire has been cut and we're shut off from the outside world."

XVII. THE REAL ATTACK BEGINS

Hearing the moving wheels of a wagon on the trail, Tom looked outside, then seized Mr. Newnham's arm rather roughly.

"Come along, sir, and come quickly, if you want to see something that will beat a carload of telegrams," urged the cub engineer.

Having gotten the president of the road outside, Tom let go of his arm and raced on before that astonished man from Broadway.

"Here, you fellows," called Tom, almost gayly, as he ran to where engineers and chainmen men were standing in little groups, talking gloomily over the forenoon's work. "Get in line, here—a whole crowd of you!"

Dave Fulsbee was now riding briskly toward the centre of the camp, ahead of the wagon for which he had gone down the trail. Laughing quietly, Tom hustled group after group of young men into one long line.

"Hold up your right hands!" called out the young cub engineer.

Wondering, his subordinates obeyed. Fulsbee reined up, dismounting before the line.

"They're all ready for you, friend," called Tom gayly.

"Listen, boys!" commanded Dave Fulsbee, as he faced the line on foot. "You do each and all of you, singly and severally, hereby swear that you will serve truly and well as special deputy sheriffs, and obey all lawful orders, so help you God?"

Almost in complete silence the hands fell as their owners nodded. Both the engineers and rodmen felt a trifle dazed. Why was this solitary deputy sheriff before them, and with what did he expect them to fight! Were they to stand and throw rocks at an enemy armed with rifles?

But just then the wagon was driven in front of them.

"Hustle the cases out, boys! Get 'em open!" commanded Dave, though he spoke without excitement. "Forty rifles and ten thousand cartridges, all borrowed from the National Guard of the State. Get busy! If the coyotes down to the westward try to get busy around here we will talk back to them!"

"Whoop!" yelled the college boys. They pushed and crowded about the wooden cases that were now unloaded.

"See here," boomed in the deep voice of Professor Coles, "I wasn't sworn in, and I now insist that I, too, be sworn."

"Mr. Newnham, tell the professor that fighting is a boy's business, and that there isn't any call for him to risk himself," appealed Tom. "There are plenty of youngsters here to do the fighting and to take the chances."

"Surely, there appear to be enough men," chuckled President Newnham, who, since he realized that rifles and ammunition were at hand, appeared to be wonderfully relieved. "Professor, don't think of running yourself into any danger. Look on, with me."

"Rifles are all given out, now, anyway," called Dave Fulsbee coolly. "Now, youngsters, I'm going to show you where to station yourselves. Mr. Reade, have you seen anything through the glasses that looks interesting?"

"By Jove," Tom admitted, flushing guiltily, "I quite forgot to keep the lenses turned on the hills to the west."

He now made good for his omission, while Fulsbee led his young men away, stationing them in hiding places along the westward edge of the camp. Each man with a rifle was ordered not to rise from the ground, or to show himself in any way, and not to fire unless orders were given. Then Dave hurried back to the wagon. Something else was lifted out, all canvas covered, and rushed forward to a point just behind a dense clump of bushes.

"Reade, I want to apologize to you," cried the man from Broadway, moving quickly over to where Tom stood surveying the hills beyond through his glass. "I thought, for a few minutes, that you had suspected some such rascally work afoot, and that you had failed to take proper precautions."

"If I had failed, sir," murmured Tom, without removing the glass from before his eyes, "you would have arrived just in time, sir, to turn out of the camp a man who wasn't fit to be in charge. Yet it was only accident, sir, that led me to suspect what might be in the air."

Thereupon Tom hastily recounted to the president of the company the story of how he had accidentally overheard fragments of talk between 'Gene Black and Bad Pete.

"That gave me a hint of how the wind was blowing," Tom continued, "though I couldn't make out enough of their talk, on either occasion, to learn just what was happening. I telegraphed to the nearest town that had a sheriff in it, and that put me in touch with Fulsbee. Then Dave, over the wire, offered to bring arms here and to help us to defend our camp."

"Mr. Reade," exclaimed President Newnham hoarsely, "you are a wonderful young man! While seeming to be idle yourself, you have rushed the work through in splendid shape." Even when our enemies plot in the dark, and plan incredible outrages against us, you fully inform yourself of their plans. When the cowards strike you are ready to meet them, force for force. You may be only a cub engineer, but you have an amazing genius for the work in which chance has placed you out here."

"You may be guilty, Mr. Newnham, of giving me far more credit than I deserve," laughed Tom gently. "In the matter of finding out the enemy's designs, I didn't, and I don't know fully yet what the other side intends to do to us. What I did learn was by accident."

"Very few other young men would have been equal to making the greatest and best use of what accident revealed," insisted Mr. Newnham warmly.

Harry Hazelton came now, from the hole in the ground, to report that Dr. Gitney had done all he could for the comfort of poor young Reynolds.

"Gitney says that Reynolds ought to come along all right, as far as the mere wound itself is concerned," Hazelton added. "What will have to be looked out for is suppuration. If pus forms in and around the wound it may carry Reynolds off, for there are no hospital conveniences to be had in this wild neck of the woods."

"Is the doctor staying with Reynolds?" Tom asked, still using the glasses on the hilly country that lay ahead.

"No; he has gone back to Mr. Thurston and Mr. Blaisdell," Hazelton answered. "Doc says he'll have to be with them to quiet them in case the firing gets close. He says both men will become excited and try to jump out of bed and come over here. Doc says he's going to strap 'em both down."

"Dr. Gitney may be badly needed here, if a fight opens," Tom mused aloud.

"He says, if we need him, to send for him."

"Come through a hot fire?" Tom gasped.

"Surely! Doc Gitney is a Colorado man, born and bred. He doesn't mind a lead shower when it comes in the line of duty," laughed Harry. "Now, if you're through using me as a messenger, I'm going to find a rifle."

"You won't succeed," Tom retorted. "Every rifle in camp already has an amateur soldier behind it."

"Just my luck!" growled Harry.

"You're a good, husky lad," Tom continued. "If you want to be of real use, just lie down hug the earth, take good care not to be hit, and——"

"Fine and manly!" interjected Hazelton with contempt.

"Now, don't try to be a hero," urged Tom teasingly. "There are altogether too many green, utterly inexperienced heroes here at present. Be useful, Harry, old chum, and let those who are good for nothing else be heroes."

"Following your own advice?" asked Hazelton. "Is that why you haven't a rifle yourself?"

"Why do I need a rifle?" demanded Reade. "I'm a non-combatant."

"You——"

"Box the chatter, Harry, and ship it east," Tom interposed, showing signs of interest. Then, in a louder voice, Tom called:

"Dave Fulsbee!"

"Here," answered the deputy sheriff from his hiding place in the brush.

"Do you see that bald knob of rock ahead, to your left; about a quarter of a mile away?"

"I do."

"I make out figures crawling to the cover of the line of brush just to the right of the bald knob," Tom continued. "There are eight of them, I think."

"I see figures moving there," Dave answered. Then, in a low voice, the deputy instructed the engineers on each side of him.

"I see half a dozen more figures—heads, rather—showing just at the summit line of the rock itself," went on Reade.

"Yes; I make 'em," answered Fulsbee, after a long, keen look.

Again more instructions were given to the engineers.

"Say, I've got to have a rifle," insisted Harry nervously. "You know, I always have been 'cracked, on target shooting. This is the best practical chance that I'll ever have."

"You'll have to wait your turn, Harry," Tom urged soothingly.

"My turn?"

"Yes; wait until one of our fellows is badly hit. Then you can take up his rifle and move into his place on the line. When you're hit, then I can have the rifle."

Hazelton made a face, though he said nothing.

Meanwhile Fulsbee's assistant, the man who had driven the wagon into camp, stood silent, motionless, behind the canvas-covered object in the bushes just behind the engineer's fighting line.

"Now, if one of you galoots dares to fire before he gets the word," sounded Dave Fulsbee's warning voice in the ominous calm that followed, "I'll snatch the offender out of the line and give him a good, sound spanking. The only man for me is the man who has the nerve to wait when he's being shot at."

Crack! Far up on the bald knob a single shot sounded, and a bullet struck the ground about six feet from where Tom Reade stood with the binocular at his eyes.

Then there came a volley from the right of the rock, followed by one from the rock itself.

"Easy, boys," cautioned Fulsbee, as the bullets tore up the ground back of the firing line. "I'll give you the word when the time comes."

Another volley sounded. Bullets tore up the ground near President Newnham, and one leaden pellet carried off that gentleman's soft hat.

"Please lie down, Mr. Newnham," begged Tom, turning around. Now that the fight had opened the cub chief saw less use for the binocular. "We can't have you hit, sir. You're the head of the company, please remember."

"I don't like this place, but I'm only one human life here," the man from Broadway replied quietly, gravely. "If other men so readily risk their lives for the property of my associates and myself, then I'm going to expose myself at least as much as these young men ahead of us do."

"Just one shot apiece," sounded Dave Fulsbee's steady voice. "Fire where you've been told."

It was an irregular volley that ripped out from the defenders of the camp. Half of the marksmen fired to the right of the rook, the others at its crest.

Right on top of this came another volley, fired from some new point of attack. It filled the air at this end of the camp with bullets.

"Livin' rattlers!", cried Dave Fulsbee, leaping to his feet. "That's the real attack. Reade, locate that main body and turn us loose on 'em. If you don't, the fellows in the real ambush will soon make a sieve of this camp. There must be a regiment of 'em!"

XVIII. WHEN THE CAMP GREW WARM

President Newnham had prudently decided to lie down flat on the ground.

Nor was it any reflection on his courage that he did so. He was taking no part in the fight, and the leaden tornado that swept the camp from some unknown point was almost instantly repeated.

At the same time the marksmen on and at the right of the bald knob continued to fire. The camp defenders were in a criss-cross of fire that might have shaken the nerves of an old and tried soldier.

Tom watched the ground as bullets struck, trying to decide their original course from the directions in which the dust flew. Then he swung around to the right.

With modern smokeless powder there was no light, bluish haze to mark the firing line of the new assailants. Tom Reade had to search and explore with his binocular glass until he could make out moving heads, waving arms.

"I've found 'em, Fulsbee!" young Reade cried suddenly, above the noise of rifles within a few yards of where they stood, as the engineers made the most of their chances to fire. "Turn the same way that I'm looking. See that blasted pine over there to your right, about six hundred there to the gully southeast of the tree. Got the line? Well, along there there's a line of men hidden. Through the glass I can sometimes make out the flash of their rifles. Take the glass yourself, and see."

Dave Fulsbee snatched the binoculars, making a rapid survey.

"Reade," he admitted, "you have surely located that crowd."

"Now, go after them with your patent hay rake," quivered Tom, feeling the full excitement of the thing in this tantalizing cross fire. Then the cub added, with a sheepish grin:

"I hope you'll scare 'em, instead of hitting 'em, Dave."

Fulsbee stepped over to his assistant. Between them they swung the machine gun around, the assistant wrenching off the canvas cover. Fulsbee rapidly sighted the piece for six hundred yards. The assistant stood by to feed belts of cartridges, while Dave took his post at the firing mechanism.

Cr-r-r-r-rack! sounded the machine gun, spitting forth a pelting storm of lead. As the piece continued to disgorge bullets at the rate of six hundred a minute, Dave, a grim smile on his lips, swung the muzzle of the piece so as to spread the fire along the entire line of the main ambush.

"Take the glass," Tom roared in Harry's ear, above the din. "See how Fulsbee is throwing up dust and bits of rock all along that rattled line."

Hazelton watched, his face showing an appreciative grin.

"It has the scoundrels scared and going!" Hazelton yelled back.

Fully fifteen hundred cartridges did the machine gun deliver up and down that line.

Then, suddenly, Dave Fulsbee swung the gun around, delivering a hailstorm of bullets against the bald knob rock and the bushes to the right of it.

"There's the answer!" gleefully uttered Hazelton, who had just handed the glass back to his chum.

The "answer" was a fluttering bit of white cloth tied to a rifle and hoisted over the bushes at the right of the bald knob.

"Who do you suppose is holding the white cloth?" chuckled Tom.

"I can't guess," Harry confessed.

"Our old and dangerous friend Peter," Tom laughed.

"Bad Pete!"

"No; Scared Pete."

There was a sudden twinkle in Hazelton's eyes as he espied Dave Fulsbee's rifle lying on the ground beside the machine gun.

In another instant Harry had that rifle and was back at Tom's side.

Harry threw open the magazine, making sure that there were cartridges in the weapon. Then he dropped to one knee, taking careful sight in the direction of the white flag.

"You idiot—what are you doing?" blazed Tom.

The fire from the camp had died out. That from the assailants beyond had ceased at least thirty seconds earlier.

One sharp report broke the hush that followed.

"Who's doing that work? Stop it!" ordered Fulsbee, turning wrathfully.

"I'm through," grinned Harry meekly.

"What do you mean by shooting at a flag of truce?" demanded the deputy sheriff angrily.

"I didn't," Harry argued, laying the rifle down on the ground. "I sent one in with my compliments, to see whether the fellow with the white rag would get the trembles. I guess he did, for the white rag has gone out of sight."

"They may start the firing again," uttered Dave Fulsbee. "They'll feel that you don't respect their flag of truce."

"I didn't feel a heap of respect for the fellow that held up the white flag," Hazelton admitted, with another grin. "It was Bad Pete, and I wanted to see what his nerve was like when someone else was doing the shooting and he was the target."

"Peter simply flopped and dropped his gun, Tom declared.

"Say," muttered Harry, his face showing real concern, "I hope I didn't hit him."

"Did you aim at him?" demanded Tom.

"I did not."

"Then there is some chance that Peter was hit," Tom confessed. "Harry, when you're shooting at a friend, and in a purely hospitable way, always aim straight for him. Then the poor fellow will have a good chance to get off with a whole skin!"

"Cut out that line of talk," ordered Hazelton, his face growing red. "Back in the old home days, Tom, you've seen me do some great shooting."

"With the putty-blower—yes," Tom admitted, with a chuckle. "Say, wasn't Old Dut Jones, of the Central Grammar, rough on boys who used putty-blowers in the schoolroom?"

"If Pete was hit, it wasn't my shot that did it," muttered Harry, growing redder still. "I aimed for the centre of that white rag. If we ever come across the rag we'll find my bullet hole through it. That was what I hit."

Deputy Dave's assistant was now cleaning out the soot-choked barrels of the machine gun, that the piece might be fit for use again as soon as the barrels had cooled.

"I reckon," declared Dave, "that our friends have done their worst. It's my private wager that they're now doing a foot race for the back trails."

"Is any one of our fellows hit?" called Tom, striding over to the late firing line. "Anyone hit? If so, we must take care of him at once."

Tom went the length of the line, only to discover that none of the camp's defenders had been injured, despite the shower of bullets that had been poured in during the brief but brisk engagement. Three of the engineers displayed clothing that had been pierced by bullets.

"Dave," called Tom, "how soon will it be safe to send over to the late strongholds and find out whether any of Naughty Peter's friends have any hurts that demand Doc Gitney's attention?"

"Huh! If any of the varmints are hit, I reckon they can wait," muttered Fulsbee.

"Not near this camp!" retorted Reade with spirit. "If any human being around here has been hurt he must have prompt care. How soon will it be safe to start?"

"I don't know how soon it will be safe," Dave retorted. "I want to take about a half dozen of the young fellows, on horseback, and ride over just to see if we can draw any fire. That will show whether the rascals have quit their ambushes."

"If they haven't," mocked Tom, "they'll also show your little party some new gasps in the way of excitement."

Nevertheless Reade did not object when Fulsbee called for volunteers. If any new firing was to be encountered it was better to risk a small force rather than a large one.

Harry Hazelton was one of the six volunteers who rode out with Deputy Dave. Though they searched the country for miles they did not encounter any of the late raiders. Neither did they find any dead or wounded men.

The abandoned transits and other instruments and implements were found and brought back to camp.

While this party was absent Tom took Mr. Newnham back to headquarters tent, where he explained, in detail, all that had been accomplished and all that was now being done.

Late in the afternoon Dave Fulsbee and his little force returned. Tom listened attentively to the report made by the sheriff's officer.

"They've cheated you out of one day's work, anyway," muttered the man from Broadway, rather fretfully.

"We can afford to lose the time," Tom answered almost carelessly. "Our field work is well ahead. It's the construction work that is bothering me most. I hope soon to have news as to whether the construction outfit has been attacked."

"The wires are all up again, sir," reported the operator, pausing at the doorway of the tent. "The men you sent back have mended all the breaks. I've just heard from the construction camp that none of the unknown scoundrels have been heard from there."

"They found you so well prepared here," suggested President Newnham, "that the rascals have an idea that the construction camp is also well guarded. I imagine we've heard the last of the opposition."

"Then you're going to be fooled, sir," Tom answered, very decisively. "For my part, I believe that the tactics of the gloom department of the W.C. & A. have just been commenced. Fighting men of a sort are to be had cheap in these mountains, and the W.C. & A. railroad is playing a game that it's worth millions to win. They're resolved that we shan't win. And I, Mr. Newnham, am determined that we shall win!"

XIX. SHERIFF GREASE DROPS DAVE

Tom's prediction came swiftly true in a score of ways.

The gloom department of the W.C. & A. immediately busied itself with the public.

The "gloom department" is a comparatively new institution in some kinds of high finance circles. Its mission is to throw gloom over the undertakings of a rival concern. At the same time, through such matter as it can manage to have printed in some sorts of newspapers the gloom department seeks to turn the public against its business rivals.

That same day news was flashed all over the country that a party of railway engineers, led by a mad deputy sheriff had wantonly fired on a party of travelers who had had the misfortune to get upon the building railway's right of way.

In many parts of Colorado a genuine indignation was aroused against the S.B. & L. President Newnham sought to correct the wrong impression, but even his carefully thought out statements were misconstrued.

The W.C. & A., though owned mainly abroad, had some clever American politicians of the worst sort in its service. Many of these men were influential to some extent in Colorado.

The sheriff of the county was approached and inflamed by some of these politicians, with the result that the sheriff hastened to the field camp, where he publicly dismissed Dave Fulsbee from his force of deputies. The sheriff solemnly closed his fiery speech by demanding Dave's official badge.

"That's funny, but don't mind, Dave," laughed Tom, as he witnessed the handing over of the badge. "You won't be out of work."

"Won't be out of work, eh?" demanded Sheriff Grease hotly. "Just let him wait and see. There isn't a man in the county who wants Dave Fulsbee about now."

"Then what a disappointed crowd they're going to be," remarked Tom pleasantly, "for Mr. Newnham is going to make Dave chief of detectives for the company, at a salary of something like six thousand a year.

"He is, oh?" gulped down Sheriff Grease. "I'll bet he won't. I'll protest against that, right from the start."

"Dave will be our chief of detectives, if you protest all night and some more in the morning," returned Tom Reade. "And Dave, I reckon, is going to need a force of at least forty men under him. Dave will be rather important in the county, won't he, sheriff, if he has forty men under him who feel a good deal like voting the way that Dave believes? A forty-man boss is quite a little figure in politics, isn't he, sheriff?"

Grease turned nearly purple in the face, choking and sputtering in his wrath.

"Come along, Dave, and see if that job as chief detective is open today," urged Tom, drawing one arm through Fulsbee's. "If you're interested in knowing the news, sheriff, you might wait."

"I'll——" ground out Grease, gritting his teeth and clenching one fist. Tom waited patiently for the county officer to finish. Then, as he didn't go further, Reade rejoined, half mockingly:

"Exactly, sheriff. That's just what I thought you'd do."

Then Tom dragged Dave down to the headquarters tent, where they found the president of the road.

"Mr. Newnham," began Tom gravely, "the sheriff has just come to camp and has discharged Fulsbee from his force of deputies, just because Fulsbee acted as a real law officer and stopped the raid on the road. I have told Mr. Fulsbee, before Sheriff Grease, that you are going to make him chief of detectives for the road at a salary of about six thousand a year."

Mr. Newnham displayed his astonishment very openly, though he did not speak at first.

"That's all right," replied President Newnham. "Mr. Fulsbee, do you accept the offer of six thousand as chief detective for the road,"

"Does a man accept an invitation to eat when he's hungry?" replied Dave rather huskily.

"Then it's settled," put in Tom, anxious to clinch the matter, for he had a very shrewd idea that he would need Dave badly ere long. "Now, Mr. Newnham, until we get everything running smoothly, Mr. Fulsbee ought to have a force of about forty men. They will cost seventy-five dollars a month, per man, with an allowance for horses, forage, etc. Hadn't Mr. Fulsbee better get his force together as soon as possible? For I am certain, sir, that the next move by the opposition will be to tear up and blow up our tracks at some unguarded points. At the same time, sir, I feel certain that we can get far more protection from Chief of Detectives Fulsbee's men than from a man like Sheriff Grease."

"Reade?" returned President Newnham, "it is plain to be seen that you lose no time in making your plans or in arranging to put them into execution. I imagine you're right, for you've been right in everything so far. So arrange with Mr. Fulsbee for whatever you think may be needed."

"Thank you, sir," murmured Tom. Then he signaled Fulsbee to get out of the tent, and followed that new official.

"Never hang around, Dave, after you've got what you want," chuckled Tom. "Hello, Mr. Sheriff! This is just a line to tell you that Fulsbee has a steady job with the company, and that he'll need the services of at least forty men, all of whom must be voters in this county. The pay will be seventy-five a month and keep, with extra allowance for horses."

Sheriff Grease didn't look much more pleasant than he felt.

"Are you homeward bound—when you go?" continued Reade.

The sheriff nodded.

"Then you might spread the word that men are needed, and tell the best men to apply to Dave Fulsbee, at this camp," suggested Tom. "Be strong on the point that all applicants have to be voters in this county."

"I will," nodded the sheriff, choking down his wrath by a great effort. "Dave won't have any trouble in getting good men when I spread the word. You're a mighty good fellow, Dave. I always said it," added the sheriff. "I'm sorry I had to be rough with you, but—but——"

"Of course we understand here that orders from a political boss have to be obeyed," Tom added good-naturedly. "We won't over-blame you, Mr. Grease."

The sheriff rode away, Tom's smiling eyes following him.

"That touch about your having forty voters at your beck and call must have stuck in the honorable sheriff's crop, Dave," chuckled the cub chief engineer.

"I reckon it does," drawled Dave. "A man like Grease can't understand that a man of my kind wouldn't ask any fellow working for him what ticket he voted for on election day. You certainly hit the sheriff hard, Mr. Reade. In the first place, six thousand a year is a lot more money than the sheriff gets himself. Forty voters are fully as many as he can control, for which reason Grease, in his mind's eye, sees me winning his office away from him any day that I want to do so."

Ere three days had passed Sheriff Grease had lost fully half of his own force, and some of his controlled voters as well, for many of his deputies flocked to serve under Dave Fulsbee. The rest of the needed detectives also came in, and Dave was soon busy posting his men to patrol the S.B. & L. and protect the workers against any more raids by armed men.

After a fortnight student Reynolds recovered sufficiently to be sent to Denver, there to complete his work of recovering from his wound. President Newnham also saw to it that Reynolds was well repaid for his services.

The camp moved on. Soon Lineville was sighted from the advanced camp of the engineers. As Lineville was to be the western terminus of the new railroad the work of the field party was very nearly finished.

President Newnham, who was all anxiety to see the first train run over the road, remained with the field engineers.

"I couldn't sleep at night, if I were anywhere else than here," explained the president, "though I feel assured now that the W.C. & A. will make no more efforts, in the way of violence; to prevent us from finishing the building of the road."

"Then you're more trustful than I am," smiled Tom Reade. "What's worrying me most of all is that I can't quite fathom in what way the W.C. & A's gloom department will plan to stop us. That they have some plan—and a rascally one—I'm as certain, sir, as I am that I'm now speaking with you."

"Has Fulsbee any suspicions?" inquired Mr. Newnham.

"Loads of 'em," declared Tom promptly.

"What does he think the W.C. & A. will try to do?"

"Dave's suspicions, Mr. Newnham, aren't any more definite than mine. He feels certain, however, that we're going to have a hard fight before we get the road through."

"Then I hope the opposition won't be able to prevent us from finishing," murmured Mr. Newnham.

"Oh, the enemy won't be able to hinder us," replied Tom confidently. "You have a Fulsbee and a Reade on the job, sir. Don't worry. I'm not doing any real worrying, and I promise you that I'm not going to be beaten."

"It will be a genuine wonder if Reade is beaten," reflected Mr. Newnham, watching the cub's athletic figure as Tom walked through the centre of the camp. "I never knew a man of any age who was more resourceful or sure to win than this same cub, Tom Reade, whose very name was unknown to me a few weeks ago. Yet I shiver! I can't help it. Men just as resourceful as Tom Reade are sometimes beaten to a finish!"

XX. MR. NEWNHAM DROPS A BOMB

The field work was done. Yet the field engineers were not dismissed. Instead, they were sent back along the line. The construction gang was still twelve miles out of Lineville, and the time allowed by the charter was growing short.

At Denver certain politicians seemed to have very definite information that the S.B. & L. R.R., was not going to finish the building of the road and the operating of the first through train within charter time.

Where these politicians had obtained their news they did not take the trouble to state.

However, they seemed positive that, under the terms of the charter, the state would take over as much of the railroad as was finished, pay an appraisal price for it, and then turn the road over to the W.C. & A. promoters to finish and use as part of their own railway system.

These same politicians, by the way, were a handful of keen, unscrupulous men who derived their whole income from politics, and who had always been identified with movements that the better people of the state usually opposed.

Mr. Thurston and his assistant, Blaisdell, were now able to be up and to move about a little, but were not yet able to travel forward to the point that the construction force had now reached. Neither Thurston nor Blaisdell was in fit shape to work, and would not be for some weeks to come.

Mr. Newnham, who had learned in these weeks to ride a horse, came along in saddle as Tom and Harry stood watching the field camp that was now being rapidly taken down by the few men left behind.

"Idling, as usual, Reade?" smiled the president of the road.

"This time I seem to have a real excuse, sir," chuckled Tom. "My work is finished. There isn't a blessed thing that I could do, if I wanted to. By tomorrow I suppose you will be paying me off and letting me go."

"Let you go—before the road is running?" demanded Mr. Newnham, in astonishment. "Reade, have you noted any signs of my mind failing lately?"

"I haven't, sir."

"Then why should you imagine that I am going to let my chief engineer go before the road is in operations"

"But I was acting chief, sir, only of the field work."

"Reade," continued Mr. Newnham, "I have something to tell you. Thurston has left our employ. So has Blaisdell. They are not dissatisfied in any way, but neither man is yet fit to work. Besides, both are tired of the mountains, and want to go east together as soon as possible and take up some other line of engineering work. So—well, Reade, if you want it, you are now chief engineer of the S.B. & L. in earnest."

"Don't trifle with me, sir!" begged Tom incredulously. "I'm too far from home."

"No one has ever accused me of being a humorist," replied Mr. Newnham dryly. "Now tell me, Reade, whether you want the post I have offered you?"

"Want it?" echoed Tom. "Of course I do. Yet doesn't it seem too 'fresh' in a cub like myself to take such a post?"

"You've won it," replied the president. "It's also true that you're only a cub engineer in years, and there are many greater engineers than yourself in the country. You have executive ability, however, Reade. You are able to start a thing, and then put it through on time—or before. The executive is the type of man who is most needed in this or any other country."

"Is an executive a lazy fellow who can make others work!" asked Reade.

"No; an executive is a man who can choose other men, and can wisely direct them to big achievements. An executive is a director of fine team play. That describes you, Reade. However—you haven't yet accepted the position as chief engineer of the S.B. & L."

"I'll end your suspense then, sir," smiled the cub. "I do accept, and with a big capital 'A'."

"As to your salary," continued Mr. Newnham, "nothing has been said about that, and nothing need be said until we see whether the road is operating in season to save its charter. If we save our charter and the road, your salary will be in line with the size of the achievement."

"If we should lose the charter, sir," Tom retorted, his face clouding, "I don't believe I'd take any interest in the salary question. Money is a fine thing, but the game—the battle—is twenty times more interesting. However, I'm going to predict, Mr. Newnham, that the road WILL operate on time."

"I believe you're going to make good, Reade, no matter what a small coterie of politicians at Denver may think. I never met a man who had success stamped more plainly on his face than you have. By the way, I shall ask you to keep Mr. Howe as an assistant. You still have the appointment of one other assistant, in place of Mr. Blaisdell."

"I know the fellow I'd like to appoint," cried Tom eagerly.

"If you're sure about him, then go ahead and appoint him," responded the president of the S.B. & L. railway.

"Hazelton!" proclaimed Tom. "Good, old dependable Harry Hazelton!"

"Hazelton would be a wise choice," nodded Mr. Newnham.

"Harry!" called Reade, as his chum appeared in the distance. "Come here hustle!"

Mr. Newnham turned away as Hazelton came forward. Tom quickly told his chum the news.

"I? Assistant chief engineer?" gasped Harry, turning red. "Whew, but that's great! However, I'm not afraid of falling down, Tom, with you to steer me. What's the pay of the new job!"

"Not decided," rejoined Tom. "Wait until we get the road through and the charter is safe."

"Never mind the wages. The job's the thing, after all!" cried Harry, his face aglow. "Whew! I'll send a letter home tonight with the news."

"Make it a small post card, then, concealed under a postage stamp," counseled Reade dryly. "We've work ahead of us—not writing."

"What's the first thing you're going to do?" inquired Hazelton.

"The first thing will be to get on the job."

"You're going back to the construction force?"

"I am."

"When?"

"Well, we start within five minutes."

"Whew!"

His face still aglow with happiness, Harry Hazelton bounded off to his tent. Tom called to one of the men to saddle two horses, and then followed.

"You're going back to the construction camp?" inquired Mr. Newnham, looking in at the doorway.

"As fast as horses can take us, sir," Tom replied, as he whipped out a clean flannel shirt and drew it over his head.

"I'm going with you," replied Mr. Newnham.

"You'll ride fast, if you go with us, sir," called Tom.

"I can stand it, if you can, Reade. Your enthusiasm and speed are 'catching,'" replied the president, with a laugh, as he started off to give orders about his horse.

"If the president is going with us, then we'll have to take two of Dave Fulsbee's men with us," mused Tom aloud to his chum. "It would never do to have our president captured just before we're ready to open the road to traffic."

The orders were accordingly given. Tom then appointed one of the chainmen to command the camp until the construction gang came up.

Just seven minutes after he had given the first order, Tom Reade was in saddle. Hazelton was seated on another horse some thirty seconds afterward. The two railroad detectives rode forward, halting near by, and all waited for Mr. Newnham.

Nor did the president of the S.B. & L. delay them long. During his weeks in camp in the Rockies the man from Broadway had learned something of the meaning of the word "hustle."

As the party started Tom ordered one of the detectives to ride two hundred yards in advance of the party, the other the same distance to the rear.

"Set a good pace, and keep it," called Tom along the trail. Shortly after dark the party reached the construction camp, which now numbered about five hundred men.

Assistant Chief Engineer Howe appeared more than a little astonished when he learned that Tom Reade was the actual chief engineer of the road. However, the man who had been in charge so far of the construction work made no fuss about being supplanted.

"Show me what part of the work you want me to handle," offered Howe, "and you'll find me right with you, Mr. Reade."

"Thank you," responded Tom, holding out his hand. "I'm glad you feel no jealousy or resentment. There's just one thing in life for all of us, now, and that is to win the fight."

Howe produced the plans and reports, and the three—for Hazelton was of their number—sat up until long after midnight laying out plans for pushing the work faster and harder.

At four in the morning, while it was still dark, Tom was up again. He sat at the desk, going over the work once more until half past five o'clock. Then he called Harry and Howe, and the trio of chiefs had a hurried breakfast together.

At six in the morning Mr. Newnham appeared, just in time to find Tom and Harry getting into saddle.

"Not going to stay behind and sit in an easy chair this morning, Reade?" called the president.

"Not this, or any other morning, sir," Tom replied.

"You amaze me!"

"This construction work requires more personal attention, sir. I may have twenty minutes to dream, in the afternoon, but my mornings are mortgaged each day, from four o'clock on."

An hour later Mr. Howe joined Reade and Hazelton in the field. Tom had already prodded three or four foremen, showing them how their gangs were losing time.

"If we get the road through on time, and save the charter," Tom called, on leaving each working party, "every laborer and foreman is to have an extra week's pay for his loyalty to us."

In every instance that statement brought forth a cheer.

"Did Mr. Newnham tell you that you could promise that?" inquired Harry.

"No," said Tom shortly.

"Then aren't you going a bit far, perhaps!"

"I don't care," retorted Tom. "Victory is the winning of millions; defeat is the loss of millions. Do you imagine Mr. Newnham will care about a little thing such as I've promised the men? Harry, our president is a badly worried man, though he doesn't allow himself to show it. Once the road is finished, operating and safe, he won't care what money he has to spend in rewards. He——"

Tom did not finish his words. Instead he dug his heels into his pony, bringing his left hand down hard on that animal's flank.

"Yi, yi, yi! Git!" called Tom, bending low over his mount's neck. He drove straight ahead. Hazelton looked astonished for a space of five seconds, then started in pursuit of his chum and chief.

It was not long ere Tom reined in, holding up a hand as a signal to Harry to do the same thing.

"Here, hold my horse, and stay right here," ordered the young chief.

"Tom, what on earth——"

Tom Reade was already a hundred yards away, running in amid the brush. At last he halted, studying the ground earnestly. Then Reade disappeared.

"One thing I know, anyway," muttered the puzzled Hazelton, "Tom is not crazy, and he doesn't dash off like that unless he has something real on his mind." The minutes passed. At last Tom came back, walking energetically. He took his horse's bridle and leaded into saddle.

"Harry, ride back, hard, and send me two or three of the railroad detectives, unless you happen to meet some of them this side of the camp. I want the men on the rush. Don't fail to tell 'em that."

"Any—er—explanations" queried Hazelton.

"For you—yes—but don't take the time to pass the explanation on to the men. Just hustle 'em here. When I started my horse forward it was because I caught sight of 'Gene Black's head over the bush tops. I found a few of his footprints, then lost the trail. Send Dave Fulsbee along, too, if you have the luck to see him. I want 'Gene Black hunted down before he does some big mischief. Now—ride!"

Harry Hazelton went back over the trail at a gallop.

Not until he reached camp did he come upon Fulsbee's men. These he hustled out to find Tom.

Two hours later Reade came back over the trail, at a slow jog. The young chief engineer looked more worried than Hazelton had ever seen his chum look before.

XXI. THE TRAP AT THE FINISH

A number of days passed, days full of worry for the young chief engineer. Yet, outwardly, Tom Reade was as good-humored and cheery as ever.

He was sure that his eyes had played him no trick, and that he really had seen 'Gene Black in the brush.

The presence of that scoundrel persuaded Tom that someone working in the interests of the W.C. & A. Railroad Company was still employing Black in an attempt to block the successful completion of the S.B. & L.

Moreover, the news that Dave Fulsbee received from Denver showed that two of the officials of the W.C. & A. were in that city, apparently ready to proceed to get possession of the rival road.

Politicians asserted that it was a "cinch" that the new road would fall short of the charter requirement in the matter of time.

"All this confidence on the part of the enemy is pretty fair proof that the scoundrels are up to something," Tom told Mr. Newnham.

"Or else they're trying to break down our nerve so that we'll fail through sheer collapse," replied the president of the S.B. & L., rubbing his hands nervously. "Reade, why should there be such scoundrels in the world?"

"The president is all but completely gone to pieces," Reade confided to his chum. "Say, but I'm glad Mr. Newnham himself isn't the one who has to get the road through in time. If it rested with him I'm afraid he'd fizzle. But we'll pull it through, Harry, old chum—we'll pull it through."

"If this thing had to last a month more I'm afraid good old Tom would go to pieces himself," thought Harry, as he watched his friend stride away. "Tom never gets to his cot now before eleven at night, and four thirty in the morning always finds him astir again. I wonder if he thinks he's fooling me by looking so blamed cheerful and talking so confidently. Whew! I'd be afraid for poor old Tom's brain if anything should happen to trip us up."

Harry himself was anxious, but he was not downright nervous. He did not feel things as keenly as did his chum; neither was Hazelton directly responsible for the success of the big undertaking.

Mile after mile the construction work stretched. Trains were running now for work purposes, nearly as far as the line extended.

The telegraph wires ran into the temporary station building at Lineville, and the several operators along the line were busy carrying orders through the length of the wire service.

Back at Stormburg, where the railroad line began, three trains lay on side tracks. These were passenger trains that were to run the entire length of the road as soon as it was opened.

Back at Stormburg, also, the new general superintendent slept at his office that he might receive messages from President Newnham the more quickly.

At Bakerstown a division superintendent was stationed, he, too, sleeping at his office.

Once more Tom Reade had brought his work within sight of Lineville. In fact, the track extended all but the last mile of the line. Ties were down nearly all of the way to the terminal station.

This was the state of affairs at two o'clock in the afternoon. Before midnight the last rail must be laid, and the first through train from Stormburg must run in. If, at the stroke of midnight, the first train had failed to go through, then the charter of the S.B. & L. would be forfeited and subject to seizure and sale by the state.

Up from Denver some of the worst politicians had come. They were quartered at the new little hotel in Lineville. Dave Fulsbee had detailed three of his men covertly to watch these same politicians.

Tom, inwardly consumed with fever, outwardly as cheery as human being might be, stood watching the laying of the rails over that last stretch. The men who could be prevented from dropping in their tracks must work until the last rail had been spiked into place. Away up in Lineville Harry Hazelton was personally superintending the laying of the last ties.

The honk of an automobile horn caused Tom Reade to glance up. Approaching him was President Newnham, himself driving the runabout that he had had forwarded.

"Reade!" called the president of the S.B. & L., stopping his car, and Tom went over to him.

"The suspense is over, at last, Reade," exclaimed Mr. Newnham, smiling broadly. "Look! the road is all but completed. Hundreds of men are toiling. The first train left Stormburg this morning. By seven tonight you'll have the last rails in place. Between eight and nine this evening the first through train will have rolled into Lineville and we shall have won the fight that has brought me many gray hairs. At last the worry is over!"

"Of course, sir," nodded Tom.

"Reade, don't you really believe that the stress is over—that we shall triumph tonight?"

"Of course we shall, sir," Tom responded. "I have predicted, all along, that we'd have the road through in time, haven't I?"

"And the credit is nearly all yours, Reade," admitted Mr. Newnham gleefully. "Nearly all yours, lad!"

Honk! honk! Unable to remain long at one spot, Mr. Newnham started his car again.

Reade felt a depression that he could not shake off.

"It's just the reaction following the long train," Tom tried to tell himself. "Whew! Until within the last two or three days I haven't half realized how much the strain was taking out of me! I'll wager I'll sleep, tonight, after I once have the satisfaction of seeing the first train roll in!"

By six o'clock Tom felt as though he could hardly stand up. Be wondered if his teeth were really chattering, or whether he merely imagined it.

To take up his time Tom tried a brisk canter, away from the railroad. At seven o'clock he rode into Lineville.

"Tom, Tom!", bawled Harry, from the centre of a group of workmen. "We've been looking for you! Come here quickly!"

Tom urged his pony forward to the station from which Hazelton had called him.

"Watch this—just watch it!" begged Harry.

Clank! clank! clank! Tom Reade, gazing in fascination, saw the last spike of the last rail being driven into place.

"Two sidetracks and switches already up!" called Harry.

Tom threw his bridle to one of the workmen, then sprang from his horse. Out of the station came Mr. Newnham, waving a telegram.

"Our first train, with passengers, has just left the station at Brand's Ranch junction, a hundred and ten miles away," shouted the president of the road. "The train should be here long before ten o'clock."

From the crowd a cheer greeted the announcement.

"There's nothing left but to wait to win," continued Mr. Newnham.

Five hundred voices in the crowd cheered the announcement. A group of five Denver politicians smiled sardonically.

Tom pushed his way gently through the crowd, glancing inside the station. There was no one there, save an operator. Closing the door behind him, Tom crossed to a seat and sank wearily upon it.

Here he sat for some minutes, to be discovered by the telegraph operator when the latter came out to light the lamps in the waiting room.

"Mr. Reade is all in, I guess," thought the operator. "I don't wonder. I hope he goes to sleep where he sits."

Ten minutes later the receiver of one of the up the terminal station. The operator broke in, sending back his response. Then a telegram came, which he penned on paper.

"Mr. Reade," called the operator, "this is for you."

Tom sat up, brushing his eyes, and read:

"If you can spare time wish you would ride down track to point about two miles west of Miller's where brook crosses under roadbed. Have something to show you that will interest you. Nothing serious, but will fill you with wonder. My men all along line report all safe and going well. Come at once." (signed) "Dave Fulsbee."

Tom's first instinct was to start and tremble. He felt sure that Fulsbee had bad news and was trying to conceal the fact until he could see the young chief engineer in person.

"But that's really not Dave's way," Reade told himself in the next breath. "Fulsbee talks straight out from the shoulder. What has he to show me, I wonder! Gracious, how tired I am! If Fulsbee knew just how I feel at this moment he wouldn't send for me. But of course he doesn't know."

Stepping outside, Tom looked about, espying his pony standing where it had been tied to one of the porch pillars of the station.

"I'll get Harry to ride with me," Reade thought, but he found his chum engaged in testing a stretch of rails near the station, a dozen of the college students with him.

"Pshaw! I'm strong enough to ride five miles alone," muttered Tom. "Thank goodness my horse hasn't been used up. Never mind, Tom Reade. To-morrow you can ride as far as you like on the railroad, with never a penny of fare to pay, either!"

Unnoticed, the young chief engineer untied his horse in the dark, mounted and rode away.

How dark and long the way seemed. Truth to tell, Tom Reade was very close to the collapse that seemed bound to follow the reaction once his big task was safely over. Only his strength of will sustained him. He gripped the pony's sides with his knees.

"I wouldn't want anyone to see me riding in this fashion!" muttered the lad. "I must look worse than a tenderfoot. Why, I'll be really glad if Dave Fulsbee can ride back with me. I had no idea he was so near. I believed him to be at least fifty or sixty miles down the line."

Tom was nearing the place appointed when a sudden whistle rang out from the brush beside the track.

Then half a dozen men leaped out into view in the darkness, two of them seizing the bridle of his horse.

"Good evening, Reade!" called the mocking voice of 'Gene Black. "Down this way to see your first train go through? Stay with us, and we'll show you how it doesn't get through—not tonight!"

XXII. "CAN YOUR ROAD SAVE ITS CHARTER NOW?"

"Oh, I guess the train will go through, all right," replied Tom Reade, with much more confidence expressed in his tone than he really felt.

"Stay with us and see it go through," mocked 'Gene Black.

"If it's just the same to you I'd rather ride on," Tom proposed.

"But it isn't all the same to us," Black chuckled.

"Then I guess I prefer to ride on, anyway."

"You won't, though," snapped Black. "You'll get off that horse and do as we tell you."

"Eh?" demanded the young chief engineer. He appeared astonished, though he was not.

"You came down the line to meet your railroad detective, Fulsbee," Black continued sneeringly. "You'd better give it up."

"You seem to think you know a good deal about my business," Tom continued.

"I know all about the telegram," 'Gene retorted. "I sent it—or ordered it sent."

Tom started in earnest this time.

"Did you ever hear of ways of cutting out a telegraph wire and then attaching one of the cut ends to a box relay?" queried the scoundrel.

"I—I believe I have heard of some such thing," Reade hesitated. "Was that the trick you played on me?"

"Yes," nodded Gene Black. "We cut the wire just below here. We've got a box relay on the wire going both ways. Your operators can't use the wire much tonight. Your company can't use it from Lineville at all."

Tom's face showed his dismay. 'Gene Black laughed in intense enjoyment.

"So you cut the wire, oh, and attached box relays?"

"Surely," Black nodded.

"I'm glad you confess it," replied Tom slowly. "Cutting telegraph wires, or attaching box relays without proper authority is a felony. The punishment is a term in state's prison."

"Bosh!" sneered Black. "With all the political pull our crowd has behind it do you suppose we fear a little thing like that?"

"I'll talk the crime over with Dave Fulsbee," Tom continued.

"A lot of good Fulsbee will do you," jeered 'Gene. "We have him attended to as well as we have you."

"That's a lie," Reade declared coolly.

"Do you want us to show him to you?"

"Yes," nodded Tom. "You'd have to show me Dave Fulsbee before I'd believe you."

"Yank the cub off that horse!" ordered 'Gene Black harshly.

Three or four men seized Reade, dragging him out of the saddle and throwing him to earth. Tom did not resist, for he saw other men standing about with revolvers in their hands. He did not believe that this desperate crew of worthless characters would hesitate long about drilling holes through him.

"Take the horse, you, and ride it away," directed Black, turning to one of the men, who promptly mounted and rode off into the darkness. "Tie that cub's hands behind him," was Black's next order. "Now, bring him along."

'Gene Black led the way back from the track and into the woods for a few rods. Then the party wheeled, going eastward in a line parallel with the track.

Tom did not speak during the journey. It was not his nature to use words where they would be worse than wasted.

After proceeding a quarter of a mile or so, Black parted the bushes of a dense thicket and led the way inside. At the centre the brush had been cleaned out, clearing a circular space about twenty feet in diameter and dimly lighted by a lantern placed in the centre of the inclosure.

"A snug little place, Reade," chuckled the scoundrel, turning about as Reade was piloted into the retreat. "How do you like it?"

"I like the place a whole lot better than the company," Tom answered promptly.

"What's the matter with the company?" jeered Black.

"A hangman would feel more at home in a crowd like this."

"See here, cub! Don't you try to get funny," warned Black, his eyes snapping dangerously. "If you attempt any of your impudence here you'll soon find out who's master."

"Master?" scoffed Tom, his own eyes flashing. "Black, do you draw any comfort from feeling that you're boss of such an outfit? Though I daresay that the outfit is better than its boss. However, you asked my opinion, and you got it. I'll give you a little more of my opinion, Black, and it won't cost you a cent."

He looked steadily into his enemy's eyes as he continued:

"Black, a good, clean dog wouldn't willingly stand by this crowd!"

Thump! 'Gene Blacks clenched fist landed in Reade's face, knocking him down.

"Thank you," murmured Reade, as he sat up.

"Much obliged, are you?" jeered Black.

"Yes," admitted Tom. "As far as it goes. That was a coward's act—to have a fellow's hands tied before daring to hit him."

Black's face now turned livid with passion.

"Lift the fool to his feet, if he wants to stand," ordered Black savagely. "He's trying to make me waste my time talking to him. Operator, call up Brewster's and ask if he held the train as ordered by wire."

"Oho!" thought Tom. "So that's your trick? You have the wire in your control, and you're sending supposed train orders holding the train at a station so that it can't get through You're a worse scoundrel than I thought!"

Off at the edge of the brush, on the inner side, a telegraph instrument had been set up on a barrel. From the instrument a wire ran toward the track.

In another moment the sounder of the sender was clicking busily. There was a pause, then the answer came back: Click-click-click-clickety-click!

The operator, a seedy-looking fellow over whose whole appearance was written the word "worthless," swung a lantern so that the light fell on a pad of paper before him. Pencil in hand, he took off the message as it came.

"Come over here and read it, sir?" inquired the operator.

Black crossed, bending over the sheet. Despite himself the scoundrel started. Then he moved so that the light should not fall across his face. Plainly Black was greatly disappointed. He swallowed hard, then strolled back to the main group, of which Tom was one.

"That's the way to do business," announced 'Gene Black, with a chuckle. "We sent fake train orders from the top of that barrel, and your own railroad operator handed the orders to the conductor of your through train. Therefore the train is switched off on to the side track at Brewster's, and the engineer, under the false orders, is allowing his steam to cool. Now, do you believe you will get your train through tonight?"

"Oh, yes!" yawned Tom coolly. "For you are lying. The message that came back over the wire from our operator at Brewster's read in these words: 'Showed your order to train conductor. He refused order, saying that it was not signed properly. Train has proceeded.'"

It was an incautious speech for Tom Reade Black fairly glared into his eyes.

"So you can pick up telegraph messages by the sounds" 'Gene demanded.

"'Most anyone can who has ever worked over a telegraph key," Tom admitted.

Now that the secret was out, Black plainly showed his anger over the fact that the conductor had refused train orders at Brewster's. "You S.B. & L. fellows have put up some trick to beat us off!" he declared, looking accusingly into Tom's face.

"What of it?" Reade inquired. "It's our railroad, isn't it? Can't we do what we please with our own road?"

"It won't be your road after tonight!" Black insisted, grinding his teeth in his rage. "Fortunately, we have other ways of stopping that train from getting through. You'll soon know it, too."

Black called to the tramp operator.

"My man, call up the box relay fellow below here."

The sounder clicked busily for some moments. "I have the other box relay man," declared the operator.

"Then send this, very carefully," Black continued hoarsely: "X-x-x—a-a-a—b-b-b."

The operator repeated it. Black nodded. Once more the instrument clicked.

"The other box relay man signals that he has it," nodded Black's present operator.

"Listen! Everyone of you! Not a sound in this outfit," commanded 'Gene Black.

For fully three minutes the intense silence continued. Then Black turned again to the operator, saying:

"Ask the other box relay man if anything has happened near him?"

A minute later Black's operator reported:

"He says: 'Yes; happened successfully.'"

"Good!" laughed Black, a look of fierce Joy lighting up his eyes. "Now, Reade, I guess you'll admit yourself beaten. An electric spark has touched off a charge of giant powder under the roadbed. The rails have been blown skyward and a big hole torn out of the roadbed itself. Even if you had a wrecking crew at the spot at this moment the road couldn't be prepared for traffic inside of twenty-four hours. NOW, will your through train reach Lineville tonight? Can your road save its charter now?"

Tom Reade's face turned deathly white.

'Gene Black stood before him, gazing tauntingly into the eyes of the Young Chief engineer.

XXIII. BLACK'S TRUMP CARD

"You scoundrel—you unhung imitation of Satan himself!" gasped Reade, great beads of perspiration standing out on his face.

"Oho! We're fools, are we?" sneered Black "We're people whom you can beat with your cheap little tricks about a different signature for each station on the line, are we? For that was why the conductor refused the false order at Brewster's. He has a code of signatures for train orders—a different signature to be used for messages at each station?"

Black's keen mind had solved the reason for the conductor's refusal to hold his train on a siding. The conductor had been supplied with a code list of signatures—a different one for each station along the line.

"Now, you know," mocked Black, enjoying every line of anxiety written on Tom Reade's face, "that we have you knocked silly. You know, now, that your train can't get through by tonight—probably not even by tomorrow night. You realize at last—eh?—that you've lost your train and your charter—your railroad?"

"I wasn't thinking of the train, or of the road," Tom groaned. "What I'm thinking of is the train, traveling at high speed, running into that blown-out place. The train will be ditched and the crew killed. A hundred and fifty passengers with them—many of them state officials. Oh, Black, I wouldn't dare stand in your shoes now! The whole state—the entire country—will unite in running you down. You can never hope to escape the penalty of your crime!"

"What are you talking about?" sneered Black. "Do you think I'm fool enough to ditch the train? No, sir! Don't believe it. I'm not running my neck into a noose of that kind. A cluster of red lights has been spread along the track before the blow-out. The engineer will see the signals and pull his train up—he has to, by law! No one on the train will be hurt, but the train simply can't get through!"

"Oh, if the train is safe, I don't care so much," replied Reade, the color slowly returning to his face. "As for getting through tonight, the S.B. & L. has a corps of engineers and a full staff in other departments. Black, you'll lose after all your trouble."

"Humph!" muttered Black unbelievingly. "Your train will have to get through in less than three hours, Reade!"

"It'll do it, somehow," smiled Tom.

"Yes; your engineers will bring it through, somehow," taunted Black. "We have the chief of that corps with us right now."

"That's all right," retorted Tom. "You're welcome to me, if I can be of any real comfort to you. But you forget that you haven it my assistant. Harry Hazelton is at large, among his own friends. Harry will see the train through tonight. Never worry."

Click-click-click-click! sounded the machine on the barrel.

"It's the division superintendent at Lineville, calling up Brewster's," announced the operator.

"Answer for Brewster, then," directed Black. "Let us see what the division super wants, anyway."

More clicking followed, after which the operator explained:

"Division super asks Brewster if through train has passed there."

"Answer, 'Yes; twelve minutes ago,'" directed Black.

The instrument clicked furiously for a few moments.

"The division super keeps sending, 'Sign, sign, sign!'" explained the operator at the barrel. "So I've kept on signing 'Br,' 'Br,' over and over again. That's the proper signature for Brewster's."

Again the machine clicked noisily.

"Still insisting on the signature," grinned the operator uneasily.

"Do you know the name of the operator at Brewster's?" demanded 'Gene Black.

"Yes," nodded the man at the barrel. "The operator at Brewster's is a chap named Havens."

"Then send the signature, 'Havens, operator, Brewster's," ordered Black.

Still the machine clicked insistently.

"Super still yells for my signature," explained the man at the barrel desk. "He demands to know whether I'm really the operator at Brewster's, or whether I've broken in on the wire at some other point."

"Don't answer the division super any further, then," snorted Black disgustedly.

Tom, with his ability to read messages, was enjoying the whole situation until Black, with a sudden flash of his eyes, turned upon the cub chief engineer.

"Reade," he hissed, "you must know the proper signature for tonight for the operator at Brewster's to use."

"Nothing doing," grunted Tom.

"Give us that signature the right one for Brewster's."

"Nothing doing," Tom repeated.

"Put a pistol muzzle to his ear and see his memory brighten," snarled the scoundrel.

One of the hard-looking men behind Tom obeyed. Reade, it must be confessed, shivered slightly when he felt the cold touch of steel behind his ear.

"Give us the proper signature!" insisted 'Gene.

"Nothing doing," Tom insisted.

"Give us the right signature, or take the consequences!"

"I can't give it to you," Tom replied steadily. "I don't know the signature."

"You lie!"

"Thank you."

Tom had gotten his drawl back.

"Do you want to have the trigger of that pistol pulled?" cried 'Gene Black hoarsely.

"I certainly don't," Tom confessed. "Neither do I doubt that you fellows are scoundrels enough to do such a trick. However, I can't help you, even though I have to lose my life for my ignorance. I honestly don't know the right signature for Brewster's tonight. That information doesn't belong to the engineering department, anyway."

"Shall I pull the trigger, Black?" asked the man who held the weapon to Reade's head.

"Yes; if he doesn't soon come to his senses," snarled Black.

"I've already told you," persisted Tom, "that I couldn't give you the proper signature, even if I wanted to—which I don't."

"You may be glad to talk before we're through with you tonight," threatened Black. "The time for trifling is past. Either give us that signature or else prepare to take the consequences. For the last time, are you going to answer my question?"

"I've told you the truth," Reade insisted. "If you won't believe me, then there is nothing more to be said."

"You lie, if you insist that you don't know the signatures for tonight!" cried Black savagely.

"All right, then," sighed Tom. "I can't tell you what I don't know."

From off in the distance came the shrill too-oo-oot! of a locomotive. Tom Reade heard, and, despite his fears for his safety, an exclamation of joy escaped him.

"Oh, you needn't build any false hopes," sneered Black. "That whistle doesn't come from the through train. It's one of the locomotives that the S.B. & L. had delivered over the D.V. & S., which makes a junction with your road at Lineville. A locomotive or a train at the Lineville end won't help your crowd any. That isn't the through train required by the charter. The S.B. & L. loses the game, just the same."

"Oh, I don't know," Tom argued. "The S.B. & L. road was finished within charter time. No railroad can get a train through if the opposition sends out men to dynamite the tracks."

"Humph!" jeered Black maliciously. "That dynamited roadbed won't save your crowd. The opposition can make it plain enough that your crowd dynamited its own roadbed through a well-founded fear that the tracks clear through weren't strong enough to stand the passing of a train. Don't be afraid, Reader the enemies of your road will know how to explain the dynamiting this side of Brewster's."

"That's a question for tomorrow, Black," rejoined Tom Reade. "No man can ever tell, today, what tomorrow will bring forth."

Too-oo-oot! sounded a locomotive whistle again. One of the men in the thicket threw himself to the ground, pressing his ear to the earth.

"There's a train, or a locomotive, at least, coming this way from Lineville, boss," reported the fellow.

"A train?" gasped Black. Then his face cleared. "Oh, well, even if it's a fully equipped wrecking train, it can't get the road mended in time to bring the through train in before midnight, as the charter demands."

Now the train from Lineville came closer, and the whirr of its approach was audible along the steel rails. The engine's bell was clanging steadily, too, after the manner of the engines of "specials."

'Gene Black crowded to the outer edge of the thicket, peering through intently. The bright headlight of an approaching locomotive soon penetrated this part of the forest. Then the train rolled swiftly by.

"Humph!" muttered Black. "Only an engine, a baggage car and one day coach. That kind of train can't carry much in the way of relief."

As the train passed out of sight the engine sent back a screeching whistle.

"The engineer is laughing at you, Black," jeered Tom.

"Let him," sneered the other. "I have the good fortune to know where the laugh belongs."

Toot! toot! too-oot-oot! Something else was coming down the track from Lineville. Then it passed the beholders in the thicket—a full train of engine and seven cars.

"Good old Harry Hazelton!" glowed Tom Reade. "I'll wager that was Harry's thought—a pilot ahead, and then the real train!"

"Small good it will do," laughed 'Gene Black disagreeably.

Then, a new thought striking him, he added:

"Bill Hoskins, you and some of the men get the dynamite under the track opposite here. You know how to do it! Hustle!"

"You bet I know how," growled Bill eagerly, as he stepped forward, picking out the fellows he wanted as his helpers. "I'll have the blast against the roadbed here ready in five minutes, Black."

"Now, you'll have three trains stalled along the line tonight, Cub Reade," laughed Black sneeringly. "Getting any train as far as this won't count for a copper's worth! Your road has to get a through train all the way into Lineville before midnight. We'll blow out the roadbed here, and then where are you?"

XXIV. CONCLUSION

At these words even the brief hope that had been in Tom Reade's mind, died out.

With the roadbed gone at this point also, he did not see the slightest chance for the S.B. & L. to save its charter or its property rights.

"Here's the racketty stuff," went on Hoskins, indicating the boxes. "That small box has the fuses. Get the stuff along, and I'll lay the magneto wire."

"Not quite so hastily!" sternly broke in a new voice.

Tom Reade fairly yelled for joy, for the new speaker, as he knew at the first sound, was Dave Fulsbee.

The amazed and dismayed scoundrels huddled closer together for a moment in the middle of the thicket.

"Spread, men! Don't let one of 'em get out alive!" sounded Dave Fulsbee's voice.

The scurrying steps of Fulsbee's men could be heard apparently surrounding the thicket.

With an exclamation of rage, Black made a dash for freedom.

"Stand where you are, Black, if you want to live!" warned Dave. "No use to make a kick you rascals! We've got you covered, and the first man who makes a move will eat his breakfast in another world. Now, listen to me. One at a time you fellows step up to me, drop your weapons on the ground, where I can see you do it, and then come out here, one at a time. No tricks—for, remember, you are covered by my men out here. We don't want to shoot the whole lot of you up unless we have to, but we won't stand for any fooling. Reade, you come through first. Any man who offers to hinder Mr. Reade will be sorry he took the trouble—that's all!"

His heart bounding with joy, Tom stepped through the thicket, going straight toward the sound of Fulsbee's voice.

"I've got a knife in my left hand," announced Fulsbee, as Tom neared him in the dark. "Turn around so that I can cut the cords at your wrists."

In a moment this was done.

"You might stay here and help me," whispered Dave. Tom nodded.

"Now, Black, you can be the first," called Dave in a brisk, business-like tone. "Step up here and drop your weapons on the ground."

Wincing under a bitter sense of defeat, 'Gene Black stepped forward. He was not really a coward, but he valued his life, little as it was actually worth. So he dropped a revolver to the ground.

"What I have to say to you, Black, applies to the others," Dave continued from outside the thicket. "If any man among you doesn't drop all his weapons, we'll make it lively for him when we get him out here."

A look of malignant hate crossed his face, then 'Gene Black dropped also a knife to the ground.

"Come on out, Black," directed Dave Fulsbee. "Mr. Reade, will you oblige me by running your hands over the fellow's clothing to see if he, has any more weapons."

Tom promptly complied. A hasty search revealed no other weapons.

"Now, step right along over there, Black, where you'll find two of my men," nodded Dave Fulsbee.

Again Black obeyed. He saw, dimly, two men some yards further away in the darkness and joined them.

Click-click! Then the scoundrel cried out in the bitterness of his rage, for the two railway detectives had handcuffed him.

"You, with the black hair, next," summoned Fulsbee, his vision aided by the lantern in the centre of the thicket. "You come here, but first stop and drop your weapons on the pile—all the trouble-makers you happen to have."

Thus they came, one at a time, the operator being the last of all. The crowd of prisoners under guard of the two railway detectives grew steadily, and each was handcuffed as he reached the detectives after having been searched by Tom Reade.

"Good job," nodded Dave coolly, as he am approached the captives. "Now, we have you all under lock and key. My, but you're a pretty-looking outfit!"

"Come on, men. March 'em up the track. Then we'll come back, or send someone else after the dynamite and other stuff. That'll be handy as evidence."

Guarded by Fulsbee and his two detectives, the prisoners marched along a few rods.

"Mr. Reade," called Dave, pointing, "you'll find your horse tied to that tree yonder. I reckon you'll be glad to get in saddle again."

Indeed, Tom was glad. He ran over, untying the animal, which uttered a whinny of recognition. In saddle, Tom joined the marching party.

"You don't seem to think us a very hard crowd to guard," remarked 'Gene Black curiously. "Why don't you call off the men you posted around the thickets"

"I didn't post any," Fulsbee answered simply. "I sent these two men of mine running around the thicket. Then they had to come together and attend to handcuffing you fellows."

"And were you the only man who had the drop on us?" gasped 'Gene Black.

"I was," Dave Fulsbee responded. "If you fellows hadn't had such bad nerves, you could have escaped. But it's an old story. When men go bad their nerves go bad with them."

As for Black's followers, now that they knew the nature of the trick that had fooled them, several of them hung back.

"You fellows needn't think you can balk now," observed Fulsbee grimly. "You're all of you handcuffed, and there are enough of us to handle you. I promise you that, if anyone of you tries to run away, I won't run after him until I've first tried dropping him with a shot."

So the party proceeded, and in time reached Lineville. There was great excitement in that little junction town when the citizens first heard of the dastardly work that the prisoners had attempted.

Dave marched his captives into the waiting room of the station. All outsiders were ushered forth politely. Mr. Newnham was hurriedly summoned, and to him Tom Reade disclosed what he had learned of the work of enemies along the line. Naturally the president of the S.B. & L. was greatly excited.

"We knew something was wrong, from the nature of the telegraph messages that came in," cried Mr. Newnham. "It was your friend, Hazelton, who first suggested the idea of sending a full train down the line, with a short pilot train ahead."

"Good, great old Harry!" murmured Tom admiringly.

Both Fulsbee and the president of the road tried to question 'Gene Black. That treacherous fellow, however, steadfastly refused to talk. Two or three of his gang were willing enough to talk, but they knew little, as Black had carried all his plans and schemes in his own head.

"No matter!" muttered Dave Fulsbee. "My two men and I were close to that thicket for some time before we broke in on the affair. We heard enough to supply all the evidence that the courts will want against these worthies."

As the futile questioning was drawing to a close, 'Gene Black suddenly roused himself to say sneeringly:

"Gentlemen, look at your station clock. It's fifteen minutes before midnight. A quarter of an hour left! Where's your through train? If it reaches here fifteen minutes from now it will be too late."

"Send a message down the line quickly," gasped Mr. Newnham, turning pale. Then he wheeled savagely upon the prisoner, exclaiming: "I forgot, Black. You rascals cut the wires. We could have mended them at the nearer point, but the wires were cut, too, at the scene of the blow-out. Oh, but you have been a thorn in our sides!"

From the crowd that still lingered outside came a cheer. Tom Reade sprang to the nearest door, throwing it open.

"Listen!" he shouted.

The sound that had started the crowd to cheering was repeated again.

Too-oo-oo-oot!

"It's the train!" cried Reade joyously. "It can't be more than two or three miles below here, either. It will get through on time!"

With nine minutes to spare, the train rolled into the station at Lineville. It was not the same train that had left Stormburg, for that train had been halted, safely, just before reaching the scene of the disastrous blow-out. At that point the passengers had alighted and had been conducted on foot to the other side of the gap caused by the explosion. Here Hazelton's Lineville special stood ready to convey them into Lineville. So the road had been legally opened, since the passengers from Stormburg—among whom was the lieutenant governor of the state had been brought all the way through over the line. Within the meaning of the law a through train had been operated over the new line, and within charter time.

The S.B. & L. had won! It had saved its charter. On the morrow, in Wall Street, the value of the road's stock jumped by some millions of dollars.

Let us not forget the pilot train. That returned to Lineville in the rear of the passenger train. Though the pilot train had a conductor, Harry Hazelton was in real charge.

"Look whom we have here, Tom!" called Harry from the open side door of the baggage car, as Reade raced up to greet his successful chum.

A man, bandaged, injured and groaning, lay on the floor of the baggage car.

"Why, it's Naughty Peter, himself!" cried Tom. "Peter, I'm sorry to find you in this shape. I am afraid you have been misbehaving."

"We found him not far from the track, near the blow-out," Hazelton explained. "Whether he attended to that bit of bad work all alone, or whether his companions believed him dead and fled for their own safety, I can't learn. Bad Pete won't say a word. He was unconscious when we first discovered him. Now he knows what's going on around him, but he's too badly hurt to do more than hold his tongue."

It was only when Bad Pete recovered his health—in jail—and found himself facing a long term in prison, that he was ready to open his mouth. He could tell nothing, however, beyond confessing that he and three other men, including an operator, had attended to the blow-out. Pete had no knowledge of the real parties behind the plot. He knew only that he had acted under 'Gene Blanks orders. So Bad Pete was shown no mercy, but sent behind the bars for a term of twenty-five years. Owing to Black's stubborn silence the outrages were never traced back to any official of the W.C. & A.

'Gene Black was sentenced to prison for thirty years. The other rascals, who had worked under his direction, all received long terms.

The student engineers, wholly happy and well paid, returned to their college.

The S.B. & L. is still under the same management, and is one of the prosperous independent railroads of the United States. Dave Fulsbee continues as the head of its detective system.

Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton had made good in their first professional undertaking. They were paid in proportion to their services, and given the opportunity to retain their positions at the head of the railway's engineering corps.

For some time they kept their positions, filling them always with honor. Yet, in the end, the desire to do other great things in their chosen profession led them into other fields of venture. Their greatest adventures, their severest trials and deepest problems, as well as their gravest perils were still ahead of them in their path of duty.

The Young Engineers were bound to go on and up, yet their way was sure to be a stormy one.

We shall meet these fine young Americans again in the next volume of this series, which is published under the title, "The Young Engineers in Arizona; Or, Laying Tracks on the Man-killer Quicksand." It is a rousing narrative of real people and real happenings.

THE END

THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN ARIZONA

or

Laying Tracks on the Man-killer Quicksand

CONTENTS

I. The Man of "Card Honor"

II. Duff Asserts His "Rights"

III. Tom Makes a Speech on Gambling

IV. Somebody Stirs the Mud

V. Tom Has No Plans For Leaving Town

VI. The General Manager "Looks In"

VII. A Dynamite Puzzle

VIII. Reade Meets a "Kicker" Half Way

IX. The Man-Killer Claims a Sacrifice

X. Harry Fights For Command

XI. Cheating the Man-Killer

XII. How the Trap Was Baited

XIII. Tom Hears the Program

XIV. The Council of the Curb

XV. Mr. Danes Introduces Himself

XVI. Danes Shivers On a Hot Night

XVII.Tim Griggs "Gets His"

XVIII. Tragedy Caps the Test

XIX. The Secret of Ashby's Cunning

XX. Duff Promises the "Square Deal"

XXI. A Specialist In "Honor"

XXII. Tom and Harry Vanish

XXIII. Rafe and Jeff Miscalculate

XXIV. Conclusion

I. THE MAN OF "CARD HONOR"

"I'll wager you ten dollars that my fly gets off the mirror before yours does."

"I'll take that bet, friend."

The dozen or so of waiting customers lounging in Abe Morris's barber shop looked up with signs of renewed life.

"I'll make it twenty," continued the first speaker.

"I follow you," assented the second speaker.

Truly, if men must do so trivial a thing as squander their money on idle bets, here was a novel enough contest.

Each of the bettors sat in a chair, tucked up in white to the chin. Each was having his hair cut.

At the same moment a fly had lighted on each of the mirrors before the two customers.

The man who had offered the bet was a well known local character—Jim Duff by name, by occupation one of the meanest and most dishonorable gamblers who had ever disgraced Arizona by his presence.

There is an old tradition about "honest gamblers" and "players of square games." The man who has been much about the world soon learns to understand that the really honest and "square" gambler is a creature of the imagination. The gambler makes his living by his wits, and he who lives by anything so intangible speedily finds the road to cheating and trickery.

Jim Duff had been no exception. His reputation was such that he could find few men among the residents of this part of Arizona who would meet him at the gaming table. He plied his trade mostly among simple-minded tourists from the east—the class of men who are known in Arizona as "tenderfeet."

Rumor had it that Jim Duff, in addition to his many years of unblushing cheating for a living, had also shot and killed three men in the past on as many different occasions.

Yet he was a sleek, well-groomed fellow, tall and slim, and, in the matter of years, somewhere in his forties. Duff always dressed well— with a foundation of the late styles of the east, with something of the swagger of the plains added to his raiment.

"Stranger, you might as well hand me your money now," drawled Duff, after a few moments had passed. "It'll save time."

"Your fly hasn't hopped yet," retorted the second man, with the air and tone of one who could afford to lose thousands on such stupid bets.

The second man was of the kind on which Jim Duff fattened his purse. Clarence Farnsworth, about twenty-five years of age, was as verdant a "tenderfoot" as had lately graced Paloma, Arizona, with his presence.

Even the name of Clarence had moved so many men to laughter in this sweltering little desert town that Farnsworth had lately chopped his name to "Clare." Yet this latter had proved even worse; it sounded too nearly like a girl's name.

So far as his financial condition went, Clarence had the look of one who possessed money to spend. He was well-dressed, lived at the Mansion House, often hired automobiles, entertained his friends lavishly, and was voted a good enough fellow, though a simpleton.

"My fly's growing skittish, stranger," smiled Jim Duff. "He's on the point of moving. You'd better whisper to your fly."

"I believe, friend," rejoined Clarence, "that my fly is taking nap. He appears to be sound asleep. You certainly picked the more healthy fly."

Jim Duff gave his barber an all but imperceptible nudge in one elbow. Though he gave no sign in return, that barber understood, and shifted his shears in a way that, even at distance, alarmed the fly on the mirror before Duff.

"Buzz-zz!" The fly in front of the gambler took wing and vanished toward the rear of the store.

Some of the Arizona men looking on smiled knowingly. They had realized from the start that young Farnsworth had stood no show of winning the stupid wager.

"You win," stated young Clarence, in a tone that betrayed no annoyance.

Drawing a roll of bills from his pocket, he fumbled until he found a twenty. This he passed to Duff, sitting in the next chair.

"You're not playing in luck to-day," smiled Duff gently, as he tucked away the money in one of his coat pockets. "You're a good sportsman, Farnsworth, at any rate."

"I flatter myself that I am," replied Clarence, blushing slightly.

Jim Duff continued calmly puffing at the cigar that rested between his teeth. They were handsome teeth, though, in some way, they made one think of the teeth of a vicious dog.

"Coming over to the hotel this afternoon?" continued Duff.

"I—I—" hesitated Clarence.

"Coming, did you say?" persisted Duff gently.

"I shall have to see my mail first. There may be letters—"

"Oh," nodded Duff, with just a trace of irony as the younger man again hesitated.

"Life is not all playtime for me, you know," Farnsworth continued, looking rather shamer-faced. "I—er—have some business affairs attention at times."

"Oh, don't try to join me at the hotel this if you have more interesting matters in prospect," smiled the gambler.

Again Clarence flushed. He looked up to Jim Duff as a thorough "man of the world," and wanted to stand well in the gambler's good opinion. Clarence Farnsworth was, as yet, too green to know that, too often, the man who has seen much of the world has seen only its seamy and worthless side. Possibly Farnsworth was destined to learn this later on—after the gambler had coolly fleeced him.

"Before long," Farnsworth went on, changing the subject, "I must get out on the desert and take a look at the quicksand that the railroad folks are trying to cross."

"The railroad people will probably never cross that quicksand," remarked Jim Duff, the lids closing over his eyes for a moment.

"Oh, I don't know about that," continued Farnsworth argumentatively.

"I think I do," declared Jim Duff easily. "My belief, Farnsworth, is that the railroad people might dig up the whole of New Mexico, transport the dirt here and dump it on top of that quicksand, and still the quicksand would settle lower and lower and the tracks would still break up and disappear. There's no bottom to that quicksand."

"Of course you ought to know all about it, Duff," Clarence made haste to answer. "You've lived here for years, and you know all about this section of the country."

That didn't quite suit the gambler. What he sought to do was to raise an argument with the young man—who still had some money left.

"What makes you think, Farnsworth, that the railroad can win out with the desert and lay tracks across the quicksand? That's a bad quicksand, you know. It has been called the 'Man-killer.' Many a prospector or cow-puncher has lost his life in trying to get over that sand."

"The real Man-killer quicksand is a mile to the south of where the tracks go, isn't it?" asked Farnsworth.

"Yes; and the first party of railway surveyors who went over the line for their track thought they had dodged the Man-killer. Yet what they'll find, in the end, is that the Man-killer is a bad affair, and that it extends, under the earth, in many directions and for long distances. I am certain that railway tracks will never be laid over any part of the Man-killer."

"Perhaps not," assented Clarence meekly.

"What makes you think that the railroad can ever get across the Man-killer?" persisted Duff.

"Why, for one thing, the very hopeful report of the new engineers who have taken charge."

"Humph!" retorted Duff, as though that one word of contempt disposed of the matter.

"Reade and Hazelton are very good engineers, are they not?" inquired young Farnsworth.

"Humph! A pair of mere boys," sneered Jim Duff.

"Young fellows of about my age, you mean?" asked Farnsworth.

"Of your age?" repeated Duff, in a tone of wonder. "No! You're a man. Reade and Hazelton, as I've told you, are mere boys. They're not of age. They've never voted."

"Oh, I had no idea that they were as young as that," replied Clarence, much pleased at hearing himself styled a man. "But these young engineers come from one of the Colorado, railroads, don't they!"

"I wouldn't be surprised," nodded the gambler. "However, the Man-killer is no task for boys. It is a job for giants to put through, if the job ever can be finished."

"Then, if it's so difficult, why doesn't the road shift the track by two or three miles?" inquired Clarence.

"You certainly are a newcomer here," laughed Duff easily. "Why, my son, the railroad was chartered on condition that it run through certain towns. Paloma, here, is one of the towns. So the road has to come here."

"But couldn't the road shift, just after it leaves here?" insisted Clarence.

"Oh, certainly. Yet, if the road shifted enough to avoid any possibility of resting on the big Man-killer, then it would have to go through the range beyond here—would have to tunnel under the hills for a distance of three miles. That would cost millions of dollars. No, sir; the railroad will have to lay tracks across the Man-killer, or else it will have to stand a loss so great as to cripple the road."

"Excuse me, sir," interrupted a keen, brisk, breezy-looking man, who had entered the shop only a moment or two before. "There's a way that the railroad can get over the Man-killer."

"What is that?" asked Duff, eyeing the newcomer's reflected image in the mirror.

"The first thing to do," replied the stranger, "is to drop these boy engineers out of the game. These youngsters came down here four days ago, looked over the scene, and promised that they could get the tracks laid-safely—for about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

"Pooh!" jeered Duff, with a sidelong glance at young Farnsworth.

"Of course it is pooh!" laughed the stranger. "The thing can it be done for any such amount as that, and it is a crazy idea, to take the opinions of boys, anyway, on any such subject as that. Now, there's a Chicago firm of contractors, the Colthwaite Construction Company, which has proposed to take over the whole contract for laying tracks across the Man-killer. These boys figure on using dirt and then more dirt, and still more, until they've satisfied the appetite of the Man-killer, filled up the quicksand and laid a bed of solid earth on which the tracks will run safely for the next hundred years. The Colthwaite people have looked over the whole proposition. They know that it can't be done. The two hundred and fifty thousand dollars will be wasted, and then the Colthwaite Company will have to come in, after all, drive its pillars of steel and concrete, lay well-founded beds and get a basis that will hold the new earth above it. Then the track will be safe, and the people of this part of Arizona will have a railroad of which they can be proud. But these boys—these kids in railroad building—humph!"

"Humph!" agreed Jim Duff dryly.

The gambler using the mirror before him, continued to study keenly this stranger, even after the latter had ceased talking and had gone to one of the chairs to wait his turn.

"You're through, sir," announced the barber who had been trying to improve the gambler's appearance. "Thank you, sir. Next."

Clarence, wholly crushed by the weight of opinion, was not yet through with his barber. Duff, after lighting a fresh cigar, stepped over to where the newcomer was seated.

"Are you stopping at the Mansion House?" inquired the gambler.

"Yes," answered the stranger, looking up.

"So am I," nodded the gambler. "So I shall probably have the pleasure of meeting you again."

"Why, yes; I trust so," replied the stranger, after a quick, keen look at Duff. Undoubtedly this newcomer was accustomed to judging men quickly after seeing them.

"These boy engineers!" chucked Duff. "Humph!"

"Humph!" agreed the stranger.

At this moment two bronzed-looking, erect young men came tramping down the sidewalk together. Each looked the picture of health, of courage, of decision. Both wore the serviceable khaki now so common in surveying camps in warm climates. Below the knee the trousers were confined by leggings. Above the belt blue flannel shirts showed, yet these were of excellent fabric and looked trim indeed. To protect their heads and to shade their eyes as much as possible from the glare of Arizona desert sand, these young men wore sombreros of the type common in the Army.

"This looks like a good place, Harry," said the taller of the two young men. "Suppose we go inside."

They stepped into the barber shop together, nodding pleasantly to all inside. Then, hanging up their sombreros, they passed on to unoccupied chairs.

Just in the act of passing out, Jim Duff had stepped back to admit them.

"They're Reade and Hazelton, the very young engineers that the railroad has just put in charge of the Man-killer job," whispered one knowing citizen of Paloma. The news quickly spread about the barber shop.

Jim Duff already knew the boys by sight, since they were stopping at the Mansion House. He uttered an almost inaudible "humph!" then passed on outside.

Neither Tom Reade nor Harry Hazelton heard this exclamation, nor would they have paid any heed to it if they had.

Yes; the two young men were our friends of old, the young engineers. Our readers are wholly familiar with Tom and Harry as far back as their grammar school days in the good old town of Gridley. Tom and Harry were members of that famous sextet of schoolboy athletes known at home as Dick & Co. The exploits of Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton, as of Dick Prescott, Dave Darrin, Greg Holmes and Dan Dalzell, have been fully told, first in the "Grammar School Boys Series," and then in the "High School Boys Series."

After the close of the "High School Boys Series" the further adventures of Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes are told in the "West Point Series," while all that befell Dave Darrin and Dan Dalzell has already been found in the pages of the "Annapolis Series."

In the preceding volume of this series, "The Young Engineers in Colorado," our readers were made familiar with the real start in working life made by Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton. Back in the old High School days Reade and Hazelton had been fitting themselves to become civil engineers. They began their real work in the east, and had made good in sterner work in the mountains in Colorado.

Our readers all know how Tom and Harry opened their careers in Colorado by becoming "cub engineers" with one of the field camps of the S. B. & L. railroad. Taken only on trial, they had rapidly made good, and had earned the confidence of the chief engineer in charge of the work. When, owing to the sudden illness of both the chief engineer and his principal assistant the road's work had been crippled, Tom and Harry had had the courage as well as the opportunity to take hold, assume the direction, and complete the building of the S. B. & L. within the time required by the road's charter.

Had the young engineers failed, the S. B. & L., under the terms granted by the state, might have been seized and sold at public auction. In that case, the larger, and rival road, the W. C. & A., stood ready to buy out the S. B. & L. and reap the profits that the latter road had planned to earn. Not only had the young engineers succeeded in overcoming all natural obstacles, but, in a series of wonderful adventures, they had defeated the plots of agents of the W. C. & A. From that time on Tom and Harry had been famous in Colorado railroad circles.

After the S. B. & L. had been finished and put in operation, Tom Reade had remained with the railroad for several months, still serving as chief engineer, with Harry Hazelton as his trusted and dependable assistant.

Now, at last, they had been lured away from the S. B. & L. by the offer of a new chance to overcome difficulties of the sort that all fighting engineers love to encounter. The Arizona, Gulf & New Mexico Railroad— more commonly known as the A., G. & N. M.—while laying its tracks in an attempt at record-beating, had come afoul of the problem of the quicksand, as already outlined. Three different sets of engineers had attempted the feat of filling up the quicksand, only to abandon it.

There was little doubt that the Colthwaite Construction Company, a contracting firm with years of successful experience, could have, "stopped" the quicksand, but this Chicago firm wanted far more money for the job than the railroad people felt they could afford to spend.

So, in a moment of doubt, and harassed by troubles, one of the directors of the A., G. & N. M. had remembered the names and the performances of Tom and Harry. This director of the Arizona road, being a friend of President Newnham, of the S. B. & L. road, had written the latter, asking whether the services of Tom and Harry could be secured. The reply had been in the affirmative, and Tom and Harry had speedily traveled down into Arizona. In the few days they had been at this little town of Paloma, they had gone thoroughly over the ground, they had studied the problem, and had expressed their opinion that the job could be put through creditably at a cost not exceeding a quarter of a million dollars.

"Go to it, then!" General Manager Curtis had replied. "You have our road's credit at your command, and we look to you to make good. You are both very young, but Newnham's word is quite good enough for us."

The day before this story opens this general manager had boarded one of the rough-looking construction trains and had gone back to the road's headquarters.

As they sat in the barber shop now Tom and Harry were quite unaware of the interested notice they were receiving. This was not surprising, for both were good, sane, wholesome American boys, with no more than the average share of conceit, and neither believed himself to be as much of a wonder as some experienced railroad men credited them with being.

"Stranger, excuse me, but you're Reade, aren't you?" inquired one of the men of Paloma who was present.

"Yes, sir," nodded Tom, looking up pleasantly from the weekly paper that he had been scanning.

"You're head of the new job on the Man-killer, aren't you?" questioned the same man. By this time every man in the barber shop was secretly watching the young engineers, a fact that was plain to Harry Hazelton, as he glanced up from a magazine.

"Yee, sir," Tom answered again. "In a way I'm at the head of it, but my friend, Hazelton, is really as much at the head as I am. We are partners, and we work together in everything."

"Do you think, Reade, that you're going to win out on the job?" inquired another man.

"Yes, sir," nodded Tom.

"You seem very confident about it," smiled another.

"It's just a way we have," Tom assented good-naturedly. "We always try to keep our nerve and our confidence with us."

"Yet you are really sure?"

"Oh! yes," Reade answered. "We have looked the quicksand over, and we feel sure that we see a way of stopping the Man-killer, and forcing it to sustain railroad ties and steel rails."

"How are you going; to go about it?" questioned still another interested citizen. These men of Paloma had good reason for being interested. When the iron road was finished, Paloma would be an intimate part of the now outside world. It was certain that Paloma real estate would rise to three or four times its present value.

"I know you'll excuse us," replied Tom, still speaking pleasantly, "if we don't go into precise details."

"Then you are going to make a secret of your plans?" inquired another barber-shop idler. His tone expressed merely curiosity; Arizona men are proverbially as polite as they are frank.

"We're somewhat secretive—yes, sir," Tom replied. "That is only because we regard the method we are going to use as being mainly the concern of the A., G. & N. M. No offense meant, sir, either."

"No offense taken," replied the late questioner.

Tom had already, within a few minutes, made an excellent impression on the majority of these Arizona men present.

As to the other newcomer, who had lately spoken so warmly of the Colthwaite Company, he was now silent, apparently greatly absorbed in a three-days-old newspaper that he had picked up. Yet he managed to cast more than one covert glance at the boys.

"I have heard both of you young men spoken of most warmly, as real engineers who are going to solve the problem of the Man-killer," declared Clarence Farnsworth, as, alighting from the barber's chair, he strolled past the pair.

"Thank you," nodded Tom, with all his usual simple good nature.

"If you make a successful job of it is will be a splendid thing for you in your professional careers," continued Farnsworth, rather aimlessly.

"Undoubtedly," nodded Harry.

The stranger who had held so much converse with Jim Duff was through with the barber at last. Though the day was scorchingly hot in this desert town, the stranger stepped along briskly until he had reached the hotel.

The Mansion House would scarcely have measured up to the hotel standards of large cities. Yet it was a very good hotel, indeed, for this part of Arizona, and the proprietor did all in his power for the comfort of his guests.

As the stranger ascended the steps to the broad porch he caught sight of Jim Duff, approaching the doorway from the inside.

"Oh, how do you do?" was Duff's greeting. "Hot, isn't it?"

"Very," nodded the stranger.

"I usually have my luncheon in my room, which is large and airy," continued Duff. "As I dislike to eat alone, I have ordered the table spread for two. I shall be very glad of your company, stranger, if you care to honor me."

"That is kind of you," nodded the other. "I shall accept with much pleasure, for I, too, like to eat in good company."

After a little more conversation the two ascended to Duff's room on the next floor. Certainly it was the largest and most comfortable guest room in the hotel, and was furnished in good taste. The main apartment was set as a gentlemen's lounging room, Duff's bedroom furniture being in a little room at the rear.

Hardly had Duff pressed the bell button before there came a tap at the door. One waiter brought in a table for two, with the napery. This he quickly arranged. As he turned toward the door two other waiters entered with dishes containing a dainty meal for a hot day.

"You may arrange everything and then leave us, John," directed Duff. Soon the two new acquaintances were alone together, the gambler serving the light meal with considerable grace.

"How long have you been with the Colthwaite Company?" asked Jim Duff presently.

"I didn't say that I had ever been with the Colthwaite Company," smiled the stranger.

"No," admitted the gambler; "but I took that much for granted."

Again the eyes of the two men met in an exchange of keen looks, Then the stranger laughed.

"Mr. Duff, I realize that it is a waste of time to try to conceal rather evident facts from you. I am Frederick Ransom, a special agent for the Colthwaite Company."

"You are down here to get the contract for filling up the Man-killer quicksand?" Duff continued, with an air of polite curiosity.

"The contract is not to be awarded," Ransom answered. "The A., G. & N. M. has decided to do the work itself, with the assistance of two young engineers who have been retained."

"Reade and Hazelton," nodded Jim Duff.

"Yes."

"They may fail—are almost sure to do so. Then, of course, Mr. Ransom, you will have a very excellent chance of securing the contract for the Colthwaite Company."

"Why, yes; if the young men do fail."

"Will you pardon a stranger's curiosity, Mr. Ransom? Have you laid your plans yet for the way in which the young men are to fail?"

From most strangers this direct questioning would have been offensive. Jim Duff, however, from long experience in fleecing greenhorns, had acquired a manner and way, of speaking that stood him in good stead.

After a moment's half-embarrassed silence Fred Ransom burst into a laugh that was wholly good-natured.

"Mr. Duff, You are unusually clever at reading other's motives," he replied.

"I went to school as a youngster, and learned how to read the pages of open books," the gambler confessed modestly. "So you have, as yet, no plan for compelling the young engineers to fail and quit at the Man-killer?"

This was such a direct, comprehensive question that Fred Ransom remained silent for some moments before he admitted:

"No; as yet I haven't been able to form a plan."

"Then engage me to help you," spoke Jim Duff slowly, coolly. "I know the country here, and the people. I know where to lay my finger on men who can be trusted to do unusual things. I shall come high, Mr. Ransom, but I am really worth the money. Talk it over with me, and convince me that your company will be sufficiently liberal in return for large favors."

"Oh, the Colthwaite Company would be liberal enough," protested Ransom, "and quick to hand out the cash, at that."

"I took that for granted," smiled Duff, showing his white teeth. "Your people, the Colthwaites, have always been accustomed to paying for favors that require unusual talent, some courage-and perhaps a persistency of the shooting kind."

Then the two rascals, who now thoroughly understood each other, fell to plotting. An hour later the outlook was dark, indeed, for the success of Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton.

II. DUFF ASSERTS HIS "RIGHTS"

"We've a hard afternoon ahead of us, Harry," remarked Tom Reade, as the engineer chums finished the noonday meal in the public dining room of the Mansion House.

"Pshaw! We'll have more real work to do after our material arrives," rejoined young Hazelton. "We're promised the material in four days. If we get it in a fortnight we will be lucky."

"That might be true on some railroads," smiled Tom. "But Mr. Ellsworth, the general manager of the A., G. & N. M., is a hustler, if I ever met one. When we wired to him what we needed, he wired back that enough of the material would be here within four days to keep us busy for some time. I believe Mr. Ellsworth never talks until he knows what he's talking about."

"Well, I hope you can find some work for the men to do this afternoon," murmured Harry, as the two young engineers rose from table. "Hawkins, our superintendent of construction, has about five hundred mechanics and laborers who will soon need work."

"Yes," agreed Tom. "The men took the jobs with the understanding that their pay would run on."

"The day's wages for five hundred workmen is a big item of loss when we're delayed," mused Hazelton.

"There's another consideration that's even worse than the loss," Tom went on in a low voice. "The pay train will be here this afternoon and the men will have a lot of money by evening. This town of Paloma is going to be wide open to-night in the effort to get the money away from our five hundred men."

"We can't stop that," sighed Harry. "We have no control over the way in which the workmen choose to spend their money."

"Want me to tell you a secret?" whispered Tom mysteriously.

"Yes, if it's an interesting one," smiled Harry.

"Very good, then. I know I can't actually interfere with the way the men spend their money. But I'm going to give them some earnest advice about avoiding fellows who would fleece them out of their wages."

"Go slowly, Tom!" warned Hazelton, opening his eyes rather wide. "Don't put yourself in bad with the men, or they may quit you in a body."

"Let them," retorted Tom, with one of his easy smiles. "If these men throw up their work General Manager Ellsworth will know where to find others for us. Few of our men are skilled workers. We can find substitutes for most of them anywhere that laborers can be found."

"But you've no right—"

"Of one thing you may be very sure, Harry. I'll take pains not to step over the line of my own rights, and not to step on the rights of the men who are working for us. What I mean to do is to offer them some very straight talk. I shall also warn them that we are quite ready to discharge any foolish fellows who may happen to go on sprees and unfit themselves for our work. I've one surprise to show you, Harry. Wait until Johnson, the paymaster, gets in. Then you'll see who else is with him."

"Are you gentlemen ready for your horses?" asked a stable boy, coming around to the front of the hotel.

"Yes," nodded Tom.

Two tough, lean, wiry desert ponies were brought around. Tom and Harry mounted, riding away at a slow trot at first.

From an upper window Fred Ransom looked down upon them, then called Duff to his side.

"There is your game, Duff," hinted the agent.

"They'll be easy to a man of my experience," laughed the gambler. "I've a clever scheme for starting trouble with them."

He whispered a few words in his companion's ears, at which Ransom laughed with apparent enjoyment.

"You're a keen one, Duff," grinned the agent from Chicago.

"I've seen enough of life," boasted the gambler quietly, "to be able to judge most people at first sight. You shall soon see whether I don't succeed in starting some hard feeling with Reade and Hazelton."

The nearer edge of the treacherous Man-killer was something more than two miles west of the town of Paloma. In the course of a quarter of an hour Tom and Harry drew rein near a portable wooden building that served as an office in the field.

Mr. Hawkins, a solid-looking, bearded man of fifty, with snapping eyes that contrasted with his drawling speech, stepped from the building.

"Hawkins," called Tom, as a Mexican boy led the horses away to the shade of a stable tent, "I see you have some men idle."

"Nine-tenths of 'em are idle," replied the superintendent of construction. "I warned you, Mr. Reade, that our gangs would soon eat up the little work that you left us. Out there, by the last cave-in you'll see that Foreman Payson, has about fifty men going. They'll be through within an hour."

"And the material, even if delivered within the promised time, is still two days away," remarked Reade. "I'll confess that I don't like to see the railroad lose so much through paying men for idle time."

"It can't be helped, sir," replied the superintendent. "Of course, if you like, you can set the laborers at work shoveling in more dirt at the points where the last slide of the quicksand occurred. But, then, shoveling dirt in, without the timbers and the hollow steel piles will do no good," continued Hawkins, with a shake of his head. "It would be worse than wasted work."

"I know all that," Tom admitted. "To tell you the truth, Mr. Hawkins, I wouldn't mind the men's idleness quite so much if it weren't that the pay train comes in this afternoon. An idle man, not over-nice about his habits, and with a lot of money in his pockets, is a source of danger. We're going to have five hundred such danger spots as soon as the men are paid off."

"Don't know that, sir!" demanded Superintendent Hawkins. "The town of Paloma is just dancing on sand-paper, it's so uneasy about getting its hand into the pile of more than thirty-eight thousand dollars that the pay train is going to bring in this afternoon."

"I know," nodded Tom rather gloomily. "I hate to see the men fleeced as they're likely to be fleeced to-night. Some of our men will be so badly done up that it will be a week before they get back to work—unless there is some way that we can stop the fleecing."

"There isn't any such way," declared Superintendent Hawkins, with an air of conviction.

"You've surely been around rough railroading camps enough to know that, Mr. Reade."

"I've seen a good deal of the life, Hawkins," Tom answered, "but of course I don't know it all."

"Yet you know that you can't hope to stop railroad jacks from spending their money in their own way. The saloons in Paloma will take in thousands of dollars from our lads to-night and all day to-morrow. The gamblers will swindle them out of a whole lot more. Day after to-morrow, Mr. Reade, you wouldn't be able to borrow twenty dollars from our whole force."

"It's a shame," burst from Tom indignantly, as the three turned to gaze westward across the desert. "These men work as hard as any toilers in the world. They receive good wages. Yet where do you find a railroad jack who, after years and years of toil on these burning deserts, has two or three hundred dollars of his own saved?"

Hawkins shrugged his shoulders.

"I know all about it," he responded, "and I grow angry every time I think about it. Yet how is one going to protect these, men against themselves?"

"I believe there's a way," spoke Tom confidently.

"I hope you can find it, then, Mr. Reade," retorted Hawkins skeptically.

"At any rate, I'm going to try."

"What are you going to do, Mr. Reade?" demanded the superintendent curiously.

"You'll be with me, won't you?" coaxed Tom.

"You'll stand with us, shoulder to shoulder."

"I certainly will, Mr. Reade!"

"And the foremen? You can depend upon them?"

"On every one of them," declared Hawkins promptly. "Even to the Mexican foreman, Mendoza. He's a greaser, but he's a brick, and a white man all the way through!"

"Call the foremen in, then—all except Payson, who is with his gang."

Tom and Harry stepped inside the office. Mr. Hawkins strolled away, but within ten minutes he was back again, followed by Foremen Bell, Rivers and Mendoza.

"Two wagons have driven up, east of here," announced Mr. Hawkins, as he entered the office building. "They've stopped a quarter of a mile below here and have dumped two tents. I think they're about to raise them."

Tom stepped hastily outside, glancing eastward, where they saw what the superintendent had described. One of the tents had just been raised, though the pitching of it had not yet been thoroughly done.

"What crowd is that?" Reade asked. "Who is at the head of it?"

"I see one man there—the only man in good clothes—who looks like Jim Duff," replied the superintendent, using his field glasses.

"The gambler?" asked Tom sharply.

"The same."

"He's pitching his tent on the railroad's dirt, isn't he!"

"Yes, sir."

"Come along. We'll have a look at that place."

A few minutes of brisk walking brought the young engineers, the superintendent and the three foremen to the spot.

Tent number one had been pitched. It was a circular tent, some forty feet in diameter. The second tent, only a little smaller, was now being hoisted.

"Who's in charge of this work?" asked Tom in his usual pleasant tone.

"My manager, Mr. Bemis—Dock Bemis," answered Jim Duff suavely, as he moved forward to meet the party. "Dock, come here. I want you to know Mr. Reade, the engineer in charge of this job."

Duff's manners were impudently easy and assured. The fellow known as Dock Bemis, an unprepossessing, shabbily dressed man of thirty-five, with a mean face and an ugly-looking eye, came forward.

"I'll take Mr. Bemis's acquaintance for granted," Tom continued, with an easy smile. "You own this outfit, don't you, Mr. Duff?"

"I've rented it, if you mean the tents, tables and chairs," assented the gambler. "I've a stock of liquors coming over as soon as I send one of the wagons back."

"What do you propose to do with all this?" Tom inquired.

"Why, of course, you see," smiled Duff, with all the suavity in the world, "as your boys are going to be paid off this afternoon they'll want to go somewhere to enjoy themselves. As the day is very hot I thought it would be showing good intentions if I brought an outfit over here. I'll have everything ready within an hour."

"So that you can get our men intoxicated and fleece them more easily?" asked Tom, with his best smile. "Is that the idea?"

Jim buff flushed angrily. Then his face became pale.

"It's a crude way you have of expressing it, Mr. Reade, if you Ill allow me to say so," the gambler answered, in a voice choked with anger. "I am going to offer your men a little amusement. It's what they need, and what they'll insist upon. Do you see? There's a small mob coming this way now."

Tom turned, discovering about a hundred railroad laborers coming down the road.

"Mr. Duff," asked the young chief engineer, "can you show any proof of your authority to erect tents on the railroad's land?"

"What other place around here, Mr. Reade, would be as convenient?" demanded the gambler.

"I repeat my question, sir! Have you any authority or warrant for erecting tents here?"

"Do you mean, have I a permit from the railroad company?"

"You know very well what I mean, Duff."

Though Reade's tone was somewhat sharper, his smile was as genial as ever.

"I didn't imagine you'd have any objection to my coming here," the gambler replied evasively.

"Have you any authority to be on the railroad's land's?" persisted Tom Reade. "Yes or no?"

"No-o-o-o, I haven't, unless I can persuade you to see how reasonable it is that your men should be provided with enjoyment right at their own camp."

"Take the tents down, then, as quickly as you can accomplish it," directed Tom, though in a quiet voice.

"And—if I don't?" asked Duff, smiling dangerously and displaying his white, dog-like teeth.

"Then I shall direct one of the foremen to call a sufficient force, Mr. Duff, to take down your tents and remove them from railroad property. I am not seeking trouble with you, sir; I don't want trouble. But, as long as I remain in charge here no gambling or drinking places are going to be opened on the railroad's land."

"Mr. Reade," inquired the gambler, his smile fading, "do you object to giving me a word in private?"

"Not at all," Tom declared. "But it won't help your plans."

"I'd like just a word with you alone," coaxed the gambler.

Nodding, Reade stepped away with the gambler to a distance of a hundred feet or so from the rapidly increasing crowd.

"I expect to make a little money out of this tent outfit, of course," explained Jim Duff.

"I expect that you won't make a dollar out of it—on railway property," returned Reade steadily.

"I'm going to make a little money—not much," Duff went on. "Now, if I can make the whole deal with you, and if no one else is allowed to bother me, I can afford to pass you one hundred dollars a day for the tent privilege."

Before even expectant Tom realized what was happening, Duff had pressed a wad of paper money into his hand.

"What is this?" demanded Reade.

"Don't let everyone see it," warned the gambler. "You'll find two hundred dollars there, in bills. That's for the first two days of our tent privilege here."

"You contemptible hound!" exclaimed Tom angrily.

Whish! The tightly folded wad of bank notes left Tom's hand, landing squarely in Jim Duff Is face.

In an instant the gambler's face turned white. His hand flew back to a pocket in which he carried a pistol.

III. TOM MAKES A SPEECH ON GAMBLING

"Cut out the gun-play! That doesn't go here!" Tom uttered warningly.

One swift step forward, and one hand caught Jim Duff by the throat. With the other hand Tom caught Duff's right wrist and wrenched away the pistol that instantly appeared in the gambler's hand.

The weapon Tom threw on the ground, some feet away. Then, with eyes blazing with contempt, Tom Reade struck the gambler heavily across the face with the flat of his hand. Hard work had added to the young engineer's muscle of earlier days, and the gambler was staggered.

Another instant, and Superintendent Hawkins who, with Hazelton and the foremen, had run up to them, seized Duff roughly from behind, holding his arms pinioned.

Harry Hazelton picked up the revolver. Quickly opening it, he drew out the cartridges.

"Mr. Bell!" called Harry, and the foreman of that name hastened to him.

"Take this thing back to the office and break it up with a hammer," directed young Hazelton, as he passed the revolver to the foreman. The latter sped away on his errand.

"Let Duff go, Mr. Hawkins," directed Tom. "I'm not afraid of him. Duff, I wish to apologize to you for striking you in the face. I wouldn't allow any man to do that to me. But your action in reaching for a pistol was so childish—or cowardly, whichever you prefer to call it—that I admit I forgot myself for a moment. Now, you are not going to erect any tents for gambling or other unworthy purposes on the railroad's property. It's bad business to let you do anything of the sort. I trust that there will be no hard feeling between us."

"Hard feeling?" hissed Jim Duff, his wicked-looking face paler than ever. "Boy, you needn't try to crawl back into my good graces after the way you acted toward me!"

"I'm not trying to crawl into your esteem, or to get there by any other means," Tom answered quietly, though with a firmness that caused superintendent and foremen to feel a new respect for their young chief engineer. "At the same time, Duff, I don't believe in stirring up bad blood with anyone. You and I haven't the same way of regarding your line of business. That's the main difficulty. As I can't see your point of view, it would be hardly fair to expect you to understand my way of regarding what you wished to do here. Your tents will have to come down and be moved, but I have no personal feeling in the matter. How soon can you get your tents down?"

"They are not coming down, I tell you!" snarled the gambler.

"That's where you and I fail once more to agree," replied Tom steadily, looking the other straight in the eyes. "It's merely a question of whether you will take them down, or whether I shall set our own men to doing it."

Jim Duff had brought with him about a dozen men of his own. They were a somewhat picturesque-looking crowd, though not necessarily dangerous men. They were mostly men who had been hired to run the gaming tables under the canvas. A judge of men would have immediately classified them as inferior specimens of manhood.

So far these men had not offered to take any part in the dispute. Now Duff moved over to them quickly, muttering the words:

"Stand by me!"

As for Tom Reade, he was backed by five men, including his chum. Though none of Reade's force was armed, the young engineer knew that he could depend upon them.

Followed by his adherents, Duff took a few quick strides forward. This brought him face to face with Reade's labors, of whom now more than two hundred were present.

"Are you men or squaws?" called, Duff loudly. "I have brought the stuff over here for a merry night of it. This boy says you can't have your enjoyment. Are you going to let him rule you in that fashion, or are you going to throw him out of here?"

There came from the crowd a gradually increasing murmur of rage.

"Throw this boy out, if you're men!" Duff jeered. "Throw him out, I say, and send word to your railroad people to put a man here in his place."

The murmurs increased, especially from the Mexicans, for the Mexican peon, or laborer, is often a furious gambler who will stake even the shirt on his back.

Foreman Mendoza, who understood his own people, started forward, but Tom, with a signal, caused him to halt.

"Throw him out, I say!" yelled Duff shrilly. "Duff, I'm afraid you're making a fool of yourself," remarked Tom, stepping forward, smiling cheerfully.

Yet another murmur, now growing to a yell, rose from some of the men—a few of the men, too, who were not Mexicans, and a half-hearted rush was made in the young engineer's direction.

"Throw him out! Hustle the boy out!" Duff urged.

"Stop! Stop right in your tracks!" thundered Tom Reade, taking still another step toward the now angrier crowd. "Men, listen to me, and you'll get a proper understanding of this affair. Jim Duff wants me thrown out of here—"

"Yes! And out you'll go!" roared a voice from the rear of the crowd.

"That's a question that the next few minutes will settle," Tom rejoined, with a smile. "If Jim Duff wants me thrown out of here, why don't you men tell him to do it himself?"

The force of this suggestion, with the memory of what they had recently seen, struck home with many of the men. A shout of laughter went up, followed by yells of:

"That's right—dead right!"

"Sail in, Jim!"

"Throw him out, Jim! We'll see fair play!"

Tom made an ironical bow in the direction of the gambler.

"Have you men gone crazy!" yelled Jim Duff hoarsely.

"Have you lost your nerve, Jim?" bawled a lusty American laborer. "You want this boy, as you call him, thrown out, and we're waiting to see you do it. It you haven't the nerve to tackle the job, then you're not a man to give us orders!"

Tom's smiling good humor and his fair proposition had swung the balance of feeling against the gambler. Duff saw that he had lost ground.

"Boy," called a few voices, "if Duff won't throw you out, then you turn the tables and throw him out."

"It isn't necessary," laughed Tom. "After the tents are gone Duff won't have any desire to remain around here. Mr. Duff, I ask you for the last time, will you have your men take down the tents and remove them?"

"I won't!" snarled the gambler.

"Mr. Rivers!" called Tom.

"Yes, sir," replied the foreman, stepping forward.

"Mr. Rivers, take twenty-five laborers and bring the tents down at once. Be careful to see that no damage is done. As soon as they are down you will load them on the wagons."

"Yes, sir."

"On second thought, you had better take fifty men. See that the work is done as promptly as possible."

The Mexicans, who were in the majority, and nearly all of whom were wildly eager to gamble as soon as their money arrived, stirred uneasily. They might have interfered, but Foreman Mendoza ran among his countrymen, calling out to them vigorously in Spanish, and with so much emphasis that the men sullenly withdrew.

Foreman Rivers speedily had his fifty men, together, none of whom were Mexicans.

"Touch a single guy-rope at your peril!" warned Jim Duff menacingly, but big Superintendent Hawkins seized the gambler by the shoulders, gently, though, firmly, removing him from the vicinity of the tents.

All in a flash the work was done. Canvas and poles were loaded on to the wagons. Mr. Rivers's men had entered so thoroughly into the spirit of the thing that, they forced the drivers to start off, and the gambler's men to follow.

Goaded to the last ditch of desperation, Jim Duff now strode over to where Tom stood. No one opposed him, nor did Reade's smile fail.

"Boy, you've had your laugh, just now," announced the gambler, in his most threatening, tone. "It will be your last laugh."

"Oh, I hope not," drawled Tom.

"You will know more within twenty-four hours. You have treated me, with your own crowd about you, like a dog."

"You're wrong again," laughed Tom.. "Jim is fond of dogs. They are fine fellows."

"You may laugh as much as you want, just now," jeered Jim Duff. "You've made an enemy, and one of the worst in Arizona! I won't waste any more talk on you—except to warn you."

"Warn me? About what?" asked Tom curiously.

Instead of answering, Jim Duff turned on his heel, stalking off with a majesty that, somehow, looked sadly damaged.

"He has warned you," murmured Superintendent Hawkins in an undertone. "That is your hint that Duff will fight you to the death at the first opportunity."

"May it be long in coming!" uttered Tom devoutly.

Then, as he turned about and saw scores of laborers coming in his direction, Reade remembered what he wished to do.

"Mr. Hawkins," he continued, turning toward the superintendent, "I see that Mr. Payson's gang is coming in from work. As all our men are now idle, I wish you would direct the foremen to see that all hands assemble here. I have something to say to them."

Within ten minutes the five hundred laborers and mechanics had been gathered in a compact crowd. Now that the excitement of hustling the gambler off the scene had died away, many of the men were sorry that they had not made their disapproval plainer. Though Tom Reade plainly understood the mood of the men, he mounted a barrel, holding up both hands as a sign for silence.

"Now, men," he began, "you all know that the pay train is due here this afternoon. You are all eager to get your money—for what? It is a strange fact that gold is the carrion that draws all of the vultures. A few minutes ago you saw one of the vultures here, preparing to get his supposed share of your money away from you. Does Jim Duff care a hang about any of you? Do any of you care anything whatever for Jim Duff? Then why should you be so eager to get into one of his tents and let him take your money away from you?

"It is true that, once in a while, a solitary player gets a few dollars away from a gambler. Yet, in the end, the gambler has every dollar of the crowd that patronizes him. You men have been out in the hot sun for weeks, working hard to earn the money that the pay train is bringing you. Has Jim Duff done any work in the last few weeks? While you men have been toiling and sweating, what has Duff been doing? Hasn't he been going around wearing the clothes and the air of a gentleman, while you men have been giving all but your lives for your dollars, while you have been denied most of the comforts of living. Hasn't Duff been up at the Mansion House, living on the fat of the land and smiling to himself every time he thought of you men, who would be ready to hand him all of your money as soon as it came to you? Is the gambler, who grows fat on the toil of others, but never toils himself, any better than the vulture that feeds upon the animals killed by others? Isn't the gambler a parasite, pure and simple? On whose lifeblood does the gambler feed, unless it's on yours?"

Tom continued his harangue, becoming more and more intense, yet carrying his talk along in all simplicity, and with a directness that made scores of the workmen look sheepish.

"Whenever you find a man anywhere who professes to be working for your good, or for your amusement, and who gets all the benefit in the end, why don't you open your eyes to him?" Tom inquired presently. "Over in Paloma there are saloon keepers who are cleaning up their dives and opening new lots of liquor that they feel sure they're going to sell you to-night. These dive keepers are ready to welcome you with open arms, and they'll try to make you feel that you're royal good fellows and that they are the best friends you have in the world. Yet, to-morrow morning, how will the property be divided? The keepers of these saloons and Jim Duff will have all your money and what will you have?"

Tom paused, whipping out a white handkerchief that he deftly bound around his head, meanwhile looking miserable.

"That's what you men will have—and that's all that you'll have left," croaked the young chief engineer dismally. "Now, friends, is the game worth a candle of that sort? How many of you have money in the bank? Let every man here who has put up his hand. Not one of you? Who's keeping your money in bank for you? Jim Duff and the sellers of poisons? Will they ever hand your money back to you? Some of you men have dear ones at home. If one of these dear ones sends a hurried, frenzied appeal for money in time of sickness or death what will your answer have to be? Just this: 'I have been working like a slave for a year, but I can send you only my love. Jim Duff, who hasn't worked in all his life, won't let me send you any money.' Friends, is that what you're burning yourselves black on the desert for?"

While Tom Reade spoke Foreman Mendoza had marshaled his Mexicans and was translating the young engineer's words into Spanish.

Nor was it long ere Tom's fine presentation of the matter caught the men in the nobler part of their feelings.

"Don't blame Duff so much," Tom finally went on. "He may be a parasite, a vulture, a feeder on blood, but you and men just like you have helped to make the Duffs. You're not going to do so after this, are you, my friends? You're not going to keep the breath of life in monsters who drain you dry of life and manhood?"

"No!" came a thunderous shout, even though all of Reade's hearers did not join in it.

Even the Mexicans, listening to Mendoza's translation, became interested, despite their lesser degree of intelligence.

Tom continued to talk against time, though he wasted few words. All that he said went home to many of the laborers. While he was still talking the whistle of the pay train was heard.

Reade quickly sent his foremen and a few trusted workmen to head off any "runners" who might attempt to come in from Paloma while the men were being paid off.

As the train came to a stop Tom leaped upon a flat car behind the engine and introduced one of the newcomers—the vice president of a savings bank over in Tucson. This man, who knew the common people, talked for fifteen minutes, after which a clerk appeared from the pay car with a book in which to register the signatures of those who wished to open bank accounts. Then the paymaster and his assistants worked rapidly in paying off.

That railroad pay day proved a time of gloom to many in the town of Paloma. The returning pay train carried the bank officials and twenty-four thousand dollars that had been deposited as new accounts from the men. Of the money that remained in camp much of it was carried in the pockets of men who meant to keep it there until they received something worth while it exchange.

True, this did not trouble the majority of people in Paloma, who were sober, decent American citizens engaged in the proper walks of life.

But Jim Duff and a few others held an indignation meeting that night.

"We've been robbed!" complained one indignant saloon keeper.

"Gentlemen," observed Jim Duff, in his oiliest tones, though his face was ghastly white, "you have a new enemy, who threatens your success in business. How are you going to deal with him?"

"We'll run him off the desert, or bury him there!" came the snarling response.

"I can't believe that boy, Reade, will ever succeed in laying the railroad tracks across the Man-killer," smiled Jim Duff darkly within himself.

IV. SOMEBODY STIRS THE MUD

The next morning only a few of the men, some of those who had refused to open bank accounts, failed to show up at the railroad camp.

"There is really nothing to do this morning," Tom remarked to Superintendent Hawkins. "However, I think you had better dock the missing men for time off. If you find that any missing man has been gone on a proper errand of rest or enjoyment, and has not been making a beast of himself, you can restore his docked pay on the lists."

"That's a very good idea," nodded Hawkins. "It always angers me to see these poor, hardworking fellows go away and make fools of themselves just as soon as they get a bit of pay in their pockets. Still, you can't change the whole face of human nature, Mr. Reade."

"I don't expect to do so," smiled Tom. "Yet, if we can get a hundred or two in this outfit to take a sensible view of pay day, and can drill it into them so that it will stick, there will be just that number of happier men in the world. How long have you been in this work on the frontier, Mr. Hawkins?"

"About twenty years, sir."

"Then it must have angered you, many a time, to see the vultures and the parasites fattening on the men who do the real work in life."

"It has," nodded the superintendent. "However, I haven't your gift with the tongue, Mr. Reade, and I've never been able to lead men into the right path as you did yesterday."

Over in the little village of tents where the idle workmen sat through the forenoon there was some restlessness. These men knew that there was nothing for them to do until the construction material arrived, and that they were required only to report in order to keep themselves on the time sheets. Having reported to their foremen and the checkers, they were quite at liberty to go over into Paloma or elsewhere. A few of them had gone. Some others had an uneasy feeling that they wouldn't like to face the contempt in the eyes of the young chief engineer if he happened to see them going away from camp.

"It's none of the business of that chap Reade," growled one of the workmen.

"Of course it isn't," spoke up another. "He talked to us straight yesterday, however, and showed us that it was our own business to keep out of the tough places in Paloma. I've worked under these engineers for years, and I never before knew one of them to care whether I had a hundred dollars or an empty stomach. Boys, I tell you, Reade, has the right stuff in him, if he is only a youngster. He knows the enemies he has made over in Paloma, and he understands the risks be has been taking in making such enemies. He proved to us that he can stand that sort of thing and be our friend. Look at this thing, will you?"

With something of a look of wonder the speaker drew out the bankbook that he had acquired the afternoon before.

"I've got forty dollars in bank," he continued, in something of a tone of awe. "Forty friends of mine that I've put away to work and do good things for me! If I don't touch this money for some years then I'll find that this money has grown to be a lot more than forty dollars!"

"Or else you'll find that some bank clerk is up in Canada spending it," jeered a companion.

"I don't care what the clerk does. The bank will be still good for the money. Joe, you read the papers as often as any come into camp."

"Yes."

"All right. The next time you find anything about a savings bank that has failed and left the people in the lurch for their money, you show it to me. Savings banks don't fail nowadays! No, Sir!"

Other men through the camp were taking sly peeps at their bankbooks, as though they were half ashamed at having such possessions. Yet many a hard toiler in camp felt a new sense of importance that morning. He began to look upon himself as a part of the moneyed world as, indeed, he was!

"Telegram for Mr. Reade," called one of the two camp operators, coming forward.

Tom tore the envelope open, then stared at the following message:

"Reade, Chief Engineer.

"Have complaint from merchants of Paloma that you have effectually stopped the men from spending any money in the town. Not our policy to make enemies of the towns along our line. Explain immediately.

"(Signed) ELLSWORTH,

"General Manager."

"Hmmm!" smiled Tom, then passed the message over to Superintendent Hawkins.

"Your newly made enemies have gotten after you quickly, Sir," commented the superintendent grimly.

"Yes," nodded Tom. "And, of course, I can't follow any course that isn't approved by the general manager. I'll wire him the truth and see what he has to say. Operator!"

"Yes, Sir," replied the young man, turning and coming back.

"Wait for a message," directed Tom; then seated himself and wrote the following reply:

"Ellsworth, General Manager.

"Have not interfered in any way with honest merchants of Paloma. Men are at liberty to spend their money any way they choose. I did give the men a talk about the foolishness of spending their wages in buying liquor or in gambling. Result was that men banked about two thirds of the total pay roll with the bank people you sent on pay train yesterday at my request. Also drove off a gambler who tried to erect two tents on railroad property in order to fleece the men more speedily.

"(Signed) READE,

"Chief Engineer."

"That will tell the general manager about the kind of merchants that I've been injuring," smiled Tom, first showing the sheet to Superintendent Hawkins and then handing it to the waiting messenger.

"I hope Ellsworth, will be satisfied," nodded Hawkins. "Good will is an asset for a railway, and your enemies in Paloma may be able to stir up a good deal of trouble for you. Mr. Reade, I stood with you yesterday, and I'm still with you. If Ellsworth is so cranky that you feel like throwing the job here, then I'll walk out with you."

"Oh, I'm not going to give up the work here," predicted Reade cheerfully. "I'm too much interested in it. Neither am I going to have my hands tied by any clique of gamblers and dive keepers. If Mr. Ellsworth isn't satisfied, then I'll run up to headquarters and talk to him in person. I'm not going to quit; neither am I going to be prevented from winning and deserving the friendship of the men who are here working for us."

"Telegram for Mr. Reade," grinned the operator, again looking in at the doorway.

After reading it, Tom passed over to Hawkins this message from General Manager Ellsworth:

"Unable to judge merits of case at this distance. Will be with you soon."

"That's all right," Reade declared.

"It looks all right," muttered Hawkins, who knew something about the ways of railroads.

Up the track the whistle on a stationary engine blew the noon signal.

"Feel like eating, Harry?" Tom called to his chum, who had been mildly dozing in a chair in one corner of the room.

"Always," declared Hazelton, sitting up and yawning.

"Are you going to eat in town this noon, or in camp?" Tom inquired of the superintendent of construction.

Hawkins was about to answer that he'd eat in camp, when he suddenly reconsidered.

"I guess I'll ride along with you, Mr. Reade," he said dryly.

Horses were brought, and the three mounted and rode away. In such sizzling heat as beat down from the noonday sun Tom had not the heart to urge his mount to speed. The trio were soon at the edge of Paloma, which they had to enter through one of the streets occupied by the rougher characters.

Just as they rode down by the first buildings a low whistle sounded on the heavy, dead air.

"Signal that the locomotive is headed this way," announced Hawkins grimly. "Look out for the crossing, Mr. Reade!"

Hardly had the superintendent finished speaking when a sharp hiss sounded from an open window. Then another and more hisses, from different buildings.

"A few snakes left in the grass," Tom remarked jokingly.

"Oh, you've stirred up a nest of 'em, Mr. Reade," rejoined the superintendent.

Tom laughed as Harry added:

"Let's hope that there are no poisonous reptiles among them. It would be rough on poisonous snakes to have Tom find them."

Then the three horsemen turned the corner near the Mansion House. Superintendent Hawkins looked grave as he noted a crowd before the hotel.

"Mr. Reade, I believe those men are there waiting to see you. I'm certain they've not gathered just to talk about the weather."

There was a movement in the crowd, and a suppressed, surly murmur, as the engineer party was sighted.

Tom Reade, however, rode forward at the head of his party, alighting close to the crowd, which numbered fifty or sixty men. The young chief engineer signed to one of the stable boys, who came forward, half reluctantly, and took the bridles of the three horses to lead them away.

Jim Duff, backed by three other men, stepped forward. There was a world of menace in the gambler's wicked eyes as he began, in a soft, almost purring tone:

"Mr. Reade," announced Jim Duff, "we are a committee, appointed by citizens, to express our belief that the air of Paloma is not going to be good for you. At the same time we wish to ask you concerning your plans for leaving the town."

There could be no question as to the meaning of the speaker. Tom Reade was being ordered out of town.

V. TOM HAS NO PLANS FOR LEAVING TOWN

"My plans for leaving town?" repeated Tom pleasantly. "Why, gentlemen, I'll meet your question frankly by saying that I haven't made any such plans."

"You're going to do so, aren't?" inquired Duff casually.

"By the time that my partner and I have finished our work for the road, Mr. Duff, I imagine that we shall be making definite plans to go away, unless the railroad officials decide to keep us here with Paloma as headquarters for other work."

"We believe that it would be much better for your health if you went away at once," Duff insisted, with a mildness that did not disguise his meaning in the least.

Tom deemed it not worth while to pretend any longer that he did not understand.

"Oh, then it's a case of 'Here's your hat. What's your hurry?'" asked Reade smilingly.

"Something in that line," assented Jim Duff. "I venture to assure you that we are quite in earnest in our anxiety for your welfare, Mr. Reade."

"Whom do you men represent?" asked Tom.

"The citizens of Paloma," returned Duff.

"All of them?" Reade insisted.

"All of them—with few exceptions."

"I understand you, of course," Tom nodded.

"Now, Mr. Duff, I'll tell you what I propose. I'm curious to know just how many there are on your side of the fence. Pardon me, but I really can't quite believe that the better citizens of this town are behind you. I know too many Arizona men, and I have too good an opinion of them. Your kind of crowd makes a lot of noise at times, and the other kind of Arizona crowd rarely makes any noise. I know, of course, the element in the town that your committee represents, but I don't believe that your element is by any means in the majority here."

"I assure you that we represent the sentiment of the town," Duff retorted steadily.

"Much as I regret the necessity for seeming to slight your opinion," Tom went on with as pleasant a smile as at first, "I call for a showing of hands or a count of noses. I'll tell you what we'll do, Mr. Duff, if it meets with your approval. We'll hire a hall, sharing the expense. We'll state the question fairly in the local newspaper, and we'll invite all good citizens to turn out, meet in the hall, hear the case on both sides, and then decide for themselves whether they want the railroad engineers to leave the town or—"

"They do want you to leave town!" the gambler insisted.

"Or whether they want Jim Duff and some of his friends to leave town," Tom Reade continued good-humoredly.

Jim Duff turned, gazing back at the men with him. They represented the roughest element in the town.

"No use arguing with a mule, Jim!" growled a red-faced man at the rear of the crowd. "Get a rail, boys, and we'll start the procession right now."

"Bring a rope along, too!" called another man hoarsely.

"Get two rails and one rope!" proposed a third bad character. "The other kid doesn't seem to be sassy enough to need a rope."

"Gentlemen," broke in Harry Hazelton gravely, "if anyone of you imagines that I'm holding my tongue because I disapprove of my partner's course, let me assure you that I back every word he says."

"Make it two ropes, then!" jeered another voice.

"Reade," continued Jim Duff, "we all try to be decent men here, and the friends with me are a good and sensible lot of men. You have carried matters just a little too far. Think over what you've heard and noticed here, and then tell me again about your plans, for quitting Paloma."

As he spoke Jim made a gesture that kept some of the men near him from rushing forward. Tom did not appear to notice the demonstration at all. Certainly he did not flinch.

"I haven't any such plans," Tom laughed. "I'm hungry and I'm going inside to eat."

With that, he turned his back on the crowd, with Harry behind him, both making for the steps of the hotel. Superintendent Hawkins stepped in after the boys.

"Gentlemen, I can't do anything more," spoke up Jim Duff, with an air of resignation.

"But we can!" roared some of the roughs in the crowd. A dozen of them surged forward. The first of them swung a lariat to slip it over Tom Reade's neck.

Bump! Hawkins's sledge-hammer right hand shot out, landing on that fellow's face. With a moan the fellow collapsed on the sidewalk, his jaw broken.

Then Tom and Harry wheeled like a flash, eyeing the idlers and roughs sternly.

"Don't go any further," proposed Tom, his eyes growing steely, "unless you mean it."

Something in the attitude of the trio of athletic figures standing ready before them disquieted the crowd of roughs. There were armed men in that crowd, but all felt that they had been put in the wrong, so far, and none of them dared draw the first weapon or fire the first shot.

"Take that injured man to a surgeon and have his jaw set," spoke Tom quietly. "Let the surgeon send me the bill. I'm sorry for the fellow, for I'm indirectly the cause of his being hurt. The main cause of his misfortune was due to his being in bad company."

"Come out of that hotel," ordered Jim Duff, his eyes blazing as he stepped forward, though with Hawkins's cold, hard eyes on him the gambler was careful to keep his hands at his sides. "You can't get anything to eat in there!"

"Do you own the hotel?" Tom inquired coolly.

"No; but you can't eat there."

"Join us at lunch, Mr. Hawkins!" Tom invited, turning away from the gambler. The superintendent nodded, for he had no intention of leaving the young engineers for the present.

All three entered the hotel, while the small mob outside hooted and jeered. Tom led the way to a table in the dining room, signing to one of the waiters.

Hardly had the waiter reached them when Jim Duff and the proprietor of the Mansion House came in. Jim, after saying a few words in a low tone, halted, while the proprietor came forward.

"Good morning, Mr. Ashby," nodded Tom, when he saw the proprietor headed their way. The latter looked rather embarrassed, but he moved a hand to signal the waiter to withdraw.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Reade, but I can't have you any longer at this hotel," began Ashby.

"Any particular reason?" Tom inquired, looking the man straight in the eye.

"Yes; some of my other guests object to your presence here."

"Meaning Jim Duff?" questioned Reade coolly.

"I don't care to discuss the matter with you, Mr. Reade, but I can't entertain you here any longer."

"Does that apply even to this meal, Mr. Ashby?"

"It does."

"Very good," nodded Tom, rising. Harry and Hawkins shoved their chairs back, too, and stood up.

"Say, but I don't like the looks of that!" announced a voice from another table. There were five men seated there, all of them well-dressed and prosperous-looking traveling salesmen, who had arrived that morning.

"This is a very regrettable necessity on my part, gentlemen," began Proprietor Ashby hurriedly, and plainly ill at ease. "Some of my regular guests object to the presence of these young men, and so—"

"These young gentlemen have gotten in bad by objecting to having their men fleeced here in town, haven't they?" inquired the boldest of the drummers. "I heard something about it this morning."

"Perhaps you haven't heard all the circumstances," suggested Ashby in growing embarrassment.

"We've heard enough, anyway," replied the same drummer briskly. "So these young men, who are a credit to their profession and to their home towns, are ordered to leave here? Boys, I guess we leave, too, don't we?"

The other traveling salesmen assented emphatically.

Now Proprietor Ashby felt dismal, indeed. These five men were occupying the best quarters in his hotel, outside of those occupied by Jim Duff. It was not the loss of patronage from these men alone that troubled Ashby. Traveling salesmen have their own ways of "passing around the word" and downing any hotel that depends largely on their patronage.

"You can have all our rooms, then, Mr. Ashby," proposed the same drummer. "We'll have our things out and be ready for our bills within twenty minutes."

"But, gentlemen, be calm about this," begged Ashby. "Finish your meals first. There may be some way of arranging—"

"There is," returned the drummer, with a smile that was a fine duplicate of Tom's own. "We know just where to arrange for the kind of accommodations that we want. Mr. Reade," turning to Tom and Harry, "will you allow me to introduce ourselves. We are aching to shake hands with you, for we've heard all about you."

Proprietor Ashby fidgeted at the side, while the eight departing guests paused long enough to make their names known to each other.

Jim Duff had vanished early, leaving the hotel man to his own humiliation.

The introductions concluded, Hawkins followed the young engineers to their room while the drummers went to their own more costly quarters and hastily packed their belongings.

Fifteen minutes later the party stood in the office and porters were bringing down trunks. Tom and Harry, keeping most of their belongings at camp, had only suit cases to carry.

"Gentlemen, I think you are making a mistake," began Mr. Ashby, as he met the salesmen in the lobby near the clerk's desk.

"We made a mistake in coming here," retorted the leader of the salesmen, pleasantly as to tone, "but we're rectifying it now. Are our bills ready?"

The proprietor went behind the desk to make change, while the clerk receipted seven bills. Ashby's hands shook as he manipulated the money.

"Dobson," he said, in a low tone to one of the drummers, "I had intended ordering a ton of hams from you. Now, of course, I can't—"

"Quite right," nodded Mr. Dobson cheerfully. "You couldn't get them from our house at four times the market price. We wouldn't want our brand served here."

The last bill was paid. Proprietor Ashby stiffened, his backbone, trying to look game.

"Gentlemen," he inquired, "where are you going from here? Won't you let me call the 'bus to take you?"

"Never mind the, 'bus, Ash," smilingly replied the leader of the drummers, a man named Pritchard. "If you'll send the 'bus over to the Cactus House with our trunks we'll be greatly obliged."

"Certainly, gentlemen, it's a pleasure to oblige you," murmured Ashby, with a ghastly effort to look pleasant. He watched the eight men step outside. Duff and his crowd had vanished. It would never do to try any mob tricks on so many strangers who had done nothing. The most easy-going citizens of an Arizona town would turn out to punish such a mob.

The three railroad men had their horses brought around, but they rode slowly, chatting with the salesmen on the sidewalk.

In this order they reached the Cactus House, which, thirty years ago, had been famous in and around the old Paloma of the frontier days. The proprietor, a young man named Carter, had succeeded his father in the ownership of the property. It was a neat hotel, but a small one. The elder Carter had lost a good deal of money before his death, and the son was now trying to build up the property with hardly any reserve capital.

At the Cactus there was a great flurry when five such important guests arrived and the young railroad engineers were also most heartily welcomed.

"Our meal time is nearly over, but I'll have something special cooked for you right away, gentlemen," cried young Carter, bustling about, his eyes aglow.

"Before you get that meal ready," said Pritchard, drawing young Carter aside, "I want to ask you whether any man can ever be driven from this hotel, just for being decent?"

"He certainly cannot," replied Proprietor Carter with emphasis.

"Live up to that, son," advised the drummer, "and I half suspect that you'll prosper."

The meal finished, the three men from the railroad camp took leave of their new salesmen friends, mounted and rode back to camp.

"The snakes are not all dead yet," mused Tom quizzically, as, in riding through the "tough" street again they heard hisses from open windows at which no heads appeared.

"There's a letter here for you, Mr. Reade," announced Foreman Payson, who was sitting alone in the office.

"Who brought it?"

"I don't know his name. Never saw him before. He rode out here on horseback."

The envelope, though a good one as to quality, was dirty on the outside. Tom Reade hastily broke the seal and read:

"If you don't get away from Paloma pretty soon your presence will hold the railroad up for a longtime to come! Get out, if you're wise, or the railroad will suffer with you!"

"I reckon the fellow who wrote that was sincere enough," said Tom, as he passed the letter over to his chum. "However, I don't like to feel that I can be seared by any man who's too cowardly to sign his name to a letter."

VI. THE GENERAL MANAGER "LOOKS IN"

Neither Tom nor Harry was stupid enough to be wholly unafraid over the threats of the day. Both realized that Jim Duff and the latter's associates were ugly and treacherous men who would fight sooner than be deprived of their chance to fleece the railway workmen. Yet neither young engineer had any intention of being scared into flight.

"They'll put up a lot of trouble for us," said Tom that afternoon, as the two chums talked the matter over. "They may even go to extremities, and—"

"Shoot us?" smiled Hazelton, though there was a serious look under his smile.

"Yes; they may even try that," I nodded Tom. "Though they won't make an open attempt. They may try to get us from ambush at night. They will be desperate, though not over brave. Recollect, Harry, that the better element in Paloma won't stand much nonsense. There are no braver men in the world than are found right in Arizona, and no men more decent."

"Barring Duff and his gang," laughed Hazelton.

"They're not real Arizona men. They're the kind of human vultures who flock after large pay rolls in any place where men work without having their families in near-by homes. If Duff had enough men of his own way of thinking, they might try to ride out here to camp and clean us out. If they did, then all the decent men in this part of Arizona would take to the saddle and drive Duff and his crew into hiding. After what happened to-day you won't find Duff daring to do anything too open."

"Excuse me, Sir, but there's a train coming," reported Foreman Rivers, thrusting his head in at the doorway of the little office building.

"Not a construction train?" Reade asked.

"Can't make it out yet, sir. The whistle was reported a minute ago."

Tom and Harry, chafing a good deal under their enforced idleness while waiting for materials, hastened outdoors. Soon the train was close enough to be made out. It consisted of an engine, baggage car and one private car.

"It's one or more of the road's officials," murmured Harry.

"I hope it's Mr. Ellsworth," replied Reade, as the chums walked briskly down to the spot where the train would have to halt.

It turned out to be the general manager, a big and capable-looking man of fifty, with a belt-line just a trifle too large for comfort, who swung himself to the ground the instant that the train stopped.

"I'm glad you're here, Reade," nodded the general manager, as he caught sight of his two young engineers. "Come back into my car. We can talk better there."

Tom and Harry mounted to the platform of the car, following Mr. Ellsworth down the carpeted aisle of a very comfortable private Pullman car. The general manager pointed to seats, threw himself into another, and then said:

"Now, tell me all about the row that you've started with the town."

Harry's lips closed tightly, but Tom launched at once into a plain, truthful account of the affair, bringing it down to the noonday meal of the present day.

"It's not clear to me just why you should feel called upon to interfere so forcefully," said the general manager, a little fretfully. "The workmen are all twenty-one years of age and upwards. Couldn't they protect themselves if they wanted protection?"

"Yes, sir, certainly," Tom admitted. "However, letting that fellow Duff put up his tents right on the railroad property would almost make it look as though the road shared, or at least approved, his enterprise."

"Oh, doubtless you were right to order the fellow off the railroad property," assented Mr. Ellsworth. "But why did you go to such trouble to get the men to start new bank accounts and thus send most of their money out of town?"

"May I answer that question, sir, by asking another?" asked Reade respectfully. "Did you wish the men to spend it in Paloma?"

"I don't care a hang what they do with it," retorted the general manager half peevishly. "It's their own money."

"It was you, Mr. Ellsworth, whom I wired yesterday morning, asking that you send down a representative of a savings bank who could open accounts with such of the men as desired."

"Yes, and I sent you a couple of bank men. I didn't have any idea, however, that you'd get the whole town of Paloma by the ears."

"I haven't, sir. I assure you of that. I've hurt only a few parasites —a flock of human vultures. The decent people of the town don't side with them."

"I wish I could be sure that we haven't offended the town as a whole," mused Mr. Ellsworth, "The good will of the people along our line is a great asset."

"You're acquainted with a lot of the real people in Paloma, aren't you, Mr. Ellsworth?"

"With some of them, yes."

"Then, while you're here, sir, I'd be glad if you'd look up some of these acquaintances in town and find out for yourself just how the sentiment stands. We don't wish you to feel that we're a pair of trouble-makers who are doing our best to ruin the road with its future customers."

"I believe I will go into town," mused Mr. Ellsworth. "Is there an automobile anywhere about here?"

"No, sir; but our telegraph operator can wire into town for one. It will take but a few minutes to have a car here."

"Send for it, then."

"Would you like to see Mr. Hawkins while you're waiting, sir?" Tom suggested, rising. "You know Hawkins, and probably you'll be satisfied with his judgment."

"Send Hawkins along."

"Yes, sir; and we won't return for the present, unless you send for us," Reade replied, going toward the forward end of the car.

Superintendent Hawkins was closeted with the general manager until the arrival of the automobile. There was a frown on Mr. Ellsworth's face as they started townward.

"Well," asked Harry Hazelton, with a grin on his face, as he watched the departing car, "are we going to be fired or praised?"

"We're going to lay the track across the Man-killer," returned Reade resolutely.

"How about the gambler and his bad crowd? Are we going to beat them?"

"We're going to do whatever the general manager orders, just as long as we remain here," replied Tom. "He's our only source of authority. If he tells me to let Jim Duff bring a cityful of tents out here and run night or day—then that's all there will be to it."

"I'd sooner quit," growled Hazelton, "than knuckle to such a crew of rascals."

"So would I," nodded Tom good-humoredly, "if it were my quit. But, if Mr. Ellsworth gives such orders it will be his quit, not ours."

Harry walked restlessly up and down the little office, but Tom threw himself down at full length on a cot in the corner. Within two minutes he was sound asleep.

"Humph!" growled Hazelton, as soon as he saw his chum's unconcern. Then he went outside to finish his tramp.

It was toward the close of the afternoon when Mr. Ellsworth returned. Harry was out of sight as the general manager stepped directly into the office.

"Reade," he began. Deep breathing from the corner greeted him. General Manager Ellsworth gazed down at the sleeping form, and a new light of admiration dawned in his eyes.

"So that's the young man whom they're talking of shooting, poisoning or blowing into the next world with dynamite?" he thought. "A lot this young man appears to think about his enemies! There's real courage in this young man. Reade, wake up—if you can spare the time."

Tom opened his eyes, rubbed them, then sat up, next springing to his feet.

"Not having any real work to do makes me sleepy," laughed Tom good-naturedly. "I trust you didn't have to call me many times, Mr. Ellsworth?"

The general manager held out his hand.

"Reade, I've just learned in town what a plucky thing you did, and how coolly you went through it all. A young man with your courage and purpose simply can't be fool enough to be very far wrong."

"Then you learned that the real Arizona people over in Paloma don't find any fault with what I did?" queried Tom.

"Reade, what I discovered is that you have a lot of the finest manhood in Arizona just wild with respect for you," declared Mr. Ellsworth. Then the general manager lowered his voice before he resumed:

"At the same time, Reade, I've also learned that you've stirred up such an evil nest of rattlers that you'll be fortunate if you escape with your life. Candidly, if you feel that you'd like to leave here—"

"Do you want me to quit, sir?" demanded Tom, looking steadily into his chief's eyes.

"I don't," declared Mr. Ellsworth promptly. "If you and Hazelton were to quit me now I don't know where I could get another pair of men who could put into the work all the skill and energy that you two employ."

"Did you have dinner in town, sir?" Tom asked.

"No, for I came out to take you two young men in. Hawkins will also be with us at dinner this evening. He has told me about the Mansion House affair, so the Cactus House shall be the railway house hereafter. That fellow Ashby is uneasy; I think he will be more than uneasy after a while."

The dinner party motored back to town. Dinner was more like a reception that evening, for the news of Tom's plucky fight against the rough element had spread through the town. Nearly two score of men representing the better part of the population of Paloma called at the hotel to shake hands with the young engineers.

"They don't seem to care a hang about me, these men, do they, Hawkins?" laughed the general manager, as he and the superintendent stood in the background of the picture.

"That's because they're Arizona men, sir," replied Hawkins. "Their interest is in the man who has done the thing, not in the boss."

"I can understand why President Newnham, of the S. B. & L., recommended these young men so extravagantly. They're full of force and absolutely free from self-conceit."

Finally the party motored back towards the camp. As it was after dark now, some of the citizens who had visited them escorted the slow moving car as far as the edge of the town, but none of Jim Duff's followers appeared on the streets through which they passed.

"Why are we going back to camp, anyway?" demanded Mr. Ellsworth. "Why not sleep at the hotel to-night?"

"Why, I think it may be better for you to go back to the hotel, sir," Tom proposed. "As for Harry and myself, after what has happened in town to-day, it may be as well if we are on hand at the camp to-night. There may be some attempt to stampede our men. The crowd in Paloma are capable of offering our men free drink, just to do us mischief. We've a lot of strong men in our force, but there are some weak vessels who would be caught by a free offer, and some of our work gangs would be demoralized to-morrow."

Mr. Ellsworth thereupon decided to return to the camp also, and, arriving there, dismissed the car. A tent was pitched for him close to the office, and a cot rigged up in it.

Then the party sat up, chatting, after most of the workmen had turned in for the night.

"I'll be thankful when the material gets here," sighed Tom. "I'm tired of loafing."

"It seems to me that you have been doing anything but loafing," smiled the general manager.

"I want to get to work on the Man-killer. Besides, idleness is costing the road a lot of money in wages for these men."

"I wired this afternoon," stated Mr. Ellsworth, "to have the material trains rushed forward on express schedule as soon as the stuff strikes our lines."

"Then—" began Hawkins slowly.

His next words were drowned out by a booming explosion to the westward of the camp.

"The scoundrels!" gasped Tom Reade, leaping up. "This is more of our friends' work! They have dynamited the most ticklish part of the work on the Man-killer!"

VII. A DYNAMITE PUZZLE

"The scoundrels!" cried General Manager Ellsworth.

He was a man who believed in working along easy lines when possible. His career as a railroad man had taught him the value of meeting other people half way. Now the general manager's white face and flashing eyes revealed the fighter in him.

From off to the south, beyond the quicksand, came a chorus of sharp, shrill, gleeful whoops.

"There go the curs!" flared Harry.

Another volley of jeers reached the camp officials.

"They are mounted on horses," spoke Tom judicially. "They couldn't travel as fast on foot and yell at the same time."

A third taunting chorus traveled over the desert. But Tom and his friends, in the darkness of the night, could not make out the horsemen nor judge how many there were of them.

"You'd better turn out the camp, Mr. Hawkins," directed Tom in a calmer voice.

The superintendent ran over to where a night engineer almost dozed at his post beside a stationary engine.

Half a minute later a series of shrill blasts rang out over the camp. Laborers came tumbling out of the tents. Many of them had slept so soundly that even the noise of dynamiting they had regarded only as a part of their dreams. But the whistle meant business.

"Get the torches out, Mr. Rivers," called Tom, as one of the foremen reported on a run.

To Foreman Payson, Harry gave the order to marshal a hundred of the men to remain in and around the camp, alertly watchful.

"That's a good idea," nodded Mr. Ellsworth. "The explosion may be only a trick to, empty the camp, as a prelude to further mischief."

Scores of torches flared in the darkness as the workmen hurried westward. At the head of all went Tom Reade and the general manager.

Less than half a mile away they came upon the scene of mischief.

"It's just what I expected," nodded Tom, as the leading party halted under the flare of the torches. "You see, sir, here was the point of greatest cave and drift in the quicksand. It's where your former engineers found such a morass of the shifty stuff that they declared the Man-killer never could have its appetite satisfied with dirt. There was a good log and concrete foundation laid down there, and for thirty-six hours the sand had not shifted a particle as far as the eye could discover. Now, look at it!"

Before them the top layer of desert sand had sunk away, revealing a well or sink, one hundred and fifty feet across and the bottom at least forty feet below the general level.

"I always wondered why a suspension bridge wouldn't solve the problem more easily and cheaply than any other construction," muttered Mr. Ellsworth, after he had gotten over his first indignation.

"To avoid every possibility of lurking quicksand the suspension bridge would have to be more than a mile long," Reade answered. "Beyond, there are other treacherous little patches of quicksand. It would cost the road millions to put up a suspension bridge that would hold.

"A short bridge would look all right and doubtless serve all right, for a while. Then, some fine day, part of the structure would give, and a trainload of passengers would be sucked down and out of sight by the shifting sands of the Man-killer."

Mr. Ellsworth turned aside with a shudder.

"I'm glad I'm not an engineer," he said earnestly. "The responsibility for safety of life at this point is all yours, Reade."

"And I'm willing enough to take it, sir, if you don't run trains over the Man-killer until the new roadbed has stood tests that I'll put upon it."

"It'll cost at least ten thousand dollars to repair the mischief that the scoundrels have done to-night," figured Harry Hazelton thoughtfully.

"Then, if we can find out the guilty wretches for certain, we'll see that they earn more than that amount by enforced labor in prison,"' retorted the general manager grimly.

"Mr. Bell!" called Tom briskly.

"Here, sir," reported the foreman, coming forward..

"Mr. Bell, I wish you'd pick out twenty-one good men. Make the brightest of the lot head of the new force of night watchmen. Place the other twenty under his orders. Your gangs will come into play here later than the others, so I'll let your shift of men have the first chance at night-watchman duty."

"All right, sir," nodded Foreman Bell. "Any further orders?"

"None, except that your watchmen will do their best to guard both the line of roadbed and the camp. Further, tell the night engineer to be sure to have steam up so that he can blow a lot of signals at anytime in the night."

"Very good, sir," and the foreman hurried away.

"I'm disgusted with myself for having been caught in this fashion," Tom admitted to Mr. Ellsworth. "But I hadn't an idea that Paloma held any dynamite. I can't imagine how a frontier town on the alkali desert needs dynamite."

"It will probably be found that someone shipped it in a hurry," suggested Mr. Ellsworth.

"But how? Any fellow would be detected who had it brought in on our trains. There has been no time to I stage I it from any other point since the row with Duff started."

"It's a puzzle," admitted Mr. Ellsworth.

"It is, but it won't be for long," Reade declared confidently. "There are ways of finding out how that dynamite got into Paloma, there must be ways of finding out who caused it to be brought in."

Then, suddenly, Tom's eyes grew wider open and brighter.

"Mr. Ellsworth, I believe that dynamite was brought in before the trouble opened."

"But who would have wished to bring dynamite here until the trouble started?"

"Anyone might be interested in doing it who wanted to see trouble start."

"I'm afraid I don't follow you, Reade," observed the general manager, frowning slightly.

"There were others who wanted the job of blocking the Man-killer," Tom went on earnestly. "They wanted a lot more money for the job than we thought was necessary. I don't want to accuse anyone, but I am just a trifle suspicious that the concern of Chicago contractors—"

"The Colthwaite people!" broke in Mr. Ellsworth.

"Yes; if they were bad people, and ugly business rivals—"

"How would the Colthwaite people be able to foresee that you were going to have a fight with Jim Duff?" interposed Mr. Ellsworth.

"I'm going after the answer, if there is one. I hope to be able to tell you the answer one of these days."

Tom and Harry made two trips each, in different directions, to make sure that the watch men were awake and alert. It was nearly eleven o'clock when the general manager and his engineers turned in for a night's rest —"subject to the approval of Jim Duff," as Tom dryly stated it.

No more interruptions followed during the night, however. At daylight the watchmen sought their tents and the day force began to stir soon after.

After the steam whistle bad blown the breakfast call, Reade slipped away from his friends to inspect the laborers at the meal.

"There are some of your men absent, Mr. Mendoza," Tom murmured to the Mexican foreman.

"Yes, Senor. Some of my men slipped away in the night."

"Went off to Paloma, eh?"

Mendoza shrugged his shoulders.

"Gambling, drinking—both," nodded Tom.

"Undoubtedly, Senor."

"Get the names of your absent Mexicans, and report to me with them."

Reade then went to the other foremen, with the same orders.

Before Tom had seated himself at his own meal, with Harry and Mr. Ellsworth, the foremen appeared, lists in their hands. Tom rapidly ran his finger down the lists.

"Twenty-eight Mexicans and fourteen Americans absent from camp," he muttered. "Foremen, when these men come back you may tell them that they are no longer needed."

All four of the gang bosses looked somewhat astonished.

"Merely for leaving camp in the night time?" Mendoza inquired.

"Yes, under the circumstances," nodded Tom. "If any of these men declare that they were properly absent, and did not visit the gambling and the drinking dives, then such men may be reinstated after they have satisfied Mr. Hazelton, Mr. Hawkins or myself of the truth of their statements."

"Some of these men will be very ugly when they find that they are discharged, Senor," suggested Mendoza.

"But you are loyal to us?"

"Can you doubt it, Senor?" asked Mendoza proudly.

"Then you will know how to handle your own fellow-countrymen. The other foremen will be able to handle the rest of the disgruntled ones. However, as I have told you, if any man claims that he is unjustly treated, send him to headquarters for a chance at reinstatement."

General Manager Ellsworth had heard the conversation, but had not interfered. As soon as the young engineers were alone he joined them at table, saying:

"Aren't you afraid, Reade, that these discharged men will hasten to join our enemies?"

"That is very likely, sir," Tom answered. "These missing men, however, have shown their willingness to become our enemies by leaving camp and seeking their pleasures in the strongholds of the scoundrels who are fighting to break us up."

"That's another way of looking at the matter," assented the general manager.

"I'd much rather have our enemies outside of camp than inside," Reade continued. "If we took these absentees back after they've been in the company of rascals, then we wouldn't have any means of knowing how many of the absentees had agreed to do treacherous things within the camp. It would hardly be a wise plan to encourage the breeding of rattlesnakes within the camp limits."

It was nearly noon when the first batch of laborers, some American and some Mexican, returned to camp. These men started to go by the checker's hut at a distance, but keen-eyed Superintendent Hawkins saw them and ordered them around to the hut.

"You'll have to wait here until your foremen are called," declared the checker.

"Say, what's the trouble here!" demanded one American belligerently.

VIII. READE MEETS A "KICKER" HALF WAY

"Who's your foreman?" asked the checker, a young fellow named Royal

"Payson—if it's any of your business." replied the workman roughly.

The others, seeing him take this attitude, were willing to let him talk for all. Superintendent Hawkins had rounded up the foremen, and now sent them to the checker's hut to deal with the men.

"Some of you are my men," said Payson, looking the lot over. "You're discharged."

"What's that?" roared the same indignant spokesman, a big, bull-necked, red-faced fellow.

"Discharged," said Payson briefly. "All of you who belong to my gang. Checker, I'll call their names off to you."

While Payson, and then the other foremen, were calling the names, the workmen stood by in sullen silence. When the last name had been entered the same bull-necked spokesman flared up again.

"Have we no rights?" he demanded. "Is there no such thing as the right of appeal in this camp, or are we under a lot of domineering, petty tyrants like you?"

"I'm a poor specimen of tyrant,"' laughed Payson good-naturedly. "All I'm doing, Bellas, is following orders. Any man who feels that he was justified in being away, and that he ought to be kept on the pay rolls here, may make his appeal to Mr. Hawkins, Mr. Hazelton or Mr. Reade."

"I'll see Reade!" announced Bellas stiffly. "That youngster is doing all the dirty work here. I'll go to him straight."

"I'll take you over to his office," nodded Foreman Payson.

"I'm going, too," announced another workman.

"So'm I," added another.

"One at a time, men," advised Payson. "I think Bellas feels that he's capable of talking for all of you."

The other foremen restrained the crowd, while Mr. Payson led Bellas over to the headquarters shack.

Tom looked up from a handful of old letters as the two men entered.

"See here, you!" was Bellas's form of greeting.

"Try it again," smiled Tom pleasantly.

"You're the man I want to talk to," Bellas snarled. "What do you mean by—"

"What's your name?" asked Reade quickly.

"None of your—"

"We can never do business on that kind of courtesy," smiled Reade. "Mr. Payson, show the man out and let him come back when he's cooler."

"There isn't anyone here who can show me out!" blustered Bellas, swinging his big arms and causing the heavy muscles to stand out.

"If you don't care to behave in a businesslike way, and talk like a man, we'll do our best to show you out," Tom retorted, still with a pleasant smile. "What are you here for, anyway?"

"Why have I been fired?" roared Bellas.

"Can't you guess?" queried Tom.

"Was it for going to town and being away all night?"

"Yes, and also for not being on hand this morning."

"There wasn't any work to do," growled Bellas.

"You expected to be paid for your time, and you should have been in camp, as your time belonged to the railroad by, right of purchase. Bellas, you have been drinking over in town, haven't you?"

"If I have, it's my own business. I'm no slave."

"Ben gambling, too?"

"None of your—"

"You're in error," Tom answered pleasantly, though firmly. "The gamblers over in Paloma are leagued with the dive keepers against us, Bellas. You know what they did out at the big sink of the Man-killer last night. Any man who goes away from camp and 'enjoys' himself for hours among those who are trying to put us out of business shows himself to be a friend to the enemies of this camp. Therefore the man who does that shows himself to be one of our enemies, in sympathy if not in fact."

"I'm no lawyer," growled Bellas sullenly, "and I can't follow your flow of gab."

"You know well enough what I'm saying to you, Bellas, and you know that I'm right. Since you've been away and joined our enemies we don't want you here. More, we don't intend to have you here. Mr. Payson has dropped you from the rolls, and that cuts you off from this camp. Now, I think you will understand that it is some of our business whether you have been over in town emptying your pockets, into Jim Duff's hat. If that is what you have been doing, then we don't want you here, and won't have you. If you haven't been hob-nobbing with our enemies, and paying all you had for the privilege, then we'll look into any claims of better conduct that you may make, and, if satisfied that you've been telling the truth, we'll reinstate you."

"Oh, you make me tired—you kid!" burst from Bellas's lips.

"This isn't an experience meeting," Tom replied, not losing his smile, "and I'm not interested in your impressions of me. Do you wish to make any statement advocating your right to be taken on the pay roll again?"

"No, I don't!" roared the angry fellow. "All I want to do is to show you my opinion of you, Tommy! I can do that best by rubbing your nose in the dirt outside."

Foreman Payson flung himself between the big, angry human bull and the young chief engineer.

"Don't waste any time or heat on him, Mr. Payson," Tom advised, slipping his handful of letters into his coat and tossing that garment to the back of the room. "If Bellas has any grudge against me, I don't want to stop him from making his last kick."

Tom took a step forward, his open hands hanging at his sides. He didn't look by any means alarmed, though Bellas appeared to be about twice the young chief engineer's size.

So prompt had been Reade's action that, for a moment, Bellas looked astounded. Then, with a roar, he leaped forward, swinging both arms and closing in.

Tom Reade had had his best physical training on the football gridiron. He dropped, instantly, as he leaped forward, making a low tackle and rising with both arms wrapped around Bellas's knees. Tom took two swift steps forward, then heaved his man, head first, out through the open doorway.

Bellas landed about eight feet away. He was not hurt, beyond a jolting, and leaped to his feet, shaking both fists.

"Not unless you really insist upon it," smiled Tom, shaking his head. "It's too warm for exercise to-day."

"You tricky little whipper-snapper!" roared Bellas, making an angry bound for the doorway.

Tom met his angry rush. Both went down, rolling over and over on the ground. Bellas wound his powerful arms about the boy, and would have crushed him. Though Tom hated to do it, there was no alternative but to choke the powerful bully. Bellas soon let go, dazed and gasping. Ere the big fellow came to his senses sufficiently to know what he was about, Reade had hoisted Bellas to one shoulder.

Down by the checker's hut the crowd of curious workmen gasped as they saw Tom Reade jogging along with this great load over one shoulder. Reaching the line, Tom gave another heave. Bellas rolled on the ground. He was conscious and could have gotten up, but he chose to lay where he had fallen and think matters over.

"Don't think I'm peevish, men," Tom called pleasantly. "I wouldn't have done that if Bellas hadn't attacked me. I had to defend myself. Now, while I'm here, does any man wish to make a claim for justice? Does any man feel that he has been discharged unfairly?"

Three or four men answered, though none of the Mexicans was among the number. When questioned as to whether they had spent the night among Jim Duff's friends all the speakers admitted that they had. Tom then made them the same explanation he had offered Bellas.

"That's about all that can be said, isn't it, men?" Tom asked in conclusion. "I am sorry for those of you who feel hurt, but while there is bad blood in the air every man must choose between one camp or the other. You men chose Jim Duff, and you'll have to abide by your choice."

"But we haven't any money," declared one of the men sullenly.

"Now you're just beginning to understand that Jim Duff won't be a very good friend to a penniless man. Didn't you know that when you shook all your change into his hat?"

"Are you going to let us starve?" growled the man.

"You won't starve, nor need you be out of work long," Tom retorted. "Any man who can do the work of a railway laborer in this country doesn't have to remain out of a job. Now, I'll ask you to get off the railroad's ground."

Tom turned and went back to the office, while Payson and the other foremen saw to it that the discharged men left the railroad's property. In less than half an hour the disgruntled ones were back in the worst haunts of Paloma, spreading the news of Tom Reade's latest outrage.

When Tom reached the office he found Mr. Ellsworth inside.

"I saw what you did, Reade, though you didn't know I was about. You handled it splendidly. You made it plain enough, too, to the men that they had joined the enemy and thereby declared against us."

"Message, Mr. Reade," called the operator from the doorway.

"The construction material train, the first one, will be here within two hours," cried Tom, looking up from the paper, his eyes dancing. "Now we can do some of the real work that we've been waiting to do!"

IX. THE MAN-KILLER CLAIMS A SACRIFICE

In the days that followed Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton were more continuously and seriously busy than they had ever been before in their lives.

Sometimes it happens that engineers come upon a quicksand that apparently has no bottom. It will be filled and apparently the earth on top is solid. After a few days there will follow either a gradual shifting away or a sudden cave in, and the quicksand must once more be attacked.

This condition had been experienced more than a dozen times with the Man-killer before Tom and Harry had been called to solve the problem.

There is no definite way of attacking a quicksand. Much must depend upon the local conditions. Where it is a small one, yet of seemingly considerable depth, it is sometimes quickest and cheapest to cross it with a suspension bridge, the terminal pillars resting on sure foundations. Some quicksands are overcome by merely filling in new sand or loam, patiently, until at last the trap is blocked and a permanently solid foundation is laid. There are many other ways of overcoming the difficulty.

The method hit upon by Tom and Harry, after looking over the situation, was one that was largely original with them.

It consisted of laying logs, of different lengths, from twelve to eighteen feet, in a transverse net work filling in earth on this and allowing the structure gradually to sink where the quicksand shifted or caved. The sideway drift, at some points, was overcome by hollow steel piles, driven in as firmly as might be, and then filled with cement from the top. A line of such piles when imbedded in the ground, helps to make an effective block to side drift.

At the outset a few feet of these steel piles were left exposed above the surface, their gradual settling serving as a reliable index to the evasive movements of the extensive quicksand underneath. At other points wooden piles were driven in for the same purpose.

General Manager Ellsworth did not spend all his time in camp. He could not do so, in fact, for he had many other pressing duties. However, he ran over frequently, and always appeared satisfied.

"Of course it's too early to talk confidently, Reade," said Mr. Ellsworth, one day when the work had been going on steadily for some weeks, "but I believe you have the only right method. I have so reported to our directors. You'll have disappointments, of course, but I hope you'll encounter none that you can't overcome."

"I shan't crow until I've seen the test applied to the roadbed over the Man-killer," Tom replied thoughtfully. "After I've seen that test applied a couple of times then I'm ready to go before any board and swear that the Man-killer has been tamed for all time."

"Speed the day!" replied Mr. Ellsworth, as he climbed into his private car to return. "By the way, you haven't heard anything lately from Jim Duff & Company?"

"Not a word," Reade replied. "I don't believe we're yet through with Rough-house camp, however. They're waiting only until our suspicions are allayed. Once in a while we lose one of our workmen to the enemy, and then we have to discharge the poor fellow. Some of our former men have gone away, but there are about thirty of them left in Paloma, and I imagine that they're ready to be ugly when the chance comes. The agent of the Colthwaite Company is still in Paloma. He has been here ever since we came."

"Agent of the Colthwaite Company?" repeated the general manager, opening his eyes. "What's his name?"

"Fred Ransom," Tom replied half carelessly.

"Ransom? Fred Ransom? I never heard of any Colthwaite agent of that name."

"He's one of the Colthwaite people's troublemakers," Tom went on, opening his own eyes rather wide.

"If you were sure of this why didn't you report it to me earlier?"

"Why, I supposed your railroad detectives knew all about it. And that you had heard of it long ago," Reade declared.

"I haven't heard a word of it," continued Mr. Ellsworth, coming down the steps of his car and standing on the ground once more. "What proof have you of Ransom's business here?"

"None whatever," Tom answered cheerfully, "but I had him spotted the first time I heard him talking. He was too entirely positive that we'd fail."

"That was no proof against him."

"No; but Ransom was also certain that the Colthwaite plan was the only one that could bring the Man-killer to time."

"Have you any other reason to suspect this main?" queried Mr. Ellsworth.

"Only the fact that Ransom and Jim Duff have been close friends."

"Where does Ransom stop?"

"At the Mansion House. He has a suite of rooms there, and entertains some kinds of people, including Duff, very lavishly."

"Keep your eyes on that crowd as much as possible, Reade," directed the general manager thoughtfully, as he once more climbed to the platform of his car.

"I will, sir; and it might not be a bad idea to have your detectives do something of the sort, also."

The general manager did not answer, except by a vague nod as his train pulled out from the outskirts of the railway camp.

Tom went back, called for his horse and rode to the westward for another look at the Man-killer. He found Harry, also in saddle, beneath the scanty shade of a struggling tree. Hazelton's quick eyes were taking in every detail of the work being done by the several large gangs of workmen.

"Tom, if we're away from here by Christmas, there's one present you needn't make me," smiled Hazelton wanly, as he caught sight of the camera hanging in its leather field case at his chum's side.

"What present is that?" Tom inquired.

"Don't make me a present of a photograph of this awful place. It's photographed on my brain now, and burned in and baked there. If we ever get through with the Man-killer, and get our money, I never want to see this spot again."

"I'm not thinking at all of the money," Reade retorted lightly yet seriously. "I don't care about the money at present. Nothing will ever satisfy me in life again until I've beaten the Man-killer fairly and squarely. It's the one thing I think about by day and dream of at night."

"I know it," sighed Harry half pityingly.

"Well, what else should we think about?" Tom demanded in a low voice. "Harry, we have the very job, the identical problem, that has thrown down nearly a dozen engineers of fine reputation. Why, boy, this place may be out on the blazing desert, and there may be a dozen discouragements every hour, but we've the finest chance, the biggest unsolved problem in engineering that we could possibly have. It's glorious."

Tom's eyes glowed.

"Go away," grinned Hazelton mischievously, "or I'll catch some of your enthusiasm."

"You don't need any of it," Reade retorted laughingly. "You've tons of enthusiasm stowed away for future use. You know you have."

"I suppose I have enough enthusiasm," Harry admitted, "but I should like to do some actual work. I ride out on the sands every day and sit looking on while the real work is being done. This problem of conquering the Man-killer is growing monotonous. I'm tired of pegging away at the same old task day in and day out."

"Not quite as bad as that," Tom declared. "There's always something a bit new. If you want work to do right now, ride over and show those teamsters where you want them to put the logs that they're bringing up."

This was far too little to satisfy Harry's longing for "doing things," but with a grunt he turned his horse's head and jogged away at a trot.

Tom moved in under the shade of the tree.

"Harry doesn't know enough to appreciate a good thing when he has it," softly laughed Tom, grateful for the scant bit of shade. "Neither does he yet know that often times the brain works best when the body is at rest."

Just then Tom heard a sudden shout from the distance, followed by a chorus of excited voices.

Instantly the young engineer's gaze turned toward the lately filled-in edge of the big sink.

A hundred feet beyond the light platform where some laborers had been working Reade beheld only the head and shoulders of one of the workmen.

"The foolish fellow—to go out so far beyond where the men are allowed to go!" gasped the young chief engineer, setting spurs to his horse.

In a few moments Tom had reached the edge of the sink.

"A rope!" he shouted, and seized the thirty-foot lariat that was handed him. With this, Tom, now on foot, ran within casting distance of the unfortunate, who was being rapidly enveloped by the quicksand.

"Come back, Mr. Reade!" bellowed Foreman Payson. "The drift is setting in on this side of you. Back, like lightning, or you're a doomed man! You'll be swallowed up by the Man-killer yourself!"

But Tom, intent only on saving the unfortunate laborer beyond, was wholly heedless of the fact that his own life was in as great danger.

X. HARRY FIGHTS FOR COMMAND

"Come back, Mr. Reade!" implored Foreman Payson.

For Tom, who had made two casts with the lariat and failed, was knee-deep in shifting sand himself.

"Keep cool!" the young chief engineer called over his shoulder. "I'll be back—both of us in a minute or two."

The hapless laborer was now engulfed to his neck in the quicksand.

"Save me! In Heaven's name get me out of this!" begged the poor fellow, frenzied by dread of his seemingly sure fate.

"I'm doing the best I can, friend!" Tom called, as he made a fresh cast.

This time the noose of the raw-hide lariat dropped over the laborer's head.

"Fight your hands free, man!" Tom called encouragingly. "Fight your hands and chest free, so that you can slip the noose down under your armpits. Keep cool and work fast, and we'll have you out. Don't let yourself get excited."

In the meantime Tom was wholly unaware that the engulfing quicksand was reaching up gradually toward his hips.

Foreman Payson had ceased to try to attract Tom's attention. Whatever was to be done to save the chief engineer must be done swiftly. There was not another lariat, or any kind of rope at hand.

Behind was a cloud of alkali dust. Harry Hazelton was riding as fast as he could urge a spirited horse.

In another moment Hazelton had reined up at the edge of the group, dismounting and tossing the reins to one of the workmen.

"My man, you get on that horse and fly for a rope!" ordered Harry.

This last Hazelton shot back over his shoulder, for he was pushing his way through the rapidly forming crowd to Payson's side. Another foreman had just come up.

"Mr. Bell," shouted Harry, "drive the men back who are not needed. We don't want to put a lot of weight on the soil here and cause a further cave-in."

By this time Harry was at the edge of the platform. In a twinkling he was out on the sand.

Grip! Mr. Payson had a strong hold on the collar of the assistant engineer.

"Let go of me!" commanded Harry.

"You can't go out there, Mr. Hazelton. No more lives are to be wasted."

"Let go of me, I tell you!"

"No, sir!" insisted Foreman Payson firmly.

"Let go of me, or I'll fight you!"

"You'll have to fight, then," retorted Payson doggedly, maintaining his grip on the lad's coat collar. "Comeback here!"

Aided by another man, the foreman dragged Hazelton back to the platform.

"Payson, I'll discharge you, if you interfere with me!" stormed Hazelton.

"Don't be a fool, sir. You can't help Mr. Reade. Be cool, sir. Keep your head and direct us like a man of sense."

"Be a man of sense, and see my chum going under the sands of the Man-killer?" flared Hazelton.

He made a bound, doubling his fists threateningly. Then three or four men, at a sign from Payson, seized the young assistant engineer and threw him to the ground.

"Tom," called Harry, "order these fools to let me go."

Reade, however, who had just pulled in all the slack of the rawhide lariat, and had made it fast about his own left arm, seemed wholly unaware of his own great peril.

Tom Reade was now submerged to his waistline in the engulfing sand.

Unless rescued within five minutes the young chief engineer was plainly doomed to be swallowed up in the treacherous sands of the Man-killer. Only a few seconds below the shifting level of the sand would be enough to smother the life out of him. Scores of strong men, powerless to help, watched hopelessly within a few yards of the two whose lives were being slowly but surely snuffed out.

The laborer, whose carelessness or ignorance had caused all the trouble, was now in the sand up to his mouth. The agonized watchers could see him gradually sinking further.

"Keep up your nerve, friend!" called Tom, in cool encouragement. "We'll soon have you out of that."

Gripping the lariat with both bands, Tom gave a strong, sudden wrench and succeeded in drawing the imperiled man out of the sand a few inches.

Then the poor fellow began to settle again moaning piteously as he saw a hideous death staring him in the face.

Tom Reade's own face was deathly white from a realization of the other's peril. Of his own danger the young chief engineer had not once stopped to think.

Harry Hazelton was again on his feet. That much Foreman Payson had permitted, but strong-armed laborers stood on either side of the boy, and their detaining grips were on his arm.

Out yonder the doomed man saw the engulfing sand creeping up on a level with his eyes. He tried to scream, but the sand shifted into his mouth. In pitiable terror the poor fellow closed his mouth in order to delay death for another moment. Even to call for help would now be swiftly fatal!

Behind came the thunder of hoofs.

"Ropes!" shouted the horseman on Harry's mount.

He rode past the groups of men, close to the platform. Then, leaping from the saddle, the rider tossed a small bundle of ropes at Harry's feet. All were ropes and lines—not a raw-hide among them.

"There he goes! He's gone!" roared a score of frantic voices, as the engulfed laborer sank out of sight in the sand.

Harry Hazelton feverishly uncoiled one of the ropes, gathering a few folds in his right hand.

"Catch, Tom!" Harry shouted, making a cast.

The line swirled through the air, then settled on the sands.

"O-o-o-oh!" groaned Hazelton, for the rope had fallen four feet to one side of Reade, and the latter, hemmed in as he was, could not reach it.

"Take your time and make a sure throw, Harry!" Tom called cheerily.

Again Hazelton made a throw—and failed.

"Let me, have that! My head's cooler," called Foreman Payson.

He made two quick, steady throws, but each shot wide of the mark.

"Let me have that!" screamed Harry, snatching the line away.

"There are lines enough. Two men might be making throws," spoke a quiet voice behind them.

Payson nodded, and bent over for another line.

All trace of the doomed laborer had now disappeared. As for Tom, the sand was reaching up under his arm-pits. The young chief engineer had had the presence of mind to keep his arms free, but soon they too must be swallowed up.

"Good throw—whoever sent it!" cheered Tom Reade, as a final cast— Harry's—sent a line within six inches of his face.

Tom could not see those back at the platform, for his back was turned to the eastward, and he could no longer swing his body about.

"Get it under your arms-quick, Tom, or you're done for, too!" screamed Harry.

"Keep cool, old chap!" came back the unconcerned answer. "It isn't half bad out here. The sand feels really cool about one's body."

"This is no time for nonsense!" ordered Hazelton hoarsely. "Have you the line fast?"

"Yes!" nodded Reade. "Haul away! Careful, but strong and steady!"

Under Foreman Payson's direction a score of men seized the other end of the line and then began to haul.

Harry danced up and down in a frenzy.

"Tom, you idiot," he gasped. "You haven't made the line fast about yourself."

"Not yet," came the cheery answer. "That wouldn't be fair play. Haul away on our friend out yonder."

Tom Reade had knotted the line fast to his end of the rawhide lariat that was tied under the shoulders of the engulfed laborer. It was magnificent, though seemingly a useless sacrifice of his own life for one who must already be dead.

From some of the workmen a faint cheer went up as the slowly incoming line hauled the head of the unconscious laborer above the sand. A foot at a time the body came toward them over the sand.

Harry, however, scarcely noted the rescue. He was frantically working with another line, knotting it in a sort of harness under his own shoulders.

"Come here, some of you men!" he called. "Bear a hand here! Lively!"

Foreman Payson was instantly at the side of the young assistant engineer.

"What are you trying to do, Mr. Hazelton?" he demanded.

"I'm going out on the sands," retorted Harry. "I'm going to reach Tom Reade. If I go under the men can aid me."

"But that isn't a rawhide line; it's hemp," objected Foreman Payson.

"It's strong enough," retorted Hazelton impatiently.

"I don't know about that."

"It will have to do," insisted Hazelton. "You men get a good hold. Also, one of you play out this other line that I'm taking with me for Tom Reade."

"Don't risk anything foolish, Harry!" called the voice of Tom Reade, who now felt the sand under his chin.

"I'm coming to you," Tom, shouted Harry.

"It's too dangerous. Don't!"

"I've got to come to you!"

"I tell you don't! Maybe I can get myself out."

"Yes, you can," jeered Hazelton. "Tom, if you went under, do you think I could ever go back to our native town?"

"Payson!" shouted Tom.

"Yes, sir!"

"Don't let Mr. Hazelton come—yet. Seize him!"

"I've got him, sir!"

Harry felt himself seized by the strong arms of the foreman.

"You don't go, sir," Payson insisted. "It's a criminal waste of life."

"Man, unhand me. Let me go, I tell you."

"I won't, sir. I've Mr. Reade's orders."

"He's helpless and no longer in command," Harry retorted.

"He's in command enough for me, sir."

"Payson!" Harry Hazelton's fierce gaze burned into the eyes of the foreman. "If Tom Reade dies out yonder, and you've hindered me from saving him—I'll have your life for forfeit!"

Before that burning look even Payson shrank back. Harry Hazelton, ordinarily the best natured of boys, was now in terrible earnest.

"That's right," muttered Hazelton. "Men, I take command here. You needn't heed any words from Reade. Now, you men on the lines watch close and listen keenly for my orders."

With that Hazelton darted out on the deadly, treacherous sands!

XI. CHEATING THE MAN-KILLER

For the first few yards the assistant engineer ran almost as well as though on a cinder track. Then his feet sank in. Soon he stumbled.

Then there came a time, within ten feet of Tom, when Harry felt his feet settling in the sand despite his efforts to pull himself out.

In the meantime the haulers on the other line had forgotten to pull the laborer nearer to safety.

"You men get your eyes on the job!" sternly commanded Payson, who seemed capable of having eyes everywhere.

Harry got out, somehow. He made a bound, landing within arm's length of Tom Reade.

"I'm here, old chum!" gasped Hazelton.

"I knew you'd be," returned Tom calmly, "if there were any way of doing it."

Harry pulled himself together and floundered still closer.

Nor was there a moment to be lost. Tom was already reduced to the choice between silence and having his mouth filled with sand.

Harry's hands worked with lightning speed. Feverishly he dug out the sand, until he had scooped away enough to bare Tom's shoulders and a few inches beneath.

Swoop! Down went the extra noose over Tom's lifted arms, and then down to a snug noose under his armpits.

From the platform a cheer went up, for the unconscious laborer had just been hauled to safety.

It was with a thrill of horror that Hazelton found his own legs firmly embedded in the sand well up to his thighs.

"Get Reade started first!" shouted the young assistant engineer. "Don't bother with me until I give the word."

How the line fastened to Tom tightened and strained! At times it seemed as though it must give way.

Presently Tom's shoulder and a part of his torso were free.

In the meantime Harry Hazelton had sunk in up to the waist line.

"We'll haul on you, too, now, Mr. Hazelton!" sounded the voice of Foreman Payson.

"Don't you dare do it until I give the word," thundered back the voice of the assistant engineer.

With a line securely about him, Harry felt that he could afford to take the slight chance of waiting his turn.

He saw Tom's knees coming up out of the sand before he called:

"Now, Payson, you can give me a little boost if you like. Don't pull me in ahead of Tom Reade, however."

Presently deafening cheers went up. Both young engineers were being slowly, surely hauled to safe ground.

Then Tom and Harry reached a spot where they could rise to their own feet and floundered. Tom started, then swayed dizzily.

"Steady, there, old Gridley boy!" mumbled Hazelton, slipping an arm around his recovered chum.

Then the two young engineers reached the platform and a fresh tumult of joyful cheering burst forth.

"Payson," exclaimed Harry, going up to the foreman, and holding out his hand, "will you accept my apologies for all I said to you? I had to use strong language, or you'd have held me back from Reade."

"I didn't believe he could be saved," returned the foreman, with a sickly smile, as he grasped Hazelton's outstretched hand.

Tom, too weak at first to stand, had dropped to his knees at the side of the unconscious laborer, over whom some of the bystanders were working in stupid fashion.

"This man must have medical attention at once!" Tom declared. "Some of you men lift him to your shoulders. Be careful not to jolt him, but travel at a jog all the way to the office building. Harry, can you sit on your horse?"

"Surely," said the young assistant.

"Lucky boy, then," smiled Reade. "I won't be able to sit in saddle for some minutes. Ride into camp and tell the operator to wire swiftly for a physician to come out and attend to that man."

"But you—"

"I'm here, am I not!" smiled Reade.

"I should say you are, Mr. Reade!" came a hoarse, friendly roar from one of the laborers.

Hazelton did not delay. He was soon speeding back over the desert.

As for Tom, there were many offers of assistance, but he explained that all he needed was to keep quiet and have a chance to get his breath back.

Payson, in the meantime, had started the work going again, though most of his men toiled with far less spirit than before the accident.

Ten minutes later Tom mounted his horse and rode slowly back toward camp. By the time he reached there he made out the automobile of a Paloma physician coming in haste.

Tom was still weak enough to tremble as Harry stepped outside and helped him to the ground.

"Harry," Reade remarked dryly, "I'm not going to bother to thank you for such a simple little thing as saving my life out yonder. I am well aware that you had the time of your life in doing it."

"I might have had the time of my life," returned Harry, with an imitation of his chum's calmness, "if there had been more excitement about it. It was all rather dull, wasn't it, old chap?"

Smiling, both stepped inside. Then Tom's face became grave when he saw that the rescued laborer had not yet recovered consciousness.

"Somewhere in the world," murmured Reade, as he dropped to one knee and rested a finger-tip on the laborer's pulse, "there's someone—a woman, or a child, or a white-haired old man—who wouldn't wish us to let this man die. What have you men been doing for him?"

Before the answer could be given a honk sounded at the door. Then a young doctor clad in white duck and carrying a three-fold medicine case, stepped inside.

"Sucked down by the sand and hauled out again, Doc," Tom explained.

The physician looked closely at his patient and Harry drove out the men who had no especial business there.

"A little pin-head of glonoin on his tongue for a beginning," decided the physician, opening his case. From one of the vials he took a small pellet, forcing it between the lips of the unconscious man. Then, with his stethoscope, he listened for the heart beats.

"Another glonoin, and then we'll start in to wake up our friend," said the young doctor in white duck, after a pause.

Two or three minutes later the laborer opened his eyes.

"You've been trying not to hear the whistle," laughed the doctor gently. "A big fellow like you must be up and doing."

Ten minutes later the doctor found Tom outside.

"The man will be all right now, with a little stuff that I'll leave for him," smiled the visitor. "Of course there's some man in camp who can look after a comrade to-night?"

"Doc, couldn't you do a better job if you had the man in Paloma under your own eyes tonight?" Tom questioned.

"Yes; undoubtedly."

"Can you take him?"

"Yes."

"Then do so. Give him all the attention he needs. Make out your bill to the A. G. & N. M. Hand it to me, and I'll O.K. it and send it in to headquarters for payment. If you think an automobile ride after dark will do the poor chap good, give him one and put that in your bill, too."

"Reade, I want to shake hands with you," said the physician earnestly. "I've looked after railroad hands before, but this is the first time I was ever asked to be humane to one. Have no fear but I'll send this man back to you strong and grateful. What's his name?"

"I don't know," returned Reade. "I don't even know to whose gang he belongs, though I think he's one of Payson's men."

Late the following afternoon the laborer was brought back to camp. The following morning he returned to his work as usual.

During the next two weeks Tom and Harry directed all their energies, as well as the labor of all of their men, to bridging over that bad spot in the Man-killer that had so nearly claimed two lives. One after another six different layers of log network were put down. The open box cars brought up thousands of tons of good soil, which was dumped down into the layers of interlaced logs.

"The old Man-killer must feel tremendously flattered at finding himself so persistently manicured," laughed Tom as he sat in saddle watching the men putting down the sixth layer.

Steel piles, hollow and filled with cement, were being driven here, the cement not going in until the top of the pile was but four feet above the level of the desert.

"Look out yonder," nodded Harry, handing his field glass to his chum. "You can just make out a glint on the sand. That's one of our steel piles being sucked under."

"The explorer of a few centuries hence may find a lot of these piles," laughed Tom. "If he does, he'll most likely attribute them to the Pueblo Indians or the Aztecs, and he'll write a learned volume about the high state of civilization that existed among the savages here before the white man came."

"I'm mighty glad, Tom, that General Manager Ellsworth isn't out here to see how many dozens of steel piles we're feeding hopelessly to the Man-killer."

"Not one of those piles is going down hopelessly," Tom retorted. "Some of the piles may disappear, and never be seen again, but each one will help hold the drift at some point, near the surface, or perhaps a thousand feet below the surface."

"Only a thousand feet below the surface!" Harry grunted. "Tom, I often feel certain that the Man-killer extends away down to the center of the earth and up again on the other side. Before I'm a very old man I expect to hear that several of our steel piles have shot up above the surface in China or India."

Hearing the noise of horse's hoofs behind him, Tom turned. He beheld Fred Ransom riding out to the spot on a mottled "calico" horse.

"Look who's here," Reade murmured to his chum.

"What are you going to do with him?" asked Hazelton, after a quick look. "Run him off the line?"

"I don't know," Tom answered slowly. "Ransom is trying hard to earn a living, you know."

Harry snorted. That sort of estimation of Ransom, even as a joke, was a little too much for him.

"Mighty hot day, Reade," called Ransom, as he reined in near the young engineers.

"Yes," said Tom slowly. "If I were enjoying myself beside a bottle of cold soda on the Mansion House porch I don't believe I'd have the energy to call for a horse and ride all the way out here in the heat."

"Am I intruding?" demanded Ransom, with a swift, keen glance at the young chief engineer.

"Oh, no, indeed!" came Tom's response. "You're as welcome as the flowers in spring."

"Thank you. It's a fine job you're doing out here."

"Now it's my turn to extend my thanks to you," Tom drawled. "Your praise is all the more appreciated as coming from a competitor."

"A competitor!" asked Ransom quickly, and with a half scowl. "I'm not an engineer."

"Your people are ranked as pretty fair engineers," Reade rejoined.

"My people? What do you mean, Reade? There isn't an engineer in our family."

"No; but the Colthwaite Company employs a good many engineers," Tom suggested.

"Colthwaite?" repeated Ransom, now on his guard. "I have nothing to do with that concern."

"No?" asked Tom, as though greatly astonished. "Why, that's strange."

"Why is it strange?"

"Why," Tom Reade rejoined amiably, "everyone connected with the A. G. & N. M. who knows anything at all about you credits you with being a member of the Colthwaite Company's gloom department."

"Gloom department?" gasped Ransom, with a wholly innocent-looking face. "Oh, all right. I'll bite. What is a gloom department, anyway?"

"It's a comparatively recent piece of business apparatus," smiled Tom. "It is employed by big corporations as a club with which to hit smaller crowds that want some of the business of life. The gloom department might be called the bureau of knocking, or the hit-in-the-neck shift."

"Is that what you accuse me of doing for the Colthwaite Company?" asked Fred Ransom, his scowl deepening.

"Oh, the accusation isn't all mine," Tom assured him unconcernedly. "Some of it belongs elsewhere."

"Your suspicions are utterly unwarranted," retorted Ransom, choking slightly.

"It's a lot of comfort to hear you say so," Tom rejoined, as smilingly as ever.

"You're on the wrong track this time, anyway," Ransom asserted boldly. "Still, I don't suppose you want me out here."

"On the contrary, I greatly enjoy seeing you here," Tom declared. "I'm very grateful for the praise you offered me a moment ago."

"You're welcome," returned the Colthwaite agent, trying hard to smile. "However, I won't take up your time. Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon, then," nodded Tom. "Drop in again, won't you? Any time within working hours."

"Confound that fellow Reade!" muttered Ransom angrily as he rode back to Paloma. "He knows altogether too much—or suspects it. I shall have to call Jim Duff's attention to him!"

"Why did you string the fellow so?" asked Harry when the chums were alone once more.

"I didn't," Reade retorted. "I came very close to giving him straight information."

"Now he'll be more on his guard."

"That won't do him any good," Tom yawned. "He has been on his guard all along, yet we found him out. For that matter, any man who lives regularly at the Mansion House these days is open to our suspicion."

For the Mansion House, ever since Tom's having been ordered away, had been a losing proposition. Now and then a traveling salesman stopped there, though not many.

"By the way, Harry," predicted Tom, as the chums were riding back to Paloma at the close of the afternoon, "look out, in about three of four days, for a new and permanent guest at the Cactus House."

"Who's coming?" inquired Hazelton.

"Whatever man the Colthwaite Company decides to send to the Cactus House as soon as headquarters in Chicago receives Ransom's report. I think we'll know that new chap, too, when he shows up. Also, you'll find that the new man is either an avowed enemy of Ransom, after a little, or else he won't choose to know Ransom at all."

"That's pretty wild guessing," scoffed Harry Hazelton.

"Wait three or four days, and see whether it's guessing or one of the fine fruits of logic," proposed Reade. "Incidentally, the Colthwaite people will wonder why it didn't occur to them before to send one of their gloom men to live at the Cactus. Fact is, I've been looking for the chap for more than a fort-night."

XII. HOW THE TRAP WAS BAITED

It was the evening of the day after Harry, who had insisted on trudging up and down the line all day, instead of using his horse, had a touch of heat headache.

He was not in a serious condition, but he needed rest. He dropped into one of the chairs on the Cactus House porch and prepared to doze.

"Is there anything I can get for you, or do for you, old chap?" inquired Tom, coming out on the porch after supper and looking remarkably comfortable and contented.

"No; just let me doze," begged Harry. "I feel a trifle drowsy."

"Then, if you're going to give a concert through your nose," smiled Tom, "I may as well protect myself by going some distance away."

"Go along."

"I believe I'll take a walk. Probably, too, the ice cream man will be richer when I get back."

Tom went down into the street and sauntered along. He had walked but a few blocks when he met another young man in white ducks.

"Doc, I'm looking for the place where the ice cream flows," Reade hinted. "Can I tempt you?"

"Without half trying," laughed Dr. Furniss the young physician who had gone out to camp to attend the Man-killer victim.

As they were seated together over their ice cream, Dr. Furniss inquired:

"By the way, do you ever see my one-time patient nowadays?"

"The fellow we exhumed from the Man-killer?"

"The same."

"I see him every morning," laughed Tom. "Really, I can't help seeing him, for the man puts himself in my way daily to say good morning. And as yet I haven't learned his name."

"His name is Tim Griggs," replied Dr. Furniss. "He's a fine fellow, too, in his rough, manly way. He's wonderfully grateful to you, Reade. Do you know why?"

"Haven't an idea."

"Well, Tim's sheet anchor in life is a little girl."

"Sweetheart?"

"After a fashion," laughed the young doctor. "The girl is his daughter, eight years old. She's everything to Tim, for his wife is dead. The child lives with somewhat distant relatives, in a New England town. Tim sends all his spare money to her, and so the child is probably well looked after. Tim told me, with a big choke in his voice, that, if the Man-killer had swallowed him up, it would have been all up with the little girl, too. When money stopped coming the relatives would probably have set the child to being household drudge for the family. Tim has a round dozen of different photos of the child taken at various times."

"Then I'm extra glad we got him out of the Man-killer," said Tom rather huskily.

"I knew you'd be glad, Reade. You're that kind of fellow."

"Tim Griggs, then, is probably one of our steady men," Tom remarked, after a while.

"Steady! Why the man generally sends all of his month's pay, except about eight dollars, to his daughter. From what he tells me she is a sharp, thrifty little thing. She pays her own board bill with her relatives, chooses and pays for her own clothes, and puts the balance of the money in bank for herself and her father."

"Does Tim ever go to see her?"

"Once in two years, regularly. He'd go east oftener, but it costs too much money. He'd live near her, but he says he can earn more money down here on the desert. Tim even talks about a college education for that idolized girl. She looks out just as sharply for her daddy. Whenever Tim is ready to make a trip east, she sends him the money for his fare. The two have a great old time together."

"Tim may marry again one of these days, and then the young lady may not have as happy a time," remarked Tom thoughtfully.

"I hinted as much to Griggs," replied Dr. Furniss, "but he told me, pretty strongly, that there'll be no new wife for him until he has helped the daughter to find her own place in life."

"Say!" muttered Tom, with a queer little choke in his voice. "The heroes in life generally aren't found on the high spots, are they?"

"They're not," retorted the doctor solemnly.

Half an hour later, after having eaten their fill of ice cream, Dr. Furniss and Engineer Reade parted, Tom strolling on alone in the darkness.

"I can It get that fellow Griggs out of my mind," muttered Tom. "To think that a splendid fellow like him is working as a laborer! I wonder if he isn't fitted for something better—something that pays better? Look out, Tom Reade, you old softy, or you'll be doing something foolish, all on account of a primary school girl in New England whom you've never seen, and never will! I wonder—hello!"

As Tom had walked along his head had sunk lower and lower in thought. His sudden exclamation had been brought forth by the fact that he had bumped violently into another human being.

"Cantch er look out where you're going?" demanded an ugly voice.

"I should have been looking out, my friend," Tom replied amiably. "It was very careless of me. I trust, that I haven't done you serious harm."

"Quit yer sass!" ordered the other, who was a tall, broad-shouldered and very surly looking fellow of thirty.

"I don't much blame you for being peevish," Reade went on. "Still, I think there has been no serious harm done. Good night, friend."

"No, ye don't!" snarled the other. "Nothing of the slip-away-easy style, like that!"

"Why, what do you want?" I asked Tom, opening his eyes in genuine surprise.

"Ye thick-headed idiot!" rasped the surly stranger. "Ye—"

From that the stranger launched into a strain of abuse that staggered the young engineer.

"Say no more," begged Reade generously. "I accept your apology, just as you've phrased it."

"Apology, ye fool!" growled the stranger.

"That won't do. Put up your hands!"

"Why?"

"So ye can fight, ye—"

"Fight?" echoed Tom, with a shake of his bead. "On a hot night like this? No, sir! I refuse."

Tom would have passed peaceably on his way, but the stranger suddenly let go a terrific right-hander. Had Tom Reade received the blow he would have gone to the ground. But the young engineer's athletic training stood by him. He slid out, easily and gracefully, but was compelled to wheel and face his assailant.

"Don't," urged Tom. "It's too hot."

"I'm hot myself," leered the stranger, dancing nearer.

"You look it," Tom admitted. "If you don't stop dancing, you'll soon be hotter. It makes me warm to look at you."

"Stop this one, ye tin-horn!" snarled the stranger.

"Certainly," agreed Tom, blocking the blow. "However, I wish you wouldn't be so strenuous. One of us may get hurt."

This last escaped Reade as he blocked the blow, and again displayed a neat little bit of footwork.

"Let's see you stop this one!" taunted the bully.

"Certainly," agreed Tom, and did so.

"And this one. And this! Here's another!"

By this time the blows were raining in fast and thick. Tom's agile footwork kept him out of reach of the hard, hammer-like fists of the stranger.

Tom had been bred in athletics. He was comparative master of boxing, but before this interchange of blows had gone far the young engineer realized that he had met a doughty opponent.

What Tom didn't know was that his present foe was an ex-prizefighter, who had sunk low in the scale of life.

What the lad didn't even suspect was that the man had been hired to pick a fight with him, and that the fight was for desperate stakes.

"Have you pounded me all you think necessary?" asked Tom coolly, after more than a minute's hard interchange of blows in which neither man had gained any notable advantage.

"No, ye slant-eared boob!" roared the assailant. "Ye—"

Here he launched into another stream of abuse.

"You said all that before," remarked Tom, with a new flash in his eyes. Then fully aroused, he went to work in earnest, intending to drive his opponent back and down him.

The fighting became terrific. There was little effort now to parry, for each fighter had become intent on bringing the other to earth.

Tom was soon panting as he fought, for his opponent was heavier, taller and altogether out of the youth's fistic class.

"If I can only reach his wind once, and topple him over!" thought Reade.

A blow aimed at his jaw he failed to block. The impact sent the young engineer half staggering. Another blow, and Tom dropped, knocked out.

At that very instant a street door near by opened noiselessly.

"I've got him," leered the bully, bending over the senseless form of Tom Reade.

"Bring him in!" ordered a voice behind the open doorway.

XIII. TOM HEARS THE PROGRAM

Throwing his arms around Tom, the bully lifted him and bore him inside, dropping him on the floor in the dark.

"He's some tough fighter," muttered Tom's assailant. "I didn't know but he'd get me."

"No; he couldn't," replied the other voice. "I was just opening the door so I could slip out and give him a clip in the dark."

"He's coming to," muttered the bully. "Ye'll have to tell me what you want done with him."

The speaker had knelt by Tom, with a hand roughly laid against the young engineer's pulse. Neither plotter could see the boy, for no light had been struck in the room.

"Pick him up," ordered the one who appeared to be directing affairs. "If he comes to while you're carrying him you can handle him easily enough, can't you?"

"Of course. Even after he knows pie from dirt he'll be dazed for a few minutes."

"Come along with him."

"Strike a light."

For answer the director of this brutal affair flashed a little glow from a pocket electric lamp.

The way led down a hallway, through to the back of the house, and thence down a steep flight of stairs into a cellar.

The man who appeared to be in charge of this undertaking had brought a lantern, holding it ahead of the man who carried Tom's unconscious form.

"Dump him there," ordered the man with the lantern.

"He's stirring," reported the fighter, after having dropped young Reade to the hard earthen floor.

"Take this then," replied the other, who, having hung the lantern on a hook overhead, had stepped off beyond the fringe of darkness. He now returned with a shotgun, which he handed to the fighter who had attacked the young chief engineer in the street.

"Do you want me to shoot him?" whispered the other huskily.

"If you have to, but I don't believe it will be necessary. The cub will soon understand that his safety depends entirely on doing as he is told."

"Say," muttered Tom thickly. He stirred, opened his eyes, then sat up, looking dazed.

"Don't move or talk too much," advised the man with the shotgun. As he spoke, he moved the muzzle close to Reade's face.

"Hello!" muttered Tom, blinking rather hard.

"Hello yourself. That's talking enough for you to do," snapped the bully.

"Was that the thing you hit me over the head with at the finish?" inquired the young engineer curiously.

"Careful! You're expected to think—not talk," leered his captor. "If ye want something to think about ye can remember that I have fingers on both triggers of this gun."

"I can see that much," Tom assented. "Why do you think that it's necessary to keep that thing pointed at me? Have you got me in a place where you feel that facilities for escaping are too great?"

The word "facilities" appeared too big for the mind of the bully to grasp.

"I don't know what ye're talkin' about," he grumbled.

"Neither do I," Tom admitted cheerily. "My friend, I'm not going to irritate you by pretending that I know more than you do. In fact, I know less, for I have no idea what is about to happen to me here, and that's something that you do know."

"No; I don't," glared his captor, "and I don't care what is going to happen to you."

Back of the fringe between light and darkness steps were heard on the cellar stairs. Then someone moved steadily forward until he came into the light.

"Hello, Jim!" Tom called good-humoredly.

"Don't try to be too familiar with your betters, young man!" came the stern reply.

"Oh, a thousand pardons, Mr. Duff," Tom amended hastily. "I didn't intend to insult your dignity. Indeed, I am only too glad to find you resolved to be dignified."

"If you try to get fresh with me," growled the gambler, "I'll knock your head off."

"Call it a slap on the wrist, and let it go at that," urged Tom. "I'm very nervous to-night, and a blow on the head might make me worse."

"Nothing could make you worse," growled, Duff, turning on his heel, "and only death could improve you."

"Then I'm distinctly opposed to the up-lift," grinned Tom, but Duff had disappeared into a darker part of the cellar and the young engineer could not tell whether or not his shaft had reached its mark.

"Ye wouldn't be so fresh if ye had a good idea of what ye're up against to-night," warned the bully with the gun.

"I fancy a good many of us would tone down if we could look ahead for three whole days," Tom suggested.

Other steps were now heard on the stairs. The newcomers remained outside the illuminated part of the cellar until still others arrived.

"Now, gentlemen," proposed the voice of Jim Duff, "suppose we have a look at the troublemaker."

"They can't mean me," Tom hinted to his immediate captor.

"Shut up!" came the surly answer.

Fully a dozen men now moved forward. With the single exception of Duff, each had a cloth, with eye-holes, tied in place over his face.

"My, but this looks delightfully mysterious!" chuckled Tom.

"You be still, boy, except when you answer something that calls for a reply," ordered Jim Duff, who had dropped all of the surface polish of manner that he usually employed. "This meeting need not last long, and I'll do most of the talking."

"Won't these other gentlemen present be allowed to do some of the talking?" the young engineer inquired.

"They don't want to," Duff explained gruffly. "That might lead to their being recognized."

"Oh, that's the game?" mused Tom Reade aloud. "Why, I thought they had the handkerchiefs over their faces because—"

"Shut up and listen!" warned Jim Duff.

"...because," finished Tom, "they wanted me to feel that everything was being done regularly and in good dime-novel form. My, but they do look like some of the fellows that Hen Dutcher used to tell us about. Hen used to waste more time on dime novels than—"

"Shut up!" again commanded Duff. "These gentlemen feel that there is no need of their being recognized."

"Then why didn't Fred Ransom, of the Colthwaite Company, cover up the scar on his chin?" retorted Reade. "Why didn't Ashby, of the Mansion House, invent a new style of walking for the occasion?"

Both men named drew hastily back into the shadow. Tom chuckled quietly.

"I could name a few others," Tom continued carelessly. "In fact—I think I know you all. Gentlemen, you might as well remove your masks."

"Club him with the butt of the gun, if he talks too much," Duff directed the bully, who had stepped back a few paces as the men formed a circle around the young engineer.

"Did you ever try to stop water from running down hill, Duff," Tom inquired good-humoredly.

"What has that to do with—" began the gambler angrily.

"Nothing very much," Tom admitted. "Only it's a waste of time to try to bind my tongue. The only thing you can do is to gag me; but, from some things you've let drop, I judge that you want me to do some of the talking presently."

"We do," nodded Duff, seeking to regain his temper. "However, it won't do you any good to attempt to do your talking before you've heard me."

"If I've been interfering with your rights, then I certainly owe you an apology," Tom answered, with mock gravity. "May I beg you to begin your speech?"

"I will if you'll keep quiet long enough, boy," Jim Duff retorted.

"I'll try," sighed Reade. "Let's hear you."

"This committee of gentlemen—" began the gambler.

"All gentlemen?" Tom inquired gravely.

"This committee," Duff started again, "have concerned themselves with the fact that you have done much to make business bad here in Paloma. You have prevented hundreds of workmen from coming into Paloma to spend their wages as they otherwise would have done."

"Some mistake there," Reade urged. "I can't control the actions of my men after working hours."

"You've persuaded them against coming into town," retorted Duff sternly. "None of the A. G. & N. M. workmen come into Paloma with their wages."

"I'm glad to hear that," Tom nodded. "It's the effect of taking good advice, not the result of orders."

Some of the masked listeners stirred impatiently.

"It's all the same," Jim growled. "Your men don't come into town, and Paloma suffers from the loss of that much business."

"I'm sorry to hear it."

"So this committee," the gambler went on, "has instructed me to inform you that your immediate departure from Paloma will be necessary if you care to go on living."

"I can't go just yet," Tom declared, with a shake of his bead. "My work here at Paloma isn't finished."

"Your work will be finished before the night is over, if you don't accept our orders to leave town," growled Duff.

"Dear me! Is it as bad as that?" queried Reade.

"Worse, as you'll find! What's your answer, Reade?"

"All I can say then," Tom replied innocently, "is that it is too bad."

Clip! Jim Duff bent forward, administering a smart cuff against the right side of the sitting engineer's face.

"Don't do that!" warned Tom, leaping lithely to his feet. He faced the gambler coolly, but the lad's muscles were working under the sleeves of his shirt.

Duff drew back three steps, after which he faced the boy, eyeing him steadily.

"Reade, you've heard what we have to say to you. That you can't go on living in Paloma. Are you ready to give us your word to leave Paloma before daylight, and never come back?"

"No," Tom replied flatly.

"Then," sneered the gambler, fixing the gaze of his snake-like eyes on the young chief engineer, "I'll tell you what we have provided for you. We shall take you to the edge of the town, at once, and there hang you by the neck to a tree. After you've ceased squirming we'll fasten this card to you."

From another man present Jim snatched a printed card, bearing this legend:

"Gone, for the good of the community!"

XIV. THE COUNCIL OF THE CURB

"How soon are you going to carry out your plans?" Reade demanded.

"Then you won't leave Paloma?"

"I certainly won't—as far as my own decision goes," Reade replied firmly. "Furthermore, I should feel the utmost contempt for myself if I allowed you to drive me away from here before my work is completed."

"You're a fool!" hissed Duff.

"And you're a gambler," Tom shot back. "If you won't change your trade, why should you expect me to change mine?"

"I reckon, gentlemen," said Duff, turning to the others present, "that there's no use in wasting any more time with this fellow. He'd rather be hanged to a tree than take good advice. If the rest of you agree with me, I propose that we take the cub to his tree at once."

Several spoke in favor of this plan. Tom, seeing this, felt his heart sink somewhat within him, though he was no more inclined than before to accede to the demands of the rascals.

"Grab him! Throw him down; tie and gag him," were the gambler's orders.

Two men nearest the young engineer sprang at him.

"We'll play this game right through to the finish, then!" burst from Tom's lips, and there was something like fury in his voice.

Biff! Thump!

Two of the townsmen of Paloma, wholly unprepared for resistance, went down before the engineer's telling blows.

"Your turn, Duff!" rumbled Reade's voice, as he sprang forward and launched a terrific blow at the gambler.

Duff went down, almost doubling up as he struck. He had been hit squarely on the jaw with a force that made even Tom Reade's hardened knuckles ache.

"Shoot him!" rose a snarl, as others moved toward the boy.

"All right!" assented Tom, his voice ringing cheerily despite his anger. "Be cowards, as comes natural to you. Yet, if you have the courage of real men I'll agree to fight my way out of this place, meeting you one at a time."

"What's that noise up in the street?" suddenly demanded Ashby, in a tone of sudden fear.

"Run up and find out, if you want to know," proposed Tom, who stood poised, ready for another assailant to come within reach of his fists.

Stealthily, on tip-toe, the bully who had first engaged Reade in the street fight, was now trying to get up behind the young engineer. The bully held the shotgun ready to bring down on the lad's head.

"There's some row up there," continued Ashby. "There, I heard shots!"

"Brave, aren't you?" jeered Tom.

Three or four of the masked cowards started for the steep stairway.

Even the bully with the clubbed shotgun must have been seized with fear; for, though in position to strike, he quickly lowered the weapon and listened.

Bump! smash! sounded, though not directly overhead.

Then from the hallway above came the noise of the treading of many feet, while a voice roared hoarsely:

"Spread through the house, boys! If they've done anything to Mr. Reade, then break the necks of every white-livered rascal you can find!"

"Fine!" chuckled Tom, while the masked faces in the cellar turned even whiter than the cloths covering them. "That voice sounds familiar to me, too."

Over the hubbub of voices above sounded some remonstrating tones, as though others were urging a less violent course.

"It's the workmen from the camp!" guessed Hotelman Ashby, in a voice that shook as though from ague.

"Sounds like it," chuckled Tom. "Cheer up, Ashby. If it's our railroad crew I'll try to see to it that they don't do more than half kill you!"

Then, raising his voice, Tom called gleefully:

"Hello, there! You'll find us in the cellar."

"Why don't you kill that fool!" muttered Jim Duff, who, still dazed, struggled to sit up.

"Hush, man, for goodness sake!" implored the badly frightened Ashby.

Duff, with rapidly returning consciousness, now leaped to his feet, drawing his pistol and springing at Reade.

"Hold on!" Tom proposed coolly. "You're too late!"

The sudden flooding of light into the place and the rush of hobnailed shoes on the stairs recalled even the gambler's scattered senses.

"There they are!" yelled a voice. "Grab 'em! Be careful you don't hit Mr. Reade."

In another instant the cellar was the center of a wild scene. Railway laborers flooded the little place. While some held dark lanterns that threw a bright glow over the scene, others leaped upon the masked ones, tearing the cloths from their faces.

"Serve 'em hot!" roared the same rough voice.

"Stop!" commanded Tom Reade, leaping forward where the light was brightest and into the thick of the struggling mass of humanity.

"Stop, I tell you!"

His commands fell upon deaf ears. It was impossible to restrain these men.

Here and there the lately masked men drew pistols, though not one of them had a chance to use his weapon ere it was wrested from him.

Pound! slam! bang! A medley of falling blows filled the air, nor was it many seconds later when cries of pain and fear, and appeals for mercy were heard on all sides.

Tom had recognized his own railroad workers, and was throwing himself among them, doing his utmost with hands and voice to stop the brief but wild orgy of revenge on the part of the workmen who idolized him. In their present rage, however, Tom could not at once restrain them. Time and again he was swept back from reaching Tim Griggs, who was easily the center of this volcanic outburst of human passion.

"Boys!" roared Tim. "We'll want to know these coyotes to-morrow. Black the left eye of each rascal. I'll black both of Jim Duff's."

Two heavy, sodden impacts sounded during a brief pause in the noise, attesting to the fact that the gambler had been decorated.

"Stop all this! Stop!" roared Tom Reade. "Men, we're not savages, just because these other fellows happen to be! Stop it, I tell you. Are there no foremen here?"

"I'm trying to reach you, Mr. Reade," called the voice of Superintendent Hawkins. "But this is a heavy crush to get through."

In truth it was. There were more than a hundred laborers in the cellar, while the stairs were blocked by a mob of enraged workmen.

"Stop it all, men!" Tom again urged, and this time there was silence, save for his own strong voice. "We don't want to prove ourselves to be as despicable as the enemy are. Bring 'em up to the street, but don't be brutal about it. We'll look the scoundrels over so that we'll know them to-morrow. Come along. Clear the stairs, if you please, men!"

Tom was now once more in control, as fully as though he had his force of toilers out on the desert at the Man-killer quicksand.

So, after a few minutes, all were in the street. Here fully two hundred more of the railroad men, many of them armed with stakes and other crude weapons, held back a crowd of Paloma residents who swarmed curiously about.

"Let me through, men. Let me through, I tell you!" insisted the voice of Harry Hazelton, as that young assistant engineer struggled with the crowd.

Then, on being recognized, Harry was allowed to reach the side of his chum.

"Mr. Reade!" called a husky-toned voice, "won't you order your men to let me through to see you? I want to talk with you about tonight's outrage."

Tom recognized the speaker as a man named Beasley, one of Paloma's most upright and courageous citizens.

"Let Mr. Beasley through," Tom called. "Don't block the streets, men. Remember, we've no right to do that."

A resounding cheer ascended at the sound of Tom's voice. In the light of the lanterns Tom was seen to be signaling with his hands for quiet, and the din soon died down.

"Mr. Reade," spoke Beasley, in a voice that shook with indignation, "the real men of this town would like an account of what has been going on here to-night. If Duff and his cronies have been up to anything that hurts the good name of the town we'd like the full particulars. You men there—don't let one of the rascals get away. Jim Duff and his gang will have to answer to the town of Paloma."

"Men," ordered Reade, "bring along the crew you caught in the cellar. Don't hurt them—remember how cowardly violence would be when we have everything in our own hands."

"The men of Paloma will do all the hurting," Mr. Beasley announced grimly.

Tom's own deliberate manner, and his manifest intention of not abusing his advantage impressed itself upon the decent men of Paloma, who now swarmed about the frightened captives from the cellar.

"I know 'em all," muttered Beasley. "I'll know 'em in the morning, too. So will you, friends!" he added, turning to the pressing crowds.

"Start Jim Duff on his travels now!" demanded one angry voice.

"By the Tree & Rope Short Line!" proposed another voice.

Jim was caught and held, despite his straggles. Active hands swarmed over his clothing, seeking for weapons.

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" appealed Tom sturdily, making his resonant voice travel far over the heads of the throng. "Will you honor me with your attention for three or four minutes?"

"Yep!" shouted back one voice.

"You bet!" came another voice.

"Go ahead and spout, Reade. We'll have the hanging, right after!"

There was nothing jovial in these responses. Tom Reade knew men well enough to recognize this fact. Moreover, Tom knew the plain, unvarnished, honest and deadly-in-earnest men of these south-western plains well enough to know the genuine fury of the crowd.

Arizona and New Mexico have long been held up as states where violence and lynch law prevail. The truth is that Arizona and New Mexico have no more lynchings than do many of the older states. An Arizona lynching can only follow an upheaval of public sentiment, when honest men are angered at having their fair fame sullied by the acts of blackguards.

"Friends," Tom went on, as soon as he could secure silence, "I am a newcomer among you. I have no right to tell you how to conduct your affairs, and I am not going to make that mistake. What you may do with Jim Duff, what you may do with others who damage the fair name of your town, is none of my business. For myself I want no revenge on these rascals. They have already been handled with much more roughness than they had time to show to me. I am satisfied to call the matter even."

"But we're not!" shouted an Arizona voice from the crowd.

"That's your own affair, gentlemen," Reade went on. "I wish to suggest —in fact, I beg of you—that you let these fellows go to-night. In the morning, when the sun is up, and after you have thought over the matter, you will be in a better position to give these fellows fair-minded justice—if you then still feel that something must be done to them. That is all I have to say, gentlemen. Now, Mr. Beasley, won't you follow with further remarks in this same line?"

Mr. Beasley looked more or less reluctant, but he presently complied with Reade's request. Then Tom called upon another prominent citizen of Paloma in the crowd for a speech.

"Let the coyotes go—until daylight," was the final verdict of the crowd, though there was an ominous note in the expressed decision.

In stony silence the crowd now parted to let Jim Duff and his fellows go away.

Within sixty seconds the last of them had run the gauntlet of contempt and vanished.

"Someone told me," scoffed Beasley, "that a gambler is a man of courage, polish, brains and good manners. I reckon Jim Duff isn't a real gambler, then."

"Yes, he is!" shouted another. "He's one of the real kind—sometimes smooth, but always bound to fatten on the money that belongs to other men."

"Jim can leave town, I reckon," grimly declared another old settler. "We have savings banks these days, and we don't need gamblers to carry our money for us."

"Speech, Reade! Speech!" insisted Mr. Beasley good-humoredly.

From some mysterious place a barrel was passed along from hand to hand. It was set down before the young chief engineer, and ready hands hoisted him to the upturned end of the barrel.

"Speech!" roared a thousand voices.

Tom, grinning good-humoredly, then waved his arms as though to still the tumult of voices. Gradually the cheering died down, then ceased.

Bang! sounded further down the Street, and the flash of a rifle was seen.

Tom Reade, his speech unmade, fell from the barrel into the arms of those crowded about him.

XV. MR. DANES INTRODUCES HIMSELF

Daylight found Jim Duff and some of his cronies of the night before either absent from Paloma, or else securely hidden.

Fred Ransom, the Colthwaite Company's representative, had also vanished.

Proprietor Ashby, of the Mansion House, was reported to be skulking in his hotel, as he did not show his face on the streets.

Morning also brought calmer counsel to the real men of Paloma. They were now glad that they had not sullied themselves by acts of violence.

No one, when daylight came, entertained the belief that Tom Reade would suffer from any further attempts at violence, for now the little coterie of so-called "bad men" in the town were thoroughly frightened.

Tom had not been hit by the rifle shot. He had fallen as a matter of precaution, fearing that a second shot would speed on the heels of the first.

The fellow who had fired that shot at Tom had not lingered long enough to place himself in risk of Arizona vengeance. Even before some of the men in the crowd had had time to discover that Reade, unhurt, was laughing over his escape, a score or more had darted down the street, only to find that the unknown whom they sought was safely out of the way.

"We'll search the town from one end to the other," one excited citizen had proposed.

"We'll make a night of it."

"Don't do anything of the sort," Tom had urged. "You'll terrorize hundreds of women and children, who have no knowledge of this affair. Jim Duff's little evening of celebration is ended and now the wisest thing for you to do is to return to your homes. Mr. Hawkins!"

"Here, sir," answered the superintendent of construction.

"Get our men together and return to camp. They'll need sleep against the toil of to-morrow. Let every man who wants to do so sleep an hour or two later in the morning. Men of the A., G. & N. M., accept my heartiest thanks for the splendid manner in which you turned out to help me, though as yet I'm ignorant of how it all came about."

Nor was it until the next day that Tom Reade learned from Hazelton just what had caused the laborers to tumble out of their beds and rush into town to serve him.

That night Tim Griggs had been prowling about the streets of Paloma, suspicious of Reade's enemies, and watching for the safety of the young chief engineer who had saved him from the savage appetite of the Man-killer quicksand.

It had chanced that Tim had caught a glimpse of the finish of the fight on the street, and was just in time to see the young chief engineer lifted and carried into that unoccupied house, the property of the hotel man, Ashby.

Tim's first instinct had been to seek help in town—in that very neighborhood. Tim was suspicious, and afraid that he might by mistake appeal to some of Tom's enemies.

So, while running through the streets searching for Hazelton, Tim had espied an automobile standing idle in front of a house. Having some acquaintance with automobiles, Tim had cranked up and leaped into the vehicle, speeding straight to camp, where he gave the alarm. Men answered by hundreds, Mendoza keeping his Mexicans in camp to watch the property there.

Harry was aroused by the tumult, for he had just gone to his room, intending to turn in.

Having roused the camp, Tim ran the car back to town at the head of the swarming little army and returned to the spot where he had seized the automobile.

"It's all over now, old fellow," Tom declared to his chum cheerily, rising from his office chair as one of the whistles blew and the men knocked off for their noonday meal. "What happened last night won't happen again."

"Just the same, Tom, I almost wish you'd carry a pistol after this," Harry remarked, as the two engineers went to their horses, mounted and started toward town for their own meal.

"Bosh!" almost snapped Tom. "You know my opinion of pistols. They are for policemen, soldiers and others who have real need to go armed. Only a coward would pack a pistol day by day without needing it."

So the matter was dropped for the time being.

At the hotel Tom and Harry went to their accustomed seats in the dining room. Their food was brought and the two young engineers fell to work cheerfully. Just then a well-dressed man of perhaps thirty years entered the dining, room, spoke to one of the waiters, and came over to the engineers' table.

"Messrs. Reade and Hazelton?" he inquired pleasantly.

"Yes," Harry nodded.

"May I make myself known?" asked the stranger. "My name is Danes—Frank Danes."

Harry in turn gave his own name and that of Tom.

"I wonder if you would think it intruding if I invited myself to join you at this table?" the stranger went on.

"By no means," Tom responded cordially. "We'll be glad of your company. It will stop Hazelton and myself from talking too much shop."

"Oh, by all means talk shop," begged Danes, as he slipped into a chair at one side of the table. "I shall enjoy it, for I am interested in you both. In fact, I took the liberty of asking the waiter to point you gentlemen out to me."

"So?" Tom inquired.

Danes had the appearance of being a well-to-do easterner, and announced himself as a resident of Baltimore.

For some minutes the three chatted pleasantly, Harry, however, doing most of the talking for the engineers. When Tom spoke it was generally to put some question.

"Do you ever permit visitors to go out to the Man-killer?" Danes inquired toward the end of the meal.

"Sometimes," Tom answered.

"I shall be very grateful if you will accord me that privilege."

"We shall be very glad to invite you out there some time," Tom answered pleasantly.

"To-day?" pressed the stranger. "I have nothing to do this afternoon."

"Some other day would suit better, if you can arrange it conveniently," Reade suggested, as he rose.

Then they left Danes, securing their horses and riding back over the scorching desert.

"How do you like Danes?" Harry asked, after they had ridden some distance. "He seems a very pleasant fellow."

"Very pleasant," Tom nodded.

"Why didn't you let him come along?"

"Because I don't like Danes' employers."

"His employers?" Harry repeated, puzzled.

"Yes; he is employed by the Colthwaite Company."

"What?" Hazelton started in astonishment. "How do you know that, Tom?"

"I don't know it, but I'm sure of it, just the same," was Reade's answer.

"It maybe so," Harry agreed. "What makes you suspect him?"

"Well, in the first place, Danes, if that's his name—said he hailed from Baltimore. Yet he had none of that soft, delightful southern accent that you and I have noticed in the voices of real southern men. Danes uses two or three words, at times, that are distinctly Chicago slang. Moreover, I'm certain that the man knows a good deal about engineering work, though he won't admit it."

"We'll have to watch him, then," muttered Harry.

"We don't need to tell him anything, nor do we need to bring him out here to see how we are filling in the Man-killer. If we don't tell Danes much he may not last long. The Colthwaite people ought soon to grow tired of keeping agents here who don't succeed in hindering our work."

"Whew! I shall be glad of a sleep to-night, after all the excitement of last night," declared Hazelton, as the young engineers rode into Paloma at the close of the day's work.

On the porch, lolling in a reclining chair with his feet elevated to the railing, sat Frank Danes.

"Back from toil, gentlemen?" was his pleasant greeting.

"Long enough to get sufficient sleep to carry us through to-morrow," was Tom Reade's unruffled response.

"You do look tired," assented Danes, rising and coming toward them. "Yet I hear that, personally, you don't have hard work to do."

"We don't work at all, if you take that view of it," Harry retorted. "Yet there's a thing called responsibility, and many wise men have declared that it takes more out of a man than hours of toiling with pick and shovel."

"Oh, I can believe that's so," agreed Danes. "Going into dinner now?"

"After a bath and a change of clothing," Tom replied.

"Then, if you really don't mind, I'll wait and dine at the same table with you."

"If you can wait that long we shall be charmed to have your company," Tom assured him as the young engineers stepped inside.

Frank Danes half started as they left him.

"Reade's tone sounded a bit peculiar," muttered the newcomer to himself. "I wonder why? Perhaps I have forced myself a little too much upon him and Reade has taken a dislike to me."

If Tom had taken a dislike to the newcomer, Danes could not be sure of it from the young chief engineer's manner at table. Harry Hazelton, too, was almost gracious during the meal.

"They're a pair of half-smart, half-simple boobs," decided Danes, as he smoked a cigar alone after dinner.

"Tom, I think your great intellect has gone astray for once," remarked Hazelton, in the privacy of their room upstairs.

"I never knew that I had any great intellect," Reade laughed. "However, I was born to be suspicious once in a while. I suppose you were referring to Frank Danes."

"Yes; and he appears to be a mighty decent fellow."

"I'm sure I hope he is," yawned Tom. "I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. I'm going to bed, Harry. What do you say?"

Hazelton was agreeable. Within twenty minutes both young engineers were sound asleep.

It was after midnight when cries of "fire!" from the street aroused them.

Tom Reade threw open the door to be greeted by a cloud of stifling smoke.

"Hustle, Harry!" he gasped, making a rush to get into his clothing. "We can get out, I think, but we haven't any time to spare. This old trap is ablaze. It won't last many minutes!"

Trained in the alarms and the hurries of camp life, the young engineers all but sprang into their clothes.

"Come on, Harry!" urged Tom, throwing open the door. "We can make it."

They started, when, from the floor above, a woman's frantic appeals for help reached them. Children's cries were added to hers.

"Get to the street, Harry!" shouted Tom. "I'm going upstairs. There'd be no satisfaction for me in reaching the street if I abandoned that woman and her babies to their fate. One of us can do the job as well as two!"

XVI. DANES SHIVERS ON A HOT NIGHT

Almost immediately after the cries of "fire" the bell at the fire station pealed out.

Paloma's volunteer fire department turned out quickly, running to the scene with a hand engine, two hose reels and a ladder truck.

By this time, however, the whole of Paloma appeared to be lighted up with the brisk blaze. Tongues of flame shot skyward from the burning hotel, while small blazing embers dropped freely into the street.

"Is everyone out? Everyone safe? Anyone missing?" panted Carter, the young proprietor of the Cactus House.

The disturbed guests ranged themselves about Carter, who looked them over swiftly.

"Where are Mrs. Gerry and her two babies?" demanded the hotel man, his cheeks blanching.

None answered, for no one had seen the woman and her children.

"They must be in the house," cried Carter.

At that instant a woman's face appeared, briefly, at a window on the third floor. Her piercing cry rang out, then her face vanished, a cloud of smoke driving her from the open window.

"Hustle the ladders along!" begged the hotel man hoarsely. "We must rescue that woman and her children. Her husband will be here in morning. What can we say to him if we allow his wife and children to perish in the flames?"

In a few moments a long ladder had been hauled off the track and brave men rushed it to the wall, two men starting to ascend the moment it was in place.

In another moment they came sliding down, balked. Flames had enveloped the upper end of the ladder. It had to be hauled down, buckets of water being dashed over the blazing sides.

"You can't get a ladder up on any part of that wall to the third floor," called the chief of the fire department hoarsely, as he broke through a thick veil of smoke. "You'll have to try the rear."

"Where are Reade and Hazelton?" called a voice.

"Reade!"

"Hazelton!"

There was no answer. A hundred men turned, looking blankly at their nearest fellows.

"They've gone down in the flames!" called another voice.

"Reade and Hazelton have lost their lives!"

"That'll make their enemies happy!" groaned one man, and other voices took it up.

"Carter," shouted one big man, running to the proprietor, "if this blaze is the work of a fire-bug, then look for Reade and Hazelton's enemies. They have the most to gain by the death of those young fellows!"

A hoarse yell went up from the crowd. All of a sudden it seemed plain to every man present that the hatred for Tom and Harry in certain quarters fully accounted for the fire.

"Get a rope! Lynch somebody!" shouted one voice after another.

"First of all, let's find a way to get that woman and her babies out!" Carter appealed, frantically.

Scores of voices took up this cry, and numbers of men hastened around to the rear of the little hotel in the wake of the laddermen.

"We must find Reade and Hazelton, too," shouted others.

"Then we'll lynch someone for this night's business!"

The cry was taken up hoarsely.

Two ladders were quickly hoisted at the rear. Almost before they had begun to hoist, the laddermen and spectators felt that it was a useless attempt.

Nor did the doors and passages seem to offer any better avenue of escape.

Chug, chug, chug! sounded a touring car close at hand. An automobile stopped, Dr. Furniss jumping out.

"Anyone in danger!" shouted the young doctor.

"Yes; a woman and her children. Also Reade and Hazelton!"

"It's all right, then," nodded Furniss, looking relieved. "Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton have gone to the aid of the woman."

"If I could only believe that!" gasped Proprietor Carter. "We've tried the ladders, and we've tried the corridors of the house. It's a raging furnace in there."

Dr. Furniss looked on rather calmly.

"I'm merely wondering on which side of the house those two engineers will appear with the woman and her children," he declared.

For the fourth time a ladder was being vainly raised at the rear. Suddenly a shout rang out. In the basement a window was unexpectedly knocked out from the inside.

Through the way thus cleared leaped a young man so blackened with smoke as to be unrecognizable, though it was Hazelton.

Before those who first espied the young man recovered from their surprise, a pair of arms from the inside handed out the body of a child to Hazelton.

Then came another child. Next the senseless body of a woman was handed out.

Dr. Furniss was the first to recover, from delighted amazement. In a bound he was on the spot, taking care of one of the children himself and bawling to others to bring the rest of the family.

Tom Reade, looking more like a burnt-cork minstrel in hard luck than like his usual self, sprang through the window way and followed.

"Here, you people—stand back!" roared Tom, elbowing his way along. "Dr. Furniss and his patients want room and air. Stand back!"

"It's Reade!" yelled a dozen men in delight.

"Well, what of it?" asked Tom coolly, as he followed Furniss. "Was there anyone here who expected that I'd be lost?"

"Hurrah! Where's Hazelton?"

"Who wants me?" demanded the other unrecognizable, smoke-blackened figure.

"They're both safe!"

"Oh—cut it out," begged Tom good-humoredly. "You can't lose an engineer or even kill him. Doc, what's the report?"

"All three are alive," replied Dr. Furniss, "but they'll need care and nursing. Here, help me place them in my car. Someone get in and ride with me—I'll need help. You, Reade!"

"No," responded Tom with emphasis, as he looked down at his discolored self. "If the lady saw me when she opened her eyes, she'd faint again. I'd scare the kiddies into convulsions. A bath for me!"

A man from the crowd quickly stepped into the tonneau of the car, ready to care for the woman and her children while the physician drove his car home.

"Hello, Reade! My congratulations on your getting out. 'Twas a brave deed, too, to save that poor woman and her children."

Frank Danes pressed through the crowd about the car, reaching out to seize Reade's hand.

Into Tom's face flashed a sudden look that few had ever seen there.

It was a look full of contempt that the young chief engineer bent on the man who had greeted him.

"Your hand!" cried Danes, in a voice ringing with admiration.

"Don't you touch me!" warned Reade, his voice vibrating with anger.

"Why—what—" began Danes, then reached his own right hand for Tom's.

"Make way for this 'gentleman' to fall!" roared Reade, then swung a crushing blow that landed squarely in Danes's face.

The latter went down in a heap.

There had been no explanation of the seemingly unprovoked blow, but the crowd surged forward, snatching Danes's body up as though he were something of which these men were anxious to be rid.

"Did he set the hotel afire?" demanded one man in husky tones.

"Did he?" chorused the crowd.

"Lemme through! Here's a rope!"

Then followed wild sounds that could not be distinguished as words. These men of Paloma seemed bent upon fighting for the possession of Frank Danes, who, having now recovered his senses, emitted shrill appeals for mercy.

"Here's the fire-bug! Here's the human match!"

"To the nearest tree!"

"I've got the rope ready!"

In another thirty seconds Frank Danes would have been dangling from a limb of the nearest tree. Again Reade and Hazelton sprang into action.

"Stand back, men—please do!" begged Tom, fighting his way through the thinnest side of the crowd. "Don't kill any man without a trial."

"You know that this tenderfoot fired the hotel, don't you?" asked one man hoarsely.

"I've reason to suspect that he did—"

"That's enough for us!" roared a hundred voices.

"But I've no positive proof of Danes' guilt," Tom insisted.

"To the tree with him!"

"Not while I've breath left in my body!" Tom blazed forth desperately. "Come, Harry!"

Hazelton sprang to his chum's side, the two fighting desperately to drive away the men who held Frank Danes captive.

"Wait a few hours at least, men!" Tom appealed earnestly. "Don't do anything now that you'll be sorry for to-morrow."

Other men of calm judgment began to see the force of Reade's remarks.

Tom and Harry were swiftly backed by such reinforcements that the trembling wretch was torn from his would-be destroyers.

"Reade," sobbed Frank Danes, "as long as I live I'll never forget your splendid conduct."

"Shut up!" retorted Tom roughly. "I don't want to have to knock you down again. It might start a riot that no man could quell."

"Pass the skulking tenderfoot out to us!" implored some of the men on the edge of the crowd, among whom was the man with the spare rope.

"No! We won't disgrace the town with a lynching," Tom shot back. "Wait until cool judgment has had time to do its work."

"Bear a hand there!" roared Harry. "Help the firemen to save the next building. Follow me!"

Thus led, the fickle crowd started to the aid of the firemen.

"Come with me, Danes," whispered Tom hoarsely, sternly. "Keep your distance, however, or I shall lay violent hands on you."

Once out of the glare of light cast by the burning of the hotel, Tom Reade pointed down a dark side street.

"There's your way, Danes," whispered Reade. "Skip! Be far from Paloma by daylight—or nothing will save you."

"Do you consider me responsible for that fire?" faltered Danes.

"Hazelton and I went through that fire," Tom retorted sternly. "We had a hard fight to save that woman and her babies, and were nearly choked with the fumes of the coal oil with which the fire was kindled. I couldn't swear, in court, Danes, that you started the blaze, but your coat and your hands have the odor of coal oil."

Dane's face turned pale, his legs shaking under him.

"So, you see," continued Tom savagely, "you'll do well to escape before anyone else notices the smell of coal oil on you."

"You've been mighty good to me—and I—" chattered Danes.

"Shut up, as I advised you before!" rasped Tom Reade. "I've been as good to you as I'd be to a rattlesnake. Get out of Arizona before the men of this town suspect—understand—you?"

"I will," Frank Danes agreed, his teeth chattering.

"Don't ever show your face again in this part of the world."

"I won't, Reade. Again, my thanks—"

"Shut up!" Tom insisted. "Thanks from you would make me feel like a traitor to the community. Skip! Carry word to the Colthwaite Company, however, that their latest scheme against us has failed like the others!"

At mention of the Colthwaits, Danes turned and fled in earnest.

"That was their second attempt," muttered Tom grimly, as he turned back to where the flames still held dominion. "I wonder if I shall be as lucky when the third attempt against me is made?"

XVII. TIM GRIGGS "GETS HIS"

In another hour the spot where the hotel had stood was marked only by a shapeless mass of smoking embers.

The citizens of the town went back to their beds. Mrs. Gerry and her children had recovered consciousness and had found a friendly lodging for the night.

The rescue performed by Tom and Harry had been a simple enough achievement.

Shut off from every other means of escape, they remembered the dumbwaiter that ran from the kitchen up to the floors above.

The two little children were sent down on the dumb-waiter, Harry riding on the top of the wooden frame. Mrs. Gerry's rescue was delayed until Harry could send the dumb-waiter up to the third floor, where she and Tom awaited its return. Aided by Tom, she descended to the kitchen without accident; then Tom followed, sliding down the rope. It was but the work of a moment to break through the basement window and pass the woman and her children out to safety.

Morning found Proprietor Carter somewhat resigned to his loss. True, the hotel had been destroyed and the embers must be removed, but both building and contents had been fairly well insured.

"I'm a few thousand out," said the hotel man philosophically, "but I have my ground yet, and, the insurance money will allow me to rebuild., and put up a more modern hotel. Of course I'll be a few thousand dollars in debt, to start with, but after a short while I'll have earned the money that I've lost."

"Why did you smile when poor Carter was talking about his loss?" demanded Harry, as the chums strolled away in search of breakfast.

"Did I?" asked Tom, looking suddenly very, sober.

"There was a broad grin on your face?"

"Carter didn't see it, did he?"

"I don't know; but why, the grin, Tom?"

"I'll tell you after I see what answer I receive to a telegram that I've sent."

"Tom Reade, you always were provoking!"

"Now I'm doubly so, eh?"

"Oh, well, I don't care," muttered Harry. "I can wait; I'm not very nosey."

By noon General Manager Ellsworth arrived on the scene of the labors of the young engineers, out at the site of the big quicksand.

"You can run the work here this afternoon, Harry," Tom declared. "I shall want to put in my time with Mr. Ellsworth."

"Was he the answer to your telegram?"

Tom offered no further information, but hurried away to meet the general manager, who had come out to camp in an automobile hired at Paloma. Manager and chief engineer now toured slowly toward town, Harry watching them as long as they were in sight.

"Tom has something big in the wind," muttered Hazelton. "It must be something about the hotel fire. What can it be? At any rate, I'll wager it's something that pleases my chum wonderfully."

Nor did Tom return until late in the afternoon. He came back alone.

"Well?" demanded Harry.

"Yes," nodded Tom. "It's well."

"What is?"

"The game."

"What is the game?"

"When you hear about it—" Reade began.

"Yes, yes—"

"Then you'll know."

"Tom Reade, do you know, I believe I'm quite ready and willing to thrash you?" cried Harry in exasperation.

"Please don't," Tom begged.

"Then tell me what you've been so mightily mysterious about."

"I will," returned Reade. "I'd have told you hours ago, Harry, only I'm afraid you would have been demoralized with disappointment if the thing had failed to go through. Harry, to-day I've been meddling in other people's business. Congratulate me! I put it through without getting myself thumped or even disliked, by anyone. Both sides to the deal are 'tickled to death,' as the saying runs."

"You said you were going to tell me," remarked Hazelton, trying hard to restrain his curiosity for a minute or two longer.

"Sit down and listen," Tom urged his chum, handing him a chair in their little shack of an office.

Then, indeed, Tom did pour forth the whole story. As Harry listened a broad grin of contentment appeared on his face, for one of Hazelton's lovable weaknesses was his desire to see other people get ahead.

Just as Tom finished, a figure darkened the doorway.

"I'm ready to go, sir," announced Tim Griggs.

"Go where?" inquired Harry.

"I've fired Griggs," observed Tom Reade.

"What! After all that he did for you the other night?" demanded Hazelton, aghast. "After the man saved your—"

"Oh, I'm quite satisfied to be fired, Mr. Hazelton," Tim Griggs broke in. "In fact, I'm very grateful to Mr. Reade. He has certainly given me a big boost forward in the world."

"What are you going to do now, Griggs?" Harry asked.

"You'd better address him as 'Mr. Griggs,' Harry," Tom hinted. "He is a foreman now, at six dollars a day, and entitled to his Mister."

"Foreman?" Harry repeated, while Gregg's grin broadened.

"Yes," Tom continued. "Mr. Griggs is to be foreman on the new job that I've just been telling you about in town. After this, if Mr. Griggs is careful to behave himself, he's likely always to be a foreman on some job or other for the A., G. & N. M."

Harry sprang forward, seizing the hand of Tim Griggs and shaking it with enthusiasm.

"Bully old Griggs! Lucky old Griggs!" Hazelton bubbled forth. "Mr. Griggs, you'll believe from now on what I've always believed—that it's a great piece of luck in itself to be one of Tom Reade's friends."

"It surely has been great luck for me, sir," Griggs answered. "The best part of all," he added, with a husky note in his voice, "is what it means to that little girl of mine. When I get into town to-night I in going to sit down and write that little daughter a long letter all about the grand news. She'll be proud of her dad's good luck! She's only eight years old, but she's a great little reader, and she writes me letters longer than my own."

"If you'll wait a minute, Mr. Griggs," proposed Tom, "we'll be able to give you a ride into town. The general manager gave me authority to rent and use an automobile after this. It's out there waiting now."

The new foreman gratefully accepted the invitation. Within five minutes the chauffeur had stopped the car in Paloma and Tim Griggs got out to go to his new boarding place in the town.

"God bless you, Mr. Reade!" he said huskily, holding out his band. "You've done a lot for me—and my little girl!"

"No more than you've done for me," smiled Tom. "Anyway, you haven't received more than you deserve, and you never will in this little old world of ours."

"I don't know about that," replied the new foreman, a sudden flush rising to his weather-beaten face. "It all seems too good to be true."

"You'll find it to be true enough when you draw your next pay, Griggs," laughed Tom. "Then you'll realize that you aren't dreaming. In the meantime your dinner is getting cold at your boarding place. Don't let your new job spoil your appetite."

When Tom and Harry rode into town at noon the following day they beheld a scene of great activity at the site of the destroyed Cactus House. All the blackened debris had been carted away during the morning by a large force of men. Now, derricks lay in place, to be erected in the afternoon. A steam shovel had been all but installed and a large stationary engine rested on nearly completed foundations.

George Ashby, proprietor of the Mansion House, who had dared, during the last two days, to show himself a little more openly on the streets of Paloma, halted just as Tom and Harry stepped out of the automobile to look over the scene of Foreman Griggs's morning labors.

"Looks as if the Cactus House might be rebuilt," remarked Ashby, burning with curiosity.

"No," said Tom briefly.

"Carter is going to change the name?" inquired Ashby.

"No. Carter doesn't own this land any more."

"He doesn't own the land?" Ashby asked. "What's going to be put up here, then? A business block?"

For a moment Ashby thrilled with joy. Of late the Cactus House had seriously cut in on the profits of the Mansion House. Ashby had, in fact, been running behind. Now, if the Mansion House were to be henceforth the only hotel in town, Ashby saw a chance to prosper on a more than comfortable scale.

"Ashby," Tom went on, rather frigidly, "I won't waste many words, for I'm afraid I don't like you well enough to talk very much to you. The A., G. & N. M. has bought this land from Mr. Carter. The railroad is going to erect here one of the finest hotels in this part of Arizona. It will have every modern convenience, and will make your hotel look like a mill boarding house by contrast. When the new hotel is completed it will be leased to Mr. Carter. With his insurance money, and the price of the land in bank, Carter will have capital for embarking in the hotel business on a scale that will make this end of Arizona sit up and do some hard looking."

As he listened Proprietor Ashby's jaw dropped. His color came and went. He swallowed hard, while his hands worked convulsively. With the fine new hotel that was coming to Paloma the owner of the Mansion House saw himself driven hopelessly into the background. "Reade, this new hotel game is some of your doings," growled the hotel man.

"I'm proud to say that it is partly my doing," Tom admitted, with a smile. "Harry, let's go along to the restaurant. I'm hungry."

As the two young engineers stepped into the car and were driven away, Ashby dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands.

"So I'm to be beaten out of the hotel game here, am I!" the hotel man asked himself, gritting his teeth. "I'm to be driven out by Reade, the fellow whom I once kicked out of my hotel! Oh—well, all right!"

XVIII. TRAGEDY CAPS THE TEST

"Pass the signal!" directed Tom.

A railroad man with a flag made several swift moves. Down the track an engineman, in his cab, answered with a short blast of, the whistle. Then he threw over the lever, and a train of ten flat cars started along in the engine's wake.

It was the first test—the "small test," Tom called it—of the track that now extended across the surface of the Man-killer.

On each flat car were piled ten tons of steel rails, to be used further along in the construction work. With engine, cars and all, the load amounted to one hundred and fifty tons, the pressure of which would be exerted over a comparatively short strip of the new track that now glistened over the Man-killer.

Mounted on his pony, Harry Hazelton had galloped a considerable distance down the track. Now, halted, he had turned his pony's head about, watching eagerly the on-coming train.

For two weeks the laborers had been working on the roadbed now running over the Man-killer. Ties had been laid and rails fastened down. Apparently the Man-killer had done its worst and had been balked, a seemingly secure roadbed now resting on the once treacherous quicksand.

Construction trains, short and lightly laden, had been moving out over the newly filled in soil for many days, but the train now starting at the edge of the terrible Man-killer was heavier than any equipment that had before been run over the ground.

The president of the A., G. & N. M. R. R. was there, flanked by half a dozen of the leading directors of the road. There were other officials there, including General Manager Ellsworth.

"I see Hazelton out yonder," murmured the president of the road. "But where's that young man Reade, now at the moment when the success of his work is being tested?"

"Goodness knows," rejoined Mr. Ellsworth. "As likely as not he's back in the office, taking a nap after having given the engineman his signal."

"Asleep!" repeated the president. "Can he be so indolent or so indifferent as that?"

"You may always depend upon Tom Reade to do something that wouldn't be expected of him," laughed Mr. Ellsworth. "It isn't that he slights big duties, or even pretends to do. If he has vanished, and has gone to sleep, then it is because he feels so sure of his work that he takes no further interest in the test that is being made."

"But if an accident should happen?" asked the president of the A. G. & N. M. R. R.

"Then I can promise you that you'd see Reade, on his pony, shooting ahead as fast as he could go to the scene of the trouble."

These more important railroad officials had come out to camp in automobiles. Now they followed on foot as the train rolled on to the land reclaimed from the Man-killer.

Superintendent Hawkins and his foremen also went along on foot to observe whether the track sank ever so little at any point.

It was none of Harry Hazelton's particular business to watch whether the tracks sank slightly. That duty could be better performed by the foremen who had had charge of the track laying. Yet Hazelton, as he watched, found himself growing impatient.

"Here!" Harry called to a near-by laborer. "Take my horse, please."

In another instant the young assistant engineer was on foot, following the slowly moving train as it rolled along over the ground where, months before, not even a man could have strolled with safety.

"Do you see any sagging of the track, Mr. Rivers?" Harry called.

"No, sir. Not as much as a sixteenth of an inch at any point," responded the foreman. "The job has been a big success."

"We can tell that better after the track has held loads of from five to eight hundred tons," Harry rejoined. "I believe, however, that we have the tricks of the savage old Man-killer nailed."

Exultation throbbed in Harry's heart. Outwardly, he did not trust himself to reveal his great delight. He still followed, watching anxiously, until the train had passed safely over the Man-killer.

Then a great cheer went up from more than a thousand throats, for many people had come out from Paloma to watch the test.

The train had gone a quarter of a mile past the western edge of the huge and once treacherous quicksand. Now the engine was on a temporary turn-table, waiting to be turned and switched back to bring the train back over the Man-killer at a swift gait.

"Where's Mr. Reade?" called the president of the road, gazing backward. "Someone go for him. I wish him to be here to see the test made with the train under fast speed."

"I'll get Reade, sir," answered Harry, motioning to have his pony brought to him.

Hazelton vanished in a cloud of desert dust.

When he next appeared there was another pony, and Reade astride it.

"You sent for me, sir," said Tom, riding close to the president, then dismounting.

"Yes," Mr. Reade. "I believed that you should be here to see the test train return."

"Very good, sir," was Tom's quiet reply. He signaled for a workman to come and take charge of his pony.

In a few minutes the short but heavy train started, gaining headway rapidly. By the time it struck the edge of the possibly conquered quicksand it was moving at the rate of forty miles an hour.

Across the Man-killer the train continued for a mile in the direction of Paloma.

"Now, let us all inspect the track," suggested the president of the railroad company. "Call up the autos."

"Will you let me make a suggestion, sir!" queried Tom.

"Go ahead, Mr. Reade."

"Then, sir, let Mr. Hazelton and myself ride out along the track first, that we may see if the whole course is safe."

"That heavy train just went over at fast speed and nothing disastrous happened," protested the president.

"Probably the entire course is still safe, sir?" Tom assented. "Yet, on the other hand, it is possible that the fast moving train may have started the quicksand at some point. The next object that passes over, even if no heavier than an automobile, may meet with disaster. Mr. Hazelton and I can soon satisfy ourselves as to whether the roadbed has sagged at any point along the way. We shall ride nothing heavier than mustangs."

"There is something in what you say, Mr. Reade. Go ahead. We will wait until we have your report."

Tom and Harry accordingly mounted, riding off at a trot. Yet at some sections of the line they rode so slowly, studying the ground attentively, that it was fully half an hour before they had crossed the further edge of the Man-killer.

"The engineers are signaling us, Mr. President," reported General Manager Ellsworth. "They are motioning us to go forward."

Accordingly the party of railway officials entered their automobiles and started slowly off over the Man-killer.

"Ride back and meet them, Harry," Tom suggested. "Show them that one point that we noticed."

Hazelton accordingly dug his heels into the flank of his pony, starting off at a gallop.

Two or three minutes passed. Then Mr. Ellsworth leaped from his seat in the foremost automobile, standing erect in the car and pointing excitedly.

"Look there!" he shouted lustily. "What's happening?"

Away off, at the further side of the Man-killer, a horseman had suddenly ridden into sight from behind a sand pile. His swiftly moving pony had gotten within three hundred yards of the chief engineer before Tom looked up to behold the newcomer.

From where the railroad officials watched they could hear nothing, though they saw a succession of indistinct spittings from something in the right hand of the horseman.

"It's a revolver the fellow's shooting at Mr. Reade!" gasped Superintendent Hawkins, leaping into the car beside the general manager. "Turn your speed on, man—make a lightning lash across the Man-killer!"

Away shot the automobile, not wholly to the liking of two eastern men who sat in the directors' car.

Tom Reade had realized his danger. Having nothing with which to fight, Reade had sprung his horse eastward and was racing for life.

The unknown had emptied his weapon, but that did not deter him, for, continuing his wild pursuit, the stranger could be seen to draw another automatic revolver.

The bullets striking all about Tom's pony ploughed up the sand.

Within a minute the men in the speeding automobile were close enough to hear the sputtering crackle of the pistol shots.

"There goes Hazelton right into the face of death!" gasped Mr. Ellsworth, who remained in a standing position. "Foolish of the boy, but magnificent!"

Harry had turned some time before, but now those in the automobile saw that Hazelton was riding squarely to Tom's side, despite the constant fusillade of bullets.

Both pistols were now emptied, but the pursuer, letting his reins fall on the neck of his madly galloping pony, was inserting fresh cartridges in the magazine chambers of his pistols.

XIX. THE SECRET OF ASHBY'S CUNNING

At a considerable distance behind the automobile came another rescue party. This was made up of about two score of Arizona horsemen. Many of these men were armed. At the saddle bows of some of the hung raw-hide lariats that the owners unwound as they sped forward.

Tom Reade, with the pursuer slowly, but steadily gaining upon him, had discovered the identity of the man who seemed bent on his destruction.

As Hazelton drew nearer Tom waved his left hand frantically at his chum.

"Turn about, Harry! Ride back like the wind!" shouted Tom. "It's Ashby, and he's shooting to kill. About face—you young idiot!"

Harry took no notice of the warning, reining in only slightly, then wheeling and riding in a line with Reade, though about forty feet to one side of him.

Ashby, a wild light in his eyes, heavily armed, and riding madly, kept up a continuous fire in his effort to destroy the young chief engineer.

Honk! Honk! honk! came the warning from the automobile horn. The car dashed at full speed toward the vengeful rider, as though about to run him down.

George Ashby, however, was not easily intimidated. One swift glance had assured him that the automobile bore no armed men. He therefore merely swung his horse out of the path of the on-coming car and continued to aim at Reade, though he now took more time between shots. On Hazelton he did not waste a shot.

Helplessly and vainly the automobile whizzed by pursuer and pursued.

"Ashby, stop this madness!" cried Mr. Ellsworth hoarsely.

The pursuing rider never faltered. Now the party of Arizona horsemen were riding nearer. Two or three of the leaders drew revolvers, opening fire on the mad hotel man, though the range was as yet too great for effective work.

In another thirty seconds George Ashby would doubtless have dropped to the dust of the dessert, riddled with lead. Suddenly, however, he gave his horse's head a sharp turn to the right. In an instant he was riding back, shooting no more, and Tom Reade had passed safely out of range.

With wild whoops the Paloma horsemen dashed on. Their mounts were not spent as was that of the hotel man.

"Don't shoot the fellow, if you can help it!" Tom Reade had called, as the horsemen swept by him. "Rope Ashby if you can."

Suddenly the hotel man's mount was seen to stagger slightly. It was sufficient to pitch Ashby, who was not on his guard.

With wilder whoops the Arizona men spurred their ponies on. There was a whirring of lariats and no less than three nooses had fallen over the hotel man's head.

There came a brief interval in which the men, swooping down on the captive, concealed him from the view of others.

Out of this crush soon came order. Then it was seen that Ashby had been roped securely and was being led back to the railroad camp.

"We've got the scoundrel, with four ropes hitched to him," called one of the captors.

"One rope will be enough as soon as we can find a tree."

The party was riding into the railroad camp now, and a dense crowd pressed forward to see the face of the keeper of the Mansion House.

Ashby was chuckling gleefully. If any fear of the consequences of his lawless behavior oppressed him, he was far from betraying the fact.

"Be gentle with him, friends," Tom urged, riding forward.

"Yes; we ought to be gentle with every rattlesnake," came an answer from the crowd.

Ashby laughed harshly.

"You can't hurt me, neighbors," declared the hotel man. "I'm bullet proof. Any man who fires at me will find that the bullet will rebound and bit him. Tie me up to a tree, if you like. You'll find that I won't choke. I'll just slide back to earth as often as you tie me up."

"Just what I thought," murmured Tom.

"What do you think?" demanded Mr. Ellsworth from the car.

"The man's as mad as a March hare," replied Reade.

"Humph! He's merely shamming," retorted the general manager.

"Stow the funny business, Ashby!" came the advice from the crowd. "You can't fool us into believing that you're crazy."

"Crazy?" repeated the hotel man, a look of amazement creeping into his face. "Of course I'm not crazy. I'm the only sane man in this crowd."

Men began to look wonderingly at the hotel man, though many still believed that Ashby was cleverly shamming insanity in order to save his neck from being stretched.

"Doe Furniss! Come over here!" called Reade. "Gentlemen, this is a question for Doe Furniss. Don't think of doing anything to the fellow until you've heard from Doc. Make way for the doctor, gentlemen."

At a sign from Dr. Furniss the captors led Ashby's horse onward until the office shack was reached. Here two men freed the captive from his horse and led him inside. Dr. Furniss followed them and the door was closed.

"Let's get away from here," urged Tom Reade. "A big crowd hanging about is sure to excite the poor fellow."

"Reade, you're too soft and easy," grunted a Paloma man in the crowd. "The only thing that makes Ashby crazy is that he didn't get you."

"He did 'get' me, however," laughed Tom, displaying four bullet holes through his shirtsleeves, and two more that pierced his hat. "Ashby got as much of me as I'd want any marksman to get."

Having withdrawn to a distance, the crowd waited.

It was nearly half an hour before Dr. Furniss stepped outside. Now he walked swiftly over to the edge of the crowd.

"Gentlemen," remarked the physician, "you are justified in feeling very well pleased that you didn't lynch Ashby. The poor fellow is as insane as a man could well be. He imagines Mr. Reade has hurt his business and is determined to kill him. I'll send for a straightjacket and then we'll hustle him away to the asylum."

At this moment a wild yell sounded from the shack, to be echoed from the crowd. George Ashby, seemingly possessed of the strength of half a dozen men, had wrenched himself free of his captors, felling both like a flash. Then the hotel man leaped to his horse, freeing it and starting off at a mad gallop.

Instantly a score of men set off after the fugitive, swinging their lariats as they rode.

Crack! Crack! Bang!

Snatching still another automatic revolver from one of his saddle bags, Ashby was now firing at those riding behind him.

The line of horsemen wavered somewhat. They might have fired in return, and have brought down their quarry, but no brave man likes to think of shooting a lunatic.

So, still firing as he went, Ashby once more reached the edge of the quicksand.

Now, riding as fast as he could urge his pony, the hotel man dashed out on the Man-killer.

Nor was he riding over the part that had been rendered safe by the young engineers.

Instead, he was riding to the southward of the railroad property— straight out where he was likely to find a speedy death in the engulfing sands.

"Stop, Ashby! Come back!" shouted a dozen voices. "You'll be swallowed up in the quick-sands."

Brave as they were, the pursuers now rein up sharply. It seemed to them sheer madness to ride out thus to their certain deaths.

"Ashby is crazy, all right," remarked bronzed man. "None but an insane man would ride out there."

Somewhat tardily automobile parties started in pursuit. These vehicles were halted at the edge of the quicksand. Tom and Harry had also come this far.

In the background the halted crowd watched in suspense as George Ashby galloped over the treacherous sand.

Several times the pony's hoofs were seen to sink, yet each time the animal seemed able to draw his feet out of the sand and go on again.

"It's a crazy man's luck," cried an Arizona man thickly. "Of course, here and there on the Man-killer there are safe, sound spots, and Ashby is having the luck of his life in hitting all the sound spots in getting across. But I wouldn't follow him for a thousand dollars a minute!"

The mad hotel man was soon lost to view on the other side of one of the little hills of sand.

There would have been little sense in trying to follow him or to head him off, even by more roundabout courses. Ashby was now far enough away to elude any pursuit that might start.

"I wonder if Reade has any idea of what he's up against now?" murmured the mayor of Paloma. "That crazy man is loose, and sooner or later he'll be heard from again."

XX. DUFF PROMISES THE "SQUARE DEAL"

Altogether the day had been a hugely satisfactory one to the young chief engineer.

The first test had been made, and, all had passed off well, for, in Tom Reade's easy-going, fearless mind the peculiar doings of George Ashby did not figure at all as a part of the day's work.

"Harry, we've every reason to feel proud of ourselves" mused Tom aloud, as he undressed in the shack that night.

"You feel pretty certain that we've conquered the Man-killer, do you?" Hazelton asked, as he laid down the book he had been reading.

Of late, since the burning of the Cactus House, the chums had slept in the shack, though still getting many of their meals in town.

"Oh, of course you know that we haven't won, the whole fight yet," Reade went on. "We've plenty of work to do here still before we pronounce the job finished. But to-day's shows that our plan for filling in this particular, kind of quicksand was a sound one. You know the president of the road said that words failed to express his complete approbation of our work."

"We certainly have been remarkably fortunate—so far," Harry admitted. "Yet I must confess, Tom, that I'm still nervous."

"Then it must be over Ashby," Tom laughed.

"Ashby be hanged!" Hazelton retorted. "I haven't given him a thought this evening. No, I'm still nervous about our job here. The first test was all right—that is, it was all right to-day. But these quicksands are treacherous. Our roadbed may be all right for a fortnight, and may seem as safe as we could wish it to be. Then, all of a sudden, within sixty seconds, it may sink before our very eyes. Suppose it were to sink while a trainload of human beings was passing over it!"

"You might as well dismiss all such thoughts," Reade counseled. "I tell you, Harry, we've proved that our principle is sound. Now, we will go ahead and finish the job. When we go away from here I, for one, shall feel certain that the Man-killer must behave for all time to come. Harry, there's a limit to the shifting tendency of a quicksand, and to-day's test proves to me that we've found it. We've won. I wish I were as sure of a dozen other things as I am that we've won out here to-day."

"All right, then," smiled Hazelton. "You're a smarter engineer than I am, Tom, old fellow. If you're satisfied, then I'm bound to be, for I'll back your judgment in engineering against my own."

"That's rather more praise, Harry, than I expect or wish," Reade rejoined soberly. "But I don't see how the Man-killer can ever again assert himself against the A. G. & N. M.'s roadbed."

"Oh, I'm only an old croaker, I know," Harry confessed. "I've got a blue streak on to-night. Or else it's a fit of apprehension about something or other. I feel as if—"

Crack! crack!

Outside two shots rang suddenly out, to be followed by a dozen swift, scattering reports.

"Mr. Reade! They—" began a voice outside, then stopped abruptly.

Tom hustled on his clothing again with a speed that seemed to partake of magic. Then, with Harry close upon his heels, he rushed to the door, jerking it open.

"Just the pair we want!" snarled a voice that proceeded from behind a mask.

A dozen masked men pressed into the room. Tom and Harry put their fists into instant action, but it availed them nothing.

In a twinkling they were borne to the floor. At lightning speed both were rolled over and bound.

From the tents of the laborers, beyond hoarse voices sounded as the men were awakened by the shots.

"Get back there, you idiots!" commanded a voice outside. "If you don't, you'll think that a Gatling gun factory has blown up about your ears."

Reports rang out sharply as a dozen revolver shots were fired into the air.

Now, dazed with the suddenness of the attack, Reade and Hazelton were dragged into the open.

Their two night watchmen, who had gone down bravely, now lay wounded on the ground, their weapons snatched from them.

"Hoist 'em along, boys," ordered a gruff voice.

Tom and Harry were carried on the shoulders of men, and moved along at a swift pace. Only half a dozen of the raiders needed to remain somewhat in the rear, firing an occasional shot to prevent the unarmed laborers from swarming to the attack.

"Hoist 'em up! Tie 'em on! Get under way quick! There'll be a big noise raised after us soon," declared the same directing voice.

Tom and Harry were fairly thrown upon the backs of horses, and there lashed fast.

"Mount and get away," ordered the commander of this strangest of night raids.

Two men, each leading a pony to which a captive was lashed, rode off in one direction. Groups of two or three rode away in other directions, the blackness of the night swallowing them up.

It was going to be a difficult task for pursuers to know which direction to take in order to come up with Reade and Hazelton in time to save them from the fate that lay just ahead of them!

For audacity and dash the raid could not have been better planned.

From camp not a shot was fired, for the watchmen had had the only weapons and these had been seized by the invaders.

"Our foremen might telegraph to camp," thought Tom swiftly, as he felt himself being carried away. "But I'll wager that these smart scoundrels didn't forget to cut the wire before springing the raid."

For the first two or three minutes Harry's, slower moving mind hardly grasped more than the fact that their enemies appeared to have won a complete triumph.

"There isn't much doubt as to what they'll do with us," thought Hazelton, with a slight shudder. "These rascals will move too fast for pursuit to overtake them early. What they in intend to do with us can be done in a very few minutes."

Neither young engineer really expected to live to see daylight. From the first, after having incurred the anger of a certain lawless element in Paloma, the young engineers had understood fully that threats of lynching them had not been idly made.

"There'll be a stir, though," Tom Reade muttered to himself. "The A. G. & N. M. officials won't let this crime go by without a determined effort to bring the offenders to justice. Detectives will search this community in squads, and everyone of these masked gentlemen is likely to get his deserts."

Within the next half hour the galloping horses had covered fully five miles. Now the leader of the crowd led the way down into a deep gully in the sand.

"Hold up, men," ordered the leader, and the cavalcade came to a stop, horses panting.

"Tumble the cattle off into the dirt," was the next order, and it was obeyed, Tom and Harry rolling in the bitter alkali dust.

"Now, gentlemen, I believe I will take command," spoke one of the party of horsemen, in his most suave voice, as he removed his mask. The speaker, as Reade knew at once, was Jim Duff, the gambler.

"That's all right, Jim," nodded the former leader.

"Jake, ride back a few hundred yards and keep a sharp lookout," suggested Duff blandly. "The pursuers may come in automobiles. We'll cut the ceremonies here short and leave nothing but lifeless bodies for the rescue parties to find."

Stakes were driven and the horses picketed.

"Bring along our guests," suggested Jim Duff, with a touch of humor that the occasion rendered grisly.

Thereupon Tom and Harry were once more jerked to their feet.

"Ye can walk, I reckon, and don't have be toted," observed one of the scoundrels.

"We're wholly at your service, sir," rejoined Tom mockingly.

"And equally at your pleasure," Harry suggested dryly.

Two hundred yards further on the halted close to a pair of stunted trees of about the same size.

"Gentlemen, you may as well remove your masks on this hot evening," suggested Jim Duff. The face coverings came off. Reade and Hazelton surveyed their captors as the chance offered, being careful not to betray too great curiosity.

"I see one gentleman here whom I had expected to find," remarked Tom quietly.

"Me?" hinted Duff.

"Well, yes; you, for one, but I refer to that excellent host, Mr. Ashby, of the Mansion House."

With a start George Ashby turned on Reade, coming closer and grinning ferociously into the face of the young chief engineer. Tom, however, managed to muster a smile as he went on:

"How do you do, Mr. Ashby? Your performance of this afternoon mystified me a good deal. I had never expected to find myself on a shooting acquaintance with you."

Three or four of the rascals chuckled at this way of putting it, but Proprietor Ashby snarled like a wild animal.

"As for you, Mr. Duff," Reade resumed, "I confess that I have never been able to understand you."

"You will to-night," smiled Duff, with bland ferocity. "I can promise you, as a gambler, that I am going to give you a square deal."

"Fine!" glowed Tom. "I am delighted to hear that you have reformed, then."

This' time there was a general laugh. Jim Duff flushed angrily.

"Reade, what you never understood about me is that I belong to the ranks of the square gamblers."

"I didn't believe there were any such gamblers," Tom replied in a voice of surprise. "It is still hard for me to believe. How can any man be square and honorable when he won't work, but fattens on the earnings of others? Has that idea any connection with honor?"

"Stop that line of talk, you young hound!" ordered Duff, striding up to this bold young enemy. All the slight veneer of polish that Duff usually affected had vanished now. His eyes blazed with rage as he doubled his fist and struck Reade full in the face, knocking him down. One of the bystanders jerked Tom to his feet.

"Speaking of the square deal," Tom observed, "I now insist upon it. Duff, you knocked me down when my hands were tied. If you're not a coward I request that you order my hands freed—and then repeat your blow if you dare."

"You'll stay tied," retorted Duff grimly.

"I knew it," sighed Reade. "What's the use of talking about honor and square dealing where a gambler is concerned? Loaded dice, marked cards or tying a man before you dare to hit him—it's all the same to your kind."

"Shut up that talk, you hound, or I'll pound you stiff before we go on with what's been arranged for you!" raged the gambler, shaking his clenched fist in the face of the young engineer.

"Go slowly, Jim," advised one of the men present. "Of course we know what we're to do to this young pup, and we all know what he thinks of you. But some of the rest of us have different ideas as to how a helpless enemy ought to be treated."

"You, Rafe Bodson!" snarled Duff, turning on the last speaker. "Are you one of us? Do you belong to our side, or are you a spy for the other crowd?"

"Got your gun with you, Duff?" inquired Bodson calmly.

"Yes," snapped the gambler.

"Get it out in your hand, then, before, you talk to me any more in that fashion."

"He won't," mocked Tom. "He doesn't dare, Bodson. Your hands are not tied."

"Cut it out, Rafe! Quit it!" ordered one of the other men in the crowd. "We won't let this tenderfoot split our ranks. You're one of us, and you'll stand by us."

"Not if there's going to be any more hitting of tied men," retorted Bodson sulkily. "There's a limit to what a man can stand."

"Thank you, my friend," broke in Tom Reade mildly. "But don't go to any trouble on our account. There are few if any others in this crowd who can understand the meaning of fair play—the gambler least of all."

"I'll take that out of you, Reade!" blazed Jim Duff. "I'll—"

"You'll do nothing while the kid's hands are tied," objected Bodson, stepping between the pair. "Act fair and square, Jim, as a man should act."

"That's the argument, Rafe," remarked another man, also stepping forward.

"Bully for you, Jeff Moore," replied Rafe. "Now, remember, friends, we're not calling for anything except that Jim Duff live up to the program he just published for himself—the square deal."

Several murmurs of protest came from the other raiders.

"I reckon, Rafe, you and Jeff had better step back and let the rest of us handle this thing," advised one of the party. "The pair of you are too chicken-livered for us."

"It's a lie, as anyone in Paloma knows," Rafe retorted coolly. "No—put up your shooters," as the hands of five or six men slid to their belts. "There's no need of bad blood between us. All I ask is for Jim Duff to step back out of this."

"Am I the leader here or am I not?" demanded Duff boldly. "Wasn't it my interests that were first assailed by these fresh tenderfeet! Didn't you gentlemen come out to-night, to help me attend to my affair? Didn't you turn also to avenge the blow that has been dealt these cubs to poor George Ashby's prosperity?"

At hearing himself so sympathetically referred to, Ashby threw himself forward, a short, double-barreled shotgun in his hands.

"Yes, you, get back, you white-livered cowards!" commanded Ashby hoarsely. "You let Duff and myself and the rest of us here handle these young hounds as they deserve to be treated. You, Rafe and Jeff, get out of this. You've no business here. You belong to the enemies of business interests in Paloma. The rest of us will settle with these business destroyers."

Ashby's eyes glowed with the unbridled fury of the lunatic. Yet Rafe Bodson did not waver.

"Gentlemen," he demanded coldly, "for what purpose did you bring these young fellows out here?"

"To lynch 'em!" came the hoarse murmur.

"Then go ahead and do it, like men," ordered Bodson. "There are the trees. You have your ropes, and your men are ready. Remember, no cowardly treatment of young fellows whose hands are tied. Go on with the lynching and get it over with!"

XXI. A SPECIALIST IN "HONOR"

"Sir! Stop it, I tell you," quivered Duff, again stepping to the front. "These young hounds shan't die until I've made them apologize for every insulting word they've said to me."

"Fine!" glowed Tom with enthusiasm.

"Great!"

"What ails you now, Reade?" demanded Duff, his face again darkening.

"You've just promised us that we shall live forever," returned Tom dryly.

Then he added, with a sigh:

"But I suppose that's only another lie—another specimen of a gambler's honor."

"Stand aside, Bodson! Moore, you get out of the way!" snarled the gambler, his anger again depriving him of all reason. "I'll have my way with these young hounds before we string 'em up."

"Let me at 'em!" implored Ashby, fingering his shotgun nervously. "Get out of my way. I don't want to pepper anyone else."

But Bodson and Moore, bad as they were some respects, stood their ground.

"Are you going to let us at them?" insisted Duff, his voice now broken and harsh from anger.

"Not for the purpose of bullying them!" insisted Rafe, without moving. "Jeff, you're with me, aren't you?"

"Right by your side, pardner."

"Come on, then, boys!" called Duff, the note of rally in his tone. "Help me to drive this pair of traitors out of your company."

Like a flash Bodson's revolver was in his band. The muzzle covered the gambler.

"Jim Duff, down on your knees before I blow your bead off!"

The gambler started back, his face paling.

In the same instant Jeff Moore had also drawn his revolver, and held it ready for the first hostile sign from anyone in the group.

"What's the matter with you, Rafe?" demanded the gambler, in a half-coaxing tone.

"Nothing," Bodson assured him calmly, "except that I'm going to blow your head off if you aren't down on your knees before I've counted three! One—two—th—"

Duff dropped to his knees, holding his hands high in air.

"Now apologize for calling us traitors," admonished Rafe. "Do it handsomely, too, while you're about it."

"Rafe," protested Jim Duff, "you, know that I said what I did only because I was angry. I know you're a gentleman, and you know that I know it. If I've hurt your feelings, I'm sorry, a thousand times over."

"Jim, you're a good deal of a sneak, aren't you?" inquired Rafe, in a voice that sounded pleasant enough, but which carried a warning in its tone.

"Yes," Duff admitted. "I guess I'm a good deal of a sneak."

"Get up on your feet, then. We understand one another," said Bodson. "Go ahead, if you want to, and carry out your plans for a merry evening. But don't make the mistake of calling ugly names again, and don't forget all you've said about the square deal. Hang these tenderfeet, if that's what you want to do, but don't hit men without first giving them a chance to hit back."

Duff, shaking partly from fear, though more from a sense of his humiliation, rose to his feet. For a moment he stood choking down his varied emotions. Then, with an attempt at his old-time, suave banter, he inquired:

"Are you young gentlemen ready for the collar and neck-tie party that we've planned to give you?"

"As ready as you are," observed Tom dryly.

"And you?" asked Duff, turning to Hazelton. "Are you ready?"

"I'm not particular about feeling a lariat around my neck," Harry answered, "but I'll follow my friend Reade anywhere—even where you propose to send us."

"Ay, but that's courage of the kind you don't expect to find in a blamed tenderfoot!" remarked Jeff Moore, resting a hand first on Tom's shoulder and then on Harry's.

"Why?" asked Tom. "Does it surprise you?"

"It shore does," replied Jeff.

"Is courage a matter of geography, then?" Tom inquired.

"I—I—pardner, you've got me there," Jeff admitted, looking puzzled. "Yet, somehow, I never looked for much courage in a fellow who hailed from east of the Mississippi."

George Ashby had been looking on during the last few moments, his eyes glittering strangely. Yet, as he said nothing, the attention of the others had turned from him.

Jeff Moore happened to turn just in time to see the muzzle of the shotgun turned fully on Tom Reade's waist line, and Ashby's forefinger resting on one of the triggers.

Bang! spoke the gun, a sheet of flame leaped forth.

Tom Reade did not even start. All his nerve had come to the surface in that instant. He was unharmed, for Jeff's sweeping arm had knocked aside the muzzle of the gun and the shot had entered the leg of one of the raiders.

"What'd you do that for, Jeff?" groaned the injured man, sinking to the alkali dust.

But Moore was busy with the mad hotel keeper, having clinched with him, and now being engaged in taking away the shotgun, one barrel of which was still loaded.

"Stand back there, friends," warned Rafe Bodson, who still held his revolver in his right hand. "We don't want to see any more of the party hurt."

Jeff had the gun in a moment, despite the insane fury with which Ashby fought.

"Take care of this, Rafe," requested Jeff, turning over the gun, which Bodson received with his left hand.

Ashby, momentarily free, sprang at the new bolder of the weapon, but Moore tripped him and fell upon him.

The other men stood by as though fascinated, not interfering. Perhaps they felt that their safety depended upon Ashby's being disarmed.

There was a short, sharp scuffle on the ground after which Moore rose, leaving the hotel man with his hands tied behind his back.

"And I request," remarked Moore, "that no gentleman present cut the knots that I have tied. It'll be a favor to me to have Ashby left alone for the present."

"Now, then, Rafe or Jeff," spoke the gambler, mustering up what remained of his courage, "since you two have taken charge of affairs, won't you be good enough to inform us what your pleasure is?"

"We're not in charge," retorted Bodson sullenly. "All we've undertaken to do is to look out for the square deal that you promised, Duff, and which you didn't exhibit in a way that we liked. As for the rest, go ahead when you like—but don't do any more hitting with your fists."

"We'll go ahead with the lariat, then?" hinted Duff eagerly.

"If that's the pleasure of the gentlemen," Bodson agreed, bowing slightly.

To the gambler it seemed the opportune moment to rush matters.

"Bring up lariats, two of you," Duff ordered, turning around to the others. "And don't waste time over it."

The rawhide ropes were brought. The gambler himself tied the nooses, testing them to see that they ran freely.

"Bring Reade and Hazelton under the trees," was Duff's next order, which was obeyed. Bodson and Moore, their weapons still in their hands, followed, keeping keen watch over the way the affair was conducted.

"Any choice of trees Reade?" inquired Jin Duff.

"None," answered Tom shortly. His face was pallid and set, though he did not show any other sign of fear.

"Hazelton?"

"One tree is as good as another," Harry answered in a strangely quiet voice.

In the midst of an impressive silence, and with motions that seemed oddly unreal to the tended victims, Duff placed the two young engineers. A lariat was thrown over a low limb of each of the trees. Then, with slightly trembling hands the gambler adjusted a noose over the neck of each bound boy.

XXII. TOM AND HARRY VANISH

"How d'ye like that, Rafe?" queried Jeff Moore, as Jim Duff stepped back and viewed the young engineers with a diabolical smile before giving the fatal signal.

"I don't like it," muttered Bodson.

"No more do I."

"Shall we stop it?"

"Yes. I'm sick of Jim Duff. This night has turned me against the smooth-tongued coward."

"Get busy, then, Rafe!"

"Shall we stand the crowd off and set the boys free?"

"Pump both of your shooting-irons loose into the air—I'll do the rest," replied Moore.

Cr-r-r-rack! Pointing his weapons skyward, Bodson had quickly obeyed Moore's command.

"Now, what—" began one of the raiders, wheeling instantly.

"Rafe's going to give 'em a proper send off," grinned one of Duff's men.

"No!" shouted the other. "That's a bluff. He and Jeff are trying to queer the whole game."

With cries of anger, several of the men sprang toward Jeff, who had bared his sheath knife and was about to free Tom and Harry.

"Here—stop that, you traitors!" roared Duff, leaping forward.

"I've four shots left, Jim," remarked Rafe Bodson calmly, as he ceased firing. "Call me names, if you think it wise."

Like a flash Duff drew one of his own revolvers. Before he had time to fire, however, three men threw themselves between Bodson and the gambler.

"Stop talking gun play, Rafe," warned one of the three. "Act like a gentleman."

"I've forgotten how to do that," Rafe remarked. "I've traveled with this outfit too long."

"Put up your guns. Then we'll attend to this pair of youngsters."

"My guns remain in my hands," Bodson declared coolly. "I expect to die with my boots on to-night. I reckon Jeff has figured it out the same way."

"I have," Moore answered coolly, as he stepped over beside Bodson. Then deliberately, yet with an indescribably swift motion, he drew two revolvers.

"Stand out, Jim Duff! Be a man, for once in your miserable career," ordered Rafe Bodson. "Don't try to protect yourself by hiding behind the bodies of men who don't know any better than to follow your lead."

Jim Duff didn't accept the challenge. Instead, he crouched behind two of his followers, taking deliberate aim with his revolver at Bodson.

But he never fired that cowardly shot. Like a flash from the sky came an interruption that created panic among the assembled scoundrels.

"Here we have 'em, gentlemen," announced the steady voice of Superintendent Hawkins from the western end of the gully. "Get 'em all rounded up. If they've done Mr. Reade and Mr. Hazelton any injury then don't let one of them get away alive."

The low sand piles near by seemed swarming with men. The steel barrels of firearms glistened even in the darkness.

The scout had been sent out to the eastward. None had thought of watching the western approach to the gully.

"Shoot, boys!" screamed Jim Duff, wheeling in a sudden frenzy of desperation. He fired straight in the direction of Hawkins's voice.

In another instant the air was rent with the sound of shots. Flashes from many revolvers lit up the darkness almost as well as torches could have done.

Jim Duff, having started his followers to firing, stole off in the darkness, leaving them to bear the brunt of the return fire of Hawkins and his men.

George Ashby lay on the ground bound as he had been left, his sawed-off shotgun not far away and his belt full of shells.

"Rouse yourself, Ash!" muttered the gambler, as he slashed the hotel man's bonds with his knife. "Get your gun, but don't use it now. Move quickly, and we'll get away from here and take Reade and Hazelton with us. Put your mind on your work, Ash, and follow my orders. Don't try to think too much for yourself. Here, this way!"

The scene of the fighting had already shifted from the immediate neighborhood of the twin trees. Duff guided his mad companion along in the darkness until they halted close to where the two engineers stood bound, powerless to join in the fray.

"Shall we shoot them here and now?" whispered Ashby, a wild light glittering in his eyes.

"No," returned Duff. "We'll sneak up behind them, club them with revolvers and carry, them off. Then we can do as we please with them. You quiet Hazelton and I'll attend to Reade."

The two scoundrels crept up behind their victims.

A moment later Duff quickly cut the lariat about the neck of Tom Reade, who had been rendered unconscious from the terrific blow dealt him by the gambler. Ashby had been equally successful in "quieting" Hazelton.

"Now hustle," ordered Duff. "You pick up Hazelton. I'll take Reade. Carry 'em over your shoulder—that's the way to do. Now, follow me and don't make a sound. We'll please ourselves this night with what we'll do to the meddling pair!"

With Tom Reade over his shoulder, senseless and inert, Duff started off in the darkness, while the rattle of firearms continued.

George Ashby, muttering to himself, followed with Harry Hazelton.

The gambler staggered slightly under the weight of his human burden. Yet he moved rapidly, a strange eagerness lighting up his eyes.

Jim Duff knew that he would never again dare to enter the town of Paloma, yet the gambler thirsted, before fleeing to new scenes, to be revenged on Tom Reade. With that object in view, Duff was willing to take great risks.

As for Ashby, who, still clutching his shotgun in his left hand, staggered along under the burden of Hazelton's weight, the hotel man was no longer responsible for his actions. Rage and wickedness had made him a maniac, who might be restrained but could not be punished by law.

Within two minutes the firing behind them died out. Soon there were distant sounds of searching. Plainly Hawkins and the other friends of the young engineers were hunting diligently for Tom and Harry.

"Dump your man, Ashby," commanded Jim Duff, halting at last. "It will be a mistake to go too far. Their friends won't expect to find 'em so close, and they'll soon be searching farther away."

So Ashby dropped Harry on to the sand beside Tom. Then the wickedest possible gleam came into the hotel man's eyes as he loaded his shotgun.

"We'll fill 'em full of lead right here and now," whispered the hotel keeper. "Then we'll be sure that they can't get away from us again."

"Not so fast!" retorted Duff warningly. "We can't shoot now. If we do, there'll be no way to get out of this alive. Look yonder!"

Duff swung his mad friend around, pointing to a gleam of light that shone out over the desert.

"An automobile," muttered the gambler. "And there's another—and another! There must be six or eight of them out to-night, and all of 'em crammed with fighting men. A shot would bring two or three carloads of ugly fellows down upon us."

"What are we going to do, then?" demanded the hotel keeper, in a menacing tone.

"Wait awhile," urged the gambler. "You're seeing what the plan of the enemy is. They're circling about, but they're further out from the gully than we are. The cars will go on cutting larger and larger circle, and all the time getting farther away from us. In half an hour the cars and the men will be so far away that we need give no thought to them. Then we can attend to Reade and Hazelton."

"What are you going to do with them?" demanded Ashby in a whisper, his cunning eyes lighting with a fire of added eagerness.

"We'll get 'em awake, first of all," nodded Jim Duff. "Then we'll attend to them."

"Remember, they ruined my business!" whispered the hotel man.

"Well, didn't they ruin my business, too?" snarled Duff. "Didn't they cant like a pair of hypocrites, and turn hundreds of their workmen against coming in to play in my place? Didn't these young hounds keep me from winning thousands of dollars of railroad money? Ash, I tell you, these young fellows have hit me hard! First, they broke up my games. Next, they talked their men out of going into Paloma and spending money for drink. Why, Ash, next thing you know, they would have brought missionaries to Paloma to convert men and to build churches!"

As Ashby glared at the unconscious boys from under his black brows he looked as though he believed them capable of all the wickedness that Jim Duff's imagination had charged against them.

"I can't wait!" groaned the hotel man. "Just one barrel of shot apiece into each of 'em!"

"No, no, no, Ash! Haven't I always been your good friend?"

"You surely have, Jim Duff," admitted the mad hotel man. "You're the one man alive to-night that I'd trust."

"Then trust me a little further," coaxed the gambler virtuously. "Trust to my brains tonight, George, and you'll feast on revenge!"

"But you keep me waiting so long for it!" complained the lunatic.

"Don't you trust me, George?"

"You know I do, Jim Duff."

"Then trust me a little longer. Be quiet, and be patient."

"But—"

"Sh!" warned Duff suddenly, throwing himself flat on the ground. "Down with you, Ash!"

"What is it?" whispered the hotel man in the gambler's ear as he too sank to the ground.

"Sh!" once more warned the gambler. "Use your eyes, George. Look out over the sand in the darkness. Do you see two men prowling this way?"

"Yes," assented the hotel man, after a pause.

"They're looking for us—enemies, George. Use all your cunning. Above all, be silent and lie low! Don't make a move, unless I tell you to do so. Show your trust in me, Ash, as you've never shown it before. If you don't, we'll be cheated out of our revenge!"

XXIII. RAFE AND JEFF MISCALCULATE

The two men whom the craven gambler had sighted were coming slowly onward, their movements suggesting a good deal of care and watchfulness.

Nor did they come in a wholly straight line. That they did not suspect the nearness of Jim Duff and his mad companion was plain at a glance.

"Burrow in the sand!" whispered the gambler in Ashby's ear. "Quiet! Be ready, but don't do anything unless I give you the word."

"When you do give me the word," trembled the hotel man, "I'll kill 'em both."

"Not unless we have to do so—remember!" ordered the gambler. "We want, if possible, to take 'em alive."

Let us now go back to the two men whom Duff and Ashby were watching so closely.

They were Rafe Bodson and Jeff Moore.

Both had come out of the recent fighting unharmed. Neither Rafe nor Jeff had fired a shot at the invading forces led by Hawkins. Instead, the pair had slipped stealthily away, until they had gotten out of the immediate zone of the hot firing. Then they hid under some bushes.

"An hour ago I'd have felt like a sneak, not standing by the gang any better," whispered Jeff uneasily.

"Same here," Rafe admitted. "In fact, I'm wondering whether I acted straight in running off like this."

"Aren't you sure about it in your own mind?" asked Jeff slowly.

"Almost," Rafe returned. "All that bothers me is not sticking by the same crowd that we started out with to-night. As for Jim Duff—"

"He's poison, and deadly poison at that," broke in Jeff.

"That's just what he is, pardner."

"Yet I used to like Duff pretty well."

"So did I," nodded Jeff. "But that was when I thought he had some sand."

"The fellow's a skulking coyote!"

"A coyote is brave, compared with Jim Duff," contended Jeff Moore.

"Reade and Hazelton showed the real sand!"

"I never thought tenderfeet could be as brave," glowed Moore.

"Jeff, I reckon Reade and Hazelton aren't real tenderfeet any more. They've been west some time. But, then, such fellows wouldn't be tenderfeet even if they lived in New Jersey all the time. Courage belongs in some fellows, no matter where they work."

"The fighting seems to be over," observed Jeff Moore.

"Then the friends of the two engineers must have found them," suggested Bodson.

"It doesn't sound like it over there. The newcomers seem to be doing a lot of hunting in the gully."

"Let's move in closer," proposed Rafe.

Crawling on their stomachs, the pair moved in closer. As they arrived, unseen, they were in time to see the late fighting men clamber into their automobiles. Hawkins could be heard giving directions for the further search for Reade and Hazelton.

Then the cars started away.

"What do you reckon?" demanded Jeff, looking at Bodson.

"I reckon some of Duff's crowd slipped out of the fight, got the two youngsters, and slipped away with them," Bodson answered.

"Then it was Duff—he was one of 'em," returned Jeff, with a strong conviction. "From what I've seen of Duff to-night he'd rather do a running trick than a fighting one."

"It would take two to carry both youngsters away. Who was the other one?" Rafe wondered aloud.

"Most likely the fellow who'd mind Duff best."

"That must mean poor George Ashby."

"Let's slip into the gully and see what we can find."

One fact learned in the gully astonished both investigators. Despite the volleys that had been fired no dead or wounded men lay about. Of course Hawkins could have taken any injured men away in the automobiles. Plainly the raiders had been equally fortunate in getting their wounded away on their horses. Mounted men familiar with the desert would know many paths where horses could travel, but where automobiles could not follow.

"Our hosses are gone," discovered Jeff a few moments.

"Of course," nodded Rafe. "The crowd we were out with wouldn't be slow in a simple little piece of every-day honesty like stealing hosses!"

"I'm through with any such gang after this, Rafe. How about you?"

"I'm shore going to be careful about the kind of company I pick. But, Jeff, we'll have to travel away from these parts. No good company around here would welcome us. They wouldn't like the only references we could give, Jeff."

"Oh, shore, we'll have to travel," agreed Moore. "That is, if the sheriff doesn't take up our tickets before we get started."

"All this talk isn't showing us what became of Reade and Hazelton," remarked Rafe Bodson. "Let's go back under the trees and see if we can find what has become of Reade and Hazelton. Before I change my post-office box I'm going to try to do those two youngsters a good turn."

So the pair had started off. Yet, like the automobile searchers, Jeff and Rafe did not expect to run across Tom and Harry and their captors so close to the gully.

For this reason the pair proceeded without very much caution at the outset.

Even now, after Duff and Ashby had sighted them, Moore and Bodson halted twice to light matches and examine the trail that their keen eyes had discovered as moving westward from the gully.

"Now, I reckon we've got the general direction," muttered Rafe Bodson when, after having once more discovered the tracks he turned and got the general course. "We know the way to head."

"Then we won't light any more matches," suggested Jeff. "It might get us into trouble."

Accordingly they kept on, guiding themselves now by their general knowledge of the country.

Jim Duff and Ashby were well concealed, not only by the sand, but by a little fringe of brush as well.

Hence it is not to be wondered at that Bodson and Moore went forward to be astonished by a sudden movement in the sand, followed by a hail of "Gentlemen, get your hands up, or take your medicine!"

The command came in Jim Duff's tones.

He was barely thirty feet away from the surprised pair, one of his revolvers leveled so to drop Bodson at a touch of the trigger.

George Ashby's sawed-off shotgun looked squarely at the region bounded by Jeff Moore's belt.

"It's your turn, gentlemen," agreed Rafe, he put his hands in the air.

"You've got us—be decent," grinned Jeff, as he, too, raised his hands upward.

"Get your hands up higher!" ordered Jim Duff in his deadliest tone. These men were now helpless, and the gambler merely chuckled inwardly at the thought.

"Is this where we shoot them?" queried the mad hotel keeper.

"Yes—after a minute or two!" nodded Jim Duff, who wished first to determine whether the automobiles of the searching party were moving too near to them.

"I can hardly wait for the word!" quivered Ashby.

XXIV. CONCLUSION

"How long are we to keep our hands up, Duff?" questioned Jeff.

"Quiet," hissed the gambler. "I'm listening."

"If it's for friends of ours," grimaced Rafe Bodson, "you needn't listen any longer. We haven't any friends in either crowd now."

"Quiet, I tell you!" snarled Duff.

No noise of moving automobiles came to the gambler's keen ears in the darkness of the night.

"Ready," faintly whispered Duff, giving Ashby a slight nudge.

"Shoot 'em?" whispered the mad hotel man.

"Yes; you hit Jeff. I'll take care of Rafe!"

Just then darkness fell upon the gambler. He was knocked flat and senseless by a blow of a fist from behind.

In the same instant a man leaped upon George Ashby, bearing him to earth.

Bang! The noise of the discharging shotgun broke on the night's stillness. Bang! crashed the other barrel.

The muzzle had been pointed skyward, however, and both charges of buckshot had been driven off into space, to fall to the earth many yards beyond.

"Reade! Hazelton!" choked Rafe Bodson, leaping forward. "You fellows certainly have grit! Here, Hazelton, let me help you with that loco (crazy) hotel man."

Jeff, in the meantime had rolled Jim Duff over on his back, then sat on him. When Duff returned to consciousness he found himself gazing into the muzzle of an automatic revolver.

Harry and Bodson made a quick, sure job of tying Ashby's wrists with a cord that Rafe supplied.

"You think you've stopped me, don't you?" snarled the hotel man, wild with rage.

"We stopped you in time to keep you from shooting down two men who were at your mercy," retorted Harry sternly.

"What's that?" gasped Rafe.

"They were going to shoot you with your hands in the air," Tom declared.

"That's another of your lies, Reade," snarled the gambler.

"It's you who are doing the lying, Duff," rejoined Tom stiffly. "I came to my senses just in time to hear you tell Ashby to kill one man while you killed the other."

"So that was the game, was it?" said Jeff.

"No, it wasn't," snapped Jim Duff.

"Shut up," ordered Jeff unbelievingly. "Duff, we've seen enough of you to-night to know that an Apache has ten times as much honor as you have, and a rattlesnake has twenty times as much decency. You lying, miserable, white-livered, smooth-tongued, poisonous reptile in human form. If you open your mouth to say another word you'll have me so wild that I'll pull the trigger of this automatic before I intend to do so."

"Thank goodness you had become conscious too, Harry!" breathed Tom fervently. "I don't believe I could have knocked both men over in time to prevent a killing. I managed to get my hands free just in time to get on the job."

"I had known for some moments what was going on around me," Hazelton replied. "But I was lying with my eyes closed, and keeping mighty quiet. I was trying to hear your breathing, so I could decide whether you had come to your senses, when all of a sudden you sat up and freed my hands. Ugh!" he added with disgust, as he reached up and slipped the remnant of rawhide noose from around his neck.

"What'll we do with this snake and, his weak-minded brother?" asked Jeff dryly. "Tie 'em up and ship 'em into Paloma?"

"Fire off your revolver two or three times," suggested Tom, who had caught a faint, far away sound of an automobile. "That may bring a machine over here."

"You shoot, Rafe," urge Moore. "I'll want to keep my weapon handy for this crooked card-sharp."

Rafe obligingly emptied one of his revolvers into the air. From a distance came the honk of an automobile horn, as though in answer to the signal shots. Soon the noise of an automobile engine became more distinct. Finally the body of a large car loomed up in the darkness. A few shouts brought the car to the spot.

"This you, Mr. Reade?" called the joy voice of Superintendent Hawkins. "And Hazelton, safe, also?"

All five seats in this car were occupied. Six more men had to be crowded in somehow, after Jim Duff had been tied with his hands behind him. Most of them had to stand.

"Back to Paloma, as fast as you can go with safety," ordered Mr. Hawkins, as soon as all were inside. "Gracious, but there'll be a joyful demonstration back in camp as soon as the good word is received."

As the car sped along over the desert the story was told of how the pursuit had been made.

It was Mr. Hawkins who had tried to wire from camp into town, calling for cars and posses to go in pursuit of the raiders.

As Tom had imagined at the outset, the raiders had cut the railroad telegraph wire. Discovering this, Mr. Hawkins had leaped on to the bare back of a horse at camp and had covered the distance at a gallop.

Men had been quickly rounded up within the very few minutes that were needed in getting the cars out and ready to run. There were hundreds of men in Paloma who had grown to despise Duff and all the evil crew behind the gambler.

From the outset the leaders of the posse, on hearing, of the direction first taken by the fleeing raiders, had calculated on the gully as the probable place of halting.

While the posse was still on the way out to the gully, and at some distance away, the sound of Ashby's discharging gun had reached them. Reasoning that the raiders would probably place a guard only on the town end of the gully, the posse had made a wide detour, so as to approach the gully from the westward. Leaving the cars at a considerable distance, the pursuers, with Mr. Hawkins at their head, had made quick time on foot.

In the fighting that had followed five men of the posse had been hit, though none dangerously. These wounded men, after the fight, had been sent back to Paloma in one of the automobiles.

"We saw some of the raiders fall during the lighting," said Mr. Hawkins, "but their friends made a quick retreat and got all hands back to their horses. We felt sure they didn't have you, Mr. Reade and Mr. Hazelton, so we let the raiders slip away and spent our time in trying to find where you had been taken or if you had escaped. Well, it's all right now!"

As the automobile party approached the town, searchlights from other cars showed the remaining pursuers had heard the signals sounded by the horn of the first automobile and were returning.

As the returning men entered the outlaying streets the little town was found to be anything but a quiet community. Despite the early morning hour, the streets were crowded.

"Where's the chief of police?" inquired Mr. Hawkins, as the first car entered the town and pulled up.

"I'll find him for you, Cap," offered a man on horseback.

"If you will be so good."

As the horseman galloped away Hawkins signed to the others to step out.

"Duff, we're not going to be troubled with your company much longer," smiled Hawkins.

Tom and Harry had already leaped down to the sidewalk when the gambler was helped to alight. Duff's hands were still behind his back though, unknown to his captors, he had succeeded in working them free.

With a stealthy movement the gambler suddenly reached forward, drawing a revolver from another man's holster.

Ere the owner was aware of the loss of the weapon Duff took full aim at Tom Reade.

Crack!

It was the pistol of a deputy sheriff that spoke first. That officer had been the only one to detect the gambler's action, and he had fired instantly.

Jim Duff sank, to the sidewalk, groaning while the deputy sheriff dryly explained the cause of his firing. A loaded revolver was still gripped in Duff's right hand, though the gambler was too weak and in too much pain to fire.

Dr. Furniss' office was near by, and the young physician, sharing in the popular excitement, was awake. He came out on the run, bending over the wounded man to examine him. "Duff," said Dr. Furniss gravely, after a brief examination, "I deem it my duty to tell you that you've dealt your last card. Have you any wishes to express before we move you?"

"I—want to—talk to—Reade," groaned the injured man.

"Certainly," replied Tom, when the request was repeated to him. Stepping softly to where the gambler lay on the sidewalk, Reade bent over him.

"Duff," said Reade gravely, "you and I haven't always been the best of friends, but I can say honestly that I'm sorry to see you in this plight. I hope that you may recover, yet get some happiness out of life."

But the gambler's eyes blazed with ferocity.

"Don't waste any soft soap on me, Reade," he said slowly, and with many pauses. "The Doc is a fool. I'm going to get well, and there will be just one happiness ahead of me. That will be to find you, wherever you may be, and to what I tried to do to you to-night."

"Can't you forget that sort of thing, Duff?" asked Tom gravely. "Not that I'm afraid of you; you've seen enough of me to-night to know that I'm not afraid of you. But I'm afraid for you. You're close to eternity, Duff, and I'd like to see you go to your death with a calm, hopeful, decent mind. I'd like to see you go with a hope of a better life hereafter."

"Don't give me any of your canting talk, Reade," snarled the gambler weakly.

"I'm not going to do so," sighed Tom, rising. "I'm afraid it would be useless. Try to remember, Duff, that I allow myself to have no hard feelings against you. If you possibly can recover I shall be glad to hear that you've done so."

Then Tom stepped over to Dr. Furniss' side, whispering to him:

"Doc, you'll see to it that some clergyman is called, won't you? Any clergyman that is the most likely to reach the heart and the soul of a hardened fellow like Jim Duff."

Dr. Furniss nodded. Men appeared with an old door that was to be used as a stretcher. On this the gambler was placed, and the physician gave him such immediate attention as could be supplied on the sidewalk, for Jim Duff had been shot through the right lung. Then the bearers lifted the door, bearing the gambler back to the now gloomy Mansion House, the doctor following. Ashby, who had been strangely quiet after the shooting, was taken to the local police station and placed in a cell.

Just after the two had been taken care of, and while the crowd still lingered, a young man pushed his way through to the center of the crowd.

"I heard that Jim Duff had returned to town," began the young man. The speaker was Clarence Farnsworth, the foolish young easterner who had been sadly fleeced by the gambler.

"Yes; Duff came back," said Mr. Hawkins, quietly.

"Where is he?" asked Farnsworth. "I must leave in the morning, and I owe Duff seven hundred dollars. I want to pay it to him."

"Money you lost gambling with Duff?" questioned Hawkins.

"It's a debt of honor that I owe Mr. Duff," Farnsworth replied, flushing considerably.

"Son, take one little hint from me," continued Hawkins. "No money ever lost to a gambler in card playing is a debt of honor. It's merely the liability of a chump and a fool. No gambler ever uses any real honor. Men of honor work for the money that they need or want. Duff had a smooth way of talking, an agreeable manner with his profitable victims, but he never had a shred of honor. It isn't possible to be a gambler and a man of honor. If you've seven hundred dollars that you lost to Duff at cards, put it in your pocket and get out of Paloma as soon as you can. Duff won't need the money, anyway. He's down at the Mansion House, dying of a bullet wound that he got through his last piece of trickery. I hate to speak harshly of a dying man, but I'd like to see you get a grain or two of common sense into your head, boy."

Again Farnsworth flushed, but three or four seasoned Arizona men who stood near by added their advice, in line with that of Mr. Hawkins. Clarence soon edged away.

An hour after daylight Jim Duff died. Dr. Furniss and the others who were with the gambler at the last were unable to state that Duff had offered any expression of regret for his evil life, or for his last wicked acts.

Jim Duff died as he had lived.

George Ashby was sent to an asylum and his property sold for his benefit. After a year he was discharged as cured. He has vanished, swallowed up in some other community, and nothing more has been heard of him.

Trailed by detectives of a fire insurance company, Frank Danes was soon caught and brought back to Arizona. He was fairly convicted of having set the old Cactus House on fire, though he could not be persuaded to admit himself an agent of the Colthwaite Company. Fred Ransom, the other agent, is believed to be still in the employ of the Colthwaite Company's "gloom department."

Mr. Hawkins is still in the employ of the A., G. & N. M. So are foremen Bell, Rivers and Mendoza.

Tim Griggs proved himself so thoroughly while foreman at the building of the new rail-road hotel in Paloma, that he has gone on to other and better work. Griggs is now a prosperous man, and, best of all, he has his little daughter with him.

Lessee Carter has flourished in the new railroad hotel. Rafe Bodson and Jeff Moore are his clerks.

The day came when Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton were able to apply the final and most severe test to the roadbed that ran across the Man-killer quicksand. Their work was finished, and finished splendidly, adding another great triumph to their record as young engineers.

"These hot countries are fine, for a while," grunted Harry Hazelton, as the young engineers left Paloma in a special Pullman car that General Manager Ellsworth had sent for their use.

"They are fine, in fact; but one gets tired of working on a blistering desert. I hope our next long undertaking will be in a country where ice grows as one of the natural fruits."

"Greenland, for instance?" smiled Tom Reade.

"Alaska, at all events," responded Harry hopefully.

"Do you know where I'm figuring on making my next stop?" Tom inquired.

"Where?"

"In good old Gridley, the town where we were born, boy! I'm fairly aching for a sight of the good old town. Will you go with me?"

"For a few weeks, yes," Harry agreed. "But after that little rest?"

"After our visit to the good old home town," Tom Reade replied, "we'll go anywhere on earth where a good, big chance for engineering offers. Harry, we've yet nearly all of our work ahead of us to do if we're ever going to be real, Class A engineers!"

That our young engineers found still greater work awaiting them will be discovered in the next volume in this series, which is published under the title, "The Young Engineers in Nevada; or, Seeking Fortune on the Turn of a Pick."

In this narrative we find our young friends wholly away from railroad work, but engaged in an even greater undertaking. The adventures awaiting them were more exciting than any they had yet encountered. Fame and fortune, too, offered a greater opportunity. How the young engineers embraced the opportunity will be made plain to our readers.

THE END

THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN NEVADA

or

Seeking Fortune on the Turn of a Pick

CONTENTS

I. Alf and His "Makings of Manhood"

II. Trouble Brews on the Trail

III. Jim's Army Appears

IV. Sold Out for a Toy Bale!

V. No Need to Work for Pennies

VI. Tom Catches the "Nevada Fever"

VII. Ready to Handle the Pick

VIII. Jim Ferrers, Partner

IX. Harry Does Some Pitching

X. Tom's Fighting Blood Surges

XI. Planning a New Move

XII. New Owners File a Claim

XIII. Jim Tries the New Way

XIV. The Cook Learns a Lesson

XV. Why Reade Wanted Gold

XVI. The Man Who Made Good

XVII. The Miners Who "Stuck"

XVIII. The Goddess of Fortune Smiles Wistfully

XIX. Harry's Signal of Distress

XX. Tom Turns Doctor

XXI. The Wolves on the Snow Crust

XXII. Dolph Gage Fires His Shot

XXIII. Tom Begins to Doubt His Eyes

XXIV. Conclusion

I. ALF AND HIS "MAKINGS OF MANHOOD"

"Say, got the makings?"

"Eh?" inquired Tom Reade, glancing up in mild astonishment.

"Got the makings?" persisted the thin dough-faced lad of fourteen who had come into the tent.

"I believe we have the makings for supper, if you mean that you're hungry," Tom rejoined. "But you've just had your dinner."

"I know I have," replied the youngster. "That's why I want my smoke."

"Your wha-a-at?" insisted Tom. By this time light had begun to dawn upon the bronzed, athletic young engineer, but he preferred to pretend ignorance a little while longer.

"Say, don't you carry the makings?" demanded the boy.

"You'll have to be more explicit," Tom retorted. "Just what are you up to? What do you want anyway?"

"I want the makings for a cigarette," replied the boy, shifting uneasily to the other foot. "You said you'd pay me five dollars a month and find me in everything, didn't you?"

"Yes; everything that is necessary to living," Reade assented.

"Well, cigarettes are necessary to me," continued the boy.

"They are?" asked Tom, opening his eyes wider. "Why, how does that happen?"

"Just because I am a smoker," returned the boy, with a sickly grin.

"You are?" gasped Tom. "At your age? Why, you little wretch!"

"That's all right, but please don't go on stringing me," pleaded the younger American. "Just pass over the papers and the tobacco pouch, and I'll get busy. I'm suffering for a smoke."

"Then you have my heartfelt sympathy," Tom assured him. "I hate to see any boy with that low-down habit, and I'm glad that I'm not in position to be able to encourage you in it. How long have you been smoking, Drew?"

Alf Drew shifted once more on his feet.

"'Bouter year," he answered.

"You began poisoning yourself at the age of thirteen, and you've lived a whole year? No; I won't say 'lived,' but you've kept pretty nearly alive. There isn't much real life in you, Drew, I'll be bound. Come here."

"Do I get the makings?" whined the boy.

"Come here!"

Drew advanced, rather timidly, into the tent.

"Don't shrink so," ordered Tom. "I'm not going to spank you, though some one ought to. Give me your wrist."

Reade took the thin little wrist between his thumb and finger, feeling for the pulse.

"Are you a doctor?" sneered Drew.

"No; but generally I've intelligence enough to know whether a pulse is slow or fast, full or weak."

"But——"

"Keep quiet," Tom commanded, as he drew out his watch. His face expressed nothing in particular as he kept the tip of his forefinger against the radial artery at the boy's wrist.

"Fine," commented the young engineer, a few moments later, as he let go the captive wrist.

"Good pulse, eh?" questioned Alf Drew.

"Great!" quoth Tom. "Fine and wiry, and almost skips some beats. I'm not much of an authority on such subjects, but I believe a boy of your age ought to have a normal pulse. Where do you expect to wind up with your 'makings' and your cigarettes?"

"They don't hurt me," whined Alf.

"They don't, eh?" demanded Reade, rising and drawing himself up to his full height of five-feet-eleven. "Drew, do you think you look as healthy as I do?"

As he stood there, erect as a soldier, with his fine athletic figure revealed, and the bronze on his face seemingly inches deep, Tom Reade looked what he was—every inch a man though still a boy in years.

"Do you think you look as healthy as I do?" Tom repeated.

"No-o-o-o," admitted Alf. "But you're older'n me."

"Not so much, as years go," Tom rejoined. "For that matter, if you go on with your cigarettes you'll be an old man before I get through with being a young man. Fill up your chest, Alf; expand it—like this."

As he expanded his chest Reade looked a good deal more like some Greek god of old than a twentieth century civil engineer.

Alf puffed and squirmed in his efforts to show "some chest."

"That isn't the right way," Tom informed him. "Breathe deeply and steadily. Draw in your stomach and expand your chest. Fill up the upper part of your lungs with air. Watch! Right here at the top of the chest."

Alf watched. For that matter he seemed unable to remove his gaze from the splendid chest development that young Reade displayed so easily. Then the boy tried to fill the upper portions of his own lungs in the same manner. The attempt ended in a spasm of coughing.

"Fine, isn't it?" queried Tom Reade, scornfully. "The upper parts of your lungs are affected already, and you'll carry the work of destruction on rapidly. Alf, if you ever live to be twenty you'll be a wreck at best. Don't you know that?"

"I—I have heard folks say so," nodded the boy.

"And you didn't believe them?"

"I—I don't know."

"Why did you ever take up smoking?"

"All men smoke," argued Alf Drew.

"Lie number one. All men don't smoke," Tom corrected him. "But I think I catch the drift of your idea. If you smoke you think men will look upon you as being more manly. That's it, it?"

"It must be manly, if men do it," Alf argued.

"You funny little shaver," laughed Tom, good-humoredly. "So you think that, when men see you smoking cigarettes, they immediately imagine you to be one of them? Cigarette-smoking, for a boy of fourteen, is the short cut to manhood, I suppose."

Tom laughed long, heartily, and with intense enjoyment. At last he paused, to remark, soberly:

"Answering your first question, Drew, I haven't the 'makings.' I never did carry them and never expect to."

"What do you smoke then?" queried Alf, in some wonder. "A pipe?"

"No; I never had that vice, either. I don't use tobacco. For your own sake I'm sorry that you do."

"But a lot of men do smoke," argued Alf. "Jim Ferrers, for instance."

"Ferrers is a grown man, and it would show a lot more respect on your part if a 'kid' like you would call him 'Mr. Ferrers.' But I'll wager that Mr. Ferrers didn't smoke cigarettes at your age."

"I'll bet he did."

"We'll see."

Tom stepped to the doorway of the tent, Alf making way for him, and called lustily:

"Ferrers! Oh, Mr. Ferrers!"

"Here, sir!" answered the voice of a man who was invisible off under the trees. "Want me?"

"If you please," Tom called back.

Ferrers soon appeared, puffing at a blackened corn-cob pipe. He was a somewhat stooped, much bronzed, rather thin man of middle age. Ferrers had always worked hard, and his body looked slightly the worse for wear, though he a man of known endurance in rough life.

"Ferrers, do you know what ails this boy?" demanded Tom.

"Laziness," Jim answered, rather curtly. "You hired him for a chore-boy, to help me. He hasn't done a tap yet. He's no good."

"Don't be too hard on him, Ferrers," pleaded Tom solemnly. "I've just heard the youngster's sad story. Do you know what really ails him? Cigarettes!"

"Him? Cigarettes!" observed Ferrers disgustedly. "The miserable little rascal!"

"You see," smiled Tom, turning to the boy, "just what men think of a lad who tries to look manly by smoking cigarettes."

"Cigarettes? Manly?" exploded Jim Ferrers, with a guffaw. "Men don't smoke cigarettes. That's left for weak-minded boys."

"Say, how many years you been smoking, Jim Ferrers?" demanded Alf, rather defiantly.

"Answer him, please," requested Tom, when he saw their guide and cook frown.

"Lemme see," replied the Nevada man, doing some mental arithmetic on his fingers. "I reckon I've been smoking twenty-three years, because I began when I was twenty-four years old. Hang the stuff, I wish I had never begun, either. But I didn't smoke at your age, papoose. If I had done so, the men in the camps would have kicked me out. Don't let me catch you smoking around any of the work you're helping me on! Is that all, Mr. Reade? 'Cause I've got a power of work to do."

"That's all, thank you," Tom assured him. "But, Ferrers, we'll have to take young Drew in hand and try to win him back to the path of brains and health."

"Say, I don't believe I'm going to like this job," muttered Alf Drew. "I reckon I'll be pulling my freight outer this camp."

"Don't go until tomorrow, anyway," urged Tom. "You'll have to go some distance to find other human beings, and grub doesn't grow on trees in Nevada."

With a sniff of scorn Ferrers tramped away.

"I guess, perhaps, what you need, Drew is a friend," remarked Tom, resting a hand on the boy's nearer shoulder. "Make up your mind that you can't have a cigarette this afternoon, take a walk with me, in this fresh air and the good old sunshine. Let's drop all talk of cigarettes, and give a little thought to brains and a strong body. They don't flourish where you find boys smoking cigarettes. Come along! I'm going to show you how to step out right, and just how to breathe like a human being. Let's try it."

Tom had almost to drag the boy, to make him start. But Reade had no intention of hectoring the, dough-faced little fellow.

It was rough ground along this mountain trail in the Indian Smoke Range of mountains, in Nevada. Soon the pulses of both began to beat more heavily. Tom took in great breaths of the life-giving air, but Alf was soon panting.

"Let's stop, now," proposed Tom, in a kindly voice. "After you've rested a couple of minutes I'm going to show you how to breathe right and fill your lungs with air."

Soon they were trying this most sensible "stunt." Alf, however, didn't succeed very well. Whenever he tried hard it set him to coughing.

"You see, it's mostly due to the cigarettes," said Tom gravely. "Alf, you've simply got to turn over a new leaf. You're headed just right to have consumption."

"Cigarettes don't give a fellow consumption!" retorted the younger boy sullenly.

"I don't believe they do," Tom admitted, thoughtfully. "Consumption is caused by germs, I've heard. But germs take hold best in a weakened part of the body, and your lungs, Alf, are weak enough for any germ to find a good place to lodge. What you've got to do is to make your lungs so strong that they'll resist germs."

"You talk like a doctor!"

"No; I'm trying to talk like an athlete. I used to be a half-way amateur athlete, Drew, and I'm still taking care of my body. That's why I've never allowed any white-papered little 'coffin-nails' to fool around me. Bad as your lungs are, Alf, they're not one whit worse than your nerves. You'll go to pieces if you find yourself under the least strain. You'll get to shivering and crying, if you don't stop smoking cigarettes."

"Don't you believe it," muttered the boy, sullenly.

"Alf," smiled Tom, laying a hand gently on the boy's shoulder, "you don't know me yet. You haven't any idea how I can hang to a thing until I win. I'm going to keep hammering at you until I make you throw your cigarettes away."

"I'm never going to stop smoking 'em," retorted Drew. "There wouldn't be any comfort in life if I stopped."

"Is it as bad as that?" queried Tom, with ready sympathy. "Then all the more reason for stopping. Come; let's finish our walk."

"Say, I don't want to go down and through that thick brush," objected Alf Drew, slowing his steps.

"Why not?"

"Snakes!"

"Are you afraid of snakes, Alf?"

"Some kinds."

"What kinds?"

"Well, rattlers, f'r instance."

"There are none of that kind on this part of the Indian Smoke Range," Reade rejoined. "Come along with me."

There was something mildly though surely compelling in Tom's manner. Alf Drew went along, though he didn't wish to. The two were just at the fringe of the thick underbrush when there came a warning sound just ahead of them.

Click! cl-cl-click!

"Whee! Me for outer this!" gasped Alf, going whiter than ever as he turned. But Tom caught him by the shoulder.

"What's the matter?" demanded Reade.

Click cl-cl-click!

"There it is again," cried Alf, in fear.

"What on earth are you talking about?" Tom demanded.

Once more the dread sound smote the air.

"Rattlers!" wailed Drew, perspiring from fear. "Lemme get away from this."

"Nonsense!" retorted Reade, retaining a strong clutch on the boy's shoulder, though once more the sound reached their ears.

"It's all your nerves, Alf," Tom insisted. "You just imagine such things. That's what cigarettes do to your nerves."

"But don't you hear the rattlesnake?"

"I don't," Tom gravely informed him, though once more the nerve-disturbing sound rose clearly on the air. "See here, Alf, rattlers, whatever their habits, certainly don't climb trees. I'll put you up on that limb."

Tom's strong young arms lifted Alf easily until he could clutch at the lowest limb of a tree.

"Climb up there and sit down," Reade ordered. Drew sat on the limb, shaking with terror.

"Now, I'll show you that there isn't a snake anywhere in that clump of brush," Tom proposed, and forthwith stepped into the thicket, beating about lustily with his heavy boots.

"L-l-l-look out!" shivered Drew. "You'll be bitten!"

"Nonsense, I tell you. There isn't a rattler anywhere on this part of the Range. It's your nerves, Alf. Cigarettes are destroying 'em. There! I've beaten up every bit of this brush and you see that I've not been bitten. Now I'll help you down to the ground, and you want to get a good, steadying grip on your nerves."

Alf Drew permitted himself to be helped to the ground. No sooner, however, had his feet touched the earth than there came that ominous rattling sound.

"There, you big idiot!" howled Alf. "There it is again!"

"Just your bad nerves, Alf," Tom smiled. "They're so bad that I'll overlook your lack of respect calling me an idiot!"

"Don't you s'pose I know rattlers when I hear 'em?" asked Drew, sullenly. "I was almost bitten by one once, and that's why I'm so afraid of 'em."

"I was bitten once," Tom replied. "Yet you see that I'm not very nervous about them, especially in a part of the country where none are ever found. It's your nerves, Alf—and cigarettes!"

"I wish I had one now," sighed the younger boy.

"A rattlesnake?" Tom inquired innocently.

"No—of course not! A cigarette."

"But you're going to forget those soul-destroying little coffin-nails," Reade suggested. "You're going to become a man and act like one. You're going to learn how much more fun it is to have your lungs filled with pure air instead of stifling cigarette smoke."

"Maybe I am!" muttered the boy.

"Oh, yes; I'm sure of it," said Reade cheerfully.

Cl-cl-cl-click!

"O-o-o-ow!" shrilled Alf, jumping at least two feet.

"Now, what's the matter with you?" inquired Tom in feigned astonishment.

"Don't tell me you didn't hear the rattler just now," cried young Drew fiercely.

"No; I didn't," Tom assured him. "And how could we find a rattler—here? We're crossing open ground now. There is no place within three hundred feet of us for a rattlesnake to move without our seeing him."

Cl-cl-cl-click!

Alf Drew held back, trembling.

"I'm not going forward another step," he insisted. "This ground is full of rattlers."

"Let's go back to camp, then, if your nerves are so unstrung," Reade proposed.

They turned, starting backward. Again the warning rattle sounded, seemingly just in front of Alf, though there was no place for a snake to conceal itself nearby.

Alf, however, turned paler still, halted and started off at right angles to his former course. Again the rattle sounded.

"Hear that snake?" demanded young Drew.

"No; and there isn't one," Tom assured him. "Why will you be so foolish—so nervous? In other words, why do you destroy your five senses with cigarettes in this fashion?"

Cl-cl-click!

Alf Drew halted, trembling so that he could hardly stand.

"I'm going to quit camp—going to get out of this place," he shivered. "The ground is full of rattlers. O-o-o-oh! There's another tuning up."

Tom laughed covertly. The disturbing sound came again.

"I never saw a place like this part of the range," Alf all but sobbed, his breath catching. "Oh, won't I be glad to see a city again!"

"Just so you can find a store where you can buy cigarettes?" Tom Reade queried.

"I wish I had one, now," moaned the young victim. "It would steady me."

"The last ones that you smoked didn't appear to steady you," the young engineer retorted. "Just see how unstrung you are. Every step you take you imagine you hear rattlers sounding their warning."

"Do you tell me, on your sacred honor," proposed Alf, "that you haven't heard a single rattler this afternoon?"

"I give you my most solemn word that I haven't," Tom answered. "Come, come, Alf! What you want to do is to shake off the trembles. Let me take your arm. Now, walk briskly with me. Inflate your chest with all the air you can get in as we go along. Just wait and see if that isn't the way to shake off these horrid cigarette dreams."

Something in Reade's vigorous way of speaking made Alf Drew obey. Tom put him over the ground at as good a gait as he judged the cigarette victim would be able to keep up.

Readers of the preceding volumes of this series, and of other, earlier series, need not the slightest introduction to Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton. Our readers of the "Grammar School Series" know Tom and Harry as two of the members of that famous sextette of schoolboy athletes who, under the leadership of Dick Prescott, were known as Dick & Co.

In the "High School Boys Series," too, our readers have followed the fortunes of Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton, through all their triumphs on football fields, on baseball diamonds and in all the school sports.

Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes succeeded in winning appointments to the United States military Academy, and their adventures are fully set forth in the "West Point Series."

Dave Darrin and Dan Dalzell "made" the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis, and what befell them there has been fully set forth in the "Annapolis Series."

Reade and Harry Hazelton elected to go through life as civil engineers. In "The Young Engineers in Colorado" has been fully set forth the extraordinary work of these young men at railroad building through the mountains wilds. In "The Young Engineers in Arizona" we have followed Tom and Harry through even more startling adventures, and have seen how they handled even greater problems in engineering.

Up to date the careers of these two bright young men had not been humdrum ones. The surroundings in which their professional lives had been passed had been such as to supply them with far more startling adventures than either young man had ever looked for.

And now they were in Nevada, the state famous for its gold and silver mines. Yet they had come ere solely in search of a few weeks of rest. Rest? There was anything but rest immediately ahead of the young engineers, but the curtain had not been lifted.

Immediately after the completion of their great work in Arizona, Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton had gone back east to the good old home town of Gridley. While there they had encountered Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes, their old school chums, at that time cadets at the United States Military Academy. The doings of the four old chums at that time in Gridley are set forth fully in "Dick Prescott's Third Year At West Point."

During the weeks spent East, Tom and Harry had taken almost their first steps in the study of metallurgy. They had succeed in mastering the comparatively simple art of assaying gold and silver.

So now, with the summer past, we find our young engineers out in Nevada, taking a little more rest just because no new engineering task of sufficient importance had presented itself.

"If we're going to be engineers out West, though, Harry, we simply must know a good deal about assaying precious metals," Tom had declared.

So, though the chums were "taking a rest," as they phrased it, they had brought with them a small furnace and the rest of the outfit for assaying minerals in small quantities.

Today, however, was altogether too fine for thoughts of work. Just after breakfast Harry Hazelton had borrowed the only horse in camp, belonging to Jim Ferrers, their cook and guide, and had ridden away for the day.

Barely had Hazelton departed when Alf Drew, hungry, lonely and wistful, had happened along. He asked for "a job." There really wasn't one for him, but good-natured Reade created one, offering five dollars a month and board.

"No telling, young man, how long the job will last," Tom warned him. "We may at any hour break camp and get away."

But Alf had taken the job and gratefully. Not until after the noon meal had the little fellow revealed his unfortunate vice for cigarette smoking.

"You've simply got to give up that habit, Alf" Tom urged, as they walked along.

"You can't make me," retorted young Drew. "You've no right to."

"No, I haven't," Tom admitted soberly. "If I had any real rights over you I'm afraid I'd turn you over my knee and spank you, three times a day, until you gave up the beastly habit."

"You're not going to bounce me, are you?" asked Alf.

"No; I'll keep you here as long as we can use a boy. But, mark me, Alf, somehow, and before very long, I'm going to break you from your cigarettes. I don't know how I'm going to do it, but I'm going to do it just the same!"

Alf Drew looked uncommonly solemn, but he said nothing.

For five minutes more they walked on, then came suddenly out from under a line of trees and stood at the edge of a low cliff, gazing down in astonishment at the gully below them.

"What on earth——" began Tom Reade, in amazement.

"Let's scoot!" begged Alf tremulously. "There's going to be some killing right down there!"

It certainly looked that way.

In the gully three automobiles, showing the effects of long travel over hard roads, stood close together. More than a dozen people, all but two of whom were dressed in "eastern" clothes, stood by the machines. Two of the party were women, and one a girl of twelve.

The two men who belonged to the party, but did not appear to be "eastern," had drawn revolvers, and now stood facing four sullen-looking men who stood with the butts of their rifles resting on the ground.

"Gracious! We can't have any shooting with women and children standing around to get hit!" gasped Tom Reade.

II. TROUBLE BREWS ON THE TRAIL

So silent had been the approach of Tom and his waif companion that those below had not perceived them.

Moreover, judging from the expressions on the faces of the people almost at Reade's feet, they were all too deeply absorbed in their own business to have any eyes or ears for outside matters.

Through the scene below was one of armed truce that might, at any moment, break into hostilities, with human lives at stake, Tom glanced coolly downward for a few seconds after his first startled, unheard remark.

"I'm going, to duck out of this," whispered Alf Drew, whose slim little figure was shaking in a way suggestive of chills.

"Don't be in a hurry," Tom murmured. "We may be of some use to some of these people."

"Tote those guns away, friends," spoke one of the revolver-armed men with the automobile party, "and march yourselves under the guns. Remember, we have women here."

"They can get away," returned one of the sullen-faced men with rifles. "We won't hinder 'em. We'll give 'em two full minutes to get where it's safe. Then we're going to turn our talking machines loose."

From the top of the low cliff came Tom Meade's drawling voice:

"Oh, I say, friends!"

Startled, all below glanced quickly upward.

"There seems to be trouble down there," Tom suggested.

"There sure is," nodded one of the armed men with the automobile party.

"Now, it's too glorious a day to spoil it with fighting," Reade went on. "Can't we arbitrate?"

"The first move for you, young man," warned one of the four men, raising his rifle, "is to face about and git outer here."

"Not while there are women and children present who might get hurt," Tom dissented, with a shake of his head.

"Git, I tell you!" shouted the man, now aiming his rifle full at Tom's chest. Git—before I count five."

"Save your cartridge," proposed Tom. "I'm too poor game, and I'm not armed, either. Surely you wouldn't shoot a harmless orphan like me." Saying which the young engineer, having found a path down the cliff nearby, started slowly to descend.

"Get back there! Another step, and I'll put a ball through you!" roared the man who had Reade covered with his rifle.

"That wouldn't prove anything but your marksmanship," Suggested Tom, and coolly continued to descend.

"Going to get back?" howled the man behind the gun.

Without further answer Reade quickened his pace somewhat, reaching the flat bottom of the gully on a run.

Though he felt that the chances were eight out of ten that he would be shot at any second, Tom didn't betray any outward fear. The truth was that even if he wanted to stop, he would have found it somewhat difficult on that steep incline.

Where he landed, on his feet, Tom stood between the hostile parties. Had hostilities opened at that moment he would have been in a bad position between the two fires.

"Great Scott!" gasped the frightened Alf, peering down.

That youngster had thrown himself flat on his stomach his head behind a bush. He was trying to make himself as small as possible. "Whew! But Reade has the real grit!"

First of all Tom gazed curiously at the four men, who glared back at him with looks full of hate.

"Who are you, anyway?" demanded the spokesman of the sullen four.

"I might be the sheriff," Tom replied placidly.

"Huh!" retorted the spokesman.

"But I'm not," Tom went on, rather genially. "I'm just an inquisitive tourist."

"Heard o' Bald Knob?" demanded the leader of the four.

"No," admitted Reade, opening his eyes with interest. "Who is he, and how did he become bald?"

"Bald Knob is a place," came the information. "It's the place where inquisitive tourists are buried in these parts."

"I'll look it up some day," Tom promised, good-humoredly.

"You'll look it up before dark if we have time to pack you there," growled the leader of the men. "Now, are you going to stand aside?"

Tom shook his head.

"Let's shake hands all around and then sit down for a nice little talk," the young engineer suggested.

"There's been too much talk already," snarled Tom's antagonist.

The men of the automobile party were silent. They had scented in Tom an ally who would help their cause materially.

"Then you won't be sociable?" Reade demanded, as if half offended.

"Git out and go about your business," ordered the leader of the four men.

"It's always my business when women and children appear to be in danger," returned Tom. He turned on his heel, presenting his broad back as a target to the rifles as he stepped over to automobile party.

Oddly the four men, though they had the look of being desperate, did not offer to shoot.

Tom's audacity had almost cowed them for the moment.

"I hope I can be of some use to you," suggested Tom, raising his hat out of respect to the women.

"I reckon you can, if you're a good hand with a gun," replied the older of the two armed men with the motor party. "Got any shooting irons about you?"

"Nothing in that line," Tom admitted.

"Then reach under the cushion, left-hand front seat of that car," returned the same speaker. "You'll find an automatic revolver there."

Reade, however, chose to ignore the advice. He had small taste for the use of firearms.

Seeing, the young engineer's reluctance the younger of the two armed men went himself to the car, taking out the revolver and offering it to this cool young stranger.

"Thank you," was Tom's smiling reply. "But that tool is not for me. I'm the two-hundred-and-thirteenth vice president of the Peace Society."

"You'd better fight, or hike," advised the older of the two men. "This isn't going to be a safe place for just nothing but chin. And, ladies, I ask you to get behind one of the cars, since you won't leave here. Throw yourselves flat on your faces. We don't want any good women hit by any such mean rascals as that crowd over there."

The men with the rifles scowled dangerously.

"Now, listen to me—all hands," begged Tom, raising his right hand. "It's none of my business, as I very well know, but may I inquire what all this trouble is about?"

A rather portly, well dressed and well-groomed man of sixty, who had been leaning against the side of one of the cars, now spoke up promptly enough:

"I am head of the company that has legally staked out a claim here, young man. Ours is a mining company. The men yonder say that they own the claim—that they found it first, and that it is theirs. However, they never staked it off—never filed their claim."

"It's our claim, just the same," spoke up the at the four men. "And we won't have it jumped by any gang of tenderfeet on earth. So get out of here, all of you, or the music will start at once. We don't want to hit any woman or children, but we're going to hold our own property. If the women and the child won't get out of here, then they'll have to take their chances."

"That's the case, and the line of action!" growled another of the men.

"But let me ask you men," continued Tom, facing the quartette, "do you claim that you ever made legal entry of your asserted title here?"

"Maybe we didn't," grunted the spokesman. But we've known of this place for 'most a year Today we came to settle here, stake off our claims, file our entry and begin living here. But we found these benzine trotters on the ground.

"But these people state that they have made legal claim here," Tom urged.

"We have," insisted the portly man in black.

"If there is any dispute over the facts, my friends," Tom continued, turning once more to the four men, "then it looks like a case for the courts to settle. But if these people, who appear to be from the East, have acquired legal title here then they'll be able to hold it, and you four men are only intruders here. Why, the matter begins to look rather clear—even for a Nevada dispute."

"These folks are going to move, or we'll topple 'em over and move 'em ourselves," insisted the leader.

"Men," rejoined Reade, "I'm afraid you're not cool enough to settle this case fairly. We'll call in a few of the neighbors and try to get the facts of the case. We'll——"

"Neighbors?" jeered the leader of the quartette. "Where are you going to find any?"

"Right near at hand," Tom proposed. "Much nearer than you think. Drew!"

Alf still lay behind the bush near the edge of the cliff. He was still present mainly because he had not courage enough to run away.

"Drew!" Tom repeated, this time speaking sharply, for he guessed that the cigarette fiend was shaking in his boots.

"Yes, sir," piped the faltering voice of Alf.

"Drew, run to camp as fast as you can. Tell Ferrers to bring the whole crowd over at once."

Alf was astounded by this staggering command, which sounded like an order to rush an army to the spot. Yet he managed to gasp:

"Yes, sir."

"Now, go! Make fast time. Don't let any of this outfit catch you and hinder you."

"No, sir!"

This time Alf Drew's voice sounded faintly, over his shoulder from a considerable distance, for the boy was running fast, fear lending speed his feet.

"You see," Tom went on coolly, standing so that he could face both factions in this quarrel, "I don't know much about the merits of the case, and I'm a stranger here. I don't want to be accused of being too fresh, so I've sent for some of the natives. They'll know, better than just what to advise here. It won't take 'em long to get here."

Tom wound up this last statement with a cheerful smile.

"So Jim Ferrers is over in your camp, is he?" demanded the leader of the four men.

"Yes," Tom assented affably. "Do you know him?"

"Maybe."

"Jim is a fine fellow," Reade went on warmly. "He knows all about Nevada, too, and he's a man of good judgment. He'll be a lot of use to us in getting at the rights of this case."

"There's only one right side," insisted the leader of the quartette.

"So my friend here has informed me," answered Reade, nodding in the direction of the stout man in black. "Yet there seems to be a good deal of difference in opinion as to which is really the right side. But just wait until Jim and his friends get here. They'll be able to set us all straight and there won't be any need for doing any rough work like shooting."

"Dolph, we'd better shoot up the whole crowd, including the cheeky young one, before Jim Ferrers and his crowd gits here," propose one of the quartette.

"Jim Ferrers will be awfully displeased, you do," drawled Tom. "Do you know Jim? He has a reputation, I believe, for being rather sore on folks who shoot up his friends."

"I'll do it for you, anyway, kid!" growled one of the four, leveling his rifle.

But their leader struck the weapon up angrily just before the shot barked out.

"Who's having Fourth of July around here?" called a laughing voice from some distance down the rising path at the rear of the quartette. The four men turned quickly, but Tom had recognized joyfully the tones of Harry Hazelton's voice.

"You keep out of here, stranger!" ordered one of the quartette gruffly.

"Don't you do anything of the sort, Harry!" roared Reade's voice. "You keep right on an join us."

"Did you hear my advice?" insisted the leader of the four, holding his rifle as though would throw the butt to his shoulder.

"Yes," said Hazelton, calmly, "but I also heard my senior partner's order. He and I stick together. Gangway, please."

Harry was cool enough as he rode his horse at a walk past the men. Hazelton will never understand how near death he was at that moment. But there had been a few whispered words between the men, and they had allowed him to ride by.

"What's the game here, Tom?" Harry called cheerily. "Any real excitement going on?"

"No." Tom shook his head. "Just a little misunderstanding over a question of fact."

"Then I see that the lie hasn't been passed," grinned Hazelton. "The ground isn't littered at all."

He rode up to his chum, displaying no curiosity.

That the automobile party had been much cheered by the arrival of the young engineers was wholly apparent. For the same reason the four men appeared to be a good deal less certain of themselves.

"I guess there isn't going to be any real trouble," spoke Reade carelessly. "But there's a question at issue that I feel it would be impertinent in me to try to settle, so I've sent for Jim Ferrers to bring over the whole crowd."

Though Harry couldn't imagine where Ferrers's "crowd" was, he wisely held his tongue.

At the same time an earnest conference was going on among the four men. They spoke in low whispers.

"Jim Ferrers, alone, we could handle," declared the leader. "But if Jim has a crowd back of him things won't go our way when it come to the shooting."

"Let's start it before Ferrers's party gets here," growled another of the sullen ones.

"We would be tracked down and shot at by Ferrers and a crowd," argued the leader. "Things are too warm for us here, just now. In a case like this remember that a fellow lasts longer when he does his shooting from ambush and at his own time. We won't let this Dunlop crowd fool us out of our rights, but we'll have to choose a better time—and fight from ambush at that."

It was soon plain that this view prevailed among the quartette. As they turned to move away, the leader remarked:

"We'll leave you for a while, Dunlop, but don't image you've won. Don't get any notion that you'll ever win. You'll hear from us again."

"And you'll hear a plenty as long as your hearing remains good," snarled another of the men.

The four disturbers, turning their backs, started down the sloping trail.

"Oh, but I'm glad we've seen the last of them!" shuddered one of the women of the Dunlop party.

"Don't be deceived into thinking that the last has been seen of that crew, madam," spoke Tom Reade gently. "Those fellows will be heard from again, and at no very distant hour, either. Mr. Dunlop—I believe that is your name, sir?"

The stout man bowed.

"Mr. Dunlop," Reade went on, earnestly, "I urge you to get these women and the child away from here as soon as you can. Also any of the men who may happen to have no taste for fighting. I don't believe you'll see those four men in the open any more, but there'll be more than one shot fired from ambush. You surely won't expose these women and the child any further!"

"But, Father," broke in one of the women, tremulously, "if we leave, it will take one of your two fighting men to run the car. Think how weak that will leave your defense."

"You forget, my dear," spoke Mr. Dunlop, gently, "that our newly-found young friends have just sent for other men."

Tom smiled grimly as he thought of Jim Ferrers's "crowd"—consisting of poor, frighten little Alf with the cigarette-stained fingers.

"At any cost or risk, sir," Tom went on, after a moment, "you must get the women and the child away from here. But—why, where is the child?"

There was an instant of dismay. The little girl had vanished.

"Gladys!" spoke Dr. Dunlop's daughter in alarm.

From under one of the cars a muffled voice answered, "Here I am." Then Gladys, sobbing and shaking, emerged into view.

"I was so frightened!" cried the child. "I just had to hide."

"The men have gone away, dear," explained her mother soothingly. "And now we're going too. We'll be safe after this."

At that instant three shots, fired in rapid succession, rang out.

III. JIM'S "ARMY" APPEARS

"Down on your faces!" called the older of the armed men with the motor party.

"Not necessary," spoke Tom, dryly. "The shots were fired by Jim Ferrers's army."

"And I missed the pesky critter, too!" spoke Jim's voice, resentfully, as he showed his head over the edge of the cliff, where three puffs of smoke slowly ascended.

"Don't show yourself, Jim! Careful!" Reade warned their guide.

"It's all right," declared Ferrers indifferently, as he rose to his full height, then discovered the path by which Tom had descended. "The critters took to cover as soon as they heard me making a noise."

With that explanation Ferrers slid rather than walked down into the gully.

"Where are the rest of your men?" questioned Mr. Dunlop, eagerly.

"I'm all there are," explained Jim, "except one pesky little puffer of cigarettes. He's hiding his stained fingers somewhere in the brush half a mile from here."

"There are no more men to your crowd?" spoke Dr. Dunlop anxiously.

"None," Tom broke in. "My order to the boy, Drew, was intended by way of conversation to interest your four callers."

"Then, indeed, we must look out for an ambush," said one of Mr. Dunlop's companions, a man of thirty.

"And you will be in real danger every minute of the time," said Dunlop's daughter, fearfully. "Father, why can't you come out of this wild country? Is the money that you may make out here worth all the risk?"

"Yes," answered Mr. Dunlop, with a firmness that seemed intended to settle the matter.

"Why did you fire on those men without provocation?" Tom asked, aside, of Jim Ferrers, who stood stroking his rifle barrel with one hand.

"I had provocation," Ferrers answered.

"Oh," said Reade, who was none the wiser.

"I'll 'get' Dolph Gage yet, if I ever have a fair chance without running my neck into the noose of the law," added Ferrers, with silent fury in his tone.

"Is there a story behind it all, eh" queried Tom mildly.

"Yes, Mr. Reade. Too long a story to tell in a minute."

"I didn't mean to pry into your affairs, Ferrers," Tom made haste to say.

"Well, for one thing, Dolph Gage shot the only brother I ever had—and got cleared of the charge in the court!" muttered Ferrers.

"Was your brother killed?" Tom inquired.

"Didn't I state that Dolph Gage shot him?" demanded Jim in a semi-injured tone. "Men don't often waste ammunition out in this county, even if I did send in three wild shots just now. But that was because I was excited, and couldn't see straight. I'll try to do better next time."

Mr. Dunlop was now engaged in making his daughter, her child and the other woman comfortable in one of the touring cars.

Several of the men in the party, also, had decided that they did not care to remain if they were to be exposed to shooting at all hours of the day.

In the end Mr. Dunlop had but three of the men in his party left with him.

The younger of the two armed men was sent to drive the car containing the women. One of the guests of the Dunlop party drove a second car. In this order they started for Dugout City, thirty miles away. As the roads hardly deserved the name the motor cars would not be likely to reach Dugout before dark.

"Look out for ambushes," exclaimed Mr. Dunlop, to the armed driver of the women's car.

"Yes, sir; but there isn't much danger of our being fired on. Gage's gang will be only too glad to see the women folks leaving here. We won't be troubled."

Mr. Dunlop stood anxiously gazing after the two touring cars as long as they could be seen. Then he stepped briskly back, holding out his hand to Tom Reade.

"Permit me, now, to thank you for your timely aid," said the stout man. "You know my name. Will you kindly introduce your friends?"

This Tom did at once, after which Mr. Dunlop presented his three companions. One was his nephew, Dave Hill, the second, George Parkinson, Mr. Dunlop's secretary, and the third a man named John Ransome, an investor in Mr. Dunlop's mining enterprise. The elder of the armed men who remained behind was Joe Timmins, both guide and chauffeur. The young man who had gone with one of the cars was Timmins's son.

"You have a mining claim hereabouts, Mr. Dunlop?" Tom inquired.

"Yes; but not exactly at this point," added the older man, with a smile as he noted Reade staring about him with a quizzical smile. "The claim stands over there on that slope"— pointing to the westward.

"Has it been prospected, sir?" asked Hazelton.

"Yes: it's a valuable property, all right. I brought my party out here to show it to them. The friends who have returned to Dugout, and Mr. Ransome here, have the money ready to put up the needed capital as soon as they are satisfied."

"I'm satisfied now," spoke up Ransome, "and I'm sure that the others are, after what Mr. Dunlop showed us this morning."

"How soon do you begin operations?" Tom asked with interest.

"As soon as my men have talked it over and have concluded to put up the money, replied Mr. Dunlop.

"We're ready, now—all of us," Ransome broke in.

"Then," said Mr. Dunlop, "the next step will be to get in touch with a satisfactory engineer. You see, Mr. Reade, it's either a tunneling or a boring claim. We must either sink a shaft or drive a tunnel—whichever operation can be done at the least cost. Either way will be expensive, and we must find out for a certainty which will be the cheaper. There's a lot of refractory rock in the slope yonder. In the morning our party will get all the ore we can from the surface croppings, then start for Dugout, going from there to Carson City. At Carson we hope to find an honest engineer and a capable metallurgist."

"Then you haven't engaged any engineer?" Reade asked, almost eagerly.

"Not yet. There was no need, until we had satisfied the investors."

"Perhaps Hazelton and I can make some deal with you, Mr. Dunlop," Reade proposed.

"In what line?" inquired Dunlop. "Are you miners—or machinists?"

"When we want to be really kind to ourselves," smiled Tom, "we call ourselves engineers."

"Mining engineers?" demanded Mr. Dunlop, gazing at the two youths in astonishment.

"No, sir. Neither Hazelton nor myself ever handled a mine yet," Tom answered. "But we have done a lot of railroad work."

"Railroad work isn't mine digging," objected Mr. Dunlop.

"I'm aware of that, sir," Tom agreed. "Yet boring is largely excavation work; so is tunneling. We've had charge of considerable excavating in our services to railroads."

"Very likely," nodded Dunlop, reflectively. But how about the assays for gold and silver? Sometimes, when searching for drifts and runs of the metal we may need a dozen assays in a single week."

"We have the furnace with us, sir; the assay balance and all the tools and chemicals that are used in an ordinary assay."

"You have?" asked Mr. Dunlop. "Then you must have come prepared to go into this line of work."

"We thought it more than likely that we'd amuse ourselves along that line of work for a while," Tom explained truthfully. "Yet mining attracts us. We'd stay here and go into the thing in earnest if we could make good enough terms with you."

"Would seventy-five dollars a month for each of you be satisfactory?" asked Mr. Dunlop keenly.

"No, sir," replied Reade with emphasis. "Nor would we take a hundred and seventy-five dollars, either. When I said that we would consider a good proposition I meant just that, sir."

"Hm-m-m-m!" murmured Mr. Dunlop. "I shall have to give this matter thought, and question you a good deal more on your qualifications. I suppose you would be willing to let this matter remain open for a few days?"

"Certainly, sir; we are in no hurry. However, until we are definitely engaged we do not bind ourselves to be ready for your work."

"Where is your camp?" said Mr. Dunlop.

Jim Ferrers explained the easiest way of reaching the camp in a motor car.

"And I'd advise you to come to our camp, too," Tom added. "You'll be safer there than here."

"But we would; expose you to danger, too," Mr. Dunlop objected.

"We're rather used to danger," smiled Tom placidly. "In fact, just a little of danger makes us feel that we're getting more enjoyment out of life."

"Do you think it a good plan to take up the invitation of these gentlemen, Timmins?" inquired Mr. Dunlop.

"It's the safest thing you can do, sir," answered Joe Timmins.

"We'll start back, now," proposed Tom. "If you don't drive too fast you'll give us a chance to reach our camp in time to welcome you."

"You start now, and we'll start within ten minutes," proposed Mr. Dunlop.

This being agreed to, Tom, Harry and Ferrers began the task of climbing the cliff path. At last they reached the top, then started at long strides toward camp, Ferrers's horse having been surrendered by Harry to Dave Hill.

"Who knows," laughed Tom, "we may become mining engineers here in Nevada"

"Small chance of it," Harry rejoined. "In opinion Mr. Dunlop is a good enough fellow, but he's accustomed to making all the money himself. He'd want us at about a hundred dollars a month apiece."

"He can want, then," Tom retorted. "Yet, somehow, I've an idea That Mr. Dunlop will turn to be generous if he decides that we're the engineers for him."

For some minutes the trio tramped on silently, in Indian file, Ferrers leading.

"Hello, Alf!" bellowed Tom through the woods, as they neared their camp site. No answer came.

"Where did you leave the little fellow, Jim?" inquired Reade.

"I didn't notice which way he went, sir," returned the guide. "He looked plumb scared, and I reckon he ducked into cover somewhere. Maybe he headed for Dugout City and hasn't stopped running yet."

Then a turn of the path under the trees brought them in sight of their camp.

Rather, where the camp had been. Jim Ferrers rubbed his eyes for an instant, for the tents had been spirited away as though by magic. Nor were the cots to be seen. Blankets lay strewn about on the ground. A quarter the camp's food supplies was still left, and that was all.

"Is it magic, Jim?" gasped puzzled Tom Reade.

"No, sir; just plain stealing," Ferrers responded grimly.

"Then who——"

"Dolph Gage's crew, I'll be bound, sir. They don't want you two hanging around in this country, and they want me a heap sight less. But maybe we'll show 'em! The trail can't be hard to find. We'll have to start at once."

"After we've seen and spoken to Mr. Dunlop," Tom amended. "We can't run off without explanation to the guests that we have invited to share the camp that we thought had."

Barely a hundred yards away four men lay on their stomachs, heads concealed behind a low fringe of brush under which the muzzles of their rifles peeped.

"Remember," whispered Dolph Gage faintly, "all of you fire your first shot into Jim Ferrers. After that we'll take charge of the youngsters! Get a close bead on Jim. Ready!"

IV. SOLD OUT FOR A TOY BALE!

Jim Ferrers had stated a plain truth when he remarked that Nevada men did not often waste ammunition.

With four rifles aimed at him, at that short, point-blank range, it would seem that Jim's last moment had come.

Yet at that instant the sound of an approaching motor ear was heard.

Then the car, moving at twelve miles an hour mounted the crest at a point less than seventy yards from where the four ambushed men lay.

Joe Timmins caught sight of them.

"Take the wheel!" muttered Timmins, forcing Parkinson's nearer hand to the wheel.

In an instant Joe was upon his feet, drawing his revolver. He fired at the men in ambush, but a lurch of the car on the rough ground destroyed his aim.

"Dolph Gage and his rascals at the ridge," bellowed Joe, in a fog-horn voice, pointing.

Jim Ferrers dropped to the ground, hugging it flat. Harry followed suit. Tom Reade hesitated an instant, then away he flew at a dead run.

Close to a tree Tom stopped, thrusting right hand in among the bushes. Up and down his hand moved.

"Shoot and duck!" snarled Dolph, in a passion because of their having been discovered.

Boom!

Over by the ridge where Gage and his fellow rascals lay it looked as though a volcano had started in operation on a small scale.

Fragments of rock, clouds of dirt, splinters and bits of brush shot up in the air.

Following the report came a volley of terrific yells from Dolph and his fellows.

They had been on the instant of firing when the big explosion came. Jim Ferrers, too, was taking careful aim at the moment.

It is a law of Nature that whatever goes up debris, mixed with larger pieces of rock and clots of earth, descended on the scene of the explosion. Yet little of this flying stuff reached Dolph Gage and his companions, for they were up and running despite the mark that they thus presented to Ferrers.

Nor did the rascals stop running until they had reached distant cover.

"Stop it, Jim—don't shoot!" gasped Tom Reade, choking with laughter, as Ferrers leaped to his feet, taking aim after the fugitives.

"I want Dolph Gage, while I've got a good, legal excuse," growled Ferrers, glancing along rifle barrel at the forward sight.

"Don't think of shooting," panted Tom, darting forward and laying a hand on the rifle barrel to spoil the guide's aim. "Jim, it isn't sportsmanlike to shoot a fleeing enemy in the back! Fight fair and square, Jim—if you must fight."

There was much in this to appeal to the guide's sense of honor and fair play. Though scowled, he lowered the rifle.

"Tom, you everlasting joker, what happened?" demanded Harry Hazelton.

"You saw for yourself, didn't you?" retorted Reade.

"Yes; but——"

"Are you so little of an engineer that you don't know a mine when you see one, Harry?"

"But how did that mine come to be there?"

"I planted it."

"When?"

"Today, when you started on your ride."

"Oh!"

"You see, Harry, I was pondering away over mining problems this morning. As you had the only horse, that was all that there was left for me to do. Now, you must have noticed that most of the outcropping rock around here is of a very refractory kind?"

"Yes," nodded Hazelton.

"Then, of course, you realize that for at least a hundred feet down in the mine the rock that would be found would be the same."

"Undoubtedly."

"So, Harry, I was figuring on a way to blast ore rock out whenever we should find refractory stuff down a shaft or in the galleries or tunnels of a mine."

"Fine, isn't it?" retorted Hazelton. "A great scheme! You blast out the rock and the force of the explosion shoots all the fine particle of gold into the walls of the mine—just the way you'd pepper a tree with birdshot!"

Mr. Dunlop had drawn close and now stood smiling broadly.

"That appears to be one on you, Reade," suggested the mine promoter.

"That's what I want to find out," returned Tom soberly; "whether I'm a discoverer, or just a plain fool."

"What do you think about it?"

"Let's go and look at the ledge, and then I can tell you, sir," Reade answered, striding forward.

"Look out!" cautioned Joe Timmins. "Those hyenas will shoot. They'll be sore over the trick you played on them, and they'll be hiding waiting for a chance for a shot."

"Oh, bother the hyenas," Tom retorted, impatiently. "I'm out for business today. Coming, Mr. Dunlop?" The mine operator showed signs of hanging back.

Harry promptly joined his chum at what was left of the little ledge. After a few moments Mr. Dunlop, seeing that no shots were fired, stepped over there also, followed by his nephew. Jim Ferrers climbed a tree, holding his rifle and keeping his eyes open for a shot, while Timmins threw himself behind a rock, watching in the direction that the four men had taken.

"This looks even better than I had expected," Tom explained, his eyes glowing as he held up fragments of rock. "You see, the dynamite charge was a low-power one. It just splintered the rock. There wasn't so very much driving force to the explosion. Another time I could make the force even lower."

"Here's gold in this bit of rock!" cried Harry, turning, his eyes sparkling.

"Yes; but not enough to look promising," replied Mr. Dunlop, after examining the specimen. "But we'll look through the rest of the stuff that's loose."

The two men who had hung back soon joined them.

"I wouldn't care about filing a claim to it," Mr. Dunlop, shaking his head after some further exploration. "This rock wouldn't yield enough to the ton to make the work profitable."

"Just a little, outcropping streak, possibly from the claim that I have below," was Mr. Dunlop's conclusion "By the way, Reade, how did you explode the mine?"

"With a magneto," Tom explained, then ran and took the battery from behind the tree from which he had fired it. "I buried the wire, of course, so that no one would trip over it," he added. "Just after I got it attended to Alf Drew happened along, looked forlorn, and wanted a job. So I had almost forgotten the mine, until I realized that the thing was planted right in front of where Dolph Gage's crew were hidden. By the way, Jim, where is Alf?"

"All the information I've got wouldn't send you two feet in the right direction," the guide reported gruffly.

"And where are our tents and the other stuff?" Harry demanded. "Gage's crew couldn't get far with them in the time they've had. Shall we hustle after our property?"

"Yes," nodded Tom.

"At the momentary risk of being shot to pieces," added Mr. Dunlop, dryly.

"Those little chances go with being involved in a Nevada mining dispute, don't they?" queried Reade.

"Where can we begin to look?" Harry pressed. "Let's scurry about a bit. Surely men can't get away with tents without leaving some trail."

Within two minutes they had the trail. Marks were discovered that plainly had been made by dragging canvas and guy-ropes along over the ground.

"We'll find our stuff soon," predicted Tom, striding along over a rough trail. "The scoundrels didn't have a team, and they wouldn't take the stuff far without other transportation than their own backs. Hello! What's in there?"

Tom had detected some motions in a clump of brush.

"Look out!" warned Jim Ferrers, bringing his rifle to "ready."

But Tom darted straight into the brush.

"Then this is where you are?" demanded Tom dryly. He glanced down at the cowering form of Alf Drew.

"So you've got the 'makings,' have you?" Reade demanded, seizing Alf by the collar and yanking him up to his feet.

Paper and tobacco fell from young Drew's nerveless grasp to the ground.

"You made me drop the makings of a good one," whined Alf resentfully.

"You didn't have that stuff two hours ago. Where did you get it?" Reade demanded.

"Found it," half whimpered Drew.

"Do you expect me to believe any such fairy tales as that?" insisted Tom Reade.

"If you have tobacco and cigarette papers," Tom continued, "then some one gave the stuff to you. It was Dolph Gage, or one of his rascals, wasn't it?"

"Don't know him," replied the boy, with a shake of his head.

"Now, don't try to fool me, Drew," warned Tom, with a mild shake administered to the youngster's shoulders. "How much tobacco have you?"

"A whole package," admitted Alf reluctantly, feeling that it would be of no use to try to deceive his employer.

"And plenty of papers to go with it?"

"Ye-es."

"You got it from four men?"

"No; I didn't."

"Well, from one of four men, then? Tell me the truth."

"Ye-es."

"What did you do to please the four men?"

Alf Drew shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, and then back again.

"Come! Speak up!" Reade insisted sternly.

"You're wasting our time. What did you do for the four men?"

"I didn't do anything," Alf evaded.

"What did you tell them, then?" Reade wanted to know.

"They asked me a few questions."

"Of course; and you answered the questions."

"Well, I——"

"What did the men want to know about?" pressed Tom, the look in his eyes growing sterner still.

"They wanted to know how many men Jim Ferrers had," admitted the Drew boy.

"Oh, I see," pondered Tom aloud, a half smile creeping into his face. "They were guessing the size of Ferrers's army, were they?"

"I—I guess so," Alf replied.

"And you told them——?"

"I told 'em the camp was made up of you and Mr. Hazelton, Jim Ferrers and myself."

"And then they gave you the tobacco for cigarettes, did they?"

"I made 'em gimme that first," Alf retorted, a look of cunning in his eyes.

"So, my bright little hero, you sold us out for a toy bale of cigarettes, did you?" demanded Tom Reade, staring coldly down at the shame-faced youngster.

V. NO NEED TO WORK FOR PENNIES

"I—I didn't see how it could do any harm," sniveled young Drew.

"Perhaps it didn't," Tom admitted. "So far, it has resulted only in our being ambushed and all but murdered. Now, where did they take our tents and the other stuff?"

"I don't know," declared Alf. "Are the tents gone?" He answered so promptly that Reade believed him.

"Very much so," replied Reade, releasing his grip on Drew's shoulder. "Come on, friends, we'll hunt further."

"Say, what was that big explosion?" asked Alf, running after the party when he found himself being left alone.

"No time to talk until we find our camp stuff," Tom called back over his shoulder.

"I'll help you," proposed Alf eagerly.

"You're full of helpfulness," Reade jibed.

But Alf evidently preferred to stick to them. He ran along at the heels of the last rapidly striding man. Joe Timmins was the only one absent, he having remained at the camp site to keep a watchful eye over the automobile.

Jim Ferrers was in the lead, his trained eyes searching the ground for the trail of the tents.

Within five minutes the party came upon the tents and the food supplies, all of which had been dumped into a thicket in confused piles.

"We'll sort this out and get it back to camp," Tom proposed. "Alf, little hero, redeem yourself by buckling down to a good load. Come here; let me load you down."

Alf meekly submitted, cherishing a half hope that he would not be discharged from his new position after all.

At the end of an hour the stuff had all been taken back and the camp looked a good deal as it had looked that morning.

"Now, Alf," directed Tom in a milder, kinder tone, "you hustle over and break your back helping Mr. Ferrers to get supper ready. We're a famished lot. Understand?"

Alf was only too glad to be able to understand that his part in the dismantling of the camp had been overlooked. While Tom and Harry led their guests into one of the tents, young Drew hastened over to where Jim Ferrers was starting a fire in the camp stove.

"Now, put that stuff back in your pockets, or I'll throw it in the fire!" sounded the angry voice of Ferrers. "You can't use any of that stuff when you're working around me."

"The poor little cigarette pest must have been trying to use his newly acquired 'makings,'" grinned Tom.

While Ferrers was thus busied with preparation of the meal, Joe Timmins had taken the guide's rifle and was keeping a watchful eye over the approaches to the neighborhood.

"So you young men think you could serve me satisfactorily as engineers," questioned Mr. Dunlop.

"I think we could," Tom answered.

"But I am afraid you young men have a rather large notion as to the pay you're worth," continued the mine promoter.

"That's right, sir," Reade nodded. "We have a good-sized idea on the pay question. Now, when you go to Dugout City next you might wire the president of the S.B. & L. railroad, at Denver, or the president of the A.G. & N.M., at Tucson, Arizona, and ask those gentlemen whether we are in the habit of making good on large pay."

"How much will you young men want?"

"For work of this character," replied Tom, after a few moments of thought, during which Harry Hazelton was silent, "we shall want six hundred dollars a month, each, with two hundred dollars apiece added for the fighting risk."

"The fighting risk?" questioned Mr. Dunlop.

"Well, we shall have Dolph Gage and his crowd to guard against, won't we?" Reads counter-questioned.

"But such pay is absurd!" he protested.

"From your view-point, very likely, sir. From our view-point it will be very ordinary compensation, and nothing but our desire to learn more about mining will tempt us to go into it at the figure we have named."

"Your price puts your services out of the question for my company," replied Mr. Dunlop, with a shake of his head.

"Very good, sir," Tom rejoined pleasantly. "No harm done, and we need not talk it over any more. We wish you good luck in finding proper engineers for your work. You will probably motor back to Dugout tomorrow morning, won't you?"

"We'll have to," Mr. Dunlop answered. "We're not safe here until we hire a few good men to come out here to keep Gage and his fellows at a distance."

"That's true, sir," Tom nodded. "As you'll need a good many men here by the time you start work on your mine you'll do well to bring at least a score of them down at once. Twenty good, rough men, used to this life and not afraid of bullets, ought to make you feel wholly safe and secure on your own property."

There was more talk, but neither Tom nor Harry again referred to their serving the new company as engineers.

In due course of time Jim Ferrers, with such help as Alf was able to give, had supper ready to serve. It was a rough meal, of hard tack, pilot bread, potatoes, canned meats and vegetables, but outdoor life had given all a good appetite and the meal did not long remain on the camp table.

For guard duty that night it was arranged that Jim Ferrers and Joe Timmins should relieve each other. Tom also offered to stay up with Ferrers, Harry taking the watch trick with Timmins, though neither of the young engineers was armed or cared to be.

Harry and Timmins were to take the first watch. The others retired early. Tom Reade was about to begin undressing when Hazelton came in for a moment.

While the chums were chatting, Alf Drew's forlorn figure showed at the doorway of the tent.

"Say, boss," complained Alf, "I haven't any place to sleep."

"What?" Reade demanded in pretended surprise, "with nearly all the ground in Nevada at your disposal?"

"But that isn't a bed," contended Alf.

"Right you are there, lad" agreed Tom.

"Now, see here, boss, only one of you two is going to sleep at a time tonight. I'm tired—I ache. Why can't I sleep on the other cot in this tent?"

"Come here," ordered Tom.

Alf wonderingly advanced.

Whiff! whiff! moved the young engineer's nostrils.

"Just as I thought," sighed Reade. "You've been smoking cigarettes without any let-up ever since supper."

"Well, I have ter," argued Drew.

"And now you smell as fragrant as a gas-house, Alf. Mr. Hazelton is rather particular about the little matter of cleanliness. If you were to sleep on his cot the smell of cigarettes would be so strong that I don't believe Mr. Hazelton could stay on his cot when it came his time to turn in."

"But say! If you knew how dead, dog-tired I am!" moaned Alf.

"Oh, let him sleep on my cot," interposed Harry, good-heartedly. "If I can't stand the cot when I come to use it, then it won't be the first night that I've slept on hard ground and rested well."

"All right, Alf, climb in," nodded Tom. "But see here. Cigarettes make you as nervous as a lunatic. If you have any bad dreams tonight, and begin yelling, then I'll rise and throw you outdoors. Do you understand?"

"Yes," mumbled the boy. "But I won't dream. I'm not nervous now. It's only when I can't get enough cigs that I'm nervous."

"You should have seen him this afternoon," Tom continued, turning to his chum. "The lad and I took a walk. At every other step he kept imagining that he heard rattlesnakes rattling."

"And I did, too," contended Alf stoutly. "You know I did. You heard 'em yourself, Mr. Reade."

"I didn't hear a single rattler," Tom replied soberly.

"Let the tired little fellow go to bed in peace," urged Harry.

"All right," Tom agreed.

Alf went to the head of the cot, to turn the blanket down from the head.

Click-ick-ick-ick! came the warning sound.

With a yell of terror Alf Drew bounded back.

"There's another rattler," he screamed. "It's under that blanket."

"It's all your nerves," Tom retorted. "There isn't a rattler within miles of here."

"Didn't you hear a rattle, Mr. Reade?" wailed the cigarette fiend.

"No; I didn't."

"Didn't you, Mr. Hazelton?"

Harry was on the point of answering "yes," but Tom caught his eyes, and Harry, knowing that something was up, shook his head.

"You must both be deaf, then," argued Drew.

"Why, see here, you nervous little wreck of a cigarette," said Tom, grinning good-humoredly, "I'll show you that there is no snake in that bed. Watch me."

With utmost unconcern, Tom took hold of the blanket, stripping it from the cot. Then he ran his hands over the under blanket.

"Not a thing in this bed but what belongs here," Tom explained. "Alf, do you see how cigarettes are taking the hinges off your nerves."

Shame-faced, and believing that Tom was right, Alf advanced toward the cot. As he reached the side of it——

Click-ick-ick! sounded close to him.

"You can't make me stay in this tent. It's the most dangerous spot in Nevada," cried Drew, turning and fleeing into flee open. The two chums could hear his feet as he sped to another part of the camp.

"Some trick about that rattling?" queried Harry in a whisper.

"Of course," Tom admitted with a wink.

"It's a shame to tease the youngster so."

"It would be," Tom assented rather gravely, "but I'm using that means to make the lad afraid to smoke cigarettes. If young Drew goes on smoking the miserable little things he'll become come a physical wreck inside of a year."

"How do you do the trick, anyway?" asked Harry curiously.

"Does it really sound like the click of a rattler?" asked Tom.

"Does it? I was 'stung' almost as badly as poor Alf was. How do you do the trick?"

"I'll show you, some time," nodded Tom Reade.

With that promise Harry had to be content, and so must the reader, for the present.

Hazelton went out to stand first watch with Joe Timmins. Alf Drew, finding that the Dunlop party had no room for him under the shelter they had rigged from the rear of the automobile, curled himself on the ground under a tree and fitfully wooed sleep. By daylight the little fellow was fretfully awake, his "nerves" refusing him further rest until he had rolled and smoked two cigarettes. By the time the smoke was over Jim Ferrers called to him to help start the breakfast.

Nothing had been seen of the four intruders through the night.

"I think we shall try to get safely through to Dugout City this morning," suggested Mr. Dunlop.

"You'll make it all right, if you have gasoline enough," remarked Ferrers, who hovered close at hand with a frying pan filled with crisp bacon.

"You don't believe Gage will try to attack us on the way?"

"He has no call to," replied Ferrers. "You're obeying him by leaving the claim, aren't you?"

"Then probably Gage and his companions will settle down on the claim after we leave," suggested Mr. Dunlop.

"If Gage tries to jump the claim in your absence," proposed Ferrers, "your course is easy. If you have the legal right to the claim you'll have to bring back force enough to drive those hyenas off."

"Will you people try to keep an eye over the claim while I'm gone?" asked Mr. Dunlop.

"That would be a little out of our line," Tom made reply. "Besides, Mr. Dunlop, I'm not at all sure that we shall be here until you return."

"But we haven't settled, Reade, whether you and your partner are to be our engineers at the Bright Hope Mine."

"Quite true, sir," nodded Tom. "On the other hand, you haven't engaged us, either"

"Won't you keep the matter open until our return?"

"That would be hardly good business, Mr. Dunlop."

"Yet suppose I had engaged you,"

"Then we'd be going back to Dugout City with you."

"Why, Reade?"

"So that we might get in touch with the world and find out whether you are financially responsible. We wouldn't take an engagement without being reasonably sure of our money."

"You're a sharp one," laughed Mr. Dunlop.

Yet he made no further reference to engaging the two young engineers, a fact that Reade was keen enough to note.

Within an hour after breakfast the Dunlop ear pulled out, leaving Tom Reade with only his own party.

"What our friend wants," smiled Harry, "is a pair of mining engineers at the salary of one mere surveyor."

"He won't pay any more than he has to," rejoined Reade.

"Do you really want to work for Dunlop?"

"I really don't care a straw whether I do or not," was Tom's answer. "Harry, we're in the very heart of the gold country and we don't need to work for copper pennies."

"If you'll allow me to say so, friends," put in Jim Ferrers, "I believe you two are the original pair with long heads and I'm going to stick to you as long as you'll let me."

"Me, too," piped up Alf Drew ungrammatically.

The young cigarette fiend was at that instant engaged in rolling one of his paper abominations.

Click-ick-ick-ick!

"Rattlers again!" shivered Alf.

Paper and tobacco fell from his fingers and he fled in terror.

VI. TOM CATCHES THE "NEVADA FEVER"

Two nights passed without adventure. On each of these nights the three campers—for Alf didn't "count" divided the hours of darkness into three watches, each standing guard in his turn. On the third morning after the departure of the Bright Hope group the campers were seated at breakfast around the packing case that served as table.

"I feel as though we ought to be at work," suggested Hazelton.

"Good!" mocked Tom. "You've been riding every day lately, and I have remained in camp, testing samples of ore that I've picked up on my strolls."

"You take the horse today," proposed Harry, "and I'll stay in camp and work."

"Suppose both of us stay in and work," proposed Reade.

"That'll be all right, too," nodded Harry, pleasantly. "May I ask, Tom, what you're up to, anyway?"

"Yes," Reade smiled. "If the Bright Hope is a real mine there must be other good property in this region. I've been looking about, and making an assay every now and then. Jim, you've prospected a bit, haven't you?"

"Yes," nodded the guide. "And, gentlemen, in my day I've been sole owner of three claims, each one of which panned out a fortune."

"Great!" glowed Harry. "But how did you lose your money, Jim!"

"I never got a cent out of any of the mines," rejoined the guide grimly.

"How did that happen?"

"Did you ever hear of 'square gamblers'?" inquired Ferrers.

"Some," Tom admitted with a grimace. "We ran up against one of that brood in Arizona, eh, Harry?"

"You didn't play against him, I hope, hinted Jim soberly.

"Yes, we did," admitted Tom. "Not with his own marked cards, though, nor with any kind of cards. We met him with men's weapons, and it is necessary to add that our 'square gambler' lost."

"The 'square gamblers' that I met didn't lose," sighed Jim Ferrers. "They won, and that's why all three of my mines passed out of my hands before they began to pay."

"You must know something about ore and croppings, and the like, Jim?", Tom continued.

"In a prospector's way, yes," Ferrers admitted.

"Then we'll take a walk, now. Alf can wash up the dishes."

"It's all the little wretch is fit for," muttered Ferrers contemptuously.

Jim looked carefully into the magazine of his repeating ride, then saw to it that his ammunition belt was filled.

"Ready when you gentlemen are," he announced.

"Say, won't you take me with you?" pleaded Alf.

"You wouldn't be of any use to us," Reade answered.

"But I—I am afraid to stay here alone."

"Do you believe yourself to be so valuable that any one will want to steal you?" Tom laughed.

Alf made a wry face and watched the others depart. Then, filled with needless alarm, he crawled out into a thicket and hid himself. He didn't mean to be trapped by prowlers!

Tom led the way for nearly a mile. At last the trio climbed a slight ascent, halting at the top of the ridge.

"You see, Jim," Tom explained, "this ridge runs southwesterly from here."

"I see it does?" nodded the guide.

"Now, to the northeastward I don't believe there are any croppings that look good enough. But just keep along to the southeast, picking up a specimen here and there. Some of the rock looks good to me."

Jim Ferrers didn't answer in words, though his eyes gleamed with the old fever that he had known before.

"Here's a pretty piece of stone," called the guide in a low tone. He stood holding a fragment about as big as his two fists.

"It's streaked" pretty well with yellow, you see, gentlemen," he remarked;

"It is," Tom agreed, taking the specimen.

"Does the vein run with the top of the ridge?" demanded Harry eagerly.

"It runs a little more to eastward, from this point, I think," Tom made answer. "But let us walk along, in three parallel lines, and see who finds the best indications."

By noon all three were fairly tired out by the steep climbing over the rocky ground. Each had as many specimens as he could carry. The result of the exploration had tended to confirm Tom's notion as to where the vein lay.

"Now, let's see about where we'd stake the claim," Tom proposed. "Of course, we want to get the best rock obtainable. We don't want to leave the best part of this slope for some one else to stake out. It seems to me that the claim ought to start up by that blasted tree. What do you say, Jim?"

"Well, I don't like to make mistakes where you young gentleman are concerned," Ferrers answered, taking off his felt hat and scratching his head. "You see, it isn't my claim."

"The dickens it isn't!" Reade retorted.

"Why, you—you gentlemen didn't plan to take me in, did you," asked Ferrers, opening his eyes very wide in his amazement over the idea. "You see I—I can't contribute my share of the brains, along with a pair like you," continued the guide. "Look at you two—engineers already! Then look at me—more'n twice as old as either of you, and yet I'm only a cook."

"You're an honest man, aren't you, Jim?" demanded Reade.

"Why, there's some folks who say I am," Ferrers slowly admitted.

"And we're among those who believe that way," Tom continued. "Now, Jim, you're with us, and you've every right to be a partner if we find anything worth taking up in the mine line."

"But there ain't no sense in it," protested the guide, his voice shaking with emotion. "You don't need me."

"We need a man of your kind, Jim," Tom rejoined, resting a very friendly hand on the guide's shoulder. "Listen to me. Hazelton and I are engineers first of all. We'd sooner be engineers than kings. Now, the lure of gold is all well enough, and we're human enough to like money. Yet a really big engineering chance would take us away from a gold mine almost any day in the year. Eh, Harry!"

"I'm afraid it would," confirmed Hazelton.

"If we left a paying mine, Jim, what would we want?" Tom continued. "We'd want an honest partner, wouldn't we—one whom we could leave for six months or a year and still be able to depend on getting our share of the profits of the mine. You've gambled in the past, Jim, but you stopped that years ago. Now you're honest and safe. Do you begin to see, Jim Ferrers, where you come in? Another point. How old do you take us to be?"

"Well, you're more than twenty-one, each of you," replied Ferrers.

"Not quite, as yet," Tom answered. "So, you see, in order to take out a claim we'd need a guardian, and one whom we could depend upon not to rob us. Jim, if we're to take up a mine we must have a third man in with us. Do you know a man anywhere who'd use us more honestly than you would?"

"I don't," exclaimed Jim Ferrers. "At the same time, gentlemen, I know your kind well enough. Both of you talk of fighting as though you dreaded it, but I'll tell you, gentlemen, that I wouldn't dare to try any nasty tricks on either of you."

"We understand each other, then," Tom nodded. "Now, then, let us try to make up our minds just where we would want to stake off this claim if the gold assays as well as it looks."

At the beginning Tom and Harry built a little pile of stones. Then, by mere pacing they laid off what they judged to be the fifteen hundred feet of length which the government allows to a single mining claim.

"We can attend to the proper width later," suggested Tom. "Now, what do you say if we make for camp at once. I'm not hungry; still, I think I could eat my half of a baked ox."

The instant that the trio reached camp, Jim Ferrers, with an unwonted mist in his eyes, began to juggle the cooking utensils. Tom busied himself with building the best fire that he could under the chamber of the assaying furnace, while Harry Hazelton, rolling up his sleeves, began to demonstrate his muscle by pulverizing little piles of ore in a hand-mill.

"Be careful not to mix the lots, Harry," advised Tom, glancing over from his station by the furnace.

"Thanks for the caution," smiled Hazelton. "But I have just enough intelligence left to understand the value of knowing from what section of the slope each particular lot of rock comes."

Dinner was eaten in silence. For one thing the campers were ravenously hungry. In the second place, though each kept as quiet as possible, he was deep in the thrall of the fever to dig up hidden gold.

The meal was nearly over when Alf Drew came into camp.

"Are you leaving anything to eat?" he asked.

"Maybe," said Jim Ferrers grimly, "but you were left to wash the breakfast dishes, and you haven't done it yet. Now, you'll wash the breakfast things, and then the dinner things, before you get even a cold bite to eat."

Alf didn't protest. Now that he was back safe in camp he felt much ashamed of himself for having run away and left the camp unwatched.

As soon as he had eaten his dinner Tom Reade went back to the assay furnace to improve the fire.

"Now, Harry, we'll get the powdered stuff ready to roast," Reade remarked. "We've a lot of it to rush through this afternoon."

"And we want to be sure to finish it at least two hours before dark, too," Larry nodded. "If we decide to file a claim Jim ought to be riding for Dugout City by dark, ready to file the papers the first thing in the morning."

"And Jim can bring back half a dozen men to help us sink the first shaft," proposed Tom.

"That's where I feel like a fool," muttered Ferrers. "I haven't a blessed dollar to put in as capital."

"We'll take your honesty for a good deal in the way of capital, Jim," Tom hinted cheerfully.

"Harry, you might get out the transit, the tape, markers and other things. If we stake out a claim we'll do it so accurately that there can be no fight, afterward, as to the real boundaries of our claim."

"What shall we call the claim?" inquired Hazelton, as he came back with the surveying outfit.

"Suppose we wait until the assay is done, and find out whether the claim is worth anything better than a bad name," laughed Tom.

The crucibles were in the furnace now, and a hot flame going. Jim Ferrers sat by, puffing reflectively at his pipe as he squatted on the ground nearby. Alf Drew was smoking, too, somewhere, but he had taken his offensive cigarettes to some place of concealment.

Harry anxiously watched the course of the sun, while Tom kept his gaze, most of the time, near the furnace.

"Come on, Harry!" called Tom at last. "We'd rake out the crucibles. My, but I hope the buttons are going to be worth weighing."

A withering blast of hot air reached the young engineers as the oven door of the portable assay furnace was thrown open. The crucibles were raked out and set in the air to cool.

"Would fanning the crucibles with my hat do any good?" asked Hazelton eagerly.

"Some," yawned Tom, "if you're impatient."

Reade strolled off under the trees, whistling softly to himself. Jim Ferrers smoked a little faster, the only sign he gave of the anxiety that was consuming him. Harry frequently sprang to his feet, walked up and down rapidly, then sat down again. Two or three times Hazelton burned his fingers, testing to see whether the crucibles were cool enough to handle. At last Tom strolled back, his gaze on the dial of his watch.

"Cool enough for a look, now, I think," Reade announced.

Harry bounded eagerly toward the crucibles, feeling them with his hands.

"Plenty cool enough," he reported. "But how did you guess, Tom?"

"I didn't guess," Reade laughed. "I've timed the crucibles before this, and I know to a minute how long it ought to take."

"What a chump I am!" growled Harry, in contempt for self. "I never think of such things as that."

Tom now carefully emptied the crucibles. In the bottom of each was found a tiny bead of half-lustrous metal, which miners and assayers term the "button."

"The real stuff!" glowed Hazelton.

"Ye-es," said Tom slowly. "But the next question is whether the buttons will weigh enough to hint at good-paying ore. Even at that, these buttons are only from surface ore."

"But the ore underneath is always better than the surface ore," contended Hazelton.

"Usually is," Tom corrected. "If we get good enough results from this assay it will at least be worth while to stake a claim and work it for a while."

Harry waited with feverish impatience. Tom Reade, on the other hand, was almost provokingly slow and cool as he carefully adjusted the sensitive assaying balance and finally weighed the buttons. Then he did some slow, painstaking calculating. At last he looked up.

"Well, sir?" asked Jim Ferrers.

"From this surface ore," replied Tom calmly, "twenty-eight dollars in gold to the ton; silver, six dollars."

"That's good enough for me!" cried Ferrers, his eyes brightening.

"Wow! Whoop! Oh—whee!" vented Harry, then ran and snatched up the surveying transit.

"Yes; I guess we'd better go along and do our staking," assented Tom.

"And I'll be ready at daylight to file the claim at Dugout City," promised Jim. "I won't sleep until I've seen our papers filed."

"You'll file the claim in your own name, Jim," Tom suddenly suggested.

"No; I won't," retorted Ferrers. "I'll play squarely."

"That will be doing squarely by us, Jim," Tom continued. "We don't want to use up our claim privileges on one stretch of Nevada dirt."

If we can find claims enough we'll stake out three, and then pool them all together in a gentlemen's agreement."

"That's a good deal of trust you're showing in me, gentlemen," said Jim huskily.

"Never mind, Jim," returned Reade quietly. "You can show us, you know, that we didn't waste our confidence."

While they were still talking the three came in sight of the ridge.

"Look there!" gasped Harry suddenly.

"Dolph Gage and his tin-horn crowd!" flared Jim Ferrers, in anger. "Hang the fellow! This time I'll——"

"Stop fingering your rifle, Jim," ordered Reade. "Remember, nothing like fighting! If they haven't filed notice in due form on the claim, we're safe yet. If they have——"

"Look!" hissed Ferrers.

At that moment Dolph Gage could be seen nailing a sheet of white paper to a board driven into the soil.

"We've staked what you want, I reckon!" bellowed Gage laconically. "Staked it in due form, too, if you want to know."

"I guess we've lost that claim," said Tom slowly.

"Have we?" hissed Jim Ferrers.

VII. READY TO HANDLE THE PICK

"Keep off this ground!" yelled Dolph Gage, snatching up his rifle.

"Stop that nonsense," Tom bellowed back in his own lusty voice.

"You've no right on this ground."

"Yes, we have, if you want to know," Tom continued. "You haven't filed your papers at Dugout yet."

"How do you know we haven't?"

"I'll take a chance on it," smiled Tom amiably, as he and his companions continued to walk nearer.

Jim Ferrers held his rifle so that it would take him but an instant to swing it into action if the need came.

"If you've filed your papers for this claim" Tom continued, lowering his voice somewhat as they drew nearer to the four rascals. "Have you any such paper to show us?"

"Perhaps not," growled Dolph Gage, his evil eyes seeming to shoot flame. "But we've got our notice of claim nailed up here. We got it here first, and now you can't file any mining entry at Dugout City for this bit o' ground."

"Not if your notice is written in the prescribed language," Tom admitted.

"Well, it is. Now, keep off this ground, or we'll shoot you so full of holes that you'll all three pass for tolerable lead mines!"

"If you don't shoot and make a good job of it," Reade insisted, "I'm going to look over your notice of claim and see whether it's worded in a way that will hold in law."

"Drop 'em, boys! Don't let 'em near!" roared Dolph Gage, swinging his rifle as though to bring it to his shoulder.

But Jim Ferrers had forestalled him. The guide was gazing at his enemy through his rifle sights.

"Drop your weapon, Dolph Gage, and do it blazing quick, or I'll shoot you where you stand!" sounded Jim's voice, low and businesslike. "If any of you other galoots tries to raise his weapon I'll turn and drop him."

As Jim Ferrers had a reputation in Nevada as a rifle shot the others hesitated, then let their rifles drop to the ground.

"Hold them to their present good intentions, Jim," said Tom, with a smile, as he continued to move forward. "Now, Mr. Gage—I believe that's your name let me see what kind of notice you know how to draw up."

"There 'tis," muttered Dolph sullenly, pointing to the board.

Tom read the notice through under his breath, word by word.

"You've done this sort of thing before, I guess, Gage," said Reade quietly.

"You bet I have. Find it all reg'lar, too, don't you?"

"As nearly as I can tell, it is," agreed Tom.

"And the claim is ours."

"It's yours if you file the formal papers soon enough."

"They'll be filed first thing tomorrow morning," grunted Dolph Gage. "Now, try a two-step off the dirt that goes with this claim."

"Not until I've seen the borders that you claim," Tom rejoined.

"Why!" demanded Gage cunningly. "Going to start your claim right at the corners of ours."

"If you'll pardon me," Reade smiled, "I don't believe I'll tell you anything about my intentions."

"Maybe you think this claim is a pretty valuable one," Gage insinuated.

"I didn't say so."

"But you would have staked if we hadn't done it first."

"That's what you've got to guess," smiled Reade.

"Say, now you've lost this claim, tell us some thing straight, won't youth begged Dolph.

"Tell you something straight?" repeated Tom. "Certainly. I'll tell you something just as straight as I know how,"

"Well," he said, at last, "you said you'd tell us something straight."

"And so I will," laughed Tom. "It's just this: Go to blazes!"

"Come, now, don't get fresh, kid!" warned Dolph angrily. "If we're going to be on neighboring claims you may find it a heap to your advantage to use us about half-way decent and polite."

Tom didn't answer at once. He was rapidly covering the statement of location from the paper nailed to the board.

"You fellows picked up a lot of ore stuff around here," continued Dolph Gage.

"Yes?" Tom inquired. "Did you see us?"

"Yes, and we also saw you making an assay."

"You did."

"Of course we did. Say, friend, how did that assay come out?"

"It came out of the furnace," Tom answered still writing.

"'Course it did. But say, how did that assay read?"

"Read?" repeated Tom. "Why, bless me, I never knew that an assay could read."

"You know what I meant, younker. How did it figger?"

"To the best of my belief," said Tom, "an assay is as much unable to figure as it is to read."

"Don't waste any more time on the kid, Dolph," growled another of the group. "He won't tell you anything that you want to know."

"If he doesn't" rejoined Gage, "maybe he'll miss something. See here—Reade's your name, isn't it?"

"You've got that much of your information straight," assented Tom, looking up with a smile.

"Well, Reade, maybe you'd better be a bit more polite and sociable. You've missed staking this claim, but I think we can fix it to give you a job here as engineer."

"That would be very kind of you, I'm sure," nodded Tom. "But I can't undertake any work for you."

"Then you'll lose some money."

"I'm used to losing money," smiled Tom. "As for my partner, he's a real wonder in the way of losing money. He lost ten cents yesterday."

"We've got a fine claim," asserted Dolph Gage. It's right under our feet, and there isn't another such claim in Nevada. Now, if you two want to make any real money you'd better begin to be decent with us right now. Otherwise, you won't get the job. Now, what do you say?"

"I vote for 'otherwise,'" laughed Reade, turning on his heel.

"Oh, you run along and be independent, then," called Dolph Gage after him. "If you're going to stick the winter through on this Range you'll be hungry once or twice between now and spring, if you don't take the trouble to get in right with us."

"Why?" questioned Reade, halting and looking squarely back. "Do you steal food, too?"

Once More Tom turned on his heel. Harry walked along with him. Jim Ferrers all but walked backward, holding his rifle ready and keeping a keen eye over the claim stealers.

"Come along, Jim," called Tom at last. "Those fellows won't do any shooting. Their minds are now set on their new claim. They expect to dig out gold enough to enable them to buy two or three banks. They won't shoot unless they're driven to it."

Jim Ferrers turned and walked with the boys.

Fifteen seconds later a rifle cracked out behind them, the bullet striking the dirt well to the left of Tom's party.

"It's a bluff, Jim, and——" began Reade.

Crack! spoke Ferrers's ride.

"I knocked Gage's hat off," said the guide dryly. "Now, if he fires again, it'll show that he's looking for trouble."

"The fellow who goes looking for trouble is always a fool," Tom remarked.

"Because trouble is the most worthless thing in the world, yet a fellow who goes looking for it is always sure to find twice as much as he thought he wanted."

By the time the young engineers had reached their own camp, Harry, whose face had been growing gradually "longer" on the walk, sank to the ground in an attitude of dejection.

"Just our luck!" he growled. "Gage is right when he says that claim is the best in this part of Nevada. And, just because we were too slow, we lost it. Fortune, you know, Tom, knocks but once at any man's door."

"I don't believe that," said Tom stoutly. "Harry, now that we've made a start and lost, my mind is made up as to our course now. I hope you'll agree with me."

"What is it?" Hazelton asked.

"Harry, old fellow, we'll turn mining engineers in earnest for the present. We'll engineer our own mines, with Jim for a partner. Harry, we'll get up our muscle with pickaxes. We'll stake our fortunes on the turn of a pick!"

VIII. JIM FERRERS, PARTNER

"You mean it, do you?" asked Hazelton, after a pause of a few moments.

"I never meant anything more in my life!"

"Then, of course, I'll agree to it, Tom. If I go astray, it'll be the first time that I ever went wrong through following your advice."

"And you're with us, Ferrers?" inquired Tom, looking around.

"Gentlemen," spoke the guide feelingly, "after the way you've used me, and the way you've talked to me, I'm with you in anything, and I can wait a month, any time, to find out what that 'anything' means. Just give me your orders."

"Orders are not given to partners," Tom told him.

"Orders go with this partner," Jim asserted gravely. "And, gentlemen, if we make any money, just hand me what you call my share and I'll never ask any questions."

"Jim, we're going in for mining," Tom continued. "I can speak for Mr. Hazelton now, for he has authorized me to do so. Mining it is, Jim, but we three are young and tender, and not expert with pickaxes. We'd better have some experts. Can you pick up at least six real miners at Dugout City?"

"A feller usually can," Ferrers replied.

"Then if you'll put in a good part of tonight riding, tomorrow you can do your best to pick up the men. Get the kind, Jim, who don't balk at bullets when they have to face 'em, for we've a hornets' nest over yonder. Get sober, level-headed fellows who know how to fight—men of good judgment and nerve. Pay 'em what's right. You know the state of wages around here. While you're at Dugout, Jim, pick out a two-mule team and a good, dependable wagon for carting supplies. Put all the chuck aboard that you think we'll need for the next two or three weeks. I'll give you, also, a list of digging tools and some of the explosives that we'll need in shaft sinking. While you're in Dugout, Jim, pick up two good ponies, with saddles and bridles. I guess I'd better write down some of these instructions, hadn't I?"

"And write down the street corner where I'm to pick up the money, Mr. Reade," begged Ferrers dryly. "You can't do much in the credit line in Nevada."

"The street corner where you're to find the money, eh, Jim?" smiled Tom. "Yes; I believe I can do that, too. You know the map of Dugout, don't you?"

"'Course."

"You know where to find the corner of Palace Avenue and Mission Street?"

"Sure."

"On one of those four corners," Tom continued, "you'll find the Dugout City Bank."

"I've seen the place," nodded Ferrers, "but I never had any money in it."

"You will have, one of these days," smiled Tom, taking out a fountain pen and shaking it. Next he drew a small, oblong book from an inside pocket, and commenced writing on one of the pages. This page he tore out and handed Ferrers.

"What's this?" queried the guide.

"That's an order on the Dugout City Bank to hand you one thousand dollars."

Ferrers stared at the piece of paper incredulously.

"What'll the feller pay me in?" he demanded. "Lead at twelve cents a pound? And say, will he hand me the lead out of an automatic gun?"

"If the paying teller serves you that way," rejoined Reade, "you'll have a right to feel peevish about it. But he won't. Hazelton and I have the money in bank to stand behind that check."

"You have?" inquired Ferrers, opening his eyes wide. "Fellers at your age have that much money in banks"

"And more, too," Tom nodded. "Did you think, Jim, that we had never earned any money?"

"Well, I didn't know that you probably made more'n eighteen or twenty dollars a week," Ferrers declared.

"We've made slightly more than that, with two good railroad jobs behind us," Tom laughed. "And here's our firm pass-book at the bank, Jim. You'll see by it that we have a good deal more than a thousand dollars there. Now, you draw the thousand that the check calls for. When you're through you may have some money left. If you do, turn the money in at the bank, have it entered on the pass-book and then bring the book to me."

"I'll have to think this over," muttered Ferrers, "and you'd better set down most of it in writing so that I won't forget."

The smoke from the cook fire brought Alf Drew in from hiding, his finger-tips stained brown as usual.

"Now, see here, young man," said Tom gravely, "there is no objection to your taking some of your time off with your 'makings,' but Ferrers is going away, and you must stay around more for the next two or three days. Otherwise, there won't be any meals or any payday coming to you."

"Is Mr. Ferrers going to Dugout City?" asked Alf, with sudden interest.

"Yes."

"Say, I'll work mighty hard if you'll advance me fifty cents and let me get an errand done by Mr. Ferrers."

"Here's the money," smiled Tom, passing over the half dollar.

Alf was in such haste that he forgot to express his thanks. Racing over to Jim the little fellow said something in a very low voice.

"No; I won't!" roared Ferrers. "Nothing of the sort!"

"Does he want you to get the 'makings,' Jim!" called Tom.

"Yes; but I won't do it," the guide retorted.

"Please do," asked Tom.

"What? You ask me to do it, sir? Then all right. I will."

"What do you want to do that for?" murmured Harry.

"Let the poor little runt have his 'makings,' if he wants," Tom proposed. "But I don't believe that Alf will smoke the little white pests very much longer."

"You're going to stop him?"

"I'm going to make him want to stop it himself," Tom rejoined, with a slight grin.

Alf came back, looking much pleased.

"Let me feel your pulse," requested Reade. "Now, let me see your tongue."

This much accomplished, Tom next turned down the under lid of one of young Drew's eyes and gazed at the lack of red there displayed.

"I see," remarked Reade gravely, "that your nerves are going all to pieces."

"I feel fine," asserted Alf stolidly.

"You must, with your nerves in the state I now find them," retorted the young engineer. "Next thing I know you'll be hearing things."

Click-ick-ick!

"Wow-ow-wow!" shrieked Alf Drew, bounding some ten feet away from the low bush near which he had been standing.

Click-ick-ick-ick!

"Get away from that bush, Mr. Reade!" howled the young cigarette fiend. "That rattler will bite you, if you don't."

"I didn't hear any rattler," said Tom gravely. "Did you, Harry?"

"Not a rattle," said Hazelton soberly.

Jim Ferrers looked on and grinned behind Alf's back. The youngster was trembling. As Tom came near him the "rattle" sounded again. Within five minutes two more warning "rattles" had been heard near the boy.

"The camp must be full of 'em," wailed the terrified boy. "And I'm afraid of rattlers."

"So am I, Alf," Tom assured him, "but I haven't heard one of the reptiles. The trouble is with your nerves, Drew. And your nerves are in league with your brain. If you go on smoking cigarettes you won't have any brain. Or, if you do, it will be one that will have you howling with fear all the time. Why don't you drop the miserable things when you find they're driving you out of your heads"

"Perh-h-h-haps I will," muttered the boy.

After an early supper, Jim Ferrers rode away. He offered to leave his rifle in camp, but Tom protested.

"I'd feel responsible for the thing if you left it here, you know, Jim. And I don't want to have to keep toting it around all the time you're away."

"But suppose Dolph Gage and his crew come over here, and you're not armed?"

"Then I'll own up that we haven't anything to shoot with, and ask him to call again," Tom laughed. "But don't be afraid, Jim. Gage and his crew will be anxious, for the next few days, to see whether they can coax us into serving them. They need an engineer over at their stolen claim, and they know it."

So Ferrers rode away, carrying his rifle across his saddle.

Alf spent an evening of terror, for the ground around the camp appeared to be full of "rattlers".

IX. HARRY DOES SOME PITCHING

As Tom had surmised, Dolph Gage was anxious to become friends with the young engineers.

"They're only kids," Dolph explained to his comrades, "but I've heard that they know their business. If we can get their help for a month, then when they hand in their bill we can give them a wooden check on a cloud bank."

"Their bill would be a claim against our mine wouldn't it?" asked one of the other men.

"Maybe," Dolph assented. "But, if they try to press it, we can pay it with lead coin."

The morning after Jim had gone, one of Gage's companions stalked into camp.

"The boss wants to see you," said this messenger.

"Whose boss?" Tom inquired.

"Well, maybe he's yours," scowled the messenger. "And maybe you'll be sorry if you fool with him."

"I? Fool with Gage?" inquired Reade, opening his eyes in pretended astonishment. "My dear fellow, I've no intention of doing anything of the sort."

"Then you'll come over to our camp, right away?"

"Nothing like it," Tom replied. "Kindly present my compliments to your boss, and tell him that I have another appointment for today."

"You'd better come over," warned the fellow.

"You heard what I said, didn't you?" Reade inquired.

"There'll sure be trouble," insisted the fellow, scowling darkly.

"There's always trouble for those who are looking for it," Tom rejoined smilingly. "Is Dolph Gage hunting it?"

"You'll find out, if you don't come over!"

"Really," argued Reade, "we've disposed of that subject, my dear fellow. Have you any other business here! If not, you'll excuse us. Mr. Hazelton and I are to be gone for the day."

"Going prospecting?"

"We're going minding," smiled Reade.

"Mining?" repeated the visitor. "Mining what?"

"We are going off to mind our own business," Tom drawled. "Good morning."

"Then you're not coming over to our place?"

"No!" shouted Harry Hazelton, losing patience. "What do you want?"

"As you will observe, friend," suggested Tom, smiling at the messenger, "my partner has well mastered the lesson that a soft answer is a soother."

"Are you going to leave our camp?" Harry demanded, as the visitor squatted on the ground.

"If you two are going away," scowled the other, "you'll need some one to stay and watch the camp. I'll stay for you."

"Come on, Harry!" Tom called, starting away under the trees. Alf Drew had already gone. Breakfast being over the young cigarette fiend had no notion of staying in camp for a share in any trouble that might be brewing.

"Why on earth are you leaving the camp at that fellow's mercy?" quivered Harry indignantly, as he and Tom got just out of earshot of the visitor.

"Because I suspect," Reade returned, "that he and his crowd want to steal our assaying outfit."

"And you're leaving the coast clear for that purpose?" Hazelton gasped in high dudgeon.

"Now, Harry, is that all you know about me?" questioned his partner, reproachfully. "Listen. Around here you'll find plenty of stones of a throwing size. Just fill your pockets, your hands—your hat. Creep in close to camp and hide. If you see 'Mr. Sulky' poking his nose into anything in our camp—the furnace, for instance, or the assay balance, then just drop a stone so near to him that it will make him jump. Be careful that you don't drop a stone on that balance. You used to be a pretty fair pitcher, and I believe you can drop a stone where you want."

"And what will you be doing?" asked Harry curiously.

"Oh, I'll be keeping out of harm's way, I promise you," laughed Tom Reade.

"Humph! Yes, it would be like you to put me into danger and to leave yourself out of it, wouldn't it?" mocked Harry Hazelton, unbelievingly.

"Well, I'll try to make good use of my time, Harry, old fellow. For one thing, if you haunt camp and keep Gage's crowd busy, then you'll keep them from following or watching me. Don't you see?"

"No; I don't see," grunted Hazelton. "But what I do suspect is that you have something up your sleeve that I may not find out for two or three days to come. Yet, whatever it is, it will be for our mutual good. I can depend upon you, Tom Reade! Go ahead; go as far as you like."

"Get the stones gathered up, then, and get back to camp," counseled Reade. "Don't lose too much time about it, for Gage's rascal may be able to do a lot of harm in the two or three minutes that you might be late in getting back."

Harry industriously picked up stones. Hardly had he started when Tom Reade silently vanished.

"Well, I'm glad, anyway, that Tom doesn't want us both away from camp while he's doing something," reflected Hazelton, as he began to move cautiously back. "There wouldn't be any camp by noon if we were both away."

Even before he secured his first glimpse of camp, Harry heard some one moving about there.

"The rascal must feel pretty sure that we're both fools enough to be away," quivered Hazelton indignantly. "What on earth is he doing, anyway?"

Then the young engineer crawled in close enough to get an excellent view of what was going on.

"Well, of all the impudence!" choked Harry, balancing a stone nicely in his right hand.

First of all the visitor had rounded up all the firewood into one heap. Now, to this combustible material the fellow was bringing a side of bacon and a small bag of flour. These he dropped on the firewood, then went back for more of the camp's food supply.

"Just wait," scowled Hazelton. "Oh, my fine fellow, I'll make your hands too hot for holding other people's property!"

Over the brush arched a stone. Hazelton had been a pitcher in his high school days, and no mistake. The descending stone fell smack across the back of the fellow's right hand.

"That's right! Howl!" cried Harry, exultantly. "Now, for a surprise."

The second stone flew with better speed, carrying away the fellow's hat without hitting his head.

"Hey, you, stop that!" roared the fellow.

From behind the bushes all was quiet. The camp prowler stood up straight, staring to see whence the next stone would come. After nearly two minutes he bent to pick up the case of biscuit that he had dropped.

Smack! Even as his nearer hand touched the box a sharp stone struck the back of that hand, cutting a gash and causing the blood to spurt.

"I'll have your scalp for that!" howled the enraged man. Making a pretty good guess at the direction from which the stone had come, the fellow started toward the brush on a run.

"Here's where you get all of yours!" chuckled Harry Hazelton. Still crouching he let three stones fly one after the other. The first struck the prowler in the mouth, the second on the end of the nose and the third over the pit of his stomach.

"You two-legged Gatling gun!" howled the fellow, shaking with rage and pain. He halted, shaking his fist in the direction from which the stones had come.

Another lot of stones flew toward him. The prowler waited no longer, but turned, making for Gage's camp as fast as he could go.

"That ought to hold those rascals for a little while," speculated Harry. "But, of course, there'll be a come-back. What'll they do to me now, I wonder?"

By way of precaution Hazelton cautiously shifted to another hiding place. Within fifteen minutes he saw the same prowler stealing back into camp. When the fellow was near enough, Harry let fly a stone that dropped near the rascal's toes.

"Hey, you stop that, or I'll make you wish you had!" roared the fellow, shaking his fist.

Harry's answer was to drive two more stones in, sending them close to the fellow, yet without hitting him.

Again the man shouted at him, though he did not attempt to come any nearer to so expert a thrower of stones.

Then, suddenly, just behind him, Harry Hazelton heard a sound. In the next instant two men hurled themselves upon the young engineer, pinning him to the ground.

"I ought to have suspected this!" grunted Harry inwardly, as he fought back with all his strength. He might have succeeded in slipping away from the two men who sought to pin him down, but the third man, still aching from contact with Harry's missiles, now darted into the scrimmage, striking several hard blows. Harry was presently conquered and tied.

"Take the cub to his own camp!" sounded the exultant voice of Dolph Gage. "With one of the pair tied, it won't be hard to handle the other whenever he happens along."

X. TOM'S FIGHTING BLOOD SURGES

"Take another hitch of rope around that young steer," Dolph ordered, after he had flung Harry violently to the ground.

"He wont get away as he is," replied one of the other two men.

"Maybe not, but take an extra roping, as I told you," was Gage's tart retort.

So another length of line was passed around Hazelton, until he felt as though he had been done up in network.

"Now; we'll give your partner a chance to show up," muttered Gage, throwing himself on the ground. "You young fellers will have to learn the lesson that you're thirty miles from anywhere, and that we rule matters around here. We're going to keep on ruling, too, in this strip of Nevada."

"Are you?" grimaced Hazelton. "Then, my friend, allow me to tell you that you are making the mistake of trying to reckon without Tom Reade!"

"Is that your partner's name?" jeered Dolph Gage. "A likely enough boy, from what I've heard of him. But he isn't old enough to understand Nevada ways."

"No, perhaps not," Harry admitted ironically. "So far Tom has gotten his training only in Colorado and in Arizona. I begin to realize that he isn't bright enough to have his own way among the bright men of Nevada. But Reade learns rapidly—don't forget that!"

"Huh!" growled Gage. "The young cub seems to think that he has come out here to take charge of the Range. According to his idea he has only to pick out what he wanted here; and take it. He never seems to understand that gold belongs to the first man who finds it. I was on this Range long before Reade was out of school."

"And he doesn't object to your staying here," remarked Hazelton calmly.

"That's good of him, I'm sure," snapped Gage. "I've no objection to his staying here, either. Fact is, I'm going to encourage both of you to stay here."

"Encourage us?" grinned Harry.

"Well, then, I'm going to make you stay here, if you like that word any better."

"That will be more difficult," suggested Hazelton.

"First of all, we're going to tote your assay outfit over to our camp. You won't be able to do much without that. Look around a bit, Eb," added Dolph, turning to one of his companions. "Perhaps you'd better get the furnace out first. Two of you can carry it. I wish we had our other man back from Dugout. We need hands here."

"Can't you use some of my muscle in helping you to loot our camp?" suggested Hazelton, ironically. "I'm fairly strong, you know."

"Yes; I know you are. That's why we've tied you up," growled Gage.

The man addressed as Eb had taken the other fellow aside, and they were now lifting the assay furnace in order to decide how heavy it was.

"It doesn't weigh much over a hundred and fifty pounds," called out Dolph Gage. "Two men like you can get it over to camp. And bring over our guns, too. It was a mistake to leave 'em over in camp."

Gage watched until the pair were out of sight among the trees.

"Hurry, you men!" Gage roared after them.

Then he started in to nose around the camp.

As he passed a clump of bushes there was a slight stir among them. Then Tom Reade leaped forth.

In a twinkling Dolph Gage had been caught up. He was in the grip of a strong, trained football player.

"Drop me!" ordered Gage, with a slight quiver in his voice.

"I'm going to," agreed Tom, hurling the fellow fully a dozen feet.

With an oath Gage leaped to his feet. Before he was fairly Tom Reade's fist caught him in the left eye, sending him to earth once more.

"Is that the way you fight, you young cub?" roared Gage hoarsely.

"I can fight harder if you want me to," Tom retorted, as the other again got to his feet. "Now, put your hands up, and I'll show you."

Tom went at it hammer and tongs. He was a splendidly built young athlete, and boxing was one of his strong points, though he rarely allowed himself to get into a fight. Indeed, his usually abounding good nature made all fighting disagreeable to him. Now, however, he drove in as though Dolph Gage were a punching-bag.

"Stand up, man, and fight as though you had some sand in you!" Tom ordered. "Get up steam, and defend yourself."

"I have had enough," Gage gasped. Indeed, his face looked as though he had.

"Are you a baby?" Reade demanded contemptuously. "Can't you fight with anything but your tongue!"

"You wait and I'll show you," snarled the badly battered man.

"What's the need of waiting?" Tom jeered, and swung in another blow that sent Gage to the ground.

"Eh! Josh!" bellowed Gage, with all the breath he had left. "Hustle o-o-o-over here!"

"Let 'em come!" vaunted Reade. "You'll be done for long before they can get here."

"I'll have you killed when they get here with the guns!" cried Gage hoarsely.

Tom continued to punish his opponent. Then Dolph, on regaining his feet, sought to run. Tom let him go a few steps, then bounded after him with the speed of the sprinter. Gage was caught by the shoulders, swung squarely around, and soundly pummelled.

"Let up! Let up!" begged Gage. "I'm beaten. I admit it."

"Beaten, perhaps, but not punished enough," retorted Tom. As Dolph would no longer stand up, Reade threw himself upon the fellow and pummelled him fearfully.

"This is no fair fight," protested Gage, now fairly sobbing in his pain and terror, for good-humored Reade seemed to him now to be the impersonation of destroying, fury.

"Fair fight?" echoed Reade. "Of course it isn't. This is a chastisement. You villain, you've done nothing but annoy us and shoot at us ever since we've met you. You've got to stop it after this; do you understand?"

"I'll stop it—I'll stop it. Please stop yourself," begged Gage, now thoroughly cowed.

"I'll wager you'll stop," gritted Tom. "I've never hammered a man before as I've hammered you, and I'm not half through with you. By the time I am through with you you'll slink into a corner every time you see me coming near. You scoundrel, you bully!"

Tom's fists continued to descend. Dolph's tone changed from one of entreaty to one of dire threats. He would spend the rest of his life, he declared, in dogging Reade's tracks until he succeeded in killing the boy.

"That doesn't worry me any. You'll experience a change of heart—see if you don't," Tom rejoined grimly, as he added to the pounding that the other was receiving.

Harry Hazelton had struggled to his feet, though he had been unable to free his hands from the cords that held them behind his back. "You're not talking quite the way you did a few minutes ago, Gage," Harry put in dryly.

"You'll see—both of you young pups!" moaned the battered wretch. "Ask any one, and they'll tell you that Dolph Gage never overlooks a pounding such as I've had."

"And you got it from the boy that you were going to teach something," jeered Hazelton, "Gage, you know a little more about Tom Reade, now, don't your?"

Then Harry straightened up, as he caught sight of moving objects in the distance.

"Get through with him, Tom" advised the other young engineer. "I see Eb and Josh coming on the run. They'll have the guns. We've got to look out for ourselves."

Tom flung the badly beaten man from him where he lay on the ground moaning over his hurts and vowing vengeance on Tom.

"Stand still, Harry, and I'll have you free in a jiffy," Tom proposed, hauling out his pocket knife.

"It won't do for us to stand still too long," urged Hazelton, as his chum began to slash at the cords. "The other scoundrels will kill us when they see what's been going on here."

"No, they won't," Tom promised calmly. "We'll take care of 'em both. You wait and see which one I take. Then you take the other. We'll handle 'em to the finish."

This seemed like foolhardy talk when it was considered that the other two men would return armed. But Harry had unlimited confidence in his friend, and so followed Tom, crouching, until they had hidden behind bushes along the trail.

"Where be you, Dolph?" called the voice of Eb, as the pair drew near.

"He's over there," spoke Reade, springing out of the bushes. "You'll join him after a bit."

Neither Eb nor Josh was armed. Tom sailed into Eb, while Harry sprang at Josh. For a few minutes the trail was a scene of swift action, indeed. Shortly Eb and Josh tried to run away, as Gage had done, but each time the young engineers caught them and compelled them to renew the fight.

"My man's going to sleep, now, Harry!" Tom called, and drove in a knockout blow with his left.

Josh swiftly followed Eb to the ground.

"They'll keep quiet for a little while," declared Tom, after a look at each.

Dolph Gage had by this time painfully risen to his feet and came limping slowly down the trail.

"You might look after your friends, Gage," Tom called, pointing. "They need attention."

"How did they come to be here?" gasped Dolph.

"They'll give you full particulars when they have time," Tom laughed.

"You boys won't feel quite so smart when our turn comes," snarled Gage.

"Not a bit," Reade answered. "If you fellows have any sense you'll conclude that you've had about all the settlement that you can stand."

Gage didn't make any answer. Doubtless he concluded that it wouldn't be wise to talk back So he began working over Eb and Josh, until they showed signs of reviving.

"Did ye—did ye kill 'em for us, Dolph?" gasped Josh, as he opened his eyes and beheld the face of his comrade.

"No," said Gage curtly.

"Why not?"

"Shut up!"

Not many minutes more had passed when Eb became conscious.

"You fellows can go over to your camp, any time you want," suggested Tom.

Slowly, painfully, the trio started.

"I feel almost ashamed of myself," Harry muttered.

"So do I," Tom agreed. "Yet what else was there for us to do! We've stood all the nonsense we can from that crowd. They'd have killed us if we hadn't done something to bring them to their senses. Now, I believe they'll let us alone."

"They'll ambush us," predicted Hazelton

"Well, they won't have any guns to do it with," Tom grinned.

"Why, what became of their guns"

"I'm the only fellow on earth who knows," Tom laughed.

"Then you were at their camp?"

"Of course. My telling you to stone any prowler who visited this place was only a trap. I thought that he'd run off and get the rest of the crew. Knowing you to be alone and unarmed, and believing me to be far away prospecting, they didn't imagine that they'd need their rifles. As soon as they left their camp I dropped in and borrowed the rifles and all their ammunition."

"Where is the stuff now?"

"Come on and I'll show you."

"Hold on a minute," begged Harry, as Tom leaped up. "Do you miss anything?"

"What?"

"Our assay furnace. Eb and Josh carted it away."

"Then we'll go after that, first," Tom smiled. "Our friends are so sore that it would be hardly fair to ask them to return the furnace."

That missing article was found about halfway between the two camps. Tom and Harry picked it up, carrying it back to where it had been taken from. "Going after the guns, now?" Hazelton inquired.

"First of all," Tom suggested, "I think we had better start a roaring good campfire."

"What do we want such a thing as that for?" Harry protested. "The day is warm enough."

"The fire will be just the thing," laughed Tom quietly. "Come on and gather the wood with me. Alf! Oh, you Alf Drew!"

But the cigarette fiend was not in evidence If he heard, he did not answer.

"We might as well pay that imitation boy for his time and let him go," muttered Harry.

"Oh, I hardly think so," dissented Reade. "It's worth some time and expense to see if we can't make something more nearly resembling a man out of him."

The fire was soon crackling merrily. Tom led the way to a thicket an eighth of a mile from camp. Here he produced from hiding three repeating rifles and several boxes of ammunition.

"We'll hold on to these," Hazelton said.

"For what reason?"

"They'll come in handy to steer off that other crowd."

"I wouldn't be bothered with keeping the rifles about camp," Tom retorted, as they started backward.

"But say! Gage's man that went to Dugout will soon be back. Do you forget that he carries a rifle?"

"Jim Ferrers will be back at about the same time," Tom rejoined. "They'll have rifles until the camp will look like an outdoor arsenal. We don't want these added rifles around camp. Besides, if we kept 'em we'd soon begin to feel like thieves with other folks' property."

"What are you going to do with these guns, then?"

"By tomorrow," Reade proposed, "I rather expect to put these guns out where Gage's crew can find them again."

"Well, you're full of faith in human nature, then!" gasped Harry.

"Wait and see what happens," begged Tom.

When they stepped back into camp Tom threw the magazine of one of the rifles open, extracting the cartridges. Then he stepped over and carefully deposited the rifle across the middle of the fire.

"I might have known!" cried Hazelton.

The other two rifles were soon disposed of in the same manner.

"Let the rifles cook in the fire for an hour," smiled Reade," and the barrels will be too crooked for a bullet ever to get through one again."

"What are you going to do with the cartridges, though?"

"Fire a midnight salute with them," Tom answered briefly. "Wait and you'll hear some noise."

Alf Drew cautiously approached camp when he felt the pangs of hunger. The cigarette fiend must have been satisfied, for Tom and Harry had already gotten the meal. But Reade, without a word of rebuke to their supposed helper, allowed young Drew to help himself to all he wanted in the way of hot food and coffee.

Bringing midnight two hours nearer—that is to say, at ten o'clock, Tom and Harry, aided this time by Alf, built a large fire-pile in a gully at a safe distance from camp. The wood was saturated with oil, a powder flash laid, then Tom laid a fuse-train. Lighting the fuse, the three speedily decamped.

Presently they saw the flames of the newly kindled fire shooting up through the trees. Then the volleying began, for Tom had carefully deposited through the fire-pile all the captured cartridges.

For fully five minutes the cartridges continued to explode, in ragged volleys.

"It's a regular Fourth of July," Harry laughed, back in camp. "Tom, who's going to take the first trick of watch tonight?"

"Neither one of us," Reade replied. "We'll both get a sound sleep."

But the enemy?"

"It would take four mules apiece to drag them over here tonight," laughed Reade, as he rolled himself up in his blanket. "Good night!"

XI. PLANNING A NEW MOVE

Barely were the young engineers astir the following morning when Alf Drew came racing back with news.

"There's a whole slew of men coming, on horseback and on foot!" Alf reported. "And a whole train of wagons!"

"Good enough!" nodded Tom. "I hope the new folks camp right close to here. We need good neighbors more than anything else."

"But they may belong to Gage's crowd," Alf insisted.

"Don't you believe it, lad. Dolph Gage hasn't money enough to finance a crowd like that."

"It may be Dunlop's crowd," suggested Hazelton.

"That's more likely," said Tom. "Well we'll be glad enough to see Dunlop back here with a outfit. This part of the woods will soon be a town, at that rate."

"Come out where you can get a look a new crowd," urged Alf.

"If it's any one who wants to be neighborly," Reade answered with a shake of his head, "he's bound to stop in and say 'howdy.' We're going to get breakfast now."

"Then I'll be back soon, and tell you anything I can find out about the new folks," cried Alf, darting away.

But Tom raced after the lad, collaring him.

"Alf, listen to me. We're not paying you to come in on time to get your meals. You get over there by Jim's cooking outfit and be ready to take orders."

"Humph!" grunted young Drew, but he went as directed, for there was nothing else to do.

Five minutes later Mr. Dunlop turned his horse's head and rode down into the camp.

"Howdy, boys!" called the mine promoter.

"Glad to see you back, Mr. Dunlop," Tom nodded, while Harry smiled a welcome.

"I've sent my outfit around by the other trail," explained Mr. Dunlop. "I've brought back men enough to start work in earnest. There will be a mule train here by tomorrow with donkey engines and machinery enough to start the work of mine-digging in earnest. Here, boy, take my horse and tie him."

As Alf led the animal away, Mr. Dunlop turned to the young engineers with a smile of great amiability.

"Boys, I'm glad to say that I wired the two railroad presidents you mentioned to me. Both wired back, in effect, that my mine was bound to be a success if I turned the engineering problem over to you. So I'm going to accept your offers—hire you at your own figures. I want you to come over to the Bright Hope claim as soon as you've had breakfast."

Tom glanced at his chum, then answered, slowly:

"I'm sorry, Mr. Dunlop, sorry indeed, if——"

"What are you trying to say?" demanded the mine promoter sharply.

"When you left here, Mr. Dunlop, we told you that we couldn't agree to hold our offer open."

"Oh, that's all right. I've come right back and taken up your terms with you," replied the promoter easily.

"But I'm sorry to say, sir, that you are too late."

"Too late? What are you talking about, Reade? You haven't entered the employ of any one else not in this wilderness."

"We've formed a partnership with Ferrers, sir," Reade gravely informed Mr. Dunlop, "and we're going into the mining business on our own account."

"Nonsense! Where's your claim?"

"Somewhere, sir, in this part of Nevada."

"You haven't found the claim yet, then?" asked the promoter, with a tinge of relief in his voice.

"No, sir. We located a promising claim, but the Gage gang tricked us out of it. We'll find another, though."

"Then you'll prove yourselves very talented young men," scoffed Mr. Dunlop. "Lad, don't you know that I've been all over this country with old-time prospectors? There isn't any claim left that will pay you for the trouble of locating and working it."

"We're going to hope for better luck than your words promise us, sir," Harry hinted.

"You'll have your labor for your pains, then, and the satisfaction of finding yourselves fools," exclaimed Dunlop testily. "You'd better drop all that nonsense, and report to me after breakfast."

"It's not to be thought of, Mr. Dunlop," Tom replied gravely. "We are here in the land of gold. We think we see our chance to work for ourselves for a while, and we're going to make the most of our chance."

"Then you're a pair of idiots," quivered indignant Dunlop.

"We'll be our own fools, then," smiled Harry.

"I beg your pardon for getting out of patience," spoke Mr. Dunlop, more gently. "I'm disappointed in you. All the way here I have been planning to get you both at work early. The stockholders in the Bright Hope are all looking for early results."

"Couldn't you get hold of an engineer at Dugout?" Tom inquired.

"Not one."

"Then you'll have to go farther—Carson City," Reade suggested. "There must be plenty of mining engineers in Nevada, where their services are so much in demand."

"A lot of new claims are being filed these days," explained Mr. Dunlop. "The best I could learn in Dugout was that I'd have to wait until some other mine could spare its man."

"I'm sorry we can't help you, sir," Tom went on thoughtfully.

"I shall feel it a personal grievance, if you don't," snapped the mine promoter.

"We can't do anything for you, Mr. Dunlop," spoke Reade decisively. "Just as soon as Ferrers returns, so that our camp can be taken care of, we three partners are going to hustle out on the prospect. Will you have breakfast with us, sir?"

Mr. Dunlop assented, but his mind was plainly on his disappointment all through the meal.

Even when Harry Hazelton related how Dolph Gage and his crew had been served, the mine promoter displayed but little enthusiasm.

"By the way, sir," suggested Tom, "you are not going to use all of your men today?"

"I cannot use any of them for a day or two."

"Then you might do us a great favor by sending a few of your men over here. I expect that Gage's absent comrade will return at any time. He will have his rifle, and one gun in the hands of a marksman, might be enough to make considerable trouble around here."

"You ask me a favor, and yet you won't work for me," complained their guest.

"I think we did you a favor, once upon a time, by helping to chase off the Gage crowd at a critical time for you," said Tom bluntly. "However, if you don't wish——"

"I'll send half a dozen men over here until Ferrers returns," interjected Mr. Dunlop hastily.

The men reported to Tom and Harry within half an hour. A few minutes after their arrival Harry espied Dolph Gage's absent man galloping over to the Gage claim.

"There would have been trouble, if we hadn't shown a few armed men here," muttered Hazelton.

"There's some excitement in that camp, as it is," exclaimed Tom, who had a pair of binoculars at his eyes. "Gage, Eb and Josh are crowding around the new arrival. Take the glasses, Harry. Note how excited they are about something."

"Gage is stamping about and looking wild," Harry reported. "He looks as though, for two cents, he'd tear his hair out. And Eb has thrown his hat on the ground and is stamping on it. I wonder what the trouble can be?"

Two hours later Jim Ferrers rode into camp at the head of his new outfit. He had the two-mule team and wagon, and seven men, all miners and armed. Two of the men rode the ponies that Reade had instructed Jim to buy.

"Jim," called Tom, as he ran toward their mining party, "have you any idea what's wrong with the Gage crowd?"

"I've a small notion," grinned the guide. "The man who was sent over couldn't file their claim to the ridge."

"Couldn't file it! Why not?"

"Because every man in that crowd has exhausted his mineral land privileges taking up claims elsewhere."

"Why, then, man alive!" gasped Tom, halting, a look of wonder on his face, and then a grin of realization, "if they can't file the claim to that strip, why can't we!"

"We can, if we're quick enough," Ferrers answered. "I tried to file the claim while I was over in Dugout, but the clerk at the mining claim office said he 'lowed that we'd have to have our declaration tacked up on the ridge first of all."

"That'll take us a blessed short time," muttered Reade. "Harry and I have all the particulars we need for writing out the notice of claim. Get some breakfast on the jump, Jim, and we'll hustle over there."

"I had my breakfast before I rode in here," errors answered, his eyes shining. "I'd a-missed my guess, Mr. Reade, if you hadn't been ready for prompt action."

"Then there's no reason, Jim, under mining customs, why we shouldn't ride over there and stake out that claim?"

"Not a reason on earth, Mr. Reade, except that Gage will probably put up a big fight."

"Let him!" added Tom, in a lower voice. "Take it from me, Jim Ferrers, that claim on the ridge yonder is worth all kinds of fight. Here, get the horses saddled again, while Harry and I write our notice in record-breaking time for legible penmanship."

Tom's eyes were gleaming in a way that they had not done in months. For, despite his former apparent indifference to the trick Gage had played on them, Tom Reade would have staked his professional reputation on the richness of the ridge claim.

"It's gold, Harry—gold!" he exclaimed, hoarsely, in his chum's ear. "It's gold enough to last us through life if we work it hard from the start."

"We'll have to kill a few men before we can get Gage off that ridge, though," Hazelton predicted.

"It's gold, I tell you, Harry. When the gold-craze gets into a fellow's blood nothing but gold can cure it. We won't kill any one, and we'll hope not to be killed ourselves. But that claim was our discovery, and now the way is clear for us to own that strip of Nevada dirt. Gold, Harry, old chum—gold!"

Then they fell to writing. Harry did the pen work while Reade dictated rapidly.

If Engineer Tom Reade had been briefly excited he did not betray the fact when he stepped outside the tent.

"Horses saddled, Mr. Reade," announced Ferrers. "I s'pose you're going to take some of the boys over with us, in case Gage tries to put up any shooting bluff?"

"Yes," nodded Tom. "But don't take with us any fellow who is hot-blooded enough to do any real shooting."

"It'll take real shooting to get Gage's crew off that ridge," Ferrers warned the young engineer. "All men get gold crazy when they find their feet on a claim. Dolph Gage will fight while he has breath left. Don't try to go over there, sir, if you're not satisfied to have a little shooting done at need."

"We're going over," declared Tom, the lines about his mouth tightening, "and we're going to take the claim for our own, as long as we have the legal right to do so. But I hope there won't have to be any gun-powder burned. Killing belongs only to one line of business—war!"

XII. NEW OWNERS FILE A CLAIM

Dolph Gage, after his richly deserved battering of the day before, presented a sorry-looking sight as he stood near the notice of his claim location.

In his right hand he gripped the only rifle there now was in his outfit, the one brought back by the man who had been to Dugout.

Jim Ferrers, rifle resting across the front of his saddle, rode at the head of the Reade-Hazelton party as that outfit reached the edge of the claim.

On either side of the guide, just to the rear, rode Tom and Harry. Behind them tramped four men armed with rides, the other two men carrying a board, stakes and a hammer.

"The first man who sets foot on this claim dies!" shouted Dolph Gage hoarsely.

"Same thing for any man who raises a rifle against us," Ferrers called back. "Gage, I want only a good excuse for taking one honest shot at you!"

The moment was tense with danger. Heedless of the black looks of Dolph, Tom dug his heels into his pony's flanks, moving forward at a trot.

"Gage," called the young engineer, steadily, "I think you have been in wrong often enough. This time I am sure that you will want to keep on the right side."

"You keep on the right side by staying off the claim!" Gage ordered, but at that instant Reade rode over the boundary.

For an instant no man could guess who would fire the first shot. Gage was angry and desperate enough to fire and take great chances. Had he fired at that moment there was no doubt that he would have been killed at the next breath.

Something stuck in Gage's throat. He did not raise his rifle, but instead he growled:

"You're a fine lot, to bring a small army against one man!"

"We have as much right here, Gage, as you have, spoke Tom, steadily.

"What do you want here!"

"We have come to look this claim over."

"Get off, then. You have no right here."

"You know, quite well, Gage, that we have as much right here as you have," Tom rejoined easily. "We are quite well aware that your man failed to file the claim because all of you have exhausted your mineral rights under the law.

"So you think you can come here and take it from us, do you?" glared Gage, his face livid with passion.

"We have just the same right to this claim now that any man has who has any mineral rights left under the law," Reade made answer.

"But you haven't. I'm going to get this claim yet," Gage insisted. "I've sent for a friend who hasn't taken up any mineral rights yet. He will file the claim. See here!"

Gage moved aside, displaying a new board, on which a notice had been written.

"That's signed with the name of the man the claim belongs to now," declared Gage, triumphantly.

Tom handed his bridle to Harry, then dismounted, bending over to scan the new notice. It was a duplicate of the former one, except that the new signature was that of one, Joseph Pringle.

"Where is Pringle?" Tom demanded.

"None of your business."

"But you see," explained the young engineer dryly, "it happens to be my business."

From under his coat Reade drew forth a folding camera. Quickly opening and focussing he held the camera close, pressing the bulb.

"That photograph will enlarge to almost any size," Tom declared. "Now, then, Gage, do you claim that this strip has been claimed by one, Pringle?"

"I do," scowled Gage, "and Pringle is our partner. We're going to work this claim with him, and you're trespassing."

"Is that Pringle's own signature?" Tom insisted.

"None of your business!"

"You've given me that same kind of an answer before," Tom smiled. "As it happens, this is our business. Gage, the writing of that notice looks exactly like your writing, and Pringle's alleged signature is in the same hand-writing. If you've signed Pringle's name—and I charge that you have—then that notice has no legal value whatever. Recollect, I have a photograph of the notice and signature, and that this notice in turn, so that you may remember that the writing throughout is the same that my photograph is going to reveal."

Jim Ferrers quickly came forward. Gage stepped squarely in front of the board holding the notice. But Tom took a swift step forward. Gage, shaking, drew back out of possible reach of Reade's fists.

Then, one after the other, the other members of Tom's party inspected the writing.

"Much good may it do you!" jeered Dolph Gage harshly. "You'll find that this claim is ours!"

"Look at what that cub is doing!" broke in Eb excitedly, pointing to Harry.

Unobserved at first by others, Hazelton had slipped back of the crowd. Now he was placing a board in position, and that board announced the fact that Jim Ferrers had staked out this strip for himself.

"Take that down!" raged Gage, as soon as he saw the new board and paper. "It won't do you any good."

"We'll take a chance on it, anyway, and watch it for a few days," Jim declared. "Are you through with me now, Mr. Reade?"

"Certainly," nodded Tom.

Mounting his horse, Jim Ferrers rode away at an easy gait.

"This is a mean trick to try to play on us, Reade," snarled Gage.

"If you hadn't played a mean trick on us, and staked this place off while you knew we were making the assay of ore taken from here," rejoined Tom, "then we might be inclined to waive the purely legal side of the case and give you a fair chance to get your friend Pringle here. But you must remember that you tricked us out of this claim in the first place, and now you have no right at all to complain. This claim now stands in Jim Ferrers's name, and so it will continue to stand."

"Go ahead," snarled Gage. "Try to take ore out of here. No man shall be a partner in this claim and live to spend any of the money he gets out of this mine! I've said it, and I'll pledge myself to back it up."

"And you've made that threat before witnesses, also, Gage. Remember that," Tom advised sternly.

"And all the time you're chinning, Dolph," broke in Josh, "Jim Ferrers is riding hard for Dugout City to file the new claim entry!"

"If he is, something may happen to him on the way!" raged Dolph, wheeling about like a flash. His saddle horse, ready for action, stood tied to a tree near by. Gage leaped into his saddle after he had freed the horse.

"Boss, he's going after Ferrers, to do him harm on the road," hoarsely whispered one of Tom's new miners. "Are you going to let the scoundrel start?"

"Yes," nodded Tom coolly, "at Ferrers's special request. He didn't want Gage stopped from trying to overtake him."

Gage was now galloping away.

"You've seen the last of Ferrers," jeered Josh, after Gage had vanished in the distance.

"Perhaps we've seen the last of one of the men," replied Reade coldly.

XIII. JIM TRIES THE NEW WAY

"I've attended to the firm's business," exclaimed Jim Ferrers, wrathfully, on his return to camp. "I filed the papers at Dugout City, and the claim now stands in my name, though it belongs to the firm. And now, having attended to the firm's business, I'm going out to settle some of my own."

"What business is that!" Tom inquired over the supper table.

It was three days after the morning on which Ferrers had ridden away.

"That mongrel dog, Dolph Gage, took a shot at me this afternoon!" Ferrers exploded wrathfully. "I'd ought to have gotten him years ago. Now I'm going to drop all other business and find the fellow."

"What for?" Tom inquired innocently.

"What for?" echoed Jim, then added, ironically: "Why, I want to do the hyena a favor, of course."

"If you go out to look for him, you're not going armed, are you?" Reade pursued.

"Armed?" repeated Ferrers, with withering sarcasm. "Oh, no, of course not. I'm going to ride up to him with my hands high in the air and let him take a shot at me."

"Jim," drawled Tom, "I'm afraid there's blood in your eye—and not your own blood, either."

"Didn't that fellow kill my brother in a brawl?" demanded Ferrers. "Hasn't he pot-shotted at me? And didn't he do it again this afternoon?"

"Why didn't the law take up Gage's case when your brother was killed?" Tom inquired.

"Well, you see, Mr. Reade," Ferrers admitted, "my brother had a hasty temper, and he drew first—but Gage fired the killing shot."

"So that the law would say that Gage fired in self-defense, eh?"

"That's what a coroner's jury did say," Jim admitted angrily. "But my brother was a young fellow, and hot-headed. Gage knew he could provoke the boy into firing, and then, when the boy missed, Gage drilled him through the head."

"I don't want to say anything unkind, Jim," Reade went on, thoughtfully. "Please don't misunderstand me. But, as I understand the affair, if your brother hadn't been carrying a pistol he wouldn't have been killed?"

"Perhaps not," Ferrers grudgingly admitted.

"Then the killing came about through the bad practice of carrying a revolver?"

"Bad practice!" snorted Jim. "Well, if that's a bad practice more'n half the men in the state have the vice."

"Popular custom may not make a thing right," argued Reade.

"But what are you going to do when the men who have a grudge against you pack guns?" Jim queried, opening his eyes very wide.

"I've had a few enemies—bad ones, too, some of them," Tom answered slowly. "Yet I've always refused to carry an implement of murder, even when I've been among rough enemies. And yet I'm alive. If I had carried a pistol ever since I came West I'm almost certain that I'd be dead by this time."

"But if you won't carry a gun, and let folks suspect you of being a white-flagger, then you get the reputation of being a coward," argued Ferrers.

"Then I suppose I've been voted a coward long ago," Reade nodded.

"No, by the Great Nugget, you're not a coward," retorted Ferrers. "No man who has seen you in a tough place will ever set you down for a coward."

"Yet I must be, if I don't tote a gun in a wild country," smiled Reade.

"But to go back to the case of that good-for-nothing, Dolph Gage," Jim Ferrers resumed. "You advise me to forget that he shot at me?"

"Oh, no, I don't," Tom retorted quietly. "But you don't have to go out and take your own revenge. There are laws in this state, aren't there?"

"Of course."

"And officers to execute the laws"

"To be sure."

"Then why not go back to Dugout City, there to lay information against Gage. That done, the sheriff's officers will have to do the hunting. Having nothing personal against the officers, Gage will very likely hold up his hands when the officers find him, and then go back with them as peaceable as a lamb. Jim, you want to be even with Gage for shooting your brother and for trying to finish you. Won't it give you more satisfaction to feel that you've put Gage day for his bread and water? I know that is the way I'd want to punish a man that I had cause to hate. At least, I believe it's the way; I don't really know, for I can't recall any man that I hate hard enough to wish him worse than out of my sight."

"Say, it would be kinder funny to go up to the state 'pen' some day, and see Dolph Gage walking lock-step with a lot of rascally Chinamen, drunken Indians, Knife-sticking foreigners and sassy bill-collectors, wouldn't it?" grinned Jim Ferrers.

"I'm glad your sense of humor is improving," smiled Tom Reade. "Now, tomorrow, morning, Jim, you take two of the other men, and our ponies, and ride into Dugout. If you run across Gage don't try to pick up any trouble. Of course, I don't mean to say that you shouldn't shoot in self-defense if you're attacked, but try, if possible, to keep out of any trouble with Gage. Just save him for the sheriff. It's the law's business to handle such fellows. Let the law have its own way."

"I'll do it," promised Ferrers. "Putting it the way you've done, Mr. Reade, it doesn't seem like such a baby trick to use the sheriff instead of killing the hyena, myself. Yes; I'll sure leave it to the law. If Dolph Gage gets caught and sent to the 'pen' I'll sure go there on some visiting day and see how he looks in his striped suit!"

Instead of being offended, it was plain that Ferrers was in high good humor. He went about camp whistling that night, and with a cheery word for everyone.

Camp had been moved over to the ridge, and the young engineers were ready to begin blasting operations the following morning. Ferrers was no longer concerned with cooking, he having engaged a man to do that work. The new man kept a sharp eye on Alf Drew, making that youngster do a really honest day's work every day in the week.

"I hate to take two men from you, Mr. Reade right at the start of operations," complained Jim, the next morning at breakfast. "I don't need two men, either, to protect me."

"I don't need the two men here, either, Jim for a few days. As for you, you don't know how many men you are going to need. All three of Gage's partners have vanished, and I'm sure that they're together somewhere out on the Range. They undoubtedly have rifles again, at that, and if you meet them, three men won't be any too many to stand off those four rascals."

Tom watched the trio of horsemen out of sight in the morning.

"If Jim doesn't lose his head that trip will mean that we shall see the last of Dolph Gage," mused the young engineer.

For once Tom Reade was in grave error, as subsequent events proved.

"It's ten minutes of seven," Harry reminded him.

"Get ready, men," Tom shouted to their few laborers, who were enjoying a few minutes leisure after breakfast.

At seven o'clock the young engineers and their handful of toilers moved over to the point in the outcropping vein of ore that Reade had selected for their first blast.

A small portable engine had already been fired, and all was ready for turning on the steam drill.

Twenty minutes later a satisfactory boring had been made.

"Bring up the dynamite," called Tom.

"Are you going to pack the charge?" Harry inquired.

"Yes," nodded Tom, and received the stick of dynamite from the miner who brought it.

While this was being made ready, Hazelton superintended the laying of the wires to the magneto battery. All was soon in readiness.

"The red flag is up," Tom shouted.

The dynamite had been rather loosely tamped home, for young Reade wanted to begin with light rending force and work up, through successive blasts, to just the proper amount of force.

"Get back, everybody!" Reade called, and there was a flying of feet. Tom was last to leave the spot. He ran over to where Harry stood at a safe distance.

"Pump her up, Harry," nodded the young chief engineer.

"You watch me, and see just how I run this magneto," Hazelton said to one of their men who stood near by. "This will be your job after we've fired a few charges. I want you to get the hang of the trick."

Harry worked the handle of the magneto up and down.

Bang! Over where the drilling had been done a mass of dirt and rock was shot up into the air.

"What are you running so fast for, Harry?" laughed Tom, as he pursued his chum back to the scene of the blast.

"I want to see if we stirred up any real ore. I want to know if our claim is worth the grub it takes to feed the men," was Hazelton's almost breathless response.

XIV. THE COOK LEARNS A LESSEN

Arrived on the spot it took Tom only a moment to estimate that considerably less than a quarter of a ton of ore had been loosened from the rock bed by the blast.

"We'll drill six inches deeper next time, and put in fifty per cent. more dynamite," Reade decided.

The men brought up the drill and set it, after which the engineer was signaled.

Harry, in the meantime, was down on his hands and knees, curiously turning over the small, loose bits of rock.

"Stung, if this stuff proves anything," sighed Hazelton.

"You can't judge by one handful, Harry," Tom told him. "Besides, we may have to get down twenty, or even fifty feet below surface before we strike any pay-stuff. Don't look for dividends in the first hour. I've been told that gold-mining calls for more sporting blood than any other way in which wealth can be pursued."

"But I don't find a bit of color in this stuff," Harry muttered. "If we're on the top of a vein of gold it seems to me that we ought to find a small speck of yellow here and there."

A dozen blasts were made that morning. When the men knocked off at noon Harry Hazelton's face bore a very serious expression.

"Tom," he murmured to his partner, "I'm afraid we have a gold brick of a gold mine."

"It's an even chance," nodded Reade.

"And think of all the money—out of our savings—we've sunk in this thing."

"I hope you're not going to get scared as early as this," protested Tom. "Why, before we even get in sight of pay-rock we may have to sink every dollar of our savings."

"Then hadn't we better get out of it early, and go to work for some one who pays wages?" questioned Hazelton.

"Yes," Tom shot out, quickly, "if that's the way you feel about it."

"But do you feel differently, Tom?"

"I'm willing to risk something, for the sake of drawing what may possibly turn out to be the big prize in the mining lottery."

"But all our savings," cried Harry, aghast. "That seems like a foolish risk, doesn't it?"

"If you say so, I'll draw out now," Tom proposed.

"What do you think about it?"

"If all the money at stake were mine," Reade said slowly, "then I'd hang on as long as I had a penny left to invest."

"Tom Reade, I believe you're turning gambler at heart!"

"I intend to be a good, game business man, if that's what you mean by gambling. But see here, Harry, I don't want to pull your money into this scheme if you feel that you'd rather hold on to what you have."

"If you're going to stay in, Tom, then so am I. I'm not the kind of fellow to go back on a chum's investment."

"But if we lose all we've saved then you'll feel——"

"Don't argue any more, Tom," begged Hazelton. "I'm going to be game. You've voted, old fellow, to stay by this claim as long as you can, and that's enough for me."

"But if we lose all our savings," Tom urged. He had now become the cautious one.

"If we lose them, we lose them," declared Hazelton. "And we're both of us young enough to be able to save more before we're seventy-five or eighty years old. Go ahead, Tom. I'm one of the investors here, but the whole game is in your hands. Go as far as you like and I'll stand back of you."

"But——"

"Say no more. Tom, I shall try never again to be a quitter. Whoop! Let the money slip! We'll make the old mine a dividend payer before we are through with it."

That afternoon about a dozen and a half more blasts were laid and fired. Some five hundred feet of the surface of the vein had been lightly blasted, and several tons of ore thrown up.

"I wouldn't call it ore, though," muttered Harry to himself. "I don't believe this rook holds gold enough to put a yellow plating on a cent."

"It does look rather poor, doesn't it, Harry?" Tom asked, trying to speak blithely.

"Humph! We've got to go deeper than this before we can expect to loosen rock worth thirty dollars to the ton," Harry declared cheerily.

"Oh, we'll surely strike pay-rock in big lots after a while," predicted Reade, smiling happily and whistling merrily as he strode away. "I'm glad Harry has his courage with him and his hopes high," Reade added to himself.

"I'm glad Tom is so cheerful and positive," thought Hazelton. "I'll do my best to help him keep in that frame of mind; though, for myself, I believe we would make more money if we stood on a cliff and tossed pennies into the ocean."

"I'm glad to see that all your high hopes have returned," declared Tom, at supper that evening.

"Oh, I've got the gold fever for fair," laughed Hazelton. "Tom, how are we going to spend the money when we get it?"

"A new house for the folks at home will take some of my money, when I get it," Tom declared, his eyes glowing.

"Any old thing that the folks take a fancy to will catch my share of the gold," Harry promised.

"But, of course, we'll wait until we get it."

"You haven't any doubts about getting the gold, have you?"

"Not a doubt. Have you?"

"I'm an optimist," Harry asserted.

"What's your idea of an optimist, anyway?" laughed Tom.

"An optimist is a fellow who believes that banknotes grow on potato vines," laughed Harry.

"Oh, we'll get our gold all right," Reade predicted.

"We will, and a lot more. Tom, you and I still have mineral rights that we can file, with Ferrers as trustee."

"We'll go prospecting for two more bully claims just as soon as we begin to see pay-rock coming out of this vein," Tom planned. "Alf, you lazy cigarette fiend, hurry up and bring me some more of the canned meat."

"Bring me another cup of coffee on the jump," called Harry. "While you're about it make it two cups of coffee."

As soon as he had brought the required things Alf tried slyly to slip away by himself, for he had already had his own supper.

"Here, you son of the shiftless one, get back here and drag the grub to this table," yelled one of the men at the miners' table.

After that Alf remained on duty until all hands had been fed. Then he tried to slip away again, only to be roped by a lariat in the hands of the new cook.

"Let me catch you trying to sneak away from work again, and I'll cowhide you with this rope," growled the cook. "Why are you trying to sneak away before your work is finished?"

"I'm almost dead for a smoke," said Alf.

"Smoke, is it? You stay here and wash the dishes. Don't try to get away again until I tell you you can go. If you do—but you won't," finished the cook grimly.

Alf worked away industriously. At last this outdoor kitchen work was finished.

"Now I can go, can't I?" spoke up Alf, hopefully. "Say, I'm perishing for want of a smoke."

"Stay and have a man's smoke with me," said the cook. "Here, hold this between your teeth."

Alf drew back, half-shuddering from the blackened clay pipe, filled with strong tobacco, which the cook passed him.

"You're always itching to be a man," mocked the cook. "And now's your chance. A pipe is a man's smoke. Them cigs are fit only for 'sheeters."

"I don't wanter smoke it," pleaded Alf, drawing back from the proffered pipe.

"You take matches, light that pipe and smoke it," insisted the cook, a man named Leon, in a tone that compelled obedience.

Poor Alf smoked wretchedly away. Finally, when he thought Leon wasn't looking, he tried to hide the pipe.

"Here, you keep that a-going!" ordered the cook wrathfully, wheeling upon the miserable youngster.

So Alf puffed up, feebly, and, when the pipe went out, he lighted the tobacco again.

"Here!" he protested, three minutes later, handing back the pipe.

"Smoke it!" gruffed Leon.

"I—I don't wanter."

"Smoke it!"

"I—I can't," pleaded Alf Drew, the ghastly pallor of his face bearing out his assertion.

"You smoke that pipe, or I'll——"

"You can kill me, if you wanter," gasped, Alf, feeling far more ill than he had ever felt in his life before. "I don't care—but I won't smoke that pipe. There!"

He flung it violently to the ground, smashing the pipe.

"You little——" began the cook, making a leap after the youngster.

But Alf, his sense of self-preservation still being strong, fled with more speed than might have been looked for in one so ill.

Tom Reade, passing a clump of bushes, and hearing low moans, stopped to investigate. He found the little cigarette fiend stretched out on the ground, his face drawn and pale.

"What on earth is the matter, mosquito?" inquired Reade, with more sympathy than his form of speech attested.

"Oh, dear!" wailed Alf.

"So I gathered," said Tom dryly. "But who got behind you and scared you in that fashion?"

"O-o-oh, dear!"

"You said that before; but what's up?"

"At first I was afraid I was going to die," Alf declared tremulously.

"Yes?"

"And now I'm afraid I won't die!"

Alf sat up shivering convulsively.

"Now, Alf," Tom pursued, "tell me just what happened."

By degrees the young engineer extracted the information that he was after. Bit by bit Alf told the tale, interspersing his story with dismal groans.

"I always told you, Alf, that smoking would do you up if you ever tackled it," Reade said gravely.

"But I have smoked for a year," Alf protested.

"Oh, no," Tom contradicted him. "The use of cigarettes isn't smoking. It's just mere freshness on the part of a small boy. But smoking—that's a different matter, as you've found out. Now, Alf, I hope you've learned a needed lesson, and that after this you'll let tobacco alone. While you're about it you might as well quit cigarettes, too. But I'm going to change your job. Don't go back to the cook. Instead, report to me in about an hour."

Then Tom strode forward. After he had left young Drew there was an ominous flash in the young engineer's eyes. He strode into camp and went straight to the cook's shack.

"Leon," Tom demanded, "what have you been doing to that poor little shrimp of a helper?"

The cook turned around, grinning.

"I've been teaching him something about smoking," the man admitted.

"So I've heard," said Tom. "That's why I've dropped in here—to tell you what I think about it."

"If you're going to get cranky," warned the cook, angrily, "you needn't take the trouble."

"Punishing Alf isn't your work, Leon," Tom went on quietly. "I'm one of the heads here, and the management of this camp has been left more or less in my hands. I gave you a weak, deluded, almost worthless little piece of humanity as a helper. I'll admit that he isn't much good, but yet he's a boy aged fourteen, at any rate, and therefore there may be in that boy the makings of a man. Your way of tackling the job is no good. It's a fool way, and, besides, it's a brutal, unmanly way."

"I guess you'd better stop, right where you are, Mister Reade!" snapped Leon, an ugly scowl coming to his face. "I don't have to take any such talk as that from you, even if you are the boss. You may be the boss here, but I'm older and I've seen more of the world. So you may pass on your way, Mister Reade, and I'll mind my own business while you mind yours."

"Good!" smiled Tom amiably. "That's just the arrangement I've been trying to get you to pledge yourself to. Mind your own business, after this, just as you've promised. Don't play the brute with small boys."

"You needn't think you can boss me, Mister Reade," sneered Leon, a dangerous look again coming into his eyes. "I've told you that I won't take that kind of talk from you."

"You'll have to listen to it, just as long as you stay in camp," Reade answered. "I don't want to be disagreeable with any man, and never am when I can avoid it. But there are certain things I won't have done here. One of them is the bullying of small boys by big fellows like you. Do I make myself plain?"

"So plain," Leon answered, very quietly, as one hand traveled back to the butt of the revolver hanging over his right hip, "that I give you just ten seconds, Mister Reade, to get away and do your talking in another part of the camp."

Tom saw the motion of the hand toward the weapon, though no change in his calm face or steady eyes denoted the fact.

"I believe I've just one thing more to say to you, Leon. I've told young Drew that he needn't bother about coming back as your helper. He is to report to me, and I shall find him another job."

"Are you going to get away from here?" snarled the angry cook.

"Presently."

"I'll give you only until I count ten," Leon snapped, his hand still resting on the butt of his revolver.

"You're not threatening me with your pistol, are you?" Tom inquired in a mild tone.

"You'll find out, if you don't vamoose right along. One—two—"

"Stop it," Tom commanded, without raising his voice. "You may think you could get your pistol out in time to use it. Try it, and you'll learn how quickly I can jump on you and grab you. Try to draw your weapon, or even to shift your position ever so little, and I'll show you a trick that may possibly surprise you."

There was no trace of braggadocio in Tom Reade's quiet voice, but Leon knew, instantly, that the young engineer could and would be as good as his word.

"Take your hand away from the butt of your pistol," came Tom's next command.

Something in the look of the young engineer's eyes compelled the angry cook to obey.

"Now, unbuckle your belt and hand it to me, revolver and all."

"I'll——" Leon flared up, but Tom interrupted him.

"Exactly, my friend. You'll be very wise if you do, and very sorry if you don't!"

White with rage Leon unbuckled his belt. Then he handed it out, slowly. He was prepared to leap upon the young engineer like a panther, but Tom was watching alertly. He received the belt with his left hand, holding his right hand clenched ready for "business."

"Thank you," said Tom quietly. "Now, you may return to your work. I'm ready to forget this, Leon, if you are."

Leon glared speechlessly at his conqueror. This cook had lived in some of the roughest of mining camps, and had the reputation of being dangerous when angry.

From outside came an appreciative chuckle. Then Jim Ferrers stepped into the shack.

"So you were hanging about, ready to back up the kid?" demanded the cook.

"I? Oh, no," chuckled Jim. "Leon, when you've known Mr. Reade as long and as well as I do you'll understand that he doesn't ask or need any backing. Mr. Reade wants only what's right—but he's going to have it if he has to move a township."

Tom departed, swinging the belt and revolver from his right hand.

"I'm through here," muttered Leon, snatching off his apron. "That is, just as soon as I've squared up accounts with that kid."

"Then you'd better put your apron on again," Jim drawled, humorously. "It takes longer than you've got left to live when any one goes after Tom Reade to get even."

"Jim Ferrers, you know me well enough," remarked Leon, reaching for his hat. "Most times I'm peaceable, but when I get started I'm a bad man."

"Exactly," nodded Jim undisturbed. "That's why you can never hope to come out on top in a row with Mr. Reade. While you may be a bad man, he's a good man—and ALL MAN! You don't stand any show with that kind. Hang up your hat, Leon. Here's your apron. Put it on and stay with us. When you cool down you can stay right along here and take lessons in the art of being a real man!"

Jim Ferrers strolled out of the shack, leaving the vanquished cook in a towering rage. By degrees the expression on the fellow's face altered. Ten minutes later he was at work—at cook's duties.

XV. WHY READE WANTED GOLD

Four weeks moved on rapidly. All too rapidly, in some respects, to please Engineer Harry Hazelton.

Sheriff's officers had ridden into camp, and had scoured that part of the country, in an effort to locate Dolph Gage and that worthy's friends. Just where the four vagabonds were now no man knew, save themselves.

However, another spectre had settled down over the camp. The truth was that the young engineers were now using up the last thousand dollars of their combined savings.

By way of income, less than fifty dollars' worth of gold and silver had been mined. Every few days some promising-looking ore was turned out, but it never came in sufficient quantities. None of this ore had yet been moved toward Dugout City. There wasn't enough of it to insure good results. Brilliant in streaks, still the mine looked like a commercial fizzle.

"Hang it, the gold is down there!" grunted Tom, staring gloomily at the big cut that had been blasted and dug out along the top of the ridge.

"I'll be tremendously happy when you show me a little more of it," smiled Hazelton weakly.

"It's lower down," argued Tom. "We've got to dig deeper—and then a lot deeper."

"On the capital that we have left?" ventured Harry.

"Oh, we may strike enough, any day, to stake us for a few weeks longer," urged Tom.

"We'll soon have to be working in covered outs, where the frost won't put up trouble for us, you know," Hazelton hinted.

"Yes; I know that, of course. What we must begin to do, soon, is to sink the shaft deeper and then tunnel."

"That will cost a few thousand dollars, Tom."

"I know it. Come on, Harry. Get a shovel."

Tom himself snatched up a pick.

"What are you going to do, Tom?"

"Work. You and I are strong and enduring. We can save the wages of two workmen."

Both young engineers worked furiously that afternoon. Yet, when knocking-off time came, they had to admit that they had no better basis for hope.

"I wonder, Tom, if we'd better get out and hustle for Jobs?" Harry asked.

"You might, Harry. I'm going to stick."

Mr. Dunlop dropped in at camp, that evening, after dark.

"You young men are doing nothing," said the mine promoter. "I can use you a couple of months, if you'll stop this foolishness here and come over to me."

"Why, I suppose Hazelton could go over and work for you, Mr. Dunlop," Tom suggested.

"That would be of no use. I need you both, but you, Reade, most of all."

"I can't go to you now, Mr. Dunlop," Tom replied regretfully. "I'm committed to the development of this piece of property, which is only a third my property."

"Bosh! A decent farm would be worth more to you than this claim," argued Mr. Dunlop derisively.

"Perhaps. But neither of my partners has quit, Mr. Dunlop, and I'm not going to quit, either."

"This is the last chance I can give you, Reade. You'd better take it."

"No; though I beg you to accept my best thanks, Mr. Dunlop. However, Hazelton can go over and help you."

"Both, or neither," returned Mr. Dunlop firmly.

Harry looked half eagerly at Reade, but Tom shook his head.

"What do you say, Mr. Reade?" pressed the promoter. "Last call to the dining car. With your funds running low, and a hard winter coming on you'll soon know what it means to be hungry."

"I'm much obliged, sir but I'm going to stick here at my own work."

"What do you say, Hazelton?" coaxed the promoter.

"Nothing," Harry replied loyally. "You heard what my partner had to say. In business matters he talks for both of us."

"Good night, then," grunted Mr. Dunlop, rising. "If you should change your minds in the morning, after breakfast, come and tell me."

After Dunlop had gone Tom and Harry walked up and down the trail together under the stars.

"Sixteen hundred dollars a month Dunlop is offering the two of us," half sighed Hazelton. "Two months of that would mean thirty-two hundred dollars. How much money have we now, Tom?"

"Six hundred and forty-two dollars and nineteen cents," Reade answered dryly.

"That won't last us long, will it?"

"No; especially as we owe some of it on bills soon due at Dugout."

"Then—what?"

"I don't know," Tom answered almost fiercely. "Yes; I do know! As soon as our present few pennies are gone it means a future of fight and toil, on empty stomachs. But it's worth it, Harry—if we live through the ordeal."

"And for what are we fighting?" inquired Harry musingly.

"First of all, then, for gold."

"Tom, I never knew you to be so crazy about gold before. What are we going to do with it—if we get it?"

"There are the folks at home."

"Of course, Tom, and they would be our first thought—if we had the gold. But we can do all we want to for the home folks out of the pay that we are able to earn at steady jobs."

"True."

"Then why are we fooling around here? We are nearly broke, but we can honestly settle all the debts we owe. Then we could get back to work and have bank accounts again within a few months."

"Yes; but only pitiful bank accounts—a few hundreds of dollars, or a few thousands."

It would be steady and growing."

"Yes; but it would take years to pile up a fortune, Harry."

"What do we really want with fortunes?"

"We want them, Harry," Tom went on, almost passionately, "because we have ambitions. Look out upon the great mountains of this Range. Think of the rugged bits of Nature in any part of the world, waiting for the conquering hand and the constructive brain of the engineer! Harry, don't you long to do some of the big things that are done by engineers? Don't you want to get into the real—the big performances of our profession?"

"Of course," nodded Hazelton. "For that reason, aren't we doubly wasting our time here?"

"That's just as it turns out," Reade went on, with a vehemence that astonished his chum. "Harry, what's our office address? Where are our assistant engineers—where our draftsmen? Where are our foremen that we could summon to great undertakings? Where is the costly equipment that we would need as a firm of really great engineers? You know that we must these things before we can climb to the top of our profession. The gold that's hidden somewhere under that ridge would give us the offices, the assistants, the draftsmen, the equipment and the bank account that we need before we can launch ourselves into first class engineering feats of the great civilization that rules the world today. Harry, I've firm faith in our claim, and I can go on working on a meal every third day."

"Then now, as always, you can count on me to stand by you without limit or complaint," said Harry generously.

"But, just the same, you haven't my faith in the mine, have you?" Tom queried half-disappointedly.

"Er—er—"

"Out with it, chum!"

"So far I have been disappointed in the claim. But I am well aware that I may be wrong. Listen, Tom, old fellow. This isn't a matter of faith in the mine; it's one of faith in you. Go as far as you like, and, whichever way it turns out, remember that I regard your judgment as being many times as good as my own."

"Yet you'd drop out if the decision rested solely with you, wouldn't you, Harry,"

"You'll never again get my opinion of this claim of ours," laughed Hazelton. "You'll have to be contented with my good opinion of you and your judgment."

"But see here, Harry, I wish you'd get out of here for a while. Go back into the world; take a position that will support you and provide the luxuries and savings as well. I'll work here faithfully and work for both of us at the same time."

"You must have a mighty small opinion of me, Tom Reade, to think I'd leave you in the lurch like that."

"But I ask it as a favor, Harry."

"If you ever ask that sort of a favor again, Tom Reade, you and I will be nearer to fighting than we've ever been yet in our lives!"

It was plain that Hazelton intended to stick to the mine, even to the starving point, if Reade did. After some further talk the two went back to their tent and lay down on their cots.

Five minutes later Harry's quiet, regular breathing betrayed the fact that he was asleep. With a stealthy movement, Tom Reade threw down the blankets, reached for his shoes, his coat and hat and stole out into the quiet and darkness.

From other tents and shacks nearby came snores that showed how soundly miners could sleep.

"I believe this is the first night that I ever failed to sleep on account of business worries," muttered Reade grimly, as he strode away. "This may be a fine start toward becoming a nervous wreck. In time I may become as shattered as poor little Alf Drew. I wonder if I shall ever fall so low as to smoke cigarettes!"

For some minutes Tom plodded on through the darkness. He did not go toward the claim, but in the opposite direction. He walked like one who felt the need of physical exhaustion. Presently coming to a steep trail winding along among boulders he took to the trail, striding on at barely diminished speed.

At last, out of breath from the rapid climb, Tom halted and gazed down over the rugged landscape. "The gold is there," he muttered. "I'm sure of it. Oh, if we could only find it!"

As Tom stood, deep in thought, the face of his patient friend rose before him.

"I don't mind going to smash for myself, in a good, hard fight," Reade went on audibly. "But it seems a crime to drag Harry down to poverty with me. If I could only get him to go away I'd give up my own life, if need be, to prove what's under our ridge of Nevada dirt."

"Ye'll give up your life for less'n that, I reckon!" sounded another voice, close at hand.

Around a boulder Dolph Gage stepped into view, followed by two of his men.

XVI. THE MAN WHO MADE GOOD

"Good evening, Gage," Tom responded pleasantly, after a slight start of alarm. "What brings you in this section again?"

"Wanter know?" sneered Gage, while his companions scowled.

"That was my object in inquiring," Tom smiled.

"We're hiding—that's what we're doing here," Gage volunteered harshly, though he spoke in a low voice.

"Hiding here—with the officers looking for you?"

"Well, what could be a safer place than right where we're wanted?" demanded Dolph. "The officers are scouring other counties for us, and they have handbills up offering rewards for us. Right here, overlooking your claim, they'd never think of looking for men who have a price set on their capture."

"Well, you needn't be afraid of me," offered Reade, with mock generosity. "I'm short of money, but I'm not looking for blood money. You had better travel fast from here. I'll give you until daylight before I send word to the law's officers."

"Daylight? You'll never see daylight again," Gage retorted. "You will be lying here, looking up at the stars, but you won't see anything!"

"Your words have a mysterious ring to them," laughed Tom.

He wasn't in any doubt as to what the rascals meant to do with him. It was a rule with Tom Reade, however, that he wasn't dead until he had actually been killed. Even while he spoke so lightly, Tom, through his half-closed eyes, was taking in every detail of the situation.

None of the trio had yet drawn their weapons, though all wore them in plain sight. If they started to draw their pistols Tom decided that he would leap forward holding to Gage, kicking one of the latter's companions so as to render the fellow helpless, and——

"But the third man will get me with his pistol," Tom decided. "That is, unless they become flustered when I show fight. It's a slim chance for me—a mighty slim chance, but I'll do my best as soon as these wretches start something!"

"Lost your money in your claim, haven't you?" jeered Gage, who was plainly playing with his intended victim. "Serves you right, after jumping us out of the property just because the law said you could! But the gold's there, and we've got a man with mineral rights to nab the claim as soon as you give up."

"That will be a long while, I imagine," Tom smiled back at the rascal.

"Not as long as you may think," laughed Gage harshly. "We've got you now, and we'll get Hazelton and Jim Ferrers, next thing you know. Then our claim will be established through our friend, and we'll protect him from being jumped by any one else."

"If you live," Tom reminded the fellow.

"Oh, we'll live!" Gage retorted grimly. "We're hunted, now, and we'll kill every man that comes near enough."

"Begin with this cub!" spoke up Eb, gruffly. "Don't play with him until he tricks us and gets away."

"Perhaps you don't realize how close help is to me," Tom broke in quickly. It was a "bluff," but he hoped that it might have its effect.

"If there's help near you," quivered Gage, his anger rising, "we'll make sure that it doesn't get here in time to do you any good. Draw and finish him boys!"

Before Reade could tense his muscles for a spring, a shot rang out behind them. Eb fell, with a swift, smothered groan of pain.

"Duck!" panted Dolph Gage. "Out of this! To cover, and then we'll reckon with any one who tries to follow us!"

In the same instant Tom turned, bounding down the trail in the direction from which the shot had come.

"Good! Keep on going, boss!" whispered a calm voice. "Don't let 'em catch you again."

"Who are you?" Tom demanded, halting and trying to make out the man's face in the intense shadow under a ledge of rock.

"Duck!" commanded the same voice. "I'll follow close. I'm alone, and some of that crew may pluck up heart and follow us. Vamoose!"

"I'll go at your side, but I won't run ahead of you," Tom whispered back. "I know you, now. Thank you, Leon!"

In the darkness, in lieu of shaking hands Tom gripped one of the man's elbows in sign of thanks.

"We'd better get out of this," Tom went on, in a barely louder whisper. "But how did you come to be on hand, Leon?"

"Followed you," was the terse reply.

"From the camp?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Wanted to get even with you."

"You're talking in riddles," Reade protested, in a puzzled tone. "At the same time I'm greatly obliged to you."

"Thought you'd be," grunted Leon. "That's how I got even."

"What do you mean?" Tom wanted to know. "You got even by placing me under a great obligation?"

"Just that," nodded the cook, "we had trouble, once, and you came out on top, didn't you?"

"Yes; but that little affair needn't have prevented us from being friends."

"It did, until I had done something to make you needed me as a friend," the cook declared.

Tom laughed at this statement of the case. It accorded quite closely, however, with the cook's generally sulky disposition. Even a friendship Leon would offer or accept grudgingly.

"But why did you follow me?" Tom continued, as they neared the camp. "Did you think I was going to run into danger?"

Leon hesitated.

"Well," he admitted, finally, "when I saw you stealing off, soft like, I had a queer notion come over me that, maybe, you were discouraged, and that you were going off to put an end to yourself."

Tom started, stared in amazement, then spoke in a tone of pretended anger:

"Much obliged for your fine opinion of me, Leon," he declared. "Only cowards and lunatics commit suicide."

"That's all right," nodded the cook doggedly. "I've seen men lose their minds out here in these gold fields."

They were now in camp.

"Wait, and I'll call Ferrers and a few of the men, Leon," Tom proposed.

"What for? To stand guard?"

"No; we must send back a few of the men to find that man you wounded. It was Eb. He fell in a heap. If his own companions didn't carry him away he was left in a bad fix."

"You'll be going back to nurse rattlesnakes yet!" almost exploded the cook.

"That's all right, but we're going to find that wounded man if he's in need of help," Tom stoutly maintained.

He called Jim Ferrers, who roused five more men. Then the party returned to the place on the trail where Eb had been left. There were still blood spots on the ground, but Eb had vanished. The party spent some minutes in searching the vicinity, then concluded that Gage had rescued and carried away the wounded man.

It may be said, in passing, that Eb was subsequently found, by officers, lying in a shack not far from Dugout City. The fellow was nearly dead, when found, from careless handling of his wound. At Dugout the surgeons amputated his wounded leg, and Eb finally wound up in prison.

During all the excitement Hazelton had not been aroused. He knew nothing of what had happened until morning came.

Before Tom Reade turned in that night he shook hands with the sullen cook.

"I think you and I are going to be good friends, after this, Leon," Tom smiled. "I hope so, anyway."

"And I'm glad you gave me back my gun," grunted Leon. "It gave me a chance to do something for you. Yes; I reckon we'll be good friends after this."

XVII. THE MINERS WHO "STUCK"

"Hey, Tom!" Harry called down, from the top of their shaft, now one hundred and thirty feet down into the ground.

"Yes!" Reade answered from below, making a trumpet of his hands.

"Doing anything?" Harry bawled.

"Not much. Why?"

"If you want to come up I'll show you something."

"What?"

"The first snow of winter is falling." Harry tried to speak jovially, but his tone was almost sepulchral.

"Yes, I'll come up, then," Tom Reade answered. "It's high time for us to see to building a shelter that will keep out of the shaft the big snows that are coming."

"The big snows are likely to be here, now, within a week," remarked one of the miners who had paused to rest from digging for a moment. "Men!" bawled Tom, stepping from the long into the short tunnel. "All hands knock off and go up to the surface."

There was a tub hand-hoist for carrying up ore, but the men always used the series of ladders that had been built in on the side of the shaft. Two minutes later these ladders swarmed with men going above.

As they stepped out into the world the first soft flakes of winter floated into their faces.

"Reade, we'll have to start building the cover to the shaft," spoke Jim Ferrers, who stood beside Hamilton.

"I know it," Tom nodded. "However, first of all, I want a few words with you and Harry."

The three partners stepped aside, waiting in silence while a whispered consultation went on around Tom.

At length Reade stepped back.

"Men" he began, and every eye was turned in his direction. "You are waiting for orders to start on shedding over the shaft, and the lumber is ready. However, we mean to be fair with you. You all know that this claim has been going badly. When my partners and I started we had some capital. Before we do any more work here it is only fair to tell you something. We now have money enough left so that we can pay you your wages up to Saturday. When we've paid that we shall have a few dollars left. If you men want to quit now we'll pay you up to Saturday, and you'll have time to be in Dugout before your time here is up."

"Do you want us to go, Mr. Reade?" asked Tim Walsh."

"Why, no, of course not," Tom smiled. "If we had the money we'd want to keep you here all winter. But we haven't, and so we've no right to ask you to stay."

Walsh glanced around him, as though to inquire whether the men were willing that he be their spokesman. Receiving their nods the big miner went on:

"Mr. Reade, sir, we've seen this coming, though, of course, we didn't know just how big your pile was. We've talked it over some, and I know what the fellows think. If you don't pay us our wages, but put the money into grub only, you can keep a-going here some weeks yet."

"Yes," Tom nodded. "But in that case, if the mine didn't pan out, we wouldn't have a cent left out of which to pay you off. At least, not until Reade and I had been at work for months, perhaps a year, on some salaried job. So you see that we can't fairly encourage you men to remain here."

"Mr. Reade," Walsh declared, this time without glancing at the other men, and there was a slight huskiness in the big miner's voice, "we wouldn't feel right if we went anywhere else to work. We've never worked under men as fair and square as you three men have been. You've treated all of us white. Now, what kind of fellows would we be if we cleared out and left you just because the snow had come and the money had gone. No, sir! By your leave, gentlemen, we'll stay here as long as you do, and the money can take care of itself until it shows up again. Mr. Reade, and gentlemen, we stick as long as you'll let us!"

Tom felt slightly staggered, as his face showed it.

"Men," he protested, "this is magnificent on your part. But it wouldn't be fair to let you do it. You are all of you working for your living."

"Well, aren't you three working for your living, too?" grinned Walsh.

"Yes; but we stand to make the big stake here, in case of victory at last."

"And I reckon we stand a show of having a little extra coming to us, if we do right by you at this minute," laughed Walsh.

"Yes, you do—if we strike the rich vein for which we're hunting. Yet have you men any idea a how little chance we may have of striking that vein? Men, the mine may—perhaps I would better say probably will—turn out a fizzle. I am afraid you men are voting for some weeks of wasted work and a hungry tramp back to Dugout City at the end. As much as we want to go on with the work, we hate to see you all stand to lose so much."

"You're no fool, Mr. Reade. Neither is Mr. Hazelton," returned Walsh bluntly. "You're both engineers, and not green ones, either. You've been studying mines and mining, and it isn't just guess-work with you when you say that you feel sure of striking rich ore."

"Only one of us is sure," smiled Tom Reade wistfully. "I'm the sure one. As for my partners, I'm certain that they're sticking to me just because they're too loyal to desert a partner. For myself, I wouldn't blame them if they left me any day. As for you men, I shall be glad to have you stay and stand by us, now that you know the state of affairs, but I won't blame you if you decide to take your money and the path back to Dugout City."

"It's no use, Mr. Reade," laughed Walsh, shaking his shaggy head. "You couldn't persuade one of us to leave you now."

"And I'd thrash any man who tried to," declared another miner.

"Men, I thank you," Tom declared, his eyes shining, "and I hope that we shall all win out together."

"Now, what do you want us to do?" asked Walsh.

"We have timbers and boards here," Tom replied. "If the big snows are likely to be upon us within a week, then we can't lose any time in getting our shaft protected. At the same time we must use other timber for putting up two or three more shacks. The tents will have to come down until spring."

Harry immediately took eight of the men and started the erection of three wooden shacks not far from the mine shaft. Ferrers took the rest of the men and speedily had timbers going up in place over the mouth of the shaft.

For three hours the snow continued to float lightly down. Then the skies cleared, but the wind came colder and more biting.

Jim Ferrers and one of the men started for Dugout City with a two-horse wagon, that the camp might be kept well-supplied with food.

By night of the day following all of the carpenter work had been finished, though not an hour too soon, for now the weather was becoming colder.

"Never put in a winter on the Indian Smoke Range, did you, Mr. Reade?" Walsh inquired.

"Never."

"Then you'll find out what cold weather is like. A winter on this Range isn't much worse, though, than what I've heard about cold weather in Alaska."

"It'll be a relief to see six feet of snow, after living on the hot desert of Arizona," Harry muttered.

By evening of the following day, when Jim and his companion returned with the wagon-load of provisions, another day's work had been done in the mine.

"Any color today?" was Ferrers's first question.

"No signs of gold," sighed Harry.

"I heard a new one over at Dugout City," Jim remarked carelessly.

"Heard a new one?" echoed Tom. "What was it?"

"A baby," Jim answered dryly.

"What are you talking about?" Harry demanded. "What has a baby to do with a 'new one'?"

When the men began to laugh Harry suddenly discovered the joke.

"That's all right, Jim," growled Harry. "But I know something that would tickle you."

"A feather, or a straw," mocked Ferrers.

"No! A crowbar!" grunted Hazelton making a reach for a tool of that description.

Jim hastily jumped out of the way as Harry balanced the bar.

"Go and tell the men about the 'new one' you heard, Jim," laughed Tom. "By the time you get back Harry will have the joke pried loose with that bar of his."

"'Heard a new one'!" grunted Harry. But his look of disgust was because it had taken him so long to penetrate the "sell."

XVIII. THE GODDESS OF FORTUNE SMILES WISTFULLY

"Haul away!" called Jim, from the bottom of the shaft.

Up came the tub, filled with chunks of ore, each about the size of a man's head.

At the top stood Harry Hazelton, on the crust of two feet of frozen snow.

Tom thrust his head out through the doorway of the nearby shack in which the partners lived.

"Is Jim sending up any bricks" he inquired.

"He's sending up ore, but I don't know whether it's any good," Harry answered.

"Why don't you look the stuff over?"

"I haven't had the heart to look at it."

Close to the shaft stood a wagon. The horses were resting in the stable shack, for by this time the weather averaged only a few degrees above zero and the horses were brought out only when they could be used.

"Take a good look at the stuff, Harry," called Tom, as soon as he saw two of the workmen dumping it.

Then Reade closed the door, and went back to the furnace that he had rigged up under the chimney at one end of the shack.

"Oh, what's the use?" sighed Hazelton, to himself, as he paused, irresolute. "In weeks and weeks we haven't brought up enough gold to pay for the keep of the horses."

Still, as Tom had asked him to do so, Hazelton presently walked over to the little pile that had just been dumped.

"You men up there work faster," sounded Jim's voice. "We want to send up a tub every five minutes."

"Want the team yet?" bawled the teamster, from another shack.

"No," Harry answered. "Not for a half an hour yet."

That question was enough to cause the young engineer to forget that he had intended to inspect the tub-load of ore. He strolled back to the head of the shaft. The wind was biting keenly today. Harry was dressed in the warmest clothing he had, yet his feet felt like lumps of lead in his shoes.

"Arizona may be hot, but I'd rather do my mining down there, anyway," thought the young engineer. "If I could move about more, this wouldn't be so bad."

Just off of the shaft was a rough shack several feet square which contained a small cylinder of a wood stove. There was a fire going in the stove, now, but Harry knew from experience that if he went in to the stove to get warm, he would only feel the cold more severely when he came out again.

"Say, I don't know why I couldn't run that furnace as well as Tom, and he likes this cold stuff better than I do," murmured Hazelton. "I am going to see if he won't swap jobs for a couple of hours."

"Getting anything out of those ore-tests of yesterday's dump?" Harry demanded, entering their shack.

"Not so much," Tom replied cheerily. "We're in a bad streak of stuff, Harry. But I thought you were watching the dump. What's the matter? Too cold out there?"

"Yes," nodded Harry. "I feel like a last year's cold storage egg. Don't you want to spell me a bit out there, Tom? I can run the furnace in here."

"Certainly," Reade agreed, leaping up. "There's nothing to do, now, but weigh the button when it cools."

"Did you really get a button?" Harry asked, casually, as he drew off his heavy overcoat.

"Yes; a small one."

"How much ore did you take it from?"

"About two tons, I should say."

"Then, if the button is worth sixty cents," mocked Harry, "it will show that our ore is running thirty cents to the ton."

"Oh, we'll have better ore, after a while," Tom laughed.

"We've got to have," grunted Hazelton, "or else we'll have to walk all the way to our next job."

"Just weigh the button, when it cools, and enter the weight on this page of the notebook," directed Reade, then went for his own outdoor clothing. "Have you been inspecting the dump as the stuff came up?"

"You'll think me a fool," cried Harry, "but I totally forgot it."

"No matter," Tom answered cheerily. "I've been doing bench work so long in here that I need exercise. I can run over all the stuff."

After Reade had pulled on his overcoat and buttoned it he fastened a belt around his waist. Through this he thrust a geologist's hammer.

"Don't go to sleep, Harry, old fellow, until you've cooled and weighed the button. Then you may just as well take a nap as not."

"There he goes," muttered Hazelton, as the door closed briskly. "Faith and enthusiasm are keeping Tom up. He could work twenty-four hours and never feel it. I wish I had some of his faith in this ridge. I could work better for it. Humph! I'm afraid the ridge will never yield anything better than clay for brick-making!"

Harry did succeed in keeping his eyes open long enough to attend to the button. That tiny object weighed, and the weight entered, Hazelton sat back in his chair. Within a minute his eyes had closed and he was asleep.

Tom Reade, out at the ore dump, looked anything but sleepy. With tireless energy he turned over the pieces of rock, pausing, now and then, to hold up one for inspection.

In reaching for a new piece his foot slipped. Glancing down, to see just where the object was on which he had slipped, Tom suddenly became so interested that he dropped down on his knees in the snow.

It was a piece of rock that had come up in the first tubful. At one point on the piece of rock there was a small, dull yellow glow.

Reads pawed the rock over in eager haste. Then he drew the hammer from his belt, striking the rock sharply. Piece after piece fell away until a solid yellow mass, streaked here and there faintly with quartz, lay in his hand.

"By the great Custer!" quivered Tom.

"What's the matter, boss?" called one of the workmen. "Got a sliver in your hand?"

"Have I?" retorted Tom joyously. "Come here and take a look."

"Haul away!" sounded Ferrers's hoarse voice from below.

"Tell Jim to stop sending and come up a minute," nodded Tom.

"Do you often see a finer lump than this?" Tom wanted to know as the two workmen came to him. He held up a nugget. Shaped somewhat like a horn-of-plenty, it weighed in the neighborhood of three ounces.

"Say, if there are many more like that down at the foot of the shaft this old hole-in-the-ridge will be a producer before another week is out!" answered one of the workmen. "How much is it worth, boss?"

"Allowing for the quartz that streaks this little gold-piece, it ought to be worth from forty to fifty dollars," Tom responded thoughtfully.

"Fifty dollars?" broke in Jim Ferrers, as he sprang from the top ladder to the ground. "Is there that much money on the Indian Smoke?"

"Not minted, of course," laughed Tom. "But here's something as good as money."

"Where did you get it?" Jim demanded, tersely, after one look at the nugget.

"In this ore-dump."

"Today's send-up, then?"

"Of course."

Without a word Ferrers fell at work on the pile of rocks, turning them over fast.

Tom helped him. The two men, released from hoisting duty, also aided.

"Nothing more like that sticking out of the rock," Jim grunted, turning to one of the men. "Bring me a sledge."

With that larger hammer, held in both hands, Jim placed ore pieces with his feet, swiftly bringing down sharp blows that reduced the rocks to nearly the size of pebbles.

"I don't see any more nuggets coming," mused! Tom. "But wait a minute. Look at the yellow streak through some of these fragments." "We're getting into the vein, I believe," spoke Jim solemnly. "Look at the stuff! But wait! I've a little more hammering to do."

Back of them stood the teamster, who had just come up with the horses.

"Am I to take that stuff and dump it down the ravine?" he asked slowly.

"If you do," retorted Ferrers heatedly, "I'll hammer in the top of your head, Andy! Reade, won't you pick out what you want for the site of the ore-dump. We've got some real ore at last!" One of the two hoist-men now ran to the shaft, shouting down the great news.

"Hold on there, Bill," Tom called dryly. "Don't get the boys excited over what may turn out to be nothing. Don't tell 'em any more than that we have——"

"Tell 'em yourself, boss," retorted Bill. "Here they come!"

From the ladder a steady stream of men discharged itself until the last one was up.

"Where are you going, Tim?" called Tom, turning just in time to note big Walsh's movements.

"Going to call Mr. Hazelton, sir."

"Don't do it. Don't get him stirred up for nothing."

"For nothing, boss?"

"Don't bother Hazelton until we can tell him something more definite. Boys, with all my heart I hope that we have something as good as we appear to have. But every man of you knows that, once in a while, gold is found abundantly in a few hundred pounds of rock, and then, from that point on, no more yellow is found. We won't get excited until we get our first thousand dollars' worth out of the ground and have the smelter's check in hand. We'll hope—and pray—but we won't cheer just yet."

"Humph! If you don't want us to cheer, then what shall we do?" demanded big Walsh.

"We'll work!" Tom retorted energetically. "We'll work as we never did before. We'll keep things moving every minute of the time. Back with you into the shaft and out into the tunnel! You hoist-men stand by for a big performance with the tub. Jennison, you may stay up from below and tote specimens for me. I shall be at the furnace until midnight at the least."

"I'll tote for you till daylight, if the good streak only holds out," laughed Jennison, with glowing eyes.

"Come softly into the shack when you do come," Tom directed. "I'm going to put Mr. Hazelton to bed, and I don't want any one to wake him. When I play out tonight he'll have to be fresh enough to take my place at the assay bench and furnace."

Softly Tom entered their shack.

Harry lay fast asleep, breathing heavily.

"This won't do, old fellow," spoke Tom gently, shaking his chum's shoulder. "No; don't wake up. Just get into bed. I may want to turn in later, and, when I do, I may have some work left over that I'll want you to do."

"Anything up?" asked Harry drowsily.

"I'm going to be busy for a while, and then I want you to be," Tom answered.

He half pushed his chum toward the narrow bunk against the wall. Drowsy Hazelton needed no urging, but stretched himself out in his bunk.

Tom drew the blankets up over him, adding:

"Don't stir until I call you."

Hour after hour the men below in the mine sent up tub-lots of rock. Jim spent half of his time above ground, the rest below. Jennison was busy bringing the best samples in to Reade, but he walked so softly that Harry slept peacefully on.

Still the yellow rock came up. None of it looked like the richest sort of ore, but it was good gold-bearing stuff, none the less. Tom made many assays. It was seven in the evening ere the excited miners would agree to knock off work for the day.

Then Tom quit and had supper with them. There was excitement in the air, but Tom still counseled patience.

"We'll know more in a week than we do now," he urged.

"That's all right, Mr. Reade," laughed Tim Walsh. "As long as you were hopeful we didn't bring up enough yellow to pay for the dynamite we used in blasting. Now, boss, you're begging us not to be hopeful, and the luck is changing."

"I'm not kicking against hopefulness," Tom objected, smiling. "All I ask of you men is not to spend the whole year's profits from the mine before we get even one load fit to haul to the smelter."

"We've got the ore dump started," retorted Jennison, "and we don't have to haul stuff to the smelter. Boss, you can raise money enough without hauling a single load before spring."

"How?" Tom wanted to know.

"The banks at Dugout will lend you a small fraction of the value of the dump as soon as they're satisfied that it has any value," Jim Ferrers explained.

"I didn't know that," Tom admitted.

"Now you can understand why the boys are excited tonight. They know you'll outfit the camp liberally enough if the yellow streak holds out."

"Outfit the camp liberally?" repeated Tom. "I'll go just as far in that line as my partners will stand for."

"We want a bang-up Christmas dinner, you see, boss," Tim Walsh explained. "We wouldn't have spoken of it if this streak hadn't panned today. Now, we know we're going to have doings on the ridge this winter."

"If the yellow rook holds out," Tom urged.

"Don't say anything more in that strain, just now, Reade," whispered Jim. "If you do, and things go badly, the boys will think you've been the camp's Jonah."

Tom went back to work in the partners' shack. Jim came in at ten and went to bed. It was midnight when Tom shook Harry by the shoulder.

"Time to get up, young man, and give me a rest," Tom announced.

Harry got drowsily out of his bunk.

"Why didn't you call me before, Tom?"

"Well, to tell the truth, I was too busy. But now you may have a few hours' work all by yourself, while I turn in," drawled Reade.

"Tom, old fellow, there's something up," discovered Hazelton, now studying his chum's face keenly. "Out with it."

Then Tom told of the day's luck, though he cautioned Harry against too soon growing elated.

"We'll just wait and hope," Reade finished. "Now I'll show you the work that's on the bench."

The gold news had waked up Hazelton. He examined eagerly the assay reports that Tom had filled out, then turned to the specimens that awaited his attention.

At six in the morning Reade was up again, nor did Harry turn in. Both were present to inspect the first tub-lot of ore that came up the shaft. The yellow streak was continuing.

By the middle of the afternoon, however, the streak played out. Though the men worked an hour overtime they did not succeed in sending up any more ore.

"Just one pocket?" wondered Tom. "Or does our vein run in scattered pockets?"

"Oh, we'll find more pockets soon," predicted Harry cheerily. "Our luck has turned again. It's running in the old channels."

A feverish week passed. Towards its end the first big snow of the winter came, and the ridge was shut off from the rest of the world. It would have been all but impossible to get over even to the Bright Hope Mine.

The week of brisk work was using up the stock of dynamite, while the rock was too hard to work much with picks. Moreover, the money of the partners was gone. To seek credit at Dugout would be a dangerous proceeding, for those who granted the accommodation of credit would be sure to want a high price for it, even to a goodly share in the output of the mine. More than one mine has been taken over by creditors, and the original owners have gone out into the world again, poor men.

Saturday morning of this week Tom and Harry descended the shaft together. Jim was already there with the men.

"I thought we had two more boxes of dynamite, Reade," explained Ferrers. "I find that we have just six sticks left."

"Then may the Fates favor us with some lucky blasts!", muttered Tom.

"We can borrow money on our ore dump," suggested Harry.

"How about that?" asked Tom, looking intently at Ferrers.

"How much do you figure there is in the dump?" queried Jim.

"About two hundred dollars' worth of metal."

Ferrers shook his head.

"It would cost us forty dollars to cart the stuff to Dugout in the Spring. Then there'd be the smelter's charges. We couldn't borrow more than fifty dollars on such security. No bank is going to bother with such a small item."

Tom said nothing, but went forward to the heading of the tunnel. Here he made a careful examination ere he ordered the men to go ahead.

One after another five sticks of the dynamite were fired in small blasts, but the ore that came out did not suggest hope.

Then another drilling was made, and the sixth stick put in place, the magneto wires being connected with the charge.

Tom himself seized the magneto handle.

"Now, hold your breaths," he called, cheerily. "This blast means a lot, and then a bit more, to all of us. This blast may point the path to fortune!"

XIX. HARRY'S SIGNAL OF DISTRESS

Through the tunnel a dull boom sounded. Then, as if by a common impulse, all hands rushed back to the heading.

"Hard rock!" muttered Reade. "The blast didn't make much of a dent. Hand me a pick, one of you."

Then Tom swung it with all the force and skill of which he was possessed.

Some of the miners, who thought themselves strong men, looked on admiringly as Tom swung the pick again and again.

Clack! clack! clack!

"Some muscle there," proclaimed Tim Walsh. "I didn't think it was in a slim fellow like you."

"I haven't so much muscle," Tom informed him, "but I have a tremendous amount at stake here. One of you shovelmen come forward and get this stuff back."

Reade went tirelessly on with his pick. Some of the big fellows came forward with their tools and worked beside him. Tom still led.

For half an hour all hands worked blithely. Then Tom, halting, called them off.

"No use to go any further, boys, until we get some dynamite," he declared. "We're striking into harder and harder rock every minute. We are dulling our tools without making any headway."

"Dynamite?" asked Jim Ferrers, who had been looking over the shoveled back rook with Harry. "Where are we going to get any?"

"It's time for a council of war, I reckon," sighed Tom. "At any rate it's no use to work here any longer this morning. Let's go above."

As it was yet too early for dinner, the men congregated in one of the shacks, while the partners went to their own rough one-room abode.

"What's to be done?" asked Harry.

"I'd say quit," muttered Jim Ferrers. "Only, if we do, we lose our title to our claim. Of course, I mean quit only for a while—say until spring—but even that would forfeit our title here."

"Then it's not to be thought of," rejoined Tom, with a vigorous shake of his head. "I haven't lost a bit of my faith that, one of these days, this ridge is going to pay big profits to some one."

"We either have to quit, and give up, or stay and starve," rejoined Ferrers.

"We've got to stick," Tom insisted. "In the first place, we owe our men a lot of money."

"They offered to take their chances," suggested Jim.

"True, but it's a debt, none the less. I shall see everyone of these men paid, even if I have to wait until I can save money enough at some other job to square the obligations in full. For myself, I don't intend to quit as long as I can swing a dull pick against a granite ledge."

"Then what did you come up for?" asked Harry dryly.

"Because there's nothing the men can do for the present, and I wanted all hands to have a chance to get over their disappointment. Jim, this snow-crust will bear the weight of a pony, won't it?"

"Why?"

"I must get to Dugout City."

"For what?"

"We haven't a big enough ore dump on which to borrow any money. but I've an idea I can sell this nugget for enough to get another good stock of dynamite."

"You don't want to try to get to Dugout today or tomorrow," replied Ferrers slowly.

"But I must," Tom insisted. "Every hour's delay is worse than wasted time. I must get to Dugout and back again as speedily as possible."

"Hotel living is expensive in Dugout," remarked Jim.

"But I don't intend to stop at a hotel for more than one meal."

"Have you looked at the sky?"

It was Reade's turn to ask:

"Why?"

"Just go to the door and take a look at the sky," suggested Ferrers.

Tom swung the door open and looked.

"Well?" he asked.

"What do you think of the sky?" Jim persisted.

"It looks as though we might have a little snow," Tom admitted.

"A little, and then a whole lot more," nodded Ferrers. "Notice how still the air is? We're going to have a howling blizzard, and I believe it will start in before night."

"Then we'd better turn the men out to fell and chop firewood," declared Harry, jumping up. "We haven't enough on hand to last through a few days of blizzard."

"Will you look after the wood, Harry?" asked Tom. "I want to keep my mind on getting to Dugout."

"We'll knock over a lot of trees between now and dinner-time," promised Hazelton, as he hurried away.

"Now, Reade, you'd better give up your idea of getting to Dugout for the present," resumed Jim Ferrers.

"But the work? We've got to keep the men busy, and we must keep the blasts a-going."

"You'll have to forget it for a week or so," insisted the Nevadan. "Your freezing to death in a gale of snow wouldn't help matters any."

"But I must get to Dugout," Tom pleaded.

"You won't try it unless you're crazy," Jim retorted. "If you make an attempt to stir from camp this afternoon, Reade, I'll call on the men to hold you down until I can tie you. Do you think I've waited, Reade, all these years to find a partner like you, and then allow him to go off in a blizzard that would sure finish him?"

"Then, if you're sure about this, Jim, I won't attempt to go until the weather moderates."

"When the time's right I'll go," proposed Ferrers. "A pony is no good on this white stuff. From some of the Swedes we've had working out in this country I've learned how to make a pair of skis. You can travel on skis where a pony would cut his legs in two against the snow crust."

"Then, if I'm not going to Dugout, I'll go out and swing an axe for a while," Tom suggested. "I want to be of some use, and I can't sit still anyway."

"Oh, sit down," urged Ferrers, almost impatiently, as he filled his pipe and lighted it. "I'll amuse you with some stories about blizzards on this Range in years past."

Outside they could hear axes ringing against the trees. Then the dinner-horn called the men in. Soon after the meal was over all the horses in camp were hitched and employed in bringing in the wood. Harry was out again to superintend the men.

By half-past two the first big flakes began to come down. There was still no wind to speak of.

Tom had lain down in a bunk, leaving Jim to brighten the fire.

Ferrers, too, nodded in his chair. It was the howling of the wind that awoke Tom.

"Where's Harry?" he asked, sitting up.

"Eh?" queried! Ferrers, opening his eyes.

"Where's Harry! Is he out in this storm?"

"I've been dozing," Jim confessed. "I don't know where he is."

"Hear the wind howl," cried Tom, leaping from his bunk and pulling on his shoes. Then he rapidly finished dressing, Jim, in the meantime, lighting the reflector lamp.

"Where on earth can Harry be?" Tom again demanded.

"Maybe in one of the other shacks, with some of the men."

Tom threw open the door. The snow-laden gale, sweeping in on him, nearly took away his breath. Then, after filling his lungs, he started resolutely for the nearest shack.

"Mr. Hazelton in here?" Tom called, swinging open the door.

"No, sir; thought he was with you."

Tom fought his way through the gale to the next shack. Here Tim Walsh had news.

"We came in, sir, when the blizzard got too bad," Walsh explained, "but we found we'd left one of the teams behind in the woods. Mr. Hazelton said he'd go back and get the team. Half an hour later one of the boys here noticed that the team was standing up against the door of the stable shack. So I went out and put up the team."

"Didn't it occur to you to wonder where Mr. Hazelton was?" Tom asked, rather sharply.

"Why, no, sir; we thought he had gone to your shack."

"Mr. Hazelton wouldn't leave horses out in a storm like this one," Tom rapped out briskly. "As a matter of fact he isn't in camp. You men get out lanterns and be ready to go into the woods. We've got to find Mr. Hazelton at the earliest possible moment!"

Twenty minutes later the beams of light from lanterns carried by the men revealed the form of Harry Hazelton, in the woods and nearly covered with snow.

"Pick him up," ordered Tom. "Make the fastest time you can to our shack."

In the shack the fire was allowed to burn low. Harry, still unconscious, was stripped and put to bed.

"Anything you want, let us know, sir," said Tim Walsh, as the men tramped out again.

Then Tom and Ferrers sat down to try to think out the best thing to do for Harry Hazelton.

He was still alive, his pulse going feebly. He had been briskly rubbed and warmly wrapped, and a quantity of hot, strong coffee forced gently down his throat.

After a while Hazelton came to, but his eyes had a glassy look in them.

"You're a great one, old fellow, to go out into the snow and get lost," Tom chided him gently.

"Did—I get—lost?" Harry asked drowsily.

"Yes. Here, drink some more of this coffee. Jim, make a fresh pot. You can stir the fire up a bit now."

"I—want to sleep," Harry protested, but Tom forced him to drink more coffee. Then Hazelton sank into a deep slumber, breathing more heavily.

"He's all right, now, or will be when he has slept," declared Jim Ferrers.

"Is he?" retorted Tom, who held one hand against Harry's flushed face, then ran the fingers down under his chum's shirt. "Jim, he's burning up with fever. That's all that ails him!"

Then Tom placed one ear over Hazelton's heart.

"None too strong," Reade announced, shifting his head. "And here's a wheezy sound in his right lung that I don't like at all."

"You don't suppose it's pneumonia?" asked Jim gravely.

It was congestion of the right lung that ailed Harry Hazelton. But Tom knew nothing of that. Jim Ferrers, who had never been ill in his life, knew even less about sickness.

As for Harry, he lay dangerously ill, with a doctor's help out of the question!

XX. TOM TURNS DOCTOR

The door opened almost noiselessly.

"Shut that door," cried Tom, angrily, without looking around. "Whoever you are, do you know that we have a sick man here"

"Well, the men chased me out of one shack, and wouldn't let me in the other, and I don't want to go near the cook," complained a whining young voice.

It was Alf Drew who uttered the words.

"Shut the door," Tom repeated.

"May I stay here?" asked Alf, after obeying.

"I suppose so, though we have about enough trouble here already. Why did the men chase you out of their shack?"

"They said they couldn't stand the smell of cigarettes," Drew replied.

"I don't wonder at that," muttered Tom.

"They were all smoking. I don't see why I couldn't smoke, too," Alf whined.

"That's just the point," Tom returned. "The men were smoking. Now, as I've told you before, the use of cigarettes isn't smoking at all. You annoyed men who were minding their own business."

"They're a mean lot," complained young Drew. Being cold he went over to the fire to warm himself. Then he drew a cigarette from one of his pockets, and struck a match. Tom Reade, slipping up behind the youngster, deftly took the cigarette away from him, tossing it into the fire.

"You'll have to quit that," Tom ordered sternly. "If I catch you trying to light a cigarette then out you go. We have a man here sick with lung trouble and with a high fever, and we don't propose to have any cigarette smoke around here."

"What am I going to do, then?" asked Alf, after a minute or so spent in a kind of trance.

"Do anything you please, as long as you keep quiet and don't light any cigarettes," Tom suggested, rummaging in the cupboard for a medicine chest that he knew was there.

"But I'll go to pieces, if I can't smoke a cigarette or two," whined the boy.

Tom had the medicine chest in his lap by this time. His hand touched a bottle of pellets labeled "quassia."

"Here, chew on one of these, and you won't need your cigarette," Tom suggested, passing over a pellet.

Alf mutely took the pellet, crushing it with his teeth.

"Ugh!" he uttered disgustedly.

"Don't spit it out," urged Tom. "It's the best thing possible to take the place of a cigarette. Keep it in your mouth until it is all dissolved."

Alf made a wry face, but knew he must obey Tom. So he stuck to the pellet until the last of it had dissolved on his tongue. The pellet was gone, but the taste wasn't.

"Ugh!" grunted the youngster.

"You said that before," urged Tom. "Try to be original. Want another pellet?"

"No; I don't. I wouldn't touch one again!"

"Don't happen to want a cigarette, either, do you?"

"I don't want anything, now, but just to get that taste out of my mouth," Alf uttered.

"All right; go over in the corner and keep quiet. Jim, do you know anything about the use of the medicines in this chest?"

"Not a blessed thing," Ferrers replied regretfully. "I never took as much as a pinhead of medicine in my life."

"But Harry must have something," Tom insisted. "We can't let him lie there and die."

It was one of those ready-made medicine chests that are sold to campers and others who must live at a considerable distance from medical aid. Finding a small book of instructions in the chest, Tom moved over under the strong light and settled himself to read thoughtfully.

Harry tossed restlessly, unmindful of what was going on around him. His heavy, rapid breathing filled the place. Once in a while he moaned slightly, every sound of this kind going through Tom like a knife.

A particularly deep moan caused Tom to shiver and close the book. He went over and felt Harry's hot, drier skin.

"Jim," he directed, "I'm sure that, somehow, we should force the perspiration through his dry, parched skin. Take some of the blankets out of my bunk and spread them over Harry."

"It'll make his fever worse, won't it?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Tom admitted helplessly. "We'd better try it for a while, anyway."

Then Tom stood looking down at the flushed face of his chum, muttering below his breath:

"Harry, old fellow, I wish your mother were here. She'd know just what to do. And for your mother's sake, as well as my own, I've just got to blunder into something that will cure you."

Heaving a sigh, Tom went back under the lamp to read with blurted eyes.

At last he struck a paragraph that he thought bore on the case in hand. He read eagerly, praying for light.

"I've got it, at last," he announced, moving over to the bunk, beside which Ferrers stood.

"Got what?" asked Jim.

"I believe I'm on the track of the right stuff to give poor old Harry."

"What's the name of the stuff you're going to give harry"

"There are three medicines mentioned here," replied Reade, holding up the book. "They're all to be given."

"Three medicines!" gasped Jim. "By the great Custer three are enough to kill a horse!"

"I'm going to try 'em," sighed Tom stolidly. "The poor fellow will die if nothing is done for him."

"Wouldn't it be better," suggested Ferrers, hopelessly, "to try one medicine on the lad and then wait ten minutes. Then, if that doesn't work, try one of the others on him! If that doesn't work then you know that the third kind of stuff is the right sort of bracer."

Despite his great anxiety, Reade could not suppress the smile that Jim's advice brought out. It was plain that Ferrers, good fellow as he was, would be of no use on the medical end of the fight that must be waged.

Tom searched the chest and found the medicines. Then he looked up the doses and started to administer the remedies as directed.

Even over the steadily increasing gale the notes of the supper horn reached them faintly.

"It's too tough weather to expect the cook to bring the stuff over here tonight," said Jim. "So, if you can spare me, I'll go and eat with the boys. Then I'll bring your chuck over to you."

Alf came out of his corner, pulling on the ragged overcoat that he had picked up in a trade with an undersized man down at the Bright Hope Mine.

Left alone, Tom drew a stool up beside the bunk, and sat studying his chum's face.

Twenty minutes later Hazelton opened his eyes.

"You're feeling better, now, aren't you?" asked Tom hopefully.

"I—I guess so," Harry muttered faintly.

"Where does it hurt you most, chum?"

"In—in my chest."

"Right lung!"

"Yes."

"Is the pain severe, Harry?"

"It's about all I can—can stand—old fellow."

"Poor chap. Don't try to talk, now. We're taking good care of you, and we'll keep on the job day and night. You've had some medicine, though you didn't know it. Now, try to sleep, if you can."

But Hazelton couldn't sleep. He tossed restlessly, his face aflame with fever.

Jim Ferrers came back with the supper, but Reade could eat very little of it. Alf Drew did not return. He had made his peace with the workmen.

Through the night Harry grew steadily worse. When daylight came in, with the blizzard still raging, the young engineer was delirious.

XXI. THE WOLVES ON THE SNOW CRUST

The blizzard lasted for two days. Toward the end the temperature rose, with the result that three feet of loose snow lay on top of the harder packed snow underneath.

Harry Hazelton had passed out of the delirium, but he was weak, and apparently sinking. He was conscious, though he spoke but little, nor did poor Tom seek to induce him to talk.

By this time Reade knew the little medicine book by heart. He also knew the label and dose of every drug in the case. But he had not been able to improve upon his first selection of treatment.

"Do you think he's going to die, Jim?" Tom frequently asked.

"What's the use of a strong young fellow like him dying?" demanded Ferrers.

"Then why doesn't he get better?"

"I don't know. But he'll come around all right. Don't worry about that. Strong men don't go under from a cold in the head, or from a bit of wheeze in the lungs."

"But the fever."

"That has to burn itself out, I reckon," replied the Nevadan. "Reade, you'll be sick yourself next. Lay out the medicines, and I'll give 'em, to the minute, while you get six hours' sleep."

"No, sir!" was Reade's quick retort.

"Then, before you do cave in, partner, suppose you pick out the medicines that you want me to give you when you can't do anything for yourself any longer."

Tom went back to his chair by the side of Harry's bunk.

Outdoors some of the men were clearing a path to the mine-shaft. Not that it was worth while to try to do any work underground. The rock at the tunnel heading was too stubborn to be moved by anything less than dynamite.

"I'd get some lumber together, and make a pair of skis," suggested Jim, the next day, "but what is the use? We'll have to have twenty-four hours of freezing weather before we'll have a crust. As soon as we can see snow that will bear a human being I'll start for Dugout City."

"But not for dynamite," declared Tom.

"No; for a doctor, I suppose."

"A physician's visit is the only thing I'm interested in now," Tom declared, glancing at the bunk. "I'd give up any mine on earth to be able to pull poor old Harry through."

On the fifth day, while the weather still remained too warm for the forming of a snow-crust, Harry began to show signs of improvement. He was gaunt and thin, but his skin felt less hot to the touch. His eyes had lost some of the fever brightness, and he spoke of the pain in his chest as being less severe than it had been.

"I've been an awful nuisance here," he whispered, weakly, as his chum bent over him.

"Stow all that kind of talk," Reade ordered. "Just get your strength back as fast as you can. Sleep all you can, too. Get a nap, now, and maybe when you wake up you'll be hungry enough to want a little something to eat."

"I don't want anything," Harry replied.

"He's a goner, sure!" gasped Tom Reade, inwardly, feeling a great chill of fear creep up and down his spine. "It's the first time in his life that I ever knew Harry to refuse to eat."

"The weather is coming on cold," Jim Ferrers reported that evening, when he came back from the coon shack with Tom's supper.

"Is it going to be cold enough to put a crust on the snow?" Reade eagerly demanded.

"If it keeps on growing cold we ought to have a good crust by the day after tomorrow."

"I'll pray for it," said Tom fervently.

Next day the weather continued intensely cold. Jim Ferrers went to another shack to construct a pair of skis. These are long, wooden runners on which Norwegians travel with great speed over hard snow. Jim was positive that he could make the skis and that he could use them successfully.

Harry still remained weak and ill, caring nothing for food, though his refusals to eat drove Reads well-nigh frantic.

The morning after the skis were made, Jim Ferrers, who had relieved worn-out Tom at three in the morning, stepped to the young engineer's bunk and shook him lightly.

"All right," said Reade, sitting up in bed. "I'll get up."

He was out of the bunk almost instantly.

"I'm going to send Tim Walsh in to help you a bit," Jim whispered. "The crust is right this morning, and I'm off for Dugout. Before we forget it give me that nugget."

Tom passed it over, saying solemnly:

"Remember, Jim, you've got to bring a doctor back with you—if you have to do it at the point of a gun!"

"I'll bring one back with me, if there's one left in Dugout," Ferrers promised, fervently.

Fifteen minutes later Jim was on his way. Tim Walsh came in on tip-toe, and seemed afraid to stir lest he make some slight sound to disturb the sleeping sick lad.

"A day or two more will tell the tale, Tim," Tom whispered in the big miner's ear.

"Oh, it isn't as bad as that, sir; it can't be," protested the big fellow in a hoarse whisper. "I reckon Mr. Hazelton is going to get well all right."

"He won't eat anything," said Tom.

"He will when he's hungry, sir."

"Tim, have you ever had any practice in looking after sick people?"

"Quite a bit, sir. When I was a younker I was private in the hospital corps in the Army."

"Why on earth didn't you tell me that before?" Tom gasped.

"Why, because, sir, I allowed that a brainy young man like you would know just what to do a heap better than I would."

"Tim, do you know anything about temperatures and drugs?"

"Maybe I'd remember a little bit," Walsh answered modestly. "It's twelve years since I was in the Army."

Tom brought the medicine case with trembling hands.

"To think that, all the time," he muttered, "I've been longing for a doctor's visit, and yet I've had a man in camp who's almost a doctor."

"No, sir; a long way from that," protested Tim Walsh. "And, besides, I've forgotten a whole lot that I used to know."

Tom rapidly explained how he had been treating Hazelton, according to the directions in the little medicine book. Tim listened gravely. "Was that all right, Tim?" Tom asked, breathlessly, when he had finished.

"I should say about all right, sir."

"Tim, what shall I do next?"

"Do you want me to tell you, sir?"

"Yes, yes, yes!"

"Then I might as well do it, sir, as tell you," Tim drawled out. "Mr. Reade, you're worn to pieces. You get into your bunk and I'll take charge for an hour."

"I want to see you do the things you know how to do."

"Not a thing will I do, Mr. Reade, unless you get into your bunk for an hour," declared Walsh, sturdily.

"Will you call me in an hour, if I lie down?"

"I will."

"You'll call me in an hour?"

"On my honor, Mr. Reade."

Tim Walsh thereupon bundled the young engineer into another bunk, covered him up, and then watched until Tom Reade, utterly exhausted, fell into a deep sleep that was more like a trance.

"But I didn't say in which hour I'd call him," muttered Walsh under his breath, his eyes twinkling. Then he tip-toed over to look at Harry Hazelton, who, also, was asleep. Through the whole day Tom slept nor did the ex-Army nurse once quit the shack.

When dark came Tim Walsh had just finished lighting the lamp and shading it when he turned to find Tom Reade glaring angrily into his eyes.

"Tim, what does this treachery mean?" Reade questioned in a hoarse whisper.

"It means, sir, that you had tired yourself out so that you were no longer fit to nurse your partner. He was in bad hands, taking his medicines and his care from a man as dog-tired as you were, Mr. Reade. It also means, sir, that I've been looking after Mr. Hazelton all day, and he's a bit better this evening. Him and me had a short chat this afternoon, and you never heard us. Mr. Hazelton went to sleep only twenty minutes ago. When he wakes up you can feel his skin and take his pulse, and you'll find him doing better."

"Tim, I know you meant it for the best, and that I ought to be thankful to you," Tom murmured, "but, man, I've a good notion to skin you alive!"

"You'd better not try anything like that, sir," grinned Walsh. "Remember that I'm in charge here, now, and that you're only a visitor. If you interfere between me and my patient, Mr. Reade, I'll put you out of here and bar the door against you."

Tom, though angry at having been allowed to sleep for so long, had the quick good sense to see that the big miner was quite right.

"All right, Tim Walsh," he sighed. "If you can take better care of my chum than I can then you're the new boss here. I'll be good."

"First of all," ordered Walsh, "go over to the cook shack and get some supper. Don't dare to come back inside of an hour, so you'll have time to eat a real supper."

Tom departed obediently. Once out in the keen air he began to understand how much good his day's sleep had done him. He was alive and strong again. Taking in deep breaths, he tramped along the path over to the shaft ere he turned his steps toward the cook shack.

"Come right in, Mr. Reade, and eat something," urged Cook Leon. "This is the first time I've seen you in days. You must be hungry."

"There's a fellow ten times smarter than I who's looking after Hazelton," spoke Tom cheerily, "so I believe I am hungry. Yes; you may set me out a good supper."

"Who's the very smart man that's looking after your friend?" Leon asked.

"Tim Walsh."

"Why, he's nothing but a miner!"

"You're wrong there, Leon. Walsh has been a soldier, and a hospital corps man at that. He knows more about nursing in a minute than I do in a month. Oh, why didn't I hear about Walsh earlier?"

Leon soon had a steaming hot supper on the table. First of all, Reade swallowed a cupful of coffee. Then he began his supper.

"I wonder if Ferrers can get back tonight?" Tom mused, after the meal.

"He might, but a doctor couldn't get here tonight, unless he, too, could move fast on skis," Leon replied.

"Anyway, I'm not as worried as I was," sighed Reade.

The door opened, and Alf Drew entered. That youngster rarely came to the cook shack alone, but the lad learned that Tom Reade was present.

"Sit down and keep quiet, if you're going to stay here," ordered Cook Leon.

Alf went to the corner of the shack furthest from the other two. Tom, watching covertly, saw Alf furtively draw out cigarette and match.

Very softly Drew scratched a match. He was standing, his back turned to the others, over a wood-box.

Click-ick-ick! sounded a warning note.

"Ow-ow-ow-ow!" howled Alf, jumping back, dropping both match and cigarette.

"What's the matter, youngster?" demanded Tom placidly.

"There's a rattlesnake in there under the wood," wailed the boy, his face ashen.

"How do you know?"

"I heard him rattle!"

Leon, too, had heard the sound, and would have started after a poker, intent on killing the reptile, had he not seen Tom shake his head, a twinkle in his eye.

"There are no rattlesnakes about in the dead of winter on this Range," Tom declared positively.

"That one has been keeping hisself warm in the bottom of the wood-box," insisted Alf.

Click-ick-ick!

"There, didn't you hear it?" quivered the cigarette fiend.

"I heard no rattler," declared Tom, innocently. "Did you, Leon?"

The cook thought, to be sure that he had heard one, but he caught the cue from Reade and answered in the negative.

"Go and turn the wood-box out, Leon, to show the young man that there's no snake there," Tom requested.

Just then that task was hardly welcome to the cook, but he was a man of nerve, and, in addition, he reasoned that Reade must know what he was talking about. So Leon crossed the room with an air of unconcern.

"Here's your rattlesnake, I reckon," growled the cook, picking up Alf's dropped cigarette and tossing it toward the boy.

"That's the only rattlesnake on the Range," Tom pursued. "I've been trying to tell Alf that cigarettes are undermining his nerves and making him hear and see things."

Leon unconcernedly overturned the wood-box. Alf, with a yell, ran and jumped upon a stool, standing there, his eyes threatening to pop out from sheer terror.

Leon began to stir the firewood about with his foot.

Click-ick-ick!

Alf howled with terror, and seemed in danger of falling from the stool.

"You'll keep on hearing rattlers, I expect," grunted Reade, "when all the time it's nothing but the snapping of your nerves from smoking cigarettes. The next thing you know your brain will snap utterly."

Click-ick-ick! On his stool Alf danced a mild war-dance from sheer nervousness.

"Come, be like a man, and give up the pests," advised Tom.

"I—I—be-believe I will," half agreed the lad.

Click-ick-ick-ick!

"Didn't you hear that?" quavered the youngster.

"I hear your voice, but no rattlers," Reade went on. "Are you still hearing the snakes? Be a man, Alf! Come, empty your pockets of cigarettes and throw them in the fire."

Like one in a dream Alf Drew obeyed. Then he sat down, and presently he began to recover from the worst of his fright.

When his hour was up, Tom Reade went back to the other shack. Harry was awake, and feeling rather comfortable under big Walsh's ministrations.

Soon after nine that night, the camp lay wrapped in slumber, save in the partner's shack, where the shaded light burned. Tim Walsh was still on duty, while Tom sat half dozing in a chair.

For the first time in days the young chief engineer was fairly contented in mind. He now believed that his chum would surely recover.

Had Tom been outside, hidden and keeping alert watch over the surroundings, his content would have vanished into action.

In the deep darkness of the night, Dolph Gage glided about on the firm snow crust at the further side of the mine shaft. With him, looking more like two evil shadows or spectres, were his two remaining companions.

Most of the time since they had been seen last, Gage and his confederates had been within a mile or so of Reade's camp. They had found a cave in which they had been passably comfortable. For food they had depended upon the fact that the commissary at the Bright Hope Mine was easily burglarized, and that no very strict account was kept of the miners' food. Thus the three scoundrels had managed not only to hide themselves from the law's officers, but to keep themselves comfortable as well.

"Now we can fix these youngsters, and slide back to our hiding place during the excitement," Gage whispered to his two friends. "This crowd is broke. If we fix the mine in earnest tonight they won't be able to open it again. With the dynamite we brought up from the Bright Hope on this sled we can fire a blast that will starve and drive Reade and Hazelton away from the Indian Smoke Range for good and all!"

XXII. DOLPH GAGE FIRES HIS SHOT

"Yes, if we don't blow ourselves to kingdom come in the effort," growled the man known as Josh.

"You're talking bosh!" grunted Dolph. "Why should we blow ourselves up? Is this the first time we've used dynamite!"

"But there's such a lot of the stuff," grunted Josh. "We must have a hundred and fifty sticks on the sled."

"All of that," nodded Gage.

"If the stuff goes oh accidentally, when we're near——"

"Then our troubles will be over," said Gage grimly.

"I'm not so all-fired anxious to have my troubles over that way," grumbled Josh. The other man said nothing, but he looked extremely thoughtful.

"The best way to make the thing sure," Gage went on, "is to get to work before some one comes prowling this way."

"Who's going to prowl?" queried Josh. "The camp is asleep."

"Reade is up; we know that," Dolph insisted.

"Humph! We saw through the window that he's too drowsy to stir."

"Don't be too sure," warned Gage. "He may be only a boy, but he's a sure terror, the way he finds out things! He may be out at any time. Come, we'll hustle, and then get away from here."

"I'm ready," said the third man.

"Then get on to the top ladder," ordered Dolph. "When you're down about fifteen feet, then stop and light your lantern. We'll each do the same."

Dolph waited until the other two had reached the bottom of the shaft and he could see their lanterns. Then he, too, descended, lighting two more lanterns after he reached firm ground.

"Where are you going to set the stuff off?" Josh asked.

"In two places," Gage answered. "One big pile in the tunnel, half-way between the heading and the shaft, and the other at the bottom of the shaft. Get picks and a couple of shovels, and we'll soon lay mines and tamp 'em."

While the men were obeying, Gage reclimbed the ladders. Roping about a third of the dynamite sticks, and passing a loop over one shoulder, he succeeded in carrying the dynamite below. In two more trips he brought down the rest. The fourth trip he came down with a magneto and several coils of light firing wire.

On account of their industry the time slipped by rapidly. As a matter of fact their wicked task occupied them for nearly four hours. However, no sound of what went on underground reached the ears of those who slept in the shacks.

"We're ready for the wiring," announced Josh at last.

"I'll do that myself," said Gage. "I want it well done. Each of you hold a lantern here."

By the light thus provided Dolph attached the light wires so that the electric spark would be communicated to each stick in this "mine." This was done by looping a circuit wire around each separate stick, and connecting the wire with each detonating cap. The dynamite, frozen on the snow crust, had thawed again at this subterranean level.

"Now, for the last tamping," ordered Gage.

While the others worked, Dolph carefully superintended their operations.

At last the tamping was done, and the connecting wires were carried back to the bottom of the shaft.

Here the second mine was connected in the same manner, and the wires joined so that the circuit should be complete.

"One spark from the magneto, now," chuckled Dolph, "and both blasts will go on at once. Whew! This old ridge will rock for a few seconds!"

For a few moments he stood surveying his work with huge satisfaction.

"Now, get up with you," he ordered. "Remember, at the bottom of the last ladder, blow out your lanterns."

"The wires?" queried Josh.

"I'll carry 'em. All you have to do is to get out of here."

In quivering silence the three evil-doers ascended. The light of their lanterns extinguished, they stepped out of the shaft and once more on the hard snow crust.

"Now, take the magneto back about two hundred feet, leaving the wires stretched on the snow," whispered Dolph.

"Who's that coming?" Josh demanded, in sudden alarm, clutching his leader's sleeve.

For an instant all three men quailed. But they remained silent, peering.

"Don't get any more dreams, Josh," Dolph ordered sharply. "There's no one coming. It's all in your nerves."

"I was sure I heard some one coming." Josh insisted in a whisper.

"But you didn't"

"What if some one comes now?"

"No one is coming."

"But if some one should?"

"All the more reason for getting our work done with speed. Once we've connected the magneto and fired the blast our whole job will be done."

Josh, only half-convinced, drew a revolver and cocked the weapon.

"Now, be mighty careful!" snarled Dolph. "Don't get rattled and shoot at any shadows! A shot might spoil our plans tonight, for it would bring men tumbling out this way as soon as they could get out of their bunks and into some clothes. Give me that pistol!"

Josh, hesitating, obeyed, whereupon Dolph Gage let down the hammer noiselessly, next dropping the weapon into a pocket of his own badly-frayed overcoat.

"Now, get the magneto back, as I told you. I'll take care of the wires and see that they don't snap or get tangled."

This latter part of the work was quickly executed. Dolph deftly attached the wires to the magneto, then seized the handle, prepared to pump.

"All ready, now!" he whispered gleefully. "Two or three pumps, and damage will be done that it would cost at least fifteen thousand dollars' worth of material and labor to remedy. The kid engineers haven't the money and can't raise it. They'll have to give up—be driven out. Then we'll send our own man, who has his mineral rights, in here to take possession, and the mine will be ours once more—as it always has been by rights."

"Let us get a little way to the rear before you fire the blasts," pleaded Josh.

"Go back a couple of hundred feet, if you want," assented Dolph. "But don't you run away! Remember that part of your job is to stand by me if we're followed and fired upon."

Josh and his companion carefully made their way back over the crust.

Dolph Gage waited until he saw them to be a sufficient distance away.

"Now, work away, my magneto beauty" muttered Gage, exultantly. "Do your work, straight and true. Drive these upstarts off of Indian Smoke Range and bring my mine back into my own hands! These fool engineers have found no gold in the ridge, but it's there—waiting for me. And—now!"

He pumped the handle of the magneto vigorously. In another instant the spark traveled.

From underground there came a sudden rocking, followed, after a breathless interval, by a loud, crashing boom.

Both blasts had exploded in the same instant, and the dynamite had done its work!

XXIII. TOM BEGINS TO DOUBT HIS EYES

When the shock came it shook the shacks so that nearly all of the sleeping miners became instantly alert.

Harry Hazelton, dozing lightly, sat up in bed, then felt dizzy and lay down again.

"You keep on your pillow, Mr. Hazelton," Tim Walsh ordered, gently. "It isn't your time to sit up yet, sir."

"What was the racket?" asked Harry, anxiously.

"A blast in the mine," Tom Reade answered, truthfully enough.

"I didn't know we had any dynamite left," persisted Harry.

"You haven't been in a condition to know all that has been going on for the last few days," Tom retorted, gently. "Now, don't ask me any more questions, for I've got to go out and see how the blast came along."

As he spoke Tom was hustling into his coat and pulling his cap down over his ears.

Then, full of the liveliest anxiety, the young chief engineer hastened out.

His instant conclusion had been that some treachery was afoot, but whence it came he had no idea. Just now Tom Reade wanted facts, not conjectures.

As he closed the door and hurried across the camp, Tom found the aroused miners flocking out. Several of them bore rifles, for they, too, had guessed treachery.

"Here's the boss!"

"What's happened, Mr. Reade?"

"Men," Tom called softly, "I don't know what's up. But don't talk loudly or excitedly, for Hazelton has been aroused by the noise and the shake, and I've tried to turn it off. Don't let him hear your voices."

"It was in the mine, sir, wasn't it?" asked one man, hurrying to Reade's side.

"It must have been, Hunter. Come along, all of you. We'll go over to the shaft and take a look."

Several of the men were carrying lighted lanterns. At the shaft one of the first evidences they discovered was the wires running back to the magneto.

"Trickery, here!" muttered one of the men. "Mr. Reade, shall we try to pick up a trail and follow it?"

"No," answered Tom, after a moment's thought. "It would be wasted time. Even if you pick up a trail on this frozen crust, which is hardly likely, you couldn't follow it except by lantern light. That would be slow work. Besides, it would show the rascals where you were and how fast you were moving. They could fire at you easily. No; let's have a look at the damage."

Looking down the shaft, with their rim light, from the top, all looked as usual about the shaft.

"Hand me one of the lanterns," called Tom. "Hunter, you take another and come with me."

"Careful, sir," warned another man. "The blasts may not be all over as yet."

Tom Reade smiled.

"The blasts were fired by magneto," he explained. "There can't be any more blasts, unless some enemy should sneak back and adjust the magneto to some other 'mine.' You won't let any one down the shaft for that purpose, I know."

There was a laugh, amid which Tom and Hunter descended. Near the bottom of the third ladder Reade found that the rest of the way down the shaft had been blocked by the smashing of the ladders.

"Go up, Hunter," the young engineer directed, "and start the men to knotting ropes and splicing 'em. We want at least a hundred feet of knotted rope."

Tom waited on the last solid rung while this order was being carried out. By and by Hunter reached him with one end of a long, knotted line.

"Don't pass down any more," Tom called, "until I have made this end fast."

This was soon done, and the rest of the rope was lowered.

"Hunter," Tom asked, "are you good for going down a hundred feet or so on a knotted rope?"

"I don't believe I am, sir."

"Then don't try it. Go up and send down two or three men who feel sure they can do it. But urge every man against taking the risk foolishly. For a man who can't handle himself on a knotted rope it's a fine and easy way to break his neck."

"Are you going down now, sir?"

"At once."

"Then I'll stay here and hold a lantern for you," replied Hunter, doggedly. "I won't stir until I know you're safe at the bottom of the shaft."

"Go ahead up," ordered Tom. "I'm tying a lantern to my coat."

This he was even then doing, in fact, making the knot with a handkerchief passed through one of the button-holes of the garment.

"Why don't you go up, with my message, Hunter?" Tom demanded.

"I'm afraid I can't stir, sir, until I know that you're safe at the bottom."

"Nonsense! What could you do to save me if I lost my hold and fell?" Tom questioned.

"Nothing at all, sir; but I'll feel a heap easier when I know you're safe at the bottom."

"All right, then," called Reade. "Watch me!"

He swung off into space with the skill and sureness of the practiced athlete. A little later Tom touched bottom, calling up:

"Now, get busy, Hunter. I'm all right."

"Are you at the bottom of the shaft, sir?"

"I'm on solid ground, but I'm not sure about being at the bottom of the shaft. I'm afraid the opening to the tunnel has been blocked. Send down two or three men, and then some tools. The tools can come down in the tub, but forbid any men to try that way. The tub is too uncertain and likely to tip over."

"If the tub tips out a pick or two, they might fall on you, sir, and wind up your life," Hunter objected.

"That's a chance to which no good sport can object," laughed Tom. "Go ahead and see that my instructions are carried out."

One of the men came down the rope first. He landed safely, but looked at his hands in the dim light.

"That's a hard road to travel, Mr. Reade," he remarked. "I'll not be much pleased with the trip back."

"It's easy to any one who has had enough practice," Tom observed, mildly.

Then two other men came down in turn.

"We've enough men here," shouted Reade. "Now send tools."

Before long the young engineer had his little force busily engaged.

Of course, many of the timbers had been blown out of the walling of the shaft. There was danger of the dirt caving in on the few workers below.

"Now, you four can keep going, digging straight down and to the eastward," said Tom. "I'm going up to get some more men at work, putting in temporary walling. I don't want any of you men hurt by saving dirt from the sides of the shaft."

All four men stopped work at once.

"What's the matter!" asked Reade.

"Coming down's easy, sir; we're waiting to see you go up that rope."

"Then I'll endeavor not to keep you long away from your tasks," smiled the young engineer athlete.

Grasping the rope just above a knot over his head, Tom gave a slight heave, then went rapidly up, hand over hand. He was soon lost from the little circle of light thrown by the lanterns at the shaft's bottom.

"Not many men like him," remarked one of the miners named Tibbets, admiringly.

"I've been told that's what young fellers learn at college," said another miner, as he spat on his hands and raised his pick.

For two hours Reade attended to the mending of the walling, as the system of laying walls in shafts is termed. Ladders had to be rebuilt even in order to put temporary walling in place.

Then the young chief engineer deemed it time to run over to the partners' shack. He opened the door softly, peeping in. Feeling the draught Tim Walsh turned and came to the door.

"Mr. Hazelton is doing all right, sir."

"Has he asked for me?"

"No, sir."

"If he does, tell him that I'm putting in all night at the mine. If he gets worse run over and get me."

Then Tom went back to his labors.

Dolph Gage and his fellow rascals, owing to their haste, and also to the fact that they did not know as much as they thought they did about laying and tamping blasts, had not done as much harm as they had planned.

By the time that the miners had dug down some four feet, sending up the dirt in the hoist-tub, they came to the opening of the tunnel. Thus encouraged, they worked faster than ever, until a new shift was sent down the repaired ladders to relieve them.

By daylight the men, changing every two hours for fresher details, were well into the tunnel.

Here, for some yards, the tunnel was somewhat choked. After this semi-obstruction had been cleared away, Tom Reade was able to lead his men for some distance down the tunnel. Then they came upon the scene of the late big blast.

Here the rock had been hurled about in masses. A scene of apparent wreck met the eyes of the miners and their leader, though even here the damage was not as great as had been expected by Gage and his rascals.

To the north of the tunnel lay a great, gaping, jagged tear in the wall of rock. This tear, or hole, extended some ten feet to the north of the tunnel proper.

As Tom entered, a glint caught his eye. Something in the aspect of that dull illumination, reflected back to him, made his pulses leap.

He passed his left hand over his eyes, wondering if he were dreaming.

"I—I can't believe it!" he stammered. "Look, boys, and tell me what you see!"

XXIV. CONCLUSION

"It's the gleam of the real metal in the rock, sir—what's what it is," gasped one of the miners, as he held up a lantern to aid him in his quest.

It lay there, in streaks and rifts, a dull gleaming here and there. To be sure, it was nothing at all like a solid golden wall, but Tom Reade could be contented with less than Golconda.

In spots the precious metal showed in darkish streaks, instead of yellow. But these dark streaks showed admixtures of silver.

"Run and get me a hammer, one of you," cried Tom, breathing fast.

When the miner returned with the chisel-nosed hammer he found the young engineer eagerly exploring the whole length of the new wall thus laid bare.

"I knew that a real vein lay here," Tom went on, as he took the hammer. "The only trouble with us, men, was that we were working eight or ten feet south of where the true vein lay. Now, by the great Custer, we've hit it—thanks to the enemy!"

Eagerly Tom chipped off specimens of the rich gold and silver bearing rock. He loaded down two men and carried more himself. Every piece of rock was a specimen of rich ore.

Up the shaft they went, emerging into the sunlight.

"I'd like to know who the scamps were that fired the blasts in the mine," Tom muttered joyously. "I'd like to reward them."

"Party coming, sir," reported a miner, pointing to the southward.

Over the snow came a cutter, drawn by two horses, slipping fast over the snow. From one side of the cutter a pair of skis hung outward.

"That's Jim Ferrers and the doctor from Dugout," Tom breathed. "But who can the other lot of people be."

A pung, drawn also by a pair of horses, contained five men.

Jim was quickly on hand to explain matters.

"I've brought Dr. Scott. He'll have to see Hazelton quickly, and then get back to Dugout," Jim declared. "The doctor is afraid the crust may melt, and then he'll be stalled here with his outfit.

"Those men over there?" inquired Reade, as the pung stopped, and the five men got out "Two of them look familiar to me."

"I reckon," nodded Jim Ferrers. "They're officers—all of 'em. They've come over here to hunt the rocks to the south of here. Up at the jail the keepers worried out of Eb some information about a cave where Dolph Gage hangs out. It seems that Gage and his pals have been stealing supplies at the Bright Hope Mine."

Jim introduced Dr. Scott, who said:

"I must see my patient and be away in an hour. I don't want to get stalled here by a thaw."

So Tom led the way to the shack, and did not see the departure of the law's five officers.

Outside Reade carefully dropped the ore he had brought along and made a sign to his workmen to do the same. Then the partners and the physician went inside.

Tom watched closely while the physician placed a thermometer in Harry's mouth and felt his pulse. Respiration was also counted, after which Dr. Scott produced a stethoscope and listened at Harry's chest and back. A little more, and the examination was completed.

"Gentlemen," announced Dr. Scott, "you've brought me all this distance over the snow-crust to see a patient who is just about convalescent. This young man may have some nourishment today, and by day after tomorrow he will be calling loudly for the cook."

"What has been the trouble, doc?" Hazelton asked.

"Congestion of the right lung, my son, but the congestion has almost wholly disappeared."

A mist came before Tom Reade's eyes. Now that his chum was out of danger Reade realized how severe on him the whole ordeal had been.

As soon as Tom found a chance he asked Dr. Scott:

"Will a little excitement of the happiest kind hurt Hazelton any?"

"Just what kind of excitement?"

"We've had a disappointing mine that has turned over night into a bonanza. I've a lot of the finest specimens outside."

"Bring them in," directed the physician.

Tom came in with an armful.

"Harry," he called briskly, "we were right in thinking we had a rich vein. The only trouble was that we were working eight or ten feet south of the real vein. Look over these specimens."

Tom ranged half a dozen on the top blanket. When Harry's glistening eyes had looked them all over, Tom produced other specimens of ore. Dr. Scott examined them, too, with a critical eye.

"If you've got much of this stuff in your mine, Reade," said the medical man, "you won't need to work much longer."

"Won't need to work much longer?" gasped Tom Reade. "Man alive, we don't want to stop working. When a man stops working he may as well consult the undertaker, for he's practically dead anyway. What we want gold for is so that we can go on working on a bigger scale than ever! And now, Harry, the name for our mine has come to me."

"What are you going to call it?" Hazelton asked.

"With your consent, and Ferrers's, we'll name it the Ambition Mine. That's just what the mine stands for with us, you know."

"The best name in the world," Harry declared.

"And now, young man," said Dr. Scott, addressing Hazelton, "I want you to rest quietly while Tim Walsh sponges you off and the cook is busy making some thin gruel for you. Reade, in order to get you out of here I'll agree to go down in your mine with you."

Dr. Scott proved more than an interested spectator when he reached the tunnel. He possessed considerable knowledge of ores.

"Yes; you have your bonanza here, Reade," declared the physician. "Almost any ambition that money will gratify will soon be yours. From the very appearance of this newly-opened vein I don't believe it is one that will give out in a hurry."

"By the way, Doe," called Ferrers, joining them, "here's that nugget that you wouldn't take when I offered it to you in Dugout. You've made your visit, and now the nugget is yours."

"I don't want it," smiled Dr. Scott. "I want real money, in place of the nugget, and I'll be content to wait for it. The owners of this mine will be welcome to run up a very considerable bill with me."

"Then can you stay a few days?" queried Tom eagerly. "Until good old Harry is wholly out of danger."

"Yes; I'll stay a few days, if you wish it, Mr. Reade."

Finally Jim had the presence of mind to pilot the physician to the cook shack.

Quietly enough the officers from Dugout had reentered camp. With them they had borne one long, covered object—the remains of Dolph Gage, who had been shot and killed while resisting arrest. Gage's two remaining companions had been brought in, handcuffed. These expert sheriff's officers from Dugout had been able to find a trail, even on the hard-frozen snow crust, and had tracked the criminals directly to their cave.

Jim Ferrers went over to where the body of Gage lay on the snow. Gently he turned down the cloth that covered the dead man's face. For a few moments Ferrers gazed at the still face; then, awkwardly, after hesitating, he lifted his hat from his head.

"That man killed your brother, Jim," murmured Tom, stepping up to his Nevada partner. "You had other reasons for hating him. In the old days you would have run Dolph Gage down and killed him yourself. In these newer days you have left Gage to the hands of the law. It is a much better way, and you will never even have to wonder whether you have done any wrong."

"The law's way is always best, I reckon," returned Jim Ferrers, slowly.

That same day, after the officers had gone with their men, Jim Ferrers, finding that the crust was holding, drove fresh horses to the doctor's cutter. The physician remained behind to take care of Harry Hazelton, but Jim went fast toward Dugout City. He was armed with letters from Dr. Scott that told certain dealers in Dugout what unlimited credit the partners ought to have on account of their mine.

Before Harry was sitting up vehicles had been employed to bring to Ambition Mine considerable supplies of dynamite, food and all else that was needed, including half a dozen of the latest books for the amusement of the invalid engineer.

Everything went on swiftly now. More miners, too, were brought over, while the hard crust lasted, and a score of carpenters. Lumber camp also. There was a constant procession of vehicles between Dugout and Ambition Mine. Tom did not hesitate to avail himself of his sudden credit, for every day's work showed that the vein was not giving out. An ore dump was piling up that meant big returns when the ore could be hauled to the smelter.

Ambition Mine proved a steady "payer." No; our young men did not become multi-millionaires. Mines that will do that for three partners are scarce, indeed. Ambition, however, did pay enough so that, by spring, Tom and Harry, after looking over their bank account, found that they could go ahead and furnish their engineer offices on a handsome scale. Some thousands, too, found their way to their families in the good old home town of Gridley.

The mine was turned into a stock company. Tom, Harry and Jim each retained one-fourth interest. The remaining fourth of the stock was divided evenly between Cook Leon and the twenty-four miners who had stood by so loyally, so that now each of the original miners, in addition to his day's pay, owned one per cent. of the gold and silver that went up in the new elevator that replaced the tub-hoist.

Alf Drew did not receive one of the small shares in the mine property. His cigarette smoking had made him lazy and worthless, and he had done nothing to promote the success of the once desperate mining venture.

However, there was hope for Alf. At the time when he threw his remaining "coffin nails" in the cook's fire he really did "swear off," and he afterwards was able to refrain from the use of tobacco in any form. He grew taller and stouter and developed his muscles. Tom and Harry employed him at the mine as a checking clerk, where he actually earned his money, and saved a goodly amount of it every month.

"Tom, you rascal, you promised some day to show me how you scared that boy stiff with your rattlesnake click," Harry reminded his partner.

"Nothing very difficult about it," laughed Tom. "Can you make a noise by grinding your molars together—your grinding teeth? Try it."

Harry did. The noise came forth from his mouth, though it didn't sound exactly like the rattle of a rattler.

"Keep on practicing, and you'll get that rattle down to perfection—that's all," nodded Tom.

Spring found the young engineers restless for new fields. They longed to tackle other big feats of engineering. Jim Ferrers understood, and said to them:

"You youngsters know, now, that you can trust me to run this mine."

"We always knew that we could trust you," Tom corrected him.

"Well, you know it now, anyway. You want to get back into the world. You are restless for new fields to conquer. Go ahead; only come back once in a while and shake hands with old Jim. While you're away I'll send you a monthly statement of your earnings and see that the money is placed to your credit."

On their ride to Dugout, Tom and Harry were favored with the company of Mr. Dunlop, promoter of the Bright Hope Mine.

"I suppose it's a lucky thing for you boys that you stuck to your own mine," said Dunlop. "you've come out a good deal better. I wish I had secured your services, though. We're making some money over at the Bright Hope, but we'd make a lot more with the right engineers in charge. I'm on my way to Dugout to use the telegraph wires in earnest. I've learned that the real way to make money out of a mine is to have a real engineer in charge."

Tom and Harry delayed but a couple of hours at Dugout. Then——

However, their further adventures must be delayed in the narration until they appear between the covers of the next volume in this series. It will be published at once under the title, "The Young Engineers In Mexico; Or, Fighting the Mine Swindlers."

In this new volume will be described what Tom and Harry did in a land of mystery and romance; a land where the sharp contrasts of wealth and squalor have fostered the development of many noble characters and have created some of the vilest among men. The forthcoming story is one filled with the glamour and the fascination of that neighbor-country of hot-blooded men. In Mexico, Tom and Harry encountered their most startling adventures of all.

THE END

THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN MEXICO

or

Fighting the Mine Swindlers

CONTENTS

I. The Land of Golden Eggs

II. The Wolf Who Showed His Teeth

III. Gato Strikes the Up Trail

IV. Tom Does Some Sampling

V. The Mine That Did and Didn't

VI. Watching the Midnight Lights

VII. Don Luis's Engineering Problem

VIII. Dangling the Golden Bait

IX. Don Luis Shows His Claws

X. The Spirit of a True Engineer

XI. A Piece of Lead in the Air

XII. Nicolas Does an Errand

XIII. Pining for the Good Old U.S.

XIV. Next to the Telegraph Key

XV. The Job of Being an Hidalgo

XVI. Two Victims of Rosy Thoughts

XVII. The Stranger in the Tent

XVIII. Craft—Or Surrender?

XIX. The Hidalgo Plans Gratitude

XX. Two Real Signatures

XXI. The Final Touch of Tragedy

XXII. Mr. Haynes Asks a Few Questions

XXIII. The Engineer Turns

XXIV. Conclusion

I. THE LAND OF GOLDEN EGGS

Luis Montez, mine owner, stood on the broad veranda in front of his handsome home, looking out over the country sweeping away to the eastward.

"Gentlemen, you are in a land of golden promise," began Senor Montez, with a smile and a bow. "I should call it more than promise. Why not? My beloved country, Mexico, has been shipping gold to the world ever since the days of Montezuma."

"Yes; in a mineral sense Mexico has truly a golden history," nodded Tom Reade, one of the engineers to whom Montez was speaking.

"And a golden history in every sense," added Senor Montez, with a quick rush of patriotism. "Mexico is the finest country on earth. And, though we are neither as numerous in population, or as progressive as your own great country, still Mexico has greater possibilities than the United States."

Tom was too polite to argue that point. And Harry Hazelton, whom a seventy-mile ride in an automobile over dusty roads, that day, had rendered very drowsy, didn't consider an argument worth while.

"Mexico has almost incredible natural wealth," Montez went on, his voice soft and purring, his eyes glowing with something that might have passed for pride. "Yet, through all the centuries that white men have been here, I am confident that not one per cent. of the country's natural resources has yet been taken from the ground. Enough wealth lies at man's beck and call to change the balance of power between the nations of the world. I have been in your great city, New York. It is a place of tremendous wealth. Yet, within ten years, gold enough can be taken from the ground within a radius of twenty miles of here to buy the whole great city of New York at any sane valuation."

"That purchase would require billions of dollars," broke in the practical Hazelton.

"But the wealth is here," insisted Senor Montez, still smiling. "Truly, caballeros, as I have told you, this is the land of golden—"

Again the Mexican paused, eloquently.

"The land of golden eggs?" suggested Harry.

For an instant there was a flash in the Mexican's eyes. Then the friendly smile reappeared.

"Of course, you jest, senor," he replied, pleasantly.

"Not at all, Senor Montez," Hazelton assured him. "When gold is so plentiful that it can be picked up everywhere, there must be a goose at hand that lays golden eggs. Eggs are among the most common things that we have. When gold nuggets are as large and as abundant as eggs then we may properly call them golden eggs."

Senor Montez, flipped away the cigar that he had finished, and reached for another. This he carefully cut at the end, lighting it with graceful, elegant deliberation. The Mexican was a distinguished-looking man above medium height. A little past forty years of age, he possessed all the agility of a boy of twenty. Frequently his sudden, agile movements indicated the possession of unusual strength. Dark, like most of his countrymen, constant exposure to the tropical sun had made his face almost the color of mahogany. His carriage was erect, every movement instinctive with grace. Clad in a white linen suit, with white shoes, he wore on his head a Panama hat of fine texture and weave.

The house of which the broad veranda was a part, was a low, two-story affair in stone, painted white. Through the middle of the house extended the drive-way leading into a large court in which a fountain played. Around the upper story of the house a balcony encircled the court and around the windows there were also small balconies.

Many servants, most of them male, ministered to the wants of those in the house. There were gardeners, hostlers, drivers, chauffeurs and other employs, making a veritable colony of help that was housed in small, low white houses well to the rear.

Some thirty acres of grounds had been rendered beautiful by the work of engineers, architects and gardeners. Nature, on this estate, had been forced, for the natural soil was stony and sterile, in keeping with the mountains and the shallow valleys in this part of the little and seldom-heard-of state of Bonista.

To the eastward lay, at a distance of some two miles, one of the sources of Senor Montez's wealth El Sombrero Mine, producing some silver and much more gold. At least so the owner claimed.

It was Senor Luis Montez himself who had gone to the nearest railway station, seventy miles distant, and there had made himself known, that forenoon, to the two young engineers from the United States.

Tom and Harry had come to El Sombrero at the invitation of Montez. After many careful inquiries as to their reputation and standing in their home country, Montez had engaged the young men as engineers to help him develop his great mine. Nor had he hesitated to pay the terms they had named—one thousand dollars, gold, per month, for each, and all expenses paid.

Over mountain trails, through the day, much of the way had of necessity been made slowly. Wherever the dusty, irregular roads had permitted greater speed, the swarthy Mexican who had served Senor Montez as chauffeur on the trip had opened wide on the speed. At the end of their long automobile ride Tom and Harry fairly ached from the jolting they had received.

"There are other beautiful features of this gr-r-rand country of mine," the Mexican mine owner continued, lighting his second cigar. "I am a noble, you know, Senor Tomaso. In my veins flows the noble blood of the hidalgos of good old Spain. My ancestors came here two hundred and fifty years ago, and ever since, ours has been truly a Mexican family that has preserved all of the most worthy traditions of the old Spanish nobles. We are a proud race, a conquering one. In this part of Bonista, I, like my ancestors, rule like a war lord."

"You don't have much occupation at that game, do you, senor?" Tom asked, with an innocent smile.

"That—that—game?" repeated Senor Montez, with a puzzled look at his young guest.

"The game of war lord," Reade explained. "Mexico is not often at war, is she?"

"Not since she was forced to fight your country, Senor Tomaso, as you help to remind me," pursued Montez, without a trace of offense. "Though I was educated in your country, I confess that, at times, your language still baffles me. What I meant to say was not 'war lord,' but—but—"

"Over lord?" suggested Reade, politely.

"Ah, yes! Perhaps that better expresses what I mean. In Mexico we have laws, senor, to be sure. But they are not for caballeros like myself—not for men who can boast of the blood of Spanish hidalgos. I am master over these people for many miles around. Absolute master! Think you any judge would dare sign a process against me, and send peon officers of the law to interfere with me? No! As I tell you, I, Luis Montez, am the sole master here among the mountains. We have laws for the peons (working class), but I—I make my own laws."

"Does it take much of your time, may I ask?"

"Does what take much of my time?" repeated Senor Montez, again looking puzzled.

"Law making," explained Tom Reade.

Montez shot a swift look at the young engineer. He wondered if the American were making fun of him. But Reade's face looked so simple and kindly, his eyes so full of interest, that the Mexican dismissed the thought.

"I spend no time in making laws—unless I need them," the Mexican continued. "I make laws only as the need arises, and I make them to suit myself. I interpret the laws as I please for my own pleasure or interests. Do you comprehend?"

"I think so," Tom nodded. "Many of the big corporations in my country do about the same thing, though the privilege has not yet been extended to individuals in the United States."

"Here," continued the mine owner, earnestly, "no man disputes my will. That, of itself, is law. Here no man sues me, for if he attempted to do so, he would go to prison and remain there. If I tell a man to leave these mountains, he does so, for otherwise he would never leave them. If a man annoys me, and I tell one of my trusted servants to attend to my enemy—then that enemy never troubles me further."

"That is interesting—it's so simple and effective!" cried Tom, pretended enthusiasm glowing in his eyes. "Say, but that's practical! A man annoys you, and you send a servant to tell him to stop. Then he stops."

"Because my enemy also vanishes, you understand," smiled Senor Luis, indulgently.

"But doesn't the governor of Bonista ever hear of the disappearances?" suggested Reade, very casually.

"What if he does?" demanded Don Luis, snapping his fingers gayly. "Are not his excellency, the governor, and I, the best of friends? Would he give heed to rumors against me, brought by evil-tongued men? Oh, no! El gobernador (the governor) has, at times, even kindly lent me his troops to make sure that an enemy of mine doesn't travel too far. No! I tell you, Senor Tomaso, I am over lord here. I am the law in these mountains."

"It must be a great comfort, Don Luis—if you have many enemies," suggested Tom Reade smilingly.

"Ah, no! I have no enemies to-day," cried the Mexican. "Why should I? I am generous and indulgent, and the soul of honor. No one has just reason to disagree with me. Here I give all men the round trade—no, what in your country you call the square deal. But you shall see. You are now associated with me in a great, a gr-r-rand enterprise. You shall soon see how just and generous I can be—am always. You shall understand why the son of a noble house need have no foes. Senor Tomaso, I have taken one great liking to you in the few hours that we have been together. And as for you, Senor Henrico—"

With a courtly flourish Don Luis wheeled about to face young Hazelton. But the sound of deep breathing was all that came from Harry. Fatigued by the long, rough automobile ride, that young engineer had dropped fast asleep in the broad porch rocker.

"Your friend is much fatigued," spoke Don Luis, with fine consideration. "If you deem it best, Senor Tomaso, we will arouse him and he shall go to his room for an hour's sleep before the evening meal."

"If his sleeping in the chair doesn't annoy you, Don Luis, my friend will wake up, refreshed, in twenty minutes or so."

"So be it, then. Let him sleep where he is. But you, Senor Tomaso, would you not like to step inside and lie down for a while?"

"No, I thank you," Reade answered. "Unlike Hazelton, I feel very wide awake. When shall we go to the mine?"

"To-morrow, or the next day," replied the Mexican, with a gesture which almost said that "any day" would do. "First, you must both rest until you are wholly refreshed. Then you may want to stroll about the country a bit, and see the odd bits of natural beauty in these mountains, before you give too serious thought to work."

"But that is not our way, Don Luis," Tom objected. "When we are paid a thousand dollars a month apiece we expect to do an honest day's work six days in every week."

"Ah, then, to-morrow, perhaps we will talk about the work. And now, if you will pardon me, I will go inside for a few minutes in order to see about some business matters."

Readers of the "Grammar School Boys Series," the "High School Boys Series" and of the preceding volumes in the present series, will feel that they are already intimately acquainted with Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton, a pair of young civil engineers who, through sheer grit, persistence and hard study had already made themselves well known in their profession.

In the first volume of the "Grammar School Boys Series," Dick Prescott and his five boy chums, Greg Holmes, Dave Darrin, Dan Dalzell, Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton, were introduced under the name of Dick & Co. These six chums, standing shoulder to shoulder, made a famous sextette in school athletics. Their start was made during their grammar school days, when they had many adventures and did much in the field of junior sport. Their high school life, as set forth in the series of that name, was one of athletics, mixed with much study and efforts to find their true paths in life. In high school athletics the members of Dick & Co. won a statewide reputation, as to-day members of winning high school athletic teams are bound to do. It was during their high school days that Dick & Co. determined on their professions through life. Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes both secured competitive appointments to the United States Military Academy, and their further doings are set forth in the "West Point Series." Dave Darrin and Dalzell, with a burning desire for naval life, obtained appointments to the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis. What befell them is fully told in the "Annapolis Series." As for Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton, while still in high school they became seized with a strong desire for careers as civil engineers. They were fortunate enough to secure their first practice and training in a local engineering office in the home town of Gridley. Then, with vastly more courage than training, Tom and Harry went forth into the world to stand or fall as engineers.

Their first experiences are told in the opening volume of this series, "The Young Engineers In Colorado." Joining a western engineering force as "cub" engineers, at first the laughing-stock of the older engineers on the staff of a new railroad then building in Colorado, the two boys did their best to make good. How well they succeeded is known to readers of that volume. Their adventures in the Rocky Mountains were truly astounding; some of them, especially those with "Bad Pete," a braggart and scoundrel of the old school, were sometimes mirth-provoking and sometimes tragic. Other adventures were vastly more serious. When the boys reached the crisis of their work it seemed as though every tree in the mountains concealed an enemy. All these and many more details are told in that first volume.

In "The Young Engineers In Arizona," we found the pair engaged in a wholly new task—that of filling up an apparently unfillable quicksand in the desert so that a railway roadbed might be built safely over the dangerous quicksand that had justly earned the name of the "Man-killer." Here, too, adventures quickly appeared and multiplied, until even the fearful quicksand became a matter of smaller importance to the chums. How the two young engineers persevered and fought pluckily all the human and other obstacles to their success the readers of the second volume now know fully.

Then Tom and Harry, who had been putting in many spare hours, days and weeks on the study of metallurgy and the assaying of precious metals, went, for a "vacation," to Nevada, there further to pursue their studies. Quite naturally they became interested in gold mining itself, and all their adventures, their mishaps, failures, fights and final successes were fully chronicled in the third volume, entitled "The Young Engineers in Nevada." The mine that finally proved a dividend payer was named "The Ambition Mine." A staunch Nevadan, Jim Ferrers, by name, became their partner in the Ambition. Jim, who was an old hand at Nevada mining, was now managing the mine while Tom and Harry, after going East and establishing an engineers' office in a large city not far from New York, had traveled to other states, studying mines and assay methods. Within the last few months, so rapid had been their progress in mine engineering, that they had been consulted by a number of mine owners. Articles that they had written had appeared in journals devoted to mining and engineering, and the fame of our two friends had been rapidly spreading.

Both scrupulously honest in all things, Reade and Hazelton had also won a reputation as "square" mining men. With their skill and honesty established, the opinions of the two partners on mining problems were generally respected wherever they happened to be known.

So, in time, Luis Montez had heard of them, and had decided that he needed their services at El Sombrero (The Hat) Mine in the Mexican state of Bonista. After some correspondence the two engineers had been speedily engaged, and the opening of this volume deals with the time of their arrival at the handsome country house of Senor Montez.

After his host had gone inside, and Harry Hazelton slept on, Tom, who had risen—to bow to Senor Montez, remained on his feet, pacing slowly and thoughtfully up and down the porch.

"Now that I've seen my new employer," mused Tom, under his breath, "I wonder just how much I really like him. He's a polished man, and a charming fellow from the little that I've seen of him. But his talk of ruling these hills, even in life and death—does that speak well for him. Is he a knave, or only a harmless braggart? Is he a man against whom one should be seriously on his guard? Don Luis's manners, in general, I admire, but I don't quite like the cruel expression about his month when he laughs. However, that may be the way of the country, and I may be the victim of prejudice. Anyway, as far as Harry and I are concerned, we needn't worry much about the kind of man Don Luis is. The few thousands of dollars that he will owe us as his engineers we are pretty certain to get, for Don Luis is a very wealthy man, and he couldn't afford to cheat us. For the rest, all he wants us to do is to work hard as engineers and show him how to get more valuable ore out of his mines. So, no matter what kind of man Don Luis may be, we have nothing to fear from him—not even being cheated out of our pay."

Having settled this in his mind, Tom Reade sank into one of the roomy porch chairs, half closing his eyes. He was soon in danger of being as sound asleep as was Harry Hazelton.

Certainly Reade would have been intensely interested had he been able to render himself invisible and thus to step into one of the rooms of the big, handsome house.

In a room that was half office, half library, Senor Luis Montez was now closeted with another man, whom neither of the engineers had yet met. This man was short, slight of build and nervous of action and gesture—a young man perhaps twenty-six years of age. Carlos Tisco was secretary to Don Luis. Tisco was a graduate of a university at the capital City of Mexico, a doctor of philosophy, no mean chemist, a clever assayer of precious metals and an engineer. In a word Dr. Tisco had been so well trained in many fields of science that it was a wonder that Don Luis should feel the need of employing the two young American engineers.

"You have seen my new engineers, Carlos?" queried Don Luis, almost in a whisper, as the two men, bending forward, faced each other over a flat-top desk.

"Through the window shutters—yes, Don Luis," nodded the secretary, a strange look in his eyes.

"Then what do you think of the Gringo pair, my good Carlos?" pursued Don Luis.

"Gringo" is a word of contempt applied by some Mexicans to Americans.

"I—I hardly like to tell you, Don Luis," replied the younger man, with an air of pretended embarrassment.

"Ah! Then no doubt you feel they are not as clever as they have been rated—my two Gringos," smiled the mine owner. "Rest easy, Carlos. It may be better if they be not too clever."

"It—it is that which I fear, Don Luis," replied the secretary, in a still lower voice. "I have been studying their faces—especially their eyes as they spoke. Don Luis, I much fear that they are very clever young men."

"Ah! Then again that is not bad," laughed the master gayly. "If they be clever, then they will not need so much explanation."

Now the secretary became bolder.

"Don Luis, though you have spent many years in the United States, I fear you do not at all understand some traits of the Gringo character," warned Dr. Tisco. "For example, you want these young men for a special service, and you are willing to pay them generously—lavishly in fact. Has it escaped you, Don Luis, that some of these obstinate, mule-headed Gringos are guilty of an especial form of ingratitude which they term honor?"

"I know that some Gringos make much bombastic use of that term, while other Gringos scoff at the word 'honor,'" replied the mine owner, thoughtfully. "But even suppose that these Gringos have absurdly fanciful ideas of honor? They will never guess for what I really want them. Their work will be done, to my liking, and they will go away from here with never a suspicion of the kind of service they have performed for me."

"Pardon me, Don Luis," murmured Dr. Tisco, "but to me they do not look like such fools. They will suspect; they will even know."

"It matters little what they suspect, if they hold their tongues," replied the mine owner.

"You will have to appeal to their love of money, then," suggested the secretary. "You will have to pay them extremely well. Even then they may balk and refuse."

"Refuse?" repeated Don Luis opening his eyes wide. "Carlos, you do not seem to understand how hopeless it would be for them to refuse. I am master here. None knows better than you that I hold life and death in my hand in these mountains. Do not all men hereabouts obey my orders? Will el gobernador ask any awkward questions if two Gringos should stroll through these mountains and never be heard from again? Who can escape the net that I am able to spread in these mountains? The Gringos refuse me—betray me? Are they such fools as to refuse me when they find that I hold their lives in the palm of my hand?"

"They may even refuse your bait with death as the alternative," persisted the secretary. "Don Luis, you know that there are such foolish men among the Gringos."

"Then let them refuse me," proposed Don Luis, jestingly, though his white teeth shone in a savage smile. "If they are difficult to manage—these two young Gringos—then they will quickly disappear, and other Gringos shall come until I find those that will serve me and be grateful for their rewards."

"I wish you good fortune with your great schemes, Don Luis," sighed young Dr. Tisco.

"Carlos, you have not eaten for hours. You are so famished that the whole world is colored blue before your eyes. Come, it is close to the hour for the meal. You shall meet and talk with my Gringos. You will then be able to judge whether I shall be able to tame them."

II. THE WOLF WHO SHOWED HIS TEETH

A rare host at table was Don Luis Montez. He possessed the manner, even if not the soul, of a great nobleman.

His daughter, Francesca, reputed to be a beauty, did not appear at table. So far the young engineers had not met her. They would be presented, however, within a day or two, after the Mexican custom, for Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton were to be guests in the white palace during their residence in this part of Mexico.

Dr. Tisco, too, tried to be most entertaining, and succeeded.

"You are the surgeon at the mine?" Harry ventured.

"A medico?" suggested Dr. Tisco, with a bow of humility. "Ah, no, senor, I have not that honor. I am a doctor of philosophy, not of medicine."

"Then you may be a scientific expert," Harry hazarded. "You are the expert here at the mine?"

"Not so," broke in Don Luis, gently. "It is true that Carlos has some knowledge of chemistry, but he is not a mining expert. He is my secretary, my man of affairs."

"Oh, really the manager of the mine, then?" pursued Harry. "Pardon me if I ask too many questions. I do not mean to be impertinent. But, as we are going to work here I wish to know who's who is Senor Montez' representative."

"Carlos," broke in Don Luis, again, "is rather more than the mine manager. He serves me in a variety of interests, and the mine is only one of them."

"If you wish to know whether you are to be under my instructions," Dr. Tisco continued, "I can assure you that you are not. I seldom give orders except as the direct—I might say the directed—mouthpiece of Don Luis."

"I have a separate manager at the mine," added Don Luis. "You shall meet him to-morrow. His name is Pedro Gato. You will find him a self-opinionated fellow, and one used to having his own way. He has to be somewhat turbulent, or he would never hold some of my peons (laborers) in check. But under the surface you will find Pedro Gato an excellent fellow if you do not rub him too hard the wrong way."

"Gato will not attempt to give us any orders, of course?" Tom asked very quietly.

"Possibly not," dubiously replied Don Luis. "I really do not know. That point has not before come up to me for consideration."

"Then I hope you will make it clear to Senor Gato, Don Luis, that we are engineers, wholly in charge of our own work; that we have been engaged as experts and that we manage our own work in the way that appears to us best to serve our employer's interests."

"That can all be arranged very amicably, I am certain," replied Don Luis, as though to dismiss the matter for the present.

Dr. Tisco, covertly, was intently watching the eyes and faces of the young engineers. The secretary was most anxious to take an accurate measure of these two young Americans, who were now highly \ important to his plans.

After the evening meal, Don Luis summoned a number of his home retainers, who played mandolins and guitars. Some of them sang with considerable sweetness and power. The full moon, soon to wane, shed lustrous light over the tropical scene of beauty. It was a delightful evening. Tom and Harry, when they retired, found themselves ready to sleep instantly. Their bedrooms opened into a common parlor. Early in the morning they were astir.

"What shall we wear, Tom?" inquired Hazelton, going toward his trunks.

"Eh?"

"I wonder what people wear in Mexico," Harry continued. "I don't want to make any mistake in my clothing."

"The best clothing for engineers about to go down into a mine will be top-boots, khaki trousers and flannel shirts."

"But will that be suitable to go to breakfast in?" Harry asked. "Will it be showing sufficient courtesy to our host? And suppose the daughter should be at table?"

"That's so," Reade nodded. "I am sorry that we didn't fish for points last evening."

A knock came at the door.

"Aqui!" (here) Tom answered.

The door opened slowly. A man servant of perhaps twenty-five years, attired in clean white clothes, but bare-footed, stood in the doorway, bowing very low.

"Buenos dias, caballeros!" (good morning, gentlemen) was his greeting.

Tom invited him to enter.

"Caballeros," announced the peon, "I am your servant, your slave, your dog! My name is Nicolas."

"How do you do, Nicolas," responded Tom, holding out his hand, which the Mexican appeared too dazed, or too respectful to take. "We may find a servant useful. But we never kept slaves, and we wouldn't dream of calling any man a dog."

"I am your dog, caballeros," Nicolas asserted. "I am yours to do with as you wish. Beat me, if I do not perform my work well."

"But I wouldn't beat a dog. Almost any dog is too fine a fellow to be served in that fashion," Tom explained.

"Caballeros, I am here to receive your pleasure and commands concerning breakfast."

"Is it ready?" demanded Harry hopefully.

"The kitchen is open, and the cooks there," Nicolas responded. "When your excellency's orders have been given the cooks will prepare your meal with great dispatch."

"Has Don Luis come down yet?" Tom inquired.

"No; for his great excellency has not yet eaten," answered the peon.

"Oh! Then your master eats in his own room?" Tom asked.

"Don Luis eats always his breakfast in bed," Nicolas told them.

"Then I guess we were too fresh, Tom, in getting up," laughed Harry.

As this was spoken in English, Nicolas, not understanding, paid no heed. Tom and Harry, on the other hand, had a conversational smattering of Spanish, for in Arizona they had had a large force of Mexican laborers working under them.

"Nicolas, my good boy," Tom went on, "we are quite new to the ways of Mexico. We shall have to ask you to explain some matters to us."

"I am a dog," said Nicolas, gravely, "but even a dog may speak according to his knowledge."

"Then of what does the breakfast here usually consist?"

"Of anything in Don Luis's larder," replied the peon grandly.

"Yet surely there must be some rule about the meal."

"The only rule, excellency, is the pleasure of the host."

"What does Don Luis, then, usually order?"

"Chocolate," replied the servant.

"Nothing else?"

"And a roll or two, excellency."

"What does he eat after that?" Harry demanded, rather anxiously.

"Nothing, caballero, until the next meal."

"Chocolate and a roll or two," muttered Harry. "I am afraid that wouldn't hold me through a day's work. Not even a forenoon's toil. I never did like to diet on a plan of tightening my belt."

"Anything for which the caballero will ask shall be brought," replied Nicolas, with another bow.

"How about a steak, Tom?" Harry asked, turning to his chum.

"Pardon, excellency, but we have no such thing here," Nicolas interposed, meekly.

"Eggs?" Harry guessed.

"Excellency, we shall hope to have some eggs by to-morrow,"

"Harry, you idiot, why didn't you ask for mince pie and doughnuts, too?" laughed Reade.

"Nicolas, my boy, the trouble with me," Harry explained, "is that chocolate and rolls will never hold my soul and body together for more than an hour at a time. Chocolate and rolls by all means, but help us out a bit. What can we call for that is more hearty."

"There are tortillas to be had sometimes," the servant answered. "Also, sometimes, frijoles."

"They both sound good," Harry assented vaguely. "Bring us some."

"Caballeros, you shall be served with the speed at which the eagle flies!" exclaimed the servant. With a separate bow to each he withdrew, softly closing the door after him.

"Now Harry, let's hustle into some clothes," urged Tom. "Since we are to eat here mine clothes will be the thing. Hustle into them!"

Bred in the ways of the camps, ten minutes later Tom and Harry were washed, dressed and otherwise tidy in every respect.

"I've a mind to go outdoors and get some glimpses of the scenery for a few minutes," Harry hinted.

"Don't think of it. You don't want to come back to a cold breakfast."

So both seated themselves, regretting the absence of morning newspapers.

Then the time began to drag. Finally the delay became wearisome.

"I wonder how many people Nicolas is serving this morning?" murmured Hazelton, at last.

"Everyone in the house would be my guess," laughed Tom. Still time dragged by.

"What on earth will Don Luis think of us?" Harry grunted.

"There is only one thing for it, if this delay lasts any longer," Tom answered. "If this delay lasts much longer we shall have to put off breakfast until to-morrow and get to work."

"Put off breakfast until to-morrow?" Hazelton gasped. "That's where I draw the line. Before I'll stir a step from here I must have at least food enough to grubstake a canary bird."

Some minutes later, Nicolas rapped at the door. He then entered, bearing a tray enveloped in snowy linen. This tray he put down, then spread a tablecloth that he had brought over one arm.

"Will you be seated, caballeros?" he asked, respectfully, as he took his stand by the tray. Then he whisked away the linen cover. Gravely he set upon the table a pot of chocolate, two dainty cups and saucers and a plate containing four rolls.

"Where's the butter, Nicolas?" asked Harry.

"Butter, caballero? I did not understand that you wished it. I will get it. I will run all the way to the kitchen and back."

"Never mind the butter this morning, Nicolas," spoke up Tom, at the same time kicking Harry gently under the table.

"Can I serve you further, now, caballeros" inquired Nicolas, with great respect, "or shall I bring you the remainder of your breakfast?"

"Bring us the rest of the breakfast, by all means," begged Harry, and the servant left them.

"Why did you tell him not to mind the butter?" grunted Hazelton.

"Because," Tom answered, "it struck me that, in Mexico, it may not be customary to serve butter in the morning."

Harry took a bite of one of the rolls, finding it to be soft, flaky and delicious. Then he removed another linen covering from the pot and started to pour the chocolate. That beverage did not come as freely as he had expected.

"What ails the stuff?" grunted Hazelton. "This isn't the first of April."

Then Harry removed the lid from the pot, glancing inside, next he picked up a spoon and stirred the contents of the pot.

"I wish Nicolas were here," said Hazelton.

"Why?" Tom wanted to know.

"I'm bothered about what's etiquette in Mexico. I don't know whether it's right to eat this stuff with a knife, or whether we're expected to spread the stuff on the rolls."

"It is pretty thick stuff," Tom agreed, after taking a look. "But let me have the pot and the spoon. I think I can manage it."

After some work Tom succeeded in reducing the chocolate to a consistency that admitted of pouring, though very slowly.

"It took you almost three minutes to pour two cups," said Harry, returning his watch to his pocket. "Come on, now! We've got to make up for lost time. What will Don Luis think of us? And yet it is his household arrangements that are keeping us away from our work."

Chocolate and rolls were soon disposed of. Then the two engineers sat back, wondering whether Nicolas had deserted them. Finally, both rose and walked to stretch their legs.

"No restaurant in New York has anything on this place for slow-march service!" growled Hazelton.

As all things must come at last, so did Nicolas. He carried a tray and was followed by a second servant, bringing another.

The tortillas proved to be, as Harry put it, "a cross between a biscuit and flapjack." The frijoles were just plain boiled beans, which had evidently been cooked on some other day, and were now mushy. But it was a very solid meal that now lay before them, and the young engineers ate heartily.

"Will the caballeros have some more chocolate?" suggested Nicolas.

"Not now," said Hazelton. "But you might order some for to-morrow's breakfast, and then we shan't have to wait for so long next time."

The additional servant had gone, noiselessly, but Nicolas hovered about, silently.

At last the meal was finished. Tom had chewed his food thoroughly, what he had eaten of it, but Harry, in his hunger, had eaten hurriedly.

"Now we'll have to find Don Luis and apologize," hinted Tom. "Hereafter I can see that we shall have to rise much earlier. Confound it, it's a quarter of nine, already."

The two youngsters hastened out to the veranda. A man servant was lazily dusting and placing porch chairs.

"Has Don Luis gone to the mine?" asked Tom in Spanish.

"Don Luis?" repeated the servant, in evident astonishment. "Presently his excellency will be dressing."

"Thank you," nodded Tom, and paced the veranda, leisurely. "Harry, we didn't make such a bad break after all, then. Plainly Don Luis didn't plan an early start."

"Is Dr. Tisco around?" asked Harry, of the servant.

"The learned doctor must be dressing by this time, caballero," replied the servant respectfully.

"Hm!" mused Harry. "Can it be that the people in Bonista do their work at night?"

"Oh, I'll wager the poor peons at the mine have been at work for some time," Tom smiled. "Anyway, I'm glad we haven't kept everyone else waiting."

At half-past ten o'clock Dr. Tisco appeared, immaculate in white. He bowed low and courteously to the guests.

"I trust, caballeros, that you have enjoyed perfect rest."

"Yes," answered Harry. "And now we're fidgeting to get at work. But, of course, we can't start for the mine until Don Luis gives us the word, and we are at his pleasure."

"It is nearly time for Don Luis to appear," said Tisco gravely.

"Is he always as late as this?"

"Here, Senor Hazelton, we do not call eleven o'clock a late hour for appearing."

Twenty minutes later Don Luis appeared, clad in white and indolently puffing at a Mexican cigarette.

"You will smoke, gentlemen?" inquired their host, courteously, after he had inquired concerning their rest.

"Thank you," Tom responded, pleasantly. "We have never used tobacco."

Don Luis rang and a servant appeared.

"Have one of my cars ordered," commanded Don Luis.

Ten minutes later a car rolled around to the entrance.

"You will come with us, Carlos?" inquired Don Luis.

"Assuredly, Don Luis," replied the secretary, in the tone of a man who was saying that he would not for worlds miss an expected treat.

It was a seven-passenger car of late design. Into the tonneau stepped the two Mexicans and the two young engineers.

"To the mines," ordered Don Luis.

"Do you wish speed, excellency?" inquired the chauffeur.

"No; we will go slowly. We may wish to talk."

Gravely, in military fashion, the chauffeur saluted, then allowed the automobile to roll slowly away.

"It is not an attractive road, after we leave the hacienda," explained Don Luis Montez to Tom. "It is a dusty road, and a somewhat hard one. The mining country is not a beautiful place in which to live."

"It is at least more beautiful than the country in which our mine is located," Tom replied.

"Are you gentlemen, then, mine owners as well as mine experts?" inquired their host.

Tom told Don Luis briefly about their mine, the Ambition, in the Indian Smoke Range, Nevada.

"And is your mine a profitable one?" inquired the Mexican.

"It hasn't made us millionaires," Tom rejoined, modestly, "but it pays us more money, every month, than we really need."

Don Luis glanced covertly at his secretary, with a look that conveyed:

"If these young Gringos have all the money they want, and more, then we may find it difficult to appeal to their avarice."

Dr. Tisco's return glance as much as said:

"I am all the more certain that we shall find them difficult."

Don Luis commented to the two young men on the country through which they were passing. Finally the car drew up before the entrance to El Sombrero Mine. There was the shaft entrance and near it a goodly-sized dump for ore. Not far from the entrance was a small but very neat looking office building, and a second, still smaller, which might have been a timekeeper's office.

"Hello, Pedro!" called Don Luis.

Out of the office building sprang a dark-featured Mexican, perhaps forty years of age. He was truly a large man—more than six feet in height, broad of shoulder and deep of chest, a splendid type of manhood.

"My good Gato," purred Don Luis, "pay your respects to Los Caballeros Reade and Hazelton."

Gato approached, without offering his hand. His big, wolfish eyes looked over the young American pair keenly.

"So Don Luis has brought you here to show whether you are any good?" said the mine manager, in a voice as big as his frame. "I shall soon know."

Before the big, formidable manager Harry Hazelton remained silent, while Don Luis and his secretary slid softly into the office building.

"Gato, just what do you mean by your remark?" asked Tom Reade, very quietly.

"I mean that I shall put you at work and find out what you can do," leered the mine manager.

"Mistake number one!" rejoined Tom coolly. "I do not understand that you have any authority to give us orders."

"You shall soon learn, then!" growled the man. "I am the mine manager here."

"And we are the engineers about to be placed in charge," Tom continued. "If we stay, Gato, you will assist us in all ways that you can. Then, when you have received our instructions you will carry them out according to the best of your ability."

The two looked each other sternly in the eyes, Pedro Gato appearing as though he enjoyed young Americans better than any other food in the world. Indeed, he might have been expected to eat one of them right then and there.

Behind a shade in the office building Dr. Tisco stirred uneasily.

"What did I say to you, Don Luis?" inquired the secretary. "Did I not suggest that these Gringos would not be easily controlled?"

"Wait!" advised Don Luis Montez. "Wait! You have not yet seen what my Gato will do. He is not a baby."

"These Gringos will balk at every hour of the day and night," predicted Dr. Tisco.

"Wait until you have seen my good Gato tame them!" chuckled Don Luis, softly.

III. GATO STRIKES THE UP TRAIL

"When you speak to me, Gringo," bellowed Pedro Gato, "you will—"

"Stop, Greaser!" shot back Tom, sternly, though he did not even stir or raise his hands.

"Greaser?" bellowed Pedro Gato. "That is foul insult!"

"Not more so than to call me a Gringo," Tom Reade went on coolly. "So we are even, though I feel rather debased to have used such a word. Gato, if you make the mistake, again, of using an offensive term when addressing me, I shall—well, I may show a somewhat violent streak."

"You?" sneered Gato. Then something in the humor of the situation appealed to him. He threw back his head and laughed loudly.

"Gringo," he began, "you will—"

"Stop that line of talk, fellow," commanded Tom quietly. "When you address me, be good enough to say either 'senor' or 'sir.' I am not usually as disagreeable as this in dealing with my fellow men, but you have begun wrong with us, Gato, and the first thing you'll have to learn to do will be to treat us with proper courtesy."

From the shaft entrance showed the faces of four grinning, wondering Mexicans of the usual type. The talk had proceeded in Spanish, and they had been able to follow it.

As for the mine manager, his bronzed face was distorted with rage. The veins near his forehead were swelling. With a sudden roar, Pedro Gato sprang forward, aiming a blow with his open right hand at Reade's face.

Bump! That blow failed to land. It was Gato, instead, who landed. He went down on his back, striking the ground with jarring force.

"What did I say?" whispered Dr. Tisco.

"Wait!" responded Don Luis, with a shrug of his shoulders.

Well-nigh frothing at the mouth, Pedro Gato leaped to his feet. All was red now before his eyes. He rushed forward bellowing like a bull, intent on crushing the young American who had dared to treat him thus.

Tom's left fist drove into the fellow's unguarded face. His right followed, and Gato, big as he was, staggered back. Tom's right foot performed a trip that sent the big Mexican bully to earth again.

"Now get up, Gato, like a man of intelligence, and behave yourself," advised Reade coolly. "Just because we have had a bad introduction is no reason why we should continue enemies. You treat me with proper respect and I'll do as much for you."

But Gato snarled like a wild beast. He was not armed. With every man in these Bonista mountains afraid of him, Gato had never felt the need of carrying weapons. But now he plunged to the doorway of the shaft house, then came bounding back, flourishing a knife that he had snatched from one of the peons.

"Back! Back, Gato!" shouted Dr. Tisco, rushing from the office building.

To the secretary Gato paid no heed. He was close to Tom now, circling cautiously around the young engineer. Harry, though not at all minded to bolt, had stepped back far enough to give Reade elbow room.

"Stop, Gato!" shouted Don Luis. "It is I who command it—I, Don Luis. Throw your knife on the ground."

Gato snarled, but he was cowed. The brutal manager held his employer in awe. He was about to cast his weapon down when Tom Reade interposed.

"Don Luis, I ask you to let the fellow go on. This question will have to be settled right before we can proceed. This fellow is only a coward, or he wouldn't need a knife in fighting with a man half his size."

"Better throw away your knife, my good Gato," purred Don Luis, "or Senor Reade will shoot you."

"I won't," Tom retorted. "I couldn't, anyway. I am not armed. I never was enough afraid of any one to carry weapons. But let Gato go on with his knife. If he fails, then I shall hit him until my arm aches."

"Stop, Senor Reade! I command it!" cried Don Luis, imperiously. "And you, Gato, throw down your knife. I will not have fighting here among men who must be friends."

But Gato, after hearing himself described as a coward, saw only red before his eyes. He must have this Gringo's life, and that quickly. Afterwards he would explain and seek Don Luis's pardon.

"If you prefer, Gato, we will shake hands and forget this," suggested Tom Reade.

"Ah, so you are afraid?" sneered the mine manager.

"Try me and see, if you prefer that," Tom retorted.

With a snarl Gato circled closer. Don Luis Montez snatched from one of his pockets a silver-mounted revolver, but Hazelton caught the flash and in the next instant he had wrenched the pistol away from the mine owner.

"This is Reade's fight, Don Luis," Harry explained.

"Hand back my pistol instantly," hissed Don Luis.

"Not until the fight is decided, Don Luis," Harry rejoined. Slipping the weapon into one of his own pockets he retreated a few yards.

Suddenly Gato sprang, the knife uplifted. Tom Reade leaped in the same fraction of a second. Tom's shoulder landed under Gato's right shoulder, and the knife did not descend. Like a flash Tom bent as he wheeled. Gripping the mine manager by the captured arm, Tom threw him forcefully over his own shoulder. Pedro Gato landed, half-dazed, on the ground. Tom, snatching the knife, hurled it as far as he could throw it.

Snarling, the big fellow started to rise. As he did so Tom Reade's fist landed, sending the Greaser bully to earth. The big fellow made several efforts to rise, but each time Tom's fist sent him flat again, until a final heavy blow silenced him.

"Don Luis," explained Tom, quietly, turning and bowing, "I can't begin to tell you how much I regret this unavoidable scene. When I encountered this big bully I was at once tempted to resign my position here with you, for I realize, of course, that I cannot hope to go on with any such man in a position where I would have to depend so much upon his cheerful and friendly service. I would have resigned, but I realize, Don Luis, how much expense you have gone to in the matter of getting us here, and I know, also, that there might be a good deal of delay in getting some one else to take our places."

"Gato will not trouble you again," promised Don Luis, bowing charmingly.

"Of course not, sir," Tom rejoined. "I couldn't work here and let him go on annoying me all the time. Don Luis, I shall have to crave your indulgence to the extent of discharging this fellow and securing another manager who is less of a wild beast and more of a man."

"Oh, but I cannot let Pedro Gato go," protested Don Luis, quickly. "He is too old an employ, too valuable a man. No other could manage my peons as he does."

"Let me go!" begged Gato, harshly. "Let me go, that I may have all my time to myself that I may find the best way to avenge myself on this miserable Gringo. Don Luis, do not think of attempting to keep me penned in El Sombrero. I must be idle that I may have the more time to think."

Tom remained silent. He had stated his case, and the decision must be found by Don Luis.

"For many reasons," whispered Dr. Tisco, "let Gato go. For either good or bad reasons it will be best to let him go."

"You are right, Carlos," nodded the mine owner quickly. Then, raising his voice:

"My good Gato, you shall have your wish," he went on, in his purring tone. "Yet do not think there is anger behind my words. I let you go because it is your wish. I do not so decide that I may humiliate you, but because you have served me well. When you need a friend, Gatito, you will know to whom to send word. Go your way in friendship."

Even Tom Reade, with his somewhat scant knowledge of Spanish, was quick to note, mentally, the meaning of that term, "Gatito," which meant "little Gato," and was used as a term of affection. It was a form of telegraphy that was not wasted on the departing mine manager, either, for it told him that Don Luis had some excellent reason for thus quickly falling in with the wishes of the new American chief engineer.

With a grateful smile at Don Luis, then with a scowl of unutterable hatred flung in Tom Reade's direction, Pedro Gato next turned on his heel and strode up the path.

From his pocket Harry Hazelton drew forth the silver-mounted revolver and approached the owner of the mine.

"Allow me to return this to you, Don Luis," urged Hazelton. "I must also apologize for having snatched it from you so rudely. I did not know what else to do, for I feared that you intended to interfere in the quarrel."

"And what if I had so intended?" asked the Mexican mine owner, with one of his puzzling smiles.

"Just this," Harry answered, candidly. "Mr. Reade never gets into a fight if he can help it. When he does find himself in one I have learned, from long experience, not to interfere unless he calls for help. So I did not want any one to interfere between him and Gato."

"It was a most unfortunate affair," said the Mexican. "Senor Tomaso, I must warn you that Pedro Gato is one who never forgives an injury. He will devote himself to thoughts of a revenge that shall be terrible enough to satisfy his wounded feelings. You will do well to be on your guard."

Tom smiled as he replied:

"Don Luis, I trust that I have seen the last of the fellow."

"Be assured that you have not seen the last of him, Senor Tomaso."

"Then it may go hard with Gato," smiled Tom, carelessly. "But I trust I have not offended you in this matter, Don Luis. If I have, I am willing to withdraw, and I will reimburse you for the expense you have incurred in bringing us here."

"I shall not let you go," smiled the Mexican, "unless you feel that you no longer wish to remain in the same country with Pedro Gato."

"That thought has not entered my mind, sir," Reade responded, almost stiffly.

"Then we will say no more about the matter, and you will remain," nodded the Mexican. "And now we will go down into the mine and give you your first chance to examine our problems there."

As they entered the shaft house it was discovered that the elevator cage was at the foot of the shaft. While they waited for the cage to come up, keen Dr. Tisco whispered to Tom:

"Senor Reade, night and day you must be unceasingly on your guard against Gato. In these mountains a hundred men will follow his beck and call."

"If they are all like him, then Gato should turn bandit," laughed young Reade.

"It is not unlikely that he will do so," sighed Tisco, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "In Mexico, when a defeated man seeks blood revenge it is no uncommon thing for him to turn bandit until he has accomplished his hope of a terrible revenge. Then, afterwards, if the bandit has annoyed the government enough, and has repeatedly escaped capture, the bandit makes his peace with the authorities and receives his pardon."

The cage arriving at this moment, the four men entered, and started downward. Three hundred and sixty feet from the earth's surface Don Luis led them from the car into a tunnel.

"I will now show you," promised Don Luis, "something of the problem that confronts the engineers of this mine."

"Keep your eyes open, and your wits about you, Harry," whispered Tom Reade. "I may be wholly wrong, yet, somehow, I can't quite rid myself of a notion that Don Luis wants us for some piece of rascally work, though of what kind I can't imagine."

"I shall watch these two Gringos like a cat," reflected Dr. Tisco. "I half suspect that they will foolishly sacrifice their lives sooner than serve us."

IV. TOM DOES SOME SAMPLING

At sight of Don Luis's party a Mexican foreman came running forward.

"How runs the ore this morning?" asked Don Luis.

"Not quite as well as usual, excellency," replied the man, with a shrug of his shoulders.

"How! Do you mean to tell me that the ore is running out for a streak!"

"Oh, no, excellency. Yet it is the poorest ore that we have struck for a fortnight. However, it will pay expenses and leave something for profit, too, excellency."

"Show us what you have been doing," Don Luis directed.

Leading the way with a lantern that threw a brilliant light, the foreman went on down the tunnel to the heading. As he neared the end of the tunnel the man called loudly and a number of workmen stepped aside.

As they reached the spot, Tom's quick eye saw that the morning's blasts had loosened some eight tons or so of ore. Drillers stood ready to drive through the rock for the next blast.

"Let us look at the ore, Senor Tomaso," suggested the mine owner.

Tom began to delve through the piles of shattered, reduced rock. The foreman held the lantern close, that the young engineer might have all the light he wanted, and called to miners to bring their lights closer.

Then Harry, also, began to examine the rock. For some minutes the two young engineers picked up specimens and examined them.

"What do you make of it?" inquired Don Luis Montez at last.

"Is this what you call a run of poor luck?" Tom asked the foreman, dryly.

"Yes, senor; rather poor," answered the foreman.

"Then it must be rather exciting here when the ore is running well," smiled Tom. "At a guess I should say that this 'poor' stuff before us will run thirty dollars to the ton."

"It usually runs fifty, senor," broke in Don Luis. "Sometimes, for a run of a hundred tons, the ore will show up better than seventy-five dollars per ton."

"Whew!" whistled Reade. "Then no wonder you call this the land of golden promise."

"By comparison it would make the mines in the United States look poor, would it not?" laughed the mine owner.

"There are very few mines there that show frequent runs of fifty dollars to the ton," Harry observed.

"Are you going to clear out this ore, and send it to the dump" Tom asked the foreman.

"Yes."

"Then I would be glad if you would do so at once," Tom remarked.

For answer the Mexican foreman stared at Tom in a rather puzzled way.

"I will do so as soon as I am ordered," he responded, respectfully.

"All right," returned Reade. "I'll give you the order. Clear this stuff out and get it up in the ore cage. Clear this tunnel floor with all the speed you comfortably can."

"Perhaps the senor will explain?" suggested the foreman.

"These caballeros are the new engineers in charge of the mine," said Dr. Tisco.

"Ah! So? Then if Pedro Gato will only give the order—" began the foreman.

"If Pedro Gato gives you any orders," Tom suggested, briskly, "you will ignore them. Pedro Gato is no longer connected with the mine."

"Not connected?" gasped the foreman, who plainly doubted his ears.

"No," broke in Don Luis. "You will take no more orders from Gato. These caballeros are the engineers, and they are in charge. You heard the order of Senor Reade. You will clean out this tunnel, sending the ore above to the dump."

"It shall be done," cried the foreman, bowing low before the mine owner.

"And now, Senor Tomaso, if it suits you, we will go to another tunnel," proposed Don Luis.

"Very good, sir," Tom assented. "What had been in my mind was to order the drillers at work here and see a blast made."

"We can be back long before the next blast can be prepared," replied Montez. "Carlos, lead the way to tunnel number four."

The secretary turned, retracing his steps, Don Luis bringing up the rear.

"Oho! I have dropped my cigar case," remarked Don Luis a minute later. "I will go back and get it."

The others waited near the shaft. Tom wondered, slightly, why Dr. Tisco had not volunteered to go back after his employer's missing cigar case.

Presently Don Luis appeared.

"Now we will go to number four," he said.

The cage carried them to a lower level. Here another foreman came forward to meet them and to conduct them to the heading. Here were some five tons of rock. Tom and Harry found it to be about the same grade of ore as that seen above.

"Is this ore as good as you usually find in this vein?" Tom inquired of the second foreman.

"Not quite, senor, though to-day's blasts have turned out to be very fair ore," responded the foreman.

"I should say it is good ore," Tom remarked dryly. "Now, will you set the shovelers at work moving this stuff back a little way? I want to see a new drilling made and watch the results of the blast."

"If Pedro Gato—" began the foreman, reluctantly.

"Pedro Gato has nothing to do with this," Tom answered quickly. "Mr. Hazelton and I are privileged to give such orders as we deem best. Will you kindly tell the foreman so, Don Luis?"

"It is quite true," replied the mine owner. "Gato is no longer with us, and these gentlemen are in charge."

"Then I will have the ore moved back at once," agreed the foreman.

"But first we will go back out of the dirt and out of the danger from the blast," spoke Don Luis, using a good deal the tone of an order.

"The rest of you may go back," suggested Reade. "But I wish to see the drilling done."

"It is unnecessary, Senor Tomaso," smiled Don Luis, blandly. "Come back with us."

"I must see the men work, Don Luis, if I am to understand the work here," Tom rejoined, very quietly, though with a firmness that was wholly apparent.

"Oh, very good then," smiled Montez, with a shrug of his shoulders.

Three of the inspecting party went back, but Tom remained close behind the drillers. Twice he stopped them in their work, to collect small samples of the pulverized stuff that the drills turned back. These specimens he placed in sample envelopes and stored in his pockets. From the ore that was being shoveled back he chose other small specimens, labeling the envelopes in which he stored them.

By the time that the ore had been shoveled well back the drillers had completed their work. Now the "dope men" came forward, putting the sticks of dynamite in place. Tom watched them closely.

"Do you call this last work well done?" Tom inquired of the foreman of the tunnel.

"Yes, yes, senor, as well as I have been able to see," responded the Mexican.

"Then come with me. Just look at the tamping. Hardly worthy of the name of tamping, is it?" Tom asked, poking at the material that had been forced in as tamping.

"Senor, my men must have been indolent, this time," admitted the foreman.

"Very indolent, or else indifferent," Tom smiled, grimly. "Here, you men, come here and let me show you how to set dynamite and tamp it. Perhaps I do not understand the job very well, but we shall see."

Ten minutes later Tom Reade abandoned his work, rather well satisfied.

"Now, when we fire the blasts, we shall move some rock, I believe," he smiled.

The wires were attached, and all hands went back, most of them going considerably to the rear of the man at the magneto battery.

A rocking explosion followed. Tom was among the first to run forward. At the heading were heaps of rock.

"Get in and pry it loose. Shovel it back," Tom ordered, in Spanish.

Shortly after, Don Luis, Dr. Tisco and Harry appeared on the scene. They found Tom turning over the ore as it came back. More than a dozen samples he dropped into envelopes, labeled them and put them away in his pockets.

"What ails this lot of ore?" inquired Harry, after looking at specimens.

"It is not running as well," said Tom briefly. "Go through the stuff and see what you think of it."

"But we have much more to see, caballeros," interposed Don Luis.

"If you will be kind enough to indulge me here, for a few minutes more, I shall be grateful," Tom informed him.

"Oh, very good," assented Don Luis, with a shrug of his shoulders. "But it is not my purpose to tire you with too many observations on our first trip through the mine."

With a fine sample of Castillian courtesy and patience, Don Luis waited, smoking, until Reade had quite finished his inspection.

"I am now at your service, Don Luis," announced the young chief engineer, rising and going toward his employer.

The remaining four tunnels of El Sombrero Mine were visited. In each tunnel was the same pile of ore awaiting them, and it all looked good. That in number three was the richest ore of all.

"Now, I think we have seen enough for today," announced Don Luis, when they had inspected number three tunnel.

"Then if you will go along and let me join you later, I shall appreciate it," Tom suggested politely.

"You wish to linger?" queried Don Luis, looking amused.

"I wish to see a blast made here," Tom replied.

"I, too, would like to see one," Harry added.

"Then we will wait for you," agreed Don Luis, with a sigh that contained just a trace of impatience.

A drilling and a blast were made. Again a lot of poor rock was loosened. Tom and Harry collected specimens, labeling them.

"Now, we will return to the house," said Don Luis.

"I would really like to put in a long day here at the mine," proposed Reade, reluctantly.

"To-morrow, then," nodded Don Luis. "But, for to-day, I am tired of this place. There is much about which I wish to consult you, caballeros, at my office."

Tom glanced swiftly, covertly at Harry, then responded:

"In that case, my dear Don Luis, we are wholly at your service."

V. THE MINE THAT DID AND DIDN'T

At the head of the shaft, Nicolas, the servant, awaited them.

"Nicolas, you rascal!" exclaimed Don Luis, angrily. "You have not been attending your caballeros."

"Your pardon, excellency, but the automobile moved too swiftly for me," pleaded Nicolas. "All the way to the mine I ran, and here I have waited until now."

"Keep pace with your duties hereafter, scoundrel," commanded Don Luis, angrily.

Nicolas stepped meekly to the rear of the party. It was his business to attend Tom and Harry everywhere. In Mexico one of the grade of gentleman, if he wishes only a glass of water, does not go for it; he sends the attending servant.

This time Nicolas slipped up on the front seat of the car beside the chauffeur. The car traveled at a high rate of speed over the rough road.

"It must cost you a mint of money for tires and repairs, not to speak of new cars," laughed Tom, after he had been bounced up two feet in the air as the automobile ran over a rough place in the road.

"Pouf! What does it matter, to a man who owns El Sombrero?" smiled Don Luis Montez.

"I am answered," Tom agreed. "The price of a few imported cars cannot matter much to you."

"How many better mines than El Sombrero have you seen?" questioned the mine owner, leaning forward.

"None," said Tom, promptly.

"If all days' indications are as good as those of to-day," Harry added.

"To-day has been but a poor day at the mine," murmured Dr. Tisco.

"Then El Sombrero is indeed a marvel," Tom declared.

"It is a very rich mine," nodded Don Luis. "Yet there may be richer ones, in these mountains, yet undiscovered."

"Where is the next best mine around here?" Tom inquired.

"Perhaps it is El Padre," murmured Don Luis, after a slight pause.

"Where is El Padre (the Priest) located?" Tom wanted to know.

"It is about four miles from here, up over that road," Don Luis rejoined, pointing out the direction.

"May I ask if El Padre is one of your properties, Don Luis?" Tom continued.

"No; why should I want it when I own El Sombrero?"

"Not unless you wish to own as many mines as possible."

"El Sombrero should be enough for my greatest dreams of wealth," declared Don Luis, closing his eyes dreamily.

Then the car stopped before the house.

Don Luis alighted, Tom and Harry at his heels. A servant appeared at the entrance to the court and informed him that the midday meal was ready to serve.

"We will go to the table, then," exclaimed the Mexican. "After having luncheon we shall be ready for an afternoon of hard work."

No sooner had the young engineers slipped into their seats at table than Nicolas appeared behind their chairs. He served them gravely and without a word.

For nearly an hour the luncheon lasted. Finally the dishes were cleared away and several boxes of cigars were brought. Tom and Harry both declined them. Dr. Tisco lighted a cigar at once; Don Luis spent much time in selecting his cigar. This he lighted with the same deliberation. At last the mine owner settled back in his seat.

"Caballeros," he inquired, suddenly, "what did you think of El Sombrero?"

"I would call it, Don Luis," Harry replied, with enthusiasm, "the finest mine I have seen or heard of."

"You did not see the best of the ore to-day," Montez assured them.

"What ore we did see is as fine as any we would ever wish to see," Tom said.

"Then you were delighted with the mine?" inquired their host, turning to Reade and speaking more eagerly.

"If the ore always runs as well," Tom rejoined, "it ought to be one of the richest gold and silver properties in the world."

"Pouf! The ore usually runs much better—is worth much more than that which you saw to-day," protested Don Luis.

"Then you are to be congratulated on possessing a treasure among mines," Tom commented.

"I am delighted to hear you say that."

"But when we adjourn to your office," Reade continued, "there are a few questions that I shall want to ask you."

"Why not ask them here, Senor Tomaso?" queried Don Luis, in his purring, half affectionate voice.

"Here at your table?" protested Reade.

"But this is not dinner. This is a mere business luncheon," replied Don Luis, with another smile.

"Yet I would like to discuss some of the samples with you, Don Luis," Tom explained. "Surely, you do not wish me to bring out dirty samples to spread on your fine linen."

"It would matter not," declared the Mexican. "Still, if you have scruples about the proprieties, then we will go to the office within a few minutes."

The two who were smoking continued to do so. Don Luis started to describe some of his experiments in raising Spanish mules. The finest mules that come out of Spain, class, in price, with blooded horses. Don Luis talked with the enthusiasm of one who understood and loved mules.

Then, finally, they passed to the office.

"Now, I shall be glad to talk with you for hours," the Mexican hidalgo assured the young engineers.

Dr. Tisco, as though to show that he took no personal interest in the talk, retired to an armchair at the further end of the room. Nevertheless, the secretary observed carefully all that was said. Covertly he studied the faces of the young engineers at all times.

"Ask me what you will," begged Don Luis, as he sank into an easy chair close to the table on which Tom began to arrange his envelopes of specimens taken from the mine.

"First of all, Don Luis," Tom began, "you spoke of some problems that you wished us to solve in the operation of your mine."

"Yes, Senor Tomaso."

"I would like to ask you what the problems are that we are to consider," Tom announced.

"Did you not see some of the problems before you, while we were going through the mine?" inquired Montez.

"At the risk, Don Luis, of appearing stupid, I must confess that I did not."

"Ah, well, then we shall come to the problems presently. You have other questions. Ask some of them."

For a moment or two Reade studied what he had written on the various envelopes before him. Then he picked out two.

"Here, Don Luis," the young chief engineer went on, "are samples of two lots of ore. The first is from the pile that we found pried loose when we went into the first tunnel that we visited. It is rich ore."

"It is good enough ore," Montez replied, with a polite shrug of the shoulders.

"Now, from the second tunnel that we entered, and where we also found a pile of loose ore, here is another sample. It is as rich as the first sample."

"Certainly, Senor Tomaso."

"But in this second tunnel I had a drilling made and a blast fired. Here," picking up a third envelope and emptying it, "is a sample of the ore that we saw taken from that blast. If this sample contains any gold or silver the quantity is so small, evidently, as to render this kind of ore worthless."

"Yes?" murmured Don Luis, softly. "What is it that you have to say?"

"Why, sir, how does it happen that, right on top of such extra-fine ore we run upon blank rock at the very next blasting."

"That sometimes happens in El Sombrero," Don Luis replied, smoothly,

"How often has it happened?" asked Tom, looking up from the table and glancing keenly at Don Luis.

Dr. Tisco, though he appeared to be almost asleep, stirred uneasily.

"How often has it happened?" repeated Don Luis. "Oh, perhaps a dozen times in a few months, taking all the tunnels together."

"How long have these streaks of blank rock been?" insisted Tom Reade, while Harry wondered at what his chum was driving.

"How long?" echoed Montez, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Oh, how should I know? Personally I am not interested in such things."

"But have you gone as much as a whole week drilling and blasting through blank rock?" Tom pressed.

"A week? No; not for two days. Of that I am certain. But why do you ask all this, Senor Tomaso?"

"In order that I may better understand the nature of the mine," Reade responded. "I want to know what the chances are, as based on the record of the mine to date. Of course, Don Luis, you know what it means, often, when pay ore fails to come out of a streak, and a solid wall of blank rock is encountered."

By "blank rock" Tom meant rock that did not contain a promising or paying amount of metal in the ore.

"What it means?" Montez asked. "No; I can't say that I do."

"The wall of blank rock, found at the end of a vein of gold, Don Luis, often, if not usually, means that the vein has run out, and that it is useless to dig further."

"I did not know that," murmured the Mexican, in a tone of merely polite astonishment. "Then you believe that El Sombrero will not turn out much more profitable ore?"

"I didn't say that," Tom continued. "But I will admit that finding the wall of blank rock ahead made me a bit nervous. Some great mines have been started, Don Luis, as you must be aware. For a few weeks they have panned out ore of the highest value. Much capital has been put into such mines, and for a time men have thought they owned a new Golconda. Then—suddenly—the blank wall, and no more gold has ever come out of that mine. In other words, it was but a pocket of rich gold that had been struck, and nothing more. Hundreds of men have ruined themselves by investing in such mines."

"I see," murmured Don Luis, thoughtfully.

"You did not know this before?" Tom asked, in some amazement.

"No, Senor Tomaso. I have been a good business man, I suppose, for I have prospered; and much of my money has been made in mining. Yet I have never had the assurance to consider myself a practical mining man. Dr. Tisco, here, is—"

"An ignoramus on the subject of mining," declared the secretary, who appeared just then to wake up.

"Carlos is modest," laughed Don Luis. "True, he is not a skilled mining man, yet he knows so much on the subject that, compared with him, I am an ignoramus. But that is what you are here for, you two. You are the experts. Investigate, and then instruct us."

"Have you any record of the number of times that you have encountered the blank rock, and the number of feet in thickness of the wall in each case?" Tom asked.

"Oh, no."

"That is unfortunate," said Reade, thoughtfully. "Hereafter we will keep such a record carefully. Don Luis, I will admit that I am perplexed and worried over this blank rock problem. I know Hazelton is, too."

"Yes, it is very strange," agreed Harry, looking up. Truth to tell, he had hardly been following the talk at all. Harry Hazelton was quite content to be caught napping whenever Tom Reade had his eyes open.

"Now, I would like to go back to the mine and stay there until some time in the night," Tom proposed. "I would like to take Hazelton with me. Soon we will arrange it, if necessary, so that Harry and I shall divide the time at the mine. Whenever, in any of the tunnels, blank rock is struck, whichever one of us is in charge will stay by the blank rock blasting, keeping careful record, until pay ore is struck again."

"You two young engineers are too infernally methodical," grumbled Dr. Tisco under his breath."

"That is a very excellent plan," smiled Montez, amiably. "We will put some such plan into operation as soon as we are fairly under way. But not to-day."

"I would like to start at once," Tom insisted.

"Not to-day," once more replied Don Luis, though without losing patience. "Yet, if you are anxious to know how the blank rock is coming I can telephone the mine and get all the information within five minutes. That will be an excellent idea. I will do it now, in fact."

Crossing the room, Don Luis rang and called for the mine.

"Our young engineers are very sharp—especially Senor Reade," murmured Dr. Tisco to himself, while the telephone conversation was going on in Spanish. "Yet I wonder if our young engineer does not half suspect that Don Luis has no man at the other end of the wire?"

Tom did not suspect the telephone trick. In fact, the young chief engineer had as yet no deep suspicion that Don Luis was a rogue at heart.

"The report is excellent," called Don Luis, gayly, as he came back. "In that tunnel where we saw the blasting done the blank rock has been penetrated, and the rich ore is coming again."

"How I'd like to see it!" Tom glowed.

"Why?" asked Don Luis, quickly.

"Because I am anxious to know all the secrets, all the indications, of fine old El Sombrero."

"It is a fine mine, isn't it, Senor Tomaso?" demanded Don Luis, enthusiastically.

"From all indications it ought to be," Reade answered. "Yet it's a new formation of rock to me—this sandwich formation as I might call it, with the alternate layers of rich ore and blank stuff."

"I have been drawing up a report on the mine," murmured Montez, opening a drawer in his desk. "This report describes the operations and the profits so far. Glance through it with me."

The report had been written in English, by either Dr. Tisco or his employer.

Tom and Harry listened carefully to the reading.

"But why do you put so much enthusiasm into the report, Don Luis, when the mine is not for sale and is not to be run as a stock company property?"

"Of course, El Sombrero is my sole property, and of course I shall keep it so," smiled the Mexican. "But I like, even in a report to myself, for my own use, to have the report set forth all the truths concerning the mine."

"That is reasonable," Tom agreed.

"Now, Senor Tomaso, as you have seen, this report is couched in my own English. I would be glad if you would write this out for me, putting it into better English."

"It would seem like presumption in me to think that I could put it into better English," Reade protested.

"Nevertheless, to please me, will you put this report into your own English?" requested Don Luis.

"With all the pleasure in the world," Tom assented.

"Here are writing materials, then."

"But I see that you have a typewriting machine over in the corner," suggested the young chief engineer. "I can write the report much better and more rapidly on the machine."

"Ah!" breathed the Mexican, looking highly pleased. "If you will but do that! We will go outside so as not to disturb you."

The report, being a long one and containing several tables of figures, Reade was occupied nearly three hours. During this time Don Luis conducted Harry over the estate, pointing out many things of interest. At last Tom, with a slight backache from bending so long over the machine, leaned back and carefully read what he had written.

"Do you wish anything, caballero?" inquired Nicolas, appearing as though from hiding.

"You might be good enough to tell Don Luis that I have finished, and that I await his pleasure."

Nicolas disappeared. Five minutes later Montez, his secretary and Hazelton came in. Tom read through his typewritten draft of the report.

"Excellent! gr-r-r-rand! glorious!" breathed Don Luis. "Ah, you are a master of English, Senor Tomaso. Myself, I understand Spanish better. And now one stroke of the pen for each of you," added the hidalgo, crossing the room to his desk. "As my new engineers you shall both sign this report, and I shall have much pleasure from reading this, many times, when I am an old man."

Don Luis dipped a pen in ink, then held it up. Harry was about to take the pen when Tom Reade drawled:

"It wouldn't be quite right for us to sign this report, Don Luis."

"Why not?" queried the Mexican, wheeling like a flash.

"Just for the simple reason," Reade answered, "that to sign the report would be to state all the facts contained in the report as being of our personal observation. We haven't seen enough of the mine, as yet, for it to be right for us to sign the report. An engineer's signature to a report is his statement—ON HONOR—that he personally knows such report to be true. So I am very certain you will understand that it would be a breach of honor for us to sign this document."

"Ah! He is clever—and now the real trouble must begin!" Dr. Tisco told himself. "These engineers are not easily duped, but in Don Luis's hands they will destroy themselves!"

VI. WATCHING THE MIDNIGHT LIGHTS

Don Luis Montez laid down the pen. Outwardly he was as amiable as ever; certainly he was all smiles.

"A thousand pardons, caballeros!" he murmured. "Of course, you are quite right. It had not occurred to me in that light before. True, the report was intended only for my own pleasure in later years, but that does not alter the nice point of honor."

Tom Reade was deceived by Don Luis's manner. He did not suspect that, at this very instant, the Mexican was consumed with demoniacal rage.

"I shall not be patient another time," muttered Don Luis, between his teeth and under his breath. Yet aloud he said:

"We have had too much of business to-day. We are tiring ourselves. Until dinner time let us go outside and be gentlemen. Business for to-morrow or next week. And my dear daughter. Brute! I have been forgetting her."

Senorita Francesca, a darkly beautiful girl of eighteen, shy and retiring from the convent schooling that had ended but lately, soon came downstairs at her father's summons. Dr. Tisco bowed low before the charming girl. Tom and Harry were presented, and tried to make themselves agreeable to the young Mexican girl. Senorita Francesca's shyness, however, made this somewhat difficult, so the young engineers felt inwardly grateful when Dr. Tisco strolled down the porch with her.

Dinner proved to be a somewhat formal affair. Yet, as soon as the meal was finished Senorita Francesca was escorted from the dining room by her father and returned to her room.

"What did you think of the young lady, Tom?" Harry asked his chum when he could do so privately.

"A fine-looking girl," Reade answered briefly. "But I fear she would be highly offended if she knew that, all through dinner, my every thought was on the mine and the problems that we shall find there."

"I want to talk with you about that mine, and about some impressions that I have formed here," murmured Hazelton.

"Then another time, my dear fellow, for here comes Don Luis, and I see Dr. Tisco returning from the garden."

That forestalled conversation for the time being. When the young engineers, still relentlessly attended by Nicolas, sought their own rooms Hazelton was so drowsy that he undressed hurriedly and dropped into bed.

Later in the night Harry sat up suddenly in the dark. Some one was moving in the parlor that separated the two bedrooms. An instant after awakening Harry slipped off the bed, then stole toward the next room.

In the darkness he made out a moving figure. Like a panther Harry sprang, landing on the all but invisible figure.

"Now, I've got you!" Hazelton hissed, wrapping his arms around the prowler.

"And small credit to you," drawled Tom's dry voice. "Hist!"

"What's up?" demanded Hazelton, dropping his voice to a whisper.

"You and I are."

"But what's the matter?"

"I couldn't sleep," Tom whispered.

"You—troubled with nerves!" gasped Hazelton.

"Not just the way you understand it," returned Tom. "But I was thinking, thinking, and I sat by the window yonder. Come over there, Harry, but step without noise."

Wondering what it all meant, Hazelton softly followed his chum to the open window.

"Now, look," said Tom, pointing, "and tell me what you see."

"A moment ago I thought I saw a light twinkling over there among the hills."

"Look sixty seconds longer, and you'll see more lights, Harry; those lights are on the trail that leads from the nearest gold mines to El Sombrero. It is the trail Don Luis pointed out to us to-day."

"But what—"

"Harry, I'm going to get on my clothes and slip over in that direction. Do you want to go with me?"

"Yes; but what—"

"I can tell you better when we're on the way. Come on; dress! We can easily leave the house without being detected."

Though Harry had already been through hosts of adventures, he felt creepy as he dressed with speed and stealth, bent on slipping unobserved out of their employer's house. But he was used to following his chum's lead.

When both were ready, which was very soon, Tom softly opened the door of their parlor, thrusting one foot out into the broad corridor. As he did so he kicked against a man lying prostrate on the floor. It was Nicolas, the Mexican attendant, sleeping across their threshold that he might be on hand when wanted.

The man stirred, muttered something almost inaudible, then gradually began to breathe more deeply. Tom, after waiting, took a step over the body of Nicolas. Harry closed the door behind them, then followed. Soon after they stood out on the lawn.

"I'm glad Nicolas went to sleep again," muttered Tom, in a low voice. "The fellow would have insisted on following us, and I wouldn't want him with us to-night, to tell Don Luis everything."

"But what on earth—"

"Harry, old fellow, Don Luis is the essence of courtesy. He has been very polite to us, too. Yet something has aroused a suspicion in me that Don Luis Montez wishes to use us in some way that we wouldn't care to be used. So I'm saying little, but my eyes are going to be open all the time from now on."

"Oh, Don Luis must be on the square," Hazelton retorted. "What could he want of us that is crooked?"

"I don't know, yet," Tom replied, as he led the way rapidly down the road. "But I'm going to watch, and, if there's anything wrong, I'm going to get a line on it."

"El Sombrero is Don Luis's own mine. Surely he hasn't hired us to fool him about his own property."

"I don't know what it is that's wrong," Tom admitted. "Nor am I sure that anything is wrong. But I'm going to do my own watching and gather some of my own information. See, there are the lights on that trail beyond, and there are several lights. It looks like a caravan moving down the trail."

"A caravan?" Harry repeated. "Of what?"

"I don't know, Harry. That's what I'm here to-night to find out."

Brisk, soft walking brought them nearer and nearer to the twinkling lights along the trail that ran into their own road at a point lower down.

"I wish I knew what on earth Tom is thinking about," Harry muttered to himself. "However, I may as well save my breath just now. If I hang to him I'm likely to know what it is."

"We'll reach a hiding place from which we can watch that caravan, or whatever it is, turn from the hill trail into this road," Tom whispered, after they had gone somewhat further.

At this point the main road that ran from. Don Luis's estate to his mine was decidedly irregular. Many boulders jutted out, making a frequent change in the course of the road necessary. It was Tom's intention to gain the nearest ledge of rock of this sort to the hill trail, and there hide to watch the caravan.

They had nearly reached this point when out of the darkness a figure stole softly to meet them.

"Nicolas!" muttered Tom, in a low voice, all but rubbing his eyes. "How on earth did you get here?"

"Am I not commanded to keep with you everywhere, and serve you in all things?" demanded the servant. "Do not go around that next point in the road, caballeros. If you do, you will run straight into Pedro Gato, who has other men with him."

VII. DON LUIS'S ENGINEERING PROBLEM

"Gato?" whispered Harry. "What is he doing around here?"

"There is no reason why we should care what he is doing," Tom returned. "He isn't in the employ of the mine. Come along, Harry."

But Nicolas seized the young chief engineer by the arm.

"Beat me, if you will, Senor Americano," pleaded Nicolas. "But don't encounter Gato. It would be as much as your life is worth."

"Why? Is Gato on the warpath for us?" Tom questioned.

"I fear so," Nicolas answered. "Don't let him see you."

"But I must see him, if the fellow is out for us," muttered Tom. "Show me where he is."

"He and three or four men are camped just around there," said the Mexican servant, pointing.

"Come along, Harry," Tom whispered. "Go cat-foot."

Ere the young engineers came in sight around the turn a slight glow of light against the stones caught their glance. Tom held a hand behind him as a signal to Hazelton to slow up. Then Reade peered around a jutting ledge of rock.

On the ground, around a low camp-fire, were seated four Mexicans. Two of the number had rifles, that lay on the ground near them. Behind them, an ugly scowl on his face, sat Gato, his back resting against a rock.

"But you will not find your enemies out here to-night, Senor Gato," softly remarked one of the quartette around the fire.

"No," admitted Gato, in a growling voice.

"Then why are we waiting here?"

"Because it pleases me," snapped the big fellow. "What ails you? Am I not paying you?"

"But two of us—and I am one of them—do not like to be seen," rejoined the speaker at the fire. "The troops hunt us. There is a price on our heads."

"Bandits!" muttered Tom Reade, under his breath, as he drew back. "I have heard that Mexico is overrun with bandits. These gentlemen are some of the fraternity."

"Take us up to the house, Gato," urged one of the men at the fire. "We shall know how to enter and find your friends. Everyone sleeps there. It will be the safer way."

"It does not suit me," retorted Gato, sullenly.

"But why not?"

"Am I not paying you?"

"Yes."

"Then take my orders and do not ask questions."

At this there were sounds of dissatisfaction from all four of these bad men.

"For one thing," Gato explained, "Don Luis would not like it. He would accuse me of treachery—or worse. I do not want Don Luis's ill will, you see."

"But Don Luis will be angry, in any case, if you injure his engineers, won't he?" asked one of the men.

"A little, but after a while, Don Luis will not care what I do to the Americanos," growled Pedro Gato.

"Humph! That's interesting—if true," whispered Tom Reade.

"Yet what are we doing here?" insisted one of the men. "Here, so close to where the troops might pick us up?"

"You are obeying orders," snarled Gato.

"But that information is not quite enough to suit us," objected one of the Mexicans.

"You might go your own way, then," sneered Gato. "I can find other men who are not so curious. However, I will say that, when daylight comes, we will hide not far from here. None of you know the Americanos by sight. I will point them out to you as they pass by in the daylight."

"And then—what?" pressed one of the rough men. "Are we to kill the Americanos from ambush?"

"Eh?" gasped Tom Reade, with a start.

"If you have to," nodded Pedro Gato. "Though, in that case, I shall call you clumsy. I shall pay you just four times as much if you bring them to me as prisoners. Remember that. Before I despatch these infernal Gringos I shall want the fun of tormenting them."

"Oh, you will eh?" thought Tom, with a slight shudder.

"I heard, Gato," ventured one of the Mexicans, incautiously, "that one of the Americanos beat you fearfully—that he threw you down and stamped on you."

"It is a lie!" uttered Gato, leaping to his feet, his face distorted with rage. "It is a lie, I tell you. The man does not live who can beat me in a fight."

"I was struck with amazement at the tale," admitted the Mexican who had brought about this outburst.

"And well you might be," continued Gato, savagely. "But the Americanos procured my discharge. And that was humiliation enough."

"Yet what difference does it make, Gato. As soon as Don Luis is through with the Americanos he will restore you to your old position."

"It is because the Americanos treated me with such contempt," retorted Pedro. "No man sneers at me and lives."

"You unhung bandit!" muttered Tom under his breath. "Why don't you tell your bandit friends that you are angry because of the trouncing I gave you before a lot of men? But I suppose you hate to lose caste, even before such ragged specimens as your friends."

Suddenly one of the men around the fire snatched at his rifle. Next scattering the embers of the fire, the fellow threw himself down flat, peering down the road.

"The troops are coming," he whispered. "I hear their horses."

"The horses that you hear are mules," laughed Gato, harshly. "It is the nightly transport of ore down to El Sombrero. Just now Don Luis is having fine ore brought over the hills from another mine and dumped into El Sombrero."

"Why should he bring ore from another mine to El Sombrero?" asked one of the men, curiously.

"How should I know?" demanded Gato, shrugging his shoulders and spitting on the ground. "Why should I concern myself with the business that belongs to an hidalgo like Don Luis?"

"It is queer that—"

"Silence!" hissed Gato. "Do not meddle with the secrets of Don Luis Montez, or you will be sorry for it."

Gato's explanation about the mule-train had quieted the fears of the bandits as to the approach of troops. In some mountainous parts of Mexico the government's troops are nearly always on the trail of bandits and the petty warfare is a brisk one.

"Go to sleep, my friends. There will be nothing to do until day comes."

"Then, good Gato, take us somewhere off this road," pleaded one of the men. "It is too public here to be to our liking."

"You may go to a quieter place," nodded Gato. "You know where—the place I showed you this afternoon. As for me, after the mule-train has left the mine, I must go there. I will join you before daybreak."

"We'll go now, then," muttered one of the men, rising.

They were coming up the road in the direction of the young engineers. There was no time to retreat. Tom glanced swiftly around. Then he made a sign to Harry. Both young engineers flattened themselves out behind a pile of stones at the roadside. Their biding-place was far from being a safe one. But four drowsy bandits plodded by without espying the eavesdroppers. As for Nicolas, he had vanished like the mist before the sun.

"Ha-ho-hum!" yawned Pedro Gato, audibly.

Tom raised his head, studying their immediate surroundings. He soon fancied he saw a safe way of slipping off to the southward and finding the road again below where Gato stood.

Signing to Hazelton, Reade rose softly and started off. Two or three minutes later the young engineers were a hundred yards away from Gato, though in a rock-littered field where a single incautious step might betray them.

"Come on, now," whispered Tom. "Toward the mine."

"And run into Gato?" grimaced Harry. "Great!"

"If we meet him we ought to get away with him between us," Tom retorted. "One of us did him up this morning."

"Go ahead, Tom!"

Reade led the way in the darkness. They skirted the road, though keeping a sharp lookout.

"There are the lights of the mule-train ahead," whispered Tom. "Now, we're close enough to see things, for there is El Sombrero just ahead."

"What's the game, anyway?" whispered Harry.

"Surely you guess," protested Tom.

"Why, it seems that Don Luis is having ore from another mine brought down in the dead of the night."

"Yes, and a lot of it," Tom went on. "Did you notice how much rich ore there was in each tunnel to-day? And did you notice, too, that when blasts were made with us looking on, no ore worthy of the name was dug loose? Don Luis has been spending a lot of money for ore with which to salt his own mine!"

"Salting" a mine consists of putting the gold into a mine to be removed. Such salting gives a worthless mine the appearance of being a very rich one.

"But why should Don Luis want to salt his own mine?" muttered Harry.

"So that he can sell it, of course!"

"But he doesn't want to sell."

"He says he doesn't," Tom retorted, with scorn. "This afternoon, you remember, he got me to copy a report in English about his mine and then he wanted us to sign the report as engineers. Doesn't that look as though he wanted to sell? Harry, Don Luis has buyers in sight for his mine, and he'll sell it for a big profit provided he can impose on the buyers!"

"What does he want us for, then? He spoke of engineering problems."

"Don Luis's engineering problem," uttered Tom Reade, with deep scorn, "is simply to find two clean and honest engineers who'll sign a lying report and enable him to swindle some man or group of men out of a fortune."

"Then Don Luis is a swindler, and we'll throw up the job," returned Harry Hazelton, vehemently. "We'll quit."

"We won't help him swindle any one," Tom rejoined. "We won't quit just yet, but we'll stick just long enough to see whether we can't expose the scoundrel as he deserves! Harry, we'll have to be crafty, too. We must not let him see, too soon, that we are aware of his trickery."

VIII. DANGLING THE GOLDEN BAIT

Creeping closer to the mine, Tom and Harry saw the ore dumped from a train of forty mules. They also heard the fellow in charge of the train say that he would be back with two more loads that night.

"We don't need to wait to see the rest of the ore brought," Tom whispered to his chum. "We know enough now."

"Look over there," urged Hazelton. "There goes the rest of the trick. Men are shoveling the borrowed ore into the ore hoists."

"Of course," nodded Tom, disgustedly. "The ore is going below, to be piled in the tunnels. It will be 'salted' there all right for us to inspect in the morning. Oh, this trickery makes me sick!"

"What are you going to do now?" Hazelton asked.

"We may as well go back to the house and get some sleep."

"I'm strong for getting out of here in the morning," Harry muttered.

"Fine!" Tom agreed. "So am I. But what I want to do is to find out who is marked out for the victim of this gigantic swindle. I want to put the victim wise. I'd be wild if I failed to find Don Luis's intended dupe and tell him just what he's in for."

"Do you imagine that Montez will ever allow us to get face to face with the man who's to be fleeced?"

"He won't do it intentionally, Harry. But we may have a way of locating the victim in time to save him from being robbed."

"Anyway, I should think the victim would have every chance in the world to sue and get his money back," Harry mused.

"How is one to get back the money that he has put into a gold mine?" Tom demanded. "Everyone knows that the most honest mine is a gamble. It may stop turning out paying ore at any hour. Besides, what show would a stranger have in the courts in this part of Mexico? You have heard Don Luis boast that he practically owns the governor of Bonista. No, sir! The only way to stop a swindle will be to stop it before it takes place."

Tom rose from his hiding place, back in the dark away from the lights at the mine shaft. He nudged his chum, then started to creep away. Presently they rose and moved forward on foot. Ere long they had left the mine well behind.

"I hate to go back into that polished robber's house at all," Harry muttered. "Tom, what do you say? We can cover at least the first dozen miles between now and daylight. Let's make a streak for the railway and get back to the States."

"But what about saving the victim of the intended swindle?" objected Reade.

"We could come out with a newspaper exposure that would stop any American from buying the mine, or putting any money into it," proposed Hazelton.

"We might, only no newspaper would print such stuff. It would be libelous, and subject the newspaper editor to the risk of having to go to jail."

"All I know," sighed Harry, "is that I want, as speedily as possible, to put as much distance as possible between us and Don Luis's home."

"We'll go out through the front door, though, when we go," Tom proposed. "We won't sneak."

They did not encounter Gato on the way back to the big, white house. Though they did not know it, the boys were being trailed by the alert, barefooted Nicolas. Nor did that servant feel easy until he had seen them softly enter the house. Then Nicolas, as before, stretched himself on the floor before the door of the rooms occupied by the young engineers.

Tom's alarm clock woke him that morning. In another moment Reade was vigorously shaking Hazelton.

"Now don't give a sign to-day," Tom whispered to his friend. "If Don Luis is going to be crafty, we shall have to fight him with craft—at the outset, anyway."

"I hate to eat the old scoundrel's food," muttered Harry.

"So do I, but it can't be helped for the present. We're not guilty of a breach of hospitality in planning to show the rascal up. It is Don Luis who is guilty in that direction. He is planning to use his guests as puppets in a dishonest game. Keep up your nerve, Harry, and don't let your face, your manner, or anything give you away."

Nicolas knocked as soon as he heard the boys stirring. He moved with speed this morning, spreading the table and then rushing away for chocolate, frijoles and tortillas.

As soon as the boys had finished their breakfast they hastened out to the porch, but they found their host ahead of them. More, Don Luis wore field clothing and high-topped, laced walking boots.

"Going afield, sir?" Tom inquired, genially.

"I have been afield, already," replied Montez, bowing and smiling. "Down to the mine I have been and back. The air is beautiful here in the early morning, and I enjoyed the walk. You, too, will enjoy our walks when you become used to them."

Dr. Tisco came out, bowing most affably to the young Americans.

"You look as though you had been walking, too," suggested Tom, noting Tisco's high-topped shoes.

"I went with Don Luis," replied the secretary. "Oh, by the way, Senor Hazelton, I believe some of your property has come into my possession. This is yours, is it not?"

Tisco held out a fine linen handkerchief, with an embroidered initial "H" in one corner. Harry was fond of fine linen, and effected these handkerchiefs.

"Yes; it's mine, thank you," nodded Harry, accepting the proffered bit of linen and pocketing it.

"I found it in a field, just this side of El Sombrero," remarked Tisco, artlessly, turning away.

Though the secretary did not watch Hazelton's face, Don Luis did, and saw the slight start of surprise and the flush that came to the young engineer's face.

"You, too, have been walking then, Senor Hazelton?" inquired Don Luis, pleasantly, though with an insistence that was not to be denied.

Harry didn't know how to lie. He might have dodged the question, but he was quick enough to see that evasion would make the matter worse.

"Tom and I took a stroll last night," he admitted, indifferently. "How far did we go, Tom?"

"Who can say?" replied Reade, lightly. "It was so dark, and the way so unfamiliar that we were glad when we got home, I know."

"They have been prowling," muttered Don Luis, sharply, under his breath. "I must have them watched."

"Are we going to the mine this morning, Don Luis?" Tom asked, carelessly.

"Do you care to go, Senor Tomaso?"

"Why, that's just as you say, sir," Reade rejoined. "Of course, we would like to get actively engaged at our work. In fact, it seems to me that Harry and I should rise earlier and be at the mine at least from eight in the morning until six at night."

"You would soon tire yourselves out. The mine is a dirty hole."

"By the way, sir," Reade went on, carelessly, "how far do you have to send ore to have it smelted."

"About sixty miles."

"By mule-train, I suppose."

"Yes, Senor Tomaso."

"It must be costly shipping."

"So it is," sighed Don Luis, "and yet the ore is rich enough to bear easily the cost of shipping."

"In what direction is the smelter?"

Don Luis pointed.

"Straight ahead, as I am showing you," he added.

"We saw the lights of a train last night," Tom went on. "I judged that the mule-train came from the mines above. Yet the mule-train did not follow the direction that you have just shown me. The road runs crooked, I take it."

"Oh, yes," nodded their host, as carelessly as Tom had spoken.

"Do the other mines pay as well as El Sombrero?"

"Oh, no, Senor Tomaso," Montez replied quickly. "The other mines yield not anywhere near as rich ore as comes from El Sombrero."

"Are you going to take us to see the other mines?" Tom hinted.

"Gladly would I do so, Senor Tomaso, only I am not on good terms with the owners."

"I'm sorry," Tom sighed. "While we are here I wish that we could see much of Mexican mines. Nevertheless, when we are through here I have no doubt that you can give us letters to other mine owners."

"Beyond a doubt," smiled Don Luis, "and it will give me great pleasure. But I, myself own many mines, and I am seeking to locate more. If you are suited with my employment, and if we agree, I shall be able, undoubtedly, to keep you both engaged for many years to come. Indeed, if you display sufficient resourcefulness in handling mines I do not believe it will be long ere I shall be able to pay you each fifty thousand dollars a year. I have plenty of money, and I pay generously when I am pleased and well served."

"The scoundrel is fishing for something," thought Tom Reade, swiftly. "I must not let him beat me in craft."

So he exclaimed, aloud:

"Fifty thousand dollars a year, Don Luis? You are jesting!"

"I beg to assure you that I am not," replied Montez, smiling and bowing.

"But fifty thousand a year is princely pay!" cried Reade.

"Such pay goes, of course, only to the most satisfactory of employes," declared Don Luis.

"At such pay," Tom said, "Harry and I ought to be satisfied to remain in Mexico all our lives."

"We shall see," nodded Montez. "But the sunlight is growing too strong for my eyes. Suppose, caballeros, that we move into the office?"

The others now rose and followed Don Luis.

"What on earth is Tom driving at?" Harry wondered. "He's stringing Don Luis, of course, but to what end?"

Montez stood at the door of his office, indicating that the young engineers pass in ahead of him. The instant they had done so Montez turned to his secretary, whispering:

"Send my daughter here."

Dr. Tisco vanished, though he soon reappeared and entered the office.

Don Luis, after indicating seats to the young Americans, crossed to a ponderous safe, toyed with the combination lock, threw open the door and then brought out a ledger that he deposited on one of the flat-top desks. Five minutes later his daughter Francesca entered the room.

"Now, what part is the girl to play here?" wondered Tom, instantly. "If I know anything of human nature she's a sweet and honest girl. She is no rascal, like her father. Yet he has sent for her to play some part!"

IX. DON LUIS SHOWS HIS CLAWS

Senorita Francesca greeted her guests with extreme courtesy.

"She's a fine young woman," thought Harry, with a guilty feeling. "Blazes, but it's going to come hard to show her father up as a scoundrel."

"Chiquita," (pet) called her father, "it has not been the custom of this country to train our women in the ways of business. But you are my only child. Every peso (dollar) that I earn and save is for you one of these days. I have much money, but I crave more, and it is all for you, chiquita. It is my wish to see you, one of these days, a very queen of wealth, as you are already a queen of goodness and tenderness. Since you must handle the great fortune that I am building for you I have concluded to override the customs of our people for generations. In other words, I am going to begin to train you, chiquita, in business."

"Business?" murmured the girl. "Ah! That word frightens me—I am so ignorant."

"Your first lesson shall not tire or dismay you," promised Don Luis, gently. "Now, place your chair close beside mine, and look over this ledger with me. I shall not attempt to make you comprehend too much at first."

With pencil and paper beside the ledger, Don Luis read off many items. Occasionally he did some figuring on the sheet of paper, as though to make the matters more clear to his daughter. She made a very pretty picture, trying to follow her father's explanations, but the perplexed wrinkling of her brow showed how hard it was for her to do so.

The figures that Don Luis took from his ledger all tended to show the immensity of the wealth already produced from El Sombrero. Tom and Harry listened courteously, for they had been invited to join the group.

"You are tired, chiquita," said her father, at last. "I have taken you too far on our first excursion into the realm of finance. This morning we will have no more figures. But here is something that cannot fail to interest you in parts at least."

Shoving aside the ledger, Don Luis drew from a drawer a bulky document.

"This is the report which Senor Reade prepared for me yesterday," Montez explained, looking at the young engineers for an instant. "The report is written in English, as I desired it written so. But I will read the most interesting parts in Spanish to you, chiquita. You will observe that this report is a masterpiece of business composition."

"I am sure that it must be," murmured Francesca, and Tom bowed his thanks.

"This report, too, is a part of your fortune," continued Don Luis. "That is, it will help to make your fortune, for it concerns El Sombrero, one of the finest parts of your fortune. We have been planning, these caballeros and I, that they shall remain in my employ indefinitely, and they are to be paid better and better if they serve you through me and serve us well. I shall reward them as an hidalgo ever rewards."

"I do not need to be told that my father is generous when he is pleased," murmured Francesca.

"Listen, then, to what Senior Reade has written. It cannot help but give you much pleasure."

"The shameless rascal!" Tom exclaimed, inwardly, as the trick became clear to him. "Don Luis is trading upon our sympathies for the girl in order to induce us to sign his lying report."

Don Luis began to read the report, translating into Spanish as he went along. When he came to tables of tedious figures Montez skipped over them hurriedly. He dwelt eagerly, however, on the paragraphs of the report that asserted such vast wealth to exist in El Sombrero. Francesca listened with rising color. Once in a while she shot a pretty, sidelong glance at Tom to show her pleasure over the report, the whole authorship of which she plainly believed to belong to him.

"Why, it reads like a romance!" the girl cried, clapping her hands when the reading had finished.

"A romance? Yes!" ground Tom, under his breath. "It is romance—pure fiction and absurdly false in every line!"

"It must be a wonderful talent to possess, senor," said Francesca, turning to Tom Reade. "A wonderful talent to be able to describe a matter of business in such eloquent language."

"It is a rare gift," Tom admitted modestly, though he had a design in what he was saying. "A rare gift, indeed, and one which I must not claim. This is your father's report, not mine. He had written it in English, and all I did was to copy it on the typewriter, and to make the English stronger at points. So I am not the author—merely the clerk."

Don Luis frowned for a fleeting instant. Then his brow cleared, and one of his charming smiles lighted his face.

"The report is a superb piece of work, and you must not believe as much as Senor Tomaso's modesty would lead him to believe, chiquita. But this is an engineer's report, and, as such, it is not complete until it is signed. Hand it to Senor Reade, chiquita, and ask him to sign it. Then Senor Hazelton will do the same."

Francesca accepted the document from her father, turned, and, with a fascinating smile, handed it to the young chief engineer.

It was a cleverly contrived bit of business, in which the girl played a wholly innocent part. Francesca dipped a pen in ink and offered it to Tom, who accepted it. Surely, he could not embarrass the girl, nor could he seem to refuse to add to her fortune by any means within his power. Don Luis had brought about the climax with great cleverness, for he felt certain of Tom Reade's gallantry.

And gallant Tom Reade ever was. Yet he was keen and self-possessed as well. While he held the pen in his hand be turned to the Mexican with one of his pleasantest smiles.

"Don Luis," said the young engineer, "I feel certain that you did not wholly understand what I said yesterday. What I meant to make clear was that an engineer's signature to a report is his written word of honor that every word in the report is true, to his own knowledge. As I merely transcribed this report from your own, and have not yet had sufficient opportunity to prove to myself the value of the mine, I could not in honor sign this report as yet. As a man of honor you will certainly understand my position."

"But you are too particular on a point of honor," insisted Don Luis Montez, with a shrug of his shoulders. "You do not need to draw the line so sharply with a man of honor. I assure you that every word in the report is true. Therefore, will you not be so good as to sign the report?"

"I regret that I have not yet succeeded in making an engineer's point of honor clear," Tom replied, placing the pen back on the stand. "It will be some weeks, Don Luis, before Hazelton and I can possibly hope to find ourselves sufficiently well informed about the mine to sign the report."

Francesca was by no means stupid. While she did not understand business matters, she was sufficiently keen to note, from her father's very insistent manner, and from Tom's equally firm refusal to sign, that some point of honor was in dispute between the two. She flushed deeply, glanced wonderingly from one to the other, and then her gaze fell to the floor.

"Chiquita," said Don Luis, tenderly, "I have been thoughtless, and have given you too long a lesson in business. Besides, Senor Reade is not yet ready to serve us in this matter. You may go to your room, my daughter."

Without a word Francesca rose and left the room.

As soon as the door had closed Don Luis broke forth bitterly:

"You have done well to insult me before my daughter. She understands only enough to realize that you have doubted my honor, and she certainly wonders why I permitted you to live longer. Senor Reade, whether or not your American ideas of courtesy enable you to understand it, you have grievously insulted me in my own house, and have intensified that insult by delivering it before my daughter. There is now but one way in which you can retrieve your conduct."

Don Luis Montez rose, dipped the pen freshly in ink, and thrust it into Reade's hand.

"Sign that report!" ordered the Mexican.

Tom rose to his feet. So did Harry.

"Don Luis," spoke Reade calmly, though he was inwardly raging. "I always like to do business like a gentleman. I feel very certain that I must have made it very clear to you yesterday that I could not possibly sign any such report at the present time. I still prefer to keep our talk within the limits of courtesy if that be also your wish."

"Sign that report!"

"I won't do it!"

Tom accompanied his response by tossing the pen across the room.

"Don Luis, I don't believe that you are a fool," continued the young chief engineer, calming down again. "If you consider that I am utterly a fool, either, then you are doing your own intelligence an injustice. I refuse to sign this report until I have gained the knowledge for myself that every word in it is true. Further, I don't believe that I would sign it after I had made the fullest investigation. I am aware that, last night, mule-trains brought ore down over the hills from another mine, and that ore was sent down by the ore hoists into El Sombrero."

"That's a lie!" cried the Mexican, hoarsely.

"I am describing what I saw with my own eyes," Tom insisted.

"You will sign this report, and at once!" quivered Don Luis Montez, a deadly look glittering in his eyes.

"I am quite satisfied that I shall never sign it," Tom retorted.

"That goes for me, too," put in Harry, stolidly.

"I feel that we have finished our work here, since we can do nothing more for you, Don Luis," Tom went on. "I therefore ask you to consider our engagement at an end. If you are disinclined to furnish us with transportation to the railway, then we can travel there on foot."

"Do you hear the Gringo, my good Carlos?" laughed Don Luis, derisively.

"I hear the fellow," indifferently replied Dr. Tisco, from the other end of the room.

"Will you furnish us with transportation from here?" Tom inquired.

"I will not," hissed Montez, allowing his rage to show itself now at its height. "You Gringo fools! Do you think you can defy me—that here, on my own estates, you can slap me in the face and ride away with laughter?"

"I haven't a desire in the world to slap your face," Tom rejoined, dryly. "All I wish and mean to do is to get back to my work in life."

"Then listen to me, Gringos," said Don Luis Montez, in his coldest tones. "Your work here is to sign that report. If you do not, then you shall never leave these mountains! Your lives are in my hands. If you do not serve me as I have ordered, then I shall feel obliged—in self-defense—to destroy you!"

X. THE SPIRIT OF A TRUE ENGINEER

"Do you know, Don Luis," drawled Tom, "that you have one fine quality?"

"What do you mean?" demanded the Mexican.

"You are very explicit. You are also extremely candid! You don't leave the other fellow guessing."

Don Luis Montez frowned. He felt certain that fun was being poked at him.

"I am trying to make you young men understand that you must do exactly what I wish of you," he returned, after a moment.

"And we have tried to make it plain, sir, that we haven't, any idea of doing what you want," Tom Reade answered him.

"You will change your minds," retorted the mine owner.

"Time will show you that, sir. In the meantime, since we cannot live here, what do you expect us to do?"

"I have said nothing about your not living here," uttered Don Luis, looking astonished. "You are very welcome to all that my poor house affords."

"Thank you; but we can't live here, just the same."

"And why not, caballeros?"

"Because we shall henceforth be on the most wretched sort of terms with the owner of this house."

"There is no need of that, caballeros. You will, I think, find me extremely courteous. My house is open to you, and there is no other place that you can go."

"Nowhere to go but out," mimicked Harry Hazelton, dryly.

"You will find yourselves unable to get out of these hills," Don Luis informed them, politely, though with an evil smile. "You may decide to leave us, and you may start at any time, but you will assuredly find yourselves stopped and brought back. You simply cannot leave me, caballeros, until I give my consent. Remember, no king could rule in these hills more absolutely than I do. No one may enter or leave this part of the state of Bonista without my consent."

"As to that, of course we shall know more later, Don Luis," Tom returned. "However, we cannot and shall not remain longer as guests in your house."

"I trust you will consider well and carefully on that point," retorted the Mexican.

"No; we simply can't and won't remain here unless—well, unless—"

"What are you trying to say, senor?"

"Then possibly you have overlooked building any dungeons under the house? Dungeons, I understand, were a part of the housekeeping scheme in old Mexico."

"There are no dungeons here," said Don Luis icily.

"You relieve me, sir. Then the last obstacle is removed to our departure. We shall go at once. Come on, Harry."

Tom turned to leave the room, Hazelton at his heels. But Montez, with an angry exclamation, leaped to the doorway, barring their exit.

"Caballeros, you shall not leave like this!"

"No?" Tom inquired. "Harry, our late host wishes us to leave by the windows."

"All right," nodded Hazelton, smiling. "I used to be something of an athlete."

"You shall not leave me in any such childish spirit," Don Luis insisted, stubbornly.

"If you are going to try to reopen the proposition that you made us," said Reade, "you may as well stop."

"You will come to your senses presently."

"We are in full possession of them at present."

"We shall yet come to a sensible arrangement of the matter," Montez continued, coaxingly. Indeed, the Mexican had suddenly come to see that he was absolutely dependent upon the young Americans if he hoped to sell his mine in the near future.

"You are wrong, Don Luis," Reade continued. "We can come to no understanding. Matters have now gone so far that we are no longer bound by the rules of courtesy. Nor do the laws of hospitality weigh with us, for you have chosen to bully and threaten us under your own roof. I will therefore be frank enough to tell you that we regard you as a mere rogue. Am I right, Harry?"

"Wholly right," nodded Hazelton. "Don Luis, I cannot see that you are one whit more honest, or in any sense more of a gentleman, than any of the outlawed bandits who roam these mountains. Therefore, as Americans and gentlemen, we find it wholly impossible for us to remain either your employs or your guests. There can be no hope whatever that we shall consent to serve you, even in the most innocent way."

Don Luis heard them with rising anger, which, however, he kept down with a fine show of self-control.

"Caballeros, you are young. You have not seen much of the world. You are mere boys. You have not even, as yet, developed good manners. Therefore I overlook in you what, in men, might arouse my anger. Take my advice. Go to your rooms. Think matters over. When you have cooled we will talk again. No—not a word, now."

Don Luis stepped aside. Tom bowed, very stiffly, in passing the Mexican. Harry merely gazed into the Mexican's eyes with a steadiness and a contempt that made the mine owner wince.

Straight down the hallway, to their rooms, Tom marched, Harry following. Barefooted Nicolas sprang forward, bowing, then swinging open the door. He bowed again as the young engineers stepped inside. Then Nicolas pulled the door shut.

"Are you going to stay, Tom, and have any further talk with this thief?" sputtered Harry, who had held in about as long as was safe for him.

"What do you think?" Tom asked, grimly, as he knelt upon his trunk and tugged at the strap.

"I reckon I think about the same as you do," rejoined Hazelton, closing his own trunk and strapping it.

"One—two hoist!" ordered Reade, settling his own trunk upon his shoulder.

Harry followed suit. In Indian file they moved across the room.

"Nicolas," called Tom, "be good enough—the door!"

The barefooted servant swung the barrier open.

"Thank you," said Tom, marching out. Then he dumped the trunk, noiselessly, to the floor. Going into an inner pocket he produced a five dollar bill.

"Nicolas," said the young chief engineer, "you have certainly done all in your power to make us comfortable. I am sorry that we are not longer to have the comfort of your services. Will you do me the favor of accepting this as a remembrance? It is American money, but you can easily get it changed. And now, let us shake hands."

Nicolas appeared dazed, both by the money and by Tom's desire to shake hands with him. The hand that Tom clasped trembled.

"Same here," murmured Harry, also producing a five-dollar bill. "Nicolas, you're a Mexican, but I wish they produced more of your kind on the American side of the Rio Grande."

"The caballeros have been too generous with me," protested the poor fellow, in a husky voice. "I have not deserved this. And, though I have been a stupid servant, you have not once beaten me with your canes."

"If you can find the canes you may keep them, then, as a souvenir of what you didn't get," laughed Reade. "And now, Nicolas, we must hasten, or we shall lose our trains."

The Mexican would have said more, but he was too dazed. In his left hand he held ten dollars in American money, about the same thing as twenty in Mexican coin. It was more money than he had ever held of his own before—it was almost a fortune. Surely, these Americanos must suddenly have taken leave of their senses! Then, too, Senor Reade had just spoken of missing the train. Did they not realize that the nearest railway train was seventy miles away? Assuredly, they must be mad!

In the meantime Tom and Harry, having once more shouldered their trunks, kept on down the broad hallway and out on to the porch. There was no one there to oppose them, though Don Luis was secretly regarding them through the crack of a nearly closed door. There was an evil, leering smile on the face of the Mexican mine owner.

Down the steps, along the drive—it was not a short one, and then out into the road, Tom continued. His back was beginning to feel the unaccustomed load on his shoulder.

"Drop it, pretty soon, Tom," muttered Hazelton, behind him.

"I believe I will Reade nodded. Reaching the farther side of the road he dropped one end of the trunk to the ground. Harry did likewise.

"Whew!" sputtered Tom. "I'd rather be an engineer, any day, than a delivery wagon!"

"Well, we're here," announced Harry. Then inquired, "What are we going to do now?"

XI. A PIECE OF LEAD IN THE AIR

"Get your wind back," advised Tom. "Also ease your shoulder a bit."

"And then?"

"We'll carry the trunks up the slope and dump them in some depression in the rock."

"What's the use of the trunks, anyway?" Harry wanted to know. "No one else will shelter us in this country. We can't get a wagon to take our trunks away in. Surely, you don't intend to shoulder these trunks to the railway station—seventy miles away?"

"No," Reade admitted. "We'll have to abandon our trunks. All I wanted to be sure about was to get them out of Don Luis's house. And now I am just as anxious to get them out of sight of his porch. As long as the trunks stand here they'll tell Don Luis of our discomfort. I don't want that thieving rascal to have the satisfaction even of laughing at our trunks."

"All right, if that's the way you feel about it," Hazelton grunted. "I'm ready to shoulder mine."

"Come along, then," Tom nodded. "Up the slope we go."

Their climb was a hard one. But at last they halted, dropping their heavy baggage on a flat surface of rock that was not visible from the big white house. Then up a little higher the now unencumbered engineers trod. When they halted they could see far and wide over this strange country.

"Now, what?" asked Hazelton.

"Luncheon, if I had my choice," muttered Tom. "But that's out of the question, I fear."

"Unless we can catch a rabbit, or something, with our hands."

"Harry, I wonder if we can find the trail all the way back to the railroad. These mountain paths are crooked affairs at best."

"We know the general direction, and our pocket compasses will serve us," Hazelton nodded.

"Don Luis seems to think that he can stop us from getting through to the railroad."

"I'm not so sure that he can't, either, Tom. Hang these little Mexicans. With our hands either one of us could thrash an armful of these people, but a Mexican with a gun is almost the size of an American with a gun. Tom, if we only had a brace of revolvers I believe we could go through to civilization without mishap."

"We haven't any pistols, so there's no use in talking about them," Reade retorted.

"But we would have had revolvers, at least in our baggage, if you hadn't always been so dead set against carrying them," Harry complained.

"I'm just as much set against firearms as ever," Tom answered, dryly. "Revolvers are made for killing people. Now, why any sane man should desire to kill any one goes beyond me."

"Humph! We'll be lucky if we can get out of these mountains without killing any one," grunted Hazelton.

"Cheer up!" laughed Tom. "The whole world hasn't turned black just because we've skipped our luncheon."

"I wouldn't mind the luncheon," Harry began, "if—"

He stopped short, as he caught a glimpse of the spot where they had left their trunks.

"Tom, let's hustle back to where we left our trunks," he whispered. "I just saw some one moving about on that spot"

"Oh, if any thief is after our baggage, let him have it," smiled Tom. "The stuff all goes to a thief in the end, anyway, for we know that we can't carry our trunks with us."

But that didn't suit. Hazelton, who still felt as though he owned his own trunk. So he started back, soft-footed. Presently they came in sight of a human being seated on Reade's trunk.

"Nicolas!" breathed Tom.

"Si, senor," (yes, sir) returned the servant.

"But what are you doing here?"

"I am your servant," replied the Mexican, calmly.

"Wrong; you're Don Luis's servant."

"But he ordered me to wait on you both unceasingly, senor."

"We have left Don Luis's house, for good," Tom continued, walking over to where the barefooted one sat.

"That may be true, senor; it is true, since you say it, but my orders have not been changed. Until Don Luis tells me differently I shall go on serving you."

"Did Don Luis send you after us, Nicolas?" Reade demanded, wonderingly.

"No, senor."

"Did any one at the house send you?"

"No, senor. I did not need to be sent. I am faithful."

Nicolas followed this with a smile that showed his white teeth. He spoke in utter simplicity.

"And now what can I do for you, caballeros?" the Mexican inquired.

"Nicolas," asked Tom, with sudden inspiration, "is there any store hereabouts? Any place where food can be purchased?"

"No, senor; there is a store not far from the shaft entrance of El Sombrero Mine. That is where the peons of the mine draw their food, and have it charged against their pay accounts. But no one may buy there for cash."

"Is there no place where you can buy food for us?"

"Caballeros, of course, I will not pretend not to understand that you are on bad terms with Don Luis. Hence, both his storekeeper and his peons would hesitate to sell food for you or to you. But I have a relative who works in the mine, and he is a brave man. I think I can persuade him to sell me food and ask no questions. In fact, caballeros, that is what I will do."

"It won't get your relative into any trouble, will it, Nicolas?" Tom asked.

"I can manage it, senor, so that no trouble will follow."

"Then take this money and get some food, my good Nicolas, if you can manage it without getting any one into trouble."

"It will have to be very plain food, Senor Reade, such as peons eat," urged Nicolas.

"Plain food never killed any man yet," Tom laughed. "Well, then, take this money and serve us at your convenience."

"I have no need of money," replied the Mexican, shaking his head. "I am well supplied, caballeros."

Displaying the two banknotes that he had received an hour before, Nicolas took three steps backward, then vanished.

"There goes a faithful fellow!" glowed Tom.

"If he isn't doing this under Don Luis's orders," muttered Hazelton.

"Harry, I'm ashamed of you," retorted Tom, finding a soft, grass-covered spot and stretching himself out. He pulled his sombrero forward over his face and lay as though asleep. Any one, however, who had tried to creep upon Reade would speedily have discovered that he was far from drowsy.

"Humph!" said Harry, after glancing at his chum. "You don't appear to realize that there's any such thing as danger around us."

"If there is, I can't keep it away," Tom rejoined. "Harry, this idle life is getting into my blood, I fear. Now, I know just how happy a tramp feels."

"Go ahead and enjoy yourself, then," laughed Hazelton. "For fifteen minutes at a time you'd make an ideal tramp. Then you'd want to go to work"

"I wouldn't mind having a little work to do," Reade admitted. "Harry, it took nerve to throw up our connection with Don Luis. At least, that meant some work to do."

"It did not," Harry contradicted. "Don Luis didn't want us in his mine at all, and showed us that as plainly as he could. All the work he wanted out of us was the writing of two signatures. The need of the signatures was all that ever made him bring us down from the United States."

"He'd he such a charming fellow, too, if he only knew a little bit about being honest," sighed Tom, regretfully.

"There is one thing about his rascality that I shall never forgive," growled Hazelton. "That was, dragging his innocent daughter into the game, just in the hope that her presence would influence us to sign."

"I trust, caballeros, that you did not find me too slow and lazy," broke in the soft voice of Nicolas, as that servant stole back in on them. He was well laden with parcels, at sight of which Reade sat up with a jerk.

"Anything in that lot that's all ready to be eaten without fussy preparation, Nicolas?" the young chief engineer asked eagerly.

"Oh, si senor!"

"Then lead us to it, boy!"

The Mexican servant unwrapped a package, revealing and holding up a tin.

"Food of your own kind, from your own country, caballeros," the Mexican announced proudly.

"Canned baked beans," chuckled Harry, after glancing at the label. "Hurry and get the stuff open."

Nicolas opened two tins of the beans, then produced a package of soda biscuits.

"This will be enough for one meal, caballeros?" he asked.

"Oh, plenty," nodded Tom.

"And then I have some of our Mexican beans, dried," Nicolas continued. "They will do when we are not so near a food supply. I have also a little dish in which to boil them over a fire. Oh, we shall get along excellently, caballeros."

Shortly the very simple meal was ready and eaten in record time.

"And here is something else that we shall drink in the morning," Nicolas announced, presently as he held up a package. "It is chocolate."

As Tom and Harry both detested this beverage, they were forced to feign their enthusiasm.

"Now, I feel as though we ought to do some walking," Tom declared, rising and stretching.

"Walking?" queried Nicolas. "Where?"

"Over the hills to the nearest telegraph station. There is one within twenty miles, is there not?"

"There is, caballero," Nicolas assented, gravely, "but it will be impossible for us to reach it."

"Impossible? Why?" Reade demanded.

"On my way back I kept my eyes open," the Mexican explained. "As a result I discovered who is in these hills about us."

"Who, then?" Harry asked.

"Pedro Gato," Nicolas affirmed solemnly.

"Who?" said Tom. "Oh, Gato? Only he?"

"Only he and some of his worthless, criminal companions," the servant went on, solemnly. "Senor Reade, at no greater distance than this from Don Luis you may be safe from Gato. Yet, if you stroll but a few miles from here Pedro Gato will not so greatly fear the hidalgo. Then Gato will work his own will with you."

"He will, oh?" Tom demanded grimly.

"Of a surety, senor!"

"If I should see Pedro Gato first, he would be likely to come in for another walloping," Tom laughed, dryly.

"But you would not see him, senor. You would hear him only, and Gato's message would be a bullet."

"Can Gato shoot any better than he fights?" smiled Reade.

Bang! An unseen rifle spoke. Judged by the sound the marksman was not more than three hundred yards away.

"Sz-z-z-zz!" the leaden missile sang through the air. It flattened against a rock in front of which the young chief engineer was standing.

"You are answered, mi caballero!" cried Nicolas, throwing himself flat on the earth. "Drop to the earth, senor, before the second shot is fired!"

XII. NICOLAS DOES AN ERRAND

Tom did not follow the advice to flatten himself on the ground. Instead, he stood straighter—even rose on his toes and stared in the direction whence he judged the shot to have come.

"Gato, you treacherous scoundrel!" Read roared, in Spanish. "Do you call yourself a brave man, to fight an unarmed foe like this?"

All was silent amid the rocks in the distance.

"Have you too little courage to answer me?" Tom again essayed. "Or are you man enough to show yourself—to come forward and listen to me. Don't be afraid. I can't hurt you. I have no weapon worse than my fists."

As the young chief engineer spoke in Spanish, Nicolas understood.

"Don't! Don't, mi caballero," implored the Mexican servant "Don't let him know that you are unarmed. Make a move as though to draw a pistol, and Gato may run away instead of sighting his rifle once more at you."

"Now I know you, Gato, for the wolfish coward that you are," Tom Reade shouted mockingly. "You are desperately afraid when you won't meet me, unarmed as I am."

"If Senor Reade is so utterly brave when he has no weapons," thought the barefooted servant, "then if he had a gun in his hand he would be the bravest man in all the world!"

"I guess that yellow dog isn't going to bark at us again, just now," laughed Tom, carelessly, when some moments had passed without another shot. "Doubtless, the fellow was frightened away by the sound of his own rifle."

"That shot was a warning," chattered Nicolas. "It is his way of sending you his defiance. When Gato fires again he will try in earnest to kill you, and he will keep on firing until he succeeds. Oh, mi caballero, if you will give me some more of your Americano money, I will hasten about until I find some one who will sell me a gun for you. You must have one in your hands all the time."

"Not for mine," smiled Reade. "To tell you the truth, Nicolas, guns sometimes make me nervous. If I had one I might be clumsy enough to shoot myself with it."

"Nicolas is talking sense," interrupted Hazelton, speaking in English. "Both you and I should be armed."

"By all means have Nicolas get a gun for you, Harry, if you will," Reade answered, coolly. "But none for me."

"I'd like to meet Gato face to face and on equal terms," Harry went on, dropping back into the Spanish tongue.

"So would I," agreed his chum. "I have much to say to Gato. If there were mail boxes in this wild country I'd drop him a letter."

"Do you really wish to send Gato a letter?" asked Nicolas, eagerly.

"Why, I'd send him one if I could," nodded Tom.

"Have you writing materials?" pressed the servant.

"Yes—but what's the use?"

"Write your letter, mi caballero, and I will hand it to Gato," urged the Mexican.

"You?" gasped Tom.

"Certainly."

"But how?"

"I will hand the letter to him in person."

"You—go to Gato?"

"Yes. Why not?"

"Gato would kill you!"

"Kill a poor peon?" smiled Nicolas. "Oh, no; I am not worth while. I am not a fighting man."

"Do you mean to tell me," demanded Tom, astonished, "that you could go openly and safely to Gato?"

"Assuredly," declared Nicolas, composedly. "Gato would not harm me. I am one of his own people, a Mexican, and have not the courage to fight. So he would only disgrace himself in the eyes of his countrymen if he tried to do me harm."

"Is that the truth?" Reade persisted.

"Certainly, Senor Reade. If there were a priest here I would swear to it as the truth."

"And you have the courage to try to hand a note to Gato?"

"Under the circumstances it does not require courage, since I am safe," replied Nicolas, steadily and easily.

"Hanged if I don't think I will write a note to Pedro Gato!" chuckled Tom.

"Do so, mi caballero; at your convenience."

Tom tore a page out of a notebook, and with his fountain pen wrote the following note in Spanish:

"Pedro Gato: If you had half the courage of a rabbit you would not go skulking through the hills, shooting at me without giving me any chance to tell you or show you what I think of you. A shot has just struck near my head, yet no glimpse was to be had of the man who fired the shot. If you did that, then you are a coward of a low, mean type. If you do not feel like accepting my opinion of you, then will you meet me and explain your conduct as one real man talks with another? If you will not give me this explanation, and persist in trying to shoot at me, then I warn you that I will and must pummel you with my fists if I ever have the pleasure of meeting you face to face."

"Thomas Reade."

Harry glanced through the note and smiled. "That ought to scare the bold, bad man," said he.

"Read this, Nicolas, and see if you think the note will shame the scoundrel," laughed Tom.

"Pardon, mi caballero," objected Nicolas, "but I am no scholar. I do not know how to read or write."

"Oh!" said Tom simply. "Then let me read it to you."

Tom repeated what he had written, then asking:

"Do you think, Nicolas, that it will be safe for you to take this to Pedro Gato?"

"Assuredly, senor."

"And you are sure you can find the scoundrel?"

"I think so, though it may take considerable time."

Nicolas took the note, holding it tight in his left hand. He was visible for a few steps, after which he dodged down behind a rock and was seen no more.

Moving stealthily over the hillsides, Nicolas spent a full hour in obtaining the first glimpse of Gato. That worthy was seated on the ground, smoking and chatting in low tones with his desperate-looking companions. Suddenly Pedro caught sight of the servant and started up. He beckoned, and Nicolas approached.

"You have come to serve us," said Gato, delightedly. "You are a good youth, and I shall reward you handsomely some day. You are ready to tell us how we can trap the two Gringos. How many weapons have they, and of what kind?"

"Truly, I do not know, Senor Gato," Nicolas answered.

"That taller Gringo taunted me with the claim that he was not armed at all," grinned Gato, ferociously. "But I am too old a man to be caught by any such lie as that. He was trying to lead us on, that we might walk into their Gringo trap. Was he not?"

"Truly I do not know," Nicolas repeated.

"Then what are you doing here, if you bring us no news?" snarled Gato, whereat Nicolas began to tremble.

"I—I bring a letter from his excellency, el caballero, Reade," faltered the servant.

"A letter?" cried Gato, hoarsely. "Why did you not say so before."

"I have been waiting, Senor Gato, until you gave me time to speak," protested the messenger.

"Hand me the letter," ordered Gato, stretching forth his hand.

Nicolas handed over the page torn from Tom's notebook. Gato slowly puzzled his way through the note, his anger rising with every word.

"The insolent Gringo!" he cried. "He insults my courage! This from one who is a mere Gringo—the most cowardly race of people on the earth. Oh, I shall exact revenge for this insolence. And you, Nicolas, had the impudence to come here with such an insult."

"I assure you, Senor Gato, I was but the unfortunate messenger." Nicolas replied, meekly.

"Since you brought this insolence to me you shall take back my message. Tell the dogs of Gringos that I laugh at them. Tell the Gringo, Reade, that, in these hills, I shall do as I please. That I shall let him pass safely, if I am so minded, or that I shall shoot at him whenever I choose. Assure him that I regard his life as being my property. Begone, you rascal!"

Nor did Nicolas linger. From the outset he had been badly scared, though he had been truthful in assuring Tom Reade that a bandit would hardly hurt a poor peon.

When Nicolas at last reached the young engineers he delivered the message that Pedro Gato had regarded the whole matter as insolence, and had been very angry.

"Gato added," continued Nicolas, "that he would shoot at you when and where he pleased. And he will do it. He is a ferocious fellow."

"Humph!" muttered Tom. "If your feet don't mind, my good Nicolas, I have a good mind to send Gato another and much shorter note. Is it far to go!"

"N-not very far," said Nicolas, though he began to quake.

"Of course, I shall pay you well for this and all the other trouble you are taking on my account," Tom continued, gently.

"I am finely paid by being allowed to serve you at all, Senor Reade," Nicolas protested.

XIII. PINING FOR THE GOOD OLD U.S.

"You will have to be very careful that Gato does not get another chance to shoot at you, mi caballero," Nicolas went on. "He does not believe that you are unarmed, or he would speedily settle with you. But he will shoot at you frequently, from ambush, if you give him the chance."

"Then I hope he'll do it frequently," grimaced Reade. "The need of frequent shooting indicates bad marksmanship."

"Senor," begged Nicolas, "I would not joke about Gato. He means to kill you, or worse."

"Worse?" queried Tom, raising his eyebrows. "How could that be?"

The Mexican servant made a gesture of horror.

"It is worse when our Mexican bandits torture a man," he replied, his voice shaking. "They are fiends—those of our Mexicans who have bad hearts."

"Then you believe that Gato plans something diabolical, just because I walloped him in a fair fight—or in a fight where the odds were against me?"

"It matters not as to the merits of the fight," Nicolas went on. "Gato will never be satisfied until he has hurt you worse than you hurt him."

"And perhaps Don Luis may be behind the rascal, urging him on and offering to protect him from the law? What do you think about that, Nicolas?"

"I cannot say," Nicolas responded, with a slight shrug. "I am Don Luis's servant."

"Pardon my forgetting that," begged Harry. "I should not have spoken as I did."

"For more than one reason," Tom muttered, "we shall do well to get out of this unfriendly stretch of country. Harry, we're pining for the good old U.S., aren't we?"

"Just a glimpse of the American side of the border—that's all we want," laughed Hazelton.

"And, if we're to be killed, we'll at least be killed while trying to reach the border," Reade proposed.

"Do you intend starting now, senor?" asked Nicolas, in a low voice.

"Not before dark," Tom murmured.

"Then why do you two not sleep for a while?" begged the servant. "You will need some strength if you are to travel through these mountains all night. Sleep! You can trust me to keep awake and to warn you if danger gets close."

"Thank you, old fellow; I know we can trust you," Tom replied. He stretched himself out on the ground, pulling his hat down over his eyes. Within two minutes he was sound asleep. Not more than a minute after that Harry, too, was dozing.

It was still daylight when Tom awoke. He sat up. Harry was sleeping soundly, and Nicolas was not in sight.

"Abandoned?" thought Reade. "No; that's hardly likely. Nicolas rings true. Hiding close to here, undoubtedly, that he may keep better watch. A call will bring him here."

Tom rose, to look about.

"Be cautious, senor," came the whispered advice from an unseen speaker. "If you expose yourself you may invite a bullet."

Tom promptly accepted the advice. Going toward the sound of the voice, he found Nicolas crouched in a trough of rock not far from where they had lain down.

"Now, Nicolas, it's your turn," whispered Reade.

"My turn for what, senor?"

"Sleep!"

"I am but a servant, senor. I do not need rest."

"Nicolas, you go in and lie down near Hazelton, and go to sleep."

The Mexican grumbled a little, but all his life he had been taught to obey orders. Within sixty seconds the servant was sound asleep.

An hour later it began to darken.

Harry Hazelton awoke with a start, to find Tom with his finger on his lips.

"Nicolas is asleep," whispered Reade. "Don't make any noise that will awaken him. I have no doubt that he would go through with us and be our guide. But that would put him in bad with Don Luis, and we have no right to expose the poor fellow to blame. Move about without noise, and we'll eat some of the stuff that Nicolas brought us."

This was done. It was dark by the time that the simple meal had been finished. Tom drew out another five-dollar bill, which he pinned to the shirt of the poor Mexican.

"Now we'll take all the food with us," Tom whispered. "Nicolas won't need any of it, as he's less than twenty minutes' walk from a square feed. Come along—on tip-toe."

Tom led the way through the darkness, not halting until they were well away from the Mexican.

"Now, wait a moment, until we get our bearings from the stars," Tom proposed. "Then we'll make a straight, fast, soft hike to the telegraph station."

"Only twenty miles away, over the boulders," murmured Hazelton.

"This is where our past physical training comes in finely," Tom rejoined. He looked up at the sky, pointing to and naming several of the fixed stars.

"Now, as we know our course, we can hardly, go astray," Reade suggested. "Ready! Forward march!"

Tom took the lead in this, as he did in nearly everything else. For more than an hour the young engineers trudged ahead. When at last they halted for breath they had covered at least three miles of their way.

"Nicolas will feel insulted when he wakes, I'm afraid," suggested Hazelton.

"I'm afraid he will. Nicolas may have a copper skin, and be under-sized and illiterate, but he's one of the old-fashioned, true-to-the-death kind. But, if he helped guide us out of this wilderness, Don Luis would probably flay the poor fellow alive afterwards."

"I wonder if we're going to make the telegraph station by daylight!" Harry went on.

"I'm afraid not. But we ought to be there some time during the forenoon."

"That will give Don Luis time, perhaps, to wake up to our disappearance and send men after us," hinted Harry.

Tom's face grew long at this suggestion. He was well aware that Don Luis Montez was a man who was both dreaded and obeyed in these mountains.

"Oh, well, we'll do all we can for ourselves," Tom proposed. "We'll keep cheerful about it, too—until the worst happens."

"I'm rested, Tom. Shall we start along?"

"Yes; for we're both anxious to get through!"

Once more Reade took the lead. They trudged another mile, often without finding the semblance of a trail. Finally, they discovered what seemed to be a crude road leading in their general direction.

Ahead boulders loomed up. They were getting into a rough part of the mountains.

As Tom plodded around a bend in the road, past a big rock, he heard a low laugh.

"Oblige me, senores, by showing me how high you can reach in the air!" came a mocking voice.

Tom and Harry had both stepped around into the plain range of vision of Pedro Gato.

That scoundrel stood with rifle butt to his shoulder, his glance running along the barrel. The weapon covered them.

"Don't forget! Your hands, caballeros!" insisted Gato, jubilantly.

For a brief instant Tom Reade hesitated. He was doing some lightning calculating as to whether he would be able to spring forward under the rifle barrel and knock up the weapon.

But a second glance showed him that he could not hope to do it. Pedro Gato was completely master of the situation.

"For the third time—and the last, caballeros your hands! Up high!" commanded Gato exultantly.

"Now, stand just so, until I get back of you," ordered Gato. "Do not attempt any tricks, and do not turn to look back at me. If you do I shall pull the trigger—once and again. This rifle shoots fast."

While talking Gato had placed himself to the rear of his captives, who, with hands up, remained facing ahead.

"Do you want us to keep our hands up forever?" demanded Tom Reade, gruffly.

"To take them down will be the signal for death," replied Gato coolly. "Take your hands down, or turn this way, if you deem it best. Possibly you will prefer to die, for to-night's entertainment may strike you as being worse than death. The matter is within your own choice, wholly, caballeros. Perhaps on the whole it would be far better for you to lower your hands and die."

"Cut out the thrills and the mock-comedy, Gato, and tell us what else you want us to do," Tom urged, stiffly.

"Oho! My Gringo wild-cat is much tamer, isn't he?" sneered Gato. "But he shall be tamer still before the night is over. Now—are you listening?"

Harry made no sign, but Tom shrugged his shoulders.

"Keep your noses pointed the same way. March!" commanded Gato.

XIV. NEXT TO THE TELEGRAPH KEY

Tom and Harry started along the trail, side by side.

Something whizzed through the air. Then something struck the earth heavily, and there was a slight, quickly repressed groan.

"Quick, caballeros!"

For the life of him Tom could not help halting and wheeling about. The next second he uttered a low cry of glee.

For Pedro Gato lay flat on the ground, Nicolas bending over him.

"Quick, caballeros!" implored Nicolas again.

"You fine chap," chuckled Reade, bounding back and bending over Gato, as Nicolas was doing.

"There was no other way to save you," whispered the servant. "I had to do it."

As Nicolas raised his right hand, Reade could not help seeing that it was stained with blood.

"See here," gasped Tom, recoiling. "You didn't—you didn't knife the scoundrel?"

He had all of an American's disgust of knife-fighting.

"Oh, no—not I," returned the little Mexican. "I do not use the knife. I am a servant, not a coward. But I had to throw a stone. I am thankful, senor, that my aim was good."

Tom now discovered that blood was coming from a wound in Gato's head. Moreover, the rascal was beginning to moan. He would soon recover consciousness.

"Do you know how to use this, senor?" Nicolas asked, as he passed over a small coil of stout hempen cord.

"I think we can fix the fellow," Tom nodded. "Roll him over, Harry, and hold him. Don't let the scoundrel reach for any other weapons."

Gato's rifle lay on the ground. Tom pushed it aside with one foot as Harry turned the fellow.

"Get his hands behind him," muttered Tom. "I'll do the tying."

In a very short space of time Gato's hands had been securely bound behind him. More cord was tied around his ankles, in such a way that Gato would be able to take short steps but not run.

Suddenly Gato groaned and opened his eyes.

"You'll be more comfortable on your back, old fellow," murmured Tom. "Wait. I'll turn you."

Gato stared blankly, at first. Evidently he did not realize the situation all at once. At last a curse leaped to his lips.

"Go easy on that bad-talk stuff," Tom urged him. "Gentlemen don't use such language, and men who travel with us must be gentlemen."

"You miserable Gringo!" wailed Gato, gnashing his teeth. "You will always be full of treacherous tricks. Even when I had you in front of me, and my eyes on you, you managed to knock me down."

"Oh, no!" laughed Tom. "The credit for this stunt belongs to good little Nicolas!"

The servant uttered a protesting cry, but too late. Tom had spoken indiscreetly.

"Nicolas! You? You little mountain rat of a peon!" growled Gato. "Excellent! I am glad I know, for I shall destroy you."

Nicolas cowered and shivered before the baleful glare in the larger Mexican's eyes. But Tom took a savage grip of one of Gato's shoulders, digging in with his pressure until he made the scoundrel wince.

"You'd better go slow with that talk, Gato," Tom warned him. "If you don't we'll turn you over to Nicolas to do with as he pleases."

"All right," sneered Gato, not a whit dismayed. "He would dare to do nothing to me. He would be too afraid of the vengeance that he well knows stalks in these hills."

"It is all too true," shuddered Nicolas.

"Come, brace up, Nicolas, and be a man," Tom urged, slapping the servant cordially on the shoulder. "Don't be afraid of any man. Let Gato threaten you if he wants to. Nothing has happened to you yet, and he who is afraid is the only man that suffers. Come, Gato, you will have to get up on your feet. We can't let you delay us."

"I shall not stir a step," declared the fellow, grimly.

"Oh, yes, you will."

"Not if you kill me for refusing. If you wish to take me anywhere, Gringos, you will have to carry me every step of the way."

"We won't carry you, either," Tom continued, coolly. "Gato, a few moments ago, you had the whip-hand. Now, we're carrying the whip. We don't want any nonsense. If you carry matters too far you'll discover that Hazelton and I have had more or less experience as wild animal trainers. But, first of all, your head. It must be attended to."

Tom wiped away the blood, which was now clotting, with his own handkerchief.

"Help me to stand him on his feet, Harry," Reade then commanded.

Between them they dragged the heavy fellow to his feet, but Gato promptly cast himself down again.

"We'll haul you up again," Tom went on, patiently. "Don't try that mulish trick any more, Gato, or I promise you that you'll regret it."

No sooner had he been placed on his feet than. Gato once more threw himself down. As soon as he went down, however, Tom jerked him to his feet.

A roar like that of an angry bull escaped the lips of the suffering Mexican.

"He is trying to summon his men!" cried Nicolas, snatching up the rifle.

No sooner was Gato upright than he threw himself down once more.

Again he was roughly jerked to a standing position.

The fourth time that Gato was placed on his feet he stood, though he was shaking with fury.

"That's a little better," Tom nodded. "Now, Nicolas, I imagine you know more than I do about where your countrymen carry their extra arms. Search this fellow for weapons, and don't overlook anything."

No pistol was revealed by the search, but a long, keen-edged knife was brought to light.

"No gentleman has any occasion to carry a thing like that," mocked Reade. Thrusting the blade into a cleft of rock close by, Tom snapped the blade, rendering the weapon useless.

"Now, we're ready to go on," announced Tom. "Harry, will you keep behind our guest of the evening and spur him on if he shows signs of lagging?"

"Take this gun, Senor Reade," Nicolas hinted, trying to pass the weapon to the young chief engineer.

"I don't want it," returned Tom, shaking his head and making a gesture of repulsion. "I don't like guns. They always make me nervous. I'm afraid of accidents, you see."

"You take the gun, then, Senor Hazelton," begged Nicolas, turning to the other engineer.

"Don't you believe it," retorted Harry, gruffly. "I'd lose caste forever with Tom if I carried firearms. Tom says that nobody but a coward will carry firearms. You keep the gun yourself."

"Muy bien, senor," (very good, sir) agreed Nicolas, meekly. "It is better that I should carry the weapon then, for I am truly worthless. I am but a peon."

"Oh, confound you!" choked Harry. "I didn't mean that. You're one of the best fellows on earth, Nicolas, for you're a man that can be trusted. Better unstrap that belt of cartridges from Gato, too."

The big Mexican ground his teeth and cursed in helpless rage while the little servant stripped him of the belt and adjusted it about his own waist.

"Now, let's get along," Reade urged. "We've been losing a lot of valuable time. Besides, we don't know when we'll run into some of this mountain pirate's choice friends."

Tom strode on ahead. Nicolas ran to his side, walking with him. Then came Gato, urged on by Harry Hazelton.

"See here, you Nicolas," remarked Tom, protestingly, "why on earth didn't you stay put? We left you behind to-night so that you wouldn't run into trouble with Don Luis."

"Don Luis himself told me to wait on your excellencies night and day, as long as you remained in Bonista," Nicolas affirmed, solemnly. "Don Luis hasn't yet changed those orders, and so I must remain with you. But I had flattered myself that just now I was of enough service to you so that you wouldn't be displeased."

"Displeased? Not a bit of it," muttered Tom. "But we didn't want you to get yourself into trouble on our account. Now, you've gone and written your name in Gato's bad books for certain."

"I have, senor," the peon admitted. "Gato will take delight in cutting my throat for me one of these days."

"Great Scott!" Reade gasped, shivering. "That's cheerful."

"So that, perhaps, senor," suggested the peon, slyly, "you will be willing to take me with you to your own country. Perhaps there, also, you will be able to give me work as your servant."

"Rest assured of one thing, Nicolas. If we can get you safely over on to the American side of the border we'll look after you properly."

"I am very grateful, senor," protested Nicolas, humbly.

"But we're a long way from the American border as yet," Tom went on.

"You will get there safely, senor," predicted the peon. "You are a great man, and you know how to do things."

"Well, for simple faith you're the limit, Nicolas, my boy. For one thing, though, it strikes me that our getting over the border, which is some hundreds of miles away, might be hindered if we have the tough luck to run into any of Gato's armed pals along this route."

"You do well to remind me, senor!" cried Nicolas, in a low tone, but one, nevertheless, which was full of self-reproach. "So much have I enjoyed my talk with you that I have been forgetting to look after your safety. Pardon me, senor. I will vanish, but I shall watch over you with the wide-open eyes of the panther."

In another instant Nicolas had vanished from the trail. Tom, however, did not worry. He knew that Nicolas was not far away, and that the little peon was doubtless as valuable a scout as their expedition could have.

"I wish I had asked him to unload that gun, though," Reade muttered to himself. "He's likely as not to hurt some one else beside the enemy with a stray bullet or two."

Three miles further on Tom, Harry and their prisoner halted, for on the rough road they were now becoming winded.

"I am near, senores," whispered a familiar voice, though Nicolas did not show himself over the rocks that concealed him.

"Yes," sneered Gato, harshly, "you are indeed near—near death, you silly little fool. Always before you have been safe because you were not a fighting man. But now you have taken to deeds of arms, and you shall take your chances whenever you stir in these mountains. For that matter you will surely be cut down before the dawn comes."

"That reminds me," muttered Tom. "We want to be farther from Don Luis before dawn arrives. Gato, oblige us by rising and joining in the hike."

Though Gato snarled, he allowed himself to be hoisted to his feet. Then, with alert Harry behind him the villain allowed himself to be ordered along the trail.

When dawn came Nicolas informed the young engineers that they were now within about four miles of the nearest telegraph station. The food that they had brought along was opened; even Gato had his share. Then Nicolas vanished once more, and the march was resumed.

The sun was well up, and beating down hot and fiery when Nicolas, standing on a jutting ledge of rock, pointed down into the valley at a little clump of wooden buildings, roofed with corrugated iron.

"That third house is the telegraph station," said the peon. "You will know it by the wires running in."

"Shan't we all go down?" asked Harry.

"I'm afraid it wouldn't be wise," Tom answered. "We can't turn our prisoner loose. On the other hand, if we took him with us, roped as he is, it might stir up a lot of questioning and make some trouble. But Nicolas will know better. What do you say, my boy?"

"I say that Senor Reade is right."

Tom therefore started down into the valley alone. A few half-clad natives lounged in the street. They stared curiously at this stalwart-looking, bronzed young Gringo who walked toward them with alert step.

Two or three of the children, after the custom of their kind, called out for money. Tom, smiling pleasantly, drew forth a few loose American coins that he had with him and scattered them in the road. Then he hastened on to the telegraph station, a squalid-looking little one-room shanty. But the place looked good to Tom, for its wires reached out over the civilized world, and more especially ran to the dear old United States that he was so anxious to reach with a few words.

Tom passed inside, to find a bare-footed, white-clad Mexican soldier at a telegraph desk. The soldier wore the chevrons of a sergeant.

"Sergeant, may I send a telegram from here?" Tom inquired in Spanish.

"Certainly, senor," replied the sergeant, pushing forward a blank. As this telegraph station was a military station, it was under the exclusive control of the soldiery.

Tom picked up the blank and the proffered pencil. He dated the paper, then wrote the name and address of the manager of his and Harry's engineering office in the United States. Below this Reade wrote:

"Hazelton and I are now endeavoring to reach railway and return immediately. If not heard from soon, look us up promptly through Washington."

"Our man will know, from this, if he doesn't hear from us soon," Tom reflected, "that there has been foul play, and that he must turn the matter over to the United States Government at Washington for some swift work by Uncle Sam on our behalf. Once this message gets through to the other end, Harry and I won't have to worry much about being able to get out of Mexico in safety."

The sergeant read the English words through carefully.

"Will the senor pardon me for saying," ventured the telegrapher, "that this message reads much as though yourself and a friend are trying to escape?"

The man spoke in English, though with a Spanish accent.

"What do you mean, Sergeant?" Tom queried, quickly.

"Why should you need to escape, if you are honest men, engaged in honest business?" demanded the sergeant, eyeing Reade keenly.

"Why, it isn't a felony to try to get out of Mexico, is it?" Tom counter-queried.

"That depends," said the sergeant. "It depends, for instance, on why you are leaving."

"We're leaving because we want to," Tom informed him.

"You are Senor Reade, are you not?" pressed the sergeant, after eyeing the telegram once more. "And your friend, who does not appear here in person, is Senor Hazelton? Unless I am wrong, then you are the two engineers whom Don Luis Montez engaged. How do I know that you have any right to leave Mexico? How do I know that you are not breaking a contract?"

"Breaking a contract?" Tom retorted, somewhat indignantly. "Sergeant, we are not contract laborers. We are civil engineers—professional men."

"Nevertheless," replied the sergeant, handing back the telegram into the hands of bewildered. Tom Reade, "I cannot undertake to send this message until it is endorsed with the written approval of Don Luis Montez, your employer."

"Does Don Luis own this side of Mexico, or this wing of the Mexican Army?" Tom inquired, with biting sarcasm.

"I cannot send the telegram, senor, except as I have stated."

Whereupon the sergeant began firmly, though gently, to push Tom out of the room. Comparing the size and muscular development of the two, it looked almost humorous to see this effort. But Tom, who now realized how hopeless his errand was, allowed himself to be pushed out. Then the door was slammed to and locked behind him.

"Nothing doing!" muttered Reade, in chagrin and dismay. "In fact, much less than nothing! Harry and I will simply have to tramp fifty miles further and find the railway. Great Scott! I doubt if the conductor will even let us aboard his train without a pass signed by Don Luis. Hang the entire state of Bonista!"

Deep in thought, and well-nigh overwhelmed by the complete realization of his defeat, Tom stalked moodily back up among the rocks.

As he turned a sharp, jutting ledge, Tom suddenly recoiled, as a brisk military voice called:

"Para! Quien vive!" (Halt! Who goes there?)

Reade found a Mexican military bayonet pressing against his chest, behind the bayonet a rifle, and to the immediate rear of the rifle a ragged, barefooted young soldier, though none the less a genuine Mexican soldier!

Further back other soldiers squatted on the ground. In their centre sat the scowling Gato, handcuffed and therefore plainly a prisoner.

Harry and Nicolas were also there—not handcuffed, yet quite as plainly prisoners.

XV. THE JOB OF BEING AN HIDALGO

"This must be a part of the army that Don Luis also owns!" flashed through Reade's mind.

From behind the group stepped forth a boyish-looking young fellow at whose side dangled a sword. He was a very young lieutenant.

"Are these your men?" inquired Tom.

"Yes," nodded the lieutenant.

"Why have they stopped me?" Tom demanded, calmly.

"On suspicion, senor."

"Suspicion of what?" demanded Reade, his eyes opening wider. "Is it suspicious for a foreigner to be walking about in Mexico?"

"I am not here to answer questions, senor," replied the young officer. "You will be good enough not to resist."

"I haven't any intention of resisting," Tom retorted. "I know better than to think that I can thrash the whole Mexican Army that is behind you."

"You are as sensible as I had hoped you would be, senor," continued the lieutenant, with a slight bow.

"But I wish you would tell us why you are holding us," Tom insisted.

"I am not obliged to tell you, senor, and I am not certain that it would be wise of me to do so," the officer answered. "However, I will say that I found your party with a Mexican citizen as a prisoner."

"And you seem to have made a prisoner of the same fellow yourself," Reade retorted.

"As an officer of the Mexican Army, senor, that is my privilege," came the lieutenant's response. "As to your right, however, to arrest and hold a Mexican citizen, there may be some question. I shall have to satisfy myself on this point before I can release you."

"Why, I'll be wholly frank with you," Tom Reade offered. "This fellow, Gato, is a rascal whom I had occasion to thrash. In revenge for the humiliation he has given me to understand that he would kill me. Last night he held us up at the point of his rifle. Our servant, Nicolas, threw a stone that bowled Gato over. Then, for our own safety, we tied him up and brought him with us."

"Why was it necessary to your safety, senor, since you had the fellow's rifle and his ammunition? You see, I have gained this much from your friend."

"Why was it necessary?" Tom repeated, wonderingly. "Why, Lieutenant, do you feel that we should have turned a deadly enemy loose?"

"But you had no right to arrest him, senor."

"Nor did we arrest him in the sense that you mean, Lieutenant. All we did was to render Gato helpless and bring him along with us until we should have passed out of the bit of country in which he might have been dangerous to our safety."

"How could he be dangerous when you had his weapon?" the lieutenant demanded, argumentatively.

"Why, he had other men out with him. How long would it have taken Gato to find his men and bring them down upon us—three or four guns against one?"

"But did you see his other men at any time in the night?"

"No," Tom admitted.

"Senor, you have made a grave mistake in arresting and holding the man, Gato. You had no right to do so."

"Why, in our own country," Tom protested, "any one may arrest a man who is committing a crime. In our own case we very likely would have lost our lives to bandits if we had not tied Gato and brought him with us."

"Had you tied him and left him behind it might have been different," explained the lieutenant. "But what you did, Senor Reade, was to make an actual arrest, and this you, as an American, had no right to do. Therefore, I shall hold you until this matter has been further inquired into."

It was a bad plight, and there seemed to be no simple way out of it. The young chief engineer began to see that, innocently, and wholly for the purpose of self-protection, he very likely had infringed upon the kinds of rights that foreigners in Mexico do not possess.

"All right, Lieutenant," sighed Tom. "I suppose we shall have to go along with you. Where are you taking us?"

"That will have to be decided," said the officer. "Nowhere for the presents my men are tired and need rest. We will not humiliate you, Senor Reade, by placing you in irons, but I will ask your word of honor that you won't attempt to escape from us."

"I give you that word of honor," said Tom, simply.

"And I have only to remind you, senor, that, if you make the mistake of breaking your word, bullets travel fast and several of my men are sharpshooters."

"I am an American and a gentleman," Reade returned, with offended dignity. "My word of honor is not given to be broken."

"Then you will seat yourself, senor, or stroll about and amuse yourself within the narrow limits of this small camp."

Tom stepped over, rested his hand on Harry's shoulder, then dropped to a seat beside his chum.

"Can you beat it?" Tom demanded, in ready American slang.

"It would be hard to, wouldn't it?" Harry asked, smiling sheepishly.

Pedro Gato turned to regard them with a surly grin. Though handcuffed, Gato seemed to feel that he was now enjoying his own innings.

For an hour or more the soldiers continued to rest. All of them, including the lieutenant, who sat stiffly aloof from his men, rolling and smoking cigarettes.

"I see a bully argument against cigarette smoking," whispered Tom in his chum's ear.

"What is it?" Harry wanted to know.

"All of these fellows are smoking cigarettes. I am proud of myself to feel that I don't belong in their class."

"A year ago Alf Drew would have felt at home in this cigarette-puffing, sallow-faced lot, wouldn't be?" grinned Harry.

"I am glad to say that Alf now knows how measly a cigarette smoker looks," answered Tom.

Alf Drew, as readers of the preceding volume will remember, was a boy addicted to cigarettes, but whom Tom had broken of the stupid habit. Alf was now employed in the engineering offices of Reade & Hazelton.

"There's something coming," announced Reade, presently. "It sounds like a miniature railroad train."

"I wish it were a real one, and that we had our baggage aboard," muttered Harry, with a grimace.

One of the sentries had gone to intercept the approaching object. Instead the soldier now permitted the approaching object to roll into camp. It proved to be Don Luis's big touring car. In the tonneau sat the mine owner and Dr. Carlos Tisco.

"What is this, Senor Reade?" cried Don Luis Montez, in pretended astonishment. "In trouble? Lieutenant, these gentlemen are friends of mine. May I ask you what this means?"

Tom was not deceived by this by-play. He snorted mildly while the young army lieutenant explained why he had detained the engineers.

"But these gentlemen are friends and employes," Don Luis explained. "What they tell you about Gato is quite true. Will you oblige me by releasing these gentlemen, Lieutenant."

The young officer seemed to hesitate.

"It's all a part of the comedy," whispered Tom, and Harry nodded.

"I—I will let these Americanos go, for the present, Don Luis," suggested the lieutenant, "provided you will take them back to your estate, and agree to be responsible for them if they are wanted.

"Thank you very much, Lieutenant. I will readily undertake that," agreed Montez, smiling. "Then come, Senores Reade and Hazelton, and I will interrupt my journey to take you back to safety under a hospitable roof."

"I don't know that I wouldn't rather go with the soldiers," Harry muttered to his chum.

"No!" murmured Reade. "I've heard too much about these Mexican prisons to care anything about going to one. I reckon we'd better go with Don Luis. After we've rid ourselves of military guard, and have reached the Montez estate, we are at least released from our word of honor not to attempt an escape. I guess, Harry, we had better take up with Don Luis's rascally offer."

"Well, caballeros, does it need much discussion to enable you to accept my kindness?" called Montez, banteringly.

"Not at all, Don Luis," Tom made answer. "We're going with you—with the lieutenant's consent."

The young lieutenant bowed his agreement. Tom and Harry lifted their hats lightly to the officer, then stepped into the tonneau of the car.

"Home," said Don Luis.

The chauffeur made a quick turn, and the car speedily left the camp behind.

"I have often heard, gentlemen, that foreigners have difficulty in understanding our laws," observed Don Luis. He spoke affably, but mockery lurked in his tones. "Without realizing it you two have committed a serious offense against our laws. You have ventured to arrest a Mexican citizen."

Nicolas, who sat in front with the chauffeur, sat as stiff and silent as though he had been a figure of stone.

"What will be the outcome of this adventure, under the law?" Tom inquired, dryly.

"It would need one of our judges to say that," replied Don Luis, shrugging his shoulders. "However, I may be able to arrange the matter with the authorities."

"And, if you can't arrange it—?"

"Why, then, I dare say, my friends, you will have to be arrested again. Then you would be taken to one of our prisons until your trial came off. You might even be held incommunicado, which means that, as prisoners, you would not be allowed to communicate with the outside world—not even with your American government."

"And how long would we be held incommunicado?" Tom asked.

Don Luis gave another shrug of his shoulders.

"You would be held incommunicado, Senor Reade, until the judges were ready to try you."

"And that might be years off," Tom muttered.

Don Luis beamed delightedly, while a thin smile curled on Dr. Tisco's lips.

"You are beginning, senor, to get some grasp of Mexican law," laughed Montez.

"In other words, Don Luis," said Tom, dryly, "it's a game wherein you can't possibly lose, and we can remain out of prison only as long as you are gracious enough to will it?"

"That might be rather a strong way of stating the case," murmured the Mexican. "However, after your unlawful act of last night, you undoubtedly are liable to a long confinement in one of our prisons. But believe me, Senor Reade, you may command me as far as my humble influence with our government goes!"

The situation was certainly one to make Tom think hard. He was certain that Don Luis had engineered the whole situation, even to urging Gato on to a part in this grin drama.

"Well, you've got us!" sighed Tom.

"You will find me your best friend, always," protested Montez.

"You have us," Tom continued, "but you haven't our signatures to the report on your mine. That is going to be more difficult."

"Time heals all breaches between gentlemen who should be friends," declared Don Luis, quite graciously.

After that it was a silent party that rode in the touring car. Though the road back to the estate was worthy of no such name as road, the big car none the less "ate up the miles." It was not long before the young engineers caught sight of the big white house.

"Come, gentlemen," begged Don Luis, alighting, and turning to the young engineers with a courtly grace that concealed a world of mockery. "You will find your rooms ready, and my household ready to minister to your comfort."

Tom Reade, as he stepped upon the porch, drew himself up as stiffly as any American soldier could have done.

"We've had to come this far with you, Don Luis," admitted the young engineer, dropping all his former pretense of dry good humor, "but you can't make us live under your roof unless you go so far as to have us seized, tied and carried in."

"I have no intention of being anything but a gracious friend and host," murmured Montez.

"Then, while we probably must stay here," Tom resumed, "we'll leave your place and go to live somewhere in the open near you. We can accept neither your house nor your food."

"Very good," answered Montez, meekly, bowing again. "I will only suggest, caballeros, that you do not attempt to go too far from my house. If you do, the soldiers will surely find you. Then they will not bring you back to me, and you will learn what incommunicado means in our Mexican law. Adios, caballeros!"

"Am I still the servant of the American gentlemen, Don Luis?" asked Nicolas, humbly.

"You may go with them. They will need you, little Nicolas," answered Don Luis, and watched the three out of sight with smiling eyes.

Montez could afford to be cheerful. He knew that he had triumphed.

XVI. TWO VICTIMS OF ROSY THOUGHTS

"There is one thing about it," remarked Reade, as he rose and stood at the doorway of the tent. "We're not being overworked."

"Nor are we getting awfully rich, as the weeks go by, either," smiled Harry.

"No; but we're puppets in a game that interests me about as much as any that I ever saw played," Tom smiled back.

"This game—interests you?" queried Harry, looking astonished. "That is a new idea to me, Tom. I never knew you to be interested, before, in any game that wasn't directly connected with some great ambition."

"We have a great ambition at present."

"I'd like to know what it is," grumbled Harry. "It's three weeks since that scoundrel, Don Luis, brought us back in triumph. We refused to enter his house as guests, and started to camp in the open in these two old tents that Nicolas secured for us. In all these three weeks we haven't done a tap of work. We haven't studied, or read because we have no books. We sleep, eat, and then sleep some more. When we get tired of everything else we go out and trudge over the hills, being careful not to get too far, lest we run into the guns of Gato and his comrades, for undoubtedly Gato was turned loose as soon as he was lost to our sight. We don't do anything like work, and we're not even arranging any work for the future. Yet you say that you're boosting your ambitions."

"I am," Tom nodded solemnly. "Harry, isn't it just as great an ambition to be an honest engineer as it is to be a highly capable one?"

"Of course."

"Don't capitalists usually invest large sums on a favorable report from engineers?"

"Often."

"And, if the engineers were dishonest the capitalists would lose their money, wouldn't they?"

"Certainly."

"Then here's our ambition, and we're working it out—finely, too," Tom went on, with much warmth. "Don Luis has a scheme to rob some people of a large sum of money by selling them a worthless mine in a country where there are several good ones. If he could get us to help him, to our own dishonor, Don Luis Montez would succeed in swindling this company of men. Harry, we're just lying around here, day after day, doing no hard work, but we're blocking Don Luis's game and saving money for honest men. Don Luis doesn't care to have us assassinated, for he still hopes to break down our resistance. He can't bring the capitalists here to meet us until we do give in, and so the game lags for Don Luis. He can't bring in other engineers, for they'd meet us and we would post them. The American engineer must be a serious problem for Don Luis. He thought he could buy almost any of us. Our conduct has made him afraid that American engineers can't be bought. Evidently he must have his report signed by American engineers of repute, which means that he is trying to sell his worthless mine to Americans. Harry, we're teaching Don Luis to respect the honesty of American engineers; we're saving some of our countrymen from being swindled, probably out of thousands of dollars; we're proving that the American engineer is honest, and we're discouraging rascals everywhere from employing us in crooked work. Now, honestly, isn't all that ambition enough to hold us for a few weeks?"

"I suppose so," Harry agreed. "But what is the end of all this to be. Won't Don Luis merely have us assassinated in the end, if we go on proving stubborn?"

"He may," Tom answered, pressing his lips grimly. "But, if he does, he'll pay heavily for his villainy."

"How?"

"Every man has to pay for his sins."

"That's what we were taught in Sunday school," Harry nodded, "and I've always believed it. Yet here, in these remote mountains of the state of Bonista, if anywhere, Don Luis would appear to be safe. If a few of his men crept up here, late some night, with pistols or knives, and finished us before we had time to wake up, do you imagine that any one hereabouts would dare to make any report of the matter? Would our fate ever reach the outside world?"

"It would be sure to, in time, I believe," Tom answered, thoughtfully.

"How?"

"That I can't tell. But I believe in the invariable triumph of right, no matter how great the odds against it may seem."

"Let right triumph, after we're buried," continued Harry, "and what good would it do us?"

"None, in any ordinary material sense. Yet good would come to the world through our fate, even if only in proclaiming, once more, the sure defeat of all wicked plans in the end."

Harry said no more, just then. Tom Reade, who ordinarily was intensely practical, was also the kind of young man who could perish for an ideal, if need be. Tom went outside, stretching himself on the grass under a tree. He sighed for a book, but there was none, so he lay staring off over the valley below.

Twenty minutes later Harry, after trying vainly to take a nap on a cot in the tent, followed his chum outside.

"Odd, isn't it, Tom?" questioned Hazelton. "We're living what looks like a wholly free life. Nothing to prevent us from tramping anywhere we please on these hills, and yet we know to a certainty that we wouldn't be able to get twenty miles from here before soldiers would have us nabbed, and marching away to a prison from which, very likely, no one in the outside world would ever hear of us again."

"It is queer," agreed Tom, nodding. "Oh, just for one glimpse of Yankee soil!"

"Twice," went on Harry, "we've even persuaded Nicolas to bribe some native to take a letter from us, to be mailed at some distant point. After two or three days Don Luis, in each instance, has come here, and, with a smile, has shown us our own intercepted letter. Yet Nicolas has been honest in the matter, beyond a doubt. It is equally past question that the native whom Nicolas has trusted and paid has made an honest attempt to get away and post our letter; but always the cunning of a Montez overtakes the trusted messenger."

"And one can only guess what has happened to the messengers," Tom said, soberly. "Undoubtedly both of the two poor fellows are now passing the days incommunicado. It makes a fellow a bit heartsick, doesn't it, chum, to think of the probable fates of two men who have tried to serve us. And what, in the end, is to be the fate of poor little Nicolas? Don Luis Montez is not the sort of man to forgive him his fidelity to us."

"And where's Nicolas, all this time?" suddenly demanded Harry, glancing at his watch. "Why, the fellow hasn't been here for three hours! Where can he be?"

"Quien sabe?" responded Reade, using the common Spanish question, given with a shrug, which means, "Who knows! Who can guess?"

"Can Nicolas have fallen into any harm?" asked Hazelton, a new note of alarm in his voice. "The poor, faithful little fellow! It gives me a shiver to think of his suffering an injury just because he serves us so truly."

"I shall be interested in seeing him get back," Tom nodded thoughtfully.

"And I'm beginning to have a creepy feeling that he won't come back!" cried Harry. "He may at this moment be past human aid, Tom, and that may be but the prelude to our own craftily-planned destruction."

Tom Reade sat up, leaning on one elbow, as he regarded his chum with an odd smile.

"Harry," Tom uttered, dryly, "we certainly have no excuse for being blue when we have such rosy thoughts to cheer us up!"

"Hang Mexico!" grunted Hazelton.

XVII. THE STRANGER IN THE TENT

By and by Tom Reade began to grow decidedly restless. He would sit up, look and listen, and then lie down again. Then he would fidget about nervously, all of which was most unusual with him, for Reade's was one of those strong natures that will endure work day and night as long as is necessary, and then go in for complete rest when there is nothing else to do.

Harry did not observe this, for he had gone back into the tent. Two sheets of a Mexican newspaper had come wrapped around one of Nicolas's last food purchases. Hazelton was reading the paper slowly by way of improving his knowledge of Spanish.

At last Tom called, in a low voice:

"Don't worry about me, chum, if you miss me. I'm going to take a little stroll."

"All right, Tom."

Reade did not hurry away. He had to remember that in all probability he was being watched. So he strolled about as though he had no particular purpose in mind. Yet, after some minutes, he gained a point from which he could gaze down the hill-slope toward the little village of huts in which the mine laborers lived.

There were a few small children playing about the one street that ran through the village. A few of the women were out of doors, also, but none of the men were in sight, for these were toiling away at the mine. Though El Sombrero had so far shown no ore that amounted to anything, Don Luis, while waiting to sell his mine for a fortune, kept his peons working hard in the hope that they might strike some real ore.

After Tom had been gazing for three or four minutes his eves suddenly lighted, for he saw Nicolas come out of one of the huts.

"I wonder what has kept the little fellow so long," Tom murmured. But he turned away with an appearance of listlessness, for, if he were observed, he did not care to have a watcher note his interest in the servant's coming.

So Nicolas passed on toward the tents without having observed Reade.

"I won't get back too soon," Tom decided. "If we are watched at all it wouldn't do to have me appear too much interested in the peon's doings."

Now that his mind was somewhat easier, Tom strolled on once more. His roundabout path took him along among the rocks that littered the ground over the principal tunnels of El Sombrero. Hundreds of feet beneath him now toiled some of the peons who lived in the village of huts yonder.

Presently Reade increased his speed considerably, deciding that now it would be safe to return directly to camp. Suddenly he stopped short, head up, his gaze directed at the tops of three or four rocks. Some human being had just dodged out of sight at that point.

Tom felt a swift though brief chill. Something had made him suspect that the prowler might be Gato, or one of the latter's companions.

Instead of running away Tom made for the place of hiding in short leaps.

"Hold on there a minute, my friend," Tom called in Spanish. "I think it may be worth my while to look you over."

Just as Reade was ready to bound over the rocks a figure rose as though to meet him. A light leap landed Reade on top of the stranger, who was borne to earth.

"Mercy senor!" begged the other. "Do not be rough with me. I am not strong enough to stand it."

The man spoke Spanish and was well past middle age, of a very spare figure, and his face was very thin, although there was a deep flush on his cheeks.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Tom in Spanish. He touched the stranger's cheeks, which were hot with fever.

Then Tom slid off his poor captive and squatted beside him. Reaching for the man's left wrist and resting two fingers on his pulse, Tom added, gently:

"Tell me all about it, senor."

"There is not much to tell," panted the stranger, weakly, for Tom's landing on him had jarred him severely. "I am sick, as you can see."

"Oh, that isn't much," said Tom, blithely. "With decent care you will soon he well. It is plain that you are a gentleman—no peon. Yonder, some distance, is a house where I think you are very likely to be well taken care of. Don Luis Montez—"

Despite the hectic flush in the cheeks, the stranger's face paled visibly. Tom, always observant, noted this.

"Oh, I see," Reade went on, calmly. "You do not like Don Luis Montez, or you do not care about going to his house."

The stranger gazed up wistfully at the young engineer's kindly face.

"Senor," he asked, "you would not betray me?"

"You mean to Don Luis?"

A weak nod was the answer.

"Rest easy on that score, my friend," Tom begged, dryly. "Don Luis and I are not on the best of terms. I do not like him very well myself."

"Will you help to hide me here, and then go away and be silent?"

"Go away and leave you here?" suggested Reade.

"Yes, senor. It will be a great favor."

"It would be murder," Tom retorted. "Man, you're ill and you need care—nursing. I don't know much about doctoring, but if you have any reason why you don't want Don Luis to know you're here, then I'll do the best I can for you here. I have a chum who'll help me. You have been traveling for some time?" Tom continued, his glance taking in the stranger's well-worn shoes and trousers.

"That is true, yes," nodded the stranger.

"You've been over a rough road, also," Tom continued, "and now you're ill. Your pulse is a hundred and twenty, and you're breathing thirty-two times to the minute. You must have a good bed, be covered comfortably and have plenty of water to drink while we're getting some medicines for you."

"You are indeed kind, but I fear," protested the stranger, "that you will attract attention my way, and then I shall be captured."

Tom studied the face of the sick man keenly.

"I wish you would tell me something about yourself," the young engineer hinted. "It might help me to decide what it is best to do for you."

"Senor," begged the stranger, with a start of dread "it would be a great kindness to me if you would go away and leave me here. Do not come back—and forget that you have seen me."

"It can't be done," replied Tom, with gentle positiveness. "It wouldn't be in American nature to go away and leave a fellow creature to die of helplessness when a little care and nursing ought to put that man on his feet again. But I won't argue with you, for I see the excitement is bringing a deeper flush into your face. Senor, as you are a gentleman trust another gentleman to serve you loyally and not betray you. I am going to leave you for a little while. Will you give me your word to remain here until I return?"

"Yes," nodded the other, weakly.

"I'll wrap this around you," Reade continued, taking off his own blouse and wrapping it around the thin body of the older man. "This will help you a little if you are taken with chills. I shall be back as soon as I can possibly come without attracting attention. Do not be startled if you hear other footsteps than my own. I shall bring with me a friend. I would trust in his hands anything or all that I have in the world. Will you trust me to serve you, senor?"

"I shall trust you," promised the other, simply. "In truth, my young friend, I have many reasons why I could wish to recover of this illness and be well again."

Tom slipped away, then rose to his full height, and resumed his late appearance of lounging along without an object. As he neared the camp he espied Nicolas, whom he had forgotten.

"Our little fellow came back, you see," called Harry, as Tom neared the tents. "What have you been doing?"

"Loafing," yawned Reade, as he strolled up. When he reached the cook tent, however, he stepped inside and the Mexican servant followed him.

"Senor," Nicolas reported, in a whisper, "I think I succeeded in my errand."

"But you do not yet know?" queried Tom.

"How can I know so soon, senor?" questioned Nicolas.

"True," nodded Tom.

Then he stepped outside the tent, remarking: "Our food supply is so low, Nicolas, that I fear you will have to take the basket and go after more."

"It shall be done, senor," promised the servant, and going into the tent appeared a moment later with a basket.

Tom handed him some money.

"I am listening to your orders, senor."

"Oh, you know as well what food to get as I do," Tom rejoined. "But," he added, under his voice, "you must get me some—"

Here Tom added the Spanish names of three or four drugs that he wanted.

"I think I shall be able to get the drugs, senor. Some of the peons must keep them in their houses."

"You must get them, as I said. Now, make good time. I will await your return."

Then Tom drew Harry aside, describing the finding of the fever-stricken stranger.

"Who on earth can he be?" wondered Harry, curiously. "And what can he be doing in this out of the way part of the world?"

"That's his own secret," retorted Tom, dryly; and the man is bent on keeping it. There are only two things that we need to know—one that he is ill, and the other that he is very plainly a gentleman, who would be incapable of repaying our kindness with any treachery. What do you say, Harry? Shall we bring him here and look after him?"

"That's for you to say, Tom."

"It's half for you to say, Harry. Half the risk is also yours, if anything goes wrong."

"Tom, I feel the same way that you do about it," Harry declared, his eyes shining brightly. "A fellow creature in distress is one whom we can't pass by. We can't leave him to die. Such a thing would haunt me as long as I live. When do you want to go after him?"

"Just as soon as it's dark," Reade replied. "That will be within the hour, for here in the tropics night comes soon after the sun sets."

When the time came Tom and Harry left their tent, strolling slowly. It was very dark and the young engineers listened intently as they went along. They found their stranger and lifted him from the ground. He was so slight and frail that he proved no burden whatever. Apparently without having been seen by any one Reade and Hazelton bore their man back to camp.

"Into the cook tent," whispered Reade. "Don Luis, if he should visit us, is less likely to look there than anywhere else."

Into the cook tent they bore the stranger, arranging a bed on the floor, and covering the sick man with such blankets as his condition appeared to call for.

"I am back, caballeros," announced Nicolas, treading softly into the tent. "To the praise of Heaven, be it said, I secured the medicines you told me to get."

Then Nicolas stopped short, gazing wonderingly at the fever-flushed face of the stranger.

XVIII. CRAFT—OR SURRENDER?

"He's a puzzle," remarked Harry, four days later.

"Meaning our sick man?"

"Of course. But he isn't going to be a sick man much longer, thanks to you, Tom. You were born to be a physician."

"Don't you believe it," smiled Reade. "The only previous experience I've had was when I simply had to pull you through out on Indian Smoke Range last winter. Harry, I was afraid you were a goner, and I couldn't let you go. But then, just when you were at your worst I had the best of outside help in pulling you through."

"You mean you got help after you had pulled me out of all danger," Hazelton retorted. "And now you've pulled our stranger through. Or the next thing to it. His fever is gone, and he's mending."

"Nothing much ailed him, I reckon, but intense anxiety and too little food. Our man is resting, now, and getting strong."

"But he's a mystery to me," Harry continued.

"How so?"

"I can't make anything out of him."

"That's right."

"Do you figure out anything concerning him?" Hazelton inquired.

"I don't want to. It isn't any of my business. Our unknown guest is very plainly a gentleman, and that's enough to know about him. If he hasn't told us anything more then it's because he thinks his affairs are of more importance to himself than to us."

"Oh, of course, I didn't mean that I wanted to pry into his affairs," Harry protested.

"No; and we won't do it, either, Harry. If our guest should happen to be missing some morning, without even a note of thanks left behind, we'll understand what it cost him to slip away without saying farewell."

The day before Don Luis had made one of his occasional visits, but he had not gone into the cook tent. Even had he done so the mine owner would probably have seen nothing to make him curious. At the further end of the cook tent lay the stranger, and his bed had been curtained off by a dark-colored print curtain that looked as though it might have been placed there to partition off part of the tent. Don Luis had called merely to chat with the young engineers, and to use his keen eyes in determining whether his enforced guests were any nearer to the point of yielding to his demands upon them.

Concerning the sick man, Nicolas had remained wholly silent. He did not offer to go near the sick man, but brought whatever Tom or Harry had called for. To have the sick man on their hands had been a rather welcome break for the young engineers, since it had given them something with which to occupy themselves.

Just before dark on the fifth day, Tom strolled into the cook tent, going to the rear and parting the curtain.

"How do you feel, now?" Reade asked in a whisper.

"Much stronger, senor," came the grateful answer. "Last night, when your servant slept, I rose and walked about the tent a little to find the use of my legs again. To-day, when alone, I did the same thing. By morning I shall be fit to walk once more. Senor, do not think me ungrateful if you come into this tent, some morning, soon, and find my end of it deserted. I shall go, but I shall never forget you."

"You will please yourself, sir," Tom answered, simply. "Yet I beg you not to attempt to leave until you are able to take care of yourself. We shall not think you ungrateful if it be a long time before we hear from you again. Another thing, sir. When you go do not fail to take with you, in your pockets, food enough to last you for some days."

"I—I cannot pay for it," hesitated the stranger. "Nor, for the present, can I offer to pay you back the money you have expended on my medicines."

"Now, who said anything about that?" Tom asked, nearly as gruffly as it was possible for him to speak to a sick man. "Pay for nothing here, sir, and do not worry about it, either. You do not know how much pleasure your coming has given us. We needed something to do needed it with an aching want that would not be stilled. Looking after you, sir, has been a very welcome treat to us."

"You have been kinder to me, senores, than any one has been to me in many years," murmured the stranger, tears starting to his eyes.

"There, there! Forget it," urged Tom.

"Good evening, Don Luis!" sounded Harry's voice outside. "Ah, Dr. Tisco."

"That's our warning to stop talking," whispered Tom in the stranger's ear, then rose and slipped outside the curtain.

"Where is Senor Reade?" inquired Don Luis.

"Any one calling me?" inquired Tom, looking out of the cook tent. "Ah, good evening, gentlemen."

Tom stepped outside, offering his hand. As this was the first time of late that he had made any such overture to the mine owner, Montez was quick to grasp the hope that it conveyed.

"You are not comfortable here, Senor Reade," said Don Luis, looking about. "I regret it the more when I remember how much room I have under my poor roof. Why don't you move up there, at once. There are several apartments any one of which you may have."

"On the contrary we are very comfortable here," Tom rejoined, seating himself on the ground. "We have lived the open-air life so much that we are really happier in a tent than we could be in any house."

"I cannot understand why you can feel so about it," murmured the Mexican stepping to the entrance of the larger tent and glancing inside. "I will admit, Senor Reade, that you keep a very tidy house under canvas, and your wants may be extremely simple. But a house offers comforts that cannot possibly be found in a tent like this. And the other is still smaller and more cheerless," he added, crossing into the other tent.

Don Luis was now within arm's length of the thin curtain, and was apparently about to push it aside.

"Won't you come outside," suggested Tom, "and tell me the object of your call this evening? It is too warm in here."

"Gladly," smiled the Mexican, letting go of the curtain, which he had just touched, and wheeling about.

"Hang the rascal!" muttered Tom, inwardly. "Has he gotten wind of the fact that we have a stranger here? Does Don Luis know all about the man? Is he playing on my nerves at this moment?"

But Montez, with an appearance of being wholly interested in Tom Reade, went outside with him. Harry placed campstools for the callers, while the young engineers threw themselves upon the ground. Don Luis Montez, as usual, was to do the talking, while Dr. Tisco's purpose in being present was to use his keen, snapping eyes in covertly studying the faces of the two Americans.

"I have called to say," declared Don Luis, coming promptly to the point, "that within three days a party of American visitors will be here. They come with a view to buying the mine, and I shall sell it to them at a very handsome profit. Before we can deal with these Americans it will be absolutely necessary for me to have that report, signed by you both. Moreover, you must both give me your word of honor that you will meet the Americans, and stand back of that report. That you will do all in your power to make possible the sale of the mine."

"We've discussed all of that before," said Harry, dryly.

"And we shall yet require a little more time before we can give a too definite answer," Tom broke in hastily, to head off his chum.

"But the time is short, caballeros," Don Luis urged, a new light, however, gleaming in his eyes, for this was the first time that the young engineers had shown any likelihood of granting his wishes.

"A great deal can be decided upon in three days, Don Luis," Tom went on, slowly. "You will have to give us a little more time, and we will weigh everything carefully."

"But you believe that you will be ready to meet my views?" Don Luis demanded, eagerly.

"I cannot see how our endorsement of your mine can be of any very great value to you," Tom resumed. "It is hardly likely that any of these capitalists who are coming have ever heard of us. In any case, they are quite likely to feel that we are much too young to be able to form professional opinions of any value."

"You give me your help in the matter," coaxed Montez, "and I will attend to the rest. More, caballeros; stand by me so well that I dispose of the mine, and I will promise you twenty thousand dollars, gold, apiece."

"That is a lot of money," Reade nodded, thoughtfully. "But there are other considerations, too."

"Yes; your liberty and your safety," Montez broke in, quickly, with a meaning smile. "Caballeros, do not for one moment think that I can be hoodwinked, and that you will be safe as soon as you meet your fellow Americans. One single flaw in your conduct, after they arrive, and I assure you that you will be promptly arrested. That would be the end of you. It is always easy for government officers to report that prisoners attempted to escape, and were shot dead because of the attempt. That is exactly what will happen if you do aught to hinder the sale of this mining property."

"Nothing like a clear understanding," smiled Tom, rising, and once more holding out his hand. "Don Luis, it will be enough if we give you our answer by the morning of day after to-morrow? And I will add that I think we shall see our way clear to help along the sale of this mining property at a high figure. Let me see; at what value do you hold it?"

"At two million and a half dollars, Senor Reade."

"I think we can assure your visitors that they are doing well enough," Tom nodded.

"One word more, caballeros," said Montez, as he let go of the young chief engineer's hand. "If you fail us, do not either of you imagine, for a moment, that you have any further lease of life."

"I don't believe we shall fail you," Tom assured the Mexican. "I believe that the visiting Americans will buy. If they don't it won't be our fault."

"And now that we are at such an excellent understanding once more, Senor Reade," proposed the mine owner, "can't we prevail upon you to come up to the house and spend a pleasant evening."

"Thank you," Tom returned, graciously. "But not to-night. I am restless. I must do considerable thinking, and I don't want to talk much. Action is what I crave. If you see us running all over your property, don't imagine that we are trying to run away from here."

"My property is at your disposal," smiled Don Luis. "I shall feel assured that you will not go many miles from here."

The remark covered the fact that Montez had all avenues of escape so well guarded that the young engineers simply could not escape by flight.

Good nights were exchanged, and the visitors, smiling politely, departed.

"Now, why on earth did you talk to Don Luis in that fashion?" Harry demanded, as soon as they were alone. "You know, well enough, that not even the certainty of immediate death would make you accede to his rascally wishes."

"I'm afraid I don't know anything of the sort," Tom drawled. "On the contrary, we may help Montez sell out to the American visitors."

Harry gasped.

"Tom Reade, are you going crazy?"

"Not that I've noticed."

"Then what are you talking about?"

"Harry, I'm tired, and I think you are."

"I'm sick and tired with disgust that Don Luis should think he could use us to bait his money-traps with," Hazelton retorted.

"Let's turn in and get a good night's rest."

"Oh, bother!" retorted the junior engineer. "I couldn't sleep. Tom, I shan't sleep a wink to-night, for dreading that you'll turn rascal-helper. Tell me that you've been joking with me, Tom!"

"But I can't truthfully tell you that," Reade insisted. "I am not joking, and haven't been joking to-night."

"Then I wish you'd open up and tell me a few things."

"Wait," begged Tom. "Wait until I'm sure that the few things will bear telling."

With that much Harry Hazelton found that he would have to be content. He allowed himself to be persuaded to turn in.

Tom Reade was asleep in a few minutes. It was after two in the morning ere Harry, after racking his brains in vain, fell asleep.

The next morning it was found that the stranger in the back of the cook tent had made good his prophecy by vanishing.

XIX. THE HIDALGO PLANS GRATITUDE

Soon after an early breakfast Tom and Harry were afield.

From behind a window in the upper part of his big house, Don Luis, equipped with a powerful field glass, watched them keenly whenever they were in sight.

"What on earth are the Gringos doing?" he wondered, repeatedly. "Are they just walking about, aimlessly? At times it looks like it. At other times it doesn't."

Then Montez sent for Tisco and discussed with him the seeming mystery of the actions of the young engineers.

"Don't ask me, Don Luis," begged the secretary. "I am not clever at guessing riddles. More, I have not pretended to understand this Gringo pair."

"Are they, in the end, going to trick me, Carlos?"

"Who can say?" demanded Dr. Tisco, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Of course, they both know that it will be but a short cut to suicide if they attempt to fool you."

"Their deaths will cause me no anxiety, Carlos, either before or after the sale," murmured Montez. "In fact, my good Carlos—"

"Say it," leered Dr. Tisco, as his employer paused.

"I may as well say it, for you have guessed it, Carlos. Yes, I will say it. Even if this Gringo pair appear honestly to aid me in making the sale—and even if I do make the sale and receive the money—this Gringo pair must die. We know how to arrange that, eh, my staunch Carlos?"

Dr. Tisco shrugged his shoulders.

"Of course, we can put them out of the way, at any time, with secrecy and dispatch, Don Luis. But what will be the use—provided they help you to get the American money into your hands? To be sure, the new buyers will soon find that they have a worthless mine on their hands, but that may happen with the finest mine. The new buyers will never be able to prove that you brought all of your pretty-looking ore from another mine. You can depend upon the secrecy of the people from whom you have been buying the baiting ore for El Sombrero."

"Ah, but there is another side to that, Carlos. If Senores Reade and Hazelton serve us, and then go safely back to the United States, they can swear that they found and knew El Sombrero to be worthless. Then their evidence, flanked by the sudden running-out of El Sombrero, will make a case that the new American buyers could take into court."

"Let them take it into court," proposed the secretary, contemptuously. "The governor of Bonista rules the judges of the courts of the state of Bonista with an iron hand. Rest assured that, if the Americans were to take their claims into the courts of this state, the judges would decide for you, and that would be the end of the matter. And do you believe, Don Luis, that, after Senores Reade and Hazelton once get alive out of Bonista, any consideration would tempt them to come back here to testify? They have sampled your power,"

"Yet why do you object, Carlos, to having the Gringo pair put out of the way?"

"I do not care anything about their lives," Tisco declared, coolly. "It is only on general business principles that it seems to me unwise to have human lives taken when it is not necessary. He who resorts too often to the taking of life is sure to meet his own doom."

"Not in Bonista," jeered Montez, "and not where Don Luis is concerned in business matters."

"As you will, then," sighed the secretary. "You will please your own self, anyway, Don Luis."

"Truly, Carlos. And so I have decided that these Gringo engineers shall perish, anyway, as soon as they have served my purpose."

This talk had taken place in a cupola. Down the stair, with stealthy steps, crept a young, horrified, trembling girl.

Francesca, knowing that her father had gone to the cupola, had followed him to talk with him. She had halted on hearing voices. Now, with despair in her eyes, the terrified girl stole away like one haunted and hunted by evil spirits.

"My father—an intending murderer! He, of a proud hidalgo family, a vile assassin, in thought at least?" moaned the girl, wringing her hands as soon as she had stolen to the privacy of her own rooms.

"My father's hands—to be covered with human blood!" sobbed Francesca, sinking down before a crucifix to pray.

For hours the girl remained in terror-stricken solitude. Then she rose, somewhat comforted at last, and with the aid of cold water removed the traces of her tears from her dark, beautiful face.

Her plan was to seek her father, throw herself at his feet, and beg him not to disgrace the blood of the hidalgos nor to destroy his own soul with a hideous crime.

"I must seek him in private. There must be no others near when I make my appeal!" thought the girl.

Just then a servant entered.

"Your father is in the garden, Senorita Francesca," reported the woman, "and wonders why you do not join him. It is his wish that you join him now."

"Say to my father that his wish is my law," quavered the terrified girl.

Five minutes later Francesca went timidly up to her father in the gardens before the house.

Don Luis turned to her. He was thinking, at the moment, of his dark plans regarding the young engineers. In his eyes, despite his effort to smile on his daughter, was a deadly glitter that dried up hope in the heart of the daughter.

"You have been secluding yourself more than usual to-day, chiquita," chided Montez.

That word chiquita, meaning "pet," caused the girl to recoil inwardly. Could it be that this hard, cruel man had the right to address her in endearing terms?

"I am not well to-day, my father," she answered, in a low voice.

"Then take my arm, chiquita, and walk with me," urged Montez.

"My father," she cried, shrinking back, "if you will indulge me, I will walk alone. Perhaps, in that way, I shall gain more strength from the exercise."

"As you will," smiled Don Luis, coldly. "For myself, I have much to think of. I have American guests coming soon. I expect that they will buy El Sombrero for money enough to make you one of the richest heiresses in all Mexico, chiquita."

"For me? And I do not know how to care for money!" answered the girl, unsteadily. Then she turned away, swiftly, unable to stand longer looking into Don Luis's eyes.

Through the day Tom and Harry had tramped about almost feverishly, stopping at intervals as though for rest. Now, in the late afternoon, they were on their way back to camp by a route that took them not far from Don Luis's grounds.

As they came within sight of the place, Tom espied Montez and Dr. Tisco walking slowly at one end of the garden, seemingly engaged in earnest conversation. At the farther end of the garden from them, Francesca walked by herself, seeming outwardly composed.

"It seems strange, doesn't it," asked Harry, "that such a fine girl can possibly be Don Luis's daughter?"

"She inherits her mother's purity and goodness, doubtless," Tom replied.

"Ouch!" grunted Hazelton, stumbling over a stone with which his foot had collided. At Harry's exclamation Tom glanced up, then his eyes met a strange sight.

Lying in a cleft in the rocks, with his head behind a bush, and well concealed, lay the stranger whom the young engineers had nursed through an illness.

That stranger was intently gazing at the garden of Don Luis. So absorbed was he that he had either not heard or did not heed the passing of the two Americans.

For a brief instant Tom Reade halted, regarding the face of the absorbed stranger.

"I didn't have an idea about you, Mr. Stranger," muttered Tom to himself, as he plodded forward once more. "But now—now, I'll wager that I've guessed who and what you are. Mr. Stranger, I believe that this one glance at your face has told me your story and your purpose in being in these mountains of Bonista!"

XX. TWO REAL SIGNATURES

Though they were in Mexico the young engineers found it chilly that evening, after sundown.

"Nicolas, can you spare wood enough to start a little campfire?" Tom asked, as he put on his blouse after supper.

"Yes," replied the little Mexican. "For what is the use of being strong if I could not tramp after more wood to-morrow?"

"We'll pay you well for all your trouble for us, mi muchacho" (my boy) Tom promised.

"I am rewarded enough in being allowed to serve you, caballeros," Nicolas answered.

"And the queer part of it is that he means what he says," muttered Tom, gazing after the departing little peon.

Very shortly a cheerful fire was crackling away. Tom and Harry brought their campstools and sat down before it.

"I'll be thankful when we get back to the States," mused Tom.

"I hope it'll be soon, too," answered Harry, with a wistful glance toward the north, where, several hundred miles away, lay their country.

Nor did either one expect to be many days more away from home. The young engineers had arrived at a somewhat surprising conclusion. They had agreed to sign a suitable report and to stand back of Don Luis in all the claims he might make concerning El Sombrero Mine.

Much different would their feelings have been had they known all that frightened little Francesca had overheard that they were to be secretly slain, as soon as their usefulness in the swindle was past.

Rather late into the night the young engineers sat up, talking in such low tones that even Nicolas, squatted on the ground beside a smaller fire, could not hear what they were saying. He would not have understood, anyway, as the young engineers were talking in English.

It was very late when the young engineers turned in that night. It was eight in the morning when Nicolas aroused them.

"Is the stranger back in your tent, Nicolas?" Tom inquired, as soon as his eyes were open.

"No, senor."

"Well, I'm not astonished. I didn't really expect him to return."

Tom and Harry were quickly astir, and ready for breakfast. Nicolas served them carefully, as always.

"We're not through much too early, anyway," Tom murmured. "Here come Don Luis and his artful shadow."

The touring car stopped, at a little distance from camp. After the two passengers had alighted the chauffeur drove on two hundred yards further ere he drew up to wait for them.

"Good morning," hailed Don Luis, cordially. "I see you are waiting for us."

"We have been ready for you since we first rose," Tom answered.

"Is your answer ready?" Don Luis demanded, eyeing them searchingly.

"Don Luis," Tom replied, instantly, "the report that you wanted us to sign for you would hardly answer the purpose with shrewd American investors. That report goes back too far; it covers too many points that you might be supposed to know were true, but which engineers who had been here but a few weeks could hardly be expected to know at first hand. Do you see the point that I am raising?"

Don Luis deliberated for a few moments.

"I think I do see the point, Senor Reade. You mean that the report will not do."

"So," Tom continued, "Hazelton and I don't feel that we ought to sign that report. However, we will get up and sign for you a report that will answer in every way, and this new report will be satisfactory. If you will let your driver take Nicolas up to the house, Nicolas can bring the typewriting machine from your office, and some stationery with it. We can set the machine up on the camp table, and within the next two hours we can agree upon a satisfactory report, which I will write out on the machine."

"And you will sign the new report—when?"

"Just as soon as we have it written out in form that will suit you."

"You will want the big ledger for facts?" asked Montez.

"No," smiled Tom; "because the ledger doesn't contain facts anyway. We can invent just as good statements without any reference to the ledger."

Don Luis laughed softly. Then he turned to his secretary.

"My good Carlos, see that Nicolas knows what he is going after. Then let him go in the car."

Nicolas sped away in the automobile. Presently he was back, with the typewriting machine and an abundance of stationery.

Tom quickly fitted a sheet of heavy bond paper to the carriage of the typewriter.

"Now, let us agree," asked Tom, "on what the report is to contain."

Slowly at first, then more rapidly, the matter was planned. Tom winced a bit, as he made up some tables of alleged output of the mine supposed to have come under his own observation and Harry's. But he wrote it all down with lead pencil and afterwards copied it on the machine.

At the end of three hours the report was finished. Tom read it all over slowly to Don Luis. As Tom laid down each page Dr. Tisco picked it up to scan it.

At last the infamously lying document had been read through and approved.

"Let us have the end of it over with quickly," begged Tom, producing and shaking his fountain pen. He affixed his signature. Hazelton did the same.

"So far, good," declared Don Luis, passing the complete, signed document to Dr. Tisco. "Now, senores, let us have the whole matter understood. The report is excellent; it could not be better for the purpose. The American visitors will be delighted with it. But you are not to play me any tricks of any kind!"

"Don Luis," promised Tom, earnestly, "we shall stand by that report first, last and through to the finish. We shall not—by word, gesture, wink, or by any trick or device—give your coming American visitors the least warning that the report is not fully as honest as it appears to be."

We shall back you firmly and as strongly as we know how, and help you in any way in our power to put the deal through. Can we promise you more?"

"No," said the mine owner. "And, on my part, I promise you that, if I sell the mine, as I now surely shall do, you shall have twenty thousand dollars, gold, apiece, and your lives also. Here is my hand on the pledge of an hidalgo."

Don Luis shook hands with both American engineers. Even as he did so a wolfish gleam crept into his eyes. Montez, in his mind's eye, already saw the two Gringos stretched on the ground in death in a remoter part of the mountains. That was to be his real reward to the young dupes of his villainy.

"When do you expect your purchasers?" Tom Reade inquired.

"Two days after to-morrow, Senor Reade. But, in the meantime, now that we are friends and really partners—will you not come over and share the comforts of my poor home while we wait?"

"You will pardon us for not accepting, Don Lids," Tom urged. "We have met your wishes, and shall continue to meet them, but we feel that we would rather remain where we are—at least, until your visitors arrive."

"So be it, then," muttered Don Luis. Yet he appeared slightly offended by their decision. Since the young engineers had now proved themselves to be as great rascals as he himself, Don Luis Montez could not understand why they should refuse to associate with him.

"You wish me to leave you alone, now?" asked the mine owner, smiling rather coldly.

"Only when you wish to leave us, Don Luis," Tom protested, so artlessly that the Mexican felt less offended.

"Sit down and chat with us until you tire of our company," urged Harry Hazelton.

So Montez and Tisco dropped into the campstools again. They tried to chat on various topics, but conversation proved a failure.

"We will go, now," said Don Luis, rising twenty minutes later. "But, senores, we shall hope to see you daily until our investors arrive and then all the time."

"You will find us always at your command, Don Luis," Tom remarked, cordially.

"Ah, my good Carlos," murmured Don Luis, as the Mexican pair sped homeward in the car, "for once you made a bad guess. You insisted that the Gringos would hold out and would not serve me. You have seen my patience and my firmness win over their foolish, stubborn objections."

"But they still hope to trick you, my patron," suggested Dr. Tisco. "Doubtless, now, their intention is to serve you until they can escape; then they plan to get back to the United States and furnish the testimony on which the American investors can sue you in the courts for the return of the purchase money on a charge of fraud."

"There, again, the Gringos can meet only defeat," chuckled Don Luis, his lips to his secretary's ears. "As soon as the sale is made I shall see to it that our pair of young American engineers are promptly done to death!"

XXI. THE FINAL TOUCH OF TRAGEDY

On the day announced, at about eleven in the morning, two automobiles reached Don Luis's home. Besides the mine owner the cars contained nine other travelers, all Americans.

These were the investors who were expected to buy El Sombrero at a price of two and a half million dollars.

Over at the camp Tom and Harry saw the party arrive. They could see the travelers being served with refreshments on the veranda.

"There's the crowd, Harry. And here's a car, coming this way, undoubtedly for us. Now, we've got to go over there for our first practice as bunco men."

Harry Hazelton made an unpleasant grimace. "I feel like a scoundrel of the worst sort, but it can't be helped," he muttered.

The car was soon at hand. Tom and Harry were dressed and ready. Though their clothing suggested the field engineer, they were none the less dressed with a good deal of care. They entered the tonneau of the automobile and started on their way to help put the mine swindle through.

"Here are my engineers, gentlemen," smiled Don Luis, "and at least three of your number, I believe, are well acquainted with Messrs. Reade and Hazelton."

Tom ascended the steps, feeling rather weak in the knees. Then the young engineers received one of the severest jolts of their lives.

Three of the gentlemen in that group, both young men knew well. They were President Haynes, General Manager Ellsworth and Director Hippen of the A.G.& N.M. Railroad. These gentlemen Tom and Harry had served in railroad work in Arizona, as told in "The Young Engineers in Arizona."

Now, in a flash, it was plain to both young Americans why Don Luis had wanted them, especially, to report favorably concerning El Sombrero Mine. President Haynes and his associates in the A.G.& N.M. R.R. had every reason in the world to trust the young engineers, who had served them so faithfully on another occasion. These gentlemen would believe in anything that Reade and Hazelton backed with their judgment.

"You?" cried Tom, with a start, as President Haynes held out his hand. Then, by a mighty effort, Reade recovered himself and laughed easily.

"This is a pleasant surprise, Mr. Haynes! And you, Mr. Ellsworth, and you, Mr. Hippen."

"And we're equally surprised to find you here, Reade, and you, Hazelton," rejoined President Haynes. "But we feel more at home, already. You know, Reade, we're quite accustomed to looking upon anything as an assured success when you're connected with it."

"And, in its way, this mine is the biggest success we've backed yet," Tom declared readily.

Don Luis Montez, though he was keenly watchful, was delighted so far.

"What do you really think of this mine, Reade?" broke in Mr. Ellsworth. "Is it all that a careful investor would want?"

"If you're getting what I think you are," Tom answered, "you're getting a lot more, even, than you might be led to expect. El Sombrero, if it includes the limits that I suppose the tract does, will be worth a great deal more than you are paying for it."

"The limits?" asked Mr. Ellsworth, keenly. "Don't you really know, Reade, what the limits of the property are?"

"Why, that is a matter to which I haven't given much attention, so far," answered Tom, with disarming candor. "But, if we can have a map of this part of the country, I'll quickly mark off the limits on which I think you should insist."

Don Luis caught at this readily.

"My good Carlos," Don Luis directed, turning to his secretary, "place in Senor Reade's hands a map of this part of the country."

"A map of your possessions only, Don Luis?" asked Dr. Tisco.

"A map of my possessions, of course," agreed Don Luis.

The map was brought, a large one, and spread on the table.

"Now, perhaps," suggested Tom, "the tract I am about to mark off on this map is a larger one than Don Luis had intended to include in the sale, but let us see what Don Luis will have to say."

With Harry's help Reade marked off on the map a tract containing about forty-four hundred acres. This was fully twice as large as the tract Don Luis had planned to deed with El Sombrero. However, as Don Luis reckoned all this wild mountain land to be worth not more than twenty-five cents an acre, he did not care about Tom's liberality in the matter of real estate.

"We will have these limits ruled in with red ink," Montez proposed, "and the deed shall cover the limits so indicated. Yes; I will sell that whole tract of rich mineral land to you, gentlemen, for two million and a half of dollars."

"Then," declared Tom Reade, "you will find that you will not regret your purchase, gentlemen."

"You are confident of that, Reade?" asked President Haynes, anxiously.

"I am more than confident," Tom declared, promptly. "I am as certain of what I state as ever an engineer can be of anything."

"If we were alone," thought Don Luis Montez, exultantly, "I would take off my hat to this young Gringo, Reade. He is a far more accomplished liar than I can ever hope to be. And these Americanos are becoming convinced all ready."

"Do you agree with your associate, Hazelton?" inquired Mr. Ellsworth.

"Absolutely," Harry proposed. "I have been watching Tom Reade to see if he was making the statement emphatic enough to suit my ideas. Gentlemen, the property we have staked off on this map is a good investment one that will soon make the American financial markets ring."

"I'm satisfied, on Reade and Hazelton's report," declared Mr. Haynes. "I know these young men, and I'd trust my life or my fortune to their honesty or their judgment alike."

"I'm satisfied, too," nodded Ellsworth.

"I can say the same," nodded Mr. Hippen.

"Then we hardly need to look or inquire further," laughed another of the intending investors, pleasantly.

From this will be seen how much frequently depends upon the reputation of an engineering firm for honor and judgment. In New York City, downtown, is an almost dingy suite of offices. It is the business headquarters of a firm of mining engineers known and trusted the world over. Probably the entire equipment of these offices, including the laboratories and assay rooms, could be purchased for seven or eight thousand dollars. The real asset of this firm is its reputation for splendid judgment and unfailing honor. Let this firm of engineers indorse a new mine sufficiently, and Wall Street will promptly raise twenty million dollars to finance the scheme. This firm of engineers, despite its rather dingy quarters, often earns a yearly income running into hundreds of thousands of dollars.

These men of the A.G.& N.M. R.R. knew Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton as well and favorably as the mining world at large knows the New York firm which has been referred to above.

"It all looks good to me," declared President Haynes, speaking again.

"And to me," nodded several others of the visitors.

"In the mine, this afternoon," Tom proposed, "we can show you much more that you will like."

Now, as by magic, Don Luis's servants appeared with tables which they set and spread on the porch and luncheon was served.

"Now, we will go see El Sombrero itself," Don Luis proposed. "I shall not have much to say to-day. I understand that you are willing to have Senor Tomaso Reade do the explaining."

"More than willing—anxious," replied General Manager Ellsworth.

That night Tom and Harry returned to their tent. As they went at a late hour their absence from the house was barely noted.

All through the afternoon the visitors had been busy inspecting ore supposed to have been blasted in the tunnels of El Sombrero Mine. As the reader will understand, every bit of this ore had been brought from a profitable mine further up in the mountains.

"How does it seem to be a rascal, Tom?" inquired Harry, as he blew out the candle in their tent.

"Great!" muttered Tom Reade.

The day following was given somewhat to sight-seeing in and around the mine, but still more to a discussion of the intended purchase. As Don Luis would not hear to reducing his price, the visitors were finally satisfied to pay the money demanded.

"When will you be ready to turn the money over, gentlemen?" inquired Montez.

"As soon as we can reach a town where there is both a bank and a telegraph office," replied Mr. Haynes. "The whole amount of money is on deposit in New York City, subject to sight draft. If you are well enough known at the bank, Don Luis, to introduce us, the draft may be drawn at that bank, and accepted from New York on telegraphic inquiry."

"The speed of you American business men is marvelous!" cried Don Luis Montez, delightedly.

The next morning Don Luis, Mr. Haynes and a New York capitalist in the party departed in an automobile, going back to the railway town. Two days later they returned. The entire deal had been put through. The mine had become the property of this group of American capitalists. Don Luis's home was included in the sale. The money had been paid over on telegraphic advice from New York. Don Luis, in turn, had transferred his huge credit to Mexico City by wire, and this fortune now awaited his orders at the capital of the republic.

Soon after Don Luis had returned he called the young engineers aside.

"Caballeros," he murmured, "I am delighted with the loyal service you have rendered me. Before to-day is over I shall hand you drafts on my bank at the capital for twenty thousand dollars each, gold. Then the transaction will be closed. Again I thank you. Be good enough to remain about, for I shall soon want you."

Over the hills a white-clad figure rode on horseback. As he came nearer, still at a gallop, the man was seen to be a soldier.

"I wonder if there is any treachery in this?" muttered Harry, in Tom's ear. "Does Don Luis intend to have us arrested, after all, and sent to prison to be held incommunicado, and so make sure of keeping us out of the way?"

"I don't believe so," Tom replied. "It wouldn't be a wise move on his part. He'd be afraid that we'd denounce him even as we were being led away."

"Then why the soldier?"

"Let's wait and see."

No one else appeared to have paid any heed to the horseman. A few minutes later the soldier rode up the driveway.

"Senor—Haynes?" called the soldier, holding up an envelope.

Tom passed the word. Messrs, Haynes and Ellsworth were absent, it seemed, on a walk.

"If it's a telegram," said Mr. Hippen, "I'm a director in the same road. It may be on railroad business. I'll take the telegram."

It was turned over to him. Mr. Hippen broke the seal of the envelope, took out the enclosure and read it. Then he read it aloud, as follows:

"Train thirteen wrecked this forenoon." It was signed by President Haynes's secretary.

"Humph!" said Mr. Hippen. "I don't see the need of wasting the railroad's money to send that despatch here."

He folded it and placed it in his pocket, against Mr. Haynes's return.

"I shall want to talk with you two for a few minutes," Don Luis presently whispered to Tom. "I shall have my car here soon. When you see it, both of you come forward and be ready to take a short ride with me."

In the background stood Dr. Tisco, looking on with cynical eyes.

"Of course, the poor American fools haven't any idea that they will set out on the ride, but will never return," murmured Don Luis's secretary, to himself. "Pedro Gato, turned loose on the same day he was arrested, has waited a long time for his revenge. He and the dozen bandits he has gathered around him will shoot the American engineers full of holes out on the road, and Don Luis, when he returns, deluged in his own tears, will tell the awful story of the encounter with the bandits. What a clever scoundrel Don Luis is!"

Fifteen minutes later the automobile stood before the steps to the big porch.

"You two, my friends," called Don Luis, resting a hand on Tom's shoulder and beckoning to Harry. "You will take one last ride with me, will you not? And, while we are gone, I shall discuss a few more of my plans with you."

Wholly unsuspicious of this final tragic touch to the drama, Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton went down the steps, following Don Luis Montez into the car.

XXII. MR. HAYNES ASKS A FEW QUESTIONS

Slowly the car started clown the drive. "Oh, Don Luis!" called Mr. Hippen, running to the corner of the porch.

"Stop!" said Montez to his chauffeur. "Mr. Haynes is signaling you," continued Mr. Hippen. "I think he wants to say something to you."

Don Luis turned, and beheld the president and the general manager of the A.G.& N.M. Railroad hastening toward the gate.

"Drive down to the gate and await the gentlemen there," was Don Luis's next order.

Mr. Hippen, too, started down the roadway, seeing which Dr. Tisco reached his side and went with him.

There was a general meeting of the different parties at the gate.

"I signaled you, Don Luis, to inquire if Ellsworth and myself might go on your drive with you?" explained Mr. Haynes.

"Gentlemen, I am truly sorry," began Don Luis Montez, in his most honeyed tones, "but the truth is that I desire to have a private conference with Senores Reade and Hazelton."

"Then we won't ask to accompany you, this time." said Mr. Haynes, laughing.

"We would be glad to take you, but our business conversation would then be delayed," Don Luis explained. "However, if you wish—"

"I don't want to spoil your talk," laughed Mr. Haynes. "But I have this to say to Reade and Hazelton. We gentlemen have been discussing the new management of the mine, and we are united in feeling that we want these young men to remain here and manage our new property for us. In fact, with such a valuable mining property on our hands we wouldn't feel in the least easy with any one else in charge."

"Here is a telegram that came for you, Mr. Haynes," said Mr. Hippen, quietly, handing over the sheet. "Of course, Reade and Hazelton are not going to sign with any one else."

"Pardon me," said Mr. Haynes, and let his glance fall on the telegram.

Any one noting the railway president's face at that moment would have noted a quick, though suppressed, change there.

"Don Luis," went on Mr. Haynes, quickly, "I fear that I really shall have to interrupt your drive for a little while. I have just received news that I shall want to discuss with you."

"Why, your news refers to nothing more than a wreck on your Arizona railway system, doesn't it?" inquired Don Luis, who was eager to get away and attend, as speedily as possible, to the impending assassination of the young engineers.

"You will oblige me by coming back to the house, won't you, Don Luis?" insisted Mr. Haynes, who seemed, somehow, a changed man within the last minute.

"Certainly," agreed the Mexican courteously, and the chauffeur turned the car.

As they walked along, Mr. Haynes managed to whisper a few words in Mr. Ellsworth's ear.

"I have sent Ellsworth to call all our associates together," explained Mr. Haynes, as he joined Don Luis and the young engineers on the porch. Something in the changed atmosphere of the place made Don Luis Montez feel decidedly uneasy.

The Americans responded quickly to Mr. Ellsworth's rounding up. Each of them, as he came forward, looked unusually grave. Mr. Haynes waited until he saw all of his associates around him. Then he began:

"Don Luis, in my recent absence a telegram came for me. Mr. Hippen, though a director of our railway, is not familiar with the telegraph code that we use in our inner office. This telegram, sir"—unfolding it—"is from my private secretary, a most careful and trustworthy man of affairs. I feel certain, Don Luis, that he would not have sent this telegram unless he had had the strongest reasons. Now, in our office code a wire relating to a wreck of Train Thirteen—there's no such train on our schedule—means always just one thing. The significance of this telegram is, 'Don't on any account put through the impending deal.'"

If Don Luis Montez felt any inward start he controlled his facial expression wonderfully.

"Senor Haynes," he replied, "I don't understand the meaning of your code message. You have no deal here to put through. You have made and closed the only deal here about which I have the honor to know anything."

"But my secretary doesn't yet know the state of affairs here," continued Mr. Haynes, gravely, "and he doesn't know that we have yet bought the El Sombrero Mine. Therefore, his despatch can't refer to anything else. My private secretary is certainly warning me not to buy El Sombrero Mine until we have further information."

"But you have bought it," cried Don Luis, in a voice pitched rather higher than usual. "You have bought it and have the deed to all this property. The money has been paid, and is now mine, subject to my order."

"Don Luis," continued the American railway president, "I ask you, before all my associates, to consider the matter still open until I can receive further particulars from my private secretary. If there is any good and sound reason why we should not have bought this mine—"

"But you have bought it, paid for it, and the money is mine!" cried Don Luis Montez. "There is no more to be said about it."

"Sir," went on Mr. Haynes, gravely, "there is but one question of fact that can affect the sale. Suppose—I hate to say it, but suppose that the mine is not a rich one, not worth any such price as we paid for it, and that you sold it to us, knowing—"

"The mine is a rich one—one of the richest in Mexico," insisted Montez, "and you have secured a very great bargain."

"I trust and hope that all that is true," continued Mr. Haynes. "Yet, if such should not be the case, and if we have bought a property under conditions that would make it certain swindle had been perpetrated—"

"Senor!" warned Don Lids, taking a step forward, a deadly light in his eyes. "Be Careful!"

"I am only stating a supposition," resumed Mr. Haynes, coolly. "Don Luis, I believe I have stated enough of that supposition to make it all clear. If that supposition is true, then you would have to buy the mine back from us again."

"Would I?" sneered the Mexican.

"Yes, Don Luis, or we could bring the matter about in another way. I know the name of the bank in Mexico City to which you have transferred the funds received from us. Our attorneys, acting through Mexican lawyers, can tie that money up and keep it in the bank until the question has been decided as to whether—"

"Be careful, senor!" again warned Don Luis.

"Sir," demanded Mr. Haynes, bluntly, "is the mine a valuable one, or is it a swindle?"

"You should not ask me," Montez retorted, bitterly. "You have your own engineers on the ground—engineers whom you trust. Ask them! They will tell you."

"Thank you," assented Mr. Haynes, bowing. Then, turning to Tom, the American railway president went on:

"Reade, tell me the truth about this matter in a word. Have we been defrauded in any way?"

"You have not, Mr. Haynes," Tom answered steadily. "You have now in your possession a property that is worth far more than has been paid for it."

"You agree with that statement, do you, Hazelton?" asked Mr. Haynes.

"I do, sir," Harry nodded.

Dr. Tisco, standing in the background, had all he could do to keep himself from dancing a few jig-steps.

"Decidedly, these young Americans are champion liars!" he thought to himself. "They can readily outlie Don Luis or myself. Now, if Don Luis still insists on having these gifted young engineers killed I am afraid I shall look upon him as being a man without honor."

"You have heard your own engineers, senores," broke in Don Luis. "You trust them. Now, are you not satisfied that I have dealt fairly with you?"

"Somehow, I ought to be satisfied," agreed Mr. Haynes. "And yet my private secretary is such a very careful and dependable man that I shall have to await further advices. Of course, I place the fullest confidence in the honesty of our American engineers, Reade and Hazelton. Tom, do you believe that you could possibly have been deceived as to the valued of this mining property?"

"I do not believe it possible, sir," Tom replied, as steadfastly as before. "In the face of anything that might be said, Hazelton and I will continue to claim that you have bought a property here worth more than you have paid for it."

"Then I apologize, Don Luis, for what might have seemed to be slighting language," Mr. Haynes continued, bowing to the Mexican. "You will understand, of course, what good reason I had to be anxious."

"Say no more, senor. You had most excellent reasons," smiled Don Luis, at ease once more. "I cannot blame you in the least for your passing doubts, but I am glad they have been set at rest by these capable and honest young engineers. And now, Senores Reade and Hazelton, shall we resume our interrupted ride in the car?"

XXIII. THE ENGINEER TURNS

"You are about to have more visitors, I see," announced Mr. Hippen, from a corner of the porch.

Barely five hundred yards from the house, on one of the roughest roads coming down the mountains, were some forty or fifty horsemen. Nor did it require more than a second glance to show that the newcomers were cavalry troops of the Mexican army.

At the head of the cavalcade rode three or four men who had an official appearance.

"It is one of the periodical visits of the governor of the state of Bonista," explained Don Luis. "Ah, if the governor is with that party, Senor Haynes, you will soon have more reason to know that it would be impossible for me to defraud you. The governor himself will assure you that I am of an old Spanish family and of the highest personal honor."

"I shall be most glad to meet the governor," remarked Mr. Haynes, dryly.

Don Luis Montez stepped to where he could obtain a better view of the horsemen, who were moving their horses at a walk. He held his hands over his eyes to keep the light from interfering with his view.

"I am afraid, after all, that his excellency, the governor of the state, is not one of the horsemen," said Montez, regretfully. "Not unless he is riding at the rear of the party. But we shall soon know."

Just inside the limits of the estate all of the cavalrymen except a half dozen halted. Three officers, six troopers and a gentleman in citizen's dress rode on up to the porch.

"Is Don Luis Montez of your number?" called the man in citizen's clothes.

"I am Don Luis," responded Montez, going forward and raising his hat.

"I am Manuel Honda," continued the stranger, raising his hat in return. "Will you be good enough to have one of your servants take my horse?"

This was done at a gesture from Montez. Senor Honda dismounted, then came up the steps.

"You are very welcome, senor," said Don Luis, holding out his hand, which the other accepted. Then the stranger swept his glance over the others grouped on the porch.

"These are your American visitors?" inquired Honda.

"Yes," nodded Don Luis.

"We will withdraw if you two gentlemen have business to discuss," suggested Mr. Haynes.

"I beg that all of you gentlemen will remain," urged Senor Honda.

"I wish to show you every courtesy, senor," said Montez, quickly, "but it seems to me that you are taking the liberty of giving orders in my home."

"Have you sold your mine?" asked Honda.

"Yes," Montez acknowledged.

"And this estate was part of the mine property?"

"Yes."

"Then I would suggest, Don Luis," Honda answered, with a smile, "that this place is no longer your home."

"Senor, are you making fun of me?" demanded Don Luis, with heightening color.

"By no means, Don Luis. But you have observed that I have an escort of our country's troops."

"Assuredly."

"From that what would you infer?"

"You may very likely hold some government commission," guessed Don Luis.

"Assuredly I do," Honda replied.

"In the state of Bonista especially?"

"Even so."

"Then if you hold a commission in the state of Bonista," replied Don Luis Monte; "you must represent my very good friend, his excellency, the governor of this state."

"Just at present the governor of Bonista is in difficulties," hinted Senor Manuel Honda.

"How?" demanded Don Luis.

"Yes; in difficulties," continued the visitor. "At least, his excellency, the governor, is not able to leave his house."

"Ah! He is ill, then?"

"Ill in spirit, yes," smiled Senor Honda.

"Will you be good enough to explain?" Montez asked, anxiously.

"Don Luis, it was I, Manuel Honda, who confined his excellency to his official dwelling and placed a guard about the buildings."

"Oh? Is there a revolution, then, in the state of Bonista?"

"None that I know of," Honda rejoined. "Don Luis, I am from the national capital. I represent the government of the Republic of Mexico, and I have considerable power in this state. I am solely in command, at present, of all the national troops within this state. These army officers will assure you that I hold a national commission to investigate affairs even in this remote state of Bonista. I could show you my credentials from the national government, if it were worth while."

"Then will you be good enough, Senor Honda, to tell me what you wish here."

"Don Luis, I am here because I believe this to be one of the central points in the investigation that I am about to hold. I will come to the point at once. You have sold your mining property here. One of my first acts will be to make sure that you do not draw the proceeds of the sale from any Mexican bank until after the national government is satisfied."

"That is a high-handed proceeding, Senor Honda!" cried Montez, a deadly glitter in his eyes.

"It is such a proceeding as a national government may take at need," replied Senor Honda, calmly. "Of course, Don Luis, if your conduct in selling the mine is found to be blameless, then you will soon be able to use your money in any way that you please. But, first of all, the government must be satisfied."

"Have you any further questions that you wish to ask me at present?" Montez demanded, suddenly.

Though he had kept himself rather calm up to the present, the rascal felt that he must soon vent the spite and hate welling up within him, or explode from the pent-up force of his own emotions. The late mine owner, though he could not penetrate the mysteries of the present situation, was now sure that Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton must be in some way behind it. No matter what happened to him afterwards, Don Luis was now furiously bent on getting the young engineers off on the lonely mountain trail where Gato and his comrades were lying in wait for the two young Americans.

"I shall have no more questions for you, for the present," Senor Honda replied. "Just now I wish to have some conversation with these Americans."

"Then come, senores," cried Don Luis, with forced gayety, as he thrust a hand under the arms of Tom and Harry. "Come, we will have our ride and our talk. We will be back here in half an hour and then we shall hear this affair through. Come!"

Tom Reade threw off the fellow's arm, exclaiming, warningly:

"If you touch me again, you snake in the grass, I'll reduce you to powder with a fist that's fairly aching to hit you!"

The vehemence of Tom's declaration made every one within hearing gasp with astonishment.

"What does this mean, Reade?" gasped President Haynes, looking thunderstruck.

"It means, sir," reported Tom, wheeling about, "that this fellow, Montez, threatened us with death if we did not sign a glaringly false report concerning El Sombrero Mine. We were also to be killed if we did not stand by our report to the fullest degree after you and your friends arrived."

"Then El Sombrero Mine is worthless?" cried Mr. Haynes, his face turning a ghastly white.

"As far as I know, sir, or as far as Hazelton knows," Tom Reade made prompt answer. "El Sombrero isn't worth the cost even of filling up the shaft."

"And you, Reade—and you, Hazelton—the men we trusted implicitly—you stood by and saw us robbed!"

XXIV. CONCLUSION

"I don't blame you for being angry," Tom answered, quickly. "However, you may safely go a bit slow on the idea that we stood by to see you robbed, merely to save our lives. We had tried to escape from here. We even sent out two letters by secret messengers, these letters to be mailed at points distant from here. The letters would have told our friends in the United States what was up. But, in some way of his own, Don Luis managed to catch the messengers and get hold of the letters."

"Then," added Harry Hazelton, "we thought we were doomed if we didn't yield to Don Luis's commands. Even at that, we were prepared to accept death sooner than sell ourselves out. Death would have been the cheapest way out of the scrape. But at last we found a way of helping Don Luis in the way he wanted, and of getting square with the rascal at the same time. Tell them what I mean, Tom."

"Why, it was like this," said Tom, seating himself on the railing of the porch, and facing the assemblage. "Harry and I began to roam all over this property, as though to kill time. Out in Nevada, as it happens, we two and a friend of ours own a mine that seemed almost worthless. Almost by accident we discovered that we were working the mine just a little off from the real vein. Now, we didn't find that El Sombrero was being worked off the vein. What we did find was in that big strip of forest over to the east of El Sombrero—"

Tom turned, for an instant, to point to the forest that he meant.

"You will remember, Mr. Haynes, that we had Don Luis include that forest tract in the title of the El Sombrero purchase. That forest is really a jungle. One has the greatest time forcing his way through it. When you open it up on a big scale you'll have to send hundreds of men in there with machetes to chop paths through and clear off the tangled brush. We spent days in that jungle, at first because we had nothing better to do. Mr. Haynes, and gentlemen, if we know anything about mining, then that forest land is worth an immense fortune in the minerals it will yield. You paid two and a half millions of dollars for the entire property. That great forest stretch, in our opinion as engineers, is worth as much and perhaps more than that."

"That's right!" leered Don Luis. "Jest with them, Senor Reade, to your heart's content."

"I'm telling these countrymen of mine the truth, fellow," retorted Tom Reade, casting a look of withering scorn at Don Luis Montez. "Had you been square and decent with us, we would have told you of the mineral wealth in yonder forest. As it is, we've punished your conduct by beating you at your own game."

"If I believed you, Senor Reade—" began Don Luis, bending his head low as he thrust it forward and gazed piercingly at Tom's face.

"I don't care anything about your believing me," retorted Tom. "But Harry and I will prove to these real men every word that we've been saying."

"You have robbed me!" hissed Don Luis, now believing.

His hand flew to a rear pocket. He drew a pistol. But two soldiers had crept up behind Montez at a sign from Senor Honda. Now, one of the barefooted soldados struck the weapon down. It clattered on the porch, and the other soldier picked it up.

There was a struggle between Don Luis and the soldiers. Two other soldiers came to their aid, and—Click! snap! Montez was securely handcuffed.

"Take them off!" screamed Montez, paling like one about to die. "Senor Honda, this is an outrage, and you shall—"

"Peace, fellow! Hold your tongue!" ordered Honda. "Do you not understand? You are a prisoner, nor are you ever likely to be much better off than that. A complaint of the treatment of these Americans, Reade and Hazelton, was forwarded to our government by the American minister in Mexico City. The complaint mentioned that the governor of Bonista was a confederate of yours in more than one underhanded bit of business. On account of the urgings of the American minister to this country, I was despatched here to investigate, and with authority to arrest the governor of Bonista, if necessary, and any other rogues."

"That's a lie!" snarled Don Luis. "How could the American minister learn what was going on in this country? These mountains of Bonista have never told my secrets."

"They did, for this one time," Tom broke in, gleefully. "And I can tell you how it happened. Harry, do you remember the day that Nicolas was gone so long that you were uneasy about him? Well, I knew where Nicolas was, for I had sent him off. He thought he had found a messenger who would have more success in getting our letters mailed than had fallen to the lot of the messengers with our first two letters. Nicolas's messenger, from to-day's developments, must have got through. While I was sending one letter I thought it as well to send two. One letter was to our home offices, directing that the matter contained in my letter be taken on the jump to the government at Washington. The other letter, Mr. Haynes, was directed to you, sir, for I did not then know that you were one of the Americans expected here. I thought, Mr. Haynes, that your active hustling with the Washington government might help in rushing matters. For some unknown reason, my letter to our offices must have gotten through before the letter did that was sent to Arizona. Your private secretary, Mr. Haynes, must have opened my letter addressed to you. He realized that he could not with safety to us send you more than the telegraphic code warning to keep out of the deal. I never told Hazelton, until just now, in the presence of you all, that I had ordered Nicolas to send off more letters by a messenger whom Nicolas felt that he could trust. But you remember the day well enough, Harry?"

"I do," nodded Hazelton. "I was fussing about the long absence of Nicolas just before you turned up with that stranger whom we nursed."

"And speaking of strangers," muttered Reade, glancing off down the driveway, "there's the identical stranger, at this moment talking with the soldiers halted by the gate."

Almost as though he had heard himself called the stranger glanced up at the group on the porch, then came forward. He walked briskly, despite his lean, wasted frame.

"How? So this fellow is in irons?" queried the stranger, halting as he saw the handcuffs on Don Luis's wrists. "Justice is sometimes very tardy, though in this instance she has not failed. Handcuffs become this felon; they are his natural jewelry!"

"Then you know Don Luis?" questioned Tom, after an instant's silence.

"I should know Don Luis well," boasted the stranger, drawing himself up proudly. "Also I know this fellow!"

"My father!" cried a startled feminine voice from the doorway. Then Francesca, her eyes filled with fright, hastened across the porch. She would have thrown her arms around the neck of the manacled man had not the stranger caught her by one arm and held her back.

"How dare you, senor?" panted the girl, turning upon the stranger. "And who are you?"

"Do not touch this felon with your clean hands," warned the stranger, with a sternness that was tempered with gentleness.

"Who are you, senor?" the girl insisted.

"Can't you guess?" broke out Tom Reade, wonderingly. "Senorita Francesca, I helped take care of this man while he was ill in our cook tent. In his fever I heard some words fall from his lips that started me to wondering. But the other day I beheld this gentleman gazing upon you from a distance. In his eyes, as he looked at you, Senorita, I saw a light that I had never seen in the eyes of this manacled brute. Then my guess was turned to knowledge!"

"Then, Senor Reade," begged the girl, "who is this man who would hold me back from my—"

"Tell her, sir," Tom urged the stranger.

"Child," said the latter, with wonderful gentleness and tenderness, "I am the real Don Luis Montez—your father!"

"Then who is he?" cried Francesca, pointing to the handcuffed Mexican, who had sunk upon a chair looking more dead than alive.

"His true name," said the stranger, "is Paulo Rabasco. He was born of good family, but was always dissolute and criminal. Once he was my friend, I am ashamed to say; at least, I believed myself his. We traveled, once, in a part of Mexico in which we were both strangers. While there Rabasco became engaged in a budding revolution, that was quickly nipped by the central government. In my efforts to shield my supposed friend from the consequences of supposed rebellion, I myself became suspected. In the night Rabasco stole my papers, putting his own in my pocket. When the police came they searched us both. I was believed to be Rabasco, and this scoundrel insisted that I was. The papers in our respective pockets seemed to prove it. The papers in mine connected me with the intended rebellion. A swift military trial, and within a few hours I was on my way to serve a life sentence of imprisonment in Yucatan.

"Rabasco, the self-asserted Don Luis, was turned loose. We looked not unlike in those days. Rabasco, as I have since learned, grew a beard. Then he went back to my home. My wife had died within a few days. Most of the old servants had gone. Rabasco, the unutterable scoundrel, set himself up as Don Luis Montez. He imposed on the nurse, and took her away with my infant child whom I had never seen after she was three months old. Rabasco went to the United States as soon as he had established a flimsy title to my modest property. In after years he returned, an older and more successful impostor. Yet he feared to live on my estate, dreading that some day his treachery might be discovered. So, still calling himself Don Luis Montez, this scoundrel sold my estate and took my child away to other parts of Mexico. My estate was a modest one. On that foundation this fellow has been building a larger fortune—but fate has overtaken him at last. There are still friends of mine alive who will help me to unmask this scoundrel and prove him Paulo Rabasco. He never would have been known, had I not, after many years, escaped from Yucatan. I did not dare proclaim myself at once, for fear of being arrested as Paulo Rabasco and sent back to Yucatan. But now I no longer fear. I am Don Luis Montez. I shall prove it without difficulty at last."

"Then, if this be so, we haven't bought this mining property of the rightful owner," interposed Mr. Haynes. "I imagine that the real Don Luis will establish full claim to a property that was founded on his stolen fortune. We shall recover our money from the sham Don Luis, but I fear we shall not be able to obtain this rich mineral property."

"Tell me the particulars," begged the real Don Luis.

Tom Reade stated the case fully, though in the fewest words that would accomplish the telling.

"You shall have the property by transferring the purchase price to me after I have recovered this estate at law," promised the real Don Luis simply.

"But, my dear sir," objected Mr. Haynes, honestly, "do you realize that we paid two and a half millions for the property, and that our trusted engineers assure us that it may be worth more."

"That makes no difference, Senor," replied the new Don Luis. "The money you were first willing to pay is far more money than I shall ever need. I crave only life and my child. If you journeyed down into Mexico, expecting to buy a property at a certain figure, and if you did do it, acting in perfectly good faith, then that is enough. I will ratify the bargain."

"But that would hardly be good business," smiled Mr. Haynes.

"Business is a word that will interest me but little after I have established my rights in the world," remarked Don Luis, mildly.

The true Don Luis Montez did establish his rights. He secured the estate built by Rabasco on the looted Montez fortune. The money paid Rabasco for the mining property was easily recovered through the courts and turned over to the rightful Don Luis. Then the Americans secured the property at the original figure. Don Luis soon won the affection of his daughter, and the two were wonderfully happy together.

Rabasco, the impostor, was sentenced to twenty years of penal servitude. On his way to begin serving his sentence he broke away from the military guard, and was shot to death.

Dr. Carlos Tisco died, of fever, within six months of the time of the real Don Luis's arrival. The governor of Bonista was discovered guilty of so much corruption in office that he died, while serving a sentence in prison.

Pedro Gato became an avowed outlaw. Senor Honda, while acting for the government in Bonista, sent the troops in pursuit of the outlaw. He was caught and shot by the soldiers.

As for Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton, they were happy indeed when they found themselves wholly reestablished in the respect of Mr. Haynes and his friends. The young engineers had played a most daring game throughout, and would have gone to their deaths at the hands of the sham Don Luis sooner than to have betrayed their own honor.

Tom and Harry spent days showing the American investors through that forest stretch. It proved an amazingly wonderful mineral claim, and has since paid enormous dividends.

"Mr. Haynes," Tom asked, anxiously, one day, "would you have done the same as we did, had you been in our place?"

"I don't know, my boy," replied the railway president, with a frank smile. "I'd hope that I would have done the same, but I don't know that I would have had the same magnificent courage that you two displayed throughout. It isn't every man who has the courage to back his conscience with his life."

Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton remained some three months longer in the mountains of Bonista. Finally, when they could be spared from the task of superintending the start of this rich mineral claim they returned to the United States.

"And what is to become of me, caballeros?" Nicolas mournfully inquired, the day before their departure.

"Do you think you could stand life with us, in the United States?" asked Tom.

"Could I?" exclaimed the poor fellow, clasping his hands. "Senor, do not jest with me! Can it be that you mean it?"

"I certainly do," nodded Tom.

Ambition's lure led the young engineers back to the home country. We shall speedily find them engaged again in the great fields of their calling, and we shall find them, too, in a setting of truly extraordinary adventure. All that happened to them will be stirringly told in the next volume of this series, which is published under the title, "The Young Engineers On The Gulf; Or, The Dread Mystery of the Million-dollar Breakwater."

THE END

THE YOUNG ENGINEERS ON THE GULF

or

The Dread Mystery of the Million Dollar Breakwater

CONTENTS

I. The Mystery of a Black Night

II. The Call of One in Trouble

III. Vanishing into Thin Air

IV. Some One Calls Again

V. Wanted—Daylight and Divers

VI. Mr. Bascomb is Peevish

VII. Tom Isn't as Easy as He Looks

VIII. Mr. Prenter Investigates

IX. Invited To Leave Camp

X. The Night is Not Over

XI. A Message from a Coward

XII. An Engineer's Fighting Blood

XIII. Wishing It on Mr. Sambo

XIV. The Black Man's Turn

XV. A David for a Goliath

XVI. A Test of Real Nerve

XVII. Tom Makes an Unexpected Capture

XVIII. The Army "On the Job"

XIX. A New Mystery Peeps In

XX. A Secret in Sight

XXI. Evarts Hears a Noise

XXII. Mr. Bascomb Hears Bad News

XXIII. Ebony Says "Thumbs Up"

XXIV. Conclusion

I. THE MYSTERY OF A BLACK NIGHT

"I wish I had brought my electric flash out here with me," muttered Harry Hazelton uneasily.

"I told you that you'd better do it," chuckled Tom Reade.

"But how could I know that the night would be pitch dark?" Harry demanded. "I don't know this gulf weather yet, and fifteen minutes ago the stars were out in full force. Now look at them!"

"How can I look at them?" demanded Tom, halting. "My flashlight won't pierce the clouds."

Reade halted on his dark, dangerous footway, and Harry, just behind him, uttered a sigh of relief and halted also.

"I never was in such a place as this before."

"You've been in many a worse place, though," rejoined Tom. "I never heard you make half as much fuss, either."

"I think something must be wrong with my head," ventured Harry.

"Undoubtedly," Tom Reade agreed cheerily.

"Hear that water," Harry went on, in a voice scarcely less disconsolate than before.

"Of course," nodded Tom. "But the water can hardly be termed a surprise. We both knew that the Gulf of Mexico is here. We saw it several times to-day."

The two young men stood on a narrow ledge of stone that jutted out of the water. This wall of stone was the first, outer or retaining wall of masonry—the first work of constructing a great breakwater. At high tide, this ledge was just fourteen inches above the level surface of the Gulf of Mexico, and at the time of the above conversation it was within twenty minutes of high tide. The top of this wall of masonry was thirty inches wide, which made but a narrow footway for the two youths who, on a pitch black night, were more than half a mile out from shore.

On a pleasant night, for a young man with a steady head, the top of this breakwater wall did not offer a troublesome footpath. In broad daylight hundreds of laborers and masons swarmed over it, working side by side, or on scows and dredges alongside.

"Wait, and I'll show a light," volunteered Tom raising his foot-long flashlight.

Some seventy-five yards behind them a crawling snake-like figure flattened itself out on the top of the rock wall.

"Don't show the light just yet," pleaded Harry. "It might only make me more dizzy."

The flattened figure behind them wriggled noiselessly along.

"Just listen to the water," continued Hazelton. "Tom, I'm half-inclined to think that the water is roughening."

"I believe it is," agreed Tom.

"Fine time we'll have getting back, if a gale springs up from the southward," muttered Harry.

"See here, old fellow," interposed Tom vigorously, "you're not up to concert pitch to-night. Now, I'll tell you what I'll do—first of all, what you'll do. You sit right down flat on the top of the wall. Then I'll move on up forward and see what has been happening out there that should boom shoreward with such a racket. You stay right here, and I'll be back as soon as I've looked into the face of the mystery."

"What do you take me for?" Harry asked almost fiercely. "A baby? Or a cold-foot?"

"Nothing like it," answered Tom Reade with reassuring positiveness. "You're out of sorts, to-night. Your head, or your nerves, or some thing, has gone back on you, and you walk through this blackness with half a notion that you're going to walk over a precipice, or drop head-first into some danger. With such a feeling it would be cruelty to let you go forward, chum, and I'm not going to do it. I'll go alone."

The crouching figure to the rear of the young engineers quivered as though this separation of the two engineers on this black night was a thing devoutly to be desired.

"You're not going to do anything of the sort," retorted Harry Hazelton. "I'm going forward with you. I'm going to stick to you. All I wanted was a minute in which to brace myself. I've had that minute. Now get forward with you. I'm on your heels!"

Tom Reade shrugged his shoulders slightly. However, he did not object or argue, for he realized that his chum was sensitive over any circumstance that seemed to point to sudden failure of his courage.

"Come along, then," urged Tom. "Wait just a second, though. I'll flash the light ahead along the wall, to show you that it's all there, and just where it lies."

A narrow beam of light shot ahead as Tom pressed the spring of his pocket flash lamp.

A weird enough scene the night betrayed. In perspective the wall ahead narrowed, until the two sides seemed to come to a point. Back of all was the thick curtain of black that had settled down over the gulf. A little farther out, too, the water seemed rougher. There would seem to be hardly a doubt that a gale was brewing.

"Shut that light off!" Hazelton commanded, fighting to repress a shudder. "I can do better in the darkness. Now, go ahead, and I'll follow."

Tom started, but he went slowly now, feeling that this pace was more suited to the condition of his chum's nerves. Harry followed resolutely, though none but himself knew how much effort it took for him to keep on in the face of such a nameless yet terrible dread as now assailed him.

To the rear a bulky, hulking figure rose and stood erect. With the softest of steps this apparition of the night followed after them, until it stole along, ghost-like, just behind Hazelton. Then a huge arm was raised, threateningly, over Harry's head.

At that particular moment, as though insensibly warned, Hazelton stopped, half-wheeling. In the next second Harry bounded back just out of reach of the descending arm, the hand of which held something. But in that backward spring Harry, in order to save himself from pitching into the water, was oblige to turn toward Reade.

"Tom!" exploded the young engineer. "Flash the light here quickly!"

In the instant, however, that Harry had sprung backward the figure had slipped noiselessly into the water to the left. As Reade wheeled about, throwing on the light, he let the ray fall in the water to the right of the wall. But no sign of the intruder appeared; the water had closed noiselessly over the now vanished figure.

"What's the matter?" asked Reade, as he stood looking, then finally flashed his light over to the other side of the wall.

"I saw—" began Hazelton. Then changed to: "I thought—er—I saw—oh, nonsense! You'll josh the life out of me!"

"Not I," Tom affirmed gravely, as a thrill of pity, for what he deemed his friend's unfortunate "nervous condition," shook him. "Tell me what you saw, Harry."

"Why, I thought I saw a big fellow—a black man, too—right behind me, arm upraised, just ready to strike me."

"Well, where is he?" Tom demanded blankly, flashing the light on either side of the narrow wall-top. "See him anywhere now, chum?"

Harry didn't. In fact, he hardly more than pretended to look. The thing that had been so real a moment before was now utterly invisible. Hazelton began to share his chum's suspicion as to the utter breakdown of his nerves and powers of vision.

"It was nothing, of course," said Harry, shamefacedly, but Tom vigorously took the other side of the question.

"See here, Harry, it must have been something," insisted Reade. "You're not dreaming, and you're not crazy. It would take either one of those conditions to make you see something that didn't really exist. No mere nervous tremor is going to make you see something as tall as a man, standing right over you, when no such thing exists."

"Well, then, where is the fellow?" Harry Hazelton demanded, helplessly, as he stared about. "There isn't any human being but ourselves in sight, either on the wall or in the water. Your light shows that."

The light did not quite show that, and could not, since the huge prowler was now swimming gently under water, some seven or eight feet from the surface.

"We'll have to solve the question before we leave here," declared Tom. "We can't have folks following us up in a ticklish place like this. Besides, Harry, I'm willing to wager that your vision—whatever it was—has some real connection with the mystery that we're going out yonder to investigate. So we'll solve the puzzle that's right here before we go forward to look at the bigger riddle that the dark now hides from us out yonder. Use your eyes, lad, an I'll do the same with mine!"

Neither Tom Reade nor Harry Hazelton are strangers to the readers of this series, nor of the series that have preceded the present one.

Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton, now engineers in charge of a big breakwater job on the Alabama gulf coast, were first introduced to our readers in the "Grammar School Boys Series." There we met them as members of that immortal band of American schoolboys known as Dick & Co. Back in the old school days Dick Prescott had been the leader of Dick & Co., though, as all our readers know, Prescott was not the sole genius of Dick & Co. Greg Holmes, Dave Darrin, Dan Dalzell and Tom and Harry had been the other members of that famous sextette of schoolboy athletes.

After reading of the doings of Dick & Co. in the "Grammar School Boys Series," our readers again followed them, through the events recorded in the four volumes of the "High School Boys Series". Here their really brilliant work Boys Series athletes was stirringly chronicled, as along with scores of non-athletic adventures that befell them.

At the close of the high school course Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes secured appointments as cadets at the United States Military Academy at West Point. All that befell them there is duly set forth in the "West Point Series." Dave Darrin and Dan Dalzell were fortunate enough to secure appointments as midshipmen in the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis, and their doings there are set forth in the "Annapolis Series."

Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton, on the other hand, had felt no call to military glory. For their work in life they longed to become part of the great constructive force wielded by modern civil engineers. During the latter part of their high school work they had studied hard with ambition to become surveyors and civil engineers. In their school vacations they had sought training and experience in the offices of an engineering firm in their home town of Gridley. After being graduated from the Gridley High School, Tom and Harry had done more work in the same offices. Then, in a sudden desire for advancement, and possessed by the longing for a wider field of endeavor, Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton had secured positions as "cub engineers" on the construction work that was being done to rush a new railway, system over the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. The stern, hard work that lay before them, the many adventures in a rough wilderness, and the chain of circumstances that at last placed Tom Reade in charge of the railroad building, with Harry as first assistant engineer, are all told in the first volume of this present series, "The Young Engineers In Colorado."

That great feat finished satisfactorily, the ambition of our young engineers led them further afield, as told in "The Young Engineers in Arizona." A great, man-killing quicksand had to be filled in and effectively stopped from shifting. Reade & Hazelton undertook the task. Incidentally Tom came into serious, dangerous conflict with gamblers and other human birds-of-prey, who had heretofore fattened on the earnings of the railway laborers. It was a tremendously exciting time that the young engineers had in Arizona, but they at last got away with their lives and were at the same time immensely successful in their undertaking.

In "The Young Engineers In Nevada" we found our young friends under changed conditions. While at work in Colorado and in Arizona Tom and Harry had studied the occurrence of precious ores, and also the methods of assaying and extracting ores. Having their time wholly to themselves after finishing in Arizona the dauntless young pair went to Nevada, there to study mining at first hand. In time they located a mining claim, though there were other claimants, and around this latter fact hung an extremely exciting story. Both young engineers nearly lost their lives in Nevada, and met with many strenuous situations. Their sole idea in pushing their mine forward to success was that the money so earned would enable them to further their greatest ambition; they longed to have their own engineering offices. In the end, their mine, which the young engineers had named "The Ambition," proved a success. Thereupon they left their mining partner, Jim Ferrers, in charge and went east to open their offices.

We next found the young engineers engaged to the south of the United States border. These adventures were fully set forth in the preceding volume in this series, entitled "The Young Engineers in Mexico." Tom and Harry, engaged to solve some problems in a great Mexican mine, found themselves the intended tools of a pair of mine swindlers of wealth and influence. From their first realization of the swindle Tom and Harry, even in the face of threats of assured death, held out for an honest course. How they struggled to save a syndicate of American investors from being swindled out of millions of dollars was splendidly told in that fourth volume.

And now we find our young friends down at the gulf coast town of Blixton, Alabama. Here they are engaged in a kind of engineering work wholly unlike any they had hitherto undertaken. The owners of the Melliston Steamship Line, with a fleet of twenty-two freight steamships engaged in the West Indian and Central American trade, had looked in vain for suitable dock accommodations for their vessels, worth a total of more than six million dollars. In their efforts to improve their service the Melliston owners had found at Blixton a harbor that would have suited them excellently, but for one objection. The bay at Blixton was too open to shelter vessels from the severity of some of the winter gales. Up to the present time Blixton had not been used for harbor purposes. But the Melliston owners had conceived the idea that a great breakwater could be so built as to shelter the waters of the bay. They had quietly bought up most of the shore front of the little town, which had railway connection. Then they had searched about for engineers capable of building the needed breakwater. Reade & Hazelton, hearing of the project, had applied for the work. As the young men furnished most excellent recommendations from former employers they had finally secured the opportunity.

By no means was the task an easy one, as will presently be shown. It was a work that would have to be carried on in the very teeth of jealous Nature. Tom and Harry were fully aware of the great difficulties that lay before them. What they did not know was that they would presently have to contend, also, with forces set loose by wicked human minds. What started these untoward forces in operation, and how the forces worked out, will soon be seen.

Captain of a queer crew was Tom Reade, and Harry was his lieutenant. Of the laborers, seven hundred in number, some four hundred were negroes; there were also two hundred Italians and about a hundred Portuguese. Many, of each race, were skilled masons; others were but unskilled laborers. There were six foremen, all Americans, and a superintendent, also American. There were a few more Americans and two or three Scotchmen, employed as stationary engineers and in similar lines of work.

A touch of the old Arizona trouble had invaded the camp. There had recently been a pay-day, and gamblers had descended upon the camp of tents and shanties. Once more Reade had driven off the gamblers, though this time with less trouble than in Arizona. At Blixton, Tom had merely sent for the four peace officers in the town of Blixton, and had had the gamblers warned out of camp. They had gone, but there had been wrathful mutterings among many of the workmen.

The camp was a half mile back from the water's edge, on a low hillside. Here the men of the outfit were settled. There had been mutinous mutterings among some of the men, but so far there had been no open revolt.

Tom, however, who had had considerable experience in such matters, looked for some form of trouble before the smouldering excitement quieted. So did Harry.

On this dark night Tom had proposed that he and his chum take a stroll down to the shore front to see whether all were well there. Soon after leaving camp behind, the young engineers had started on a jog-trot. Just before they reached the water's edge the wind had borne to their ears the faint report of what must have been an explosion out over the waters of the gulf.

"Trouble!" Tom whispered in his chum's ear. "Most likely some of the rascals that we drove out of camp have been trying to set back our work with dynamite. If they have done so we'll teach 'em a lesson if we can catch them!"

So the young engineers had started out over their narrow retaining wall. We have seen how they had walked most of the distance when Harry had had his sudden warning of the hostile arm uplifted over his head.

"What could it have been?" demanded Tom in a low voice, as he continued to cast the light from his flash lamp out over the waters on either side of the wall.

"It must have been my nervous imagination," admitted Harry. "Whew! But it did seem mighty real for the moment."

"Then you're inclined, now, to believe that it was purely imagination?" pursued Tom.

"Ye—e—es, it must have been," assented Harry reluctantly.

Tom made some final casts with the light.

While they were conversing, well past the short radius of the flash lamp's glare, a massive black head bobbed up and down with the waves. Out there the huge negro who had swiftly vanished from the wall, and who had swum under water for a long distance, was indolently treading water. Wholly at home in the gulf, the man's black head blended with the darkness of the water and the blackness of the night.

"Oh, then," suggested Reade, "we may as well go along on our way. Plainly there's nothing human around here to look at but ourselves."

So they started slowly forward over the wall. Leisurely the black man swam to the wall, taking up the dogged trail again in the darkness behind the pair of young engineers.

Several minutes more of cautious walking brought Tom Reade to a startled halt.

"Look there, Harry!" uttered Reade, stopping and throwing the light ahead.

Out beyond them, not far from the end of the wall, some hundred feet of the top had been torn away. For all the young engineers could see, the foundations might have gone with the superstructure.

"Dynamite!" Tom muttered grimly. "So this is the way our newly-found enemies will fight us?"

"It won't be such a big job to repair this gap," muttered Harry calmly.

"No; but it'll take a good many dollars to pay the bills," retorted Tom.

"Well, the expense can't be charged to us, anyway," maintained Harry. "We didn't do this vandal's work, and we didn't authorize its being done."

"No; but you know why it was done, Harry," Tom continued. "It was because we drove the gamblers out of the camp, and thus made enemies for ourselves on both sides of the camp lines."

"Anyway, the company's officers can't blame us for trying to maintain proper order in the camp," Hazelton insisted stoutly.

"Not if we can stop the outrages with this one explosion, perhaps," replied Tom thoughtfully. "Yet, if there are many more tricks like this one played on the wall you'll find that the company's officers will be blaming us all the way up to the skies and down again. Big corporations are all right on enforcing morality until it hits their dividends too hard. Then you'll find that the directors will be urging us to let gambling go on again if the laborers insist on having it."

"Well, we won't have gambling in the camp, anyway," Harry retorted stubbornly. "We're simply looking after the interests of the men themselves. I wonder why they can't see it, and act like men, not fools."

"We're going to stop the gambling, and keep it stopped," Tom went on, his jaws setting firmly together. "But, Harry, we're going to have a big row on our hands, and various attempts against the company's property will be made."

"If the company's officers order us to let up on the gambling," proposed Harry, "we can resign and get out of this business altogether."

"We won't resign, and we won't knuckle down to any lot of swindlers either, Harry!" cried Tom. "Some one is fighting us, and this wreck of a sea-wall is the first proof. All right! If any one wants to fight us he shall find that we know how to fight back, and that we can hit hard. Harry, from this minute on we're after those crooks, and we'll make them realize that there's some sting to us!"

"Good enough!" cheered Hazelton. "I like that old-time fight talk! But are you going to do anything to protect the wall to-night, Tom?"

"I am," announced the young chief engineer.

"What's the plan?"

"Let me think," urged Reade. "Now, I believe, I have it. We'll send one of the motor boats out here, with a foreman and four laborers. They can arm themselves with clubs and patrol the water on both sides of the wall. The 'Thomas Morton' has a small search-light on her that will be of use in keeping a close eye over the wall."

"That ought to stop the nonsense," Harry nodded. "But I don't imagine that any further efforts to destroy the wall will be made tonight, anyway."

"We'll have the night patrol out every night after this," Tom declared. "But I'm not so sure either, that another effort won't be made to-night, if we don't put a watch on to stop this wicked business. Harry, do you mind remaining out here while I run back and get the boat out?"

"Why should I mind?" Hazelton wanted to know.

"Well, I didn't know whether you would, or not—after seeing that imaginary something behind you."

"Don't laugh at me! I may have had a start, but you ought to be the first to know, Tom, that I haven't frozen feet."

"I do know it, Harry. You've been through too many perils to be suspected of cowardice. Well, then, I'll run back."

Tom Reade had really intended to leave the flash lamp with his chum, but he forgot to do so, and, as he jogged steadily along over the wall he threw the light ahead of him. As he got nearer shore Tom increased his jog to a brisk run.

Once, on the way, he passed the prowling negro without knowing it. That huge fellow, seeing the ray of light come steadily near him, hesitated for a few moments, then took to the water, swimming well out. After Reade had passed, the fellow swam in toward the wall.

Up on the wall climbed the negro. For a few minutes he crouched there, shaking the water from his garments. Then, cautiously, he began to crawl forward.

"Boss Reade, he done gone in," muttered the prowler. "Boss Hazelton, Ah reckon he's mah poultry!"

Harry, keeping his lone vigil away out on the narrow retaining wall, was growing sleepy. He had nearly forgotten his scare. Indeed, he was inclined to look upon it as a trick of his own brain.

II. THE CALL OF ONE IN TROUBLE

Once Tom Reade reached the solid land he let his long legs out into a brisk run.

With his years of practice on the Gridley High School athletic team he was not one to lose his wind readily.

So he made his way at the same speed all the way up to the camp.

"Who dar?" called a negro watchman, as Tom raced up to the outskirts of the camp.

"Reade, chief engineer," Tom called, then wheeled and made off to the right, where the more substantial barracks of the foremen stood. Superintendent Renshaw lived in a two-story barrack still farther to the right, as the guest of the young engineers.

"Quien vive?" (who's there?) hailed another voice, between the two barracks buildings.

"So, Nicolas, you rascal, you haven't gone to bed?" demanded Tom, halting. "What did I tell you about earlier hours?"

Nicolas was the young Mexican servant whom Tom and Harry had brought back with them from Mexico. Readers of the previous volume know all about this faithful fellow.

"You and Senor Hazelton, you waire not in bed," replied Nicolas stolidly.

"You're not expected to stay up and watch over us as if we were babies, Nicolas," spoke Tom, in a gentler voice. "You'd better turn in now."

"Senor Hazelton, where is he?" insisted Nicolas, anxiously.

"Oh, bother! Never mind where he is," Tom rejoined. "We won't either of us be in for a little while yet. But you turn in now—at once—instanter!"

Then Tom bounded over to the little porch before the foremen's barracks, where he pounded lustily on the door.

"Who's there? What's wanted?" demanded a sleepy voice from the inside.

"Is that you, Evarts?" called Reade.

"Yes, sir."

"Get on your duds and turn out as quickly as you can."

"You want me?" yawned Evarts.

"Now, see here, my man, if I didn't want you why on earth would I call you out in the middle of the night?"

"It's late," complained Evarts.

"I know it. That's why I want you to get behind yourself and push yourself," retorted the young chief engineer energetically. "Hustle!"

Twice, while he waited impatiently, Tom kicked the toe of one boot against the door to emphasize the need of haste. Other drowsy voices remonstrated.

"Hang a man who has to sleep all the time!" grunted Tom Reade.

After several minutes the door opened, and a lanky, loose-jointed, lantern-jawed man of some forty-odd years stepped out.

"Well, what's up, Mr. Reade?" questioned the foreman, hiding a yawn behind a bony, hairy hand.

"You are, at last, thank goodness!" Tom exclaimed. "Evarts, I want you to rout out four good men. Lift 'em to their feet and begin to throw the clothes on 'em!"

"It's pretty late to call men out of their beds, sir," mildly objected the foreman.

"No—it's early, but it can't be helped," Tom Reade retorted. "Hustle 'em out!"

"Black or white?" sleepily inquired Evarts.

"White, and Americans at that," Tom retorted. "Put none but Americans on guard tonight, Evarts! What do you suppose has happened?"

"Can't guess."

"No! You're still too sleepy. Evarts, some scoundrels have blown out a good part of our wall yonder."

"Are you joking, Mr. Reade?"

"No, sir; I am not. Dynamite must have been used. Hazelton and I heard the noise of the blast, but of course we got out there too late to catch any miscreant at the job."

Evarts, at first, was inclined to regard the news with mild disbelief, but he soon realized that something must have happened very nearly as the young chief engineer had described.

"Well, what are you standing there for?" Tom demanded, impatiently. "Are you going to wait for daylight? Get the four men out—all Americans, mind you. Hustle, man!"

Evarts started away; toward the camp over to the left of them. As he did so Tom darted in another direction. Two minutes later Tom was back, piloting by one arm a man who was still engaged in rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. This was Conlon, engineer of the motor boat, "Morton."

"Where's Evarts?" Reade queried, impatiently. "Oh, Evarts! Where are you, and what are you doing?"

"Trying to get four men awake," bawled back the voice of the foreman, from the distance. "As soon as I get one man on his feet the other three have sunk back to sleep."

"Wait until I get over there then!" called Tom, striding forward. "Come along, Conlon! Don't you lag on me."

"There! Do you fellows reckon you want Mr. Reade to bump in here and shake you out?" sounded the warning voice of Evarts.

As Tom and the motor boat's engine tender reached the little, box-like shack from which Evarts's tones proceeded, four men, seated on the floor, were seen to be lacing their shoes by the dim light of a lantern.

"A nice lot you are!" called Tom crisply. "How many hours does it take you to get awake when you're called in the middle of the night?"

"This overtime warn't in the agreement," sleepily retorted one of the men.

"You're wrong there," Reade informed him, vehemently. "Overtime is in the agreement for every man in this camp when it's wanted of him—from the chief engineer all along the line. Now, you men oblige me by hustling. I don't want to wait more than sixty seconds for the last man of you."

"I've a good mind to crawl back into my bunk," growled another of the men.

"All right," retorted Tom Reade, with suspicious cheerfulness. "Try it and see what kind of fireworks I carry concealed on my person. Or, just lag a little bit on me, and you'll see the same thing. Men, do you realize that there's foul play afoot out on the retaining wall? We've got to go out there in time to stop anything more happening. Now, you've got your shoes on; grab the rest of your clothing and hustle it on as we make for the beach. Come along!"

Tom fairly got behind the men and pushed them outside. They would have liked to complain, but they didn't. Some of them were larger and heavier than the chief engineer, but they knew quite well that, at sign of any trifling mutiny to-night, Reade would thrash them all.

"If any one is trying to blow up the wall, Mr. Reade, it's all your fault, anyway," ventured Evarts, as the little party started at a brisk walk for the beach. "When you've got a mixed crowd of men working for you, you shouldn't interfere too much with their amusements. Yet you would have the gamblers run out of camp just when our boys were getting ready to have some pleasant evenings."

"I'll run out any one else who attempts to bring disorderly doings into this camp," Tom retorted quietly.

"Then there'll be some more of your seawalls blown up," Evarts warned him gloomily.

"If such a thing happens again there'll be some men hurt, and some others breaking into prison," Tom answered with spirit. "Any evildoers that try to set themselves up in business around here will soon wish they had kept away—that's all."

"It's a bad business," insisted Evarts, wagging his head. "When you have a mixed crowd of workmen—"

"I think you've said that before," Tom broke in coolly. "To-night we're in too much of a hurry to listen to the same thing twice. Come on, men. You can go a little faster than a walk. Jog a bit—I'll show you how."

"This is pretty hard on men in the middle of the night," hinted Evarts, after the jogging had gone on for a full minute. "It ain't right to——"

"Stop it, Evarts!" Tom cut in crisply. "I don't mind a little grumbling at the right time, and I often do a bit myself, but not when I'm as rushed as I am to-night. There's the dock ahead, men—a little faster spurt now!"

Tom urged his men along to the dock. With no loss of time they tumbled aboard the "Morton," a broad, somewhat shallow, forty-foot motor boat of open construction.

"Get up and take the wheel, Evarts," Tom. directed. "Get at work on your spark, Conlon, and I'll throw the drive-wheel over for you. Some of you men cast, off!"

In a very short time the "Morton" was going "put-put-put" away from the dock.

Tom, after seeing that everything was moving satisfactorily, turned around to look at the four men huddled astern.

"Don't any of you go to sleep," he urged. "A good part of our success depends on how well you all keep awake and use your eyes and ears."

That said, Tom Reade hastened forward, stationing himself close to Evarts, who had the steering wheel.

Some of the men astern began to talk.

"Silence, if you please," Tom called softly. "Don't talk except on matters of business. We want to be able to use our ears. Conlon, make your engine a little less noisy if you can."

Now Reade had leisure to wonder how matters had gone with Harry Hazelton.

"Of course that threatening figure Harry saw behind him was an imaginary one," Tom said to himself, but he felt uneasy nevertheless.

A few moments later Reade clutched at one of Evarts's arms.

"Did you hear that, man?" the young engineer demanded.

"Hear what?" Evarts wanted to know.

"It sounded like a yell out there yonder," Tom rejoined.

"Didn't hear it, Mr. Reade."

"There it goes again!" cried Tom, leaping up. "Some one is calling my name. It must be Harry Hazelton, and he must want help. Conlon, slam it to that engine of yours!"

III. VANISHING INTO THIN AIR

Left by himself Harry had stood, at first, motionless, or nearly so. He strained his hearing in trying to detect any unusual sound of the night, since it was so dark that vision would not aid him much.

There was nothing, however, but the mournful sighing of the wind and the lapping of the waves. It seemed to Hazelton that the wind was growing gradually more brisk and the waves larger, but he was not sure of that until the water commenced splashing across his shoes. The footway on the masonry became more slippery in consequence.

"With these rocks well wet down I wouldn't care much about having to run back to the land," muttered Harry, dryly. "However, I won't have to go back on my own feet. Tom will have the boat out here, and undoubtedly he will plan to have us both taken back to shore after we get through cruising around here. We should have brought the boat out in the first place."

A night bird screamed, then flapped its wings close to Harry's face in its flight past him. The young engineer saw the moving wings for an instant; then they vanished into the black beyond.

Farther out some other kind of bird screamed. The whole situation was a weird one, but Harry was no coward, though a less courageous youth would have found the situation hard on his nerves.

Still another night bird screamed, of some species with which Hazelton was wholly unacquainted. The cry was answered by some sort of strange call from the shore.

"It's a fine thing that I'm not superstitious," laughed the young engineer to himself, "or I'd surely feel cold chills chasing each other up and down my spine."

As it was, Harry shivered slightly, though not from fear. With the increasing wind it was growing chilly out there for one who could not warm himself with exercise.

"It's a long time, or it seems so," muttered the young engineer presently. "Yet I'll wager that Tom is hustling himself and others on the very jump."

Again the call of a night bird, and once more a sound from shore seemed to answer it.

"Real birds?" wondered Hazelton, with a start of sudden curiosity. "Or have I been listening to human signals? If so, the signals can't cover any good or honest purpose."

That train of thought set him to listening more acutely than before. Yet, as no more calls reached his ears the attention of the young engineer soon began to flag.

The monotonous lapping of the waves against the stone wall, the constant splashing of water over the rocks and the steady blowing of the wind all tended to make the watcher feel drowsy.

"What on earth can be keeping good old Tom?" Harry wondered, more than once.

It would have been well, indeed, had Harry kept his eyes turned oftener toward the shore end of the wall. In that case he might more speedily have detected the wriggling, snake-like movement of the big negro moving toward him.

With great caution the huge prowler came onward, raising his head a few inches every now and then and listening. The black man's nostrils moved feverishly. He was using them, as a dog would have done, to scent any signs of alarm on the part of the human quarry that he was after.

At last Harry Hazelton turned sharply, for his own ears were attuned to the stillnesses of the western forests and his hearing was unusually acute. He had just heard a sound on the wall, not far away. Instantly the young engineer was on the alert.

Then his eyes, piercing the darkness, made out the crawling, dark form, which did not appear to be more than fifty feet away from him.

For a second or two Harry stared. But he knew there could be no snake as broad as this crawling figure appeared to be.

"Who's there?" Hazelton called quickly.

The writhing mass became still, flattening itself against the bed of rock. Hazelton was not to be deceived, however.

"Who's there?" Harry repeated. "You had better talk up, my man!"

Still no sound. Harry started forward to investigate. His foot touched against a good sized fragment of rock left there by one of the masons.

Without delay Harry reached down, picking up the rock, which was rather more than half as large as his head.

Holding this in his right hand Harry advanced with still more confidence, for he felt himself to be armed. Hazelton had been a clever pitcher in his high school days and knew that he could make this fragment of rock land pretty close to where he wanted it to go.

"Who are you?" demanded Hazelton, once more, as he stepped cautiously forward. "No use in your keeping silent, my man. I see you and know that you're there. Moreover, I'm going to drag the truth out of you as to what you're doing out here on the wall at this hour of the night—and to-night of all nights."

Still no answer; Harry went steadily forward, until he was within a dozen feet of the head of the flattened brute in human guise. Hazelton could now see every line of his adversary plainly, though he could not make out the fellow's face.

"You'd better get up and talk," warned Harry, poising the rock fragment for a throw. "If you don't you'll cast all the more suspicion upon yourself. For the last time, my man, who are you and what are you doing here?"

The huge black figure might have been a log for all the answer that came forth.

"All right, then; it's your own fault," Harry Hazelton continued calmly. "As you won't speak I'm going to crack the nut for myself. Your head will be the nut, and this rock I have in my hand shall be the hammer. I'm going to slam this rock on your head with all the force I've got, and I'm a good, straight thrower."

Yet, though Hazelton spoke with such confidence, he was far from meaning all he said. In the first place, he had no legal right, under the circumstances, to go as close to murder as it might be for him to throw the rock at the rascal's head. Moreover, Harry would hardly have exercised such a legal right, had he possessed it, without the strongest provocation.

From the black prowler came a sudden, fierce snort. It sounded altogether like defiance.

"Ho—ho! You're finding your voice, are you, my man?" Hazelton jeered. "Then talk up in time to save yourself!"

Instead the huge black man began to writhe forward.

"Stop that!" ordered Harry dangerously. He did not retreat from the writhing human thing, but he took better aim, noting that the black man was hatless and that his head offered a fair mark. "You're going to get hurt in just about a second more," he added.

Uttering another snort the bulky black sprang to his feet with surprising agility in one of his great size.

Harry now let his right hand fall back quickly. He was poising for the throw in earnest, for there could no longer be any doubt that the stranger was planning a deadly assault.

"Take it, then, since you want it!" snapped out Harry Hazelton. The fragment of rock left his hand, propelled with force and directed with accurate aim at the negro's face.

But the crafty black dodged just in time, at the same instant throwing up his hands.

Harry gasped as he saw his unknown assailant deftly catch the rock fragment as though it had been a base ball.

"Ha, ha! Ho, ho!" jeered the black, in a hoarse, rumbling voice.

He threw back his hand, gathering impetus for the cast. Hazelton could do nothing but throw himself on the defensive, planning to duplicate the black man's catch.

Then the stone came—but it did not go high, instead, by a jerk of his wrist, the negro hurled it at Harry's right foot.

That granite-like fragment struck Hazelton's foot with full force.

"You—you scoundrel!" groaned Harry, in an all but admiring gasp.

Like a flash he bent over, snatching up the fragment for his own use.

"Now, I'll slam you into the middle of the Gulf of Mexico!" cried the young engineer, vengefully, as he tried to straighten up.

A groan escaped him. His injured foot was paining him more than he had expected.

"Ha, ha! Ho, ho!" harshly jeered this mysterious, evil creature. The black man had halted as Harry prepared to throw, but he showed no sign of hesitation. Though he stood still, he thrust his repulsive, leering face forward, as though to offer that face as the best mark.

Harry found that he could not stand straight—the pain in his injured foot was now too intense.

"Get back with you!" ordered Harry. "Get back if you don't want a heap worse than you gave me."

"Ha, ha! Ho, ho!" came the sneering laugh. Then the stranger reached out his hands as though to seize the youth.

"I guess I'll have to do it—though not because I really want to hurt you!" muttered Harry ruefully.

"Ha, ha! Ho, ho!"

There could be no question that the unknown was merely playing with him. Little as he liked to make the ugly throw Harry knew that he had to do it. When Hazelton had anything to do he believed in doing it well. So, putting all possible force into his throw, Harry let the rock fragment fly, and this time he was sure that his enemy would not be able to dodge in time.

Nor did the black man make any seeming effort to dodge.

Bump! Squarely in the black face the rock landed. Harry heard the sound and felt ill within himself. Yet the black man did not stagger. With a contemptuous snort he kicked the fragment of rock into the water as it landed at his feet.

"Ha, ha! Ho, ho!"

For the first time Harry Hazelton felt positively dismayed. He saw the long, massive arms moving, looking like a powerful ape's arms. There could be no doubt that the unknown was ready for a spring.

Harry did not retreat. Where could he run to? Only a few yards could he go out towards the end of the wall. Then, if he wished to continue his flight he could only take to the water.

Only a glance was needed at the bulky, powerful frame of the unknown to make it appear certain that the latter could swim two rods to the young engineer's one.

Harry decided instantly to stand his ground and to make the most valiant fight possible on so slippery a footing as that presented by the top of the retaining wall.

"Ha, ha! Ho, ho!"

It was as though the black unknown sought to terrify his intended victim with his repetitions of that harsh, discordant laugh. Harry braced himself and waited.

Then, off shoreward, came the sound of "put-put-put." The motor boat, "Morton," was putting out at last.

"If I can keep this fellow busy for a few minutes, I can have all the help I want," flashed through Hazelton's mind. So he opened his mouth, raising his voice in a long, pent-up hail.

"R e—e—e a d e! To—o—o—om R e a d e! Quick! Hazelton!"

"Ha, ha!" jeered the unknown black.

Then, suddenly, he leaped—not unexpectedly, however, for Harry had been watching, cat-like.

The unknown threw out his arms, seeking to wrap them around Hazelton.

Not in vain had Harry been trained, season after season, on the athletic ground of one of the best high school elevens in the United States.

As the fellow leaped at him Harry crouched lower and went straight at his opponent.

Powerful as the stranger was he was no football player. Harry "tackled" him in the neatest possible way, then strove to rise with this great human being.

In the first instant it seemed to the young engineer as though he were trying to lift a mountain. His back felt as though it were snapping under a giant's task. Yet, but for one fact, Hazelton would have risen with his man, and would have hurled the mysterious one over into the waters of the gulf.

Just in the instant of victory Harry's injured right foot gave out under him. With a stifled groan he sank down just as he threw his opponent.

The black, instead of going into the water, landed hard on his back on the top of the wall. He was up again, however, before Hazelton could repress the pain in his foot and leap at the wretch.

"Ha, ha! Ho, ho!" came the tantalizing challenge.

"Put-put-put!" sounded over the water, coming nearer all the time.

"Re—e—e—e a d e! T o m R e a d e! Help—quick!" yelled Harry, lustily.

This, doubtless, was the first call that Tom, at the bow of the motor boat, thought he heard.

Uttering a snort, this time, instead of the laugh, the black sprang at his intended prey. Their heads met, with considerable force. Then, with a wild chuckle, the black wound his apelike arms around the young engineer.

"Reade! Tom Reade! Reade!" bellowed Hazelton lustily, as he tried desperately to free himself from the crushing embrace of the other.

* * * * *

Over the waters came the penetrating beam of a small search-light. The "Morton" was coming nearer all the time, but the ray did not yet reach with any great clearness the point where Harry Hazelton had been fighting for his life against his strange foe in the black night.

"Keep parallel with the wall, Evarts," Tom ordered, crisply. "Conlon, are you pushing the engines for all it's worth?"

"Yes, sir," came from the engine-tender. "This old craft isn't good for quite seven miles' an hour, anyway."

"There! Now I've picked up the part of the wall where there isn't any wall in sight just now," said Tom, wincing over his own bull. "Hazelton ought to be just this side of there."

"There's no one near the breach," replied Evarts.

"So I see," Reade admitted, in a tone of worriment. "Oh, well, Harry isn't such an infant as to be wiped out all in one moment."

"Where is Mr. Hazelton then?" inquired Evarts, as Tom swung the arc of the searchlight in broad curves.

"Great Scott! I wish I knew!" gasped Reade, his perplexity and his anxiety growing with every second. "There appears to be no one on top of the wall."

Evarts ran in within a few feet of the wall, on the shore-side of the breach.

"Shall I land you there, sir?" questioned the foreman.

"Presently," Tom nodded. "But now, back out a few feet and swing the boat's nose around so that I can make a search with this light." Evarts obeyed the order. Despite the smallness of the light, Reade was able to send the searching beam of light back nearly one-half of the way to shore. Nowhere was there any human being visible on the wall.

"Harry! Hazelton!" bawled Tom, with all the power in his lungs.

There was no answer.

"Jupiter! You'll have to land me, I reckon," quaked Tom Reade. "Drive her nose in—gently. I'll be ready to jump."

"Be careful how you do jump," warned Evarts. "It's mighty slippery on that wall tonight."

Tom poised himself as the boat moved in close. Then he took a light leap, landing safely.

Here the young chief engineer again brought his pocket flash lamp into play. Closely he scanned the top of the wall all around where he knew he had left his chum.

But Harry was nowhere to be seen, nor, on the wet wall, could Tom find any signs of a scuffle, or any other sign that gave him a clue.

"Evarts, this is mighty mysterious!" groaned the young chief.

"Unless—" hinted the foreman.

"Unless what?"

"Perhaps Mr. Hazelton ran along the walltop to the shore."

"He'd have hailed us, then, in passing, wouldn't he?" choked Tom Reade. "Besides, I had the light playing on this wall most of the way. If he had run back we would have seen him, even if he hadn't hailed. And he couldn't have run farther out to seaward. Evarts, I'm downright worried."

Tom Reade might indeed well be worried over the grewsome mysteries of this night of evil deeds.

IV. SOME ONE CALLS AGAIN

Half an hour later Tom Reade leaped ashore at the little pier.

"My orders, Mr. Reade."

"They're brief and concise," Tom rejoined. "You're to cruise the length of the wall, especially farther out from shore. Use your searchlight freely. Keep the wall so guarded that no rascal can slip out there, either over the wall or by boat, and do any damage. Mr. Evarts, the safety of the wall until daylight is your whole charge."

"Very good, sir. But I'm sure that nothing more will happen to the wall."

"If anything does it will be up to you, Mr. Evarts," Tom assured him grimly. "I'll hold you responsible."

"I won't let anything happen, Mr. Reade. And I hope you find Mr. Hazelton all right."

"He may be up at camp," Tom answered, though in his heart he did not believe it.

Had Harry escaped whatever danger had menaced him, Tom knew very well that his chum, after appealing for help, would by some means have signaled his subsequent safety.

However, Tom started toward camp at a run. He was wholly mystified. The search in the neighborhood of the breach in the wall had been continued until its hopelessness had been fully demonstrated. The search had also been continued over the water, for a possible clue to the mystery.

Though Tom ran, he felt himself choking, stifling. Despite all his efforts to cheer himself the young chief engineer felt certain that his chum had mysteriously met his fate, and that brave, dependable Harry Hazelton was no more.

Yet how could he have vanished so completely, and what possibly could have happened to his assailant or assailants?

"It'll be an awful night, until daylight," Tom groaned inwardly, as he ran. "At daylight, of course, we can make a far better search, especially over the water. But in the hours that must elapse—! It's going to be a tough period of waiting!"

Arrived at camp, Tom made straight for his own barracks, letting himself in with a latch-key as soon as he could control his shaking hand sufficiently to use the key.

Tom bounded straight for the bed-room of the superintendent, at the rear of the little building.

"Mr. Renshaw!" shouted the young chief, throwing open the bed-room door.

The barrack was lighted by electricity. Tom threw on the light, then wheeled toward the bed, to find the superintendent sitting up, revolver in hand.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" gasped the superintendent. "Mr. Reade, in my stupor from being aroused I was just on the point of shooting you for a burglar. It's awful!"

"You ought to throw that revolver to the bottom of the gulf," Tom rasped out.

"Not much!" retorted the superintendent. "Handling as mixed a crew as we have on this work I wouldn't think of going about unarmed. And you ought to go armed, too, Mr. Reade."

"Bosh!" uttered Tom. He had a well-known objection to carrying a pistol. Reade always maintained that a pistol-carrying man was a coward. A coward is one who is afraid, and the man who is not afraid has no reason to carry a weapon.

"Renshaw," added Tom, "there's just one circumstance in which I would carry a pistol—and that is, if I were carrying large sums of other people's money. If I were a pay-master, or a bank messenger, I'd carry a pistol, but under no other circumstances, outside of military service, would I carry a weapon. But—are you thoroughly awake, now?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, Mr. Renshaw, get up and hide that pistol somewhere. While you're about it, listen to me. Some scoundrel has blown out a large portion of our retaining wall to-night. I left Hazelton on guard at the point and came ashore to get out the motor boat, 'Morton.' Before I could return I heard Hazelton's call for help, and—he has disappeared! There's wicked work on hand to-night. You'll have to get up and help me. Be quick with your dressing. We've work to do to-night, and all of it is man's work."

Tom hastily added such other particulars as were needed. Renshaw, while he dressed hurriedly, listened with a horror that he took no pains to conceal.

"Evarts claims that it's revenge work, on the part of some of our men, because Hazelton and I stopped gambling in the camp," Tom continued.

"It might be," Renshaw admitted thoughtfully. "But to me it seems that there must be a lot more behind the whole terrible matter."

"That's the way it strikes me, too," Tom nodded. "However, you're dressed, so now we can hurry out and get busy."

"What shall we do first?" Superintendent Renshaw inquired.

"That's what I've been thinking over while you were dressing," Tom replied. "Of course the one thing of real importance is to find Hazelton."

"Killed, beyond a doubt," replied the older man.

"I refuse to believe it," Tom retorted. "There's a mystery in his fate, but I simply won't believe that Harry has been killed."

"Then why didn't you hear from him further?"

"That's the mystery."

Tom had shaped their course for the barracks occupied by the foremen. He bounded upon the little porch and began to hammer on the door with both fists.

"Turn out, everybody!" Tom bellowed. "Every foreman is on duty to-night. Show a light, and let us in as soon as you can."

Some one was heard stirring. Then Dill, one of the foremen, admitted the callers.

"Are all the others up?" Reade asked, sharply.

"Yes, sir."

"Good! Tell your associates to finish dressing as quickly as possible and to meet me in the office."

"The office" was a little room just inside the entrance to the building. It was a room where the foremen sat and chatted in the evenings.

"Put a double-hustle on, everyone," Tom called after Dill.

"Yes, sir."

Barely three minutes had passed when all of the six remaining foremen had assembled. Tom plunged instantly into a brief account of what had happened.

"It seems to me, sir—" Dill began.

"Keep it to yourself, then, if you please," Tom interrupted him gently. "We haven't any time for opinions to-night. What we want is swift, intelligent work, and a lot of it."

Tom thereupon gave each man his directions.

"Now, each of you go to your own gangs in the camp," he added. "Wake what men you need and put 'em to work. If any of the men object to being taken from their cots in the night, just lift them out. Don't stand any nonsense. Let each foreman make it his business to know just what the men under him are doing."

One foreman was to take men with lanterns and go out carefully over every foot of the seawall. Another was to organize a beach patrol. Still another, with but two men, was to go into the town of Blixton and see if any tidings of Hazelton could be obtained there. To one foreman fell the task of searching carefully through camp before going to other work assigned to him.

"Now, get to work, all of you," Tom ordered. "As an extra inducement you can tell your men that the one who finds Hazelton, whether dead or alive, shall have a reward of one hundred dollars. Remember the watchword for to-night, which is, 'hustle!'"

In all, some sixty men were pulled from their cots. Tom, having given the orders, walked down to the beach with his superintendent.

"You've covered everything that's possible, I think, Mr. Reade," commented the foreman.

"I think I have. But there won't be any rest for any one until we have found Hazelton."

"Are you going to have the water dragged?"

"Not before daylight—perhaps not then," Reade replied. "I can't bring myself to believe that Harry was thrown into the water and that he drowned there."

"It'll take the chief a day or two to realize that," sighed the superintendent to himself. "Yet that is exactly what has happened. The chief won't believe it, though, until the body is found."

Down on the beach there was really nothing for Tom and his head man to do after the arrival of the foremen and their gangs. Everything went ahead in an orderly manner.

"I don't suppose you could get any rest, under the circumstances, Mr. Reade," hinted the superintendent, "yet that is just what you are going to need."

"Rest?" echoed Tom, gazing at the man, in a strange, wide-eyed way, while a grim smile flickered around the corners of his mouth. "What have rest and I to do with each other just now?"

"Yet there's nothing you can do here."

"I am here, anyway," Reade retorted. "I'm on the spot—that's something."

"Let me run back to the house and get you some blankets," urged the superintendent. "Then you can lie down on the sand and rest. Of course I know you can't sleep at present."

"It is not necessary go back," volunteered a voice behind them. "I have the blankets."

"Nicolas!" gasped Tom, in surprise. "How did you know I was here?"

"I wake up when you talk to Meester Renshaw," replied the Mexican simply. "I listen. I know, now—poor Senor Hazelton!"

Nicolas's voice broke, and, as he stepped closer, Tom beheld some large tears trickling down the little Mexican's face.

"Nicolas, you're a good fellow!" cried Tom, impulsively, "but I don't want the blankets. Spread them on the sand, then lie down on them yourself until I need you."

"What—me? I lie down?" demanded Nicolas. "No, no! That impossible is. I must walk, walk! Me? I am like the caged panther to-night. I want nothing but find the enemy who have hurt Senor Hazelton. Then I jump on the back of that enemy!"

Saying which Nicolas saluted, and, as became his position of servant, fell back some yards. But first he had dropped the blankets to the beach.

The light of lanterns showed that the men of one gang were searching thoroughly all along the top of the wall. Once in a while a man belonging to the beach patrol passed the chief engineer and the superintendent, reporting only that no signs of Harry had been found.

An hour thus passed. Then, from over the water, as the lantern-bearing searchers were returning, a dull explosion boomed across the water.

"Great Scott!" quivered Tom. "There they go at it again, Mr. Renshaw! Another section of the retaining wall has gone—blown up!"

V. WANTED—DAYLIGHT AND DIVERS

In a trice the foreman of the gang on the wall wheeled his men about, running them out seaward toward the scene of the latest explosion. That much was plain from the twinkling of the rapidly-moving lanterns.

"Come on, Renshaw!" Tom shouted. "You, too, Nicolas. You can pull an oar."

Reade was already racing out on to the small dock. He all but threw himself into a rowboat that lay tied alongside.

"Cast off and get in," Tom ordered his companions, as he pushed out a pair of oars. "Nicolas, you're also good with a pair of oars. Mr. Renshaw, you take the tiller. Inform me instantly when you see the first gleam of the 'Morton's' search-light. Evarts ought to have caught the scoundrels this time. Evidently he's been cruising softly without showing a light."

Mr. Renshaw gathered up the tiller ropes as Tom pushed off from the dock. Then the chief engineer addressed himself to the task of rowing. His firm muscles, working at their best, shot the little craft ahead. Nicolas, at the bow oars, did his best to keep up with his chief in the matter of rowing, though the Mexican was neither an oarsman nor an athlete.

"Don't you make out the motor boat's lights yet?" Tom asked impatiently, after the first long spurt of rowing.

"Not yet, sir," replied the superintendent. "I shan't miss the light when it shows."

A few minutes later the superintendent announced in a low voice:

"There's some craft, motionless, just a bit ahead."

Tom, without stopping his work at the oars, turned enough to glance forward.

"Why, it's—it's the 'Morton'!" he gasped.

"I believe it is," declared the superintendent, staring keenly at the nearly shapeless black mass ahead.

Tom, with his jaws set close, bent harder than ever at the oars.

"Senor!" wailed Nicolas, gaspingly. "If you do not go more easily I shall expire for lack of breath. I cannot keep up with you."

Reade fell into a slower, stronger stroke.

"Drop the oars any time you want to, Nicolas," Reade urged. "There won't be much more rowing to do, anyway."

Presently Tom himself rested on his oars, as the boat, moving under its own headway, approached the motor boat.

"Going to board her on the quarter?" the superintendent asked.

"No; by the bow," Tom answered. "Let go the tiller ropes. I'll pull alongside."

As they started to pass the boat a sound reached them that made Reade grow wild with anger. Snore after snore, from five busy sleepers!

Tom pulled softly up to the bow.

"There's the anchor cable!" snorted Tom, Pointing to a rope that ran from the bow of the "Morton" down into the water. "Did you ever see more wicked neglect of important duty? And not even a lantern out to mark her berth! Get aboard, Mr. Renshaw, and go aft to start the engine. Nicolas, you take this boat astern and make fast. Don't wake the sleepers—poor, tired shirkers!"

Tom, in utter disgust, leaped aboard the boat at the bow. There, behind the wheel, Evarts lay on the floor of the boat, his rolled-up coat serving as a pillow.

Almost noiselessly Tom hauled up the light anchor. Then he stood by the wheel.

"All ready at the engine, Mr. Reade!" called the superintendent, softly.

"Let her go," Tom returned, "as soon as Nicolas boards."

The Mexican was quickly aboard, after having made the rowboat's painter fast.

"Headway!" announced Renshaw, throwing over the drive-wheel of the engine.

"Put-put-put!" sputtered the motor. Then the "Morton" began really to move. With the first real throb of the engine the electric running lights gleamed out.

Aft Conlon began to stir. Then he opened his eyes.

"What—" he began.

"Silence!" commanded Mr. Renshaw.

"Tell me who's at the wheel?" Conlon begged.

"Mr. Reade," replied the superintendent, dryly. "Now, keep still!"

"Whew—ew—ew!" whistled Conlon, in dire dismay. Then he sank back, watching the engine with moody eyes. The other three men aft still slept.

Presently Tom, in shifting his position, touched one foot lightly against the foreman's head. Evarts half-awoke, then realized that the boat was moving.

"Who started this craft against my orders?" he drowsily demanded, as he sat up.

"I did," Tom retorted witheringly, "though I didn't hear your orders to the contrary."

"You—Mr. Reade?" gasped the foreman, leaping to his feet.

"Yes—and a fine fellow you are to trust!" Tom rejoined. "I leave you with very definite orders, and you go to sleep. Then there's another explosion out on the wall and you sleep right along."

"Another explosion?" blurted Evarts, rubbing his eyes with his fists. "Here, let me have that wheel, sir. I'll have you out there quick!"

"You've nothing more to do here," Tom answered, dryly, without yielding the wheel.

"What do you mean by that?" Evarts cried quickly.

"Can't you guess?" wondered Reade.

"Mr. Reade means," said Conlon, who had come forward, "that we're fired—discharged."

"Nonsense!" protested Evarts.

"Conlon has guessed rightly, as far as you're concerned," Tom continued. "To-morrow, Evarts, you go to Mr. Renshaw and get your pay. As for you, Conlon, you're not discharged this time. Evarts admitted himself that it was he who gave positive orders to tie the boat up at anchor. You were under his orders, so I can't hold you responsible. Are you wide awake, now?"

"Yes, sir," answered Conlon meekly.

"Then go back and attend to your engine. Look sharp for hail or bell."

"I guess you'll find you can't quite get along without me," argued Evarts moodily. "You'll find that you need me to manage some of the men you've got."

"You're through with this job, as I just did you the honor to inform you," Tom responded quietly. "To-morrow Mr. Renshaw will pay you off up to date."

"If I'm bounced, then you'll pay me for the balance of the month, anyway!" snarled the foreman defiantly. "You can't drop me without notice like that."

"You'll be paid to date only," Tom retorted. "You've been discharged for wilful and serious neglect of duty, and you're not entitled to pay for the balance of the month."

"All right, then," retorted the other hotly. "I'll collect my money through the courts. I'll show you!"

"Just as you please," Reade replied indifferently. "But I imagine any court will consider seven dollars a day pretty large pay for a man who goes to sleep on duty."

"See here, I'll—"

"You'll keep quiet, Evarts, or you'll go overboard," Reade interrupted significantly. "I happen to know that you can swim, so I won't be bothered with you here if you insist on making a nuisance of yourself."

Mr. Renshaw, having been relieved at the engine, now came forward.

"Mr. Renshaw," directed the young chief engineer, "as soon after daylight as it is convenient for you you'll pay Evarts off in full to date and let him go. He threatens to sue if he is not paid to the end of the month, but if he wants to we'll let the courts do our worrying."

"All right, sir," nodded the superintendent.

Evarts had dropped into a seat just forward of the engine. He sat there, regarding Tom Reade with a baleful look of hate.

"You're a success, all right, at one thing, and that's making enemies," muttered the discharged foreman under his breath.

Besides attending to the wheel Tom now reached out with one hand and switched on the search-light, which he manipulated with one hand. Shortly he found the spot where the portion of the wall had been blown away by the first explosion. A hundred and fifty yards farther out he beheld the work of the second explosion. Some seventy-five yards in length was the new open space, where at least as much of the retaining wall as was visible above the water had been blown out.

"Slow down, Cordon," ordered Tom. "All we want is headway."

"All right, sir."

Tom drifted in within a few feet of the former site of the retaining wall. The "Morton" moved slowly by, Tom, by the aid of the searchlight, noting the extent of the disaster.

"Get back aft, Evarts," ordered the young engineer, turning and beholding the late foreman. "We don't want you here."

For a moment or two it looked as though Evarts would refuse. Then, with a growl, he rose and picked his way aft. By this time the other men who had been in his gang were awake. They regarded their former foreman with no great display of sympathy.

"I'll confess I'm mystified," muttered Tom, watching the scene of the latest explosion for some minutes after the engine had been stopped. "When daylight comes and we can use the divers we ought to know a bit more about how such a big blast is worked in the dead of night when the scoundrels ought to make noise enough to be heard. It must have been a series of connected blasts, all touched off at the same moment, Mr. Renshaw, but even such a series is by no means easy to lay. And then the blasts have to be drilled for, and then tamped."

"As you say, sir," replied the superintendent, "a much clearer idea can be formed when we have daylight and the divers."

Tom held his watch to one side of the searchlight.

"Nearly two hours yet until daylight, Mr. Renshaw," he announced. "And, of course, it will be two or three hours after daylight before we can get the divers at work. A fearful length of time to wait!"

"You'd better go back to the shore, sir," urged the superintendent.

"Not while this boat needs to be run," objected Reade. "For the rest of the night I want a man here whom I can trust."

"Will you trust me with the boat?" proposed the superintendent.

"Why, of course!"

"Then let me run back to the dock and put you ashore, Mr. Reade. After that I'll come out here and patrol along the wall until broad daylight."

That was accordingly done. The "Morton" lay alongside the dock, and Nicolas instantly busied himself with casting off the rowboat and making her fast to the pier instead.

Evarts sullenly remained in the boat.

"Come on, Evarts," spoke Tom quietly.

"Mr. Reade," expostulated the late foreman, "I'm not going to be thrown out of my job like this."

"Which especial way of being thrown out do you prefer then?" Tom queried, dryly.

"I'm not going to be put out of my job until I've had at least one good talk with you," insisted the foreman.

"I'm afraid the time has passed for talking with you," Reade responded, turning toward the shore. "You lost a great chance, to-night, to serve the company with distinction, and your negligence cost the company a lot of money through the second explosion. Are you coming out of that boat—or shall I come back after you?"

Evarts rose, with a surly air. He stepped slowly ashore, after which one of the crew cast off. The engine began to move, and the "Morton" started back to her post.

"Oh, you feel fine and important, just at this minute!" grumbled the discharged foreman, under his breath, glaring wickedly at the broad back of the young chief engineer. "But I'll do something to take the importance out of you before very long, Tom Reade!"

Truth to tell, Tom, though he was still alert to the interests of his employers, felt anything but important. The thought of Harry Hazelton's unknown fate caused a great, choking lump in his throat as Reade stepped from the pier to land.

VI. MR. BASCOMB IS PEEVISH

At the first blush of dawn Tom despatched the tireless Nicolas to Blixton to notify the police of the explosions and of the disappearance of Harry Hazelton.

Two men in blue, wearing stars on their coats, came over within an hour, walked about and looked wise until noon. They discovered nothing whatever, and their theories did not strike Reade as being worthy of attention.

As soon as possible the divers were sent down at the two wrecked parts of the retaining wall. These men reported that the breaches extended ten feet beneath the surface at some points; only eight feet at other points. The foundations of the walls were reported as being secure. Then Tom, under the directions of two divers, put on a diver's suit and went down himself, for the first time in his life. After some two hours, with frequent ascents to the surface, the young chief engineer had satisfied himself that the foundations were secure. Then he did some rapid figuring.

"The loss will not exceed eight thousand dollars—the cost of rebuilding the missing parts of the walls," Reade informed Superintendent Renshaw.

"Only eight thousand dollars!" whistled the superintendent.

"Well, that figure isn't anywhere nearly as high as I feared it might be," Tom pursued.

"But it will strike the directors of the Melliston Company as being pretty big for an extra bill," muttered Renshaw. "Especially, since—"

The superintendent paused.

"You were going to say," smiled Tom, wanly, "since the loss wouldn't have happened if I hadn't kicked the gamblers out of camp."

"That's about the size of it, Mr. Reade," nodded Renshaw. "Directors of big companies are less interested in moral reforms than in dividends. They're likely to make a big kick over what your crusade has cost them already, even if it costs them no more."

"We'll see to it that it doesn't cost them any more," Tom retorted. "Every night we'll watch that sea wall the way a mother does a sick baby. There'll be no more explosions. As to the directors kicking over the present expense, they'll have a prompt chance to do it. As soon as the telegraph office in Blixton was open this morning I wired the president of the company. Now, I'm going ashore. I can't do anything out here to help you, can I?"

"Nothing," replied Renshaw. "If I didn't know how foolish the advice would sound, Mr. Reade, I'd urge you to take a nap."

"I'll take a nap when I find it impossible to keep my eyes open any longer," Tom compromised. "For the next few hours—work and lots of it."

As yet no effort had been made to repair the breaches in the wall. The different gangs were working that day in nearer shore. The divers, gathered on a scow, were now waiting for the "Morton" to convey them back to shore. Reade decided to go with them.

"Twenty minutes to two," murmured Tom to himself, glancing at his watch as the "Morton" went laboriously back over the dancing, glinting waves. "There's a train due at Blixton at 1:30. By the time I get back to the house I ought to find one or more officials of the company impatiently waiting to jump on my devoted neck."

Nor was Tom disappointed in this expectation. Pacing up and down on the porch of the house occupied by the engineers and superintendent was George C. Bascomb, president of the Melliston Company. Behind him stood Nicolas, respectfully eager to do anything he could for the comfort of the great man.

"Ah, there you are, Reade," called President Bascomb in an irritated tone, as he caught sight of the young engineer striding forward. "Now, what's all this row that you wired us about?"

"Will you come down to the water, and go out with me to look at the damage, sir?" asked Tom, as he took the president's reluctantly offered hand.

"No," grunted Mr. Bascomb. "Let me hear the story first. Come inside and tell me about it."

"Our friend is not quite so gracious as he has been on former meetings," thought Tom, as he led the way inside. "I wonder if he is going to get cranky?"

Inside was a little office room, as in the foremen's barracks.

"Any decent cigars here?" questioned Mr. Bascomb, after exploring his own pockets and finding them innocent of tobacco.

"No, sir," Tom answered. "No one here smokes."

"I've got to have a cigar," the president of the company insisted.

"Then, sir, if you'll give Nicolas your orders, he'll run over to Blixton and get you what you want."

The Mexican departed in haste on the errand.

"Now, first of all, Reade," began the president, "I am disgusted at learning of one fool mistake that you've made."

"What is that, sir?" Tom asked, coloring.

"I've just learned that you discharged Evarts—one of our best and most useful men."

"I did discharge him, sir," Reade admitted.

"Take him back, at once."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't do it. He—"

"I don't think you quite understand," broke in Mr. Bascomb coldly. "I directed you to take Mr. Evarts back on this work."

"I was about to tell you, sir, why I can't do anything of the sort. I—"

"Stop right there, Reade," ordered President Bascomb, in his most aggressive, bullying manner. "The first point that we have to settle is that Evarts must come back on the pay-roll and have his old position. Be good enough to let that proposition sink in before we take up the second."

"I am very sorry, sir," Tom murmured respectfully, "but I can't and won't have Evarts back here. I won't have him around the work at all. Now what is the second proposition, sir?"

As Tom spoke he looked straight into Mr. Bascomb's eyes. The other glared at him unbelievingly but angrily.

"Young man, you don't appear to understand that I am president and head of the Melliston Company."

"I quite understand it, sir," Reade answered. "At the same time I am chief engineer here, and I am committed to building the breakwater and dredging out the enclosed bay or harbor, all within a certain fixed appropriation. In order to keep my part of the bargain I must have men with me on whom I can depend to the fullest limit. Evarts isn't such a man and I won't have him on the work again."

"He'll go on the pay-roll, anyway," snorted Mr. Bascomb.

"I can't help what you may see fit to pay him, Mr. Bascomb, provided you pay him somewhere else. But the fellow can't go on the pay-roll here for the simple reason that he wouldn't be allowed to visit this construction camp for the purpose of getting his money. Mr. Bascomb, I am not trying to ride a high horse. I recognize that you are president of the company, and that I must take all reasonable orders from you and carry them out to the letter. Yet I can't take any orders that would simply hinder my work and damage my reputation as an engineer. Evarts can't come back into this camp as long as I am in charge here."

"We'll take that up again presently," returned Mr. Bascomb, with an air of ruffled dignity. "Now, there's another matter that we must discuss. I know what has been done in the way of great damage to the retaining wall. I also know that this damage came through enmity that you stirred up by drumming certain parties out of this camp."

"You refer, sir, I take it, to my act in having Blixton police officers come in here and chase out some gamblers who had come here for the purpose of winning the money of the workmen?"

"That's it," nodded Bascomb. "In that matter you went too far—altogether too far!"

"I'm afraid I don't understand you, sir."

"You mean, Reade, that you don't want to understand me," snapped the president. "You admit having chased out the gamblers, don't you?"

"Of course, I admit it, sir."

"That was a bad move. In the future, Reade, you will not interfere with any forms of amusement that the men may select for themselves in their evening hours."

Tom stared at the speaker in undisguised amazement.

"But, Mr. Bascomb, the men are shamelessly robbed by the sharpers who come here to gamble with them."

"That's the men's own affair," scoffed the president. "Anyway, they have a right to pitch away their wages if they want to. Reade, when you're as old as I am you will understand that workmen who throw away their money make the best workmen. They never have any savings, hence they must make every effort to keep their jobs. A workman with savings becomes too independent."

"I am certain you have seen more of the world than I have, Mr. Bascomb," Reade replied, respectfully. "At the same time I can't agree with you on the point you have just stated. A workman with a bank account has always a greater amount of self-respect, and a man who has self-respect is bound to make a good citizen and a good workman. But there are still other reasons why I had the gamblers chased out. Gambling here in the camp would always create a great deal of disorder. Disorder destroys discipline, and a camp like this, in order to give the best results in the way of work, must have discipline. Moreover, the men, when gambling, remain up until all hours of the night. A man who has been up most of the night can't give an honest day's work in return for his wages. Unless the men get their sleep and are kept in good condition we can't get the work out of them that we have a right to expect."

"The right man can drive workmen," declared Mr. Bascomb, with emphasis. "You'll have to drive your men. Get all the work out of them, but drop at once this foolish policy of interfering with what they do after the whistle blows. We can't have any more of this nonsense. It costs too much. By the way, how much will it cost to repair the damage to the retaining walls?"

"About eight thousand dollars, sir, if my first figuring was correct," was Reade's answer.

"Eight thousand dollars!" scowled President Bascomb. "Now, Reade, doesn't that amount of wanton, revengeful mischief teach you the folly of trying to regulate camp life outside of working hours?"

"I'm afraid it doesn't, sir."

"Then you must be a fool, Reade!"

"Thank you, sir. I will add that you're not the first man who has suspected it."

"You will, therefore, Reade," continued Mr. Bascomb, with his grandest air of authority, "cause it to become known throughout the camp that you are not going to interfere any further with any form of amusement that is brought to the camp evenings by outsiders."

"Is that proposition number two, sir?" queried the young chief engineer.

"It is."

"Then please don't misunderstand me, sir," Reade begged, respectfully, "but it is declined, as is proposition number one."

"Do you mean to say that you are going to go on with your fool way of doing things?"

"Yes, sir—until I am convinced that it is a fool way."

"But I've just told you that it is," snapped Mr. Bascomb.

"Then I say it very respectfully, sir, but pardon me for replying that I don't consider the evidence very convincing. I have shown you why I must have good order in the camp, and I have told you that I do not propose to allow gambling or any other disorderly conduct to go on within camp limits. I can't agree to these things, and then hope to win out by keeping the cost of the work within the appropriation."

"Do you feel that you'll keep within the appropriation by making enemies who deliberately blow up our masonry?" glared Mr. Bascomb.

"I doubt if there will be any more expense in that line, sir. I intend to have such a watch kept over the wall as to prevent any further mischief of the kind."

"Watchmen are an item of expense, aren't they?" snorted the president.

"Yes, sir; but next to nothing at all as compared with the mischief they can prevent."

"I have already told you how to prevent the mischief, Reade. Stop all of your foolish nonsense and let the men have their old-time pastimes."

"I can't do it, sir."

"Have you paper, pen and ink here?" thundered Mr. Bascomb. "If so, bring them."

Tom quietly obeyed.

"Reade," again thundered the president of the Melliston Company, "I have had as much of your nonsense as I intend to stand. You are out of here, from this minute. Take that pen and sign your resignation!"

VII. TOM ISN'T AS EASY AS HE LOOKS

"I don't believe I'll do that, sir," murmured Tom, putting down the pen.

"You don't, eh?"

"No, sir."

"Oh, then you'd rather wait and be forced out?"

"How about the contract, sir, between your company and Reade & Hazelton? Contracts can't be broken as lightly as your words imply."

"I'll break that contract, if I set out to," declared Mr. Bascomb, purpling with half-suppressed rage. "I've every ground for breaking the contract. You're running things with a high hand here, and disorganizing all our efforts. No contract will stand on presentation of any such evidence as that before a court."

"I am quite willing to leave that to a court, if I have to," Reade rejoined. His tones were decidedly cold. "Mr. Bascomb, even if I were inclined to forfeit the contract I would have no legal right to do so without the approval of my partner, Hazelton."

"Humph! He's dead," snorted the president.

"That yet remains to be proved, sir," Tom answered huskily, his voice breaking slightly at thought of Harry.

"How on earth do you think you could defend a contract against a wealthy company like ours? Why, we could swamp you under our loose change alone. How much money have you in the world? Two or three thousand dollars, perhaps."

"I've a little more than that," Tom Reade smiled. "For one thing, I'm a third owner in the Ambition mine, on Indian Smoke Range, Nevada, and the Ambition has been a dividend payer almost from the start. Hazelton owns another third of the mine."

"Eh?" gasped Mr. Bascomb, plainly taken aback.

"Oh, we're not millionaires," Tom laughed easily. "Yet I fancy Hazelton and I could raise enough money to fight any breach-of-contract case in court. With a steady-paying mine, you know, we could even discount to some extent the earnings of future years."

"Oh, well, we don't want hard feelings," urged Mr. Bascomb, his manner becoming more peaceable. "The plain truth is, Reade, that we're utterly dissatisfied with your way of managing things here. When you know how the Melliston Company feels toward you, you don't want to be impudent enough to insist on hanging on, do you?"

"I am certain that I speak for my partner, sir, when I state that we won't drop the contract until we have fulfilled it," Tom muttered, coolly, but with great firmness.

"What's all this dispute about anyway, Bascomb?" a voice called cheerily from the hallway.

"Oh, it's you, is it, Prenter?" asked Mr. Bascomb, turning and not looking overjoyed at the interruption.

Simon F. Prenter was treasurer of the Melliston Company. Tom had met him at the time of signing the engineers' contract with the company. Now Reade sprang up to place a chair for the new arrival.

"What was all the row about?" Mr. Prenter asked affably. He was a man of about forty-five, rather stout, with light blue eyes that looked at one with engaging candor.

"I have been suggesting to Reade that he might resign," replied Mr. Bascomb, stiffly.

"Why?" asked Prenter, opening his eyes wider.

"Because he has raised the mischief on this breakwater job. He has all the men by their ears, and the camp in open mutiny."

"So?" asked Mr. Prenter, looking astonished.

"Exactly, and therefore I have called upon the young man to resign."

"And he refuses?" queried the treasurer. "Most astounding obstinacy on the part of so young a man when dealing with his elder."

"I'll try to explain to you, Mr. Prenter," volunteered Reade, "just what I've been trying to tell Mr. Bascomb."

"I don't know that I need trouble you," replied Mr. Prenter, moving so that he stood more behind the irate president. "I overheard what you were telling him."

Then the treasurer did a most unexpected thing. He winked broadly at the young engineer.

"Yes, Prenter," Mr. Bascomb went on, "this camp is in a state of mutiny. The men are all at odds with their chief."

"Strange," murmured the treasurer of the Melliston Company. "When I paused on the porch, before entering, I thought I caught sight of unusual activity down at the water front. Did you notice it, too, Bascomb?"

"I noticed nothing of the sort," replied the president stiffly. "Am I to infer, Prenter, that you are going to follow your occasional tactics and try to laugh me out of my decision as president of the company?"

"Oh, nothing of the sort, I assure you," hastily protested the treasurer. But he found chance to drive another wink Tom Reade's way. The young chief engineer could not but feel that an ally had suddenly come his way.

"Now, what is the nature and extent of the mutiny?" asked Mr. Prenter.

"First of all, eight thousand dollars' damage has been done to the retaining wall of the breakwater," replied Mr. Bascomb. "That is, according to Mr. Reade's figures, which very likely may prove to be too low. Also, Mr. Hazelton has been murdered."

"Hazelton—killed?" gasped Mr. Prenter showing genuine concern. "Of course I know that the telegram to the office said that Hazelton was missing, but I didn't suppose it was anything as tragic as a killing."

"Well, Hazelton can't be found, so I haven't a doubt he was killed as part of a general plan of mutiny and revenge on the part of the mixed crews of men working here," declared Mr. Bascomb.

"Oh, I sincerely hope that Hazelton hasn't lost his life here!" cried Mr. Prenter. "Reade, aren't you going to take us down to the water front and show us the extent of the damage?"

"I shall be only too glad to do so, sir," Tom agreed.

Even Mr. Bascomb consented at last to go. As they gained the porch Nicolas rushed up with the cigars for which the president had sent him. While Mr. Bascomb paused to light one, Mr. Prenter thrust an arm through Tom's and led that youth down the road.

"Now, Mr. Reade," murmured the treasurer, earnestly, "Mr. Bascomb, of course, is our president, and I don't want you to treat him with the slightest disrespect. But Bascomb isn't the majority stockholder nor the whole board of directors, so I'll just drop this hint: When Bascomb talks of resignations don't attach too serious importance to it until you receive a resolution endorsing the same view and passed by the board of directors of the company."

"Thank you. I have no intention of resigning," smiled Tom.

"Now, let's go on," continued Mr. Prenter.

Mr. Bascomb, having his cigar lighted, seemed to prefer strolling in the rear by himself.

"Now, I don't want to give you any wrong impressions, Mr. Reade," went on Mr. Prenter. "Mr. Bascomb is the head of our company, but other directors represent more of the stock of the company than he does. I am one of them. Sometimes Mr. Bascomb gets a bit hard-headed, and he is inclined to give orders that others of us wouldn't approve. I judge that you and he were having some dispute when I happened along."

"I didn't regard it as a dispute, sir," Reade rejoined. "In the first place, I had discharged, for incompetency and faithlessness, a foreman named Evarts.

"And Evarts is a pet of Mr. Bascomb's," smiled Mr. Prenter. "I imagine that Evarts is even some sort of family connection who has to be looked after and kept in a good job."

"Anyway," Tom continued, "I explained that Evarts was worse than useless here and that I couldn't have him in the camp or on the job."

"Quite right, I fancy," nodded Mr. Prenter. "In the second place, Mr. Bascomb ordered me to stop my crusade against the gamblers who had tried to invade the camp and rob the men of their earnings. Hazelton and I had that sort of row once out in Arizona—and we won out."

"You deserve to win out here, too," remarked Mr. Prenter. "I have no patience with anything but straight, uncompromising right. We can't control the men, if they see fit to leave the camp at night, but you have every right—and it's your duty—to see to it that no disorder is allowed within camp limits. I, too, have heard something about your trouble here, Mr. Reade, and I can promise you that the directors generally will sustain you. So Mr. Bascomb demanded your resignation?"

"He did, sir."

"Let it go at that," smiled Mr. Prenter. "You may even, sometime, if it will please Mr. Bascomb, hand him your resignation. I will see to it that it doesn't get past the board of directors. Mr. Bascomb is irritable, and sometimes he is a downright crank, but he is valuable to us just the same. We feel, too, Reade, that you and Hazelton are just the men we need to put this breakwater through in the best fashion."

"Even though at least eight thousand dollars in damage was done last night?" queried Tom.

"Yes, even in the face of that. I am certain that you will know how to forestall any more such spite work."

"Now, I'm not altogether so sure of that, sir," Reade answered, quickly. "Of course we'll be eternally vigilant after this, but the trick was done last night so cleverly and mysteriously that we may be surprised again by the plotters. Speaking of mystery, could anything be stranger, or harder to explain, than what happened to poor Hazelton?"

"There was mystery for you!" nodded Mr. Prenter. "Have you any ideas whatever on the subject of Hazelton's disappearance?"

"Not the slightest," groaned Tom. "I know all the indications are that he has been killed, and I ought to believe that such is the case. But I simply won't believe it. Why, if he were killed, what became of the body?"

"It's a puzzle," sighed Mr. Prenter.

They were now nearing the land end of the breakwater wall. Mr. Bascomb overtook them. Together the three strolled out along the wall, halting frequently, to observe what the men were doing. It was their plan to keep on until they came to the scene of the two explosions of the night before.

"Just what are you doing here?" asked Mr. Bascomb, stopping and pointing to a gang of men at work on a scow moored against the wall.

"I can tell you, after a fashion, sir," Reade answered. "Yet this was a part of Hazelton's performance. He had charge here, and knew ever so much about it. Poor old Harry!"

Behind them, at the beginning of the wall, a long, loud whistle sounded.

In a moment fully a hundred of the workmen stood up, waved their caps and cheered as though they had gone mad.

Coming forward, with long strides, was Harry Hazelton, in the flesh!

VIII. MR. PRENTER INVESTIGATES

Tom suddenly felt dizzy. He wished to race back, to be the first to greet his chum and press his hand. But just then Reade felt strangely bewildered.

"Of course I don't believe in ghosts!" Tom laughed nervously.

"No!" chuckled Mr. Prenter. "This is real flesh and blood that is coming toward us."

Now, for the first time, Tom Reade knew just how fully he had believed, in the inner temple of his soul, that Harry Hazelton had been actually killed.

"Pulling my work to pieces, are you, Tom?" Harry called jovially.

"P—p—pardon me for not coming to meet you, old fellow, b—b——but I'm dumbfounded at seeing you," Tom called back.

Harry, too, looked rather unsteady in his gait by the time he joined them. The last few yards he tried to run along the wall. Tom thrust out an arm and caught him just in time.

"You've been hurt, Harry!" gasped Tom.

"Yes, and I guess I'm a bit weak, even now," Hazelton mumbled. "Hurt? Look at this."

Hazelton uncovered his head, displaying a court-plaster bandage underneath which clotted blood showed.

"Where in the world have you been?" Tom quivered.

"At sea," Harry answered, with an attempt at banter.

"What happened to you?"

"Tom, you remember the big black man I imagined that I saw last night?"

"Of course I do."

"He was a reality," Harry went on soberly. "After you had gone he appeared again. We had it hot and heavy. I saw your boat coming, and I yelled—"

"I heard you," Tom interposed. "We got along as speedily as we could."

"And you didn't find me," finished Harry. "That brute hit me over the head with something. We clinched and rolled into the gulf together. That was the last that I remember clearly for some time. For a long time I had a dream that I was bobbing about in water, and that I had my arms around a floating log. By and by I came to sufficiently to discover that the dream was a reality. I was holding to the log in grim earnest. How I came to find the log I can't imagine. I think, while more than half unconscious, I must have been swimming straight out into the gulf. Then I must have touched the log and clung to it instinctively. Anyway, when I recovered more fully I knew that the 'long-shore lights looked thousands of miles away. I was too weak even to dream of trying to swim back, or to push the log before me. So I got a stout piece of cord out of one of my pockets and lashed myself to the log. I was afraid I might become unconscious again. A part of the time I was unconscious.

"Well after daylight I saw a sloop headed my way. It didn't look as though it would go straight by either. So I waved my handkerchief—my hat was gone. After a while the skipper of the sloop saw me and headed in for me. It was a sloop that carries the mails to Hetherton, a village that has no rail connection.

"The captain hauled me aboard, questioned me, looked as though he more than half doubted my yarn, and then put me to bed in the cabin of the sloop. He attended to me as best he could. When we reached Hetherton, about noon, a doctor patched me up. I had something to eat, bought this new hat, and hired a driver to take me ten miles to the railway. Then I came over here as soon as I could, and—pardon me, but I'm feeling weak. I'll sit down right here."

Harry sat down heavily on the wall.

"Why didn't you wire me?" asked Tom.

"Why, you didn't doubt but that I'd turn up as surely as any other bad egg, did you?" questioned Harry, looking up.

"Chum, I wouldn't admit it, even to myself, but I feared you were dead. But we mustn't waste time talking. Describe that black man to me, and—"

"And the company will hire detectives to start right on the trail of that negro," interjected Mr. Prenter.

"If—if the expense is really warranted," ended Mr. Bascomb, cautiously.

"Warranted?" retorted the treasurer of the Melliston Company. "Why, it is absolutely necessary to protect our work here! That big negro is the key to the mystery. We must catch him if it costs us a thousand dollars."

"Oh, well," assented President Bascomb, reluctantly.

"I—I guess I'm all right to start in to work now," Harry suggested, trying to rise.

"Sit down—you're not!" replied Tom and Treasurer Prenter, in the same breath, as both pressed Harry back to the wall.

"We don't need work so much to-day," Mr. Prenter continued. "What we want to do is to solve this mystery. You stay here, Hazelton. I'll go back alone and find a 'bus or a carriage. Then we'll go back to camp and hold a council of war. Something must be done, and we'll decide how it's to be done."

Mr. Prenter, though no longer a young man, proved that he carried both speed and agility in his feet. While he was gone Tom endeavored to get a few more particulars from Harry, but Hazelton simply didn't know anything that threw any more light on the dread mystery of the breakwater.

"Then a million-dollar undertaking like this is to be constantly imperiled, just because of a senseless moral crusade that you two young men are trying to put through in the camp," declared Mr. Bascomb moodily.

Tom covertly signaled his chum to pay no heed to this remark.

Within a quarter of an hour Treasurer Prenter returned in a stage drawn by two sorry looking horses.

"This will carry us up to the house, if the affair doesn't break down," Mr. Prenter called cheerily. "Come along, folks."

Soon afterwards the four were back on the porch. Nicolas came gliding out to see what he could do for their comfort.

"Just circulate around and make sure that no one gets close enough to hear what we're talking about," Mr. Prenter directed. He had already ordered the driver of the stage to withdraw a few rods and await orders.

"Now, then, Hazelton," continued the treasurer, "we're anxious to hear more of your strange story."

"I've told you all there is to it," protested Harry.

"Surely, there must be some more to it."

"There isn't."

"Then, for the tale of an engineer who was all but murdered, and a case enveloped in mystery from end to end," cried Mr. Prenter, "we have a most singular scarcity of details."

"There are only two more details needed, as it appears to me," Tom remarked quietly.

"Good! And what are they?" demanded the treasurer, wheeling around to look keenly at the young chief engineer.

"The two details we now need," Reade continued, "are, first, who was the negro? Second, who was behind the negro in this rascally work?"

"Only two points to be solved," suggested the treasurer mockingly, "but pretty big points. Of course, the first point is—"

"To find that negro, and get him jailed," Tom declared incisively.

"Good enough!" nodded Mr. Prenter. "The detectives will find the negro."

"Will they?" Tom asked. "Then that will be something new, indeed. I've seen detectives employed a good deal, Mr. Prenter, and generally all they catch are severe colds and items to stick in on the expense account."

"Oh, there are some real detectives in this country," contended Mr. Prenter. "We'll engage some of them, too."

"The expense of hiring detectives will be very large," murmured Mr. Bascomb uneasily.

"Yes, it will," agreed the treasurer with a laugh. "But never mind. It's always my task to find funds for the company, you know."

"Harry," Tom broke in, "just what did that negro look like?"

"About six-foot-three," answered Hazelton, slowly and thoughtfully. "He was broad of shoulder and comparatively slim at the waist. He must weigh from two hundred and twenty-five to thirty pounds. As to age, I couldn't tell you whether he was nearer thirty or forty years. From his agility I should place him in the thirty-year class."

"Any beard?"

"Smooth-faced."

"Scars?"

"I couldn't see that much in the dark."

"Color of his clothes?"

"Some darkish stuff—that's all I can say."

"Could you pick him out of a crowd of negroes?"

"Not if they were all of the same height and weight," Hazelton admitted.

"Do you think you ever saw him before?" Reade pressed.

"I'm sure that I never have," Harry replied.

"Then he wasn't one of our men in this camp at any time?" Mr. Prenter interjected.

"We have never had a man in the camp as large as this negro," Harry rejoined.

"Such a very large black man ought not to be hard for the detectives to locate," Prenter continued.

"Very good, sir. Then you can let the sleuths have a try at the matter," Tom suggested.

"Have you any telegraph blanks here?"

Tom went inside, coming out with a pad of blanks. Mr. Prenter addressed a dispatch to the head of a detective agency in Mobile.

"We'll get the 'bus driver to take this over to town," said Mr. Prenter, as he signed the dispatch.

"You had better send your dispatch by Nicolas, who is so faithful that he can't be pumped, and he never talks about things that he shouldn't."

The Mexican was accordingly sent away in the stage. When he returned Nicolas busied himself with getting supper and setting it on the table. Superintendent Renshaw returned from the work in time to join the others at table.

"Mr. Reade, how are you going to protect the works to-night?" inquired the superintendent.

"I'm going to order Foreman Corbett and twenty men to night duty," Tom answered. "The motor boat will also be out to-night. We'll have every bit of the wall watched by men with lanterns."

"What you ought to do," suggested Treasurer Prenter, "is to light the breakwater up with electric lights. You have steam power enough here, and with a dynamo you could supply current to the lights."

"There's the expense to be considered," mildly observed President Bascomb.

"The expense is a good deal less than having the wall damaged by more explosions," said Prenter, rather sharply. "Reade, how long would it take you to get an electric light service going?"

"It ought not to take more than three or four days, sir, if we can pick up a suitable dynamo in Mobile. But there's another point to be considered. We very likely would have to obtain the permission of the Washington authorities before we could run a line of lights out into the Gulf of Mexico. You see, sir, so many uncharted lights might confuse the navigators of passing ships."

"Write Washington, then, and find out where you stand in the matter," directed the treasurer.

"Yes, sir; I'll do that," Reade agreed.

"But don't order any electrical supplies until you've got an estimate of the cost and have it approved by me," hinted President Bascomb. This cautious direction made Mr. Prenter shrug his shoulders.

Dinner finished, all hands went out to sit on the porch. Mr. Bascomb soon began to ask questions about the camp, the housing of the men, and about other details of the camp.

"Although it is dark it's still early. Wouldn't you like to go over through the camp with us?" proposed Tom.

Mr. Bascomb agreeing, the whole party set out, only Nicolas remaining behind to keep an eye over the house.

Though he did not then suspect it Tom was on the threshold of more trouble in the camp.

IX. INVITED TO LEAVE CAMP

Lanterns hung here and there on poles lighted the camp. Men who toil hard all day do not usually want a long evening. Many of the men were already inside their tents or shacks, preparing for bed.

At least two hundred, however, were still stirring in the streets of the camp. Tom led his friends near one of the groups. A warning hiss was heard, and then a man in a remote group, urged by his comrades, rose and staggered toward a shack. Tom was at the man's side in an instant. He proved to be an Italian.

"My man, you appear to be intoxicated," Tom remarked, quietly, as he gripped the Italian by the arm.

"No spikka da English," hiccoughed the laborer. As he spoke he tried to free himself from the engineer's grasp. He staggered, and would have fallen, had not Tom prevented the fall.

"Where's this man's gang-master?" Tom demanded, looking about him sharply, while he still held the drunken man.

None of the Italians addressed appeared to know. For the most part they took refuge in the fact or the pretense that they didn't understand English.

"Get an Italian gang-master, Harry," Tom murmured softly.

Hazelton bolted away, but was soon back, followed by a dark-skinned man who came with apparent reluctance.

"You're a gang-master?" Tom demanded, looking sharply at the man. "This fellow is intoxicated."

"Is he?" asked the gang-master.

"Yes, he is," Tom declared, bluntly. "Now, where did the man get the liquor."

"I do not know," replied the gang-master, shrugging his shoulders.

"Then it's your business to know—if he got his liquor in camp. We won't allow any of that stuff in camp, and you gang-masters all know that."

"I can't stop a man from going to town to get liquor," argued the gang-master.

"No; you can't," Tom admitted. "Neither can I. But it's your duty, gang-master, to see that no liquor is brought back into camp. This man hasn't been to town for the stuff either. He hasn't had time enough to go away over to Blixton and get enough liquor to make him drunk. Moreover, in his present condition, the fellow couldn't have walked back from town the same evening. This man got his liquor in camp, and it will have to be stopped. Now, put this man in his shack; see that he gets into bed. Then come back to me."

The gang-master obeyed.

"We'll see if we can't put a complete stop to this sort of thing," Reade muttered.

"Now, do you think it's going to be well to interfere so much with the movements of the men?" asked President Bascomb, in an undertone. "I am afraid that you'll only start more dissatisfaction and more treachery among them."

"This having liquor in camp is going to be stopped, sir," Tom insisted. "A keg of liquor will demoralize a whole campful of men like these. They are an excitable lot, and they go crazy when there's any liquor around. If we don't put a stop to it, then there'll be fights, and then a few murders are most likely to follow. I've had plenty of experience with men such as we have here, and the stopping of liquor in camp means our only safety, and our only chance to have our work well done. Come along; let the gang-master follow us."

Tom went directly up to a group of workmen who had been looking curiously on. Most of them were Italians, but there were a few negroes present.

"Now; men, gather around me," Tom requested. "I want to talk to you. Come close."

As they did so Reade rested a hand on the shoulder of a negro.

"My friend," said Tom, "you've been drinking to-night."

"No, sah, boss! 'Deed I hasn't," replied the negro, earnestly.

"Man, don't you think I have a nose?" Tom demanded, dryly. "Every time you open your mouth I smell the fumes of the stuff. There are other men in this group, too, who have been drinking. I want you all to realize that this sort of thing must stop in this camp. We don't want fights and killings, nor do we want men who wake up so seedy in the morning that they can't do a proper day's work. As I look about me I see at least eight men who have been drinking this evening. That shows me that some one has been bringing liquor into the camp."

Other workmen were now approaching, curious to know what was in the air.

Tom, glancing about him, suddenly, fastened his gaze on one man in particular. This was a lanky, sallow-looking chap of some thirty years.

"See here, just what is your errand in this camp?" Reade demanded, confronting the man.

"Is it any of your particular business?" demanded the fellow, with some insolence in his tone.

"Yes; it is," Reade assured him, promptly. "I'm chief engineer in this camp, and I've asked you what you are doing here!"

"Is it against any law for an outsider to come into camp?" argued the stranger.

"Answer me," Tom insisted, stepping closer. "What are you doing in this camp?"

"I won't tell you," came the surly retort.

"You don't have to," Reade snapped, as he suddenly ran one hand over the sallow man's clothing. Out of the fellow's hip pocket Tom briskly brought a quart-bottle to light. It was about half-filled with some liquid.

"Here, give that back to me!" growled the fellow. "It's mine."

"I'm glad you admit it," rejoined Reade, drawing the cork and taking a sniff as Hazelton slipped in front of him to protect him. "This is liquor. So you're the bootlegger who is bringing this stuff into camp to sell to the men? You won't come here after to-night if I can find any way of keeping you out."

Reade finished his remark by re-corking the bottle and throwing it down hard on the ground. The bottle was smashed to flinders, the liquor running over the ground.

"Here, you! You had no right to do that!" roared the fellow. He made an effort to reach Tom, but Harry gave the fellow a shove that sent him spinning back. "You'll pay me for that stuff, Reade, since you destroyed it."

"How much?" asked Tom, artlessly.

"A dollar and a half," insisted the stranger, coming forward as Reade thrust one hand into trousers pocket.

Tom withdrew the hand, laughing.

"Much obliged, my friend," mocked the young chief engineer. "You've confessed all that I wanted to know. You've tried to charge me the price of a pint of liquor sold in single drinks. That confesses that you've been in camp to sell liquor to the men. I shall pay you nothing, for you're here against the law and against the camp regulations. You're engaged in selling liquor illegally. If I catch you in camp again on that business, my friend, I'll arrest you and hold you until the officers come over from Blixton and take you."

Then, in the next moment, Tom suddenly shot out:

"Harry, see to it that our friend doesn't run away just yet!"

"What are you up to?" demanded the man, as Tom stepped close once more, while Harry rested a hand on his shoulder.

"For a rather warm evening," Reade rejoined, "it strikes me that it's a bit odd for you to be wearing a long top-coat. I'm going to look you over a bit."

"You get out and keep away from me!" blustered the man, raising one of his fists. But Harry caught at that arm and held it. Treasurer Prenter, who had been looking on with keen interest, seized the other arm.

"You let go of me, or you'll run up against the law for assault!" warned the stranger.

His captors, however, held him, while Tom rapidly ran his hands over the stranger's clothing. As a result, within less than a full minute, Tom had removed two full quart bottles and six smaller ones from the fellow's various pockets. All of these the young chief engineer threw on the ground, smashing them.

From the crowd gathered about, which numbered more than sixty men of three different races, a howl went up. President Bascomb began to shiver.

"I'll make you sweat for this!" raved the stranger.

"Let go of the fellow, please," said Tom. Then, as Harry and Mr. Prenter stepped aside, Reade added, "I'll admit, Mr. Bootleg, that I've behaved in a rather high-handed fashion with you. But I'm justified in doing it. You have been breaking the law of the state, moving through this camp and selling liquor. You represent the scum of the otherwise decent population of Alabama. If you think you've any redress in the courts, my name is Reade and you can hire a lawyer and get after me as hard and as fast as you like."

"I'll take personal satisfaction out of you!" stormed the fellow.

"All right," Tom agreed laconically. "You may start now, if you feel like doing it. I'll agree that none of my friends or workmen shall take any part in anything you feel like starting. If you can thrash me then you shall be allowed to depart in peace after you've done it."

Tom did not put up his hands, though he watched keenly to see whether the stranger meant to attack him. The stranger muttered unintelligible threats, then he turned to the laborers pressing about him.

"Men," he demanded, "are you going to be free, or are you going to allow yourselves to be treated like a lot of slaves by this boy?"

"If that's all you've got to say," Tom warned "you may as well start now."

"Start?" scoffed the sallow-faced one. "Where to?"

"Anywhere, outside of this camp," Tom informed him. "You can't stay here any longer, and you can't come here again. If I catch you, again, on this company's property, I'll see to it that you're arrested, and locked up for trespass."

"That's the way to talk!" nodded Treasurer Prenter, approvingly.

"I guess I'll go when I get good and ready," asserted the stranger.

In the front ranks of the crowd pressing around them, Reade now discerned the face of the Italian gang-master with whom he had talked recently.

"What's your name?" Tom demanded, turning about on the gang-master.

"Scipio, sir."

"Then, Scipio, take four men, and escort this fellow out of the camp. Don't use any force unless you have to, but see to it that this fellow leaves camp as quickly as he can walk—or be dragged. Start him now."

Gang-master Scipio plainly didn't like the job, but he liked it better than he did the idea of being discharged. So he spoke to four Italians about him, and the five surrounded the man.

"Hol' on dar, Boss Reade!" spoke up a negro. "Ef yo' carry dis matter too far, den dere's gwine to be a strike on dis wohk. Jess ez dis gemman sez, we ain't no slaves. Yo' try to stop all our pleasures ebenings, an' dar's gwine be a strike—shuah!"

"You may strike right now, if you wish to," Tom retorted, facing the last speaker. "Mr. Renshaw will be prepared to pay you off within hour. Any other man in this camp who isn't content to get along without liquor and gambling may as well strike at the same time. Mr. Renshaw, it's half-past eight. At nine o'clock please be at the house ready to pay off any man who isn't satisfied to live and work in a camp where neither drinking nor gambling is allowed. Scipio, why haven't you started that fellow away from here?"

"Too bigga crowd in front of us," replied the Italian gang-master, shrugging his shoulders.

"Come on, Harry," Tom replied. "We'll see if we can't make a way through the crowd." The two young engineers placed themselves at the head of the squad, and succeeded quickly in opening up a passage through a crowd that seemed to be at least half hostile.

Thus Tom found himself soon face to face with an American.

"Evarts!" Reade cried, angrily. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here by permission," snarled the discharged foreman.

"Whose permission?" Tom insisted, briskly.

"Mr. Bascomb's," replied Evarts, with a leer so full of satisfaction that Reade didn't doubt the truth of the statement.

"Mr. Bascomb," Tom called, "did you tell Evarts that he might visit this camp?"

"Yes; I did," admitted the president of the company, stiffly.

"Then I'm sorry to say that Evarts has been misinformed," Tom went on. "He can't visit this camp. He's too much of a trouble-maker here."

"Shut up your talk!" jeered Evarts roughly. "Don't try to give orders to the president of the company that hires and pays you."

"Mr. Bascomb is the head of the company that employs me," Tom assented. "But I am in charge here, and am responsible, with Mr. Hazelton, for the good order of the camp and the success of the work. Therefore, Evarts, you'll leave camp now, and you won't come back again under pain of being punished for trespass."

"Oh, now see here, Reade—" began Mr. Bascomb angrily, as he started forward. But Treasurer Prenter caught Bascomb by the arm, whispering in his ear.

"Waiting for you, Mr. Bascomb," called Evarts.

"I guess you'd better go," called the president, rather shamefacedly, after his talk with Mr. Prenter. "I guess maybe Reade is right. At all events his contract places him in charge of this camp."

"Humph, Evarts, a lot of good you can do us here, can't you?" sneered the sallow-faced fellow.

Tom looked first at one, and then at the other of the pair.

"So," guessed Reade shrewdly, "Evarts has been at the head of this game of unlawful liquor selling in this camp. There are other vendors here, too, are there?"

"You lie!" yelled the discharged foreman.

"You may prove that, at your convenience," Reade replied, without even a heightening of his color. "For the present, though, you're going to get out of camp and stay out."

"I called you a liar," sneered Evarts, "and you haven't the sand to fight about it."

"Fighting with one of your stripe isn't worth the while," Tom retorted, shortly. "Come along, Evarts. I'll show you the way out of camp."

As Reade spoke he took hold of the ex-foreman's arm gently.

"Leggo of me!" raged the foreman, clenching and raising one of his fists.

"Don't make the mistake of touching me," urged Tom, quietly, "but come along. This way out of camp!"

Evarts swung suddenly, driving a fist straight at Reade's face. But the young chief engineer was always alert at such times. One of his feet moved in between Evarts's feet, and the ex-foreman flopped down on his back.

"Come on, now!" commanded Tom, jerking the fallen foe to his feet. "This time you'll hurry out of camp."

"Are you going to stand for it, men?" yelled Evarts, his face aflame with anger. "Come on—all of you! Show that you're not a pack of cowards and slaves!"

From more than a hundred throats came an ominous yell. The crowd surged around Reade and Hazelton. Mr. Bascomb, seeing his chance, dodged and ran out of the crowd. But Mr. Prenter, with a spring, placed himself at Tom Reade's side.

"Come on, men!" yelled the sallow-faced fellow.

"Run dem w'ite slave-drivers outah camp!" yelled a score of negroes. Yells in Italian and Portuguese also filled the air.

In an instant it was plain that Tom Reade had stirred up more than a hornet's nest.

"Come on, Harry," spoke Tom, firmly. "Let's run this pair out of camp. Then we'll come back and look for more trouble-makers and trouble-hunters! Make way there, men!"

One excitable Italian rushed through the crowd, brandishing a revolver. As alarmed men fell back, the Italian confronted Reade, holding the revolver almost in the latter's face and firing.

X. THE NIGHT IS NOT OVER

Tom winced slightly, as the pistol was discharged, for some of the powder burned his face.

Mr. Prenter, who stood beside him, had knocked up the barrel so that the bullet sped over the heads of the crowd.

In a twinkling Tom had hold of the Italian's arm. He wrenched the pistol away, spraining the Italian's arm. Instantly Tom "broke" the weapon, dropping the cartridges out into his pocket. Then he hurled the weapon as far as he could throw it into the shadows of the night.

"You breaka my arm!" snarled the Italian, showing his white teeth.

"Your face is next!" Tom retorted, letting his fist drive. It caught the Italian on the nose, breaking that member.

"Kill him! Kill Reade!" came the hoarse yell on the night air.

"You'll find it a tough job, men!" Tom called, warningly. "I won't die easily, and I'll take a few men along with me when I go. Now, stand out of the way! I shall consider any man an enemy who blocks my path!"

Tom hit resolutely out, at first. Soon the men crowding about him began to realize that they had taken a large contract on their hands in attempting to cow this young engineer.

Then, too, another element entered into the fight. While there were some wild and troublesome men in camp, there were also many straightforward, excellent fellows among them. There were church-going negroes there, Italians who were thrifty and law-abiding, and Portuguese who loved nothing better than law and order.

The better element among the men came thronging forward, willing and ready to fight under such excellent generalship as they knew they would find with Tom Reade.

Other men, of both stripes, came pouring forth from shanties and tents.

The yells and the shot had alarmed the foremen, who now came along on the run.

"Dill, Johnson!" Tom called, as he saw some of the foremen trying to push or punch their way through the throng. "Help me to run Evarts and this other trouble-hunter out of the camp!"

The menacing yells grew fewer and fainter as the cheers of loyal laborers rose.

The foremen seized both trouble makers and began to run them along with more skill than gentleness.

Tom ran along, keeping his glance on the enraged men of the camp, many of whom followed on the outskirts of the crowd. Harry Hazelton occupied himself in similar fashion.

"Now, you get out of this—and stay out!" ordered Foreman Dill, giving Evarts a shove that sent him spinning across the boundary line of the company's property.

"You, too!" growled Foreman Johnson, giving the bootlegger a kick that sent him staggering along in his efforts to keep on his feet.

It was rough treatment, but Tom's course, all through, had been of the only sort that could break down the threatened riot.

"Now, see if that Italian can be found who fired the shot in my face," Tom called. "I'll know him if I lay eyes on him."

There was a prompt search, but the Italian could not be found.

"If he has left camp, and keeps away, perhaps he'll be safe," Tom announced. "But, if I run across him again I'll seize him, hold him for the officers of the law, and see to it that he's sent to prison for attempted murder."

"Here are two men we want!" called Hazelton.

Tom ran to his chum, who was holding an American by the arm. Mr. Prenter had hold of another.

"Two more of Evarts's bootleggers, eh?" muttered Reade. "Let me see."

On one of the men he found a bottle of liquor. On the other no liquor was discovered.

"Did Evarts pay you fellows a salary, or commission?" Tom demanded.

"Commiss—" began one of the bootleggers, then stopped himself with a vocal jerk. "Evarts? I don't even know who he is."

"Yes, you do," chuckled Tom Reade. "You were on the point, too, of telling us that he paid you a commission on your sales, instead of a weekly wage. Now, my men, I've looked you well over and shall know you again. If I find you in camp, hereafter, you'll be dealt with in a way that you don't like. Savvy? Comprenay? Understand? Now—git!"

"Now, men, get back to your camp," shouted Tom. "To-morrow I'll try to find time for a good and sociable talk with all of you. Try to enjoy your few leisure hours all you can, but remember that the men who can't get along without liquor and gambling are the kind of men we don't want here. Any man who is dissatisfied can get his pay from Mr. Renshaw tonight or to-morrow morning. For those who stood by us I have every feeling of respect and gratitude. Those who thought to fight us—or some of them—will have better sense by tomorrow. We don't want to impose on any man here, but there are some things that we shall have to stop doing. Good night, men!"

Engineers, superintendent and foremen now left the men, going towards their barracks.

"I've a little job for you, Peters, if you don't mind going back into the camp," suggested Tom.

"It's not to go back and fight, single-handed, is it?" Mr. Peters asked, with a smile.

"Nothing like it," Tom laughed. "Peters, we have plenty of really good men among our laborers, haven't we?"

"Scores and scores of 'em, sir—among all three kinds of the men, negroes, Italians and Portuguese."

"I wish you would go back, then, and pick out two of each race—six men in all. They must be honest, staunch and able to hold their tongues."

"Do you want them for fighting, sir?" asked Peters.

"Not a bit of a fight in it. I want them to use their eyes and report to me."

"Going to employ spotters on the camp?" asked Mr. Prenter, quickly.

"Not a single spot!" Tom declared with emphasis. "I haven't any use for information turned in by spotters."

"I'm glad to hear you say that, Reade," nodded the treasurer.

"What I want the men for, Peters, is something honest and manly, and with no fighting in it," Tom continued. "I want information, and I'll pay the man well who can bring it to me. Now, go and get your six men. Bring them up to the house within half an hour."

Nodding, Peters turned and strode back.

When the others gained the house where the engineers and superintendent lived the foremen took leave of their chiefs.

As Tom, Harry and Mr. Prenter went up the steps to the porch the front door opened to let out Mr. Bascomb.

"Is that revolting row all over?" demanded the president of the Melliston Company.

"What row?" asked Mr. Prenter, innocently.

"That riot back in camp," shivered Mr. Bascomb. "I simply abhor all fighting."

"So I noticed," commented Mr. Prenter, dryly. "Yes; I believe the trouble is over, unless our young chief engineer intends to stir up something new before bedtime. Do you, Reade?"

"I haven't anything in mind," Tom answered with a smile. "Gentlemen, I am afraid you may think I do things with a high hand. But I have been at this engineering business just long enough to know that I must banish all serious vices from a camp of laborers if I hope to get the best results in work out of the men. So I must tackle some problems rather stiffly, and use my fists when I'm driven to a corner."

"I am not thoroughly satisfied of the wisdom of your course," said Mr. Bascomb slowly.

"Sorry to disagree with you, Bascomb," broke in the treasurer, "but I've had some experience in handling what is called wild labor, and I believe that Reade goes at it in just the right way. I don't believe there are really fifty really wild or troublesome men in that camp. The few bad ones usually start trouble going, and then the good ones are driven into it. Let Reade stop the vices over yonder, in the way that he wants to, and the worst of the crowd will call for their time and leave camp. We shall then have a thoroughly good lot of men left, who'll do more and better work."

"That is," almost whined President Bascomb, "if Reade, in doing what he wants, doesn't stir up so much enmity that we have the rest of our wall blown out into the gulf."

"Mr. Bascomb," put in Tom, "while I must have control of the men and their camp I don't wish to do anything to cast reflection on yourself as the head of the company. May I therefore ask, sir, if there is any especial reason why Evarts should be allowed in this camp?"

President Bascomb fidgeted in the porch chair on which he was sitting.

"I—I don't know of any reason, Mr. Reade, why Evarts should be allowed in camp if his presence prevents you from keeping order as you wish."

"Then you approve, sir, of my intention to keep him out?"

"I—I won't question your right to handle the matter as you wish, Mr. Reade," was the president's evasive reply.

"Thank you, sir."

Peters was soon back with the six men—two each of the negroes, Italians and Portuguese. All of them understood English.

Harry described the negro who had attacked him on the retaining wall, after which Tom asked:

"Have any of you men ever seen that negro? Have you any idea who he is, and where he can be found?"

None of the six admitted any knowledge of the mysterious black man.

"Then I want you to keep his description in mind," continued Tom. "Keep your eyes open, at all times, for any chance glimpse of him. The man who brings me information leading to the capture of that big negro will receive a reward of one hundred dollars in gold." "Keep your eyes open, won't you? You may find him prowling around the wall at any time. He may walk out on the wall, or he may be found hiding near in a boat. Watch for him."

All promised eagerly that they would do all in their power to earn the hundred dollars.

"That's what I call good business!" cried Mr. Prenter approvingly, as soon as the foreman and the men had gone.

"Does the hundred dollars come out of the company treasury, Reade, or from your own pocket?" inquired President Bascomb.

"Really I hadn't thought of the matter," answered Tom.

"The company can afford to pay its own bills," broke in Mr. Prenter, rather gruffly.

"It's about time to turn in, isn't it?" asked Mr. Bascomb, striking a match and glancing at his watch.

"I'm going to stay up a little longer, and talk with Reade about the dread mystery of our million dollar breakwater, if he'll let me," hinted Mr. Prenter.

Mr. Bascomb rose as though to go into the house.

"While we're talking about the matter, sir," suggested Tom, "wouldn't it be a good idea for us to stroll down to the beach and look out along the wall to see how Foreman Corbett and his gang are guarding the breakwater to-night?"

"Fine idea," nodded the treasurer of the company.

"Then, if you're all going away, and intend to leave the house alone, I think I may as well go with you," grunted Mr. Bascomb. "I don't exactly like the idea of staying here alone in such troublesome times."

Harry walked beside Mr. Bascomb, while Tom led the way with the treasurer. Mr. Renshaw brought up the rear.

As the party came in sight of the beach and glanced out seaward, they saw many a little, dancing light out on the retaining wall. Each light showed where a workman patrolled under the orders of Foreman Corbett. The latter was aboard the motor boat, "Morton," which ran up and down near the wall, throwing the searchlight over the scene.

"Reade," remarked Mr. Prenter, "I don't see that the enemy have any chance to-night to run in and work harm to our property."

Hardly had the treasurer spoken when Tom, looking out seaward, saw a sudden, bright flash of light upward. There was a brief pause—then the sullen boom of an explosion reached their ears.

"Mystery of all mysteries!" choked Tom Reade. "There goes another section of the wall—blown up under our very eyes!"

XI. A MESSAGE FROM A COWARD

"Now Reade," began President Bascomb, in a shaking voice, "what can you say—"

Tom didn't wait to inform him. The young chief engineer was darting out on the wall as fast as he could go.

Already the "Morton" had turned, and was chugging back to the scene of this latest outrage, the searchlight flashing back and forth, in the vain effort to detect any small craft stealing away from the vicinity.

"I—I can't race on a narrow runway like that," faltered Mr. Bascomb, halting at the beginning of the narrow wall. "I—I'll wait here, Mr. Renshaw, will you keep me company?"

"If you so direct, sir," replied the superintendent. "For that matter, what Reade and Hazelton can't find out, out yonder, will probably never be discovered."

"Do you share Mr. Prenter's infatuation for those two young men?" asked the president of the Melliston Company.

"I can't say about that, sir," Renshaw replied, with a puzzled air. "But this much I know—I never worked with two more capable men of any age. They always know what to do, and they never lose their heads."

Mr. Bascomb compressed his lips tightly.

In the meantime Tom, Harry and Treasurer Prenter covered nearly a quarter of a mile along the retaining wall when the motor boat, putting about, picked them up with the searchlight.

Toot! toot! sounded the boat's pneumatic whistle.

"Foreman Corbett is signaling to us to wait and he'll put in for us," said Tom, coming to a halt. Soon the motor craft chugged in alongside, coming close to the wall. Tom, Harry and Mr. Prenter jumped, landing safely aboard.

"How did the enemy come to catch you napping, Corbett?" Tom inquired good-humoredly.

"They didn't catch me napping, sir," protested Foreman Corbett. "It is the strangest thing, sir—that explosion. Why, I had had my light turned on that very part of the wall at least a dozen times in the last half-hour before the blow-out came. Our light didn't pick up a soul around there at any time. What do you suppose I did, Mr. Reade, as soon as the explosion sounded?"

"I saw you turn about and use your search light a lot," Reade answered.

"Did you notice, sir, that I turned the light right up at the sky, first-off?"

"I believe I did notice that," Tom assented.

"It seemed to me, sir, that nothing but an airship could plant a charge of high explosive on the wall in that fashion."

"I don't believe the airship theory will explain it either," said Tom, shaking his head.

"Then what theory can explain it?" asked Mr. Prenter, anxiously.

"I'd pay a reward out of my own pocket for the right answer," Reade replied.

"Then you haven't a theory?" asked the treasurer.

"Not even an imitation of a theory," Tom laughed, shortly.

All this time the motor boat was gliding out toward the scene of the wreck.

"Now, you can see the damage that has been done," suggested Mr. Corbett, turning the light fully on the scene of the latest blow-out. "You see, a long strip of the wall has been cleaned out. Not a trace of the damaged part shows above water."

"It wasn't as big an explosion as the other two, though," Reade declared. "Really, it looks as though the folks behind this found themselves running low on explosives."

"There must be a trace or a clue left," urged Mr. Prenter.

"High explosives don't leave many traces of anything with which they come in contact," muttered Harry. "If we do find any traces, I guess it will have to be in broad daylight."

"And I guess that's right," agreed Tom. "Mr. Corbett, did none of your men patrolling on the wall report any signs of strangers?"

"No such report was made, sir."

"At all events, we can be thankful that the explosion didn't blow one or two of our men into the other world," Tom went on.

"Even that is bound to happen if there are many more of these explosions," muttered Corbett, grimly.

"Which is another reason," remarked Tom Reade, "why we're going to solve the mystery of said explosions at the earliest minute that we can."

"One thing is certain," observed Mr. Prenter, with the nearest approach to gloom that he had yet shown. "If you don't soon penetrate this grim mystery, and find a way to stop these outrages, then the wall will be destroyed more rapidly than you can build it."

"The outrages may cease after a while," suggested Harry.

"No," answered Reade. "As long as the unknown enemy feels that he can harass us without much risk of being caught red-handed, just so long will he go on with his outrages—unless we give in."

"Give in?" asked Mr. Prenter, with a rising inflection in his voice.

"Unless we give in," supplied Tom promptly, "by allowing gambling and rum-selling to go on openly in our camp of workmen."

"Have you any notion of giving in to that extent?" asked Mr. Prenter.

"Not an idea!" retorted Tom Reade promptly. "It wouldn't be my way to surrender to the Devil. I'll fight to the last ditch—unless your company really prefers to have Hazelton and myself cancel our contract and get out of this work. Do you?"

"I don't want you to quit," replied Mr. Prenter positively. "I admire fighting grit, and I want to see you keep hammering away at the work until you win and the job is finished. The board of directors will stand with me on that, if I can sway them. As for Mr. Bascomb, you mustn't take him too seriously. He's a first rate fellow in a lot of ways, but there's no fight in him, and he's a bit close-fisted, too. As for me, Reade, and as far as I can speak for my fellow directors, go ahead, just the way you've started. If you can find any way to hammer camp vice harder than you've been hammering it, then go ahead and do some harder work with your little hammer."

"I'll do it," promised Tom. "Now, Mr. Prenter, I don't believe anything more will happen here to-night—perhaps not for two or three nights. So I think the wisest thing for you to do will be to get back to the house and get some sleep. The same for you, Harry!"

"What are you going to do?" Hazelton wanted to know.

"I?" repeated Reade. "For to-night I'm going to remain up, and be out here around this threatened wall."

"Then that ought to be good enough for me, also," Harry suggested.

"Not much, chum. I'm going to take the night trick for the present, and put on you the burden of all the day work. So you'll need your sleep."

"I can swing the day work easily enough," laughed Hazelton. "It will be all the more easy as the next few days will be taken up simply with repairing the breaks that have been made."

"Swing the boat in toward land, Mr. Corbett," Tom directed the foreman.

At the little landing Hazelton and Mr. Prenter joined the waiting president and superintendent.

"Did you really find out anything?" called Mr. Bascomb eagerly.

"It's as big a mystery as ever."

"There's just one thing we'll have to do," sighed Mr. Bascomb, "and that will be to stop running the camp on a basis of old Puritan laws."

"You talk Reade into it, if you can," chuckled Treasurer Prenter. "You won't find him easy to convince, either."

Tom didn't wait to discuss the matter. Instead, he signaled to Foreman Corbett to run the craft out again.

"If you want to, Corbett," suggested Tom, with a laugh, as the boat moved over the salt waters again, "you might go ashore and go to bed. You can easily claim that you engaged with us as a foreman, and that being captain of a motor boat amounts to breach of contract."

"I'm not fussing," smiled the foreman. "As long as I can sleep daytimes running this motor boat is easier than working."

"It probably will be," nodded Reade, "unless the enemy go in for a new line of tactics."

"Such as what, sir?" asked Corbett.

"If this boat hampers them too much they may decide to send it to the bottom with a torpedo."

"Let 'em try, then," grunted the foreman, giving the steering wheel a turn.

Though Reade remained up until broad daylight no further sign of the unknown enemies was seen. Through the night, had it not been for the patrols walking up and down the line of wall with lanterns, it would have been hard to realize that the big breakwater was haunted by any such desperately practical group of "ghosts."

"I guess we've heard the last of the rascals," suggested Harry Hazelton one night at supper. Messrs. Bascomb and Prenter had returned to Mobile, so that the young engineers and their superintendent were the only men at table.

"My guess is about the same," drawled Mr. Renshaw.

"Yes?" queried Reade. "Guess again!"

"Oh, I believe they've quit," argued Mr. Renshaw. "For one thing, the scoundrels probably have discovered that detectives from Mobile are down here trying to run 'em to earth. That has scared the rascals away."

"What are the detectives doing, anyway?" asked Harry.

"Blessed if I know," Tom yawned. "I believe there are three of them here or over in Blixton, but I wouldn't know one of them, if I fell over him. The detectives came, secured their orders from Mr. Prenter, and went to work—or pretended to go to work. I'm glad that I'm not responsible for the detectives."

Nicolas entered, an envelope in his hand.

"Par-rdon, Senor Reade," begged the Mexican. "I would not interrupt, but on the porch I found thees letter. It is address to you."

Tom took the envelope and scanned it, saying:

"The address is printed—probably because the writer didn't want to run the risk of having his writing identified. Probably the letter, also, is printed. Pardon me, gentlemen, while I open this communication . . . Yes; the letter is printed, and unsigned—a further sign of cowardice on the part of the writer. And now let me see what it says."

Tom spent a few moments in going through the communication. A white line formed around his mouth as he read. Then he passed the letter to Harry, who read it aloud, as follows:

"You have had a week of peace. Is peace better than war? You may have all the peace you wish, and go on working and prospering if you will let others do the same. Stop interfering with the right of your men to amuse themselves and all will be well. Try any of your former tricks in the camp, and then you will have good cause to 'Beware!'"

"Is that a declaration of war?" asked Harry, looking up.

"I think so," nodded Tom.

"Then how are you going to meet it?"

"There's only one way," Tom returned. "A declaration of war must be met with a fight. Unless I'm very greatly in error the gamblers and bootleggers will try to start up matters again to-night in camp."

"And you'll throw them down harder than before?" queried Mr. Renshaw, gazing keenly at the young chief.

"If it be possible," Tom declared. "Nicolas, be kind enough to go over and ask the foremen to report here at 8:20 promptly. At 8:30 we will enter camp and see what is going on."

"I miss my guess, then," chuckled Mr. Renshaw, quietly, "if our arrival isn't followed by war in earnest."

"War is never so bad," retorted Tom Reade, his jaws setting, "as a disgraceful peace!"

XII. AN ENGINEER'S FIGHTING BLOOD

Just at half-past eight that evening Tom, Harry, the superintendent and the foremen entered camp.

They went, first, to a shack which they knew to be occupied by orderly, respectable blacks.

"Come, men," said Tom, halting in the doorway. "I've an idea we may need you."

Six negroes rose and came forward.

"There are gambling and bootlegging going on in this camp to-night, aren't there?" Reade inquired.

"Ah doan' rightly know, boss," replied one of the negroes cautiously.

"But you suspect it, don't you?" Tom pressed.

"Yes; Ah done 'spec so, boss," grinned the negro.

"And I do, too," rejoined Tom. "Come along. We may need a little help."

With this reinforcement—the negroes were wanted for work rather than for fighting—Tom now stepped off briskly through the camp.

Nor did he have to guess in which way to go through the darkened streets of this little village of toilers. Shouts of laughter and the click of ivory dice and celluloid chips signaled the direction.

The largest shack in the village was closed tightly as to door and window, though light came out through the chinks. Tom stepped over there boldly, not turning to see whether his following were close behind him.

Stepping up to the closed door the young chief engineer placed his shoulder against it. He gave a sturdy push, and the barrier flew open.

There were about fifty of his men crowded into one large room. A half dozen gambling games were in full blast. At two tables stood bootleggers, each with a bottle of liquor and glasses.

Tom stalked boldly in, still without turning to look at his own following. Reade's face bore such a mild look that the leader of the visiting gamblers was wholly deceived as he glanced up.

"The chief!" called one workman, in dismay, and a dozen men made a break for the door. But Harry and the others prevented their getting out.

"Oh, it's all right," cheerily announced the leader of the gamblers. "Mr. Reade has just come here to look on and make sure that everything is being conducted above board and on the square. Isn't that so, Reade?"

"Yes," Tom assented, pausing near the central table at which gambling was going on.

At that assurance the panic-stricken gamblers breathed more easily. Several men who had jumped up from their seats went back to their chairs.

"Reade is a good friend of ours," called the leader of the gamblers, mockingly. "He isn't going to interfere with any amusements that are properly carried on—eh, Reade?"

The fellow stared boldly into Tom's eyes, a look of insolent mockery on his features.

"Certainly I'm not going to interfere with any proper amusements in this camp," Tom nodded, easily.

"What did I tell you, boys?" laughed the leader of the gamblers. "Go on with your play, boys!"

"But gambling isn't a proper amusement for poor men, who have to toil and sweat for every five-cent piece they get," Tom Reade continued calmly. "Neither is the trade of bootlegging a decent one, or one that provides decent amusement. I have already warned you that gambling and liquor selling are things of the past in this camp."

There was another stir in the room. The leader of the gamblers rose, fixing his gaze on Tom's eyes and trying to stare the young engineer out of countenance.

"What do you mean, Reade?" he demanded.

"Isn't my meaning clear enough?" Tom insisted, with a chilly smile.

"Man, haven't you come to your senses yet?" snarled the gambler.

"Do you mean to ask whether I was scared by the cowardly, unsigned letter that I received this evening?" Tom fired back at the fellow, with another taunting smile.

"I don't know anything about any letter," muttered the gambler sullenly, "but I heard that you had come to your senses."

"Whether I have or not," retorted Tom, "you are pretty sure to come to your proper senses to-night. Men—I mean workmen, not gamblers or bootleggers—you are at liberty to pass out of this building."

"Don't you go," shouted the gambler, as some two dozen men started toward the doorway where Harry and the rest were on guard.

Some of them halted.

"I must have made a mistake in calling some of you 'men,' since you take orders from such disreputable characters as these gamblers and bootleggers," Tom taunted them mildly. "Now, all I will say is that those of you who wish to do so may pass outside. The rest may remain here, though they'll be sorry, afterwards, that they stayed. All who want to get outside must do so at once."

"Don't you do anything of the sort," shouted the gamblers' leader. "Stay here like men and assert your rights! Come on! I'll lead you, and show you how to throw these meddlers out."

"You'll do it—just like this, eh?" demanded Tom Reade.

He made a leap for the leader of the gamblers, catching the fellow by the throat and waist. Lifting him, Tom hurled the fellow a dozen feet. The gambler fell on one side, but was up in a moment, his right hand traveling toward a hip pocket.

"Don't draw," mocked Tom, with another smile. "Probably you haven't a pistol there. If you have, you can never make me believe that you have sand enough to draw and shoot before as many witnesses as I have on hand."

"I've a good mind to drill you with lead!" scowled the gambler, still resting his hand behind him.

"But you're a wise man," mocked Reade, "and wise men often change their minds."

However, the very move of the gambler to draw a pistol had had one effect that Tom ardently desired. Most of the workmen present were now in frantic haste to get out before any shooting began. The two bootleggers also sought to make their escape.

"Get back there! You fellows can't get out!" Harry shouted, himself seizing and hurling the bootleggers back into the room. They rose, glaring sullenly at Hazelton. But they didn't know how many more men he might have behind him out there in the dark.

Tom Reade now had the six gamblers and the two bootleggers in the room with him.

"You're a nice crew, aren't you?" he jeered, gazing at them scornfully.

"We're making our living," retorted the leader of the gamblers, with what he meant to be a fine tone of scorn.

"Making your living off of human beings! You're some of the parasites that infest honest workingmen. I've drummed you out of this camp before, and you have the cheek to come back. Now, I'll try to teach you another lesson. Harry, send in our workmen, will you?"

Hazelton stepped aside, to let in the half dozen honest negroes they had brought along with them. These men entered, then stood looking at their young chief.

"Get hold of those cards, chips and dice!" ordered Tom.

"Here, what are you trying to do?" demanded the leader of the gamblers.

"You have the advantage of me," responded Tom. "I don't know your name."

"Hawkins is my name," replied the chief of the gamblers.

"Hawkins is a fine name," admitted Tom. "It will do as well as any other. I won't annoy you, Hawkins, by asking you what your name used to be in prouder and happier days."

"What are these men doing with our outfit?" insisted Hawkins, as the negroes began industriously to clear the surfaces of the tables.

"You can see what they're doing," Tom rejoined.

"You blacks get out and leave our property alone," warned Hawkins, darting among them.

The negroes drew back, in some alarm, for the gambler looked dangerous with one hand at his hip pocket.

"Go get on with your work, men," counseled Tom. "I'm here to back you up."

"As for you, sir—" snarled Hawkins, facing Tom.

"Don't look at me like that," laughed Reade softly. "Save that face to frighten children with."

The negroes had busied themselves until they had gathered up all the implements of gambling and had stuffed them into their pockets.

Now Tom went up to the bootleggers. Both men he boldly searched, bringing forth from their pockets bottles of liquor. These he threw down hard on the floor of the cabin, smashing them.

"I don't know why we allow you to do all this, Reade," fumed Hawkins, whose face was white with rage.

"It's because you're afraid, and know that you can't help yourselves," Tom smiled.

"I'll show you who's afraid!" yelled Hawkins, again throwing his right hand back to his hip pocket.

This time Reade saw the unmistakable butt of a revolver. Without an instant's hesitation. Reade leaped at the fellow. In a moment Tom had the revolver, springing backwards.

"Well—shoot!" jeered Hawkins. "You don't dare to."

"You're right," assented Tom coolly. "I don't dare to. Assassination belongs to the lowest orders of human beings. An honest man seldom has any need of concealed deadly weapons."

Tom stepped still farther back, breaking the revolver and dropping the cartridges into one hand. Hawkins made a move as though to spring upon him, but Harry leaped into the room, confronting the gambler.

Thus shielded, Tom drew a combination tool-knife from one of his pockets, then coolly drew out the screw that held the trigger in place.

Dropping the trigger into his own pocket, Tom tossed the weapon back.

"Catch it, Hawkins," he called. "You may want this to frighten some children with over in Blixton. Now, Mr. Renshaw, I believe you know what you're to do."

"Yes, sir," nodded the superintendent, from the doorway, and vanished.

"We'll take our leave, now," sneered Hawkins, "unless you have some further humiliation in store for us."

"Just one," Tom declared, "so you can't go just yet."

"Oh, all right," Hawkins laughed fiercely. "You'll have to pay for this unlawful detention."

"You can tell the officers all about that," Tom suggested tantalizingly. "Mr. Renshaw has just gone to telephone for them."

"The officers? Police?" snarled Hawkins.

"Yes. Did you imagine that you could keep on defying all the laws? You've just threatened me with a taste of the law. You may try a taste yourself, Professor Hawkins!"

"Let us out of this place!" insisted Hawkins angrily. "Come on, friends!"

He rallied his own force of seven men and started toward the door.

"Of course you can try to get away," Reade warned the fellow. "But the effort will cost you all broken heads, to say the least. I have placed you all under arrest for breaking the laws of Alabama, and, before we'll let you go, we'll break a few bones for each of you."

Outside the workmen of the camp were thronging by this time. Doubtless, had they dared, two or three score of these men would have fought in behalf of the gamblers and bootleggers, but far more than that number would have rallied under Tom Reade's banner, for it is human nature to flock to the banner of the leader who is resolute and unafraid. Besides, there were the foremen, all of them good, hard hitting men.

"Oh, well," sneered Hawkins, "let it go at that, Reade. We'll have our day in court tomorrow, and then. I guess we'll find our innings."

"Yes," chuckled Tom, "and when you get your innings you'll be wild to swap them for outings—for the innings will be in jail."

"Don't push my temper too far," cautioned Hawkins with a scowl.

"Let it go as far as you like, always being ready to take the consequences," Tom smiled genially.

There followed a period of tense waiting. After nearly a half an hour of this a 'bus arrived, with four police officers from Blixton in it. Tom Reade preferred his charges against the gamblers and bootleggers. The officers had no choice but to take them, so the late troublemakers, now amid jeers and hoots from many of the workmen, were led outside and into the 'bus.

"You'll hear from this!" hissed Hawkins, in the young chief engineer's ear.

"I believe you," nodded Tom thoughtfully.

After the police and their prisoners had gone Tom led his own party back to the house.

"You'd better get to bed now, Harry," Reade advised his chum. "There can be no telling how soon I'll need to call you up, and you ought to have some sleep first."

"You look for trouble to break to-night?" Harry asked.

"Between now and daylight," said Tom simply.

"Whee! I'd like to stay up with you."

"You might find more fun that way, Harry, but the work to-morrow would suffer, and work is more important than mere fun," Tom answered.

Nor was Tom to be disappointed in his expectation that the worst trouble yet experienced would break loose that night.

XIII. WISHING IT ON MR. SAMBO

"Oho!" breathed young Reade, as he crouched low behind the fringe of bushes, peering toward the beach.

It was now somewhat past midnight. For three hours Tom had been scouting stealthily along this shore section, well to the west of the breakwater.

For, in pondering over the explosions, Tom had come to the conclusion that the blow-outs on the retaining wall, however accomplished, were controlled from a point to the westward of the sea wall.

This conclusion had been rather a simple matter to a trained engineer. Tom had witnessed the flash of one explosion, and that, as he remembered, had sprung up at the west side of the wall. Moreover, the appearance and condition of the wall, at the point of each explosion, had shown that the attack in each case must have been made at the west side of the wall.

And now, after nearly three hours of work, Tom Reade had come upon a real clue.

"Another blow-out is arranged for to-night, just as I had expected," Reade muttered, with an angry thrill, as he glanced at a figure down on the beach. "Moreover, my guess that the huge negro is the fellow who touches off the blow-outs has proved to be the correct one."

Down on the beach a big, black man was moving about stealthily. Though the spot was a lonely one, this scoundrel plainly intended to take no unnecessary risks of detection.

Just at the present moment the negro was placing in the water a curious-looking little raft that he had brought on one shoulder from its place of concealment. It was something like a flat-bottomed scow, the sides being just high enough to prevent whatever cargo it carried, from rolling off into the water.

The raft placed and secured to the shore, the negro crouched in his hiding place in a jungle of bushes. He soon reappeared, carrying four metal tubes.

"The explosive is in the tubes," guessed Tom easily. "And at one end of each tube is a sharp metal point that permits of being driven into the crevices in the wall. Four, or more, of these tubes are thrust into the wall, I suppose, and connected in series, so that they can be fired by the same electric spark. These tubes and the wires are water-proofed. The negro is only the dastardly workman in this case. It was never he who invented the trick. But he must be an excellent workman, who ought to be employed in much more honest effort. I wonder if the fellow is going to use more than four tubes?"

All of these thoughts ran through the mind of Tom as he crouched, peering eagerly at the negro.

By this time the negro was taking to the water, towing his miniature scow and its explosive cargo as he swam.

"He must be a good swimmer, and also a good diver," concluded Tom. "With my men patrolling the sea wall he must have to dive, some distance away, swim under water, and remain there until he has secured one of the tubes in place. Then he has to get back, out of range of the lanterns' rays, and get his breath before he goes back to the next job. But maybe I can interfere with his work to-night."

Though he rose and moved away, Reade, despite the darkness of the night, was careful to keep himself concealed behind the bushes, so that he could not be observed from beach or water. Shortly the young engineer was over at the point in the jungle from which he had seen the negro emerge with scow and explosives.

"The fellow must use a magneto, attached to wires running under the water," concluded Tom. "At that rate, the first real job is to find the magneto. My, but Mr. Sambo Ebony may be wondering, to-night, why his blow-out doesn't work as easily as usual!"

Simple as the search ought to have been, Tom Reade was soon on the point of despair.

"If it isn't a magneto, or if I can't find it in time," Tom muttered uneasily, "the mystery may remain nearly as great as ever, and the explosion may be pulled off to-night, after all."

Twenty minutes passed before Reade, with all his senses alert, stumbled on the concealed magneto. It had been so well hidden, under a mass of rocks, that it would not have been astonishing had Tom missed it altogether.

Attached to the magneto was the wire that must connect, in some way, with the series of tubes that would soon be fastened in the retaining wall out yonder. Yet this wire ran into the ground, and then vanished.

"Now, I've simply got to hustle!" sighed Tom Reade nervously. "If I don't succeed in raising the wire, and in a mighty short space of time, I may be to-night's fool yet. I'd really like to wish that on the black man, too!"

By using his eyes and his reasoning powers Reade, after twenty minutes more of search, with some sly digging, unearthed a section of the wire some dozen feet from the magneto.

"Now, it must be really the swiftest sort of work," murmured the young engineer, after a glance seaward. He seated himself with his face turned toward the Gulf, gathered the exposed section of wire up into his lap, then drew a pair of wire nippers from his pocket.

Snip! Tom now had two ends of wire in his hands. That would have been enough, had Reade chosen to bury the ends and conceal all evidence of his work. However, he believed that a more workmanlike way could be found.

From the same pocket Tom drew out a three inch piece of pure rubber cable, wrapped in water-proof tape. This he fastened to the severed ends of the wire, binding the whole as neatly as a lineman could have done.

"Rubber is believed to be a pretty good insulator," chuckled Reade, as he finished. "I don't believe the spark is made that can jump three inches of rubber. Certainly magneto-power can't do it. Now, let me see what sort of a trail-concealer I am."

Tom laid the wire back in the ground, covering it carefully with his hands.

"I wish I dared strike a match, so that I could judge better just how my work looks," he sighed. "However, I don't believe Mr. Sambo Ebony will think it discreet to strike any matches either, so he won't find the place where I've been fooling with his work.

"Now, I'll get back out of sight, where I belong," muttered Tom, rising cautiously. "I hope, though, I can find a place where I can see the look on that darkey's face when he tries his magneto and waits for the bing! from out yonder. Oh, Sambo, you simply can't have any idea of how I've been wishing it on you tonight!"

As the bushes grew thickly hereabouts, and there were many hollows in the surface of the earth, Reade had little trouble in finding what he believed to be a satisfactory hiding place. It enabled him to hide his head within fifteen feet of the handle of the magneto.

A soft, southerly wind blew in from the Gulf. As long as he could Reade fought drowsiness. Again and again he opened his eyes with a start.

"I mustn't do this," Tom told himself angrily. "No gentleman will go to sleep at the switch—when it's his train that is coming!"

Yet still he found himself nodding. Had he deemed it safe Tom would have sprung up and walked about briskly. But this, he knew, was to invite being discovered by the returning negro.

So, at last, despite himself, Tom fell asleep.

How much time had passed he never knew. At last, however, he awoke with a start. Reproachfully he rubbed his eyes.

"Not a bit too soon!" he muttered, as his ears caught sound of an approaching step, and his eyes showed him the hulking form of the massive foe. "Here comes my black man!"

XIV. THE BLACK MAN'S TURN

Closer to the earth Tom tried to burrow. As to a plan, Tom Reade had none now, save to watch, and, if possible, to learn something that he did not already know.

Soft-footed, despite his great bulk, the negro approached with an air of little concern. Plainly, the wretch did not much fear discovery—still less interference.

Humming an old plantation melody the negro reached his concealed magneto, then stood up for a brief moment, staring seaward in the direction from which he had just come. His garments dripped water; his whole appearance was bedraggled, yet there was something utterly shaggy, majestic, in this huge specimen of the human race.

"Ah done reckon dem gemmen gwine lose some mo' of deir wall to-night," chuckled the negro softly.

"Go as far as you like, Mr. Sambo Ebony!" grinned Tom Reade, under his breath. "I've wished something else on you this time."

Carelessly the negro bent over his magneto, seized the handle and gave a push.

Then he straightened up, listening. Only the soft sighing of the southern wind came to his ears.

"Yo' shuah done gotta use a mo' greasy elbow dan dat, chile," chuckled this imp of Satan aloud, though in a soft voice that seemed out of all proportion to his bulk.

Then he gave a half dozen indolent though steady strokes to the handle of the magneto.

"Whah am dat 'splosion?" he asked himself in wonderment. "Am mah eardrum done gone busted? Moke, yo' am plumb lazy this night!"

This time the huge negro pumped at the handle of the magneto until he was all but out of breath. Several dozen shoves he had administered before he halted, let go of the magneto and raised himself to his full, majestic height.

"Some black witch hab done gwine wish a big hoodoo on me!" grunted the negro suspiciously. "Dis am do fust time dat de magernetto gwine back on me like dis!"

In his bewilderment the one whom Tom had named Sambo glared around him. His eyes gleamed with a phosphorescence like that which one sees on the water on a lowering night. What Reade did not know was that this black man possessed eyes that were a little keener in the dark than a bat's.

With a sudden "Woof!" Sambo went up in the air, moved sideways, and came down on the startled Tom Reade with the force of a pile driver.

"Wha' yo' doing heah?" demanded the negro, gripping Reade by the coat collar and dragging that hapless engineer to his feet.

Tom did not answer. To save his life he couldn't have answered just then, his breath utterly gone.

"Wha' yo' want heah, anyway?" insisted Sambo, giving the youth a vicious shake.

There was blood before the negro's eyes, or he would sooner have recognized his victim. But at last he did see.

"So, I'se gwine cotch Mistah Reade himself!" snorted Sambo. "An' Ah reckon I'se gwine foun' de differculty wid my magernetto at de same time! Huh?"

Again he shook Tom, with an ease and yet a force that further drove the breath from the young engineer's body.

"Why doan' yo' talk!" glared the negro, holding Tom out at arm's length with one hand.

Tom could only groan. Yet that method of communication carried its own explanation to the big black.

"Reckon yo' gwine talk w'en yo' get gale enough in yo' lungs," grinned the negro. "In dat case Ah gwine lay yo' down on de groun' to fin' yo' breff."

Sambo's idea of laying Tom down was to give him a violent twist that brought the lad flat on the ground at his captor's feet. Then the negro sat on his captive to make sure that the latter did not escape.

"Take yo' time—ah got plenty," grimaced the black man.

Slowly the beaten-out breath came back to Tom Reade. Sambo, watching, knew finally that his quarry was at last able to talk.

"Wha' yo' do to mah magernetto?" demanded Sambo.

"Guess," breathed Tom.

"Oh, take yo' time, boss. Ah got plenty ob dat accommerdation"

"What magneto are you talking about?" Reade queried innocently.

"Nebber heard ob it befo', eh, boss?"

"I've heard of plenty of magnetos, of course," admitted Tom. "But what have you to do with one?"

For a brief instant Sambo was almost inclined to believe that Reade did not fully know his secret. Finally it dawned on the brain of the big black man that he was being hoaxed.

"Ef yo' doan wanter tell, yo' doan hab to, ob co'se," proposed Sambo. "It ain't mah way to be too persistency wid de w'ite quality gemmen. But Ah done thought maybe yo' know somethin' dat yo's burnin' to tell."

"Who are you, and what are you doing around here?" asked Tom. "I'm certain you don't belong to my force of workmen—unless you just joined yesterday. Are you working on the breakwater job?"

"Yessah," promptly answered Sambo with momentary gravity. Then his mood changed to a chuckle.

"Dat am all right, Massa Reade," he allowed. "But yo' doan' fool dis nigger as easy as yo' maybe think. Ah know what yo' watchin' me fo', and Ah done know I'se been doin' jess w'at yo' think. So I guess we doan' need no mo' conversationin', unless yo' willing to talk right out and tell me w'at's w'at."

"Sambo," said Reade solemnly, "I imagine I'm not very intelligent, after all. I listened to you attentively, but, for the life of me, I couldn't make out what you were talking about."

"Kain't yo'?" the negro demanded, mockingly. "Den Ah done reckon Ah must be a good deal of a scholar, ef Ah can talk so dat er w'ite quality gemmen kain't undahstan' me."

Mr. Sambo Ebony chuckled gleefully in appreciation of his own joke.

"There's one thing I guess you can tell me, Sambo," Reade suggested hopefully.

"W'at am dat, massa?"

"When are you going to change your seat and stop making me feel like a very thin pancake?"

"W'en Ah done get mah mind made up."

"When you have your mind made up about—what?"

"About w'at I'se gwine do wid yo', Massa Reade."

"Well, what do you think you're going to do with me?" insisted Tom. "I'll admit, Sambo, that I'm about losing my patience. Unless you get up off of me soon, and move away to a respectful distance, I shall be obliged to do something on my own account."

"Go as far as yo' like, massa," returned the negro, unmoved. "I'se boun' ter admit dat yo' done got me fo' curiosity. W'at yo' done think yo' can do?"

Plainly the negro meant to go on having sport with him. Tom decided that it would be of no use to try to deceive this great mountain of black flesh. So Reade, who had been doing some brisk thinking during the last few moments, gave a sudden heave—a trick that he retained from the old football days.

Much to Sambo's surprise he found himself going. Yet the black man was as agile as he was big. He leaped to his feet, bounding one step sideways, while Tom, who had been watching for this very chance, sprang to his own feet.

"Not so fas', massa!" mocked the big black, reaching out and taking a strong clutch on. Tom's coat collar.

Reade would have squirmed out of his coat and placed more distance between them, but Mr. Ebony, with a stout twist, gathered the two ends of the coat collar, holding the young engineer as though in the noose of a halter.

Quick as a flash Reade struck out with his right fist for the black man's belt-line. Had the blow landed even the huge Sambo would have gone down to earth. But the negro parried with his own disengaged fist, then gave a twist to the coat collar noose that made Reade turn black in the face from choking.

"Ah might as well tell yo'," Sambo observed dryly, "dat yo' ain't done got no new fight tricks dat yo' can wish on me. Ah done seen all de tricks of fightin' dat any man done know, an' Ah nebber yet seen no man dat could put any kind oh a blow ober on me to hurt!"

The negro spoke boastfully, yet there could be no doubt that he believed all he said.

Tom Reade next schemed to land a hard kick against the negro's shins. Ere he had his foot well lifted, however, the watchful Sambo seemed to divine the intent. He gave a quick twist at the coat collar that made Reade's head swim. It was some time before the young engineer's head recovered from that sudden confusion and blackness.

"Am' yo' gwine beliebe dat yo' kain't wish no kind oh a trick ober on me?" demanded the black man in an injured tone. "Ah nebber seen no odder w'ite man dat had such a ha'd time beliebing w'at Ah done tole him!"

"I've got to land this wicked brute, some way, or I may as well conclude that the jig is danced through, as far as I am concerned," Reade thought ruefully.

Panting, quivering, in dread of being choked again, and much harder, Tom tried to think fast in the effort to devise some new plan for worsting this terrible opponent.

"I've been fooling myself all along," Tom told himself, with a sinking heart. "I've been up against several men who were too weak or too cowardly to fight, and I've somehow gained the opinion that I could fight. But this black fellow has taken all the conceit out of me. I was a fool ever to think that I could fight! I'm nothing but a piece of jelly—or putty!"

Of a sudden Reade tried to wrench himself free at the collar, at the same time raising his right knee with a forceful jerk. He wanted to drive that knee into the black man's wind.

But Sambo seemed to guess the plan without trouble. He gave a twist that choked Tom, once more, until all went black before him. Then the negro slammed his victim down hard on the ground, well-nigh stunning the young engineer.

"Ah done see w'at Ah gotta do wid yo'," Sambo announced. "Ah gotta tie yo' up, load yo' pockets wid rocks, and den take yo' out in de Gulf ah' lose yo'! Dat's w'at Ah gotta do, an' Ah ain' gwine lose no time about it either."

Sambo was in earnest, too. He had mapped out that very course!

XV. A DAVID FOR A GOLIATH

From his pockets the big fellow brought out a coil of stout cord. Without much trouble he slipped a noose over one of Tom's wrists. Then began an active fight, the object of which, on the black man's part, was to make the other wrist secure.

But here Tom developed an amount of agility and a skill in fighting that angered Sambo.

"Doggone yo', ef yo' won't take it peaceable-like, den yo'll get it do odder way."

With that, Sambo delivered a blow that made young Reade see stars. His head swam dizzily. Now, the black man secured the other wrist, making a turn and a knot that would have done credit to an expert.

But about that time something else happened. Whack! A blow from a club landed across the negro's head.

"Who doin' dat?" demanded the negro, blinking and half turning.

"I did eet, you miser-r-r-rable black smoke, and I do eet again!" rang the voice of Nicolas, as that valiant Mexican circled around the negro.

"Yo' blow away, yaller baby!" jeered Sambo, whose head had been not at all hurt by the blow.

"I show you eel I run away!" bridled up Nicolas.

Tom now began to recover enough to know that his faithful servant was on the scene.

"Scoot, Nicolas!" urged Tom, in a gasping Voice. "Run for all you're worth. This fellow will eat you up. Run and bring help."

"Senor, I can wheep him with one hand!" vaunted the little Mexican.

"Run, I tell you, and get help. Be like a flash, man!"

"As you say, Senor, but—"

Nicolas turned, speeding away.

His escape, however, would interfere, possibly, with the plans of Sambo. The big black leaped up, racing after Nicolas.

As the Mexican was a little fellow, and short of leg, it was not long before the pursuer caught up with him.

"Hol' on, yo' yaller rascal!" laughed Sambo, reaching out for the Mexican. Nicolas wheeled about, dancing out of reach of the negro's massive hands.

"Stand still, yo' li'l' Greaser!" laughed Sambo.

"Now you have insult me, and I show you what I do to you!" snarled Nicolas, his brown face aflame at the taunting word, "Greaser."

"Come heah!" jeered Sambo, making a bound and reaching for the small man.

Nicolas dodged, but he did not run away. Instead, he bobbed up inside of the negro's reach. The Mexican thrust out his slim, sinewy right-hand forefinger. A vicious poke he gave with it, landing sharply on a spot just about an inch and a quarter below the base of the negro's breast bone.

"Woof!" panted Sambo, half doubling, for Nicolas had touched a tender spot.

"You have insult me! You call me mean name!" raged Nicolas. "Stand steel, you big black smoke!"

Again Nicolas ducked and rushed in. Once more he employed his forefinger tip in the same fashion, and with more power.

"O-o-o-o-o-h! Wow!" gasped Sambo, this time doubling nearly to the ground. "Get away, chile! I doan' wan' no mo' ob yo'!"

"You have insult," insisted Nicolas angrily, "and I do much more yet to you."

This time the negro appeared almost helpless. Nicolas danced about, looking for an opening. In desperation Sambo struck out with his powerful left. It gave the Mexican the chance he wanted. Darting in, he repeated his trick for the third time.

The bulky negro lay down, groaning. He had too little breath left to be dangerous.

While this was going on Tom Reade had rolled over on his face. From this position he succeeded in getting to his knees. Then he rose and hastened toward the Mexican.

"Nicolas, you're surely a little terror!" Reade admitted, admiringly. "Now, untie my hands and we'll take care of Sambo."

"Wait—jus' one leetle moment, Senor," begged the Mexican. He turned back to Sambo, that forefinger ready for another jab.

"Fo' de lub ob goodness—" gasped Sambo. But Nicolas was determined. He made the jab, and Sambo all but lost the little breath that was in him.

"Now, Senor, we do it all in one second," proclaimed the Mexican. From his pocket he drew a knife, springing the blade open. Snip! snip! and the young engineer was free of his lashings.

"There's plenty of this cord left," declared Tom. "We'll fix up our black friend."

"Do not use that word, Senor," implored Nicolas. "He is no good! He is scoundrel! He call me Greaser, an' I will keeck off his head for eet!"

"Wait until we get him tied," Tom proposed.

Sambo, by this time, had gained strength enough to sit up. He was wondering whether he could rise to his feet and sprint away from this dangerous little fury of a Mexican.

"Wait, you black cloud!" cried Nicolas. "I will put you down again!"

"Yo' get away from me—please do!" begged Sambo, recoiling in terror.

"Sambo," laughed Tom, "Africa shouldn't have stirred up Mexico as you did. Now, lie down on your face, place your hands behind you, and I will persuade him to let you alone."

Sambo hesitated.

"Let me at him, Senor!" begged Nicolas, maneuvering forward, his right hand ready. "He is no good, I tell you! But I feex him!"

With a yell Sambo Ebony flopped over on his face, placing his hands behind his back.

"Let him alone, Nicolas, as long as he minds," ordered Reade, catching the excited Mexican by the collar. "Only, if he shows signs of making trouble then sail into him fast."

No sign of trouble, however, was there in Sambo. He lay as meek as a lamb while Tom used a lot of the spare cord in taking sundry hitches around the negro's wrists.

"I don't believe he'll get out of that," said Reade grimly, "Now, we'll fix his feet."

This, too, was done, and Sambo lay helpless on the ground.

"You'll make a fine-looking jailbird, my friend," mocked Tom, looking down at the prisoner. "Nor did any man ever better deserve the striped suit that the State of Alabama will present you. Now, Nicolas, I'll stay and watch this black treasure while you run and find help."

"Senor, you go yourself," begged the Mexican. "The men will obey you more queeckly than they would me."

"Oh, you find some of the men and tell 'em to come here to get the fellow who has been blowing up the wall, and they'll come fast enough," smiled Tom.

"But, Senor, suppose thees scoundrel free himself?"

"I won't let him, Nicolas."

"But eef he do?" persisted the Mexican. "Then, as I have shown you, Senor, I can take fine care of heem!"

"There's something in that, too," laughed Tom. "Nicolas, I don't believe it will be risking you any if I leave you here. Besides, I won't have to be gone very long."

"If this black scoundrel he get restless, Senor, I will amuse heem with my forefinger."

Sambo groaned; Nicolas grinned.

"All right," Tom Reade laughed. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Away he raced at a dog-trot, chuckling. The contrast between bulky Sambo and little Nicolas and the big negro's comic fear of the slim little fellow kept Reade laughing.

"But where on earth did Nicolas learn that trick?" Tom wondered. "I shall have to get him to show it to me. Plainly that trick is worth more than all the muscle that I spent so many years in piling on."

Tom headed his course for the shore end of the wall. Here he would find men in abundance. Moreover, now that the big black was a prisoner the men would hardly be needed on the wall.

"I think I know just how Sambo worked it, too," the engineer reflected, as he ran. "He swam out into the Gulf, towing that little scow behind him. Neither his black head nor the little scow would be seen far on the water on a dark night. Sambo, when he got near enough, could take one of the metal tubes, swim in under water to some point where no watchman was near, and stick the tube fast into the wall. Then another tube, and another—all under water where they would not show to a passing watchman.

"Then, when he had all in place, and while no patrolling watchman was too near, Sambo could begin to attach the wires. That would take but a few minutes. Whenever any one came too near Sambo had but to swim out a little way and tread water until he could return to his job. When, at last, all was complete, Sambo would attach a wire from the bombs to a wire moored at a stated point under water, and then swim in, work his magneto, and touch the whole thing off from a safe hiding place on shore. The explosion itself would shatter the last length of wire. Oh, but it was all slick and easy!"

Not increasing his speed, but keeping steadily at the jog-trot, Tom was at last near enough to the wall to raise his voice and shout.

"Hullo!" came back the answer.

"This is Reade, the chief engineer," Tom answered, through the night. "We've caught the fellow that has been blowing up the wall. A half a dozen of you men hurry over here with your lanterns. Come on the run."

The man who had answered summoned several of his comrades as quickly as he could. As the men had to come in from the wall, however, it took a little time. Then six men reported, almost breathless, to Reade. Still behind them came Corbett on the run, summoned from the boat.

"What's this I hear, Mr. Reade?" puffed the foreman. "You've solved the mystery and caught the fellow who has been dynamiting the wall?"

"Got him and he's tied up, waiting for his ride to jail," Tom chuckled.

"How did it happen, sir?" asked Corbett, staring with his eyes very wide open.

"I caught the fellow—a huge giant of a negro, the same fellow who got Hazelton the other night," replied Tom. "But before the fight was over the black 'got' me, instead, and had me tied up. Then Nicolas came along and put the negro out of the fight, and—"

"Nicolas?" demanded Foreman Corbett incredulously.

"Yes. Nicolas proved himself to be the most fiery little bunch of fighting material that I have ever seen," laughed Reade, as they walked rapidly along.

"How could that Mexican wallop a giant?"

"I'll ask Nicolas to show you, to-morrow," Tom laughed mischievously. "But, Corbett, I believe that four bombs are even now attached to some part of the retaining wall, ready to be set off.

"Great Scott!"

"They won't be set off, though," continued Reade. "I found the firing magneto, and had a chance to cut the wires."

The foreman wanted to ask more questions, while the half dozen workmen trudged along close at their heels, eager to hear every word. Tom, however, suggested that they save their breath in the interest of speed, until they had Mr. Sambo Ebony in safe custody.

"Here we come, Nicolas!" Tom called, as the party neared the spot where captor and captive had been left.

There was no response.

"Nicolas!" Tom called again, with a start.

Still no answer.

"I don't like the look of that," Reade uttered. "Let's get there on the sprint!"

Tom himself caught at one of the lanterns, leading the way. Neither the negro nor the Mexican was where the young chief engineer had left them.

Feverishly, Tom began to search the ground, holding his lantern close.

"Hang the luck!" he quivered, pointing to fragments of cord on the sand. "That negro simply burst his bonds—and now where is he? Where is Nicolas, for that matter? I thought the little fellow, with his trick, could easily take care of the big black."

But, though they spread out and searched, there was no sign of either the negro or the little brown man.

"I can't understand what has happened," quivered Tom Reade, thinking more of the staunch little Mexican than of the loss of the prisoner.

XVI. A TEST OF REAL NERVE

"What an idiot I was not to stop to consider that Sambo Ebony could snap those cords!" groaned Tom, staring disconcertedly about him. "Yet, if Nicolas were safe I wouldn't so much mind the escape of the black. I shall see him again, and I shall know him wherever I see him."

"Let's look for the trail," proposed Foreman Corbett, holding one of the lanterns close to the ground.

The trail, however, was easy neither to distinguish nor to follow.

"We may as well leave here and search farther," concluded the young engineer. "Before we go, though, we'll get the magneto and take it with us."

Then the procession turned toward the land end of the retaining wall.

"If Nicolas doesn't show up soon," Tom murmured to the foreman, "I shall notify the Blixton police and offer a reward for news of him. That little fellow is too faithful to be left to his fate."

"What would the negro want of Nicolas?" queried the foreman.

"Revenge," Tom replied. "It makes a big bully like him furious to be handled the way Nicolas treated him. But I can't understand how Nicolas failed to repeat his clever trick with the black."

Arrived at the water front the magneto was dumped into the motor boat.

"Seems to me I would smash that thing all to pieces," Suggested Foreman Corbett. "It has done harm enough around this wall."

"I don't believe in destroying anything that is useful," Reade answered, shaking his head. "Besides, we are going to capture Sambo yet, and then we shall want that magneto for evidence."

"What are you going to do to find Nicolas?" Corbett wanted to know.

"I wish I had even an idea," Tom sighed. "Corbett, I wish you would hurry over to Blixton and rout out the police. I've an idea that Sambo may have a hiding place in the town. Nicolas, too, may have been taken that way. I'll sit down and write out a good description of the rascal."

This Reade did, handing the paper to the foreman.

"Who'll take charge here? Corbett asked.

"I will, until you get back, but hurry."

As soon as the foreman had gone Tom stepped into the motor boat, taking the wheel.

"Tune up the engine, Conlon," Reade directed the engine tender. "I'm going to take a run around to the west side of the wall. I'm going to try to find the tubes of high explosive that I'm satisfied were planted in the wall."

"That's a fine job for a dark night, sir," grumbled Conlon. "Suppose we run into the bombs, and they prove to be contact exploders, too?"

"That's one of the risks of the business," Tom retorted grimly.

Before the motor boat had gone far Tom called one of the men aboard to take the wheel. Then the young chief engineer began to experiment with the searchlight.

"What's the idea, sir?" asked Conlon, looking on.

"I want to depress the light, so that we can use it to look down into the water."

"And try to find the bombs?"

"Exactly," Reade nodded.

"Lucky if we don't find the bombs with the keel of the boat," observed Conlon.

Tom succeeded in rigging the light so that he could use it. By the time that the boat was around at the west side of the retaining wall Tom ordered the boat in close alongside. Then, with the depressed searchlight he discovered that he could see the sides of the wall to a depth of some eight feet under the surface.

"That may be enough for our needs," Reade murmured. "Now, run the boat along, slowly and close. I want to scan every bit of the wall."

Less than five minutes later Tom Reade, one hand controlling the searchlight and peering steadily into the water, sang out:

"Stop! Back her—slowly. There, come back five feet. So! Hold her steady!"

As the engine stopped Conlon stepped forward, kneeling by Reade's side.

"There are the bombs, man!" cried Tom exultantly. "See them—the two upper ones?"

"I see something that gleams," admitted Conlon.

"Well, we'll have them up and aboard in a hurry. Then you'll see just what they are."

"You're not going to try to raise the things with the boathook, are you?" queried the engine tender, a look of alarm in his eyes.

"That might be risky," admitted Reade. "I'll go over the side after them and bring them up.

"Don't, Mr. Reade!" urged Conlon with a shiver. "That'll be worse still. You're likely to blow yourself into the next world!"

"I think not—hope not, anyway," answered Tom steadily. "Have you a pair of pliers in your tool box that'll cut small wires?"

"Yes," replied Conlon.

"Get them for me."

Reade removed his coat, shoes and socks, then took the pliers.

"Let one of the men jump ashore with the boathook and hold the boat steady," was Reade's next direction.

This being done, Reade deflected the searchlight for one more look into the water. Then, the pliers in his right hand, he mounted to the rail of the boat.

"Be careful, sir—do," begged Conlon. "What I'm afraid of is that the bombs are contact exploders."

"It's likely," nodded Reade. "I'll be as careful as I can."

Tom did not dive; the distance was too short. Instead, he let himself down into the water slowly. Then his head vanished beneath the surface of the water.

"Whew! The nerve of that young fellow!", thought Conlon with shuddering admiration.

"Ob co'se Massa Reade done got nerve," nodded the negro at the wheel. "Dat's one reason why, Misto Conlon, Massa Reade is boss."

"There are other reasons why he's boss," grunted the engine tender. "Mr. Reade has nerve, but he also has brains in his head. Any man with brains and the sense to use 'em goes to the top, while I stay down a good deal lower, and you, Rastus, are still lower."

"Ah reckon Ah got a two-bit hat on top o' only two cents' wo'th o' brains, Misto Conlon," grinned the darkey.

Conlon was an Irishman, and naturally, therefore, no coward. Yet with the possibility that Tom would run afoul of a contact-exploding bomb and send them all skyward, the engine tender waited at the rail with drawn breath.

Finally, there was a ripple on the water. Then Tom's head appeared; next his shoulders.

"Conlon!"

"Here, sir."

"Here is one of the bombs. Handle it carefully."

"Trust me, sir."

Conlon drew the metal tube, with a piece of wire pendant from it, as carefully as though it had been a royal baby and heir to a throne. Into the boat the engine tender lifted the thing, and laid it carefully in a locker. By the time that Conlon was back at the rail Reade had gone below again.

"Down dere, aftah mo' death!" grinned the darkey. A colored man can usually be brave when serving under a white leader in whom he has full confidence.

Presently Tom came up with another metal tube, like the first.

"I'll hang on and get my breath," Tom informed the men in the boat, as he rested one hand on the rail. "The other two bombs are about three feet lower, and it's going to be hard to work at the lower depth."

"Be careful, won't you, sir?" urged Conlon, in a somewhat awed voice. "Mr. Reade, we can't afford to lose you until this job is completed. Men with all the nerve you show are scarce in the world."

"I know where there are forty thousand men with at least as much nerve, many of them having several times as much as I," laughed Tom.

"Where on earth are they?" demanded the Irishman.

"In the United States Navy. If there were a battleship here the jackies would be fighting for the honor of going down after these bombs."

Then Reade dropped out of sight, once more. Nor was it long before he had the third and the fourth bombs aboard the boat. Then he climbed in himself, dripping like a shaggy Newfoundland dog.

"Put in at the dock now," the young chief ordered, and the boat started on its way.

"Some one signaling from the wall lower down," Tom soon informed the negro pilot. "Put in where you see the signaling."

"It is I, Corbett," called the foreman of that name. "Mr. Reade, these two men with me belong to the Blixton police."

"Perhaps you had rather walk down to the dock, then, instead of getting into the boat," laughed Reade. "We have four bombs aboard, just taken out of the wall above here."

Accordingly the three turned and walked. At the landing the policemen gazed curiously at the bombs.

"Do you want to take charge of these?" Reade queried.

"Not particular about it," replied the policeman, with a shrug. "We'd be scorched for endangering the town if we took those things into Blixton. Your foreman, Mr. Reade, called us out here to see if we could get trail of your missing Mexican servant."

"That's a vastly more important thing to do," Tom replied with enthusiasm. "I want to find Nicolas before I do another thing."

"Come here, Bill," called one of the officers.

Out of the shadows near the shore came a youth leading a dog on a leash.

"This dog is a bloodhound," announced one of the policemen with visible pride. "Take him to where the scent of the Mexican starts, and the dog will follow as long as there's any scent left. But, first, we'll have to have something that the Mexican has worn, so that the hound will know the true scent."

"That will take but a few minutes," declared Reade energetically. "Come up to the house, and I'll find something that Nicolas has worn."

Corbett remained behind to take care of the bombs. Tom led the officers and the youth with the hound on a brisk walk up to the house.

"Wait out here," murmured Tom, "and I'll bring something out. If we all go into the house we'll wake my partner, Hazelton, and he has enough work to do in the daytime, without being kept up at night."

While the others remained outside Tom stole into the house. There was a room in the rear, off the kitchen, where Nicolas slept. Into that room Reade stepped noiselessly.

It was not necessary to strike a match, for, in the very faint light there, Tom espied an object on the foot of the bed that he recognized—one of the Mexican's white canvas shoes.

Tom snatched it up quickly. Then, despite his steady nerves, he staggered back.

XVII. TOM MAKES AN UNEXPECTED CAPTURE

For an unearthly scream pierced the air. There was a wrench, a bounding figure—and then Tom Reade felt a jolt near his solar plexus that made him gasp.

"Stop that!" gasped the young chief engineer.

"You, Senor?" demanded an incredible, drowsy voice.

"Yes; it's I—Reade."

"A thousand pardons, Senor!"

"So this is you, Nicolas?"

"Yes, Senor."

"What are you doing here?"

"The negro got away from me."

"I know that, but—"

"I could not help it, Senor. I assure you I was not careless."

"I never knew you to be careless, Nicolas."

"Thank you, Senor. But I stood over that black scoundrel, watching for the slightest move on his part. I had my forefinger ready, and he did not dare move."

"I can quite believe that," agreed Tom, dryly, "after the poke you just gave me."

"Again a thousand pardons, Senor, but in the dark, and awaking so suddenly, I did not see you or know you."

"I can quite believe that, Nicolas."

"As I was saying, Senor, I was watching over the black man when some one came up behind me—so softly that I did not hear. But I felt. Ah! What I felt! It was a fist that seemed to break in the top of my head. Down I went, and I heard a voice. I knew that voice, too. So would you have known it, Senor!"

"Whose voice was it?" asked Tom, curiously.

"The voice of Evarts."

"The discharged foreman?"

"Yes, Senor. But I am delaying my story. While Evarts was speaking I heard another sound. At one effort the negro snapped the cords that held him. Ah, he is a powerful brute."

"He is," Tom affirmed solemnly.

"I knew it was my task to keep the negro from getting away," continued the little Mexican excitedly. "So I leaped up, extended my forefinger and rushed at him. But thees Evarts—hees feest catch me between the eyes. I do not have to guess the spot where he struck me, Senor, for I can feel it yet. Down I went, and knew no more. When next I opened my eyes I found myself lying in the middle of a theecket of bushes. I theenk, perhaps, the scoundrels believed they had killed me, and so they hid my body. But I have fool' them. I am still alive—much alive!"

"What did you do when you came to, Nicolas?"

"Senor," protested the Mexican, "there was no more need of me. You had gone after men. Eef you came back, you have many men with you, so you do not need me. For that reason I come home."

Even in the dark the young engineer could "feel" Nicolas's shudder. Tom could not repress a smile that threatened to become a chuckle.

"I was varee sleepy," continued Nicolas, "and so I lay down. I forgot to undress, or even to take off my shoes. I fall asleep, and I dream much. I see the big negro again, and I dream that I have more fight with heem. Then, when you pull my foot, I wake up in one gr-rand sweat, for I theenk the big black attack me once more. I am glad—so glad that it is not true."

"Nicolas," cried Tom, "you have done fighting enough for one night. Yet tell me, how did you happen to be at hand to-night in time to save me from Mr. Sambo Ebony?"

"Because I see you start away to-night," replied Nicolas, "an' I see that you go alone. I know that you mos' likely run into trouble, an' so I follow you. Sure enough, Senor, you find trouble—and I heet heem with my finger!"

"You surely did 'hit him with your finger,' Nicolas," laughed Tom, grasping the little Mexican's hand and wringing it. "But now come outside. I had sent for the police to find you, and now I must show them that you are already found."

Together they went out on the porch. Tom explained the situation.

"Then you don't need us, after all?" asked one of the policemen.

"Not to find Nicolas," Tom Reade admitted. "But do you know Evarts?"

"Used to be your foreman?"

"Yes."

"We know him," nodded the policeman.

"Then," Reade continued, "I wish you would search through Blixton for him. If you find him, be good enough to lock him up and notify me."

"Is there a warrant out against him?" asked one of the policemen, cautiously.

"You don't need one," Tom replied. "I will make a charge of felony against Evarts, to the effect that he is concerned in the outrages against our wall. On a felony charge you don't need a warrant. Then, too, try to find the big negro."

"What's his name?"

"I don't know his name," Tom answered. "I've dubbed him 'Sambo Ebony.' You have the description of him that I wrote out. Arrest Sambo, by all means, if you can find him, and I'll make a felony charge against him, too. The negro is the one who has been blowing up the sea wall."

"We'll look for the pair all through the town, Mr. Reade," promised the officers.

"Do! And, on behalf of the company, I'll offer a two-hundred dollar reward for the arrest of each man!"

With that prospect to spur them on the policemen hastened away, followed by the young man with the bloodhound.

"Now, Nicolas," pressed Reade, turning around at the faithful little brown man, "you tumble back into bed."

"But you, Senor?"

"Don't worry about me. I've probably done all I need to do to-night. I shall probably sit here on the porch and think until daylight. Then I'll call Hazelton, and go to bed for a few hours' sleep before I appear in court against the gamblers and the bootleggers. Go to bed, Nicolas, and sleep! That's an order, remember!"

The Mexican therefore went to his bedroom without protest. Presently Reade became aware of the fact that his clothing had not by any means fully dried. He went to his room, took a vigorous rub-down, donned dry clothing, and then went out on the porch.

Though the night was dark the air was delicious. The combined odors of many flowers came in on the faintly stirring breeze.

Tom leaned back in a chair, his feet on the porch railing. His senses lulled by the quiet and repose of the night he was in danger of falling asleep.

Of a sudden he came to with a start. Off among the trees to the eastward, near the road, a human being was stirring.

Reade rose, moving swiftly back more into the shadow. Then he watched, every sense alert. Yes; some one was moving, out there amid the trees. What he could not see, Tom discovered by his acute sense of hearing.

"I'll put a hot pebble in that fellow's bonnet, whoever he is!" Tom muttered vengefully. Entering the house, he left at the rear, then made a stealthy, roundabout trip that brought him at the farther edge of the litte grove of trees.

Now the young engineer crouched close to the ground as he listened. Once more he heard that some one moving, not many yards away. It was pitch-black in there amid the trees. Guided by his ears, Tom moved closer and closer without making a betraying sound. Suddenly he found the tall figure looming up almost in his path.

"Now, I've got you!" cried Tom exultantly, making a bound that should have carried his hands to the throat of the prowler.

But the other, like a flash, went on the defensive. Tom felt himself parried, then clutched at. The next instant the prowler had the young engineer in a tackle that carried Tom Reade back to the good old high school days at home. The young engineer was dumped on the ground as though he had been a sack of flour.

"Great Scott!" quivered Tom Reade. "No one but Dick Prescott ever had that tackle down fine!"

"Well, you blithering idiot!" came the indignant answer. "That's who I am—Prescott!"

XVIII. THE ARMY "ON THE JOB"

"You, Dick?" gasped Tom, stumbling ruefully to his feet. Then he leaped at his late foe, throwing his arms around him. The two fairly hugged each other, Yes; here was Dick Prescott, not so many weeks a graduate of the Military Academy at West Point, and now, if you please, Second Lieutenant Richard Prescott, United States Army!

"Well, of all the strange things that the Illinois Central Railroad brings into Alabama!" grunted Tom, now gripping Dick by the hand and holding on as though he never meant to let go.

"If the Illinois Central had built its tracks through to Blixton I probably would have arrived at a civilized hour," laughed Dick. "As it was, I had to come in on a wood-burning, backwoods road and the train was only five hours and a half behind schedule. Then, from a sleepy policeman I got directions that enabled me to find this place after an hour's hard work." To what effect? Only to be pounced upon by you as though you had caught me in the act of stealing all the water in the Gulf of Mexico!"

"Stop your roasting," laughed Tom joyfully. "But say, it does seem good to set eyes on you again, after two years."

All of our readers who have read the "High School Boys Series" and the "West Point Series" know all about Dick Prescott, the famous leader of Dick & Co.

"What are you now?" Tom asked eagerly. "A general, or only a colonel?"

"Nothing but a shavetail," laughed Dick. "Shavetail is the army nickname for a second lieutenant."

"I've got to join my regiment, the Thirty-fourth Infantry, out in Colorado very soon," continued Prescott. "But I came down here to spend a few days with you, if you can stand me."

"If we can stand you!" chuckled Tom, patting his old high school chum on the back. "Say, where's Greg?"

Greg Holmes had been another member of Dick & Co., and Dick's chum and comrade at West Point.

"Well, you see," laughed Lieutenant Prescott, "Greg has been falling in love with six girls a year regularly ever since he entered West Point. Now that he's in the army he has started in to increase the yearly average. He's visiting a Miss Deering, who lives near Chicago."

"Greg's likely never to marry," wisely remarked Tom. "These fellows who catch a new love fever every few weeks always end up by finding that no girl wants them. But say, Dick you hardly look the soldier."

"Why not?"

"Well, one would expect to see an army officer in uniform, you know."

"An officer rarely travels in uniform, unless on duty with troops," explained Dick.

"How did you like West Point?"

"Fine!" said Dick, grimly. "It was like four years in prison, only more so. When I look back I shudder at the incessant grind I had to endure there. Yet I'm going to be happy, now I'm through, for I couldn't be happy anywhere except in the United States Army."

"What crazy notions some folks have of happiness," murmured Tom, mockingly. "However, old fellow, we're not going to fight, are we? Now, hustle over to the house. Harry is sleeping at the present moment, but I won't let him have a wink more of sleep to-night. It's getting toward daylight, anyway, and too much sleep isn't good for a fellow. But don't talk above a whisper, Dick, when we get near the house. I don't want Harry, by any chance, to catch a sound of your voice until he comes out on the porch and runs into you."

Chatting away in low tones the two old-time high school chums gained the porch.

"Now, just stay here," whispered Tom, then strode into the house. He entered his partner's room, gripping the slumber-seized Hazelton with a strong clasp.

"Oh, quit your fooling!" protested a sleepy voice from the pillow.

"Time to get up, you slant-eyed rations stealer!" muttered Tom gruffly. "Come on. You're needed, and there's no time to be lost. Up with you!"

Tom dragged his drowsy partner from the bed, seating him on the edge of it.

"Now, shed your pajamas and pull on something decent," Reade commanded grimly. "Hustle! There's a conference going on outside, and you're wanted. Hurry! Want me to dump the pitcher of water on you? I'll do it if you give your eyes another rub!"

Hazelton was now fully convinced that something important was in the air. If not, he knew that his chum never would have hauled him out of bed in the darkest hours of the night.

"If you throw any water I'll shave you with the bread-knife," retorted Harry. "But you can keep on talking to me, so that I won't fall asleep while I'm trying to dress."

Slowly, at first, then more rapidly, Hazelton got his clothes on. Pouring water into the basin he sopped a towel in it, then liberally applied it to his face. The water waked him rapidly.

"Now, lead me forth to where duty calls," mimicked Harry.

"Run along out on to the porch," ordered Tom. "I'll be there in a moment."

Still yawning, Hazelton groped his way out into the hall, along the dark passage, and thence out into the night. Some one stood there, and Harry walked curiously toward him.

"Howdy, whoever you are," was Hazelton's greeting.

"Halloo, Harry, old chum," came Dick Prescott's laughing answer.

"Dick Prescott!" gasped Harry delightedly.

"I suppose you think I might have waited until daylight," laughed Dick, as their hands met.

"I'm heartily glad you didn't wait," said Harry. "How long can you stay with us?"

"Not as long as I'd like to, for I'm due at Fort Clowdry in a very few days."

"And Greg?"

Lieutenant Prescott gave the same explanation he had furnished Tom.

"How does it seem to be an army officer?" Harry continued.

"I believe it to be the finest career on earth," Prescott answered. "Still, as you can guess, I'm utterly without experience so far. After a few days more I shall have my first day as an officer on duty with troops. But do you and Tom continue to find engineering the grandest career on earth?"

"We certainly do," affirmed Hazelton.

"It must be very interesting," agreed Dick. "Still, I imagine there is yet enough of the primitive savage in the average man to make him enjoy a real fight once in a while. That's an experience you're denied in your calling, but an army officer may always look forward to the chance of seeing a little fighting."

Hazelton glanced humorously at his partner before he replied:

"At present there's a very good chance of a fight right here at this camp."

"So?" Dick Prescott asked, sitting up with a look of interest.

"Not so much chance as there was," said Tom gravely. "The fight came off to-night. Harry, I met the big black—caught him redhanded."

"You did?" cried Hazelton, leaping up. "And you never called me?"

"There wasn't any chance," Tom assured him. "The meeting and the fight didn't take place on this porch."

Tom now had two very interested auditors. For Prescott's benefit Reade first sketched a brief outline of the troubles that had led up to the present, including an account of the wrecking of substantial portions of the retaining wall. Then he came down to the events of the night.

"Oh, and I had to miss it," sighed Harry, disappointedly. "I'd have missed a week of sleep just to have been in to-night's doings. And, if I had been with you, Tom, we'd now have Mr. Sambo Ebony in jail."

"I think we've blocked the black rascal's game on the wall, anyway," said Tom.

"There's just a fair chance that you haven't yet blocked it," remarked the young army officer thoughtfully. "Of course this Sambo of yours merely represents a well-organized gang. This gang may have more ways than one of damaging the property of the Melliston Company. From all I can see, Tom and Harry, you're likely to need to be more vigilant than ever. Whew! But I'm glad that I can be with you a few days. I'm likely to come in for a choice lot of excitement. Also, I may very likely be able to help out a lot."

"We wouldn't put you to that trouble, Dick," protested Tom. "You're to be our guest—not our policeman."

"Are you going to try to keep me out of all the excitement and fun?" Lieutenant Dick demanded, indignantly. "Sleep? Can't I get enough of that when I go aboard a Pullman again and am riding out to Colorado? Of course I'm going to help—and I'm going to have my share of all the opportunities for excitement here—or else I'm going to cut your acquaintance."

"Why, of course we'll be delighted to have your help, Dick, if you want to stand the racket," Reade made haste to say. "It will surely seem like doubling—or trebling—our forces, to have Dick Prescott working hand in hand with us."

"Then that's settled," cried Dick, with an air of satisfaction.

"You haven't had any sleep lately, have you, Dick?" inquired Tom, after they had chatted a little longer.

"No; I haven't."

"Then you must turn in and get a few hours," proposed Reade. "I must have a little myself, as I shall have to be up and go into court during the coming forenoon."

"I'm wide awake now," said Harry. "So I'll sit right here on the porch and dream of Dick and Greg, and good old Dave Darrin and Danny Dalzell, and the good times we had in old Gridley. What time do you want to be up, Tom?"

"Not later than eight," Reade answered.

"Trust me," said Harry promptly. Harry went to his own bedroom, pulled his bed apart, remade it with fresh linen, and with a final grip of Dick's hand, he left the army officer to turn in there.

At eight o'clock Hazelton called both Tom and Dick. They turned out promptly, to find that Nicolas had laid an appetizing breakfast on the porch.

Then Tom had to hurry over to Blixton, Dick going with him, while Hazelton went down to the breakwater to superintend the day's work there.

Only a little time had to be spent in the justice's stuffy court. Hawkins and his fellow gamblers and bootleggers were arraigned and held in one thousand dollars' bail each for trial. As none of them had the money the eight men were sent to the county jail pending trial.

"That's queer," mused Tom, aloud, as he and Dick walked back to camp. "You'd think that professional gamblers would have money enough to put up small bail."

"Not if they're working for other people," suggested Dick. "These men may be merely the agents of some larger crowd."

"Meaning that the larger crowd may be a sort of vice trust, operating in many fields at the same time?" queried Reade.

"Something of the sort," replied the young army officer. "To-day nearly everything has been capitalized on a large scale of combined capital. Why shouldn't vice be?"

"I begin to think you're more than half right in your guess," Tom admitted. "Your explanation is about the only way to account for a fellow like Hawkins not having a thousand at his instant disposal. However, if these fellows represent a vice trust, then I suppose it will be a question of only a little time when the trust sends down money enough to put up the needed bail."

"That will undoubtedly happen," nodded Dick. "And then you'll have to look out for that fellow, Hawkins, and all the men he can command. Hawkins looked at you, in court, as though he'd enjoy pulverizing you."

"I'm ready, when he is," laughed Tom. "If he'd only fight in the open I wouldn't be at all afraid of him."

Tom now led the way down to the retaining wall. Prescott gazed with great interest at the signs of activity. On a closer inspection he was even more interested. He was capable of understanding very fully what was being done here, for every graduate of the United States Military Academy is supposed to be a capable engineer.

"You've a difficult task on hand, but your basic principle is sound, and you're doing the work finely and economically," Dick declared with emphasis.

Harry came in from the outer end of the wall and joined them. He listened with pride to the praises that the army officer showered on the engineers.

"I wish Mr. Bascomb, the president of the company, could hear you," said Harry. "He isn't altogether sure that we know what we're about in anything that we're doing."

"Then I've a very good mental picture of Bascomb," declared Dick, bluntly. "Bascomb is something of a chump. By the way, if you want to get square with Mr. Bascomb, why don't you coax him down here to help you look out for the evil-doers who are combined against you?"

"He wouldn't be much use," sighed Tom. "He's an impossible sort of chap. He wanted us to stop our crusade against camp vice. Said it was hurting business."

"What craft is that?" inquired Dick, looking toward a sailboat that was moving lazily along about a half-mile to the eastward.

"I don't know," Tom answered, after a look. "Never saw the boat before. Regular cabin cruiser, isn't she, about forty feet long?"

"About that," nodded Dick. "What interested me in her was the fact that a fellow on board has been watching us with a marine glass. I caught the glint of the sun on the lenses."

"Why should he want to be watching us?" demanded Hazelton.

"That's just what made me curious," replied Prescott. "As an army officer, if this were a fort that I commanded in troublous times, I'd want to look into any strange craft that I caught cruising lazily in the offing and holding a marine glass on us."

"I wonder if that boat can be in the service of those who are annoying us?" Tom muttered.

"It's an even chance that it is a 'hostile ship,'" Prescott suggested. "You have a motor boat here. I'm inclined to think you ought to use it in overhauling that suspicious craft. Of course you'd have no right unless there was a police officer along. Can you get one?"

"The authorities in Blixton would send a policeman on request."

"Then send a messenger to request them to send over a policeman in citizen's clothes," proposed Dick.

Tom promptly despatched Foreman Dill on that errand.

"Now don't let the men on the boat see that you're paying any more attention," Prescott advised. "Leave it to me, and I'll contrive to keep the boat and its people under observation without looking too plainly in their direction."

In due time the plain clothes policeman arrived. He, the young engineers and the army lieutenant boarded the "Morton," which put out from the landing as though on a trip of inspection of the wall.

"Don't anyone look over at the sloop," Prescott urged. "I'll do the watching. A fellow on that craft is holding the glasses on us right now. Officer, do you demand the assistance of all present in any police duty that may come up?"

"I do," replied the Blixton policeman, a man named Carnes, returning Prescott's wink.

"All right, then," laughed Dick. "That demand makes policemen of us all. Tom, you can turn, now, when ready, and put on full speed in going after that craft."

Reade gave the order for full speed, then took the steering wheel himself.

"Guilty conscience!" laughed Prescott. "There's the sloop putting about at once and heading away from us."

"They can't get away from us, in this light wind," chuckled the young chief engineer.

A few minutes later the "Morton" came up within easy hailing distance of the sloop, aboard which only one man now appeared.

"Sloop ahoy!" called the policeman. "What are you doing in these waters?"

"Looking for a good fishing ground," answered the dark-faced man at the tiller.

"Then you're too far in by some three miles," answered the policeman.

"Thank you, cap'n," acknowledged the sailing master of the sloop.

"You're welcome," the policeman continued, "but ease off your sheet and lay to. We want to come aboard."

"You can't!" flatly retorted the skipper.

"You're wrong there," retorted the policeman. "This is a police party, and I tell you that we are coming aboard. Lay to, or we shall have to start a lot of trouble for you."

In the policeman's hand suddenly glistened a revolver. Tom ran the motor boat close alongside. With a snarl the man left off his sheet. The policeman and Dick Prescott leaped aboard the craft, Tom and Harry following.

"This is a cheeky outrage!" snarled the skipper, scowling at the invaders.

"Then keep the change, and welcome," laughed the policeman, taking his stand close to the skipper.

Dick Prescott made a dive at the cabin door, which was closed.

"Open this door!" he summoned.

As the door did not open Dick placed his shoulder against it.

"Open the door, or I'll break it down," Dick insisted.

There was still no answer. Thereupon Prescott proceeded to put his threat into execution. Harry bounded forward to help. Under their combined assault the door gave way.

Lieutenant Prescott was the first to enter the dark little cabin. Poor as the light was his eyes caught sight of something that made him gasp.

"This is the big capture of the season!" cried Dick jubilantly.

XIX. A NEW MYSTERY PEEPS IN

"Get out of here, or you'll get something you don't want," roared an ugly voice at the farther end of the cabin.

At sound of that voice Tom Reade started. He thrust his head in the open doorway.

"Hullo, Evarts!" called the young chief engineer.

"Get out of here!" came the furious order.

"So you've openly joined the enemy, Evarts?" demanded Tom, as his eyes fell upon the object that had first claimed Lieutenant Dick Prescott's attention.

"You've no business here! Get out, or I'll shoot," cried Evarts, defiantly.

"Don't be too quick on the shoot," warned the Blixton policeman, who still had his own revolver in his hand. "This is a police party, and you're under arrest. Start any shooting trouble, and the air will be full of it."

"Clear out, and I'll come outside and talk with you," proposed Evarts, for it really was the discharged foreman.

"All right," nodded the policeman. "Gentlemen, let him step outside."

The others left the entrance to the cabin, As Evarts, his pistol now back in his pocket, stepped sullenly outside, Harry Hazelton dropped back into the doorway.

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Evarts," grinned the police officer, deftly slipping handcuffs on the fellow's wrists.

"This is treachery!" stormed the prisoner. "I didn't surrender to you. I only came out to talk with you."

"If you didn't surrender, then excuse me, and go ahead and put up a fight," laughed the policeman, handily removing Evarts's revolver from a hip pocket.

"Now, look in here, Tom," urged Dick. "Do you see what caught my eye?"

Prescott pointed to a sharp-nosed cylinder, some eight feet long. Just as it lay the propeller at the other end was invisible to one at the doorway of the cabin.

"It's a home-made imitation of a Whitehead torpedo," Lieutenant Dick went on, in explanation. "If it proves to be charged with explosives then the mere having of it aboard this sloop will prove embarrassing to these two prisoners to explain in court. If it isn't loaded, that will be almost as bad, as such a torpedo can be rather easily loaded, and then set in operation by clock-work machinery that will control the propeller."

"Young man, you seem to think you know a good deal about torpedoes," sneered Evarts.

"He ought to," Harry retorted quietly. "He's a West Point man and an army officer. Therefore, he's a specialist in some kinds of explosives."

Evarts's face turned somewhat paler at this information of having an army officer on hand as a witness.

"Do you call me a prisoner, too?" asked the man at the tiller uneasily.

"Something like it, I guess," nodded Dick.

"Say, but that's a pretty rank deal against an honest man," protested the skipper hoarsely. "I hired this boat out to that man, the one you call Evarts, but I didn't know what he was up to."

"You didn't know that torpedoes are used for wicked work either, eh?" pressed Lieutenant Dick.

"I'll swear that I didn't know what it was that he brought on board," cried the skipper. "Evarts said it was a new device for killing fish at wholesale."

"You may be telling the truth," Tom broke in.

"I am," declared the skipper eagerly.

"Then explain it to the court," Reade continued. "If you can prove to a judge and a jury that you're an honest man, and always have been one, you may get off on the charge that will be made against you."

"Then you don't believe me?" asked the skipper anxiously.

"It isn't for me to say," Tom replied crisply. "It's a job for a judge and a jury."

"Then I'm to be a prisoner?"

"That's for the policeman here to say."

"You're a prisoner, my man," nodded the policeman. "Now, sail your boat into the landing over yonder."

"Some one else will sail it," retorted the skipper, angrily, as he abandoned his tiller.

"I'll take the tiller," Harry suggested, and did so. He hauled in the sheet, brought the boat around and headed for the landing with the skill of an old sailor.

"My man, since you don't want to sail the boat you'll have to go as a real prisoner," announced the policeman. He produced a pair of handcuffs, snapping them over the man's wrists.

In a short time Harry brought the sailboat up to the landing. The motor boat had followed, but did not come all the way in. After the sail had been lowered and made snug the party took up its way, on foot, to the nearby town of Blixton.

Justice Sampson was found, and consented to open court immediately. Officer Carnes brought his prisoners forward, stating the charge. The young engineers and the army officer gave their testimony.

"The prisoners are held for trial, and bail fixed at five thousand dollars in each case," decided the court.

The torpedo had been left on the sloop, in charge of a foreman. The justice now ordered two officers to go back and bring over the torpedo, which was to be held until a chemist could examine and take samples of whatever explosive might be found inside.

As Dick was a United States Army officer, under orders to proceed to his post within the next few days, the court reduced his testimony to writing, and permitted Prescott to sign this under oath.

It had been a busy forenoon. Now it was time for luncheon, and the three chums returned to the house to eat. In the afternoon they visited the wall, remaining there until four o'clock. On their return to the house Tom and Harry were greeted by Mr. Prenter, who had been waiting for them.

"I heard the news of last night's doings, and to-day's, and came right down," explained the treasurer of the Melliston Company. "Reade, I'm glad to be able to say that you appear to have brought us to the end of the explosion troubles."

"Or else we're just starting with that trouble," Reade smiled wistfully. "Mr. Prenter, I must say that there appears to be no end to the surprises with which our enemies are capable of supplying us."

Tom then nodded to Dick to come forward and presented him to the treasurer.

"An army officer?" asked Mr. Prenter eagerly. "Then I'm doubly glad to meet you, Mr. Prescott. You've seen the breakwater work? As an army officer and an engineer what do you think of it?"

"It's great!" said Dick, though he added laughingly: "Reade and Hazelton are such dear old friends of mine that any testimony in their favor is likely to be charged to friendship."

"I'll believe what an army officer says, even in praise of his best friends," smiled Mr. Prenter.

Foreman Johnson, who had been over in town, now came along. He halted some distance away, beckoning to Reade.

"Mr. Reade," murmured the foreman, in an undertone, "over in Blixton I just heard some news that I thought would interest you. Evarts is out on bail."

"He furnished a five thousand surety?" queried Tom.

"Yes, sir, and who do you suppose went on his bond?"

"I can't imagine who the idiot is."

"The man who signed Evarts's bond," continued Foreman Johnson solemnly, "was Mr. Bascomb, president of this company!"

"Whew!" muttered Tom aghast. "And that's all I've got to say on this subject."

"I thought you'd like to know the news," remarked Johnson, "and so I came to tell you."

"Please accept my thanks," Tom answered. Then, as the foreman passed along, Reade went back to his friends.

"You seem staggered about something," remarked Mr. Prenter, eyeing him keenly.

"Possibly I am," admitted Tom. "Evarts is out on bail."

"Now, what fool or rogue could have signed that fellow's bail bond?" demanded Mr. Prenter in exasperation.

"Careful, sir!" warned Tom smilingly. "I've just been informed that the bail bond was signed by Mr. Bascomb, president of the Melliston Company."

"Well, of all the crazy notions!" gasped Mr. Prenter. "But there! I won't say more. Bascomb is a queer fellow in some things, but he's a good fellow in lots of things, and a square, honest man in all things. If he signed Evarts's bond, there was a reason, and not a dishonest one."

"But Evarts won't behave," predicted Harry dismally. "After all our trouble we shall still have to remain on guard night and day."

"It'll be an airship next," laughed Dick Prescott.

"Unless Sambo Ebony comes forward once more, and finds out how to lay wires by a new submarine route," retorted Tom Reade.

All the present company felt unaccountably gloomy just at this moment. There could be no guessing what would occur next to hamper or destroy the fruits of their hard labor.

XX. A SECRET IN SIGHT

"Mr. Prenter," asked Tom suddenly, "is there anything about which you wish to see me just now?"

"Not particularly," replied the treasurer. "Only, in view of late developments I'm going to remain about for the next few days, unless you order me out of the house. I want to be close to the trouble."

"Then, if I'm not needed," gaped Reade, "I'm going to turn in and steal a little sleep. I need rest."

"As I'm going to stay up to-night, Tom, and keep you company through the dark hours, I'm for the bale of lint, too," announced Lieutenant Prescott.

"At what hour shall I call you?" asked Harry.

"At eight o'clock to-night," answered Tom.

Refreshed by a few hours' sleep Tom and Dick were called, to find their supper ready. Nicolas stood behind their chairs, attentive to their needs.

Mr. Prenter remained out on the porch, but Harry sat at table with his friends.

"Has Mr. Bascomb put in an appearance here?" Tom inquired.

"No," said Hazelton briefly.

"He certainly has wound up my curiosity," murmured Tom. "Why on earth should he bail out Evarts?"

"Probably because Evarts asked him to," suggested Dick.

"But why should he want to please Evarts in such a matter?"

"Well, you know," hinted Harry, "we've heard that Evarts is some sort of relative to Mr. Bascomb."

"But the rascal has been working to ruin this company," Tom protested, "and Mr. Bascomb is the trusted president of the company."

"Yet is Mr. Bascomb really fit to be trusted?" Prescott propounded.

"Mr. Prenter seems to think so, and he is a capable judge of men," Tom rejoined. "It is the combination of all these circumstances taken together that makes me so curious over Mr. Bascomb's being willing to bail the fellow."

"Oh, well, it's too much of a puzzle for us," said Harry, shrugging his shoulders. "All we've got to do is to keep our eyes open and faithfully guard the property that is entrusted to our care. However, I'm growing sour and sore. Here I've got to go to bed presently, and you and Dick are going to be prowling about all night. You'll have all the excitement, while I'll be in bed."

"You seem to forget," Tom reminded him, "that the last big excitement took place in the daytime, during your shift. Dick and I may have a lazy night, and you may have the air full of wreckage to-morrow in broad daylight."

They chatted a little while with Mr. Prenter, outside, and then Dick rose at Tom's signal.

"We must be starting," said Reade. "I don't know just what we're going to do to-night, but we have miles to cover I'm afraid."

"Being an army officer, Dick, you've got a pistol, of course," suggested Harry hopefully.

"I've a brace of them," nodded the army man.

"Good!" cheered Harry.

"But both of them, unloaded at that, are in my trunks at Mobile," laughed Dick, whereat Tom chuckled. Harry Hazelton was much inclined to want to carry a pistol in times of danger, but Tom didn't believe in any such habit.

"I thought soldiers went armed," muttered Hazelton ruefully.

"Only when on duty," Dick informed him.

Nicolas wistfully watched Reade out of sight. The Mexican had been ordered to remain at home to-night, and on no account to think of following his employer. That didn't at all agree with the faithful fellow's wishes.

"They'll be sure to get into some trouble, Senor Hazelton," Nicolas said mournfully. "I should be on their flank, watching over them."

"You don't know Gridley boys," laughed Harry, "if you don't understand that Dick Prescott and Tom Reade, together, are a hard team to beat."

In the meantime Tom led the way down to the camp of workmen. Reade stopped to speak with one of his reliable negroes, whom he found softly strumming a banjo under a tree.

"Are there any visitors in camp to-night who shouldn't be here?" asked Tom.

"I doan' beliebe so, boss," replied the colored man. "Dem gamblers an' bootleggers ain' done got bail yet, has they, sah?"

"I don't believe they have," replied Tom. "There are no others of their kind here, then?"

"I doan' beliebe so, sah."

Tom and Dick strolled through the camp, but all was quiet there. Many of the men were outside their shacks or tents, smoking and waiting for turning-in time to come.

"Looks as orderly as a camp-meeting," declared Lieutenant Prescott. "I'm glad to see, Tom, that you're for the decent camp every time."

"The decent camp is the only kind that contains efficient workmen for engineering jobs," Reade answered dryly.

Presently they strolled out of camp, on the farther side. This was what the young engineer really wanted to do—to vanish suddenly, in a fashion that would not be likely to be noted by hostile eyes. Now Reade and his army chum proceeded softly, and without words. Through the deep woods Tom was heading for the spot where he had found the magneto.

Sambo Ebony was at large, and Tom believed that other things than the magneto had been concealed at this spot. If Sambo intended any further assaults on the retaining wall he would be quite likely to come this way. So here Tom Reade was resolved to remain and watch, even if he had to put in most of the night there.

Behind some bushes he and Dick found a hiding place looking out upon the scene of the late conflict with "Mr. Ebony."

Without even whispered conversation time dragged slowly. More than an hour dragged by, and both watchers were beginning to feel decidedly bored.

At last, however, footsteps came that way. Both watchers crouched lower and waited.

The new-comer approached the place rather uncertainly. At last, however, he stood revealed. Tom Reade felt like yelling in his utter astonishment.

For President Bascomb, of the Melliston Company, now stood before them. After a glance about Mr. Bascomb walked slowly up and down, as though he were waiting for some one.

Dick, of course, did not know Mr. Bascomb. However, as Tom kept silent the young soldier did the same.

"What on earth can Bascomb be doing here?" Tom wondered. "Is he, too, one of the conspirators? It is unbelievable! Yet with what speed he obeyed Evarts's summons to come and bail him out! It makes me feel like a sneak to be here spying on the president of the company that employs me—and yet there's something here that certainly must be looked into!"

Fifteen minutes more dragged by, with Mr. Bascomb walking impatiently back and forth, occasionally heaving a deep sigh or catching at his breath.

"Our worthy president is much excited, at any rate," Reade said to himself.

Finally steps were heard, both by Bascomb and by the pair who watched him. Then another man came upon the scene.

"Evarts, why on earth did you send for me?" demanded Mr. Bascomb, as the discharged foreman came up.

"Because I knew you'd be here—you don't dare do otherwise," was the sneering reply.

"Try not to be impudent about it," advised Mr. Bascomb mildly. "As you may remember, I've had to stand a lot from you."

"And not as much as you might have to stand, either, if I took it into my head to make matters lively for you," jeered Evarts harshly. "Remember, man, you'll do as I want you to do."

"I'm willing to do what I can for you," replied the president. "But—"

"Now, don't throw any of your 'buts' at me," broke in the discharged foreman, roughly. "You failed me in one thing—you didn't make Reade take me back on the job, as I told you to do."

"I couldn't," pleaded Mr. Bascomb. "Prenter stood with Reade and was against me."

"You're the president of the company, aren't you?" Evarts demanded sullenly.

"Yes; but Prenter is a bigger man in the company, and he has more influence with the board of directors. If Prenter came out against me, and persuaded the other directors that I was a bad asset for the company, they'd act on Prenter's suggestion and remove me from the presidency."

"Humph!" jeered Evarts. "Then what would your directors do if they knew that—."

"Stop!" begged Mr. Bascomb hoarsely, "Don't say a word further, man! Sometimes even the leaves on the trees have ears. Don't breathe a word of what you were going to say just now."

Even in the dark the two concealed watchers could see that Bascomb was glancing about him nervously.

"Now, what is up?" gasped Tom inwardly. "What part has Mr. Bascomb been playing in this mystery that he's so afraid of having become public?"

XXI. EVARTS HEARS A NOISE

"I won't shut up," proclaimed Evarts.

"I don't care who hears me."

"But I care," protested the president, in a trembling voice.

"Then you'll have to reward me for whatever silence you want," snarled the wretch.

"Is this blackmail never to cease?" groaned Mr. Bascomb.

"Yes, when you've used me right," declared Evarts harshly.

"Didn't I come forward promptly on your bail?" demanded Mr. Bascomb.

"Sure, for you didn't dare do otherwise. But that only gave me liberty. It didn't put any money in my pocket."

"Are you going to jump your bail, and leave me to pay the bond?" asked Bascomb.

"Perhaps," said Evarts lightly. "You can stand losing the money."

"I suppose so."

"But when I jump," continued Evarts, "I'll have to stay out of the country after that. It'll take money—and you'll have to furnish me with it."

"How much?"

"Well," continued the foreman, craftily, "I wouldn't leave the country with less than enough to set me up elsewhere. I'd need—well, let me see. I couldn't start in a new country on less than ten thousand dollars."

"That would make fifteen thousand dollars, in all." Mr. Bascomb finished his remark with a groan.

"Well, what are you howling about?" demanded Evarts unfeelingly. "You've got the money."

"It will lower my holdings in the Melliston Company," complained Mr. Bascomb bitterly "I'm not a rich man, and I haven't any too much stock in the company at the present moment."

"You'd have to sell it all out, if I gave the directors a chance to find out that you're a jailbird—that you did time as a younger man," sneered Evarts.

"For goodness' sake hold your tongue, man!" gasped Mr. Bascomb in accents of terror.

"Just think," grinned Evarts heartlessly, "how delighted your directors would be to know that you had done time in prison."

"Silence, man!" implored Bascomb. "It wasn't altogether my fault, as you know. And the governor of the state discovered that I wasn't as bad as the jury thought me. It all came through trying to help a worthless friend. Why, man, the governor pardoned me, when I had yet two years to serve and restored me to liberty."

"But you're a jailbird, just the same," jeered the discharged foreman. "Let the directors find that out, and how quickly they'd drop you from your office!"

Mr. Bascomb buried his face in his hands and sobbed aloud.

"So," continued Evarts, "I'll give you forty-eight hours to raise the ten thousand dollars—in good cash, mind you—no checks! Then I'll call on you to hand the money over to me. If you don't, I'll write a note to the directors, telling them to look up your name in the court records at Logville, Minnesota. Now, do you understand?"

"Yes," nodded Mr. Bascomb brokenly.

"And you'll have the money?"

"I—I'll try."

"You'll have the money—by day after tomorrow!"

"Yes."

"Now clear out—fast!"

"Eh?" inquired Mr. Bascomb, looking wildly at the wretch.

"Get out! Go back to the hotel in Blixton, and don't try to slip away from me at any point in the game. Start—now!"

"Good night!" said President Bascomb in a choking voice.

"Oh, cut out the civilities!" grunted Evarts turning on his heel.

Mr. Bascomb then silently left the spot. His footfalls made so little noise that their sound was soon lost to Dick and Tom.

Evarts appeared in no hurry to leave. On the contrary he drew out a pipe, filled it and lighted it. Then he threw himself down on the ground, puffing slowly.

"From the fact that he sent Mr. Bascomb away, and is himself remaining," thought Tom Reade, "it is rather plain that this scoundrel, Evarts, is awaiting some one else."

The same thought had occurred to Dick Prescott, though, as they lay within thirty feet of where Evarts reclined on the ground, the chums did not deem it wise to exchange even whispers.

After another half-hour Dick pressed Tom's arm. Other footsteps were now near. Then Mr. Sambo Ebony slouched on to the scene.

"Hullo, Tar!" was the ex-foreman's careless greeting.

"Now, doan' get too prescrumptious wid me," warned the black man, with an evil grin that displayed his big, white teeth. "Yo' an' me hab done been good frien's, an' pulled togedder. But Ah want yo' to undahstan', Mr. White Man, dat I doan' allow yo' to call me Tar Baby."

"Oh, come, now, don't get huffy," yawned Evarts, who had not taken the trouble to rise. "I'm not afraid of you, Tar."

"Stop dat!" cried the black angrily. "Yo's takin' big chances, yo' is."

"You're big and powerful, I know that," grinned Evarts. "But I have something with me that makes me just the same size as you are, or perhaps a little bigger. See this!"

The ex-foreman drew from one of his pockets a formidable-looking automatic revolver.

"Huh!" grunted the negro, producing a similar pistol, "yo' ain' no bettah fixed dan Ah be."

"We're quits," laughed Evarts easily, returning his weapon to his pocket. "Put up your rain-maker."

"Den yo' won't call me Tar Baby no mo?"

"No more."

"All right, den." Ebony put up his weapon.

"Now, what's the programme?" asked Evarts. "You've seen the leader?"

"Yah. Ah's done see de right man. De orders am simple."

"What are they?"

"Misto Reade am to be killed de fust time he show himself," declared Sambo Ebony. "He to be shot down ez soon ez Ah can lay eyes on him. Maybe Ah have to shoot from ambush, but in any case he must be daid befo' de sun go down to-morrow. Our big men am tired to def dat Massa Reade stop do men from havin' a little liquor and playin' cairds evenin's."

"Fine!" thought Tom, with a start. "If Sambo knew how close I am he'd carry out his orders right now! He has his pistol with him."

"An' den, if dey's any fuss made," the black went on, "Misto Hazelton, he done gottah go nex'. Maybe Ah get cotch' w'en I do fo' Misto Reade. Ef dat happen, den dere's anodder man ready to do fo' Misto Hazelton."

"And maybe the second man will get caught, too," suggested Evarts. "Then there'll be two of you with nooses around your necks."

"We maybe get cotch', an' put in de jail," smirked Sambo Ebony, "but doan' yo' beliebe nothin' worse happen. Dere ain' many guards at de jail, an' do gang is on de way. De jail guards done be shot up, an' ouah folks turn' loose. Den we all strike out fo' new place, an' begin all ober again. Den a new gang come in heah and operate to get de money away from de breakwatah gangs. Dere's so much money in dat camp yondah dat ouah folks done gottah hab it ef a dozen men has to be kill'."

"For cold-blooded, systematic villainy I believe I am listening to the limit!" quivered Lieutenant Dick Prescott under his breath.

"They're insane, these people," was Tom's inward comment. "Let this crowd of scoundrels shoot up the jail guards, and do they think the citizens would ever allow the gang to operate in camp? There'd be more likelihood of the known members of the gang being lynched!"

"I won't go back to jail if I can help it," laughed Evarts, speaking to the negro. "As soon as I even up one or two grudges I'm going to slip away."

"Break yo' bail?" asked the negro, showing his teeth.

"That's about the size of it," nodded Evarts.

"Den de w'ite gemman who done fu'nish yo' bond will be feelin' bad, won't he?"

"Let him—he's no friend of mine," grunted the discharged foreman.

"Maybe yo'd like de job ob tendin' to Boss Reade yo'so'f?" hinted Sambo darkly.

"Oh, I'm going to settle with Reade in some fashion," boasted Evarts with a leer. "I don't know that I want to kill him. I'd rather cripple him and let him live a life of misery."

"Thank you!" thought Tom from his hiding place.

"There's another chap we'll have to deal with, too, I'm thinking," Evarts went on. "Reade and Hazelton have a friend of theirs here, and he's likely to make some trouble for us. He's an army officer."

"I done heah'd ob him," nodded Sambo. "We can settle wid him, too."

"We ought to, for he helped arrest me, and he's to be a witness on the torpedo matter."

"W'ate's his name—de ahmy man's?" inquired Sambo.

"Prescott. He's—"

The speaker stopped suddenly, looking about him.

"What was that, Tar?" Evarts demanded.

"W'at yo' talkin' 'bout?"

"I heard a noise, and it was right over there," replied Evarts, pointing to where Tom and Dick lay hidden.

"I didn't heah nuffin'."

"I did, I tell you, and it will have to be looked into," insisted the ex-foreman, drawing his automatic revolver.

"Go ahaid, den," encouraged Sambo, also drawing his weapon. "Ef anybody been a-lis'enin', den shoot him full ob holes!"

Evarts darted at the bushes ahead of his companion. Then an exultant yell came from him.

"Hustle, Tar—and shoot straight! Here are the very people we want—I caught sight of them!"

"Den watch me!" chuckled Sambo Ebony, flourishing his weapon and dashing forward in the tracks of Evarts.

There was no time for the chums to rise and dart away.

XXII. MR. BASCOMB HEARS BAD NEWS

When Evarts used the word "people" he employed it only in a general sense. He had seen no one but Tom Reade, but Tom was the one person in the world whom the ex-foreman wanted most to 'see' at a disadvantage.

"Now, I have you!" Evarts croaked hoarsely, rushing in, flourishing his weapon, then letting the muzzle drop to the position of aim.

Dick Prescott, unseen, stirred almost under the fellow's feet.

Flop! Bump! Caught by the legs, by that famous football player, Dick Prescott, Evarts simply had to go down on his back.

In the same instant Reade leaped, then bent over the prostrate foe.

Evarts was too much dazed to resist much. Tom snatched the revolver out of his hand.

Sambo, beholding this much, came to a dismayed stop for an instant.

"Dick, it's your trade to know how to handle this tool better than I can," Tom cried, passing the captured revolver to Prescott, who swiftly received it as he rose. "I'm afraid," continued the young engineer, "that it's going to be necessary to kill the negro."

"Wow! Woof!" uttered Sambo Ebony. It didn't take that villain an instant to decide on flight. Bending low, the black man ran off with frantic speed.

Dick took a step forward—only one, for Evarts furiously gripped at one of the young army officer's ankles, bringing him down to his knees.

"Hang you, you hound!" ground out Tom, in a rage, as he threw himself athwart of the ex-foreman. Within the next thirty seconds Evarts received a swift, fearful pummeling.

"Let up, Mr. Reade! Let up!" cried the wretch. "I'll behave myself."

"I'll wager you will," retorted the young engineer grimly, as he gripped Evarts by the coat collar and drew him to his feet.

Dick was up and had run ahead some distance. But the time that had been gained for the black man had proved sufficient. Sambo, was now out of sight, nor did he send back any sound to guide his pursuers.

"It may have to be a long hunt for the negro," remarked Tom Reade when Lieutenant Dick stepped back to state the case. "Stand by me and shoot this fellow down in his tracks if he tries to get away."

"Why, what are you going to do to me?" quaked the ex-foreman.

"It's back to jail for yours," Tom informed him crisply.

"Then the laugh will be on you," jeered Evarts. "I'm out on bail—all in regular form."

"You're not on bail on the latest charge against you—attempted murderous assault," Reade rejoined. "Nor will any court allow you out on bail again when Mr. Prescott and I testify to hearing you tell the negro that you were going to jump your bail."

"Humph! That was all a joke," blustered Evarts.

"All right," nodded Tom. "Explain the joke to the judge, if you can find a judge who's a good and willing listener. What you'll find, at this time, is that a hundred thousand dollars' worth of bail won't get you out of jail. Start along with you," Tom wound up, shaking Evarts by the arm that he gripped. "If this sneak tries to get away, Dick, bring him down with a bullet."

"I'm ready enough to do it," Prescott agreed.

A sudden great change came over the ex-foreman. At first he threatened. Then he begged to be turned loose, promising nothing but the best behavior in the future.

"Stop all your nonsense," ordered Reade finally. "There's only one proper place on earth for you, Evarts, and that's behind the bars. Now, move right along, or I'll give you a worse walloping every time you stop or argue."

Finding that nothing would avail with these determined captors the ex-foreman relapsed into sulks. However, he kept walking straight ahead, obeying every order addressed to him.

Tom stopped briefly at the cottage. Mr. Prenter was not there, and Harry Hazelton had turned in. Nicolas was lying on a blanket on the porch.

"You'll have to keep awake until I get back, anyway, Nicolas, and keep your eyes open," Tom informed the Mexican. "Sambo is at large again, and I'm afraid he may turn up here."

"I shall know how to take care of him, Senor," grinned the Mexican holding up his right forefinger.

"That wouldn't help you, this time," Tom retorted dryly. "Mr. Sambo Ebony has a revolver with him. Don't let him get a shot at you; he'd be only too glad to even the score. Now, Dick, I guess we'd better get Evarts over to the jail."

Away started the chums and their prisoner while Nicolas went inside to warn Harry.

Not so very much later Tom and Dick turned Evarts over to the police in Blixton. Evarts was locked up on the new charge. The revolver taken from him was turned over to the police as evidence. The chums also gave their information that they had overheard the ex-foreman tell the negro that he intended to jump bail. But the greatest of all was the news of the plot to rescue the gambler prisoners now in jail.

Then the chums started back to camp.

"I noticed," said Lieutenant Prescott, in a low tone, "that you didn't mention the conversation between Bascomb and Evarts."

"I hadn't any right to," Tom said simply. "If Mr. Bascomb once had trouble in his life, but is living honestly now, it would be criminal of me to expose such a secret that he wouldn't want known. Mr. Bascomb's past is none of my business."

"I'm mighty glad to hear you talk that way about it," said Prescott, resting a hand on Reade's shoulder.

"Why?" demanded Tom rather bluntly. "Did you think that I could feel any other way about it?"

"But Evarts is pretty sure to talk a lot about Bascomb, now," hinted the young army officer.

"If he does," sighed Tom, "I don't know that I can think of any way to stop the fellow."

"Then you don't believe that Mr. Bascomb's evil record of past years affects his honesty now?" Dick went on after a long pause.

"I don't believe it," Tom answered with unusual emphasis. "If I did it would be as much as if I said that a fellow who once makes a wrong step must never hope to get back into the right path again. Mr. Prenter, I am certain, is an honest man and an unusually keen one. He is satisfied to trust Mr. Bascomb as president of the company. But, if Evarts is some sort of family connection of Bascomb's, and if he has often threatened to tell all about Mr. Bascomb's past history, you can imagine the terror that poor Mr. Bascomb has lived in for years."

"If I were in Bascomb's place," Dick declared positively, "I would go before the board of directors and tell them the whole story. Then no one else could ever hold any power over me."

"I guess that's the way all of us think we would act if we'd meet a blackmailer," nodded Reade. "Yet I guess most of the victims, when there's a sad, true story that could be told about them, pay the blackmailer and so secure silence."

"Which may be another way," mused the young army officer, "of saying that most men are cowards. Or, maybe, it's another way, after all, of saying that the man who does anything very wrong or crooked is generally such a coward at heart that he'll spend his savings in keeping his secret from the world."

"Yet Bascomb must have shown considerable bravery in meeting Evarts's demands," suddenly suggested Reade. "Otherwise, Mr. Bascomb would now be a poor man and Evarts would have spent all of Bascomb's money. Heretofore, I imagine, Evarts hasn't been able to blackmail his relative for anything much more substantial than a good job. I hear that Evarts has been drawing good pay from the Melliston Company for something more than four years—and Evarts isn't a very useful man, at that."

"Then, after four years of easy berths, no wonder Evarts hates you, Tom, for having bounced him out," smiled Dick Prescott.

"I'm afraid I'm going to do worse than bounce the fellow out of a job," sighed Reade. "I'm afraid I've helped head him for prison for a term of a good many long years."

"Evarts did that much for himself," Prescott argued. "I wouldn't waste much worry over the fellow."

"I suppose it's my way to worry over a dog with a sore paw," answered Reade thoughtfully, "Certainly Evarts has done some mean things against me, and without any just cause; but I don't like the thought of his having to be locked up, away from sunlight, joy and life, for so many years as I'm afraid are coming to him."

Arrived at camp, Tom found Mr. Bascomb walking back and forth on the porch of the engineers' house.

"You're up late, sir," was Tom's friendly greeting to the president.

"Yes, Reade; I can't sleep to-night," said Mr. Bascomb wearily. "I came over here to talk with Prenter. Where is he?"

"Asleep, I imagine, sir," Tom answered.

"Wrong," replied President Bascomb. "I've already been inside, but Prenter isn't in the house."

"Then perhaps he thought it too lively around here," laughed Reade, "and went over to Blixton to sleep at the hotel."

Mr. Bascomb didn't reply to this, but puffed hard at the black cigar he was smoking and sending up clouds of smoke.

But the president of the Melliston Company became instantly more distracted when Tom Reade began an account of the capture of Evarts, and his jailing, and the escape of Mr. Sambo Ebony.

Presently Bascomb began to puff harder than ever at his cigar.

"Reade," he finally blurted out, "how long were you hiding there before Evarts found you there?"

"Some little time," Tom admitted vaguely.

More clouds of cigar smoke ascended; then, shaking, and his face a sickly white and green, the president inquired:

"Reade, were you there—you and Mr. Prescott—at the time when I talked with Evarts on that very spot to-night?"

There was no use in evading the question, so engineer Reade answered in a straightforward manner:

"Yes, sir. Mr. Prescott and I were there."

"Then—then—y-y-you heard all of my talk with Evarts?"

"Yes, sir."

Bascomb's teeth began to chatter so that he was forced to steady his jaws. Tom and Dick looked aside, pitying the man for his evident anguish of mind.

At last the president steadied himself enough to speak.

"Reade, I know I haven't been a very good friend of yours, and I even tried to work you out of this contract altogether. Now, you know my secret, and I'm in your power!"

XXIII. EBONY SAYS "THUMBS UP"

Tom Reade stared in frank amazement at the trembling man.

"Do you mean to insult me, Mr. Bascomb?" demanded the young engineer bluntly.

"Insult you? The fates forbid," replied Bascomb with a sickly grin. "Reade, I don't dare offend you in any way."

"But you do insult me, sir, in believing that it would be possible for me to make any hostile use of whatever unpleasant knowledge I may possess against you."

"Do you mean to say that you wouldn't use the knowledge?" demanded the president of the Melliston Company.

"You're insulting me again, sir. Perhaps you are to be pardoned, Mr. Bascomb. You have been so long dancing to the fiddling of an Evarts that you don't realize how impossible it is for a gentleman to do a dishonorable thing."

"Then—then I—I can rely upon your silence?" demanded Mr. Bascomb, eagerly.

"I am sorry, sir, to think that you even think it necessary to ask me such a question," rejoined Reade gravely.

"Reade! Reade! You can't imagine how grateful you'll find me if I really can rely upon you to forget what you overheard to-night!" cried the humiliated man. "And you, Mr. Prescott—may I depend upon you, also, to preserve silence?"

"I'm afraid, sir, you're putting me in Reade's class as an insulted man," Dick smiled grimly. "My friend, the people of this country, in the person of their President, have issued to me a commission certifying that I am worthy to wear the shoulder-straps of an army officer. The shoulder-straps stand for the strictest sense of honor in all things. If I depart, ever so little, from the laws of honor, I prove my unfitness to wear shoulder-straps. Have I answered you."

There was silence for a few moments. Then, Mr. Bascomb, having smoked his cigar out, tossed the butt away.

"I'd like to offer you a little advice, Mr. Bascomb, if you won't think I'm too forward."

"What is it?" asked the president, turning briskly upon the young chief engineer.

"Just as long as you both live, Mr. Bascomb, Evarts is likely to bother you, in one way or another. Even if he goes to prison himself he'll find a way to bother you from the other side of the grated door. Mr. Bascomb, why don't you yourself disclose this little affair in your past history to the board of directors? Then it would be past any blackmailer's power to harm you."

"I could tell the directors in only one way," Mr. Bascomb answered, his face growing sallow. "That would be to tell my story and hand in my resignation in the same breath. Reade, you don't realize how much the presidency of the Melliston Company means to me! To resign, or to be kicked out, would end my career in the business world."

In the near darkness a step sounded on the gravel. Then Mr. Prenter came briskly forward.

"Bascomb," said the treasurer of the company, "Reade's advice was good, though wholly unnecessary. There is no need to tell the directors the story of your past misfortune. Most of them know it already."

The president's face grew grayish as he listened in torment.

"Moreover," Mr. Prenter continued, "most of us have known all about the matter since just before you were elected president."

"And yet you allowed me to be elected!" cried Mr. Bascomb hoarsely.

"Yes; because we looked up your life and your conduct since—well, ever since you left the past behind and came out into business life again. Our investigation showed that you had been living for years as an honest man. The rest of us on the board are men—or think we are—and we voted, informally, not to allow one misstep of yours to outweigh years of the most upright living since."

"Knowing it all, you elected me to be president of the company!" gasped Mr. Bascomb, as though he could not believe his ears or his senses.

"Now, let us hear no more about it," urged Mr. Prenter, cordially. "If I listened just now—if I played the part of the eavesdropper, allow me to explain my conduct by saying that I, too, was present to-night when you talked with Evarts. I heard, and I knew that Reade and his friend heard. I listened, just now, in order that I might make sure that Thomas Reade, engineer, is a man of honor at all times. And now, let no one say a word more."

Some one else was coming. All on the porch turned and waited to see who it was. Out of the shadows came a hang-dog looking sort of fellow.

"Is Mr. Bascomb here?" asked the newcomer.

"I am Mr. Bascomb," spoke the president.

"Here's a note for you," said the man, handing over an envelope.

Tom stepped inside, got a lantern and lighted it, placing it upon the porch table. With the aid of this illumination Mr. Bascomb read the brief note directed to him.

"It's from Evarts," said the president, looking up with a quiet laugh. "He commands me to come to him at once, in his cell, and to arrange some way of getting out. My man," turning to the messenger, "are you going back to Evarts?"

"Yes," nodded the messenger, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

"Go back to Evarts, then, and tell him that he'll have to threaten some one else this time. Tell him that I am through with him."

"Huh!" growled the hang-dog messenger. "I believe Evarts said that, if old Bascomb wasn't quick, he'd make trouble for some one."

"Tell Evarts," said Mr. Prenter, "that he can't make trouble for any one but himself, and that he had better save his breath for the next time he needs it."

"Evarts will be awful mad, if I go back to him with any talk like that," insinuated the messenger meaningly.

"See here, fellow," interjected. Tom Reade, stepping forward quickly, "I'm rather tired and out of condition to-night, but if you don't leave here as fast as you can go, I'll kick you every step of the way for the first half-mile back to Blixton! Do you think you understand me?"

"I—I reckon I do," admitted the fellow.

"Then start before you tempt my right foot! I'll give you five seconds to get off."

There could be no mistaking that order. The messenger started off, nor did he glance backward as long as he was in sight.

"You see how easily a chap like Evarts can be disposed of," smiled Mr. Prenter.

"He'll send back again for another try, within an hour," prophesied Mr. Bascomb, wearily.

"If he does," laughed Dick Prescott, shortly, "his second appeal won't come by the same messenger."

"Then you were near us, Mr. Prenter, when Evarts and the negro charged us?" Tom inquired.

"I was," smiled the treasurer. "That convicts me of cowardice, doesn't it, in not having come to your aid at the moment of attack? I wasn't quite as big a coward as I would seem, though. The truth is, I was behind you. Had I jumped in in that exciting moment, you would have thought other enemies were attacking from behind. You would have been confused and would have lost the fight."

"By Jove, sir, but that was quick thinking and shrewdness on your part!" ejaculated Dick Prescott.

"Then you acquit me of cowardice?"

"No," smiled the young army officer, "for I hadn't thought of accusing you of lack of courage."

"I am glad you didn't," sighed the treasurer. "I would rather be suspected of almost anything than of lacking manly courage. Afterwards I didn't make my presence known to you, for, at that time, I didn't want you to know that I had overheard a certain conversation."

"My cowardice has made a dreadful mess of things in a lot of ways, hasn't it?" demanded Mr. Bascomb bitterly.

"That's all past now, so it doesn't matter," spoke up Tom Reade. "We have just one move more to make in this baffling game, and then I fancy we shall have won. When Mr. Sambo Ebony, as I have nicknamed him, is safely jailed I think we shall find ourselves undisturbed in the future. We shall then be permitted to go ahead and finish the million-dollar breakwater as a work and a triumph of peace."

"Every time that one of us opens his mouth," laughed Mr. Prenter, "I am expecting to hear a big bang down by the breakwater to punctuate the speaker's sentence. I wonder whether the scoundrels back of Sambo have any more novel ways for setting off their big firecrackers around our wall?"

"It might not be a bad idea for me to get out on the watch again," Tom suggested, rising. "If I get in more trouble than I can handle I'll just yell 'Mr. Prenter,' for I shall know that he'll be within easy hearing distance."

The treasurer laughed, as he, too, rose.

"My being so near you before, Reade, was just accident. I was prowling about on my own account, when you and your army friend passed me in the deep woods. I had an idea that you were out for some definite purpose, and so I just trailed along at your rear in order to be near any excitement that you might turn up."

"And I suppose you're going to follow us this time, too," smiled Tom Reade.

"Prenter," suggested the president of the company, "what do you say if you and I prowl in some other direction? I've been such a miserable coward all through this affair that now I'd like to go with you. If we run into any trouble I'll try to show you that I'm not all coward."

"Come along, Bascomb," agreed the treasurer cordially. "Reade, I give you my word that we won't intentionally follow on your trail."

At a nod from Tom, Dick was at his side. The two high school chums started off with brisk steps.

"Which way are you going?" whispered Dick.

"Let's go down to the breakwater," suggested Tom. "I really ought to visit it once in the night, despite the fact that Corbett is a wholly reliable foreman, and that he has his own pick of workmen on patrol duty there."

As the chums stepped out from under the trees in full view of the breakwater site they beheld the lanterns of the patrol, like so many fireflies, twinkling and bobbing here and there along the narrow-topped retaining wall.

Tom and Dick went out on the wall until they encountered the first workman on patrol. Tom took this man's lantern and signaled the motor boat as it stood in shore.

"All going right, Corbett?" the young engineer hailed, as soon as the "Morton" had come up alongside.

"As far as I can see, Mr. Reade, there's not a sign of the enemy to-night. But of course you know, sir, that we've been just as sure on other nights, only to have a large part of the wall blown clean out of the water."

"All I can say," Tom nodded, "is to go on keeping your eyes and ears open."

"Yes, sir; you may be sure I'll do that," nodded the foreman.

Then Reade and his army chum returned to the shore.

"I guess it will be a wholly blind hunt," Tom laughed, "but I've a notion for returning to the spot where we encountered Sambo Ebony before this night."

After they had left the beach well behind, the chums strolled in under the trees of a rather sparse grove.

Well in toward the center of the grove stood one tree larger than the rest.

From behind this Sambo Ebony swiftly appeared, just at the right instant for surprise. In each hand the negro held a huge automatic revolver.

"Gemmen," chuckled the negro coolly, "Ah jess be nacherally obliged to yo' both if yo'll stick yo' hands ez high up in de air ez yo' can h'ist 'em. It am a long worm dat nebber turns, an' Ah'se done reckon dat Ah'se de tu'ning worm to-night! Thumbs up, gemmen!"

Despite Sambo's bantering tone there could be no doubt that to fail to obey him would be to invite a swift fusillade.

Reluctantly Tom Reade thrust his hands up skyward. Nor did Dick Prescott hesitate to follow so prompt an example.

XXIV. CONCLUSION

"Now Ah reckon Ah'se done got yo'," laughed the big negro, insolently. "It am a question ob w'ich one Ah wantah pick off fust!"

In his wicked joy over having both the young engineer and the army officer wholly at his mercy Sambo, his mouth open and his massive teeth showing white in his grin, advanced nearer.

Yet he did not fail to keep each of his enemies covered. He was watching most alertly for any sign of rebellion on the part of his victims.

Nor was there any doubt in the mind of either young man that the black, after playing with them, meant to dispose of them as his possession of pistols indicated.

He would torment them first, then ruthlessly "shoot them up."

"How long are we to keep our hands up?" asked Tom banteringly.

It would be foolish to say that Reade was not afraid, but he was determined to keep Ebony from discovering the fact.

"Yo's to keep yo' hands up longer dan yo' can keep yo' moufs shut!" scowled the black man, his ugly streak showing once more.

"It makes me think of the way we used to play football," laughed Reade, though there was not much mirth in his chuckle.

"Shut yo' mouf, or Ah done gib yo' plenty to think erbout!" ordered Sambo angrily.

That word "football" set Dick Prescott to tingling. He knew there was some hidden meaning in what Tom had said.

"Are you trying to signal us, Sambo?" queried the army officer.

That word "signal" was intended only for Tom's ear, for Lieutenant Prescott was beginning to guess at the truth.

"On the gridiron, on the gridiron!" hummed Tom, audibly, as he tried clumsily to fit the words to the refrain of a popular song.

Dick Prescott was "getting warm" on the scent of the hidden meaning.

"Shut yo' mouf!" gruffly commanded the lack. "Ah doan' wantah tell yo' dat again, neider."

"Right foot—high foot!" chanted Tom.

Mentally Dick Prescott jumped as though he had been shot. "Right foot—high foot" had been one of their old kicking signals on the Gridley High School eleven!

Lieutenant Dick Prescott fairly throbbed as he now understood the covered signal.

"Now!" left Reade's lips with explosive energy, though the word was low-spoken.

At "right foot—high foot" and "now" each youth suddenly shot his right foot up into the air.

Tom's landed against Sambo's right wrist, kicking the automatic revolver completely out of the negro's hands.

Dick's kick landed against the black man's left wrist. The pistol held in Sambo's left hand was discharged, though the muzzle had been driven up at such an angle that the bullet passed harmlessly over Prescott's head.

In a twinkling Ebony had been disarmed.

Darting low, Tom grappled with the negro's legs. Then Reade rose swiftly, toppling Sambo over backward.

Dick Prescott bounded upon the prostrate foe, beating him with both fists. Tom also threw himself into the melee.

While the black might have thrashed either youth alone he was not equal to handling both at the same time.

"I've got him, now, and he'll behave, I guess," panted Tom Reade, at last. "Slip off, Dick, and gather in the pistols."

As Prescott did so Sambo made the last few efforts of which he was capable. He had been hammered so hard, however, that Tom did not have extreme difficulty in holding him down.

"Now, lie still and take orders," warned Dick, pressing one of the pistols against the black man's temple, "or I'll get excited and send you out of this world for keeps!"

Sambo Ebony thereupon dropped into sullen muttering, but did not offer to resist. Prescott, as a soldier, had a businesslike way of handling weapons that cowed the black man.

Tom got up leisurely from the prostrate foe.

"Now, you can stand a little farther off, Dick," he suggested, "and then the fellow won't get a chance to tip you over with any trick. If he tries to get up before he's told you can easily bring him to earth again, for you've been taught the exact use of firearms."

"Good idea," nodded Lieutenant Prescott, backing away a few feet. "Are you going to run for assistance now, Tom?"

"No," retorted Reade. "You're going to shoot for it."

"Eh?"

"Fire a shot into the air from each revolver. That, with the accidental discharge of a moment go, will show any listener that there's trouble going on over here. I miss my guess if the shots don't bring help very shortly."

Bang! Bang!

Nor was Reade's guess a wrong one. Not much time passed before steps were heard hurrying in their direction.

"Here! This way!" summoned Tom.

"Are you hurt?" sounded Mr. Prenter's voice.

"No; but we have Sambo Ebony here, and he's going to be hurt if he tries to stir."

President and treasurer of the Melliston Company raced to the spot. Barely sixty seconds afterward Foreman Corbett, with four negroes and one Italian laborer, also came up.

"Corbett, you have the handcuffs I gave you the other night, haven't you?" Tom asked.

"Yes, sir. Here they are."

Tom took the steel bracelets, ordering Mr. Sambo Ebony to turn over and lie face downward, with his hands behind his back. Then the handcuffs were slipped over the black wrists.

"Now, Sambo," called Tom laughingly, "we'll set you on your feet and whistle the rogues' march for you all the way."

"Yah, yah, yah!" jeered one of the negroes who had come up with Foreman Corbett, as he gazed contemptuously up and down the bulky figure of Mr. Ebony. "Yo' done been tellin' us 'spectable cullud fo'ks dat de great way to injye life was to be tough an' smaht, lak yo'se'f. How ye' feel erbout it now? Doan' yo' wish yo' been mo' 'spectable yo'se'f? Doan' ye' done wish dat ye' had been to camp-meeting a few times in yo' life? Doan' yo' wish ye' been honest most er de time, an' been a hahd-wo'kin', pay-ye'-bills niggah lak some ob de rest oh us? Yo' fool lump er tar, yo' boun' ter go de way ob all de wicked—down to ye' grave in misery an' sorrow. It's de way oh all ob yo' lazy, ugly, wuthless kind!"

"I've heard philosophers talk," laughed Dick, in an aside to Tom Reade, "but I can't say that I ever yet listened to a trained philosopher who had the truth of life down any more pat than the negro workman who just now gave his views."

"On all matters of good behavior wise men of all degrees hold about the same views," nodded Reade, "even though they may express their thoughts in differing grades of speech. This good negro knows just where the bad negro has failed in life."

Mr. Sambo Ebony was marched off to jail. Even up to the minute when he was sentenced to twenty years' imprisonment the big black stubbornly refused to give his real name. He was therefore taken away to prison under the name "Sambo Ebony."

Evarts got off with eight years and four months in prison. He is still serving that sentence.

Hawkins and his crew of gamblers and bootleggers were sentenced to two years apiece, as only misdemeanor charges could be preferred against them.

From the foregoing it will be inferred that the proposed jail delivery by other members of the gang from elsewhere did not come off according to plan. The truth was that the citizens of Blixton, when appealed to, organized a strong guard which was thrown around the jail. Doubtless the gang-members were warned in time, and so did not attempt to commit wholesale suicide by running against a citizens' posse.

Mr. Bascomb is still president of the Melliston Company, and he is holding up his head. No further fear of blackmailers oppresses him.

Dick Prescott was able to remain several days longer—long enough, in fact, to see the more substantial structure of the million-dollar breakwater begin to go up just inside the completed retaining wall.

Then Lieutenant Dick was obliged to resume his journey on to Fort Clowdry, Colorado. What happened to Prescott, after joining the army as an officer, is told in "Uncle Sam's Boys on Field Duty," the second volume in the "Boys of the Army Series."

Though Harry Hazelton was disappointed in missing some of the excitement at Blixton, he had no occasion to complain in that respect when he and Tom entered upon the next great undertaking of the young engineer pair.

After the disappearance of the big black from the scene there was no further trouble at the breakwater.

Blixton is now an important though artificial harbor. With the completion of the breakwater, and the building of a lighthouse, the next work undertaken was the building of stone docks at which the steamships of the Melliston Line now dock.

The next adventures that befell Tom and Harry were destined to be the most wonderful and exciting of all. These adventures must be reserved for complete telling in the next volume in this series, which is published under the title, "The Young Engineers In The Lead; Or, The stroke That Made Them Masters of Their Field."

It is a story of almost incredible efforts, backed by strong ambition, of two American youths who had both the desire and the will to toil unceasingly and at last reach their goal.

THE END