“’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.