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.