“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.