“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.