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