Both these engineers reached swiftly for their weapons.

Before they could produce them, however, or ore Pete could finish
what he was saying, Tom Reade leaped up from his campstool, closing
in behind the bad man.

"Ow-ow! Ouch!" yelled Pete. "Let go, you painted coyote."

"Walk right out of the tent, and I shall rejoice to let you depart,"
responded Tom steadily.

Standing behind the fellow, he had, with his strong, wiry fingers,
gripped Pete hard right over the biceps muscle of each arm. Like
many another of his type Pete had developed no great amount of
bodily strength. Though he struggled furiously, he was unable
to wrench himself free from this youth who had trained hard in
football training squads.

"Step outside and cool off, Peter," advised Tom, thrusting the
bad man through the doorway. "Have too much pride, man, to force
yourself on people who don't want your company."

Reade ran his foe outside a dozen feet, then released him, turning
and reentering the tent.

"No, you don't! Put up your pistol," sounded the warning voice
of Cook Jake Wren outside. "You take a shot at that young feller,
Pete, and I'll never serve you another mouthful as long as I'm
in the Rockies!"