the ears of any human being more than a dozen feet away.

Bad Pete was still about two hundred and fifty feet ahead, nor
did he, as yet, give any sign whatever of having noted the vehicle.
Instead, he was leaning against a boulder at the turn in the
road. In his left hand he held a hand-rolled cigarette from which
he took an occasional reflective puff as he looked straight ahead
of him as though he were enjoying the scenery. The road---trail---ran
close along the edge of a sloping precipice. Fully nine hundred
feet below ran a thin line of silver, or so it appeared. In reality
it was what was left of the Snake River now, in July, nearly dried
out.

Over beyond the gulch, for a mile or more, extended a rather flat,
rock-strewn valley. Beyond that were the mountains, two peaks
of which, even at this season, were white-capped with snow. On
the trail, however, the full heat of summer prevailed.

"This grand, massive scenery makes a human being feel small, doesn't
it?" asked Tom.

Harry, however, had his eyes and all his thoughts turned toward
the man whom they were nearing.

"This---er---Bad Pete isn't an---er---that is, a road agent, is
he?" he asked apprehensively.

"He may be, for all I know," the driver answered. "At present
he mostly hangs out around the S.B. & L. outfit."