would have done. If you had had a revolver, and had drawn it,
Pete would have drilled you through the head."

"Drilled me through the head---with what?" asked Tom, smiling.

"With a bullet, of course, young man," retorted Mr. Thurston.

"I don't believe he would have gone as far as that," laughed Tom.
"You see, sir, it was like this: When I found Harry so set on
carrying a pistol, I went down deep in my own pocket and bought
two boxes of blank cartridges to fit the forty-fives. I thought
if Harry were going to do some shooting, it would be the part
of friendship to fix him so that he could do it in safety to himself
and others."

Harry's face turned decidedly red. He was beginning to feel foolish.

"Now, this morning," Tom continued, "when I got the khaki out
of my dunnage, I ran across the blanks. I don't know what made
me do it, but I dropped the box of blanks into one of my pockets.
This noon, when I went off to find a stream where I could wash
up, I almost stepped on our friend Peter, asleep under a bush.
For greater comfort he had taken off his belt and holster. Somehow,
I didn't like the idea of his being there. As softly as I could
I crept close. I emptied his revolver and fitted in blanks from
my own box. Then I took about twenty cartridges out of Peter's
belt and replaced them with blanks."

"Do you mean to tell me," broke in Rutter, "that Bad Pete, when
he turned his revolver loose on you, was shooting nothing but