BAD PETE BECOMES WORSE
Timothy Thurston’s gaze was curious, and his voice a trifle cold.
Yet he did not by any means treat the boys with contempt. He
appeared simply to wonder why these young men had traveled so
far to take up his time.
“We couldn’t afford to take a college course in engineering, sir,”
Tom Reade continued, reddening slightly. “We have learned all
that we possibly could in other ways, however.”
“Do you expect me, young men, to detail an experienced engineer
to move about with you as instructor until you learn enough to
be of use to us?”
“No, indeed, we don’t, sir,” Tom replied, and perhaps his voice
was sharper than usual, though it rang with earnestness. “We
believe, sir, that we are very fair engineers. We are willing
to be tried out, sir, and to be rated exactly where you find that
we belong. If necessary we’ll start in as helpers to the chainmen,
and we have pride enough to walk back over the trail at any moment
when you decide that we’re no good. We have traveled all the
way from the east, and I trust, sir, that you’ll give us a fair
chance to show if we know anything.”
“It won’t take long to find that out,” replied Mr. Thurston gravely.
“Of course you both understand that we are doing real engineering
work and haven’t any time to instruct amateurs or be patient with
them.”
“We don’t want instruction, Mr. Thurston,” Hazelton broke in.
“We want work, and when we get it we’ll do it.”
“I hope your work will be as good as your assurance,” replied
the chief engineer, with a slight twinkle in his eyes. “What
can you do?”
“We know how to do ordinary surveying, sir,” Tom replied quickly.
“We can run our courses and supervise the chaining. We know
how to bring in field notes that are of some use. We can do our
work well within the limits of error allowed by the United States
Government. We also consider ourselves competent at leveling.
Give us the profile plan and the notes on an excavation, and we
can superintend the laborers who have to make an excavation.
We have a fair knowledge of ordinary road building. We have the
strength of usual materials at our finger’s ends, and for beginners
I think we may claim that we are very well up in mathematics.
We have had some all-around experience. Here is a letter, sir,
from Price & Conley, of Gridley, in whose offices we have done
quite a bit of work.”
Mr. Thurston took the letter courteously, though he did not
immediately glance at it.
“Country surveyors, these gentlemen, I suppose?” he asked, looking
into Tom’s eyes.
“Yes, sir,” nodded Reade, “though Mr. Price is also the engineer for
our home county. Both Mr. Price and Mr. Conley paid us the
compliment of saying that we were well fitted to work in a railway
engineering camp.”
“Well, we’ll try you out, until you either make good or convince
us that you can’t,” agreed the chief engineer, without any show
of enthusiasm. “You may show them where they are to live, Mr.
Blaisdell, and where they are to mess. In the morning you can
put these young men at some job or other.”
The words sounded like a dismissal, but Blaisdell lingered a moment.
“Mr. Thurston,” he smiled, “our young men ran, first thing, into
Bad Pete.”
“Yes?” inquired the chief. “Did Pete show these young men his
fighting front?”
Blaisdell repeated the dialogue that had taken place between Tom
and Bad Pete.
The chief listened to his assistant in silence. Tom flushed slightly
under the penetrating glance Mr. Thurston cast upon him during
the recital.
When the assistant had finished, the chief merely remarked: “Blaisdell,
I wish you could get rid of that fellow, Bad Pete. I don’t like
to have him hanging about the camp. He’s an undesirable character,
and I’m afraid that some of our men will have trouble with him.
Can’t you get rid of him?”
“I’ll do it if you say so, Mr. Thurston,” Blaisdell answered quietly.
“How?” inquired his chief.
“I’ll serve out firearms to five or six of the men, and the next
time Pete shows his face we’ll cover him and march him miles away
from camp.”
“That wouldn’t do any good,” replied Mr. Thurston, with a shake
of his head. “Pete would only come back, uglier than before,
and he’d certainly shoot up some of our men.”
“You asked me, a moment ago, Mr. Thurston, what I could do,” Tom
broke in. “Give me a little time, and I’ll agree to rid the camp
of Peter.”
“How?” asked the chief abruptly. “Not with any gun-play! Pete
would be too quick for you at anything of that sort.”
“I don’t carry a pistol, and don’t wish to do so,” Tom retorted.
“In my opinion only a coward carries a pistol.”
“Then you think Bad Pete is a coward, young man?” returned the
chief.
“If driven into a corner I’m pretty sure he’d turn out to be one,
sir,” Tom went on earnestly. “A coward is a man who’s afraid.
If a fellow isn’t afraid of anything, then why does he have to
carry firearms to protect himself?”
“I don’t believe that would quite apply to Pete,” Mr. Thurston
went on. “Pete doesn’t carry a revolver because he’s afraid of
anything. He knows that many other men are afraid of pistols,
and so he carries his firearms about in order that he may enjoy
himself in playing bully.”
“I can drive him out of camp,” Tom insisted. “All I’ll wait for
will be your permission to go ahead.”
“If you can do it without shooting,” replied the chief, “try your
hand at it. Be careful, however, Reade. There are plenty of
good natural lead mines in these mountains.”
“Yes---sir?” asked Reade, looking puzzled.
“Much as we’d like to see Pete permanently out of this camp, remember
that we don’t want you to give the fellow any excuse for turning
you into a lead mine.”
“If Peter tries anything like that with me,” retorted Tom solemnly,
“I shall be deeply offended.”
“Very good. Take the young men along with you, Blaisdell. I’ll
hear your report on them tomorrow night.”
The assistant engineer took Tom and Harry over to a seven by nine
tent.
“You’ll bunk in here,” he explained, “and store your dunnage here.
There are two folding cots in the tent, as you see. Don’t shake
’em out until it’s time to turn in, and then you’ll have more
room in your house. Now, come on over and I’ll show you the mess
tent for the engineers.”
This Blaisdell also showed them. There was nothing in the tent
but a plain, long table, with folding legs, and a lot of camp
chairs of the simplest kind.
“What’s that tent, Mr. Blaisdell?” inquired Harry, pointing to
the next one, as they came out of the engineers’ mess.
“Mess tent for the chainmen and rod men laborers, etc.,” replied
their guide. “Now, the fellows will be in soon, and supper will
be on in half an hour. After you get your dunnage over to your
tent amuse yourselves in any way that you care to. I’ll introduce
you to the crowd at table.”
Tom and Harry speedily had their scanty dunnage stored in their
own tent. Then they sat down on campstools just outside the door.
“Thurston didn’t seem extremely cordial, did he?” asked Hazelton
solemnly.
“Well, why should he be cordial?” Tom demanded. “What does he
know about us? We’re trying to break in here and make a living,
but how does he know that we’re not a pair of merely cheerful
idiots?”
“I’ve an idea that Mr. Thurston is always rather cool with his
staff,” pursued Harry.
“Do your work, old fellow, in an exceptionally fine way, and I
guess you’ll find that he can thaw out. Mr. Thurston is probably
just like other men who have to employ folks. When he finds that
a man can really do the work that he’s paid to do I imagine that
Thurston is well satisfied and not afraid to show it.”
“What’s that noise?” demanded Harry, trying to peer around the
corner of their tent without rising.
“The field gang coming in, I think,” answered Tom.
“Let’s get up, then, and have a look at our future mates,” suggested
Harry Hazelton.
“No; I don’t believe it would be a good plan,” said Tom. “We might
be thought fresh if we betrayed too much curiosity before the
crowd shows some curiosity about us.”
“Reade!” sounded Blaisdell’s voice, five minutes later. “Bring
your friend over and inspect this choice lot of criminals.”
Tom rose eagerly, followed by Harry. As they left the tent and
hurried outside they beheld two rows of men, each before a long
bench on which stood agate wash basins. The toilet preceding
the evening meal was on.
“Gentlemen,” announced Mr. Blaisdell, as the two chums drew near, “I
present two new candidates for fame. One is named Reade, the other
Hazelton. Take them to your hearts, but don’t, at first, teach them all
the wickedness you know. Reade, this is Jack Rutter, the spotted hyena
of the camp. If he ever gets in your way just push him over a cliff.”
A pleasant-faced young man in khaki hastily dried his face and
hands on a towel, then smilingly held out his right hand.
“Glad to know you, Reade,” he laughed. “Hope you’ll like us and
decide to stay.”
“Hazelton,” continued the announcer, “shake hands with Slim Morris,
whether he’ll let you or not. And here’s Matt Rice. We usually
call him ‘Mister’ Rice, for he’s extremely talented. He knows
how to play the banjo.”
The assistant engineer then turned away, while one young man,
at the farther end of the long wash bench stood unpresented.
“Oh, on second thoughts,” continued Blaisdell, “I’ll introduce
you to Joe Grant.”
The last young man came forward.
“Joe used to be a good fellow---once,” added the assistant engineer.
“In these days, however, you want to keep your dunnage boxes
locked. Joe’s specialty is stealing fancy ties---neckties, I
mean.”
Joe laughed good-humoredly as he shook hands, adding:
“We’ll tell you all about Blaisdell himself, boys, one of these
days, but not now. It’s too far from pay day, and old Blaze stands
in too thickly with the chief.”
“If you folks don’t come into supper soon,” growled the voice
of the cook, Jake Wren, from the doorway of the engineer’s mess
tent, “I’ll eat your grub myself.”
“He’d do it, too,” groaned Slim Morris, a young man who nevertheless
weighed more than two hundred pounds. “Blaze, won’t you take
us inside and put us in our high chairs?”
There was infinite good humor in this small force of field engineers.
As was afterwards learned, all of them were graduates either
of colleges or of scientific schools but not one of them affected
any superiority over the young newcomers.
Just as the party had seated themselves there was a step outside,
and Bad Pete stalked in looking decidedly sulky.
“Evening,” he grunted, and helped himself to a seat at the table.
“Reade and Hazelton, you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Pete,
I believe?” asked Blaisdell, without the trace of a smile.
“Huh!” growled Pete, not looking up, for the first supply of food
was on the table.
“We’ve had the pleasure, twice today, of meeting Mr. Peter,” replied
Tom, with equal gravity.
“See here, tenderfoot,” scowled Bad Pete, looking up from his
plate, “don’t you call me ‘Peter’ again. Savvy?”
“We don’t know your other name, sir,” rejoined Tom, eyeing the
bad man with every outward sign of courtesy.
“I’m just plain Pete. Savvy that?
“Certainly, Plain Pete,” Reade nodded.
Pete dropped his soup spoon with a clatter letting his right hand
fall to the holster.
“Be quiet, Pete,” warned Blaisdell, his eyes shooting a cold glance
at the angry man. “Reade is a newcomer, not used to our ways
yet. Remember that this is a gentleman’s club.”
“Then let him get out,” warned Pete blackly.
“He belongs here by right, Pete, and you’re a guest. Of course we
enjoy having you here with us, but, if you don’t care to take us
as you find us, the fellows in the chainmen’s mess will be glad to
have you join them.”
“That tenderfoot is only a boy,” growled Pete. “If he can’t hold
his tongue when men are around, then I’ll teach him how.”
“Reade hasn’t done anything to offend you,” returned Blaisdell,
half sternly, half goodhumoredly. “You let him alone, and he’ll
let you alone. I’m sure of that.”
“Blaisdell, if you don’t see that I’m treated right in this mess,
I’ll teach you something, too,” flared Bad Pete.
“Threatening the president of the mess is a breach of courtesy
on the part of any guest who attempts it,” spoke Blaisdell again.
“Gentlemen, what is your pleasure?”
“I move,” suggested Slim Morris quietly, “that Pete be considered
no longer a member or guest of this mess.”
“Second the motion,” cried Rutter, Rice and Grant together.
“The motion appears to have been carried, without the necessity
for putting it,” declared Mr. Blaisdell. “Pete, you have heard
the pleasure of the mess.”
“Huh!” scowled Bad Pete, picking up his soup plate and draining it.
Jake Wren, at this moment, entered with a big platter of roast
beef, Bob, the helper, following with dishes of vegetables. Then
Bob came in with plates, which he placed before Blaisdell. The
latter counted the plates, finding eight.
“We shan’t need this plate, Bob,” declared Blaisdell evenly, handing
it back. Then he began to carve.
“Put that plate back with the rest, Bob, you pop-eyed coyote,”
ordered Bad Pete.
Bob, looking uneasy, started to do so, but Blaisdell waved him
away. At that instant Jake Wren came back into the tent.
“For the present, Jake,” went on the assistant engineer, “serve
only for seven in this tent. Pete is leaving us.”
“Do you mean-----” flared Pete, leaping to his feet and striding
toward the engineer.
“I mean,” responded Blaisdell, without looking up, “that we hope
the chainmen’s mess will take you on. But if they don’t like
you, they don’t have to do so.”
For ten seconds, while Pete stood glaring at Blaisdell, it looked
as though the late guest would draw his revolver. Pete was swallowing
hard, his face having turned lead color.
“Won’t you oblige us by going at once, Pete?” inquired Blaisdell
coolly.
“Not until I’ve settled my score here,” snarled the fellow. “Not
until I’ve evened up with you, you-----”
At the same time Pete reached for his revolver in evident earnest.
Both his words and his movement were nipped short.
Morris and Rice were the only men in the engineers’ party who
carried revolvers. They carried weapons, in the day time, for
protection against a very real foe, the Rocky Mountain rattlesnakes,
which infested the territory through which the engineers were
then working.
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!”
Bad Pete gazed fiercely toward the engineers’ tent, hesitated
a moment, and then walked wrathfully away.