asked Harry.

"Blessed if I know," Tom yawned. "I believe there are three of them here
or over in Blixton, but I wouldn't know one of them, if I fell over him.
The detectives came, secured their orders from Mr. Prenter, and went to
work---or pretended to go to work. I'm glad that I'm not responsible for
the detectives."

Nicolas entered, an envelope in his hand.

"Par-rdon, Senor Reade," begged the Mexican. "I would not interrupt, but
on the porch I found thees letter. It is address to you."

Tom took the envelope and scanned it, saying:

"The address is printed---probably because the writer didn't want to run
the risk of having his writing identified. Probably the letter, also, is
printed. Pardon me, gentlemen, while I open this communication . . . Yes;
the letter is printed, and unsigned---a further sign of cowardice on the
part of the writer. And now let me see what it says."

Tom spent a few moments in going through the communication. A white line
formed around his mouth as he read. Then he passed the letter to Harry,
who read it aloud, as follows:

_"You have had a week of peace. Is peace better than war? You may have
all the peace you wish, and go on working and prospering if you will let
others do the same. Stop interfering with the right of your men to amuse
themselves and all will be well. Try any of your former tricks in the
camp, and then you will have good cause to 'Beware!'"_

"Is that a declaration of war?" asked Harry, looking up.

"I think so," nodded Tom.

"Then how are you going to meet it?"

"There's only one way," Tom returned. "A declaration of war must be met
with a fight. Unless I'm very greatly in error the gamblers and
bootleggers will try to start up matters again to-night in camp."

"And you'll throw them down harder than before?" queried Mr. Renshaw,
gazing keenly at the young chief.

"If it be possible," Tom declared. "Nicolas, be kind enough to go over
and ask the foremen to report here at 8:20 promptly. At 8:30 we will
enter camp and see what is going on."

"I miss my guess, then," chuckled Mr. Renshaw, quietly, "if our arrival
isn't followed by war in earnest."

"War is never so bad," retorted Tom Reade, his jaws setting, "as a
disgraceful peace!"

CHAPTER XII

AN ENGINEER'S FIGHTING BLOOD

Just at half-past eight that evening Tom, Harry, the superintendent and the
foremen entered camp.

They went, first, to a shack which they knew to be o