Throwing his arms around Tom, the bully lifted him and bore him inside,
dropping him on the floor in the dark.
“He's some tough fighter,” muttered Tom's assailant. “I didn't know but
he'd get me.”
“No; he couldn't,” replied the other voice. “I was just opening the door
so I could slip out and give him a clip in the dark.”
“He's coming to,” muttered the bully. “Ye'll have to tell me what you
want done with him.”
The speaker had knelt by Tom, with a hand roughly laid against the young
engineer's pulse. Neither plotter could see the boy, for no light had
been struck in the room.
“Pick him up,” ordered the one who appeared to be directing affairs. “If
he comes to while you're carrying him you can handle him easily enough,
can't you?”
“Of course. Even after he knows pie from dirt he'll be dazed for a few
minutes.”
“Come along with him.”
“Strike a light.”
For answer the director of this brutal affair flashed a little glow from
a pocket electric lamp.
The way led down a hallway, through to the back of the house, and thence
down a steep flight of stairs into a cellar.
The man who appeared to be in charge of this undertaking had brought a
lantern, holding it ahead of the man who carried Tom's unconscious form.
“Dump him there,” ordered the man with the lantern.
“He's stirring,” reported the fighter, after having dropped young Reade
to the hard earthen floor.
“Take this then,” replied the other, who, having hung the lantern on
a hook overhead, had stepped off beyond the fringe of darkness. He now
returned with a shotgun, which he handed to the fighter who had attacked
the young chief engineer in the street.
“Do you want me to shoot him?” whispered the other huskily.
“If you have to, but I don't believe it will be necessary. The cub
will soon understand that his safety depends entirely on doing as he is
told.”
“Say,” muttered Tom thickly. He stirred, opened his eyes, then sat up,
looking dazed.
“Don't move or talk too much,” advised the man with the shotgun. As he
spoke, he moved the muzzle close to Reade's face.
“Hello!” muttered Tom, blinking rather hard.
“Hello yourself. That's talking enough for you to do,” snapped the
bully.
“Was that the thing you hit me over the head with at the finish?”
inquired the young engineer curiously.
“Careful! You're expected to think--not talk,” leered his captor. “If
ye want something to think about ye can remember that I have fingers on
both triggers of this gun.”
“I can see that much,” Tom assented. “Why do you think that it's
necessary to keep that thing pointed at me? Have you got me in a place
where you feel that facilities for escaping are too great?”
The word “facilities” appeared too big for the mind of the bully to
grasp.
“I don't know what ye're talkin' about,” he grumbled.
“Neither do I,” Tom admitted cheerily. “My friend, I'm not going to
irritate you by pretending that I know more than you do. In fact, I know
less, for I have no idea what is about to happen to me here, and that's
something that you do know.”
“No; I don't,” glared his captor, “and I don't care what is going to
happen to you.”
Back of the fringe between light and darkness steps were heard on the
cellar stairs. Then someone moved steadily forward until he came into
the light.
“Hello, Jim!” Tom called good-humoredly.
“Don't try to be too familiar with your betters, young man!” came the
stern reply.
“Oh, a thousand pardons, Mr. Duff,” Tom amended hastily. “I didn't
intend to insult your dignity. Indeed, I am only too glad to find you
resolved to be dignified.”
“If you try to get fresh with me,” growled the gambler, “I'll knock your
head off.”
“Call it a slap on the wrist, and let it go at that,” urged Tom. “I'm
very nervous to-night, and a blow on the head might make me worse.”
“Nothing could make you worse,” growled, Duff, turning on his heel, “and
only death could improve you.”
“Then I'm distinctly opposed to the up-lift,” grinned Tom, but Duff
had disappeared into a darker part of the cellar and the young engineer
could not tell whether or not his shaft had reached its mark.
“Ye wouldn't be so fresh if ye had a good idea of what ye're up against
to-night,” warned the bully with the gun.
“I fancy a good many of us would tone down if we could look ahead for
three whole days,” Tom suggested.
Other steps were now heard on the stairs. The newcomers remained outside
the illuminated part of the cellar until still others arrived.
“Now, gentlemen,” proposed the voice of Jim Duff, “suppose we have a
look at the troublemaker.”
“They can't mean me,” Tom hinted to his immediate captor.
“Shut up!” came the surly answer.
Fully a dozen men now moved forward. With the single exception of Duff,
each had a cloth, with eye-holes, tied in place over his face.
“My, but this looks delightfully mysterious!” chuckled Tom.
“You be still, boy, except when you answer something that calls for a
reply,” ordered Jim Duff, who had dropped all of the surface polish of
manner that he usually employed. “This meeting need not last long, and
I'll do most of the talking.”
“Won't these other gentlemen present be allowed to do some of the
talking?” the young engineer inquired.
“They don't want to,” Duff explained gruffly. “That might lead to their
being recognized.”
“Oh, that's the game?” mused Tom Reade aloud. “Why, I thought they had
the handkerchiefs over their faces because--”
“Shut up and listen!” warned Jim Duff.
“...because,” finished Tom, “they wanted me to feel that everything was
being done regularly and in good dime-novel form. My, but they do look
like some of the fellows that Hen Dutcher used to tell us about. Hen
used to waste more time on dime novels than--”
“Shut up!” again commanded Duff. “These gentlemen feel that there is no
need of their being recognized.”
“Then why didn't Fred Ransom, of the Colthwaite Company, cover up the
scar on his chin?” retorted Reade. “Why didn't Ashby, of the Mansion
House, invent a new style of walking for the occasion?”
Both men named drew hastily back into the shadow. Tom chuckled quietly.
“I could name a few others,” Tom continued carelessly. “In fact--I think
I know you all. Gentlemen, you might as well remove your masks.”
“Club him with the butt of the gun, if he talks too much,” Duff directed
the bully, who had stepped back a few paces as the men formed a circle
around the young engineer.
“Did you ever try to stop water from running down hill, Duff,” Tom
inquired good-humoredly.
“What has that to do with--” began the gambler angrily.
“Nothing very much,” Tom admitted. “Only it's a waste of time to try to
bind my tongue. The only thing you can do is to gag me; but, from some
things you've let drop, I judge that you want me to do some of the
talking presently.”
“We do,” nodded Duff, seeking to regain his temper. “However, it won't
do you any good to attempt to do your talking before you've heard me.”
“If I've been interfering with your rights, then I certainly owe you an
apology,” Tom answered, with mock gravity. “May I beg you to begin your
speech?”
“I will if you'll keep quiet long enough, boy,” Jim Duff retorted.
“I'll try,” sighed Reade. “Let's hear you.”
“This committee of gentlemen--” began the gambler.
“All gentlemen?” Tom inquired gravely.
“This committee,” Duff started again, “have concerned themselves with
the fact that you have done much to make business bad here in Paloma.
You have prevented hundreds of workmen from coming into Paloma to spend
their wages as they otherwise would have done.”
“Some mistake there,” Reade urged. “I can't control the actions of my
men after working hours.”
“You've persuaded them against coming into town,” retorted Duff sternly.
“None of the A. G. & N. M. workmen come into Paloma with their wages.”
“I'm glad to hear that,” Tom nodded. “It's the effect of taking good
advice, not the result of orders.”
Some of the masked listeners stirred impatiently.
“It's all the same,” Jim growled. “Your men don't come into town, and
Paloma suffers from the loss of that much business.”
“I'm sorry to hear it.”
“So this committee,” the gambler went on, “has instructed me to inform
you that your immediate departure from Paloma will be necessary if you
care to go on living.”
“I can't go just yet,” Tom declared, with a shake of his bead. “My work
here at Paloma isn't finished.”
“Your work will be finished before the night is over, if you don't
accept our orders to leave town,” growled Duff.
“Dear me! Is it as bad as that?” queried Reade.
“Worse, as you'll find! What's your answer, Reade?”
“All I can say then,” Tom replied innocently, “is that it is too bad.”
Clip! Jim Duff bent forward, administering a smart cuff against the
right side of the sitting engineer's face.
“Don't do that!” warned Tom, leaping lithely to his feet. He faced the
gambler coolly, but the lad's muscles were working under the sleeves of
his shirt.
Duff drew back three steps, after which he faced the boy, eyeing him
steadily.
“Reade, you've heard what we have to say to you. That you can't go on
living in Paloma. Are you ready to give us your word to leave Paloma
before daylight, and never come back?”
“No,” Tom replied flatly.
“Then,” sneered the gambler, fixing the gaze of his snake-like eyes on
the young chief engineer, “I'll tell you what we have provided for you.
We shall take you to the edge of the town, at once, and there hang you
by the neck to a tree. After you've ceased squirming we'll fasten this
card to you.”
From another man present Jim snatched a printed card, bearing this
legend:
“Gone, for the good of the community!”