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Page 50
The sudden flooding of light into the place and the rush of hobnailed
shoes on the stairs recalled even the gambler's scattered senses.
"There they are!" yelled a voice. "Grab 'em! Be careful you don't hit
Mr. Reade."
In another instant the cellar was the center of a wild scene. Railway
laborers flooded the little place. While some held dark lanterns that
threw a bright glow over the scene, others leaped upon the masked ones,
tearing the cloths from their faces.
"Serve 'em hot!" roared the same rough voice.
"Stop!" commanded Tom Reade, leaping forward where the light was
brightest and into the thick of the struggling mass of humanity.
"Stop, I tell you!"
His commands fell upon deaf ears. It was impossible to restrain these
men.
Here and there the lately masked men drew pistols, though not one of
them had a chance to use his weapon ere it was wrested from him.
Pound! slam! bang! A medley of falling blows filled the air, nor was it
many seconds later when cries of pain and fear, and appeals for mercy
were heard on all sides.
Tom had recognized his own railroad workers, and was throwing himself
among them, doing his utmost with hands and voice to stop the brief but
wild orgy of revenge on the part of the workmen who idolized him. In
their present rage, however, Tom could not at once restrain them. Time
and again he was swept back from reaching Tim Griggs, who was easily the
center of this volcanic outburst of human passion.
"Boys!" roared Tim. "We'll want to know these coyotes to-morrow. Black
the left eye of each rascal. I'll black both of Jim Duff's."
Two heavy, sodden impacts sounded during a brief pause in the noise,
attesting to the fact that the gambler had been decorated.
"Stop all this! Stop!" roared Tom Reade. "Men, we're not savages, just
because these other fellows happen to be! Stop it, I tell you. Are
there no foremen here?"
"I'm trying to reach you, Mr. Reade," called the voice of Superintendent
Hawkins. "But this is a heavy crush to get through."
In truth it was. There were more than a hundred laborers in the cellar,
while the stairs were blocked by a mob of enraged workmen.
"Stop it all, men!" Tom again urged, and this time there was silence,
save for his own strong voice. "We don't want to prove ourselves to be
as despicable as the enemy are. Bring 'em up to the street, but don't
be brutal about it. We'll look the scoundrels over so that we'll know
them to-morrow. Come along. Clear the stairs, if you please, men!"
Tom was now once more in control, as fully as though he had his force of
toilers out on the desert at the Man-killer quicksand.
So, after a few minutes, all were in the street. Here fully two hundred
more of the railroad men, many of them armed with stakes and other crude
weapons, held back a crowd of Paloma residents who swarmed curiously
about.
"Let me through, men. Let me through, I tell you!" insisted the voice
of Harry Hazelton, as that young assistant engineer struggled with the
crowd.
Then, on being recognized, Harry was allowed to reach the side of his
chum.
"Mr. Reade!" called a husky-toned voice, "won't you order your men to
let me through to see you? I want to talk with you about tonight's
outrage."
Tom recognized the speaker as a man named Beasley, one of Paloma's most
upright and courageous citizens.
"Let Mr. Beasley through," Tom called. "Don't block the streets, men.
Remember, we've no right to do that."
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