The Young Engineers in Arizona Page 9

  "Quit yer sass!" ordered the other, who was a tall, broad-shouldered and very surly looking fellow of thirty.

  "I don't much blame you for being peevish," Reade went on. "Still, I think there has been no serious harm done. Good night, friend."

  "No, ye don't!" snarled the other. "Nothing of the slip-away-easy style, like that!"

  "Why, what do you want?" I asked Tom, opening his eyes in genuine surprise.

  "Ye thick-headed idiot!" rasped the surly stranger. "Ye—"

  From that the stranger launched into a strain of abuse that staggered the young engineer.

  "Say no more," begged Reade generously. "I accept your apology, just as you've phrased it."

  "Apology, ye fool!" growled the stranger.

  "That won't do. Put up your hands!"

  "Why?"

  "So ye can fight, ye—"

  "Fight?" echoed Tom, with a shake of his bead. "On a hot night like this? No, sir! I refuse."

  Tom would have passed peaceably on his way, but the stranger suddenly let go a terrific right-hander. Had Tom Reade received the blow he would have gone to the ground. But the young engineer's athletic training stood by him. He slid out, easily and gracefully, but was compelled to wheel and face his assailant.

  "Don't," urged Tom. "It's too hot."

  "I'm hot myself," leered the stranger, dancing nearer.

  "You look it," Tom admitted. "If you don't stop dancing, you'll soon be hotter. It makes me warm to look at you."

  "Stop this one, ye tin-horn!" snarled the stranger.

  "Certainly," agreed Tom, blocking the blow. "However, I wish you wouldn't be so strenuous. One of us may get hurt."

  This last escaped Reade as he blocked the blow, and again displayed a neat little bit of footwork.

  "Let's see you stop this one!" taunted the bully.

  "Certainly," agreed Tom, and did so.

  "And this one. And this! Here's another!"

  By this time the blows were raining in fast and thick. Tom's agile footwork kept him out of reach of the hard, hammer-like fists of the stranger.

  Tom had been bred in athletics. He was comparative master of boxing, but before this interchange of blows had gone far the young engineer realized that he had met a doughty opponent.

  What Tom didn't know was that his present foe was an ex-prizefighter, who had sunk low in the scale of life.

  What the lad didn't even suspect was that the man had been hired to pick a fight with him, and that the fight was for desperate stakes.

  "Have you pounded me all you think necessary?" asked Tom coolly, after more than a minute's hard interchange of blows in which neither man had gained any notable advantage.

  "No, ye slant-eared boob!" roared the assailant. "Ye—"

  Here he launched into another stream of abuse.

  "You said all that before," remarked Tom, with a new flash in his eyes. Then fully aroused, he went to work in earnest, intending to drive his opponent back and down him.

  The fighting became terrific. There was little effort now to parry, for each fighter had become intent on bringing the other to earth.

  Tom was soon panting as he fought, for his opponent was heavier, taller and altogether out of the youth's fistic class.

  "If I can only reach his wind once, and topple him over!" thought Reade.

  A blow aimed at his jaw he failed to block. The impact sent the young engineer half staggering. Another blow, and Tom dropped, knocked out.

  At that very instant a street door near by opened noiselessly.

  "I've got him," leered the bully, bending over the senseless form of Tom Reade.

  "Bring him in!" ordered a voice behind the open doorway.

  CHAPTER XIII. TOM HEARS THE PROGRAM

  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 ha
d 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!"

  CHAPTER XIV. THE COUNCIL OF THE CURB

  "How soon are you going to carry out your plans?" Reade demanded.

  "Then you won't leave Paloma?"

  "I certainly won't—as far as my own decision goes," Reade replied firmly. "Furthermore, I should feel the utmost contempt for myself if I allowed you to drive me away from here before my work is completed."

  "You're a fool!" hissed Duff.

  "And you're a gambler," Tom shot back. "If you won't change your trade, why should you expect me to change mine?"

  "I reckon, gentlemen," said Duff, turning to the others present, "that there's no use in wasting any more time with this fellow. He'd rather be hanged to a tree than take good advice. If the rest of you agree with me, I propose that we take the cub to his tree at once."

  Several spoke in favor of this plan. Tom, seeing this, felt his heart sink somewhat within him, though he was no more inclined than before to accede to the demands of the rascals.

  "Grab him! Throw him down; tie and gag him," were the gambler's orders.

  Two men nearest the young engineer sprang at him.

  "We'll play this game right through to the finish, then!" burst from Tom's lips, and there was something like fury in his voice.

  Biff! Thump!

  Two of the townsmen of Paloma, wholly unprepared for resistance, went down before the engineer's telling blows.

  "Your turn, Duff!" rumbled Reade's voice, as he sprang forward and launched a terrific blow at the gambler.

  Duff went down, almost doubling up as he struck. He had been hit squarely on the jaw with a force that made even Tom Reade's hardened knuckles ache.

  "Shoot him!" rose a snarl, as others moved toward the boy.

  "All right!" assented Tom, his voice ringing cheerily despite his anger. "Be cowards, as comes natural to you. Yet, if you have the courage of real men I'll agree to fight my way out of this place, meeting you one at a time."

  "What's that noise up in the street?" suddenly demanded Ashby, in a tone of sudden fear.

  "Run up and find out, if you want to know," proposed Tom, who stood poised, ready for another assailant to come within reach of his fists.

  Stealthily, on tip-toe, the bully who had first engaged Reade in the street fight, was now trying to get up behind the young engineer. The bully held the shotgun ready to bring down on the l
ad's head.

  "There's some row up there," continued Ashby. "There, I heard shots!"

  "Brave, aren't you?" jeered Tom.

  Three or four of the masked cowards started for the steep stairway.

  Even the bully with the clubbed shotgun must have been seized with fear; for, though in position to strike, he quickly lowered the weapon and listened.

  Bump! smash! sounded, though not directly overhead.

  Then from the hallway above came the noise of the treading of many feet, while a voice roared hoarsely:

  "Spread through the house, boys! If they've done anything to Mr. Reade, then break the necks of every white-livered rascal you can find!"

  "Fine!" chuckled Tom, while the masked faces in the cellar turned even whiter than the cloths covering them. "That voice sounds familiar to me, too."

  Over the hubbub of voices above sounded some remonstrating tones, as though others were urging a less violent course.

  "It's the workmen from the camp!" guessed Hotelman Ashby, in a voice that shook as though from ague.

  "Sounds like it," chuckled Tom. "Cheer up, Ashby. If it's our railroad crew I'll try to see to it that they don't do more than half kill you!"

  Then, raising his voice, Tom called gleefully:

  "Hello, there! You'll find us in the cellar."

  "Why don't you kill that fool!" muttered Jim Duff, who, still dazed, struggled to sit up.

  "Hush, man, for goodness sake!" implored the badly frightened Ashby.

  Duff, with rapidly returning consciousness, now leaped to his feet, drawing his pistol and springing at Reade.

  "Hold on!" Tom proposed coolly. "You're too late!"

  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.