There were exactly eleven men there when Spotter entered and slipped into a chair beside the nearest table. Pedro was seated in a far corner, apparently talking to a man opposite him. The gangster with the pulled-down cap was close by, sullenly slouched over his table, apparently unaware what was going on.
The others were drinking and talking in rather low voices.
Red Mike entered and distributed bottles and glasses. When the proprietor had gone, the room apparently remained the same, except for one fact — all its occupants, with the exception of the slouching man with the cap, seemed to be turning furtive glances in the direction of Spotter.
The crafty-faced fellow poured himself one drink and gulped down the contents of his glass. He drank again, rather rapidly; finally he emptied the bottle. As he was about to set it on the table, he tilted the top of the bottle, and pointed it toward the man with the cap.
All eyes shifted toward the stranger. The man was leaning over the table, ignoring his drink. His hands rested beneath the table. The other men in the room began to move. Hardened grins appeared upon their faces. They were all known to Spotter; he recognized the fact that his companions were the boldest thugs of the underworld. He grinned also, for he was sure that guns would not be needed to-night.
Only one man displayed too much eagerness for what was to come. That was Pedro, the Mexican. He acted one second too soon. Spotter's motion had been the signal for a sudden attack that would come with cleverly calculated stealth. But Pedro, a look of grim vengeance appearing on his face, could not wait. He swung from his chair and sprang upon the huddled man who wore the cap. The Mexican's hand shot upward from his coat. The machete gleamed and came downward with a sure, well-aimed stroke.
The blade never reached its mark. As Pedro hurled himself across the table with amazing speed, the man with the cap slid quickly away from the wall where he sat. The machete whizzed by, cutting the shoulder of the sweater. Pedro, with all his weight behind the blow, fell forward upon the table.
Like a flash, the stranger was in the center of the room. He was standing, head up now, with both hands buried in the fold at the bottom of his sweater. His eyes were flashing as he glanced quickly around the room.
Only Spotter did not move. He grinned as he watched with his crafty eyes. By quick action the unknown man had reached the floor while the others were still rising. He stood there now, his shadow round and black upon the floor before him.
This was only for an instant. The nine thugs were in motion. Those nearest the stranger leaped with one accord. Two of them were drawing knives. The others were hurling themselves to the spot where the stranger stood.