"Don't draw," mocked Tom, with another smile. "Probably you haven't a pistol there. If you have, you can never make me believe that you have sand enough to draw and shoot before as many witnesses as I have on hand."
"I've a good mind to drill you with lead!" scowled the gambler, still resting his hand behind him.
"But you're a wise man," mocked Reade, "and wise men often change their minds."
However, the very move of the gambler to draw a pistol had had one effect that Tom ardently desired. Most of the workmen present were now in frantic haste to get out before any shooting began. The two bootleggers also sought to make their escape.
"Get back there! You fellows can't get out!" Harry shouted, himself seizing and hurling the bootleggers back into the room. They rose, glaring sullenly at Hazelton. But they didn't know how many more men he might have behind him out there in the dark.
Tom Reade now had the six gamblers and the two bootleggers in the room with him.
"You're a nice crew, aren't you?" he jeered, gazing at them scornfully.
"We're making our living," retorted the leader of the gamblers, with what he meant to be a fine tone of scorn.
"Making your living off of human beings! You're some of the parasites that infest honest workingmen. I've drummed you out of this camp before, and you have the cheek to come back. Now, I'll try to teach you another lesson. Harry, send in our workmen, will you?"
Hazelton stepped aside, to let in the half dozen honest negroes they had brought along with them. These men entered, then stood looking at their young chief.