"As for you, sir—-" snarled Hawkins, facing Tom.
"Don't look at me like that," laughed Reade softly. "Save that face to frighten children with."
The negroes had busied themselves until they had gathered up all the implements of gambling and had stuffed them into their pockets.
Now Tom went up to the bootleggers. Both men he boldly searched, bringing forth from their pockets bottles of liquor. These he threw down hard on the floor of the cabin, smashing them.
"I don't know why we allow you to do all this, Reade," fumed Hawkins, whose face was white with rage.
"It's because you're afraid, and know that you can't help yourselves," Tom smiled.
"I'll show you who's afraid!" yelled Hawkins, again throwing his right hand back to his hip pocket.
This time Reade saw the unmistakable butt of a revolver. Without an instant's hesitation. Reade leaped at the fellow. In a moment Tom had the revolver, springing backwards.
"Well—-shoot!" jeered Hawkins. "You don't dare to."
"You're right," assented Tom coolly. "I don't dare to. Assassination belongs to the lowest orders of human beings. An honest man seldom has any need of concealed deadly weapons."