The ex-foreman drew from one of his pockets a formidable-looking automatic revolver.
"Huh!" grunted the negro, producing a similar pistol, "yo' ain' no bettah fixed dan Ah be."
"We're quits," laughed Evarts easily, returning his weapon to his pocket.
"Put up your rain-maker."
"Den yo' won't call me Tar Baby no mo?"
"No more."
"All right, den." Ebony put up his weapon.
"Now, what's the programme?" asked Evarts. "You've seen the leader?"
"Yah. Ah's done see de right man. De orders am simple."
"What are they?"
"Misto Reade am to be killed de fust time he show himself," declared Sambo Ebony. "He to be shot down ez soon ez Ah can lay eyes on him. Maybe Ah have to shoot from ambush, but in any case he must be daid befo' de sun go down to-morrow. Our big men am tired to def dat Massa Reade stop do men from havin' a little liquor and playin' cairds evenin's."