!" insisted the voice
of Harry Hazelton, as that young assistant engineer struggled with the
crowd.

Then, on being recognized, Harry was allowed to reach the side of his
chum.

"Mr. Reade!" called a husky-toned voice, "won't you order your men
to let me through to see you? I want to talk with you about tonight's
outrage."

Tom recognized the speaker as a man named Beasley, one of Paloma's most
upright and courageous citizens.

"Let Mr. Beasley through," Tom called. "Don't block the streets, men.
Remember, we've no right to do that."

A resounding cheer ascended at the sound of Tom's voice. In the light of
the lanterns Tom was seen to be signaling with his hands for quiet, and
the din soon died down.

"Mr. Reade," spoke Beasley, in a voice that shook with indignation, "the
real men of this town would like an account of what has been going on
here to-night. If Duff and his cronies have been up to anything that
hurts the good name of the town we'd like the full particulars. You men
there--don't let one of the rascals get away. Jim Duff and his gang will
have to answer to the town of Paloma."

"Men," ordered Reade, "bring along the crew you caught in the cellar.
Don't hurt them--remember how cowardly violence would be when we have
everything in our own hands."

"The men of Paloma will do all the hurting," Mr. Beasley announced
grimly.

Tom's own deliberate manner, and his manifest intention of not abusing
his advantage impressed itself upon the decent men of Paloma, who now
swarmed about the frightened captives from the cellar.

"I know 'em all," muttered Beasley. "I'll know 'em in the morning, too.
So will you, friends!" he added, turning to the pressing crowds.

"Start Jim Duff on his travels now!" demanded one angry voice.

"By the Tree & Rope Short Line!" proposed another voice.

Jim was caught and held, despite his straggles. Active hands swarmed
over his clothing, seeking for weapons.

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" appealed Tom sturdily, making his resonant voice
travel far over the heads of the throng. "Will you honor me with your
attention for three or four minutes?"

"Yep!" shouted back one voice.

"You bet!" came another voice.

"Go ahead and spout, Reade. We'll have the hanging, right after!"

There was nothing jovial in these responses. Tom Reade knew men
well enough to recognize this fact. Moreover, Tom knew the plain,
unvarnished, honest and deadly-in-earnest men of these south-western
plai