Slowly,
surely he felt himself being turned. Then out from the sawgrass came
the roar of a rifle, and a heavy slug whined over the gunman's head.
Bang! Another shot. Then the voice of Blease, the squatter:
"Next shot, I'll hold a foot lower. Throw that gun in the ditch.
Throw it, you----" Bang! "That's right--Now get 'em boys, get 'em!"
Bare feet came drumming down the dirt of the spoil bank. A huge Bahama
black was in the lead of his fellows. He leaped like something wild,
his machete flashing in the sun. The gunman cried out and tumbled to
safety in the ditch. The black men came with a rush. The fight was
over. Panting, grinning, their teeth and eyeballs gleaming, the
negroes stood aside awaiting orders.
"I'll be darned," said Roger, puzzled. "Boys, how did you ever come
here?"
"Dat white man"--a grinning negro pointed to where Blease had fired
from the jungle--"he say he shoot us if we don' come."
Higgins had searched the two strangers and taken a revolver from each.
"All right, boys," said Roger. "You can get right back to work. The
show's over."
From the opposite sides of the canal Roger and the leader of the trio
glared at one another.
"Well," said Payne, "you tried to run a bluff and it didn't work.
What's the idea?"
The man swore again and replied:
"What's the idear, huh? That's what I want to know.
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