Spike Balgo had discarded the flashlight. The gangleader fumed. No use to fire now — The Shadow was invisible. Spike dared not approach the wounded fighter. Instead, he cried out to his men. He called for lights and shouted for a mass attack.
Responses came. Mobsmen had seen The Shadow fall. Encouraged by Spike’s temporary flashlight, those who had escaped The Shadow’s shots came bounding forward to the spring house. They brought forth flashlights. Viciously, Spike gave an order.
“Get after him!” snarled the mobleader. “I got a rod that can clip him. I’ll be behind you. If he puts up a fight, I’ll plug him!”
Mobsters hesitated; then plunged forward en masse. Their flashlights showed the spot where The Shadow had stumbled. But the interval had been too long. Well had The Shadow counted on their action — the assembling with Spike — the hesitation before they drove forward.
The ground was blank where The Shadow had been. The wounded fighter had arisen; he had headed off beyond the empty house. Precious seconds had aided him in this forced departure. The Shadow had left the field. The swag again belonged to Spike Balgo.
“Scrammed, eh?” jeered Spike, as he approached the box. “Well — let him go. We showed him up. A couple of you mugs hoist this box. The rest of you see about those fellows that he plugged.
“Hang on to them rods. The bullets ain’t no good, but people won’t know that where we’re going. Come along — if any of the mob is done for, leave ‘em lay. Bring along the others. That hick sheriff’s liable to be up here now, after all the racket. But that won’t matter. We’ll be gone when he gets here. Gone — like The Shadow.”
THERE was contempt in Spike’s final words. The gangleader was scoffing because he had offset The Shadow’s ruse. He believed that he had conquered the feared enemy. He was confident that The Shadow — once he had fled — would not return.
That was because Spike judged all fighters by his own caliber. Spike was yellow when it came to a showdown. He was not keen enough to analyze the keen workings of The Shadow’s brain. He thought that the cloaked fighter had lost his nerve when real bullets came his way.
There were two reasons why The Shadow had resorted to his unusual strategy of flight — that is, two reasons other than the fact that he was wounded and therefore at an unanticipated disadvantage. Yet Spike did not guess either reason.
To The Shadow, the presence of one live gun among the mob was an indication that Spike might have changed his mind about the disposal of the old rods. The Shadow had gained no knowledge of Spike’s chance discovery of Harry Vincent’s automatic. Wounded, The Shadow had quickly seen the possibility that several men might have their old guns in reserve. That was one reason why he had blotted out the searchlight and taken to the cover of the darkness.
The other reason was one which would have jolted Spike Balgo had the mobleader considered it. The Shadow knew more than Spike suspected. He had guessed what was due to follow the gaining of the swag.
The game of crime had not yet been completed. Crooks had further — and important — work to do. One wound from a chance bullet had never eliminated The Shadow in the past. His plans were changed; but not eradicated.
Spike Balgo and his depleted crew had trudged away with the box of swag when a soft laugh whispered from beside the old, empty house. There was a trace of anguish in the softened tone; yet confidence was the dominating note.
Wavering slightly beneath the enshrouded blackness, The Shadow arose from his resting place. Slowly, his unseen figure moved downward along the slope.
CHAPTER XXI
MEN FROM THE DARK
THE Union Limited had pulled out of the Chanburg station while Spike Balgo and his mobsmen were heading from the hill. The station platform was deserted when the mobleader brought his crew to a stop in the driveway where only Zach Hoyler’s flivver was parked. The box settled in the gravel as Spike growled an order.
“There’s only one guy around,” asserted the mobleader. “That’s the station agent. We want him out here. See? We’re going to use the guy.”
“How do we grab him?” questioned Dingbat.
“Two of you mugs go in and cover him,” responded Spike. “Bring him out around the platform. We’ll hold him here until the milk train comes in.”
“We’ve only got these bum gats—”
“What of it? How’ll he know they’ve got dummy slugs in ‘em? Say — he’ll crawl out here like a little lamb. If you had real bullets it wouldn’t make no difference, anyway. Sock him if he puts up a fight. Shooting is out. Do you think we want to bring yaps up here from the town?”
“O.K., Spike.”
Zach Hoyler was sitting at his telegraph key when he heard a sound from the wicket. He looked up to see two mobsters covering him. One was at the ticket window — the other at the opened door from the waiting room.
“Mitts up, bum,” ordered Dingbat, who was at the door. “Climb up from dat soft seat an’ come along wid us.”
The station agent obeyed. He chewed his lips in nervous fashion as he observed the hard faces of the mobsters. Dingbat poked a Luger muzzle into the middle of Zach’s back. He marched the weary-faced agent out and round the platform. Spike took charge when they arrived.
“Say, listen, you” — the gangleader chuckled contemptuously as he studied Hoyler’s pale face — “we’re going to the lower end of the platform. We’ll all be out of sight — except you — when that Dairy Express comes in.
“But remember — I’ll be there with this rod; and these other boys ain’t no slouches. If you try any phony stuff, we’ll cut loose — and the first guy to get lead poisoning will be you. After that the train crew. Savvy?”
Hoyler nodded.
“The first thing you do,” proceeded Spike, “is to call for the conductor. Bring him up to the engine cab — like there was something important you have to tell him and the engineer. Special orders — any kind of hooey — only pull the stunt right. If you don’t—”
Spike paused. He leered. His henchmen muttered imprecations. Hoyler blinked as he heard the threats. Spike added this assertion:
“Well, if you act funny, you won’t be selling no more tickets through that window of yours. What’s more, there won’t be none of that train crew working for this road no longer. But if you do like I say, nobody’s going to get hurt. You’ll be a hero. You’ll get a medal, maybe, for saving lives, after you spill your story.”
Spike started Hoyler toward the end of the platform. The others kept in the offing. None of the figures appeared in the light. It was not until they reached the lower end that Spike headed the station agent toward his post. Even then he stopped the man before they came into the end light of the platform.
THE Dairy Express was whistling for the grade crossing. Spike growled a final injunction to Hoyler. Crouched mobsmen heard the words.
“Climb on the platform just as she pulls in,” ordered Spike. “And remember, I can shoot the petals off a daisy at thirty feet. I’ll be closer than that to you.”
Headlight gleamed on rails. Zach Hoyler stepped warily on to the platform as the big locomotive of the milk train came grinding toward the end of the station. As the Mogul panted to a halt, the station agent moved toward the engine cab. Looking along the platform, he beckoned to the conductor. The man came hurrying up.
Engineer and fireman were leaning from the cab when the conductor arrived. They wondered what orders had come into Hoyler’s ticket office. Something important seemed to be brewing. It was. As the train crew gathered, figures came clambering on to the platform. Mobsters flourished Lugers, covering each man, while Spike Balgo, armed with Harry Vincent’s automatic, held the center of the spot.
“Out of the cab, bums” — engineer and fireman sullenly obeyed Spike’s order — “and keep your mitts up, all of you. Frisk those guys, Dingbat. Maybe they’ve got rods.”
Dingbat obeyed. His face formed a grin as he discovered three revolvers. He handed these to members of the mob, who pocketed their Lugers. Three of Balgo’s six now had loaded guns. Spike grinned.
“Guess you were figuring on trouble along this run,” he snarled. “Well — you got it, but you weren’t ready for it. Thanks for the rods. We can use ‘em.”
“Say, Spike,” put in Dingbat, “maybe dere’s a rod in dis guy’s desk” — he indicated Hoyler — “because I didn’t look to—”
“We got enough,” put in Spike. “Come on, Kirky, cut loose the coupling on this loco. We’re going to take a trip in it. You, Dingbat and Beef — shove that box into the cab.”
The mobsters obeyed. Dingbat and “Beef” came from the cab. The latter hurried to aid Kirky with the coupling, while the rest of the mob kept the train crew covered with their own guns. The Mogul unhooked, Kirky and the other mobster returned. Spike Balgo looked about; then gazed approvingly toward the panting locomotive.
“Back ‘em along the platform toward the station,” he ordered. Mobsters obeyed, keeping the train crew in a cluster. “That’s it” — Balgo had turned — “we’re all set. Come on, you mugs, back up here with me.”
Spike was standing alone, behind the others. He reached out to grasp a handle beside the cab. Something made him look upward. The gangleader stood open-mouthed as he stared into the muzzle of a glimmering revolver.
Spike let his automatic clatter to the platform. Mobsters turned at the sound. They were too late. Another revolver had appeared beside the first. The gang was covered. A growled voice hurled its warning:
“Drop those rods.”