Wounded mobsters, half rising, were grappling with the men who had attacked them. They were trying to regain their guns. A hand caught Perry Nubin’s weapon. Harry Vincent swung his revolver to settle the fighting crook. Then he swung to see the back of the tender rolling from the platform.
“Zach Hoyler!” roared Nubin, as the train crew came free of the silenced gorillas. “He’s the big shot! Making a get-away—”
It was too late. The big shot had made his break. In the far cab, protected by boiler and tender, he was safe from bullets. He was escaping in the locomotive, carrying the box of swag. Furious, futile cries came from the balked men who would have pursued him. They could not see what was happening in the darkness up ahead.
A figure was sweeping along the embankment. The Shadow had foreseen Zach Hoyler’s move. His fusillade ended, he had sprung for the right of way, out beyond the platform. He was beside the tracks, sweeping forward, just as the cab came by. His gloved hand clutched the bar.
The big locomotive hit the bend. Its speed was sweeping as Zach Hoyler arose quickly from the seat in the cab. The big shot’s face was leering as his eyes turned toward the box that the crooks had loaded aboard. The big shot pulled the coffer toward him. He was taking no chances of losing it. Hoyler had pocketed his revolver. He was raising his hands from the iron box when he spied an unexpected form.
Swinging in from the swift-passing darkness was The Shadow. Stern eyes glinted above the muzzle of an automatic. The Shadow held the weapon in his right hand. His left arm was limp. But Zach Hoyler did not notice that. He cowered at sight of the deadly threat before him.
THE big shot deserved death. A murderer, he had used killers to aid him in his quest. Amid the madness of that jolting, swerving cab, the cowering crook saw but one chance for life. He faltered, quavering; then, with a wild cry, hurled himself into the face of death.
An attack upon The Shadow. A suicidal attempt — under almost any circumstances. But luck, for the moment, was with Zach Hoyler. He flung himself forward just as the locomotive whizzed around a bend. The steel giant straightened at the instant The Shadow was ready to press the trigger.
The Shadow’s limp left hand was clutching a bar beside the fireman’s cab. Gloved fingers yielded to the strain. As the right forefinger sought to deliver its shot, The Shadow’s form went plunging toward the tender. The automatic barked. Its hot bullet singed Zach Hoyler’s ear. Then the big shot landed on his crippled foe.
The Shadow was forced to drop the automatic. Only the clutch of his right hand saved him from destruction. Otherwise, he would have hurtled to the road bed. As Hoyler fell upon him, The Shadow grasped the crook’s throat with that lone hand.
Hoyler snapped backward, dragging The Shadow with him. The unmasked station agent was wiry; but his fingers could not loose that grip. Hoyler sprawled into the cab, The Shadow with him. Then, in desperation, the crook swung toward the steps. Catching The Shadow beneath the arms, he tried to hurl the cloaked fighter from the cab.
Two figures wavered back between cab and tender. One instant both seemed on the brink of destruction; a jolt of the Mogul hurled them into the cab; another jounce brought them out again. Freakishly, they fought this furious battle. Hoyler was frenzied; The Shadow, wounded, relied wholly upon that clutch that he would not yield.
The big shot’s eyes were bulging. He saw nothing — not even the burning gaze before him. He twisted; his body swung wide. It overbalanced at the steps. Wavering, the choking crook toppled backward into space.
Until that instant, Hoyler had clutched The Shadow with the wild strength of a drowning man. But in the instant that he was swinging clear, a sudden pressure on his wind-pipe made him shoot his hands upward for a last clutch at those throttling fingers. Then the weight of Hoyler’s body did what his hands had failed to do. It wrenched him clear of The Shadow’s deadly grasp.
As Hoyler hurtled backward, The Shadow pitched forward. The cloaked right arm swung with split-second speed. The gloved hand clutched a bar; The Shadow’s figure poised. Keen eyes, staring downward, saw Zach Hoyler’s body twisting toylike into the depths beneath a trestle.
While The Shadow clung hopelessly upon the edge of similar fate, the pounding locomotive hit the solid roadbed. One side of the big engine seemed to leap in the air as the monster took a curve at terrific speed. With that jolt, The Shadow’s body twisted helplessly. Fingers lost their grip. The black-clad form went sprawling back into the tender. Where a curve to the left would have meant The Shadow’s doom, this curve — to the right — had saved him.
Rising as the Mogul thundered on the straightaway, The Shadow pitched forward to the cab. His fingers gripped the throttle. The speed of the locomotive slackened. When the pounding wheels came to a stop, the engine was near the B and R junction.
It was then that a whispered laugh came hollow in the cab. Wounded — wearied — the master fighter had won his victory. There was triumph in the final note of mirth.
CHAPTER XXIII
WEALTH RESTORED
“LET’S get it all straight,” growled Sheriff Tim Forey as he stood in the center of Elbert Breck’s living room. “There was trouble on the hill — I’ve just come from there. I figured those crooks were after the Dobbin swag and now I hear they got it. But I want to know what brought this finish.”
Four men were listening. Harry Vincent and Perry Nubin were seated side by side. Elbert Breck, relieved of bonds and gag, was resting wearily in an easy chair. Craven was standing as solemn as a crow.
“I’ll give you my story, sheriff,” volunteered Perry Nubin. “I had a reason to be working on this line — the Union Valley. They thought things were getting lax. They wanted a man to tighten them. So I was sent out to look for trouble.
“I spotted something phony. That shack by the right of way. Fellows around there looked like mobsters. When old Grantham Breck was bumped, I figured they’d done it. So I began to look around for clues. I came around this house; I went up on the hill. I figured maybe there was some hidden big shot in it.
“I never suspected Zach Hoyler. When Ezekiel Twinton was murdered, I was there on the hill. I saw the struggle; I heard the shot. I tried to follow the killer but I lost him. I had a hunch it might have been somebody from this house.
“There were thugs back at that shack tonight. I came over here to see if there was going to be any contact. I spotted someone going to the hill. It was Vincent here. I followed him and grabbed him. I’d sort of suspected he was in it; and I thought I had the right man until I found that note that he was carrying to give you. Then I lined him up on my side.”
The sheriff nodded. He turned to Harry. The Shadow’s agent spoke.
“You told me to watch things here, sheriff,” he declared, “and I did. Elbert Breck was out the night that Ezekiel Twinton was killed. I went out to look for him. I went up to the hill. I saw a struggle and saw the shot. I approached and found the body.
“Somehow, I felt that Elbert was innocent” — Harry paused; he was shaping his story to suit events — “and I feared that I might be suspected if I said I had been up by Twinton’s house. I decided to watch things here. I wanted to see if I could clear Elbert.
“I saw some suspicious characters near the station last night. I remembered your talk about the Dobbin gang and the possibility of buried swag. I had a hunch they were after it; and it seemed logical that they would ride the milk train if they got it. So I put all that in my note to you.”
“Why did you write a note?” inquired Forey, gruffly. “Why didn’t you come in to see me?”