Brent was moving swiftly, finding his path with keen precision. Close behind their guide, the members of the rescue party moved with Rokesbury. Grimly, the armed band was making its way toward the hill.
CHAPTER XIV. IN THE CABIN
THOUGH the pursuing party had moved promptly, its pace could not compare with that of the bearded squatter. The big man had stifled Dorothy into a state of semi-consciousness. He was carrying the girl as easily as he might have taken along a tiny child.
Though moving blindly through the darkness, he picked his path unfailingly. He did not pause within the confines of the marsh. When he did stop, it was on the fringe of solid, rocky ground, that marked the base of the hill. Looking backward, the squatter saw the tiny glare of Brent’s electric lantern. The pursuers had already slackened; yet they were not halfway through the spreading swamp.
A muffled laugh came from the heavy beard. Shifting the girl to his other shoulder, the squatter began his climb. He traveled up the slope at a pace that rivaled The Shadow’s progress. At this gait he was sure to reach the cabin long before those who pursued him.
There was no need for silence. Speed was the man’s one aim. His heavy boots clicked against stones and sent them rolling down the slope. His breath came in long, heavy puffs. The squatter’s endurance was tremendous.
Evidently his exit from the back window of the cabin had been merely a matter of set precaution; for at present, the squatter took it for granted that no one was close at hand. In this assumption he was wrong.
A listener on the hillside was hearing his approach. The waiting man was Harry Vincent.
Rising from behind a rock, The Shadow’s agent began a stealthy upward course. The squatter was gaining, but Harry had a head start. He reached the cabin while the squatter was still puffing upward, nearly a hundred yards below. Quietly, Harry stationed himself outside the door.
The squatter arrived. Fumbling in his pocket he produced a key. He unlocked the door; he entered and laid Dorothy, still semi-conscious, upon a rickety cot in the corner. He turned to close the door. Dorothy, weakly opening her eyes, was a witness of what followed.
AS the squatter stepped toward the doorway, a flashlight glared squarely into his bearded face. The man staggered backward with a snarl. Harry Vincent sprang into the cabin, automatic in hand. His gun was leveled straight between the eyes that glared fiercely from above the bearded face.
“Up with your hands,” ordered Harry.
The squatter came forward with the same terrific speed that had enabled him to capture Dorothy Brent.
His big fist shot to Harry Vincent’s right wrist. The twist that it delivered wrenched the gun from Harry’s hand. The Shadow’s agent grappled hopelessly as rugged arms gripped him. Then, with a fling, the bearded squatter sent Harry rolling on the floor. The young man’s head thumped the stone facing of the fire place. Harry lay motionless.
The squatter grabbed the automatic and pointed toward the man whom he had overcome. Dorothy gave a gasping scream, thinking that he intended to shoot. The squatter turned and approached the cot. He glared toward the girl; he was about to speak when a new sound attracted his attention. It came from the door of the little room.
Looking up, the squatter found himself covered by the muzzle of an automatic that extended from a blackgloved fist. Behind the gun was a strange figure cloaked in black. Above the barrel were blazing eyes that glowed like living coals. A hissed command issued from hidden lips.
It was The Shadow. Spectral master who had cowed the fiercest fighters of New York’s underworld, he had arrived to challenge this furious, bearded superman who seemed to fear no odds.
Not one man in a million would have resisted The Shadow’s might. But this bearded Dalwar was a power unto himself. He acted with the same suddenness that he had previously displayed. Swinging the automatic that he had gained from Harry Vincent, the bearded fighter sprang upon The Shadow with a tigerlike roar. A cloaked arm swung to meet the Dalwar’s descending stroke. Automatics clashed like sabers. Then the fighters grappled. The Shadow went plunging backward from the fury of the squatter’s onslaught.
Dorothy had turned to see the grapplers surge into the darkness of the little room. The girl tried to rise.
The effort was too great. She heard a chair crash to the floor; then the clattering of glass as a window-sash was smashed from its frame. Bodies struck the inner wall with a terrific thud.
Gazing toward the fire place, Dorothy saw Harry Vincent rising. The Shadow’s agent was groggy.
Holding one hand to his head, he staggered toward the little room. Dorothy tried to scream a warning.
Harry tottered into the darkness. A roar, loud as the bellow of a bull, came from the fighting squatter.
Another terrific thud; then silence. Dorothy sank back on the cot. The girl had fainted.
WHEN she recovered consciousness, Dorothy heard the crackle of embers in the fire place. Then came muffled voices, outside the house. The girl sat up. No one was in the large room; all was silent from the little room adjoining. Voices again, just outside the door. A man came into view, carrying a gleaming revolver. Dorothy sank back with a gasp of relief. It was Nicholas Rokesbury.
Footsteps tramped into the cabin. Wildemar Brent came wheezing after the members of Rokesbury’s crew. The engineer helped the girl to a sitting position. Brent came scurrying forward, gasping grateful words. While he and Rokesbury aided Dorothy to her feet, the rescue squad tramped into the little room.
They found it empty, save for a broken chair and bits of glass from the shattered window.
In bewildered fashion, Dorothy tried to explain what had happened. She realized that her recollections were chaotic. Fighting — then silence. While she tried to tell her story, Rokesbury’s men began to scour the premises. A call came from outside.
“Who’s that’” shouted Rokesbury.
“It’s all right,” returned one of the men. “A friend.”
Half a minute later, a tall, panting figure appeared in the doorway. It was Professor Darwin Shelby, carrying an electric lantern. The scientist blinked through his big spectacles. Shelby was fully dressed.
“I heard the confusion,” he puffed. “I decided to follow you. I hailed you from the marsh — you were too far ahead. I found my way through. My word! Is Miss Brent all right?”
“Yes,” acknowledged Brent. “She has had a harrowing experience, however. The man who carried her here has escaped. Come. We must take her back to the mansion.”
“I’ll leave two men here,” decided Rokesbury, “in case that bearded fellow returns. Do you feel well enough to start back, Dorothy?”
The girl nodded. The men aided her as they left the cabin. The returning party made its way down the hill; guided by Brent and Shelby, they found the difficult path through the marsh. Dorothy was walking steadily when they reached the old house.
A figure was standing in the glare beside the door. A stern face greeted the arrivals. It was Philo Halthorpe. Returning from his nightly hike, the rugged lawyer had seen the light outside the mansion.
Once again, Halthorpe was here to act as questioner, that he might have data ready when the law came to investigate new trouble at the house in the marsh.
THE quiz began when they reached the great hall. Two of Rokesbury’s men were there: one with a bandaged arm. The engineer inquired for the others. The response was a thumb nudged toward the closed door of the room with paneled tapestries.
“In there,” said the workman, soberly. “Bill was dead; Harry kicked in just after you fellows left.”