A man yanked at the screen door. It was Firth, the butler. Wild of gaze, the dry-faced man had come to take up the fray. The Shadow could hear Jubal prompting him. Firth had an opportunity; he was firing as he came. But the servant was no marksman. His first shots whistled wide; then The Shadow answered.
One shot. The last of three in that lone automatic which The Shadow still could wield. The Shadow’s bullet found a human mark.
Firth staggered, wounded. He tried to fire again, but could not. Attempting to rise, he lost hold of his gun.
He remained, a wavering, snarling foe, still covered by The Shadow’s automatic.
Had Firth managed to regain his gun, The Shadow would have been forced to drop him. As it was, Firth proved himself incapable of further attack. The Shadow could well afford to save his bullets for later events.
BURNING eyes looked toward the center of the living room. Harry and Vic had knocked out one of the woodsmen; they were fighting to subdue the last pair, and the woodsmen were putting up a hopeless resistance. Hoxon was out altogether.
Rex Brodford was rising, seeking a gun. He had every chance to checkmate Cortland Laspar, for the big shot had taken a heavy fall and was crawling up with painful slowness from the corner where Harry Vincent had hurled him.
One glance told The Shadow how that situation lay. Keen eyes reverted to the doorway. Firth, almost on his feet, was tumbling backward. Suddenly, the servant’s body straightened. Firth came straight forward in a rigid advance.
The reason for the servant’s strange action became immediately apparent. Firth was not acting of his own volition. A man had come up in back of him. James Jubal, surging low from the verandah, had caught Firth’s sinking frame and was using it as a bulwark.
Behind his human barricade, Jubal was trying to get at The Shadow; yet he was wise enough to keep himself covered. If Jubal intended to try a revolver shot, he would be forced to lose this hold on Firth.
Knowing that fact, The Shadow held stead. He saw Firth’s body waver.
An arm shot into view: Jubal’s. The hand held no gun. Jubal’s fist was drawn backward; instantly, it started forward for a throw. The swindler’s hand showed round and black, because of a spherical object which he gripped.
Jubal was resorting to the measure that he had used on the slope. Where guns had failed, he was employing a weapon that had already proved effective against The Shadow. The swindler, bereft of minions, was about to hurl another bomb.
The Shadow’s fate hung in the balance. Not only his own fate, but that of others. By blasting the hallway, Jubal could eliminate his indomitable foe; after that, the swindler would be free to use a gun on Vincent and Marquette.
The Shadow’s only chance was to stop Jubal. A dive into the cellar, like the drop into the mine shaft, was an alternative that must be rejected. It was what Jubal had expected; and this time the swindler was using a close range toss to prevent it.
Jubal’s shrewd and evil face glowered sallow from beside his swinging fist. The Shadow could have aimed for that yellow target; but killing Jubal would not have stopped the motion of the arm that was already on its way.
Aiming with cold precision, The Shadow chose black instead of yellow. He fired pointblank at the bomb that was leaving Jubal’s hand.
THE shot was perfect. With the flash of The Shadow’s automatic came a terrific roar close by the doorway. Bursting flame spread wide as the bomb exploded with gigantic force. The lodge quivered from the concussion. Walls crackled, split asunder and collapsed with devastating effect.
The main force of the blast took place within the doorway to the verandah. There, the front of the lodge was shattered. Thick smoke was clouded with the white dust of falling plaster. The whole wall was shattered as far as the fireplace; there, stone resisted the blast.
Chunks of the fireplace rattled to the floor. Portions of the ceiling caved and sent splintered debris down into the room.
Harry and Vic, overpowering their last two foemen, went sprawling; but they had already downed their stubborn antagonists.
Where Jubal and Firth had been was blankness. The unscathed swindler and the wounded servant had taken the full brunt of the explosion. The fate intended for The Shadow was theirs. The bursting bomb had riddled them.
Farthest from the ruined doorway was The Shadow. Propped against his metal-sheathed barrier, he remained unshaken by the concussion. Reverberating roars reechoed in his ears; he viewed the chaos with unrelenting eyes.
Then, as the roars ended, The Shadow gave challenge of his own. Weird lips released their mockery. A sinister laugh rang clear. The Shadow had turned the final tide.
CHAPTER XXIII. THE LAST SHOT
MEN were rising from massed debris. Harry Vincent and Vic Marquette were finding their feet in the midst of a strange setting. Pushing aside strips of lath and chunks of plaster, they formed white-powdered figures as they came up from the floor.
Rex Brodford, too, was crawling out. The wreck of the living room had been a complete one; but it was due largely to the light construction of the lodge. That same fact accounted also for their lack of injury.
The ceiling was fragile; its falling portions had contained no heavy beams.
Hoxon’s few remaining henchmen were also stirring. Badly beaten, they had no urge for fight. Harry and Vic were quick to find their guns and cover these survivors. Seeing that the men were submissive, Harry turned to look for The Shadow.
There, by the door to the cellar, the tall black form had risen. The Shadow was leaning obliquely against the wall. One cloaked arm lay limp. The other was lowered and its fist held an automatic. The mirth that Harry had heard was ended.
As Harry stared, he saw a fierce burn come into The Shadow’s gaze. Instinctively, Harry wheeled.
Dumfounded, he became witness to a scene that he had not anticipated. The Shadow was staring toward the far corner where another form had risen.
It was Cortland Laspar. Never before had Harry seen a face so tinged with venom. If ever he had been a ruling menace, the magnate was one now. For Laspar had profited by the explosion that had wrecked the lodge. Occupying a corner remote from the explosion; situated in a spot where the stone bulwark of the fireplace had protected him, Laspar had regained new opportunity. From the floor he had picked up a loose revolver that had been kicked toward his corner. He was wielding the weapon with intent to kill.
Laspar was aiming for The Shadow. His gun was coming up. The lumber magnate’s move was swift; and Harry, recalling The Shadow’s pose, could do no more than give a despairing cry. True it was that Harry swung his own gun in a hurry; but he realized that he would be too late to prevent Laspar’s shot.
In that crucial instant came a burst of whispered mirth. The Shadow had seen Laspar before Harry had observed the lumber magnate. The Shadow’s pause had not been one of incapacity. He had delayed for steadiness.
Harry had turned just in time to see Laspar start an upward aim. The Shadow, too, had put his gun hand into motion on that same instant. It was a race to the shot, between The Shadow and the chief of crime.
The finish came with terrific suddenness. The Shadow’s automatic roared. Hard upon it came the burst of Laspar’s revolver. Then Harry Vincent fired.
In those split-seconds, The Shadow’s agent noted a singular phenomenon. Quick though Laspar’s shot had been, the villain’s hand had wavered as his finger pressed the trigger. Upon the waver had come a slump — so promptly, that Harry’s shot went wide. Again, Harry fired too late; Laspar was caving faster, than Harry could aim.
The crooked lumber magnate sprawled upon the floor. Again a whispered laugh came to Harry’s ears.