“It’s all spilled,” growled Griff, as he swung the car beneath the low bridge just outside of town. “We’re lucky to get away — and we wouldn’t be away except for the boys who yanked the freight across the track.”
“Who is after us?” queried Rowling, anxiously.
“The Shadow,” returned Griff.
“The Shadow?” questioned Marker.
“Yes,” informed Griff. “I’ve heard of him but I didn’t know he was in this mess. But he won’t get us now. I’ll cut left before we get to Gwynnesport. Over to the flying field. We’ll grab a plane for Canada. It’s our only chance.”
“I can get money,” stated Townsend Rowling. “I’ve been ready for emergencies such as this. Don’t worry” — the crooked bank owner paused to laugh — “we’ll be safe when we get across the border.”
“What’s that?” Rutherford Blogg put the query as he stared through the back window of the car. He had seen a light behind as the automobile had reached the straight road a few miles out of town.
Townsend Rowling turned to stare. A wild gasp came from his lips as his ears heard the distant rumble.
“It’s the Limited!” he exclaimed. “Pulling out ahead of time. It’s coming after us!”
An oath came from Griff. The fuming vigilante pressed the accelerator to the floor. The speedometer moved to sixty-five; then neared seventy.
“I can’t get a bit more out of this old buggy,” he snarled. “Seventy is the best.”
“Enough to beat the train,” decided Rowling. “Keep at top speed, Griff.”
“Three baggage cars,” muttered Griff. “That was all the load the loco had. The Mogul might do ninety on the down grade.”
“Can you beat it to the crossing?”
“I think so.”
An anxious cry came from Hiram Marker. The waterworks owner was looking through the back. He could see that the train was gaining.
THE huge headlight showed the fleeing touring car. Burning eyes were staring from the window of the cab. The Shadow, his gloved hand upon the throttle, was swaying with the rocking of the locomotive as the huge Jagannath rolled along the one-track roadbed.
Norton Granger was still stoking. The swaying of the locomotive nearly caused him to lose his balance. He caught a guard rail and steadied.
The distance was lessening to the crossing. The brilliant light of the locomotive showed rails that seemed hurtling up beneath the wheels. The short train was doing close to the ninety miles an hour that Griff had feared.
The space between the mighty engine and the fleeing car was narrowing. Yet the automobile had gained a long start. The straight railroad had favored the locomotive, for the touring car had followed a curving course just outside of town. Now both were on the final stretch of straightaway.
A weird laugh came from The Shadow’s lips. It sounded above the roar of the locomotive. The end of the chase was near at hand. Only minutes remained in which to stop the fugitives.
IN the touring car, Griff uttered a sudden exclamation. Far ahead, he could trace the outline of the wooded patch through which the road curved to take the grade crossing beside the gorge.
“We’ve got him licked!” exclaimed Griff. “He can’t catch us now!”
“How’s that?” queried Rowling, anxiously.
“We can cross before or after him,” returned Griff. “His only chance is to block us — like we stopped his car with the freight. That’s where we’ll beat him.
“He’ll use the air brakes when we hit the woods. Listen and you’ll hear him. He’s only got three cars. He’ll have to use them to make a barrier.
“If we reach the woods ahead of him, we’re safe. The brakes will slow him and we’ll shoot over the crossing before he gets there.”
“But if he doesn’t brake the train what will—”
“We’ll know it when we strike the woods. If he doesn’t shoot the brakes, we’ll let him go over first. He’s wise enough to know that. Here’s the woods. Watch and listen.”
THE locomotive was close behind the car as the fleeing automobile neared the woods. The Shadow’s black hand left the throttle. It pressed the air-brake lever. The locomotive shuddered and seemed to bounce along the rails as the brakes sighed their response.
Triumphant cries sounded as the touring car shot into the woods. These were from the watching men in the back seat. Griff responded. His prediction had been proven.
“He’s done it,” sneered the vigilante. “That’s the end of him. We’re still ahead — and this is where we get across before him.”
The speedometer showed sixty-eight as Griff took the circuitous curve. The steady driver knew his speed. The curve was nullified by the lead. The slowing train could not block the crossing ahead of the fleeing car.
AS the headlight of the locomotive blazed its way through track-fringing trees, The Shadow’s hand left the brake lever. It gripped the throttle and pulled it wide. The big engine gave a leap.
Unknown to the fleeing crooks, The Shadow had changed his tactics. The locomotive was hitting the curve toward the grade crossing. Its pounding wheels seemed to stagger on the rails. No whistle sounded the Mogul’s thundering approach.
Bearing heavily on the increasing curve, the locomotive seemed to hang on two wheels. Roaring forward, its speed had become a danger. Yet the hand of The Shadow never left the throttle.
Blazing light showed an opening amid the trees. The locomotive gobbled up the space. With new fury, the steaming giant of metal fairly leaped toward the grade crossing by the gorge.
Then into the path of light came the hurtling touring car. With the Mogul thundering down upon it, the automobile seemed a frail and trivial toy. A swallowing monster, the locomotive hit the grade at ninety miles an hour just as the fleeing car was midway on the rails!
The locomotive seemed to spring upon its prey. The giant mass of metal wobbled as its front crashed against the side of the automobile. Twisting as it hurtled upward, the touring car was instantly transformed into a mass of hopeless wreckage as it piled upon the pilot of the Mogul.
The locomotive roared upon the trestle. The Shadow’s hand was already on the brake. The trestle trembled. The locomotive rose, then steadied. Full speed would have wrecked the engine and its cars; quick application of the brakes would have done the same.
But The Shadow’s hand was steady. He eased the speed with master skill. Wheels seemed to regain their rails as the steel steed steadied midway of the trestle. A slackening, while Norton Granger staggered in the left side of the cab.
From his window, Norton saw the twisted touring car go lurching from the pilot. With its falling occupants dropping like toy soldiers, the automobile plunged far off the trestle and turned over and over as it went to the depths of the gorge, two hundred feet below!
The brakes were tightening as the locomotive passed the trestle. The tender served as bulwark against the cars as the train slowed steadily on the down grade.
Half a mile down the track, the locomotive came to a jolting stop. Norton Granger caught himself as he shot forward in the cab.
The young lawyer was dazed from the hectic ride. The hurtling trip along the rails; the jolt at the grade crossing; the sight of that spinning car as it whirled into the ravine — all these were chaotic recollections.
Murderers had gone to their doom. All four had been party to the death of Norton’s father and to the slaying of others who had blocked their schemes for ill-gained pelf.
Fleeing from the law, they had dared The Shadow’s might. They had failed. Townsend Rowling, Rutherford Blogg, Hiram Marker and their underling, Eric Griffel, had met swift death which they deserved.