The Shadow’s face was impassive, despite the streaked, uncouth condition of its make-up. His eyes were untroubled. On the contrary, they seemed alert and challenging. His ears were quick to detect sounds that they heard from above deck. When a footfall sounded from the ladder into the forecastle, The Shadow’s eyes were prompt to turn in that direction.
Tanker appeared within the lantern’s range. Swaying with the roll of the tug, the seaman approached the bunk. He surveyed the prisoner seriously; then spoke.
“Too bad, matey,” declared Tanker. “We got to haul you up on deck, me and Pete, when he gets here. What’s coming to you, I ain’t sure; but I don’t advise you to count on no good luck to—”
Tanker stopped abruptly; he had faced about to reach for the lantern and a clutching hand had stopped him. As on that night in the East River, gripping fingers had seized Tanker’s arm. Another hand came up as Tanker swung; it caught his shoulder and the first free hand went for his throat.
TANKER gurgled and tried to wrest away. He was too late. The Shadow, his body and legs encased in ropes, was plying two free arms to down the seaman in a swift and effective struggle. Tanker fought back; despite his friendliness toward the doomed prisoner, he still considered himself as one of Lem Hurdy’s crew.
During lone hours, The Shadow had managed to slip his wrists from a rope that lashed them. His body had remained wound about with hemp; but he had worked slack in the upper coils by tightening those below.
He had feigned complete bondage until he was sure that Tanker had come here alone. Then, when opportunity chanced, he had slipped his arms free from the slack.
In his battle, he was gripping Tanker fiercely. Should the man shake him loose, The Shadow would sprawl helpless, because of his bound ankles. That was one reason why The Shadow had caught Tanker’s throat; to choke his foe into submission. The other reason was also important: choking stifled Tanker’s outcry.
A grim scene beneath the lantern. Tanker, writhing, lashing furiously to fling off his antagonist. The Shadow, his bound legs whipped about, was struggling to retain his hold on the big fellow’s neck.
As they swung against a bunk, The Shadow’s shoulders jounced. For an instant, his fingers slipped. Then, as Tanker managed a gasp and wrenched The Shadow’s wrists, a roll of the tug sent the pair wavering across the forecastle.
Feet on the bunk’s edge, The Shadow straightened his body with a tremendous spring. He sent Tanker reeling backward, straight for the post that held the swinging lantern. Tanker’s head cracked the pillar as The Shadow guided it with relentless hands.
Then the roll of the tug, the impetus of The Shadow’s plunge — combined forces gained what Tanker had sought and failed. The Shadow’s grip was lost; his half-bound body floundered to the floor.
VICTORY was Tanker’s; but the fellow could not take it. As The Shadow rolled over and tried to rise, he saw Tanker’s body slithering downward. It sprawled by The Shadow’s side. That whack against the post had knocked the seaman groggy. Tanker, not The Shadow, had become the vanquished.
The last stroke had succeeded; and The Shadow was quick to take advantage of it.
He was a bit unsteady, this self-rescued prisoner, when he crawled toward Tanker’s shifting form after putting off his bonds. The Shadow felt in the seaman’s pockets, seeking a knife for which he would have previously looked had the knots proven too tight.
He found no knife; but he discovered an object that he needed more — a fully loaded .32 revolver. Tanker’s pockets, however, carried no extra ammunition.
Being coatless, The Shadow thrust the weapon into his hip pocket. He hoisted Tanker to a bunk and proceeded to tie him up with the loose ropes.
Tanker’s eyes were opening. The Shadow gagged him with a bandanna that he took from the man’s own pocket. The lantern’s glow showed Tanker recovering from his thump, but no longer capable of struggle.
The Shadow moved toward the steps to the deck. He stopped suddenly and retreated to the front of the forecastle. Someone was coming down the ladder-like stairs.
Pete stepped into the glow. He looked about for Tanker; then stared at the bound form in the bunk. Pete could not see the features of the gagged face; but he realized that this was not the prisoner. A sudden hiss made him swing toward the lantern. Pete stopped; his hands came up as he faced the muzzle of Tanker’s gun, leveled by the hand of The Shadow.
Pete saw the glimmer of The Shadow’s revolver. He knew that any resistance would be useless. He lay quietly while The Shadow strapped his ankles with a belt; then found another handkerchief and used it as a gag. Finally, The Shadow fished a second revolver from Pete’s pocket. This one, a .38, was more to The Shadow’s liking.
The Shadow had expected to find both these men armed. The guns that he had gained were proof that all others aboard the tug would also have ready weapons.
The crew, he decided, must number at least a dozen. The place to deal with them would be on deck; not in this forecastle, which could easily prove to be a trap.
CAUTIOUSLY, The Shadow ascended the steps. He reached the top and gained a view astern. The low roof of the forecastle prevented him from seeing toward the bow. The deck of the tug was pitch dark. For some reason, all lights had been extinguished. Until he could locate members of the crew, The Shadow’s best course was to lurk in darkness.
Easing himself to the deck, The Shadow stared toward the starboard rail. A glow showed against the distant sky. To discern its cause, The Shadow raised his head above the level of the forecastle roof. The new position afforded him a startling view.
A few miles distant lay a blazing ship; a liner revealed by the very flames that were sweeping its high superstructure. Volumes of smoke were rising from the vessel’s bow, pouring back to engulf the ship’s twin funnels.
The tug was lying beyond the broad range of glare; waiting within thick darkness, like an expectant vulture watching some dying prey.
To The Shadow dawned the strange truth of his rescue; that the Colonia was manned by another band of The Python’s; that its skipper must be a Coilmaster who served the supercrook.
For The Shadow had recognized that distant, flame-framed liner. It was the steamship Tropical, the very boat that he had expected to board at Savannah. On it were other of The Python’s minions; opposing them, two of The Shadow’s own aids.
For the present, all were concentrated upon the Tropical. All eyes aboard the Colonia were focused on the flaming decks of the distressed steamship.
Similarly, Lem Hurdy and his crew had no suspicion that The Shadow was within their circle. They had forgotten Tanker and Pete — the prisoner as well — in the tense task of watching the conflagration aboard the approaching liner.
The Shadow, like foemen who did not know of his self-gained freedom, was also keeping distant watch upon the steamship’s glare. Doubly armed, he was biding his time for the proper moment. When it arrived, The Shadow would strike for victory.
CHAPTER X
CROOKS CHOOSE TO FIGHT
ABOARD the Tropical, chaos had come with flames. The very swiftness of the fire had produced commotion. When officers hastened to give commands, they found themselves confronted by an inferno.
Gouger and his pals had passed up no evil opportunity. A few of them had shipped aboard as new members of the crew; they had lined up some malcontents with promises of big pay. Nearly a dozen in all, they had saturated the woodwork and upholstery with kerosene. Flames, once begun, had spurted like mammoth torches.