Again those devastating shots were withering the ranks of the riffraff. Crooks were sprawling all about, firing hopelessly, spreading along the deck. Hurling away telltale lights, they dived for cover, scattered by this cannonade that surpassed all belief.
It was The Shadow’s only chance. To drive back the demoniac foemen with a taste of lead that would leave them crippled. Had he been dealing with a dozen, The Shadow would have gained his purpose; for never before had he raked attacking ranks with such superhuman fury.
But tonight, The Shadow dealt with twice one dozen; and half a dozen more. When his last shot roared its final blast, nearly a score of ruffians still remained, lying along the rail, scattered about the deck. To these cohorts came Courtney Dolver’s new shout for the attack.
Revolvers popped, their flashes were puny compared with that swift barrage that The Shadow’s guns had thundered. Jund and Dave had reached the deck; they were taking pot-shots in the dark. So were those two crew members who had lain silent ever since The Shadow’s attack had saved them.
TO The Shadow, there was but one more chance. Dropping behind a little parapet, he tugged at the bonds of captured seamen. Wriggling free, yanking away their gags; these huskies were anxious to get into the fray. But they were weaponless; all they could hope to do would be to fight bare-handed beside The Shadow.
Flashlights burned. Crooks knew that The Shadow’s ammunition was exhausted. Glimmering rays revealed Jund, Dave and the armed seamen. The four dived for the interior of the ship. Half a dozen thugs started in pursuit.
To the others came Courtney Dolver’s shrill order for the assault upon The Shadow’s pitiful stronghold.
Dolver knew who was quartered there. He wanted to eliminate this one opponent whose might was equal to a score of ordinary foemen.
Far down the river were the approaching lights of the police boats, still more than a mile away. The Shadow saw them as he peered quickly from his cover; then his slouch hat vanished as flashlights focused on the tiny parapet.
His laugh rose in final, fearless challenge, a defiance to those about the deck. Though death might be The Shadow’s lot, this cause might still be won by the law.
Shouting riffraff leaped forward, firing as they came, driving in to slaughter The Shadow and his weaponless companions. But as they opened with their scattered shots, a sudden burst of revolvers sounded from behind them. As ruffians paused, their snarling pals wheeled on the center of the deck.
A row of yellow faces was bobbing over the rail from the spot marked by the hanging ladder. Fists beneath them were clutching revolvers. Fingers were pressing triggers, delivering quick shots into the backs of the advancing thugs.
As oaths spat from tire lips of ruffians, wiry Chinamen came vaulting past the rail to crouch upon the deck. The Celestials were still firing while others bobbed into sight behind them.
Dave Callard had not come here alone. He had left Leng Doy and the Cantonese in cars up on the heights, believing that it would be best to interview Captain Jund alone.
But Leng Doy had deemed it wise to follow. He and his faithful followers had reached the railroad tracks when the firing had commenced aboard the Xerxes.
As half a dozen Chinamen plopped to the deck and spread to draw diverting fire, Leng Doy, himself, leaped into view. Half a second later, a bulky, stalwart American swung over the rail from the hanging ladder. Dropping beside the spreading Chinese, Detective Sergeant Markham brought his police revolver into play.
A NEW battle was on; though riffraff held the odds, their attack was broken. Most of them swung to meet these unexpected invaders. Only half a dozen still hesitated, still ready to drive on toward The Shadow and the released seamen. It was Dolver again who supplied them with initiative.
Flourishing his revolver, the archcrook reached the hesitating group and waved them toward the parapet. Forgetting Markham and the Chinese, Dolver’s new minions swung to obedience, turning flashlights and revolvers toward the silent parapet.
Their action came too late. Over that low barrier hurtled The Shadow. A creature of mighty blackness, he sprang upon the turning crooks. An automatic muzzle in each fist, he swung sledgehammer strokes, driving the heavy gun handles toward the ducking skulls of frantic thugs.
Hard on The Shadow’s surge came Jessup and the rescued seamen. Anxious for fight, they leaped for aiming crooks, rolling the startled ruffians to the deck, knocking aside aiming guns, while The Shadow staggered sidewise in fierce grapple with a vicious pair of killers.
A black fist shot out and clutched a revolver just as its owner aimed it. With a fierce twist, The Shadow wrested it from the would-be murderer’s grasp. He had hurled his automatics away when this pair had piled upon him. Now he used one man’s own gun to slug the fellow for a knock-out.
The last man was writhing, clamped by The Shadow’s left arm. A cloaked limb was throttling him; the thug was helpless, with eyes bulging as he choked in the viselike grip. The Shadow looked up, still holding the revolver by its gleaming barrel. From a dozen feet away, he heard a vicious snarl.
COURTNEY DOLVER was aiming a revolver. The gleams of wavering flashlights bathed the archcrook in their glare; the same illumination showed Dolver the spot where The Shadow struggled. Dolver had the bead. His finger was on the trigger of his rising gun, while The Shadow’s weapon was reversed.
The Shadow’s right hand gave a toss. The revolver spun about, squarely into the fist that twisted it. The Shadow’s forefinger sped for the trigger, just as Dolver blazed from a range of a dozen feet.
A bullet whistled wide as Dolver fired. A second quick shot clipped The Shadow’s hat brim. The revolver steadied with a slight jerk as Dolver sought to deliver a third bullet that never left his gun. For in that interim, The Shadow fired twice.
Dolver wavered dizzily. As he swayed, his finger failed upon the trigger. The revolver slipped from his numbed hand. With a last sag, the archcrook flattened. His lips twisted out epithets; then their quiver ceased. The Shadow raised his left arm and let the choked thug slump to the deck.
The Shadow had studied Dolver’s weakness. Murderous though the supercrook had been, Dolver had never trusted his own aim. That’s why he had burned three shots into Ralgood; the same number into Basslett; and a full five into Shurrick’s dying body.
At close, scorching range, Dolver had dealt with helpless, unresisting victims. At half a dozen paces, faced by The Shadow, the murderer’s faulty aim had failed.
Firing was still scattering about the deck. The remnants of the riffraff horde were gathered at the bow, ready for a final charge, while Markham and Leng Doy’s Chinese lay low, awaiting them. Pot-shots, wild thrusts in the dark, were but useless preliminaries. The Shadow stood ready to aid in the final fray; then to his ears came a token that told that he would no longer be needed.
Lights glimmered beyond the scow. Clattering footsteps on the deck of the water-logged craft. Scrapings of the ladder. The police boats had arrived; attracted by the gunfire, Weston and Cardona were on hand.
The Shadow alone had guessed the meaning of these sounds. He watched the outcome.
In ragged fashion, the last of Dolver’s minions came out from cover. They shouted as they drove across the deck. Markham and the Chinese greeted them with a low-level fire.
Two crooks sprawled; the others came on, shooting wildly from reloaded guns. Then came the climax.
An enfilading fire broke out along the rail.
Joe Cardona and three detectives had reached the top of the ladder, spreading apart to aim with earnest zeal. Police revolvers found easy targets; for Leng Doy had called for lights. The glare of flashlights held by Chinese fists had spotted the thugs in their final charge.