Shayne came down with his shoulder against the other man’s throat. The Japanese grabbed up at him, raking Shayne’s face with his fingernails. Shayne uncoiled, went up in the air, and came down hard with both knees. While the Japanese clutched at himself, groaning, Shayne floundered to his feet and kicked him in the head.
He still had a firm grip on the forty-five, but he was unable to bring it around. He skidded back into the shadow of the building.
His feet struck an overturned bucket. Reversing it, he kicked it into the open. It rolled to the unguarded edge of the cliff and went over with a clatter. Thompson, inside the house, fired blindly at the sound.
There was a slight movement overhead. Looking up, Shayne saw Ward, on his knees, on the staging over the doorway, holding a cinderblock.
“Back,” the Japanese yelled. “Thompson!”
Falling forward, he wrenched at the staging. Ward threw the cinderblock and the staging came down. One of the heavy boards caught Shayne across the knees. He kicked himself free. Thompson, in the doorway, had taken the full weight of the scaffold.
The Japanese threw himself at Ward and the two men grappled, rolling over and over in loose sand. Shayne went on hunting for something sharp enough to cut the remaining cord. He kicked against a shovel. Crouching, he felt for the cutting edge of the blade. It was blunt and useless.
George stumbled against him. Shayne took him out of action again with a hard body block and kicked him twice after coming erect, making sure this time that he placed the kicks exactly where he wanted them.
Ward cried, terrified, “Don’t! For God’s sake, no! Shayne!”
The struggle had moved to the edge of the steep drop. Thompson was still clawing at the planks, trying to free himself. Shayne ran to the two grappling men, in time to see the Japanese, on top, raise his knife. Shayne crouched backward against the Japanese, touched him with the forty-five, and fired.
The bullet’s impact tore the Japanese out of Ward’s grasp and flung him sideward. He clutched out, yelled something, and went over.
Shayne began to feel frantically for the dropped knife.
“Is that you, Mike?” Ward gasped. “What are you looking for? Are you hurt?”
Shayne made an urgent sound. Didn’t the damn fool realize there was no time for questions and answers?
“God, yes-the knife,” Ward said. “Here.”
An instant later Shayne’s wrists were free. He ran for the house, pulling at the tape across his mouth. Changing direction abruptly, he took cover behind the sand pile and considered the changed situation.
The weapons were now evenly distributed, and Shayne had the heavier gun. Thompson was only a hired hand, probably with little personal stake in the venture. As soon as he realized that the Japanese was dead and Shayne had the use of both hands, he would remember the taxi and try to use it to get away.
Shayne crawled out from the protection of the sand pile. Halfway to the taxi, he saw a figure dart out of a shadow, then veer away from the edge of the unfinished swimming pool. It was Thompson. For a few steps he was hidden from Shayne by the shadow of the bulldozer. When he came out into the open again, Shayne took careful aim and shot him in the leg.
With a muffled cry, Thompson fell backward into the excavation. Shayne ran to the Checker and, after starting the motor, wheeled the cab around until its headlights illuminated the edges of the rectangular hole.
“Thompson!” he called. “Say something if you can hear me.
There was no answer.
Leaving the taxi, Shayne circled toward the bulldozer. “Put up your head and I’ll blow it off, Thompson,” he called. “How can I miss? Throw your gun out. Then crawl out slowly.”
There was still no answer. Shayne waved Ward back with a peremptory movement of the forty-five and slid around the bulldozer. Its blade was raised a few feet above the ground. He eased forward and called again.
“Thompson, you’re through. You must know that by now. You’re all alone. Yami’s dead and George is out cold. I have the forty-five. I’m in no hurry. I can wait till you bleed to death or put your head up out of that hole.”
There was a flicker of flame. A bullet whanged against the bulldozer blade and whined off into the darkness.
Shayne swung up into the bulldozer’s high cab. He didn’t know this model, but all the controls seemed to be in the usual place. Thompson scrambled into view and snapped a shot up at him. Shayne switched on the ignition. As the powerful motor took hold, he pulled the blade lever, and the blade came up slowly to protect the cab. Thompson slid back, scratching at the loose dirt.
Shayne put the monster in gear. It lunged clumsily forward. As soon as it began to tip, he cut the switch and set the stabilizers, two long hydraulic props which served to anchor the machine when the backhoe was being used.
He called down, “Let’s do it this way, Thompson. You might not feel like answering questions after you get out. Two things I want to know. Throw your gun out first.”
Thompson screamed an obscenity and tried to come in under the blade. Shayne put a forty-five slug in the dirt a few inches from his hand.
Thompson scrambled back. He had lost his glasses. His clothes were torn and filthy. He lay on his back, breathing heavily and staring into the bulldozer’s single headlight.
“Two questions,” Shayne said. “Who are you working for? Where’s the gold going?”
Thompson stared up without answering.
As Shayne started the motor again, Thompson did a terrified scrabbling dance in the loose dirt.
“The Paladin!” he yelled. “Forced landing. That’s all she told me-Shayne, look out!”
The bulldozer lurched. The left stabilizer had gone down to solid ground, but the right one was beginning to slip. The cab swung. Shayne yanked at the hydraulic control. The stabilizer went in deeper, arresting the tilt for an instant. Then the edge of the hole caved in and the big machine started to go.
Thompson, below, twisted onto his hands and knees and scrambled desperately. “The Paladin!”
Shayne pulled himself to the door and jumped. Thompson looked up over his shoulder and screamed. Slowly and deliberately, the bulldozer leaned forward and came down on top of him.
CHAPTER 13
Ward walked into the light. He had a cut over one eye, and his black clerical coat had been torn in front, showing the straps of the shoulder harness.
He and Shayne looked at each other.
“If this is what you’re like with your hands and feet tied-” Ward said.
Shayne made no reply. He returned to the house for the lantern, then hunted outside until he found George Savage, lying on the cement-flecked dirt in his own thin vomit.
George moaned as the light hit him. Gathering a handful of his shirt front in one hand, Shayne jerked him up into a sitting posture and said savagely, “We’re going to talk now, George. The Paladin. What is it, a boat?”
George’s head lolled. Shayne shook, him angrily. George dribbled something and batted at the light. Then he fell forward against Shayne’s arm.
“Sick. Leave me alone.”
When Shayne released him, he crumpled into a tight crouch.
“I can tell you about the Paladin,” Ward said.
“It wouldn’t surprise me a bit,” Shayne said briefly.
He took the lantern to the edge of the cliff and shone it down on the tumble of broken rock fifty feet below. The body of the Japanese lay face down in a pool at the base of the waterfall.
Shayne put the lantern down. Filling his cupped hands with cold water, he dashed it in his face. After repeating this several times, he washed the edges of his scalp cut with his fingers. Shaking water from his hands, he returned to George Savage.