Doom On The Hill

CHAPTER XX CHANCE BULLETS

LIKE his minions, Spike Balgo stood astonished. The notorious mobleader knew the reputed power of The Shadow. He had heard that this fearless battler had terrified foemen to an unbelievable degree. But he had also been informed that The Shadow was quick on the trigger. He had never dreamed that the amazing enemy of crime would stride into the thick of an ambush before loosing a hail of lead.

It was the very unexpectedness of the situation that left Spike Balgo aghast. One hundred and fifty feet had separated The Shadow from his enemies. The weird avenger had traversed a full third of that distance before Spike Balgo acted.

Wondering, the gangleader backed away from the iron box. His henchmen withdrew with him. Again, The Shadow’s laugh burst forth. The Shadow was enjoying this recognition of his prowess. It was an experience which he had reserved for this particular occasion, with a reason which was soon to become apparent.

How long would The Shadow proceed unmolested? The answer rested with Spike Balgo. The gorillas were sheep. They were awaiting his move. The gangleader did not realize it until he felt the corner of the spring house wall behind his shoulders. At that moment, The Shadow had passed the halfway mark to the spot where the box lay in the light.

Then, suddenly, Spike snarled an order. He suited it with action. He raised his gun and fired three quick shots straight toward the advancing figure. The men with Spike copied his example. A dozen rounds delivered, the shooters stared, expecting to see the black form sink, riddled with slugs.

Instead, The Shadow laughed. Unwavering, he kept coming forward. Spike’s face turned ashen in the glare of the searchlight. His eyes bulged. Was this being a ghost, through which bullets passed unhampered? As Spike clutched the corner of the spring house, he heard shots burst from all about.

Ambushed mobsters were rising. Like Spike and the other three, they were firing at The Shadow. Yet the laugh continued. The fierce figure moved uninterrupted. Spike Balgo caught the glint of brilliant eyes that glared from beneath the hat brim. The Shadow was almost to the box.

“Get him!” bellowed Spike. “Get him! The Shadow!”

As mobsters opened a new volley, The Shadow turned. Disdainful of the four who stood within the light, he aimed for spots about where flashes told that men were ambushed. His automatics thundered answers to the reports of the Lugers. Cries and gasps sounded from the lips of human targets.

Again Spike fired. So did his men. As The Shadow turned in their direction, the four scattered like rats. Spike Balgo cleared the low roof of the spring house and fell sprawling by the opened door. His mobsmen, free of the searchlight’s glare, dropped to the ground and fired back. The Shadow — now beside the box of swag — timed his strident laughter to the staccato jabs of flame that issued from his guns.

A mobster came sprawling at Spike Balgo’s feet. This fellow had lingered too long. His emptied Luger fell to earth. A flashlight bounced on Spike’s foot. The mobleader, momentarily safe in his temporary shelter, picked up the flashlight. He stood there, listening to the final barrage of the scattered mobsmen.

A savage oath came from Spike’s lips. The mobleader turned on the flashlight and threw the rays against the old wall of the spring house. Raising his Luger, he fired point-blank at the wall. Something spattered. Spike stared. The bullet from his gun had left no mark!

ALL came to Spike Balgo in a flash. He and his henchmen had been tricked by the consignment to Grantham Breck. These Lugers had not been ordered by the dead lawyer. The Shadow had divined that the mobsmen would use such guns if they found them. It was he who had ordered the shipment of the box!

The bullets? There lay the trick. They were as harmless as pellets of wax. Spike Balgo had heard of amalgam bullets — slugs that had metallic content, but would disintegrate when discharged from the muzzle of the gun. Such was The Shadow’s game. He had come to claim the box of swag. Taunting the frenzied mobsters, he had added to his gibes with intermittent shots that had clipped half of Balgo’s band of ruffians.

Cursing, Spike hurled the Luger to the ground. Instinctively, he thrust his hand to his pocket. It encountered the cold steel of Harry Vincent’s automatic — the weapon that Spike had discovered by chance. The gangleader hesitated but an instant. Drawing Harry’s gun, he raised his hand and his eyes above the level of the spring-house roof.

The Shadow was standing by the box of swag. By some uncanny ability, he seemed to divine Spike’s action. Turning, he brought an automatic toward its enemy, timing his aim without hurry. Spike Balgo, his gun still in motion, fired two quick shots; then dropped for cover, just as The Shadow’s gun replied.

One bullet sizzled past The Shadow’s ear. The second, a few inches lower, found its mark. The Shadow’s left hand dropped as his right hand fired. The black-garbed figure wavered. The Shadow was slumping toward the ground.

Spike Balgo peered from the side of the spring house. He aimed again, just as The Shadow rose. He saw the cloaked form go weaving, wavering away from the box. Spike fired again — a wide shot — as The Shadow stumbled. With a shout of triumph, Spike leaped out to aim.

The Shadow was lying facing toward the large house. Had he tried to swing and aim toward Spike, he would have met disaster. Had he risen to take to flight, he would have been a target for the mobleader. Instead, he fired from the ground. His shot was accompanied by the crash of glass and the descent of total darkness. The Shadow, though weakened, had managed to hit the luminous bull’s-eye of his own searchlight.

Spike Balgo had discarded the flashlight. The gangleader fumed. No use to fire now — The Shadow was invisible. Spike dared not approach the wounded fighter. Instead, he cried out to his men. He called for lights and shouted for a mass attack.

Responses came. Mobsmen had seen The Shadow fall. Encouraged by Spike’s temporary flashlight, those who had escaped The Shadow’s shots came bounding forward to the spring house. They brought forth flashlights. Viciously, Spike gave an order.

“Get after him!” snarled the mobleader. “I got a rod that can clip him. I’ll be behind you. If he puts up a fight, I’ll plug him!”

Mobsters hesitated; then plunged forward en masse. Their flashlights showed the spot where The Shadow had stumbled. But the interval had been too long. Well had The Shadow counted on their action — the assembling with Spike — the hesitation before they drove forward.

The ground was blank where The Shadow had been. The wounded fighter had arisen; he had headed off beyond the empty house. Precious seconds had aided him in this forced departure. The Shadow had left the field. The swag again belonged to Spike Balgo.

“Scrammed, eh?” jeered Spike, as he approached the box. “Well — let him go. We showed him up. A couple of you mugs hoist this box. The rest of you see about those fellows that he plugged.

“Hang on to them rods. The bullets ain’t no good, but people won’t know that where we’re going. Come along — if any of the mob is done for, leave ‘em lay. Bring along the others. That hick sheriff’s liable to be up here now, after all the racket. But that won’t matter. We’ll be gone when he gets here. Gone — like The Shadow.”

THERE was contempt in Spike’s final words. The gangleader was scoffing because he had offset The Shadow’s ruse. He believed that he had conquered the feared enemy. He was confident that The Shadow — once he had fled — would not return.

That was because Spike judged all fighters by his own caliber. Spike was yellow when it came to a showdown. He was not keen enough to analyze the keen workings of The Shadow’s brain. He thought that the cloaked fighter had lost his nerve when real bullets came his way.

There were two reasons why The Shadow had resorted to his unusual strategy of flight — that is, two reasons other than the fact that he was wounded and therefore at an unanticipated disadvantage. Yet Spike did not guess either reason.

To The Shadow, the presence of one live gun among the mob was an indication that Spike might have changed his mind about the disposal of the old rods. The Shadow had gained no knowledge of Spike’s chance discovery of Harry Vincent’s automatic. Wounded, The Shadow had quickly seen the possibility that several men might have their old guns in reserve. That was one reason why he had blotted out the searchlight and taken to the cover of the darkness.

The other reason was one which would have jolted Spike Balgo had the mobleader considered it. The Shadow knew more than Spike suspected. He had guessed what was due to follow the gaining of the swag.

The game of crime had not yet been completed. Crooks had further — and important — work to do. One wound from a chance bullet had never eliminated The Shadow in the past. His plans were changed; but not eradicated.

Spike Balgo and his depleted crew had trudged away with the box of swag when a soft laugh whispered from beside the old, empty house. There was a trace of anguish in the softened tone; yet confidence was the dominating note.

Wavering slightly beneath the enshrouded blackness, The Shadow arose from his resting place. Slowly, his unseen figure moved downward along the slope.