Murder Marsh

CHAPTER XIV. IN THE CABIN

THOUGH the pursuing party had moved promptly, its pace could not compare with that of the bearded squatter. The big man had stifled Dorothy into a state of semi-consciousness. He was carrying the girl as easily as he might have taken along a tiny child.

Though moving blindly through the darkness, he picked his path unfailingly. He did not pause within the confines of the marsh. When he did stop, it was on the fringe of solid, rocky ground, that marked the base of the hill. Looking backward, the squatter saw the tiny glare of Brent’s electric lantern. The pursuers had already slackened; yet they were not halfway through the spreading swamp.

A muffled laugh came from the heavy beard. Shifting the girl to his other shoulder, the squatter began his climb. He traveled up the slope at a pace that rivaled The Shadow’s progress. At this gait he was sure to reach the cabin long before those who pursued him.

There was no need for silence. Speed was the man’s one aim. His heavy boots clicked against stones and sent them rolling down the slope. His breath came in long, heavy puffs. The squatter’s endurance was tremendous.

Evidently his exit from the back window of the cabin had been merely a matter of set precaution; for at present, the squatter took it for granted that no one was close at hand. In this assumption he was wrong.

A listener on the hillside was hearing his approach. The waiting man was Harry Vincent.

Rising from behind a rock, The Shadow’s agent began a stealthy upward course. The squatter was gaining, but Harry had a head start. He reached the cabin while the squatter was still puffing upward, nearly a hundred yards below. Quietly, Harry stationed himself outside the door.

The squatter arrived. Fumbling in his pocket he produced a key. He unlocked the door; he entered and laid Dorothy, still semi-conscious, upon a rickety cot in the corner. He turned to close the door. Dorothy, weakly opening her eyes, was a witness of what followed.

AS the squatter stepped toward the doorway, a flashlight glared squarely into his bearded face. The man staggered backward with a snarl. Harry Vincent sprang into the cabin, automatic in hand. His gun was leveled straight between the eyes that glared fiercely from above the bearded face.

“Up with your hands,” ordered Harry.

The squatter came forward with the same terrific speed that had enabled him to capture Dorothy Brent.

His big fist shot to Harry Vincent’s right wrist. The twist that it delivered wrenched the gun from Harry’s hand. The Shadow’s agent grappled hopelessly as rugged arms gripped him. Then, with a fling, the bearded squatter sent Harry rolling on the floor. The young man’s head thumped the stone facing of the fire place. Harry lay motionless.

The squatter grabbed the automatic and pointed toward the man whom he had overcome. Dorothy gave a gasping scream, thinking that he intended to shoot. The squatter turned and approached the cot. He glared toward the girl; he was about to speak when a new sound attracted his attention. It came from the door of the little room.

Looking up, the squatter found himself covered by the muzzle of an automatic that extended from a blackgloved fist. Behind the gun was a strange figure cloaked in black. Above the barrel were blazing eyes that glowed like living coals. A hissed command issued from hidden lips.

It was The Shadow. Spectral master who had cowed the fiercest fighters of New York’s underworld, he had arrived to challenge this furious, bearded superman who seemed to fear no odds.

Not one man in a million would have resisted The Shadow’s might. But this bearded Dalwar was a power unto himself. He acted with the same suddenness that he had previously displayed. Swinging the automatic that he had gained from Harry Vincent, the bearded fighter sprang upon The Shadow with a tigerlike roar. A cloaked arm swung to meet the Dalwar’s descending stroke. Automatics clashed like sabers. Then the fighters grappled. The Shadow went plunging backward from the fury of the squatter’s onslaught.

Dorothy had turned to see the grapplers surge into the darkness of the little room. The girl tried to rise.

The effort was too great. She heard a chair crash to the floor; then the clattering of glass as a window-sash was smashed from its frame. Bodies struck the inner wall with a terrific thud.

Gazing toward the fire place, Dorothy saw Harry Vincent rising. The Shadow’s agent was groggy.

Holding one hand to his head, he staggered toward the little room. Dorothy tried to scream a warning.

Harry tottered into the darkness. A roar, loud as the bellow of a bull, came from the fighting squatter.

Another terrific thud; then silence. Dorothy sank back on the cot. The girl had fainted.

WHEN she recovered consciousness, Dorothy heard the crackle of embers in the fire place. Then came muffled voices, outside the house. The girl sat up. No one was in the large room; all was silent from the little room adjoining. Voices again, just outside the door. A man came into view, carrying a gleaming revolver. Dorothy sank back with a gasp of relief. It was Nicholas Rokesbury.

Footsteps tramped into the cabin. Wildemar Brent came wheezing after the members of Rokesbury’s crew. The engineer helped the girl to a sitting position. Brent came scurrying forward, gasping grateful words. While he and Rokesbury aided Dorothy to her feet, the rescue squad tramped into the little room.

They found it empty, save for a broken chair and bits of glass from the shattered window.

In bewildered fashion, Dorothy tried to explain what had happened. She realized that her recollections were chaotic. Fighting — then silence. While she tried to tell her story, Rokesbury’s men began to scour the premises. A call came from outside.

“Who’s that’” shouted Rokesbury.

“It’s all right,” returned one of the men. “A friend.”

Half a minute later, a tall, panting figure appeared in the doorway. It was Professor Darwin Shelby, carrying an electric lantern. The scientist blinked through his big spectacles. Shelby was fully dressed.

“I heard the confusion,” he puffed. “I decided to follow you. I hailed you from the marsh — you were too far ahead. I found my way through. My word! Is Miss Brent all right?”

“Yes,” acknowledged Brent. “She has had a harrowing experience, however. The man who carried her here has escaped. Come. We must take her back to the mansion.”

“I’ll leave two men here,” decided Rokesbury, “in case that bearded fellow returns. Do you feel well enough to start back, Dorothy?”

The girl nodded. The men aided her as they left the cabin. The returning party made its way down the hill; guided by Brent and Shelby, they found the difficult path through the marsh. Dorothy was walking steadily when they reached the old house.

A figure was standing in the glare beside the door. A stern face greeted the arrivals. It was Philo Halthorpe. Returning from his nightly hike, the rugged lawyer had seen the light outside the mansion.

Once again, Halthorpe was here to act as questioner, that he might have data ready when the law came to investigate new trouble at the house in the marsh.

THE quiz began when they reached the great hall. Two of Rokesbury’s men were there: one with a bandaged arm. The engineer inquired for the others. The response was a thumb nudged toward the closed door of the room with paneled tapestries.

“In there,” said the workman, soberly. “Bill was dead; Harry kicked in just after you fellows left.”

“And Twindell?” asked Brent, in an anxious tone.

“He was dead when we found him,” said the workman. “We put his corpse in with the others.”

Nicholas Rokesbury slumped in a chair beside the fire. He knew that his bullet had taken the old servant’s life. His solemn gaze showed that the news had stunned him.

“Three men dead,” declared Philo Halthorpe, in a serious tone. “It is important that I have the details before I go back to my home and call the county prosecutor.”

Halthorpe looked toward Dorothy, as though expecting the girl to make the first statement. Recovered from her prolonged ordeal, Dorothy nodded. She began her story, describing the events in the mansion.

She ended with a hazy recollection of the fight in the cabin.

“A man came in to rescue me,” said the girl, in a positive tone. “The squatter knocked him to the floor.

Then another challenged the bearded man, from the door of the little room. They fought. I saw the injured man get up from the floor. Then — then I fainted. When I recovered my senses, the place was empty.

After that, Nicholas arrived.”

“What can you tell us, Rokesbury?” asked Halthorpe.

“We saw Dorothy’s flashlight,” declared the engineer. “Over at the causeway. I told my men to surround the house. I ran ahead of them. As I neared the house, I decided to get inside, if possible. So I took to the side toward town. I came in through one of the windows in the passage to the far end of the hall.”

“Go on,” ordered Halthorpe.

“I found a hiding place beside the stairway” — Rokesbury pointed— “and waited there. I was just in time to elude Twindell, who came prowling from the stairway. Then the door opened; in came the chap with the beard. He began to whisper to Twindell; I couldn’t hear what they said.”

“Why didn’t you challenge them?”

“I wanted to be sure my men were ready. The bearded man was edging toward the door. I had my revolver so that I could cut him off if he tried to double back through the house. Then, just at the crucial moment, Dorothy turned on the lights. Twindell saw me. He sprang upon me.”

“And you shot him?”

“I fired one shot, wild. That was to warn my men; to frighten Twindell and make the squatter run for it.

Then I had my hands full. Twindell fought like a fiend. I didn’t want to kill him; but I had to. He was pulling the gun from my grasp. Beyond him, I could see the squatter, carrying Dorothy from the house. I pulled the trigger. Twindell fell away from me.”

“I witnessed the struggle!” exclaimed Dorothy. “I saw Twindell make the attack—”

“I have heard your statement,” put in Halthorpe, dryly. “It is sufficient to exonerate Rokesbury, since it is obvious that Twindell was an accomplice of the squatter. You men outside — you saw the bearded killer shoot down your companions?”

The workmen nodded. The wounded man pointed to his arm.

“The guy nicked me,” he said.

“He is already wanted for murder,” decided Halthorpe. “This adds conclusive evidence to circumstantial facts. Your statement, Mr. Brent.”

“The firing was over,” declared the naturalist, “by the time I arrived downstairs. I learned that my niece had been abducted. I led the way.”

“And you, professor?” quizzed Halthorpe.

“I was even later,” stated Shelby. “I must have come downstairs while the bodies were being carried into the tapestried room. This hallway was deserted. So I went outside and followed the distant lantern through the marsh.”

“I shall go to town immediately,” declared Halthorpe. “Suppose, Rokesbury, that I accompany you to the causeway. You can drive me into town; walking would take too long on this occasion. You can remain at my house until the coroner arrives to question you again regarding Twindell’s death.”

“Very well,” agreed Rokesbury. “Can I leave some men here to make sure that all is well?”

“That would be advisable,” responded Halthorpe.

The lawyer paused to ponder. His gawky form seemed powerful as he straightened and raised his head in thought. Then, in terse fashion, he delivered his usual summary of opinion.

“The murderer must have had enemies,” decided Halthorpe. “They may have been persons who wondered what he was about. So they attacked him in the cabin. Miss Brent saw him overpower one; the shattered window is proof that he must have hurled the other out into the darkness.

“Then, in all probability, he fled. His assailants, half groggy, decided that it was unwise to remain. They also departed before your rescue squad arrived. That sums the case. Come, Rokesbury. Let us go to the causeway.”

The lawyer and the engineer departed. Workmen took up their guard, outside the house. The occupants retired for the night. Thick blackness laid its hush over the house in the marsh.

LATER, a phantom form appeared mysteriously within the glow of the embers from the hearth. The Shadow moved toward the room with the paneled tapestries. His gloved hand opened the door; his flashlight flickered on the dead faces of Twindell and the slain workmen.

That same light roved along the walls; it flashed across the drawn shades that hid the solid, small-paned windows. Out went the light. The Shadow moved through the end of the hall, past the windows there; then through the windowed passage. He stopped at the door of the little room which Brent and Cray had occupied in turn.

That door was locked; by opening it, The Shadow could have found an exit through one of the ordinary windows. Instead, he kept on through other passages until he reached the cellar stairs. There, his form was lost in blackness.

AFTERWARD, a swish came softly through the gloom that hung over the solid ground between the old mansion and the causeway. The Shadow paid no heed to the distant lights and the dull sounds of the sledges that the workers wielded. He moved silently toward the blackness of the bog. From then on, his course was a mystery.

Hidden paths that he had discovered through the quagmire; rising wisps of mist that made white specters in the mist; these formed The Shadow’s habitat. But later, as dawn was nearing, the cloaked form again appeared within the great hall at the mansion.

Before the fire place, The Shadow loomed unseen by human eyes. Only the long-faced portrait of Thaddeus Culeth glared upon his strange, outlandish figure. That portrait, had it been alive, could have told of weird events within this hall. But of all the personages that its painted eyes might have viewed, none was so sinister as the figure which stood before it at this moment.

The Shadow moved toward the stairway. His form was blotted by darkness. Dying embers crackled.

The painted eyes of Thaddeus Culeth’s portrait stared sightless into empty space.