Frozen on the toe path, Chet was a perfect target. He could almost see the
squeeze of the trigger finger that was about to pronounce his doom. Above the
clatter of the train came the horror that Chet expected, the sharp bark of a
gun.
Odd how the revolver recoiled, the gunner with it! The thing happened so
suddenly that the marksman was gone before Chet realized that the gun hadn't
spurted flame. Then came the startling recognition that the report, itself, had
spoken from the rear of the box car, not the front.
Again, a mysterious rescuer had acted in Chet's behalf. Before Chet could
turn to view the friend in question, that personage identified himself. From
behind Chet came the same laugh that Marquette had heard from a factory window.
This time it signified arrival, not departure.
The laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER IV
THE WAY OF RIGHT
FROM the speed with which The Shadow had clipped one murderous gunner, it
seemed that crime's thrust was through. Whether the crook at the head end of the
car had recognized Chet, or simply classed him as an unwanted rider, was a
matter of comparative unimportance.
The main thing was the way in which The Shadow had disposed of the killer.
Clipped by a timely shot, the crook was down between the box cars, lucky if he
still could manage to clutch a grab iron. While Chet, looking back, was more
mystified than ever, since all he could see was blackness.
Quite ready to accept the incredible, Chet felt a surge of confidence.
Things were certainly rallying to his benefit, when an invisible marksman popped
off enemies in such timely style. But it was too early to indulge in
congratulations. As at the Pyrolac plant, one thing was simply leading to
another.
Again a head poked up from the car front, the hand with it jabbing a
gunshot as it came. That stab was echoed by another from the rear of the car and
Chet could hear two bullets whine past him. A new duel was under way, between
The Shadow and a foe who was prepared to duck every time he fired.
A jar of the train lurched Chet forward. Turning his sprawl into a lunge,
Chet reeled for the front of the car and grabbed at the head and arm as they
came up again. This wasn't the first crook; that fellow was hanging from the
handrail below. Instead, Chet was met by a hard, wiry fighter, who relished this
type of battleground.
His arm hooked to the ladder, the thug slashed with his other hand,
glancing a gun barrel from Chet's forehead. Groggily, Chet grabbed, and his fate
was in a balance as tipsy as his lunge. Right then, the thug could have finished
his swing with a close range shot, but the fellow was still thinking of The
Shadow, and didn't want to waste bullets on Chet.
Up came the gun hand to deliver another murderous swing. The crook's head
was descending as his hand poised; he wanted to be below the edge when he
cleared Chet from the deck, with a single swipe.
A hand was still in sight to serve The Shadow as a target. Timed to a jerk
