A man was running to the car, a man who could have been anybody in that speckled moonlight. He yanked the door open and flung himself into the car all in one manoeuver. The door went slam just as the dogs arrived to leap at the car windows. They were huge dogs, matching the size of their deep-throated howls. Amid that tumult, The Shadow heard the shriek of a self-starter, then the sudden roar of a motor.

The car lurched forward toward the barn, the only direction that it could go. The yard was large enough for it to wheel around, but it didn't reappear as it properly should have. The Shadow didn't have to guess why. He heard the reason: shot-guns.

Apparently Farmer Tramrick was entertaining a group of visiting grangers for just such an occasion as this. Hare-brained with their hair-trigger weapons, they were repeating their system of the previous night.

The man in the car was doing exactly what The Shadow had under similar circ.u.mstances; he was taking the quickest way out before that shooting could become accurate as well as hasty.

The one way out was through the big barn. The Shadow recognized it as he raced in that direction. As the crash came, he made a sharp swerve to avoid what he knew would come in his direction.

It came. The car that was the target of the shot-guns came smashing through the rear exit of the barn. The door was ripped apart like tinder. It wasn't damaging to the car. The unwieldy door was flimsy, but the result that followed was as tremendous as it was unexpected.

In the wake of the car came an explosion that sounded like a huge sigh. In a single instant, flames lifted through the barn, filling the whole interior!

Spontaneous though this combustion seemed, it was too huge to be a chance conflagration. It was like the holocaust at the Old Bridge Tavern, which The Shadow had attributed to a heavy dose of thermite. In that instance, the flaming outburst had followed what seemed a chance stroke of lightning. Here, it followed the forced pa.s.sage of a car through a barn. But it would be stretching the imagination beyond all reason to suppose that anything like a backfire or a static electric spark from the car could have produced this immediate pyre.

Something was flung from the car. An incendiary bomb was a plausible answer; or better, a pair of such missiles. The flames were arching from both sides of the barn, to join in a fiery curtain behind the escaping car. It was all the work of a few brief seconds. During those few ticks of the clock, the car could not have halted in its devastating drive.

Nor did it halt now. It swerved to avoid a patch of brambles. Then it whipped around the other way.

From his angle, The Shadow gained a quick look through one closed window. He could see the driverbent low across the wheel. To identify him in those fleeting glimpses was impossible. The car was carving into darkness during those moments. By the time it had wheeled around the barn to head toward the only exit from the farmyard, the whole scene was illuminated.

The great barn was becoming a mighty torch. Flames were scorching up through the long slants of the roof. The tremendous puff had ignited the haymow.

However well the perpetrator of this incendiary act had planned it, the escape of the car was the real pay-off. The visiting farmers forgot the firebug the moment they saw the barn ignite. They came dashing from all directions to rescue the livestock. The car, cutting around in front, attracted the attention only of the dogs. They looked like a pack of h.e.l.lhounds, as they launched from the fiery background to chase the car out along the road.

There was one factor that could hardly have been included in the planning of this scene: The Shadow.

Maybe he was expected, but certainly no one could have guessed from what direction he would arrive.

He'd let the fugitive car speed by. That didn't mean he would permit its escape. Quite to the contrary, The Shadow took a supreme measure to prevent that very thing.

Instead of taking the hard way, through the flaming barn, or the long way around it, The Shadow picked the best of short-cuts that in addition promised an immediate result. Against the side wall of the barn was a shed, with a hen-house in back of it. The latter made a direct step to the former. While the departing car was still sloughing through the farmyard, The Shadow reached the shed top with a series of quick leaps. He hooked one arm through the frame of a broken window, while he aimed an automatic with his other hand.

Against the h.e.l.l-light from within the barn, The Shadow's black cloak took a crimson dye, reflected from the window, where the mountain of hay was in full blaze. Quite unperturbed, he intended to clip the fleeing car with long-range shots as soon as it came broadside on the road.

There were shouts from below and without changing aim, The Shadow looked across his shoulder to learn the cause. He saw it, in the shape of gesticulating farmers. They were calling to Claude Bigby as he came around in back of the barn. With him was an excited man who was obviously Martin Tramrick.

The farmers had seen The Shadow and were pointing to him. Before Bigby could restrain them, Tramrick howled for them to shoot down this monster. His very location marked him as the fiend responsible for the conflagration. Shot-guns came up without reluctance.

This had all the ear-marks of The Shadow's final dilemma, the event that was to end his long career.

There wasn't time to cross the shed roof and leap to the ground before those shot-guns blazed. To start shooting at the farmers with the automatic wouldn't help. Not only would The Shadow have to wheel, there were too many shot-gunners. Even though The Shadow could have chopped down innocent men in the interest of his own self-preservation, this was something he wouldn't do.

Beside The Shadow was a window already caving under the heat of the gorging fire. To go through it meant a literal dive into a sea of destroying flame.

The Shadow really needed a friend. Quickly.

It happened that The Shadow's situation was not unique. Tuned to that dramatic instant came the cry of another creature in a like predicament. That call was more anguished than any human tone. It floated up through the red-roaring billows at The Shadow's elbow. It was the tortured whinny of a fear-tormented horse. The terrified animal was trapped in a stall just below this sector of the hayloft. Only The Shadow heard that maddened neigh, which located itself to the exact angle. It proved that something still lived and breathed amid the holocaust, which was enough for The Shadow.

Without the fraction of an effort, The Shadow was gone in the most astounding of all his disappearances.

It took no effort to lean, which was all The Shadow did. He leaned against the window. It was already buckling, and accepted him like something that belonged where it was going. No longer blocked by a few panes and The Shadow's form, a cloud of white smoke swirled out. It billowed around the spot that The Shadow left, filling the momentary vacuum in grotesque imitation of the figure that had left it.

Shot-guns ripped a simultaneous volley that astounded the men who delivered it. The thing they saw happen simply couldn't.

Solid blackness transformed itself to whiteness, like something human turning ghostly. And it was ghostly indeed. The whitened figure disseminated into vapor of its own leisurely accord. It was as though it was mocking the men who thought they could harm it with something so impotent as a round of shot-gun slugs!

Trailing from the evanescent ghost came the sound of a strange laugh, like a farewell thinning off into the open air. That was The Shadow's final touch to keep the farmers guessing. He knew the sound would misdirect them. He wanted them to stay right where they were, for a few precious moments.

Besides, that confident laugh steeled The Shadow to his ordeal. Plunging into a wallow of smoke and flame to a goal picked by sound alone, was anything but a certainty. Here The Shadow was really using effort in a long, hard lurch toward the frantic, repeated whinny. Hay tangled him in its flaming ma.s.s as he buried his head in a cloak fold and hoped that the fiery obstruction would yield.

It gave. He plunged through the hay chute that lay above the stall. Solid whiteness bulked below. Amid the deceptive smoke, The Shadow swept the cloak aside. His fall was broken by the horse. He landed upon its ma.s.sive, quivering back. The Shadow flung away the burning hay that cl.u.s.tered him. With the same sweep of his cloak, he placed the black folds across the horse's head and eyes.

A hard swing of The Shadow's other hand landed full force on the horse's flank. His lips voiced a fierce tone into the steed's ear. Its fear blanketed along with its blinded eyes, the horse lurched forward. Its mad rush snapped the half-burned rope that held it.

Out from beneath an avalanche of falling eaves and timbers rode The Shadow. He crouched low, astride a thundering carrier whose equine fear had been transformed into a thirst for all the speed that it could give!

XII.

THE whole barn crumpled as The Shadow emerged in his wild ride. Through a yard full of huddled cattle and astonished farmers came a white horse that looked like the devil's own. n.o.body could doubt it, considering the flaming background that birthed the frantic animal and the master who urged him.

Astride the white horse, The Shadow, a contrast in black, could well be mistaken for a fiend incarnate.

He was riding straight at a cl.u.s.ter of men. They scattered as wildly as the burning hay that The Shadow was still flicking from his cloak. They didn't realize that his course was blind because the horse was hooded within those folds. The famed legend of the "Headless Horseman" was totally eclipsed by The Shadow. He, to all appearances, was a phantom riding a headless horse. This illusion wasn't dispelled until The Shadow was practically clear of the barnyard. He whipped the cloak fold away from the horse's eyes.

With the fire well behind it, the horse behaved as a good steed should. It turned along the road and raced toward the fork. The Shadow was carried away from the occasional shot-gun blasts that were too far back to matter. Looking over his shoulder, The Shadow saw farmers dashing toward the house. They were apparently scrambling to help prevent the flames from reaching it. But there were others climbing into cars to pursue the mystery figure that had fled the burning barn.

Cars could overtake Tramrick's favorite horse, but they weren't going to catch The Shadow. As he neared the fork, he met the hounds coming back. He reined in the horse with the burnt rope end.

Rearing, the horse responded to The Shadow's tug. The steed stampeded the dogs by bringing its forefeet down among them. At the same time, The Shadow took a long leap to an embankment. He hurdled a stone wall and arrived beside the car where Margo was staring astonished by the things that were happening.

Next, The Shadow was at the wheel and driving back toward Lamira, at his accustomed speed. Yelps and neighs were far behind, growing more distant against the fading glow of the great barn fire. Likewise the headlights of pursuing cars were dwindling. Margo noticed this as she glanced through the back window. Meanwhile, she was telling The Shadow about a car that had whizzed past the fork.

"It was the same car," insisted Margo, "but I'm not sure that Creswold was driving it. Anyhow, he doesn't have a bigger start than he had before. You ought to overtake him before we reach Lamira."

The Shadow did even better.

By the time he was coming around the bottom of the big hill, The Shadow spotted the other car. It was making a sharp reverse swing up into Brett's driveway. Knowing the sharp curve of the hill and the roundabout course of the drive, The Shadow simply slackened speed and drew Margo over as he went out through the door on his side of the car. In parting, he shot the quick order: "Get back to Lamira. Watch for Creswold at the Star. I'll meet you there."

Racing up the thinly wooded slope, The Shadow reached Brett's house from the back, or rather its most remote side, since there was no telling whether Future Haven had a front or back. He saw the mystery car reach the top of the drive. It made a twist beneath some trees, and parked with its lights off. By the time The Shadow reached the spot, he found the car deserted.

One thing certain: the man from the car couldn't have entered Brett's. The Shadow would certainly have spotted him in the moonlight. The only other place where he could have headed was down across the slope toward the lower end of Stony Run.

Away below, headlights were sweeping along the highway. The Shadow watched them. For once his form seemed tense, since those lights represented Margo driving back to Lamira. It was inconceivable that the man from the empty car could have reached that lower road in time to intercept Margo, but The Shadow hadn't forgotten Lenstrom's fate along that very stretch of highway.

The moonlight showed what might have been a relaxing of The Shadow's cloaked form when Margo's car safely reached the bridge across the Kawagha. She swung into Lamira. Then, as if to belie such an emotion as relief, The Shadow turned that slight gesture into a rapid whirl.

Again demonstrating the invisible speed of the night wind, he faded from the moonlight. A blaze ofheadlights appeared coming up the driveway.

It was Bigby with a batch of farmers.

The honk of their horns, the frenzy of their shouts, brought Brett to one of his balconies. He stood etched against the familiar pattern of faces belonging to his business a.s.sociates. Recognizing Bigby's bellow, Brett interrupted with a testy query: "What is it now, Bigby?"

Bigby mouthed something about Fairfield Farm which didn't make sense to Brett. When he heard the word "fire" he ducked back among his friends, as though thinking the term was an order for a rip-roar of shot-guns. But it turned out that Bigby was talking about the fire in Tramrick's barn.

"It's a dead loss!" accused Bigby. "The last we saw of it, the house was going along with the barn. We can't stand another loss as big as Fairfield Farm. You've wrecked the County Mutual, that's what!"

"I've wrecked the County Mutual?!" scoffed Brett, returning to his balcony. "So that's the stupid charge you've cooked against me! You're blaming the wrong man, Bigby! The fault is really yours--for trying to support such an antiquated inst.i.tution as an insurance company that needs a.s.sessments to pay off claims.

"I've been talking about that very situation with my a.s.sociates"--Brett gestured to the men cl.u.s.tered behind him--"and they will testify to a man that we've been discussing the subject during the past hour.

Why, we were all prepared to pool our funds and be good neighbors in the matter.

"But it's hopeless now, Bigby." Brett paused, gave his head a sad shake that his a.s.sociates seemed to accept as final. "This Fairfield fire is one too many. I think we'll go back to our original plan and declare a bonus for the faithful workers at the mill."

Nods came from Brett's stooges, much to the annoyance of Bigby, who snarled about the whole thing being bluff. At that moment a farmer came loping over with the news that he had discovered a somewhat dented car among the trees. A quick inspection brought the opinion that it was the car that had crashed through Tramrick's barn.

"Look at that car, Brett!" stormed Bigby. "Then try to deny that you were responsible for Tramrick's fire."

"Never saw it before," voiced Brett. "Say, though!" He turned to the men behind him. "That must be the car the garage phoned about, the drive-it-yourself job. Remember?"

The stooges nodded that they remembered.

"The Lamira Garage called up," explained Brett to Bigby, "and asked if I'd picked up the car I'd ordered them to leave in the parking lot beside the Kawagha Hotel. I told them of course I hadn't, because I didn't order any car.

"Why should I want a car?" Brett gestured toward an extension that formed a garage--"when I already have three? I sent my chauffeur downtown to find out what it was all about. When I heard from him last, they were still looking for the car that I hadn't ordered, but, which someone else must have taken from the parking lot."

The explanation satisfied Brett's friends and therefore began to impress Bigby's adherents. There were at least five men with Brett and they couldn't all be liars. The farmers began to break up grumbling among themselves for having wasted time in bothering Brett while letting an actual malefactor escape from a carthat he had planted on these premises.

Pressing his advantage, Brett smoothly suggested that the farmers take the mysterious car down to the Lamira Garage and identify it. Deciding that it was a good idea, they departed, Bigby and all, with a farmer at the wheel of the offending car.

Detouring around Brett's mansion, The Shadow crossed the lawn and followed the sheltering trees to Pow-wow Boulder. He watched the cavalcade swing around the hill, bound toward Lamira. In leisurely style The Shadow repeated his process of the previous evening. He climbed to the very tip of the odd-shaped rock. Then he sprang from it, as it threatened to teeter under the leverage of his weight. On foot, The Shadow returned to Lamira. He had become Cranston by the time he reached the lighted streets.

The movie house was well packed, but Cranston knew where he would find Margo. He picked a side seat down near the front, where the angle of the screen was very bad. That seat, however, furnished a slanted view through a curtained doorway, to a pa.s.sage beyond that formed an entrance to Creswold's office.

So did the seat in front. That was where Margo was on duty. In response to Cranston's whispered query, she gave a prompt report.

"Somebody sneaked in" undertoned Margo. "It was probably Creswold, because I don't know who else would use that pa.s.sage from the alley."

"Suppose we go up and see," suggested Cranston, "If Creswold is there, he'll start giving us an alibi!"

Through the curtain they found the door of an office. They had to rap heavily before Creswold appeared, looking very sleepy. After blinking at his visitors, Creswold shook his head. He gestured toward an envelope lying on the desk near the couch where he had been resting.

"I decided to wait until tomorrow," explained Creswold. "Farmers hereabouts don't like visitors at night.

Some of them keep dogs just to drive people away. Suppose we talk business tomorrow evening, Cranston."

Margo was silent as she and Cranston left the theater. Of one thing she was certain: that Creswold, with his shrewd eye and bland smile, was covering up plenty. That probably included murder. Just what Cranston intended to do about it was something he didn't volunteer.

Maybe Margo should have asked him while he was The Shadow!

XIII.

THERE was lots of talk abroad in Lamira.

The County Mutual was ready to go bust unless somebody saved it. That seemed quite unlikely.

Preston Brett would have helped, so he said, if Fairfield Farm hadn't gone up in smoke. House and all, he had lost up to the tune of some twenty thousand dollars.

Herbert Creswold, who called himself everybody's friend, was willing to do it man by man. He was helping farmers individually, but that wasn't enough. If the local insurance company couldn't pay its claims, all the farmers would have to cover. Creswold was too tied up in real estate propositions to raise cash for all his friends--namely everybody. At least the town of Lamira was happy. Brett and his a.s.sociates intended to pay the mill workers a huge, long-promised bonus. It was the proper gesture, for if the town-folk wanted to help the farmers, they could. But there wasn't enough accord between town and county to promise such a generous finish.

Presiding over an indignation meeting held in the Kawagha Hotel, Claude Bigby voiced some strenuous opinions.

"We'll find the man who staged the torch act!" stormed Bigby. "Why, he must have been carrying half a dozen incendiary bombs in that hired car of his, considering the way the fire spread. I can personally testify that Tramrick's barn wasn't more than a normal fire-hazard, because I inspected it.

"What we've got to do is save the County Mutual and I'll tell you how we'll do it. We'll raise every dollar in hard cash that we can find and keep putting it into safe deposit until we have enough. Maybe we'll have to borrow living money later, but we'll find time to arrange it.

"If strangers in this county can start forming corporations"--Bigby looked about in challenging style, as though expecting Brett to pop from somewhere--"so can we. That's what we'll do: incorporate our farms and timber land and quarries, so they can remain our own."

Lamont Cranston heard all that Bigby had to say, though he wasn't at the meeting. The reason was that Bigby's voice carried through the door and across the hotel lobby. There, Cranston was watching two new guests check in.

One of these guests was named Harry Vincent; another was Cliff Marsland. In addition there was a reporter in the lobby whose name was Clyde Burke. Finding that there was news in Lamira, he was considering staying over instead of returning to New York. These three happened to be agents of The Shadow. It was these men whose arrival Cranston had mentioned to Margo.

Their designated tasks would be to watch places where The Shadow couldn't. This meant that Margo's pet ambition would be gratified, said ambition being to have Herbert Creswold under constant surveillance.

Late that afternoon, Preston Brett came from the local bank. He was flanked by two armed guards. Brett was carrying a satchel with canvas sides that bulged as only bundles of currency could make it. He pa.s.sed the Star Theater and entered the office of the mill. There, his a.s.sociates were waiting with a distinguished guest in the person of Lamont Cranston.

Opening the bag, Brett tallied the money it contained to a total of some sixty thousand dollars. He stowed this sum in a very modern safe in a small room that opened off from his private office. The only window in that little room opened toward the Kawagha River. At that point, it flowed toward the Star Theatre, in back of some old buildings that were across an open s.p.a.ce.

Locking the safe, Brett waved the group back into the larger room. He checked off a long list of employees, each name being marked with its respective bonus.

"The mill is working late tonight," a.s.serted Brett, "and I purposely arranged this overtime. It's pay-day, you know, and a little extra cash along with the semi-monthly stipend is always welcome. So everyone will be thinking in the terms of a few more dollars.

"When the bonus cash is paid in addition, we'll have a real celebration. The workers think they'll be getting their bonus next week at the earliest. So I want you all to be here"--Brett smiled in antic.i.p.ation of the coming scene--"and learn what real enthusiasm can be." In his glance from the window, Brett seemed to picture the whole yard filled with cheering mill hands. The prospect brought smiles from his a.s.sociates, who until now had been worrying over this heavy delivery of cash. Brett's next glance was toward Cranston and was even more explanatory.

It was plain that Brett had played for Cranston's favor. As a subst.i.tute for the lamented Mr. Lenstrom, Cranston was more than satisfactory. He seemed to like Lamira or he wouldn't have stayed in town so long. There was no way he could know that Brett had sc.r.a.ped the bank account clean so that his company could make its bonus splurge.

Cranston's natural reaction would be to invest in Brett's industrial expansion. The present business seemed to be getting along so nicely. Brett's little investors were feeling new confidence in the man who handled their affairs, as they watched his play for the bigger fish named Cranston.

Only they didn't think in terms of fish. To date, Brett had dealt fairly with them, even though his promises sometimes reached an excess that was akin to grandeur. Brett had worked toward making those promises good when he began his short-lived deal with Lenstrom. Now, in spite of that disappointment, he was coming through in even fancier style.

Cranston accepted Brett's invitation to dine with the corporation members and be a guest throughout the gala evening. Enthusiasm was really rife. The group repaired to the Kawagha Hotel in a highly festive mood.

Shortly before nine o'clock, Preston Brett looked anxiously at the drinks that were still being served to his a.s.sociates and their wives. He turned to Lamont Cranston, who was chatting with Margo Lane at the next table. To the guest of honor, Brett undertoned: "You might suggest getting over to the mill. I hate to spoil these festivities with business, but coming from you, Cranston, I think they would listen."

It was neat of Brett, appointing Cranston as the head of the group. Margo recognized it as a clever build toward bringing in a future investor. She also admired the complacent way in which Lamont accepted it.

Leaving by the lobby route, Brett picked up a follower, though he didn't realize it.