CLIFF MARSLAND was helpless. Backed against the front wall of the car, he was standing
with arms pinned behind him. The fake brakeman, the pretended salesman, were the pair
who held him at bay. The second bandit—the fellow whom Cliff had slugged—had not
removed his mask.
This man was Wenshell. He and Hasker had led the expedition. The others— all
disguised—were crooks who had served with Wenshell's fake air circus. Gangsters all, Eric
Hildrow had relied upon them to pull this coup.
Death to Harry Vincent. Such had been Hildrow's order. The others— Cliff Marsland and the
two men who had intervened—could wait. Wenshell did not know that Cliff was with Harry.
The two men from the back of the car sat cowed in chairs, covered by revolvers. Wenshell
looked on approvingly while Hasker aimed his revolver for Harry's heart.
Wildly, Cliff Marsland struggled. Curbed, he resorted to a momentary subterfuge. To turn
Hasker's attention, he shouted a warning that the man thought came from Wenshell.
'Look out!' cried Cliff. 'Look out for the door of the platform!'
Instinctively, Hasker turned his eyes in that direction. So did others, including Cliff. Then The
Shadow's agent stared, as amazed as the others. His wild cry had become a prophecy. The
door of the platform was swinging inward.
THEN, from the blackness of the night appeared a looming form. A figure with a cloak that
wavered in the wind; burning eyes that glowed from beneath the broad brim of a slouch hat.
Beneath those eyes were the looming muzzles of mammoth automatics. Guns that were
held in black-gloved fists.
Cliff had heard that thump on top of the car. He knew its meaning. The Shadow had arrived
in his autogyro. Entrusting the controls to the hands of a skilled pilot, he had ordered a
landing on the rear car of the speeding train.
The ship must have taken off immediately; but The Shadow had remained. Gripping the roof
of the observation platform, he had swung downward and inward to the platform itself. Too
late to join the train at the last stop, he had overtaken it by air!
The Shadow could have fired from darkness. Such was not his choice. Viewing the scene
within, he had stepped into sight that he might draw the aim of desperate marksmen. The
Shadow's scheme worked.
Hasker swung his revolver upward. So did Wenshell. Leaders of the crew, crooks at heart,
these two knew the menace of the black-cloaked stranger from the night. Both sought to fire.
Hasker failed. As Wenshell's revolver barked, The Shadow's automatics flashed tongues of
flame. With those shots, the cloaked avenger did a fading sweep to the side, timed to a
lurch as the train took a curve.
Wenshell's bullets shattered the windows at the back of the car. Hasker, clipped by an
opening shot, sprawled forward upon Harry Vincent's senseless form. Then a skimming slug
found Wenshell's heart. The second crook dropped.
Four others were yanking guns. Cliff Marsland was forgotten. His automatic had been
wrested from him. He was a nonentity now, so far as the other crooks were concerned. But
Cliff was ready to aid The Shadow.
He gave no thought to the men beside him. The swinging train might disturb their aim. Those
close to The Shadow were the ones that Cliff wanted. As guns roared, Cliff sprang forward,
just as the foremost crook went down.
That was the one who had worn the woman's disguise. Cliff landed on the rogue who had
played the part of the old gentleman. He landed on the fellow and caught his gun arm just as
the crook was about to press the trigger. They sprawled together on the floor, struggling for
the revolver.
The path was opened. Brakeman and salesman fired shots that whistled close to The
Shadow's form. The automatics gave their answer. The two crooks went sprawling.
Cliff had a strangle hold on his adversary. A swing of the train turned the tables. Clawing
fingers gripped Cliff's throat. Choking, Cliff heard a final shot from the rear of the car. Hands
loosened as the crook rolled dead.
STRUGGLING to his feet, Cliff saw The Shadow step out through the opened door. He
caught the strident cry of a mocking laugh; then the sound cut short as the door swung shut. It
was followed by a hissing noise. The Shadow had pulled the bell-cord, out on the darkened
platform.
The half-dazed men who had aided Cliff and Harry, were coming to their feet, along with
Cliff. Harry had opened his eyes. Two snarling crooks, mortally wounded, were trying to rise
from the floor. Then the train conductor came bounding in from the passage, followed by a
trainman.
A wounded crook aimed for the conductor. Cliff landed on the fellow. The trainman took care
of the second.
As the express slackened its speed, Cliff was giving brief words of explanation. The masks
worn by Hasker and Wenshell supported his statements.
A train robbery had been thwarted. The fake brakeman; the disguises of the others—all
were fitting testimony. Harry Vincent was joining with Cliff Marsland. The two strangers were
giving their story.
'Some one from the observation platform -'
The conductor started back as he heard these words. He wanted to learn the identity of the
mysterious rescuer. He was too late. Before he could reach the door, a figure dropped from
the platform of the slowing train.
CROUCHING upon the roadbed, The Shadow watched the rear lights of the train as they
dwindled. The Northern Express came to a stop. A brakeman was alighting with his lantern,
coming back along the track.
But The Shadow, too, was on the move. Gliding from the roadbed, he pressed his way
through a mass of bushes and reached an open hillside. He waited there, watching the
distant train. He heard the blare of the whistle. It was the signal calling in the brakeman.
The conductor had evidently ordered the train to proceed to the next town. The locomotive
chugged. The Northern Express moved on.
The Shadow stooped toward the ground, planted an object there and touched a fuse.
A vivid flare burst forth as The Shadow stepped away. A greenish fire illuminated the rough
ground. A ball of light shot upward and burst into a pyrotechnic display. A second followed;
then a third. After that, the green fire flared, wavering.
From high above, the autogyro came swishing down through the night. Miles Crofton, the
pilot, had followed along the right of way. Hovering, he had turned off the motor. The
autogyro made a landing beside The Shadow's flare.
The black-cloaked figure appeared ghoulish as it stepped into the realm of light. Rising to
the cockpit behind the pilot's seat, The Shadow dropped beneath the path of the slowly
revolving blades that turned above the strange machine.
Miles Crofton waited at the controls. This man knew the prowess of The Shadow. Crofton
had once been tricked by men of crime. The Shadow had rescued him from a hopeless
situation. A daredevil, a stunt flier, Crofton had since been ready to do The Shadow's
bidding.
That landing on the moving train had been the greatest feat of Crofton's career. Yet he knew
that The Shadow had inspired it. Nerved by the thought of the part that The Shadow had
