The Ghost Makers

Guns which would have loosed fatal bullets dropped harmlessly to the floor. Those which were in excited hands were the one's which he ignored. Bullets whistled by and dug into the walls. But always, when the shots came high, the scarred gangster was crouching. When revolvers turned to cover his huddled form, he was sweeping away to a new vantage point, his form tall and elusive. Only Barney Gleason was not firing. He was holding his shots, for his position behind an overturned table made it difficult for him to draw a steady aim toward that weaving figure. His automatic could spell its message later on — if needed.

Watching with beady eyes, the gang leader was tense. He was following the motions of a long shadow that stretched across the floor — a mysterious, flickering shadow that came from that fighting form. The Shadow!

Barney Gleason knew the identity of this antagonist. He realized that only The Shadow could fight as this man was fighting. He knew that The Shadow was a conqueror of odds.

The right-hand automatic ceased to function. The Shadow flung it swiftly toward a gangster who was reaching toward the floor, striving to regain a revolver. The heavy missile crashed against the gangster's head. The left-hand gun barked, and a second gunman sprawled, weaponless.

The right hand of The Shadow, sweeping beneath the grimy sweater, appeared with a new automatic. It was just in time to clip an enemy who had fired once and missed. All these events were happening with lightning like rapidity.

Into the midst of the fray came a sudden interruption. Dick Terry, who had ducked for the safety of the inner room, had reappeared at the open doorway.

Seeing his lone protector engaged in single-handed conflict, Terry joined in the fire. He knew that all but this one were his enemies.

An excellent shot, Dick, by his timely action, assured the outcome of the fray. The Shadow, superman though he was, stood in constant danger of a single chance shot from among the rattle of decreasing gunfire.

Now, with Dick working from another angle, Barney Gleason saw that his few remaining gorillas bore no chance. Rising, he aimed his automatic toward Dick Terry.

Protected from The Shadow's gunfire, Barney's single shot reached its mark. Dick Terry crumpled, wounded. Barney did not fire again. One was out.

The Shadow was his quarry now!

Whirling across the room, The Shadow was on his way to protect his fallen ally. Two shots barked from his right-hand automatic. They were the last. Not another replied.

All but Barney Gleason had fallen. A few badly wounded gangsters were stumbling toward the outer door, which their enemy had left. The rest were silent where they lay.

Now was Barney Gleason's chance. He sprang from his table, a wild gleam in his eyes. He leaped straight for The Shadow, leveling his gun as he hurled himself forward.

He had settled with the enemy in the inner room. Now he would get the other!

It was Barney's mad desire that proved his undoing. He caught a glimpse of a scarred face turned in his direction. Like a flash, The Shadow was coming toward him. A side move by the sweatered gangster enabled him to escape Barney Gleason's first shot.

Before Barney could fire again, a long arm swung upward and crashed against his wrist. Barney's finger pressed the trigger. The bullet ended in the ceiling.

The Shadow's two automatics were empty! But now he was contending with a single enemy. Hardened mob leader that he was, Barney Gleason had encountered his match.

Powerful arms gripped his body and flung him, sprawling, across the room, to the wall, more than twenty feet away. But Gleason was tough. He came up fighting, his automatic still clutched by his right fist.

Again, The Shadow was upon him, struggling to wrest away the gun. Barney's left fist struck at the scarred face. He heard a sinister laugh from grimy lips as the blow passed futilely beside The Shadow's jaw.

His opponent seemed to slump, and Barney, with a triumphant cry, clutched at the face below him. His right wrist, held high by a powerful hand, tried to wrest itself free.

Up went the form of Barney Gleason, heaved by an irresistible force. Up it went and backward!

Barney's left hand swung away as he sought to protect himself from a fall. The automatic dropped from his helpless clutch as he made a wild, sweeping gesture to catch the sides of the broad window.

His effort was too late. His floundering form was flung furiously backward. Head foremost, Barney Gleason smashed into the window sash.

The frame gave way, and the gang leader's body shot backward, turning head downward as it plunged toward the paving of the alley, twenty feet below the window.

All was silent as The Shadow leaned over the form of Dick Terry. He was examining the wound that Barney Gleason's bullet had indicted.

Long minutes went by, amid unabated silence. There was a noise at the corner of the room behind the bar.