Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 213 - Forgotten Gold

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FORGOTTEN GOLD
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. FORGOTTEN GOLD
? CHAPTER II. THE MEN FROM THE SWAMP
? CHAPTER III. DEATH TURNS ABOUT
? CHAPTER IV. THE LOST SHAFT
? CHAPTER V. GOLD FOR SALE
? CHAPTER VI. TRICK FOR TRICK
? CHAPTER VII. STROKES IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER VIII. THE HIDDEN TRAIL
? CHAPTER IX. WORD FROM THE MINE
? CHAPTER X. CROOKS CONFER
? CHAPTER XI. THE OLD PROFESSOR
? CHAPTER XII. ZERN'S STROKE
? CHAPTER XIII. A QUESTION OF EVIDENCE
? CHAPTER XIV. THE DAY IN COURT
? CHAPTER XV. MURDER BY DAY
? CHAPTER XVI. VENGEANCE TO COME
? CHAPTER XVII. TRAILS IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE WAY BELOW
? CHAPTER XIX. RAIDERS BY NIGHT
? CHAPTER XX. CRIME'S ZENITH
? CHAPTER XXI. THE LAST STROKE
? CHAPTER XXII. THE LURE OF GOLD
CHAPTER I. FORGOTTEN GOLD
HARRY VINCENT stopped at the dilapidated railway station and sent his telegram. The old station
agent read it through a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, but offered no comment. The wire simply read:
CLYDE BURKE,
NEW YORK CLASSIC,
NEW YORK, N. Y.
WEATHER HOTTER THAN EVER.
HOPE TO LEAVE HERE BY TOMORROW.
VINCENT.
The weather was hot, as it should have been for this was Georgia in midsummer. Even the boards of the
station platform were warped by the heat, which Harry could feel through his shoe leather as he paced
outside the station agent's window. The tracks, curving off among the red-dirt hills, seemed to wiggle as
Harry watched them.
Maybe the tracks did wiggle. Remembering his trip to Hillville, over that same branch line, Harry was
inclined to such an opinion. But when he looked at the few unpainted buildings that fringed the single
track, they seemed to waver, too. High noon in Hillville, Georgia, could certainly produce enough heat
waves to give the illusion of an earthquake.
The telegraph key was clacking in the agent's office. Harry's wire was going to his friend, Clyde Burke,
who, in turn, would relay it to The Shadow. A very simple way for Harry to inform his chief, The
Shadow, that the job in Hillville was about finished and showed good chances of the desired result.
Harry was turning toward the coupe that he had parked near the station platform when the agent poked
his head from the little window and called after him:
"Telegram here for Robert Beverly. Want to take it along, Mr. Vincent?"
Harry accepted Beverly's telegram; pocketing it, he drove away. He knew that the wire was probably
from Morton Selwood, in New York. It might have something interesting to say, but whatever it was,
Harry would learn it from Bob Beverly as soon as he got back to camp. If Harry hadn't done anything
else on this expedition, he had certainly won Bob's confidence.
It was a five-mile drive from Hillville, over roads that sloped between woods of southern pine, before
Harry reached the turn that took him toward the camp. He slackened as he neared the turnoff, watched
another car coming from the opposite direction. It took the very sand road that Harry expected to take.
Harry knew the car and the man who drove it: Bert Peld. An odd sort, Peld - the one sour note in this
expedition. Peld seemed to have a lot of things on his mind other than the search for the lost Aureole
Mine.
Bob Beverly was sorry that he had hired the fellow, but firing Peld was a difficult proposition. Harry
agreed with Bob that it was better to keep Peld with them than to let him leave their sight permanently.
As Harry swung into camp he saw Peld alight from his old car. Hearing Harry's approach, Peld gave a
suspicious stare, and the sunlight offered a good glimpse of the fellow's sallow, pointed face.
Then Peld had started up the path to the high hill, where the whole party was at work. Harry decided not
to overtake him, for there would be no use to start another argument with Peld at this late date.
ANOTHER man had heard the cars approach. Bob Beverly stepped from his tent too late to witness
Peld's return, but he saw Harry alighting from the coupe and waved a greeting.
A cheery fellow, Bob, even when he had a lot of burdens on his mind. His dark hair, rugged face and
steady eyes marked him as the type who would give as much as expected, and perhaps more.
That was probably why Bob liked Harry and didn't like Peld. Harry was a type after Bob's own:
clean-cut in manner, straightforward in action. They were the sort who looked like friends, and a
weasel-eyed specimen like Peld didn't belong in their company. It was a tribute to the patience of both
Bob Beverly and Harry Vincent that they could put up with Bert Peld at all.
Harry handed Bob the telegram. His friend opened it, read it, and passed it back. As Harry expected, it
was from Morton Selwood, and its message was more blunt than ever. It read:
ROBERT BEVERLY,
HILLVILLE, GEORGIA.
MUST HAVE RESULTS WITHIN
TWO DAYS. URGE ALTHORN TO
LIMIT.
MORTON SELWOOD.
Bob clamped a strong hand on Harry's shoulder, and gestured toward a pair of camp stools that were
under a shading cypress near the little stream that flowed toward the swampland below the camp. Bob
talked as soon as they were seated.
"We're on the homestretch, Harry," he said. "We'll crack this thing today or never. But I don't think it will
be never. That's why" - he nudged his thumb toward the hill - "I've got poor old Althorn sweating away. I
want results by sundown, and I didn't need Selwood's telegram to tell me so."
Harry nodded. He was thinking of the wire that he had sent; how "weather hotter," as Harry had put it,
meant that the hunt was mighty warm, and should be over "by tomorrow," as Harry had also expressed.
Then Bob was talking again.
"I'd like to sum up a few facts, Harry," said Bob, "just so we know exactly where we stand. You're
acquainted with most of the facts, but don't stop me. I don't want to miss any points."
"Go ahead, Bob."
"To begin with, we're looking for the lost Aureole Mine," stated Bob. "It belongs to Morton Selwood, a
New York financier. He's had a lot of bad luck, Selwood has, with foreign investments destroyed by the
war. He's counting on the Aureole Mine to pull him out of a very deep hole."
"Selwood owns hundreds of acres" - with a wide sweep of his hand, Bob included the big hill - "and the
mine is somewhere on his property. It would normally take months to find the lost shaft, if at all. That's
why Selwood took a chance on Claude Althorn and his gold-finder."
Another nod from Harry. Bob arose and took a wary look at the hill path, to make sure that Peld wasn't
lurking in the scrub, listening in on the discussion.
"That gadget of Althorn's works," declared Bob. "We have both seen the indicator act, but never to the
gold mark. We have narrowed down the hunt to this big hill. The mine must be here."
"If anywhere."
"I'll grant that," conceded Bob. "But remember, there are other people interested in this gold hunt -
investors who want to buy stock in the Aureole Mine, if it turns up. Your friend, Lamont Cranston, is
one, and there are others."
MENTION of Cranston brought a sober nod front Harry. It was Cranston who had sent him on this trip.
Often, Harry had identified Lamont Cranston with The Shadow, but he wasn't sure that they were one
and the same.
Instead of sending information to Cranston, Harry was working through Clyde Burke, who, like Harry,
was an agent of The Shadow. The arrangement was by The Shadow's order, and could, or could not,
mean that The Shadow was Cranston.
The thing puzzled Harry whenever he considered it. Then, realizing that Bob was watching him, Harry
smiled.
"Why the grin?" inquired Bob. "What's funny about my mentioning Cranston?"
"Nothing," chuckled Harry. "I was thinking of the others."
Bob rubbed his face to hide an embarrassed expression. Then, with a friendly laugh, he acknowledged:
"You're including Brenda Selwood. You're right, Harry. She is interested in my finding the Aureole Mine.
It's all that's needed to make her father decide that I'm good enough to marry his lovely daughter. Well,
you've got the whole picture, except for one thing." Bob's laugh had ended abruptly. "I might say, one
person."
"Bert Peld?"
"Not just Peld. I mean the man higher up, the fellow who probably hired Peld. You've heard of Frederick
Zern?"
Harry nodded.
"Zern tried to buy this property," declared Bob. "He missed out, but he bought a lot of adjacent territory
- about everything he could get hold of, except swamp, where there couldn't be any gold. I don't think
Zern wants us to find the Aureole Mine. That's why he may be using Peld."
"How could Peld hurt us, Bob?"
"You saw him drive in today," returned Bob. "He's been hobnobbing with the squatters again, trying to
make them think they'll lose their shacks if the mine is found. It shouldn't matter, because none of them
are living on Selwood's property. But you know what those squatters are like when stirred up. We'd
better be ready, that's all."
Abruptly finishing his theme, Bob gestured toward the hill. He and Harry went up the path, and all the
while The Shadow's agent was thinking over the angle concerning Zern.
There was merit in Bob's argument, for Frederick Zern was a deadly financial rival of Morton Selwood.
Nevertheless, Harry was inclined to minimize any menace from Bert Peld. The fellow had the marks of a
snooper rather than an actual trouble-maker.
They found Peld standing with a small group, watching Althorn work the gold-finder. Claude Althorn was
a tall, angular man with shocky hair and weather-beaten face who bent above the strange machine that he
had invented.
The gold-finder was a large square box that buzzed, and Althorn kept pressing buttons to test the electric
current that came from the batteries.
At times an indicator wavered, signifying mineral earth. But the needle failed to reach the gold line that
registered high on the dial. Shaking his head, Althorn told two men to move the machine to a new
position, some twenty yards away. As he drew himself erect and stretched, Althorn saw Bob and Harry.
"You've heard from Selwood?" he inquired eagerly. "Any message from Jackie?"
"A wire," replied Bob, but he didn't mention Jackie. "Just another reminder that we've got to keep
moving."
Althorn's whole frame sagged; his face drooped in dejected fashion. He looked as though he couldn't
proceed with his work. Finding his voice, he made a choky complaint:
"My little Jackie! A poor, motherless boy! I intrusted him to Selwood while I was gone. As friend to
friend, Selwood faithfully promised that I would hear from Jackie every day. Today you receive a
telegram. Gold is important" - Althorn brushed away a trickly tear - "but not my Jackie!"
Of a sudden, Althorn's sobbing manner ceased. He came erect again, quivering with indignation.
"Selwood and his gold!" stormed Althorn. "I'll have him know that Jackie is more important to me than all
the gold in the world! If Selwood won't keep his promise -"
"He's kept it," put in Harry. "You've had a letter from Jackie every day. The mail won't be in until five
o'clock, so why worry until then? As for the wire, the fact that Jackie wasn't mentioned simply means that
Selwood thinks we've received the letter."
The logic impressed Althorn. After a few slow nods, he shambled over to his gold-finder and turned on
the current. Soon the machine was buzzing, with Althorn stooped above it, as keenly interested in the
machine as in his absent son Jackie.
"Great work, Harry!" confided Bob. "I'd forgotten that Althorn always worked in the cool of the evening,
after reading one of those precious Jackie letters. Hop over to town at five and keep your fingers crossed
when you ask for the mail. If we find the Aureole Mine, credit will go to Jackie more than to his father."
DURING the afternoon, the gold-finding machine continued along the contours of the hill, narrowing the
search still further. Harry purposely delayed his trip for the mail, fearing that there might not be a letter
from Jackie. But when he drove in he found a Jackie letter, much to his relief.
It was almost dusk when Harry arrived back at camp and climbed the hill path. He saw the group
gathered around Althorn's machine, halfway up the slope. Bob Beverly was with them, and like the rest,
Bob was huddled close to Althorn. Forgetting the letter in his pocket, Harry dashed up to join them,
confident that they had made a strike.
He was close to the group when it broke apart, Bob and the rest whooping like wild men, flinging hats
right and left. Only Althorn remained at the machine, his fingers pressing the buttons in rapt fashion.
As Harry arrived, Althorn looked up, his face wearing a happy smile. He nodded at the indicator, and
Harry stared, fascinated by the needle. No longer did the needle waver. It was fixed upon the gold line
that it had never reached before!
Then, with a dramatic gesture, Claude Althorn drew himself away from the controls. Pulling his shoulders
erect, he raised one hand for attention. As howling men subsided and gathered close again, Althorn
drove his pointing forefinger straight downward toward the ground.
"The Aureole Mine is found!" he announced in a tone of authority. "I have shown you where the gold is.
Dig!"
CHAPTER II. THE MEN FROM THE SWAMP
ALTHORN'S words brought an immediate response. Half a dozen men sprang to work with picks and
spades that they had carried over long hillsides, while Althorn cackled happily, as though the Aureole
Mine was his, not Selwood's. So ardent were the workers that they had hacked at big chunks of rock
and shoveled out a two-foot pile of dirt before Bob Beverly could stop them.
"Hold on," ordered Bob. "Let's go at this thing reasonably. We're pretty high up the slope. We ought to
know how deep the gold is before we start to dig. What do you say, Althorn?"
"The shaft runs upward," decided Althorn. "Of that I'm sure, because the indicator crept up step by step.
It might be fairly close to the surface."
"How close?"
Althorn shook his head. He wasn't sure, especially when Bob reminded him that the gold-finder was
noted for its ability to discover deep lodes. When the choice lay between his personal opinion and the
merits of the machine, Althorn was forced to favor his brain child, the gold-finder.
"It might be deep," he admitted. "Still, it would be unwise to neglect this spot. The gold is here."
"We won't forget it," promised Bob. "But we have reached a point where a concentrated hunt is better
than a lot of labor. Look down below" - turning toward the base of the hill, Bob swung his hand in a
semicircle - "and note that curving contour. Somewhere in the brush is the hidden shaft of the Aureole
Mine.
"We can spread and hunt for it all night, if necessary. You can work the gold-finder, Althorn, and see if
you get more indications. If we locate the shaft, our job is done, and we'll be sure, moreover, that this is
the Aureole Mine, and not just a chance strike."
Althorn was inclined to argue further, but Harry silenced him by delivering the letter from Jackie.
Apparently Althorn cared more for his son than the gold-finder, for he promptly began to read the letter
by the light of a lantern that one of the workers provided.
Bob delegated two men to stay with Althorn and help him bring the detector machine down the hill when
he was ready.
It took flashlights to find the path down to camp, for the dusk had thickened. Reaching a tent, Bob
lighted a lantern and beckoned the others in for a conference. He counted Harry and three more, but at
that the crew was one short. Frowning, Bob queried:
"Where's Peld?"
No one knew, and only Harry was able to provide the slightest of traces to the fellow. Peld hadn't been
with the crew when Harry returned with the mail. It was evident, therefore, that Peld must have skipped
when Althorn's mechanical detector gave its first indications of gold. But Harry hadn't met him on the
road, or coming up the path.
Bob took a look outside the tent, saw Peld's car still parked on the fringe of the camp.
"He's probably decided to do some searching on his own," Bob declared. "If Peld finds the Aureole
shaft, he'll probably be nice enough to keep it to himself. But we'll find it, anyway; and since Peld can't
wrap it up and carry it away, why should we worry?"
SPREADING a topographical map, Bob made a red-pencil dot to indicate the spot where Althorn's
machine had indicated gold.
The map was already well scored with blue - meaning places where the treasure-finder had registered a
blank. As a result, Bob was able to trace out a comparatively narrow strip to search along the lower
slopes.
"Separate, and beat the brush," he ordered. "Work in from the edges, each man taking a section. If you
run into tough spots, call Althorn and let him work the gold-finder."
Bob added a warning to wear leather puttees in case any rattlers were awake, though so far the
expedition had encountered very few snakes. In choosing his own area of search, Bob picked the lowest
and most distant corner, a fact which caused Harry to remain after the others started out.
"You're giving yourself too big an assignment," suggested Harry, pointing to the map. "Why don't you top
off that lower corner? We can leave it to the last."
"Maybe it's the most important, Harry."
"Not a chance, Bob. Look:" - Harry was holding the map into the light - "some of it is swamp. No use in
searching there."
For reply, Bob pointed out some small black squares, no larger than pinheads, that were printed on the
map. They were on the very fringe of the swampland.
"This is an old map," he said. "It's dated some thirty years after the Aureole Mine was buried and
forgotten, but still it's old. Those black dots represent cabins, some of them still standing, or rebuilt.
There's a fellow still living in one of them."
"A squatter?"
"I guess so. They call him Old Dokey, and he's a half-wit, probably a shade under the middle mark. I
heard about him in Hillville. The station agent says that Old Dokey lived there for years."
"You've seen Dokey?"
"No. Selwood's instructions were to avoid all squatters as the best policy. But Peld has been visiting them
against my orders. So far he's made his trips to property that belongs to Zern; but this swampland is
neutral territory. I've a hunch that Peld has sneaked over to Dokey's, so I'm going to find out."
Putting the map away, Bob strode out. He was wearing a holster, with a revolver handle sticking out
from it. Harry watched Bob's flashlight disappear toward the cypress trees that fringed the swamp.
Going to his own tent, Harry obtained an automatic and a red flare. Hoping that neither would be
needed, he moved toward his own hunting ground, which adjoined the area that Bob had taken. As an
added precaution, Harry intended to move over into Bob's territory without his friend's knowledge.
Chance, rather than design, took Harry to the lower ground; the route which Bob had followed. His
original plan was to follow the slope, then cut down toward the shacks, but Harry ran into a heavy mass
of rocks and scrub that seemed to thin on the lower side.
Instead, the farther Harry went, the more difficulty he found in gaining a path through. Not wanting Bob
to see his flashlight, Harry did not use it, and finally his only course seemed the edge of the swamp itself.
The incessant croaking of the frogs drowned Harry's sloggy footsteps until he noted a sound very much
like his own, almost an echo of his own paces. Working away from the muck, Harry found clear ground
toward the hillside. Drawing into darkness, he listened. The sound came onward, and its loudness was
explained.
It wasn't one sound; there were several. At least three men were tramping the mushy ground beside the
swamp.
They were on their way to the shacks where Bob Beverly had gone!
HOW to warn Bob was a problem. The men were past Harry, and if his ears were hearing right, they
were being met by others. Seemingly, the swamp was alive with men.
It struck Harry that Peld must be at Dokey's; that these arrivals were squatters, summoned by Peld to
join him. Instead of a mere snooper, Peld was taking on the size of a dangerous organizer who might be
arranging a massed raid.
It was no longer a question of merely getting word to Bob. They would need all the aid that they could
get against this swamp tribe. Through Harry's brain drilled the memory of the telegram that he had sent
that afternoon, and he wished that he had made it more urgent. The Shadow had sent Harry to Georgia
to watch for just such things as the menace which had arrived.
The only resort was the flare. Harry hadn't wanted to use it, for its light would be a give-away. But at
present many things were suddenly at stake. Bob had to be warned, enemies diverted, and friends
brought to this spot.
Scrambling for higher ground, Harry planted the spiked flare in the ground; ripping off the cap, he
inverted it and knocked it against the flare to ignite it.
There was a spurt of red fire that brought harsh shouts from the marsh. Men wheeled in the darkness, but
they could not see Harry. He had dived away from the flare and was choosing the direction that they
least expected. He was making for the shacks, hoping to find Bob.
Almost instantly, a flashlight licked the brush, and Harry rolled to the ground to avoid its glare. It didn't
come from the swamp; it was from the direction of the shacks. It showed a man running for higher
ground, a frantic fugitive who turned to fire a few wild shots back at the light.
The running man was Bert Peld!
Bob's flashlight! He must have uncovered Peld near Dokey's shack and challenged the fellow. But Peld
was escaping off into darkness, leaving Bob the center of an unenviable stage, where a batch of men
were creeping in to surround him.
The only way to save Bob was to beat the shots that would surely come from the swamp. And Harry did
it.
Blindly, The Shadow's agent fired toward the blackness below. He didn't expect to score hits. He merely
wanted foemen to know that Bob, the man with the flashlight, wasn't the most important target.
The swamp fighters took the hint. They opened fire in Harry's direction as he dived toward Bob, yelling
for his friend to douse the flashlight.
Bob was quick to obey. He blacked out the light and stumbled toward Harry in the darkness. Then both
were shooting sparingly as they crouched, and at Harry's urge Bob kept shifting with his friend to keep
their positions unknown.
Momentarily they saw a shaft of light from the opening door of a shack. A big, rough-clad man with
stupid face and shaggy hair was outlined in the doorway; evidently Old Dokey. Then the door slammed
shut, proving that the half-wit could use some sense on occasion. Whatever was going on outside, Old
Dokey wanted no part of it.
"Make for the flare," Harry was telling Bob between shots. "They won't think we're going back to it.
What's more, maybe Althorn and the rest will make for it."
"They won't see it," panted Bob. "They're a long way off."
"They'll hear the shots," returned Harry. "That will bring them close enough to find the flare."
HALF stumbling, half running, both Harry and Bob were nearing the flare. They were no longer shooting,
nor were the men from the marsh. Only vague sounds could be heard, telling that the enemy, too, were
on the move. Then, when Harry and Bob were almost at their temporary goal, flashlights blazed.
They came from all directions, more than a dozen lights. Dropping away from the nearest glares, Harry
and Bob were caught by new ones.
Foemen had circled, to surround the two fugitives, cutting them off from the red light. Rocks, jutting from
the ground above the shacks, offered refuge, but a poor one.
Flattening in such shelter, Harry and Bob heard bullets whine above their heads and ricochet from the
stone barriers, none of which were more than two feet above the ground.
Shouting foemen were closing in, undaunted by the hasty gun stabs which Harry and Bob supplied from
shelter. Hitting those bobbing flashlights was too difficult for men who were trying to keep low at the
same time. The yells from the charging tribe were murderous, giving Bob and Harry no hope for quarter.
Then, when the men from the marsh had almost reached the rocks, there came an answer to their shouts
and gunfire. It was a laugh, loud and challenging, outlandish, shivering mirth that rose to a fierce
crescendo.
To Bob the strange tone was inhuman, a thing incredible; but Harry recognized it as a tone that he had
feared he would never hear again.
That mirth promised rescue for two beleaguered men, who, at that moment, might well have counted
themselves dead. It announced the arrival of a fighter whose use of last-minute tactics against all sorts of
odds held good in any terrain.
It was the laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER III. DEATH TURNS ABOUT
THE blast of guns followed The Shadow's taunt so suddenly that the shots mingled with the echoes of his
laugh. The concussions were earsplitting to Harry and Bob, for the shots were fired very close to them.
The men from the marsh were shooting, but Harry and Bob were not their targets.
Murder-mad fighters had changed their aim toward a cloaked fighter who was outlined in a glare of dying
crimson from Harry's flare.
Harry saw The Shadow, a tall figure clad entirely in black. His cloak was whipping from his shoulders as
he wheeled about; his slouch hat, clamped upon his head, hid his face from view. But his guns were
visible; big automatics, gripped in black-gloved fists. From lips concealed in the upturned cloak collar
came a repetition of the defiant laugh.
The opening shots were too hasty to reach The Shadow. He had delayed his own action just long enough
to draw the fire in his direction. Before his foemen could center on their target, the red flare was gone,
extinguished by a blanketing sweep of The Shadow's cloak.
As for the flashlights, none caught The Shadow in their glow. One swung in his direction; a gun stabbed
from darkness and toppled the flashlight, along with its owner. A second light began its sweep; again The
Shadow nipped it as a target, taking out an enemy to boot. From then flashlights were absent, the marsh
fighters flinging them away.
They were surging for The Shadow, trying to find him by his gun jabs. But The Shadow was using a
defensive system that was, neatly enough, an offensive method, also. He let his enemies shoot first; then,
swiveling somewhere in the blackness, he returned the fire in single-shot style with remarkable precision.
He nicked one marksman, then another, using their own idea of choosing a tonguing gun as a target. But
always he was on the move, in an unexpected direction, away from the volley which followed each of his
shots.
As for his foemen, he caught them flat-footed. Realizing that The Shadow was a master at such tactics,
the marsh fighters surged for him without firing their guns, relying upon their numbers to find him in the
dark.
Harry yanked Bob to his feet. They would both be needed if those fighters found The Shadow. Bob
hadn't even seen the cloaked fighter; in fact, had no idea how the attack had been diverted.
There wasn't time for Harry to explain; even if he had, Bob might not have understood him, for at that
moment the scene was suddenly changed.
Flashlights sliced in from the brush; shouts told that Bob's own crew of workers had arrived.
"They heard us!" shouted Bob to Harry. "They found the flare!" Then, raising his voice still louder: "Come
on, boys! You've got them on the run. Let's scatter them!"
It was the right idea, even though Bob was crediting his own men with the rescue, overlooking The
Shadow entirely. But it was the power of The Shadow, not the arrival of reserves, that put the marsh
fighters into flight.
Wildly they scattered, except for those who were no longer able. Hearing The Shadow's laugh from
below them, cutting off escape to the marsh, they ran for higher ground, frantically trying to escape the
glaring flashlights that would make them perfect meat for The Shadow's deadly automatics.
Bob saw a man ducking for a path through the brush and recognized him. He shouted an order to his
crew.
"There's Peld!" Bob called. "Get him, even if you miss the others! He's the fellow who stirred up the
squatters!"
Bob's men turned and raced along the path. They were close behind Peld, with Bob and Harry following
them. The fighters from the marsh were farther away, but going in the same direction. The chase led into
camp, and all the while Harry was wondering what had happened to The Shadow.
AT the camp itself came the climax of Peld's flight. Lanterns were hanging from the fronts of tents, and
only one man was in sight: Claude Althorn. He was holding a shotgun, as though wondering what it was
for, and beside him was his gold-finder, propped on its squatty tripod.
Althorn saw Peld, who was flourishing a revolver that he had emptied at his pursuers. Bob shouted for
Althorn to stop Peld, and the angular man made a gesture with his shotgun. Peld's snarl told that such
feeble measures could not hold him. His revolver useless, Peld grabbed the nearest thing at hand:
Althorn's gold-finder.
摘要：

FORGOTTENGOLDMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.FORGOTTENGOLD?CHAPTERII.THEMENFROMTHESWAMP?CHAPTERIII.DEATHTURNSABOUT?CHAPTERIV.THELOSTSHAFT?CHAPTERV.GOLDFORSALE?CHAPTERVI.TRICKFORTRICK?CHAPTERVII.STROKESINTHEDARK?CHAPTERVIII.THEHIDDENTRAIL?CHAPTERIX....

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：78 页 大小：197.67KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-22

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