QUETZAL
                               by Maxwell Grant

       As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," February 15, 1937.

     From the ruins of a flaming sky liner steps The Shadow into the desolate
wastelands of Lower California, to combat Quetzal, superspy who preys on the
innermost secrets of the United States government!


     CHAPTER I

     FORCED LANDING

     THERE were five passengers aboard the silver-hued plane that was droning
westward across the California desert. All were persons who had boarded the
ship at Phoenix, Arizona, for direct flight to San Diego.
     More than an hour out of Phoenix, the sky liner had passed over Yuma,
where a muddy ribbon represented the lower stretch of the Colorado River.
Twenty-odd minutes had passed since Yuma. At its present clip the plane should
be close to El Centro, north of the Mexican border.
     From dead ahead, the glow of the setting sun glistened upon a huge sheet
of water, that looked like a gigantic oasis situated amid barren desert soil.
One passenger gazed downward through the window at his elbow. His eyes keened
suddenly, as he observed the broad lake below.
     To many who had flown across the south of California, sight of that lake,
miles in width, would have signified that the plane had swung to a more
northern route. In size, in location, the lake resembled the famous Salton Sea,
that stretches through California's Imperial Valley. Sight of it would have
brought confidence that the trip was going well.
     The present observer gained a different thought. Though no change showed
upon the masklike features of his hawkish face, his eyes told, by their glint,
that he had made a discovery. That sheet of water was not the Salton Sea, well
north of the Border. It was Lake Maquita, an inland sea in Lower California,
miles below the United States-Mexico border line.
     Veering slightly from its course, the plane had swung south instead of
north.
     The hawk-faced passenger proved this to his satisfaction, when he drew a
watch from his pocket. Clicking open the back of the watch case, he displayed a
compass. The needle showed the plane's direction as southwest by west.
     Long fingers closed the watch case; the timepiece went back into a vest
pocket. His gaze still toward the window, the passenger reached beside him and
opened a flat, flexible briefcase. From folds of black cloth, he drew a massive
automatic.
     The plane had passed Lake Maquita. His view of that water had told this
passenger that an emergency might be at hand. The plane's course was cutting
deeper below the Border, farther from the normal air route toward San Diego.
Its entry into uncharted Mexican territory could signify that the hawk-faced
passenger's identity was known.
     That might mean trouble. The hawk-faced passenger, alone near the rear of
the cabin, was The Shadow. Master fighter who hunted crime single-handed, The
Shadow had long since learned that when the unusual occurred, it could mean
that his own life would be concerned.


     WHEN he reached for his gun, The Shadow did not glance toward the other
passengers. Instead, he kept up a pose of absent gazing from the window. Hence,
he was unable to see the action of a man who was seated across the aisle and
farther front.
     The other passenger was a long-faced, dreary-looking individual, who had
been idly sketching on a piece of paper ever since the plane had passed Yuma.
The man's penciled drawing had come to a completion. He raised the paper
slightly, tilted it forward and toward the aisle.
     The paper bore a strange, outlandish symbol: the well-drawn figure of a
feathered serpent. The lifted head of the reptile bore a plume. Hideous in
every detail, the drawn sketch represented a mythical token of the past. It
stood for Quetzal - grotesque reptilian god of the ancient Aztecs.
     A peering eye saw that monstrous figure sketched upon the artist's pad.
The co-pilot of the plane was looking through from the front compartment. He
had opened the connecting door a mere inch, to watch for the signal from the
long-faced man. Sight of the completed Quetzal was all that the watcher needed.
He closed the door; turned toward the pilot who was seated at the controls.
     The pilot of that plane was Jerry Loyden, who knew every mile of desert
and mountain that lay between Phoenix and San Diego. Frequently, Jerry flew a
different route for test purposes; but he had been puzzled by the orders that
the co-pilot had brought to him at Phoenix, today.
     Instructions were to veer southwest at Yuma; to keep that direction past
Lake Maquita. Then straight west to the coastal range of mountains, and
northward up to San Diego. Jerry's only guess regarding this odd route was that
the line intended to make future stops at Tia Juana, for benefit of passengers
who wanted to visit the resort at Agua Caliente. Even at that, the route went
too far southward.
     Something else had puzzled Jerry. The co-pilot was a stranger; apparently
a substitute who had been chosen just before flight. Jerry had not even learned
the fellow's name. There were lots of odd angles, working for this lesser air
line; but shoving aboard an unknown co-pilot at the last minute was something
that Jerry could not understand.
     Jerry Loyden was due to have two questions answered simultaneously. The
co-pilot had shifted close. From his hip pocket, he drew a gun. His face was
ugly as he pressed the muzzle against Jerry's neck. The pilot gave a startled,
upward glance. The thuggish co-pilot gestured for him to land the ship.
     Grimly, Jerry understood. Faked orders, brought by a crook who had passed
himself as a co-pilot. The fellow wanted a landing on Mexican soil, so he could
stage an air holdup. That, at least, was Jerry's conjecture.
     For a moment, Jerry showed reluctance; then began to handle the controls,
to start the ship downward. In those brief seconds, he gained determination.
     The plane's dip fooled the crook who had the pilot covered. The pressure
of the gun muzzle eased. With a quick twist, Jerry sprang from the controls,
made a grab for the crook's revolver. An instant later, the pair locked in a
desperate struggle.


     ODDS were even in the pilot room; but the scene was different in the
cabin. There, the man with the longish face had been waiting for the first
motion that would indicate a landing. As the plane began its downward nose, the
long-faced man shifted toward the aisle. He thrust the sketch of Quetzal
outward, so that the three passengers near him could see it.
     Instantly, four persons became a murderous band. A big-jowled man came to
life from a faked doze, to whip out a .38 revolver. A darkish fellow who looked
like a Mexican flashed a knife from his belt with one swift gesture. A
dark-clad, middle-aged woman pulled a .32 from a hand bag; her face was
tigerish as she swung about.
     All turned toward the rear of the cabin; and with them, came the
long-faced man who had drawn the figure of Quetzal. He flung the sketch pad
aside as he yanked a revolver; his countenance was as vicious as that of the
imaginary snake-god. The order that he mouthed was like a reptile's hiss:
     "The Shadow! Finish him!"
     On their feet, the four were shoving toward the lone passenger at the back
of the cabin. They thought they had trapped their victim unawares. They were
wrong. In answer to the murderer's order came a challenge that sounded above
the drone of motors. It was a sinister, mocking laugh from lips that scarcely
moved.
     The laugh of The Shadow! With it, the lone fighter shifted from his seat.
His move was a sidewise fade; as he made it, his hand came into view. As
revolvers barked, an automatic tongued its response. The Shadow's shots were
thrusts of doom.
     The big-jowled man sprawled first, in the middle of the aisle. A quick
shot from The Shadow clipped the forearm of the tigerish woman, as she aimed
with her .32; with a sharp cry, she slumped back into her seat. The way was
clear between The Shadow and the long-faced leader who had depicted the token
of Quetzal.
     The leader jabbed a hurried, badly aimed shot that bashed the steel exit
door beside The Shadow's shoulder. That attempt was his last opportunity. The
Shadow's big gun answered. The attack leader sagged.
     One enemy remained in combat; he was the darkish fighter with the knife.
The Shadow had ignored him to deal with the others. The blade-wielder was
leaping along the aisle, hoping to gain a thrust from an angle, before The
Shadow could turn. The Shadow's free hand clamped upward, caught the crook's
forearm as the thrust came. To counter, the dark-faced man grabbed for The
Shadow's gun.
     Both weapons temporarily useless, the two fighters grappled. They swayed
across the aisle; then took a jolt when the plane suddenly shivered as though
it had struck a mammoth air-pocket. The direction of the stagger was forward -
past the slumped woman, across the two sprawled bodies. The Shadow and his
adversary crashed against the door that led to the pilot room.
     The plane was out of control. It was going into a nose dive. Matters had
gone amiss in the pilot room. Death faced The Shadow, even if he proved victor
in his present grapple. Speed, perhaps, might save him.


     TWISTING, The Shadow slugged his gun on the skull of the darkish man. The
crook subsided, his knife clattering beside him. Yanking open the door in front
of him, The Shadow sprawled into the pilot room.
     Conditions had reversed there. Jerry Loyden lay helpless in a corner,
stunned by a blow from the fake co-pilot's gun. In eliminating Jerry, the crook
had made trouble for himself. Seizing the controls, he was unable to right the
ship from its dive.
     Even The Shadow's own experience with planes could not help. The ship was
sure to crash; the best course was to let the crook continue his frantic
efforts to prevent the smash.
     Grabbing the unconscious form of Jerry Loyden, The Shadow tried to clamber
back through the cabin, toward the rear door. The plane was hurtling groundward;
spinning, its fall partly aided The Shadow. He made progress through the cabin,
dragging the senseless pilot across the sprawled bodies that were wedged
between the seats on the sides of the aisle.
     The crash arrived just as The Shadow reached the last seat. The plane hit
the ground at a slant; a big wing crumpled; the nose bashed the earth and
flattened. The whole frame of the ship twisted and crackled. The Shadow lurched
sidewise, half trapped between two broken seats.
     He felt the side of the plane heave, start downward, then pause. A huge
roar filled his ears. Dazed, The Shadow could feel his briefcase beneath him;
he sensed the weight of Loyden's body above him. Dimly, he realized that the
cabin had tilted backward, tail down. His brain drummed upon one thought: the
rear door of the cabin.
     Gripping his briefcase, shouldering Loyden's inert form, The Shadow wedged
free of the trapping seats. The roar had become a crackle. Heat seemed to sweep
the demolished cabin. The wrecked plane was afire. The door, alone, could bring
safety.
     The tilt of the cabin floor fairly slid The Shadow toward it. He found the
door jammed when he reached it. With a hard shoulder heave, The Shadow drove the
barrier outward.
     A sudden sweep of flame seared the cabin. Like the blast from an inferno,
it whipped upward from the ruined front of the plane. Gripping Loyden, with the
briefcase clamped between, The Shadow lunged outward. He and the stunned pilot
took a five-foot pitch to the softish ground, while the rising flames howled
above them.
     With renewed effort, The Shadow hauled Loyden away from the fire's range.
He left the pilot forty feet from the plane, with the briefcase lying beside
him; then turned back toward the wreckage. One glance told The Shadow that it
would be impossible to rescue any crooks who might still be alive.
     The plane had become a pyre, its flame more brilliant than the setting
sun. Crashing, it had mowed down clusters of giant cactuses. All about, stood
other specimens of that spiny tree, like vengeful sentinels viewing the plane's
fate. Within a short while, the wrecked ship would be no more than a steel
skeleton.


     ABOVE the roar of the flames, The Shadow heard a vibrant hum. He looked
upward, to see a plane zooming low over the crest of a distant foothill that
marked the desert's edge. Something in that prompt arrival betokened further
menace. The Shadow stepped back to where Loyden lay.
     The pilot was near a clump of sagebrush, beside the base of a giant
cactus. From the briefcase, The Shadow drew a cloak of black; he stretched it
across Loyden's body. Crouching partly beneath the brushy shelter, The Shadow
drew both the pilot and the covering cloak closer to him.
     Remaining motionless, The Shadow trusted to this hasty camouflage. He knew
that observers from the approaching plane would look for motion on the ground,
or for conspicuous objects. If they saw neither, they would not suspect that a
patch of blackness, stilled by a fringe of sagebrush, represented human life.
     The plane neared the wreckage. Hundreds of feet above, it circled the
flaming spot; then rose higher, circling as it gained altitude. Like a vulture,
the mysterious plane performed another long circuit against the sky; then
straightened course and departed westward, beyond the hills.
     The sun had set. The flames from the wrecked air liner were dying. For
short minutes, the fire seemed to fight the brief twilight; then the last
flames subsided. Thick darkness settled on the desert. It blanketed The Shadow
and the rescued man who lay beside him.
     From The Shadow's lips came a strange, mirthless laugh, that sounded like
a ghostly tone amid that desolation. The Shadow had triumphed over enemies who
sought his life. He had deceived spying eyes that had peered from the vulturous
plane above.
     The Shadow had expected danger upon his present mission. He had outlived
the first thrust made against him. Though stranded upon the desert, miles below
the Border, The Shadow was ready to resume his campaign against new enemies who
dwelt on Mexican soil.


     CHAPTER II

     BELOW THE BORDER

     THE SHADOW welcomed the arrival of night. It meant that he could leave the
spot where the crashed sky liner had carried five attackers to their doom. The
hazard of the desert was small compared with the danger that might come, should
other crooks learn that The Shadow still lived.
     The Shadow's chief problem was Jerry Loyden. His first task was to revive
the pilot; to bring him to a state where he could join The Shadow in the long
trek that would lead back to civilization.
     A flashlight glimmered beside the sagebrush. It showed the pilot's face,
pitifully drawn; nevertheless, The Shadow noted that Loyden was due to revive
from his unconscious state. To speed that result, The Shadow reached into a
pocket in the black cloak. He brought out a small phial that contained a
purplish liquid.
     Waiting until Loyden's eyelids flickered, The Shadow pressed the phial to
the pilot's lips. Drops of the elixir trickled down his throat. The effect was
immediate. The pilot opened his eyes, blinked into the flashlight's glare. He
began incoherent mutters.
     The Shadow quieted the reviving man; with calm tone, he ordered him to
rest. Loyden sank back upon the cloak. His whirling thoughts began to steady.
The Shadow caught words that Loyden uttered. They referred to the treachery of
the unknown co-pilot, who had boarded the plane at Phoenix.
     This fitted with The Shadow's understanding of the case. A brief
recollection of the past twenty-four hours told him all that had occurred.
     Just one day ago, The Shadow had been in Washington. There, he had been
entrusted with a mission of vital importance to the United States government.
The task demanded that The Shadow go to Lower California, the Mexican territory
just below the California border.
     The Shadow had chosen an air route to reach San Diego, intending to start
southward after he reached that city. Somehow, his plans had been learned by
the enemies who plotted against the United States. Knowing that The Shadow
intended to change planes at Phoenix, they had prepared a trap. They had loaded
Loyden's plane with their own agents: those crooks who had posed as passengers
and co-pilot.
     Though The Shadow had eliminated a quintet of foemen, he had scarcely
dented the ranks of the enemy. He was up against an organization that might
have agents anywhere. Those vultures in the spying plane were samples. They had
come to view the scene of disaster; they had gone away to report.
     They would flash the good news, that The Shadow was dead. The fact that
five of their own kind had also perished, would mean nothing. Probably, the
head of that enemy band had expected his tools to die along with The Shadow.
     Who was the head of that organization that had its headquarters in Mexico?
     That was a question that had baffled the state department. It was one that
The Shadow could not yet answer. Today, however, he had uncovered one important
fact. He had learned the symbol that stood as countersign between the members
of the nefarious band.


     THE SHADOW had seen the sketched picture of Quetzal, that had been flashed
as a signal for attack. It fitted with news that The Shadow had gained in
Washington. There, he had been told that he would have to deal with an unknown
supercriminal, whose followers knew him only as Quetzal. Why that
master-plotter had chosen the name of an Aztec deity, was a mystery.
     The Shadow had gained its answer. The superfoe was called Quetzal because
he had adopted the reptilian god as his chief device in a campaign of intrigue
and murder.
     Logically, the plotter who called himself Quetzal would be in Mexico; here
in the territory of Baja California, as the Mexicans termed Lower California.
The crash of the sky liner had brought The Shadow directly to Mexican soil. He
no longer had need to travel by way of San Diego. His best plan was to find
some place of safety where he could leave Jerry Loyden; then travel on his own.
     Thin paper crinkled. The sound made Loyden open his eyes. In the rays of
the flashlight, the pilot saw the hawkish features of The Shadow. Keen eyes
were studying an outspread map, that showed this territory below the Border.
     The Shadow's forefinger rested upon the map, indicating this spot in the
desert. Calculating from the plane's speed when it passed Lake Maquita, The
Shadow was able to gauge his present location.
     Loyden watched the finger move one direction; then another. At last, it
glided in zigzag fashion, south and west. The Shadow had picked an inhabited
spot that lay nearly twenty miles to the southwest. Though deeper in Mexican
territory, the little settlement was as near as any town above the
International Border.
     Turning toward Loyden, The Shadow saw the pilot rising to his feet. Loyden
was thinking of the plane. The last that he remembered was the final dive. That
was enough to tell him that the plane had crashed. Rising also, The Shadow
gripped the pilot's arm; spoke steadily:
     "The others are dead. They were murderers, all of them! My testimony will
clear you of all blame."
     Loyden nodded, gratefully. The Shadow's words gave him confidence. Then
came another statement.
     "Proof will be needed," declared The Shadow, in an even tone. "Until I
gain it, my testimony will be unsupported. Therefore, you must follow my
directions."
     Loyden nodded his willingness. The Shadow gathered up the black cloak,
packed it in the briefcase. The sky above was moonless, but the studding stars
were brilliant. The Shadow did not need his compass to find the course he
wanted. Sighting by the North Star, he glimmered his flashlight along the dry
ground ahead and started the southwest journey.


     IT was a slow plod through the night. With blinking light, The Shadow
picked pathways between sagebrush and cactus; but the sandy soil made the march
tedious. Fortunately, the night had brought coolness. The Shadow counted upon
reaching his goal by dawn.
     For two steady hours, Loyden kept pace with The Shadow's steady march.
Then the pilot's stamina began to fade. The Shadow called for a rest. After
fifteen minutes, they began new progress. Remembering every detail of the map,
The Shadow chose hilly paths where the surface soil was thinner.
     Nevertheless, halts became more frequent. The going was becoming tougher
for Loyden, every hour.
     It was nearly dawn when the marchers reached a high level. As Loyden sank
for another rest, The Shadow spoke and pointed. Far below was a glimmering
light that shone like a grounded star. There were still miles to go, but Loyden
was hardly equal to the task. The Shadow recognized the fact.
     From his briefcase, The Shadow produced a brace of automatics and parked
them in deep pockets beneath his coat. He closed the zipper top of the
briefcase; locked it with a little padlock that was imbedded in the leather
end. He placed the briefcase in Loyden's care.
     "Wait here," The Shadow told the pilot. "By dawn, I shall return - or send
others."
     Starting on his lone trek, The Shadow made more speedy progress. He
unleashed all the effort that he had reserved during the slow march with
Loyden. Guiding for the distant light, he kept to a straight course; but for a
full hour, the glow seemed to move ahead of him. It was like a mirage in the
desert night; a taunting goal that could never be reached.
     The Shadow continued, undiscouraged. He knew the trickiness of the dry
desert air, that made distances seem short. He was confident that he had nearly
reached his destination; and the proof came when dawn began its flicker from the
east.
     The light still shone upon the darkened ground, but beyond it, The Shadow
saw the outline of mountain tops, forming a background far above. Nearer than
the bases of the mountains, the evasive light could no longer be far.
     Dawn increased. The lone light dwindled. In its place, The Shadow saw
buildings less than a mile away. Their size enabled him to gauge the distance
correctly. Some were no more than adobe huts; their appearance indicated that
the little settlement had been deserted. But the building that had furnished
the light was larger, and stood secluded from the abandoned village. The place
was a hacienda, two stories high, surmounted by a watch-tower at one corner of
its surrounding wall.
     Once, the hacienda must have been the home of some rich ranchero, whose
peons dwelt in the near-by village. The days of feudal lordship had ended in
Mexico. The peons had gone to more fertile lands. The hacienda was still
occupied; but probably it had changed ownership. Soon, The Shadow would learn
the facts of its present ownership.


     DAWN showed The Shadow as a long, striding figure, almost within the
shaded stretches outside the hacienda walls. His gaze was upward. The Shadow
was watching the tower. He saw a motion there.
     The Shadow halted; his hand shifted unnoticeably toward his coat. As if in
answer to his gaze, came the sharp query:
     "Quien va?"
     In answer to the question, "who goes," The Shadow responded in Spanish:
     "Un amigo."
     The reply seemed sufficient. The Shadow, arriving alone from the desert,
would naturally announce himself as a friend. There was a pause; then the query:
     "Va tiene un Americano, no es verad?"
     The Shadow gave the affirmative "Si," in reply to the question whether or
not he was an American. He sensed that the statement would bring him a prompt
welcome. That surmise was correct. The shout went below: "Un Americano!"
     Immediately, a gate opened in the wall and a rough-clad Mexican with a big
sombrero beckoned the stranger to enter.
     The Shadow was ushered through an inner door, along a hallway of the
building itself, then into a patio surrounded by a balcony. He heard the
clatter of a door above; looked up to see a man who was hurriedly donning a
dressing gown. As the man descended the stairs to the patio, The Shadow saw
that he was an American.
     Greetings were prompt. The owner of the hacienda was middle-aged, portly
and broad-faced. His smile added to the friendliness of his face. His eyes were
keen, as they surveyed the wayfarer from the desert. Evidently, the broad-faced
man was impressed by the calmness of The Shadow's hawklike visage, for he bowed
a greeting as he thrust forward a firm hand.
     "My name," he rumbled, in basso tone, "is Latimer Creeth. May I ask yours,
sir?"
     "I am Lamont Cranston," replied The Shadow. "Lately from New York. More
recently stranded in the desert, due to a forced landing west of Lake Maquita."
     Creeth's eyes opened. He put an amazed question:
     "You're not from the air liner reported lost last night?"
     "I am," replied The Shadow, calmly. "Moreover, Mr. Creeth, you have
another survivor to care for. I brought the pilot with me. He is resting on the
hillcrest, directly northeast of here."
     Creeth clapped his hands; Mexican servants appeared. The portly man gave
prompt orders. Two were to take horses and go immediately to Loyden's rescue.
Creeth snapped the reminder:
     "Pronto!" The servants scurried away. Creeth turned to The Shadow.
     "Breakfast?" he queried, amiably. "Or would you prefer some sleep first?"
     "A rest would be preferable."
     Creeth bowed and indicated the stairway. He conducted The Shadow to a room
on the second floor. As soon as Creeth had gone, The Shadow took account of his
surroundings.
     From the window, he could see the broad expanse of desert that stretched
to the northeast. Two horsemen were already riding toward the slope where The
Shadow had left Loyden. They were taking a riderless mount with them. Soon, the
pilot would arrive at the hacienda; Loyden, too, would be resting before the
sun's blaze made the desert intolerable.


     CALMLY, The Shadow locked the door. He lowered the window shade, laid
aside his coat and automatics. Kicking off his shoes, he stretched upon a
comfortable bed and closed his eyes. He was taking advantage of the coming
hours, to gain a needed rest. Sleep was important to The Shadow - not because
of past fatigue, but because of work that lay ahead.
     Before this day ended, The Shadow intended to be on his way. The apparent
security of the hacienda did not deceive him. Not only did The Shadow have a
mission to perform; there was still a chance that enemies would learn of his
escape from death. If they did, their efforts would become relentless.
     In fact, The Shadow had a definite hunch that his chance arrival at this
obscure hacienda was something that the supercrook called Quetzal would surely
learn. Seemingly, the agents of Quetzal were everywhere.
     The Shadow's conclusion was like a glimpse into the future. This day was
to mark new efforts by those who served the mysterious Quetzal. Again, death
would stalk The Shadow.


     CHAPTER III

     CREETH'S VISITORS

     EARLY in the afternoon, The Shadow came from his room and descended to the
patio. There, he encountered one of the Mexican servants, who informed him that
Creeth was in the living room.
     The Shadow found the portly hacienda owner there. Creeth was pleased that
his guest had awakened. He ordered lunch for two.
     The living room was at the front of the hacienda; its windows showed an
open stretch of ground that ended with the surrounding wall. The Shadow could
see the high tower at the corner; noted that a watcher was on duty. Then he
turned to hear a statement from Creeth.
     "We brought in Loyden," informed Creeth. "He was fagged out. He is
sleeping in another room, upstairs. I would say that his nerves were pretty
well shocked because of that crash."
     "Quite naturally," responded The Shadow. "The co-pilot went berserk. He
snatched the controls from Loyden. That was why the ship cracked up."
     "There were other passengers beside yourself?"
     "Yes. Four. They were trapped with the co-pilot. Tell me about the reports
you heard, Mr. Creeth."
     Creeth gave the facts. He had heard them over the radio, the night before.
Loyden's plane had failed to arrive at San Diego; a search had been instituted
all along the route. It was conceded that the plane had crashed; but no trace
of the wreckage had been discovered.
     "Loyden was far south of his course," explained The Shadow. "The co-pilot
must have gone completely insane. From what Loyden told me, the fellow handed
him false flying orders."
     Creeth raised his eyebrows, as he queried: "Does that sound credible, Mr.
Cranston?"
     "I believe it," replied The Shadow, "because Loyden had no reason to fly
south of his course. Unfortunately, the orders were burned in the wreck."
     "That will make it bad for Loyden," nodded Creeth, "when he returns across
the Border."
     "Not if he remains a while in Mexico. He can do that quite easily, since
he is supposed to have died in the crash."
     Creeth pondered over The Shadow's remark. Quietly, The Shadow added:
     "I have friends in Mexico City. Loyden can go there."
     "Quite easily," agreed Creeth. "I can arrange to have a plane stop here,
en route from San Diego to Mexico City, to pick up both of you."
     "I am not going to Mexico City."
     Creeth looked quizzical. The Shadow stepped to the wall; pointed to a
large map that hung there. He placed his finger just below the International
Boundary, and remarked:
     "This hacienda is located here -"
     "A half inch farther south," interposed Creeth. "There - you have the
exact spot."
     "That makes my journey a little longer," declared The Shadow. "If you can
spare a horse, Mr. Creeth, I can ride northwest to Tia Juana and cross the
Border from there. I wish to reach San Diego."


     CREETH joined The Shadow at the map. The portly man placed his finger on
Tia Juana, where the Border met the Pacific Coast. Running his hand down the
coast line, Creeth stopped at the Mexican town of Ensenada, some fifty miles
south of Tia Juana. He marked a southwest line between the hacienda's location
and that of Ensenada.
     "Ride to Ensenada," he suggested, "instead of to Tia Juana. The distance
is about the same, your course will be southwest instead of northwest. You can
take a steamer from Ensenada up to San Diego."
     The suggestion pleased The Shadow. Ensenada was his actual destination;
but he had preferred not to reveal that fact. It was still good policy to
object to Creeth's plan.
     "Ensenada is out of the way," declared The Shadow. "I have no reason to go
there."
     "Except one," replied Creeth, gravely. "Your trip will be safer. You will
escape the bandits that are between here and Tia Juana."
     "Bandits?" The Shadow showed surprise in his question. "I thought they
were gone from this part of Mexico."
     Creeth shook his head. Sitting down at the table, he began a detailed
explanation.
     "Like other Americans," he stated, "I have interests in racing stables at
Tia Juana. Because of the Mexican laws, it proved advisable for me to live in
Mexico. I heard of this hacienda. I purchased it cheaply; and like it so well
that I wondered why no one else had chosen it as a residence. I learned why,
when I received a visit from Sancho Maringuez."
     The name Maringuez was a new one to The Shadow. He inferred that Sancho
Maringuez must be one of the bandits of whom Creeth had spoken. Creeth's next
words proved that correct.
     "Maringuez is a smooth customer," declared the hacienda owner. "Here in
Mexico, he has started a racket that compares with those in New York and other
American cities. He covers the road between here and Tia Juana, offering what
he calls 'protection' for travelers. I found it cheaper to pay for such
protection, than to ignore it.
     "Anything may happen to a traveler who ventures along those roads without
paying the price. Of course, Maringuez has nothing to do with it." Creeth shook
his head, as he spoke in a sarcastic drawl. "No, indeed. Maringuez protects his
friends. But those who do not pay are not the friends of Maringuez.
     "Since you have not paid, I advise you to avoid that road. Maringuez does
not patrol between here and Ensenada, for travelers are few. Therefore, the
route to Ensenada is the one to take."
     "Unless," remarked The Shadow, "I arranged to pay the toll fee."
     "Unless I paid it," objected Creeth. "The mere fact that you have come
here, makes me responsible. I already owe Maringuez two thousand pesos, by his
method of calculation. Half for you; half for Loyden. That is why I do not
inform Maringuez when I have guests. It is cheaper to keep a man as lookout in
the watch tower."


     ALMOST like an answer to Creeth's statement, came a call in Spanish from
the tower. Another man relayed it. The Shadow heard the name "Maringuez"
uttered in excited shouts. Creeth came to his feet with an exclamation. He
clapped for a servant, ordered the man to summon Loyden and bring the pilot's
bag.
     Loyden arrived sleepily a few minutes later. His bag proved to be the
briefcase, which he handed to The Shadow. Creeth stepped to the wall at the
rear of the living room, found a catch and slid back a panel to reveal a small,
secret room.
     "This is where the ranchero used to hide his gold," he declared, grimly.
"Bandits were tougher then than Maringuez; but he is as smooth as any could be.
Stay out of sight here, while I deal with him."
     Through a tiny crack in the panel, The Shadow watched proceedings in the
room that he and Loyden had left. The Shadow had his briefcase with him; and
Creeth was hastily ordering the removal of the extra lunch plates that
indicated a guest. That had scarcely been done before there were shouts from
the outside wall. The gate swung open; a dozen horsemen clattered through and
dismounted.
     Creeth received Maringuez in the living room. The bandit was a short,
squarish man, who wore a Mexican costume that had once been gaudy. Velvet
trousers and gold-braided velvet jacket showed signs of long wear. So did the
fancy sombrero that Maringuez tossed upon the lunch table.
     The bandit's face was sallow. Fully rounded, it gave him a moonish
expression; but there was nothing of softness in the downtwist of his lips.
Maringuez's smile was an odd one; so was the glint that came from his narrowed
eyes, set wide on either side of his broad nose. Maringuez darted glances
everywhere, before centering his gaze upon the lunch table.
     "Ah, senor," he purred to Creeth, "I have come too late to have lunch with
you. I am sorry, so sorry! But still" - he shrugged his shoulders - "why should
I ask what you do not give to other guests?"
     "To other guests?" demanded Creeth. "What other guests, Maringuez?"
     "The Americanos who arrived this morning from the desert. Perhaps they are
asleep, eh? That is why they have not eaten lunch with you? Ah, si. That must be
it."
     "I have no guests here, Maringuez."
     "Ah, no? I am so sorry, Senor Creeth." Head tilted, Maringuez began to
roll himself a cigarette, watching his hands as he spoke. "That is too bad,
senor. I have heard that you have dos amigos, two friends, who would be glad to
pay me one thousand pesos each before they travel to Tia Juana.
     "But perhaps those friends do not wish to meet me? They may have heard bad
things said of Sancho Maringuez. Ah, senor, I must look for them and tell them
that I am their friend. They will be glad to give me the two thousand pesos."


     MARINGUEZ'S followers had entered with him. They were a nondescript bunch
of ill-clad ruffians. Maringuez turned to them, spat words in Spanish. The
bandits grimaced like pleased monkeys. Maringuez was ordering a search of the
hacienda.
     The Shadow heard the names by which Maringuez addressed some of his
subordinates. One scar-faced fellow was called Tompino; Maringuez sent him
upstairs with a pair of men. Another, who boasted a leering, pockmarked
countenance, was Poroq. Maringuez sent him outside, with others. He reminded
Poroq to send a man up to inspect the watch tower.
     Creeth raised objection, fearing that the bandit's men might clash with
his own. Maringuez remarked suavely that it was not his affair, if they did.
Leaving two servants in the living room, Creeth hurried outside to prevent any
disturbance.
     That seemed to please Maringuez. With a chuckle, the bandit settled in a
chair and placed his feet upon the cushions of another. His spurs dug into the
upholstery, but the bandit cared nothing for Creeth's furniture. Blandly
puffing his cigarette, he ordered his remaining men to search the ground floor
and report to him.
     Perhaps Creeth's departure had bluffed Maringuez. The bandit, apparently,
did not regard the living room as a likely hiding place. He chanced to glance
toward the paneled wall; but his eyes showed no suspicion of the partition that
hid The Shadow and Loyden from his view.
     Maringuez rolled another cigarette, after he had finished the first one.
He was through with his second smoke when his men began to return.
     Tompino and Poroq both reported a blank search. So did the men who had
scoured the ground floor. Maringuez came up angrily from his chair, began a
series of harsh oaths that ended when he saw Creeth enter from the outside. The
bandit's suave manner returned.
     "Ah, senor," asserted Maringuez. "It seems that you are right. You have no
amigos here. It is too bad that I have troubled you. Soon you will go to Tia
Juana, for the races. Buenos! Your trip will be a safe one. You shall have the
protection of Sancho Maringuez.
     "But should others ride to Tia Juana and meet me on the way, I shall ask
them if they are friends of Senor Creeth. Should they say 'Si,' I shall say:
"Ah, no; Senor Creeth does not have his amigos visit him. He does not like to
pay one thousand pesos for other Americanos. Adios."


     SPURS clanking, Maringuez strode from the hacienda, with Poroq and Tompino
at his elbows. The rest of the band followed. The Shadow heard the dull clatter
of their departure. Through the crack, he saw Creeth mopping his forehead
beside the lunch table, waiting for a new call from the watch tower.
     The signal came after ten minutes: It told that Maringuez and his men had
ridden away. Creeth slid back the panel, motioned The Shadow and Loyden out
from the secret room.
     "Perhaps I should have let Maringuez meet you," said Creeth
apologetically. "After all, it would be worth two thousand pesos not to incur
his enmity. Under the circumstances, however" - Creeth gave a worried glance
toward Loyden - "it seemed best to deny that there were Americans present."
     "Quite right," agreed The Shadow, promptly. "What about the plane for
Mexico City, Mr. Creeth?"
     "It passes here late in the afternoon," replied Creeth. "It will land at
my signal. I doubt that Maringuez will see it land. He is too foxy to leave
outposts near enough to be seen from my watch tower. If he suspects that the
plane has stopped here, he will come. That produces another problem."
     "My departure?"
     Creeth nodded, as he heard The Shadow's query.
     "You should be gone by the time the plane arrives," declared Creeth. "That
is, unless you take my advice and go to Mexico City with Loyden, instead of
starting for Ensenada."
     "I prefer Ensenada."
     "Then you must start an hour before sunset. Maringuez will not be close;
he will expect you to travel after nightfall. You can reach the mountains to
the southwest before sunset. If Maringuez closes in afterward, you will be gone.
     "Once you reach the mountains, you will be on the road to Ensenada. It is
very unlikely that Maringuez will expect you there. If he does spread his men,
to cover more roads than the one to Tia Juana, he will probably choose the
routes that lead north to the Border."
     Jerry Loyden was puzzled by the conversation between The Shadow and
Creeth. The Shadow quietly explained matters, telling the pilot of the
discussion that had been held earlier. At first, Loyden objected to a trip to
Mexico City.
     "It's like running away," expressed the pilot. "I'm willing to face an
investigation, and tell my story of the crash. I'll have your testimony, Mr.
Cranston."
     "You will, Loyden," returned The Shadow, dryly, "if you follow my
instructions. I can testify that I sent you to Mexico City because the crash
took place on Mexican territory. You can report it to the proper officials
there."


     THE SHADOW wrote the name of the man whom Loyden was to see when he
reached the Mexican capital. The pilot remembered how The Shadow had aided him,
and agreed to follow instructions. That business finished, The Shadow glanced at
his watch.
     "It is later than I supposed," he told Creeth. "According to your plan, I
should be leaving in an hour. Suppose we choose the horse that I intend to buy."
     "To buy?" echoed Creeth. "You are welcome to the horse, Mr. Cranston. I
intended to have you leave it in Ensenada, where I could send for it, later. Of
course, one can never count on finding a horse again, after it is left in a
Mexican town -"
     "Therefore, I shall sell it," interposed The Shadow. "Later, I shall meet
you in Tia Juana and pay you one thousand pesos."
     "One thousand pesos for a horse -"
     "A better bargain than Sancho Maringuez would have given me, had he met
me. He wanted a thousand pesos without the horse."
     Latimer Creeth chuckled at The Shadow's jest. He was still laughing, as he
led the way to the stables outside the hacienda. The Shadow, too, wore a smile,
that was barely discernible on his masklike lips.
     "A thousand pesos for a horse," chortled Creeth, as they reached the
stables. "You can have any broncho in the place for that price, Mr. Cranston!
And some day" - Creeth seemed gleeful at the thought - "I shall tell Sancho
Maringuez how I sold a horse for a thousand pesos."
     "Reserve that story," suggested The Shadow, "until after I have paid you
the money."
     Creeth's smile faded. The Shadow's comment spoke of danger that lay ahead;
some menace that might exist despite Creeth's assurance that the road to
Ensenada was clear. There was a definite chance that The Shadow would never
meet Creeth in Tia Juana, to pay him the thousand pesos.
     The Shadow was thinking of more than Sancho Maringuez, the racketeer
bandit whose marauders patrolled this terrain. He was considering the methods
of a superfoe, whose followers called Quetzal.
     The power of Quetzal could stretch far - even to this lonely hacienda, or
into the mountain passes where Maringuez was supposed to have sole control.
     The Shadow had already seen inklings of that fact. He was to encounter
full proof of Quetzal's far-reaching methods, before he finished his ride to
Ensenada.


     CHAPTER IV

     DEATH BY THE ARROYO

     DUSK had settled in the lower foothills of the mountains southwest of
Creeth's hacienda. In the gloom at the entrance to a high pass, The Shadow was
seated motionless upon the horse that Creeth had loaned him. Turned about, The
Shadow was gazing miles backward, to the hacienda, where white walls were still
brilliant in light of the late afternoon sun.
     From the northwest, high in the air, came the glint from a toylike plane.
The Shadow saw the ship dip downward and circle the hacienda, preparatory to a
landing. From the briefcase strapped to his saddle, The Shadow drew a small,
but powerful, pair of binoculars. Focusing the field glasses on distant white
walls, he watched the plane come to earth.
     Human figures were plain through the glasses; The Shadow saw two that he
recognized. One was Creeth; the other Loyden. The owner of the hacienda shook
hands with the pilot, as the latter went aboard the plane. A few minutes later,
the air liner was rising for its night flight south to Mexico City.
     All during his ride to the mountains, The Shadow had been on the lookout
for Maringuez's men. He had seen no sign of them. As Creeth had believed, they
were beyond the mountains. With dusk, however, they could easily have
approached the side of the mountains toward the hacienda. The Shadow recognized
the wisdom of his early departure.
     In The Shadow's present situation, all seemed well. If bandits had seen
the through plane's stop, they might suppose that both of Creeth's guests had
gone aboard the ship. Maringuez might go to the hacienda, to argue matters with
Creeth; but the portly American could deny everything, with some logical excuse
regarding the plane's landing.
     One fact was certain. Sancho Maringuez existed as a bandit only because he
employed modern methods. He could not risk an armed attack upon a hacienda; nor
could he afford to injure those who had paid him for his so-called protection.
Such measures would bring him trouble from the Mexican government. If lone
travelers met Sancho, however, the story could be a different one.
     Despite Creeth's belief that the road to Ensenada would be clear, The
Shadow rode with caution through the mountain pass. He sensed that the next
hour would be the most dangerous of his trip, for the setting sun played tricks
among these high Sierras. The road, though ragged, was easy to find, even in the
gloom. The horse seemed to know it; and darkness offered no huge handicap.
     The trouble lay when stretches of the road rounded into places where the
pass faced west. There, the sun came into view. Its rays revealed the lone
rider on his course. If watchers were hereabouts, they would see The Shadow.
     A halt would be risky. If Maringuez suspected that only one of Creeth's
visitors had boarded the plane, the bandit might think of the Ensenada road.
Should pursuers be on The Shadow's trail, they might already have spotted him
from a mile or more behind. This pass, Creeth had stated, was the most rugged
part of the ride.
     That furnished The Shadow with another urge for progress. He could go
faster while occasional flickers of daylight still persisted.


     THE road furnished sudden evidence to prove The Shadow's choice a wise
one. Rounding a bend, The Shadow came to a straight stretch where the road
divided. To his left was a slope that led down into an arroyo. That shallow
canyon, in rainy seasons, could become a watercourse.
     One road slanted into the arroyo. Whether it ascended on the other side
was a question, for the arroyo curved after a few hundred yards and traces of
the road were invisible in the darkness below. The other fork kept straight
ahead, then turned to a hanging bridge that crossed the narrow arroyo.
     The Shadow's side of the arroyo was almost dark, because of a towering
summit to the right. The other side of the curving ravine showed traces of
fading sunlight, particularly at a level spot just beyond the bridge. There,
the road was fringed by a cluster of sagebrush that hung above the arroyo's
edge.
     Ordinarily, the clump of vegetation might not have looked conspicuous. At
this hour, it was definitely plain, for it was one of the few stretches of
ground reached by the sunlight. Halting at the fork, The Shadow studied the
darkened bridge and the lighter patch beyond. In that cluster of sagebrush, he
saw a perfect ambush.
     A lurker crouched there could control not only the bridge, but the arroyo
below. If this road chanced to be guarded by a man who knew it, the fellow
could choose no better spot than that clump of sagebrush.
     Halting at the fork, The Shadow dismounted. He tethered his horse in the
protecting shelter of a big rock by the bend. From the briefcase, he drew his
black cloak and slouch hat. Donning that garb, he crept along the road to the
bridge. Close to the steep bank on the right, The Shadow was totally obscured.
     The bridge itself offered a dark route to the other side. Stooping low,
The Shadow approached it. His creeping pace was cautious. He did not want the
bridge to give any sway that would denote his passage. The bridge remained
firm. Strong enough to bear the weight of a horse and rider, it did not waver
under the weight of a lone man.
     Reaching the far side of the bridge, The Shadow was on the very fringe of
darkness. Behind the clump of sagebrush, he saw one blackish patch that the
sunlight did not reach. There was a flickery stretch between. The Shadow
shifted, avoiding the light, to gain a better view.
     There was motion behind the sagebrush. Instantly, The Shadow realized what
had caused it. His own shift must have been noticed by eyes that were keen, even
in this gloom. A lurker was there; and if the fellow had heard The Shadow's
approach on horseback, he now suspected that the rider had come ahead alone.


     WITH that instantaneous thought, The Shadow sprang forward, whipping forth
an automatic. With his lunge came an attack from the opposite direction. The man
behind the sagebrush had gained the same idea.
     A bulky figure loomed in the sunlight. A huge hand swung downward a
glittering knife-blade. As The Shadow drove his automatic upward, he recognized
the pock-marked face that was speeding toward his own. The attacker was Poroq,
the bandit lieutenant who had searched the grounds around the hacienda.
     Gun muzzle clashed knife-blade in mid-air. The Shadow's jab had offset
Poroq's thrust. Arms skidding above shoulders, the fighters grappled. Neither
had lost ground in the drive; they were locked in the lighted space between the
bridge and the sagebrush.
     Poroq's plan was crude, but definite. He tried to twist The Shadow toward
the brink of the arroyo, hoping to hurl him over in case a knife-thrust failed.
Poroq's strength was formidable. The Shadow knew that a single slip on his own
part would give the bandit the advantage that he wanted.
     Quick strategy was the best method with Poroq; and The Shadow produced it.
After resisting Poroq's twist, The Shadow suddenly gave way. With an ugly gloat,
Poroq shouldered toward the brink. Halfway, he realized how he had been tricked.
The Shadow had twisted farther; he was carrying Poroq along the edge instead of
toward it.
     Poroq tried to reverse his position. His move gave The Shadow new
advantage. Yanking toward the sagebrush, The Shadow suddenly braced. Poroq's
back went toward the arroyo.
     Thought of the danger below gave Poroq the fury of a demon. He drove
inward, hurled The Shadow through the fringe of the brush and flattened him to
the darkened ground behind the cluster. With his left arm, Poroq pinned The
Shadow's gun hand hard against his chest; with the fist of that same arm, he
clutched The Shadow's throat.
     Even while he choked his adversary, Poroq thought of the knife. The
Shadow's left fist was losing the grip that restrained Poroq's bladed right
hand. The bandit yanked his right wrist clear; he shifted leftward, as he
poised his right hand for a downward stab to The Shadow's heart.


     POROQ'S thrust never came. In his anxiety to clear the path for the blade,
the bandit made his one mistake. He moved the arm that had The Shadow's gun hand
pinned. Poroq did not expect disaster, for The Shadow's fist was still unable to
come free; but it did perform a move that Poroq had not anticipated.
     Poroq's cross-armed pressure was off the gun barrel. The Shadow's pinned
hand levered the muzzle upward; his finger pressed the trigger.
     That shot was dulled beneath the muffling hulk of Poroq's chest. The
bullet had less than two inches to travel to its target. Poroq's poised hand
wavered crazily, as his body towered upward as if jolted from below. Then the
knife hand came downward at a slant, Poroq's body with it.
     The blade drove past The Shadow's shoulder, drove deep into the turf.
Carried by the weight of his descending arm, Poroq rolled over beside The
Shadow.
     Crawling to hands and knees, The Shadow puffed for breath; then arose
unsteadily. His slouch hat fell from his head. His cloak, ripped in the
struggle, hung from one shoulder. Poroq lay on the very edge of the shaded
ground beneath the sagebrush. The Shadow was standing in the light between his
dead foe and the arroyo.
     It was his own position that made The Shadow suddenly realize the
possibility of new danger. Instinctively, he looked along the edge of the
arroyo; then across, to a rocky ledge where sunlight supplied its last tints.
There, by freakish chance, The Shadow caught a glimpse of another menacing
figure. He saw a man stretched upon the ledge, aiming at long range with a
rifle.
     The distance was great, far beyond the reach of a pistol shot. Yet the
range was not too long for a rifle expert. The Shadow's best chance against the
sharpshooter lay in the trickiness of the light, which had become splotchy by
the clump of sagebrush. Quick motion, amid the increasing gloom, might offset
the first shot.
     The Shadow shifted away from the sagebrush; then moved again, in the
direction where Poroq's body lay. The rifle crackled as The Shadow made the
quick reverse twist. A bullet buried itself in the sandy slope just behind The
Shadow's shoulder, with a plop! as sharp in sound as an explosion.
     The Shadow did not halt his dive. He sprawled beneath the sagebrush,
beside Poroq's body.


     THE trick shift had fooled the marksman; but The Shadow knew that the man
was still on watch. Chances were that the fellow had arrived after The Shadow's
struggle with Poroq; otherwise, the shot would have come sooner. Further
strategy was needed, without delay.
     On the ground, The Shadow drew his torn cloak from his shoulders, to
spread it across Poroq's form. Rolling the bulky body beneath the shelter of
the sagebrush, The Shadow shrouded the limp form in the cloak. With one arm, he
hoisted the shoulders upward, then put his whole strength beneath Poroq's dead
weight.
     Like a wounded figure rising from the ground, Poroq's black-clad corpse
moved upward from the sagebrush.
     For a long moment, the cloaked body swayed on a balance point, as The
Shadow shifted downward behind it. In the dimming light, Poroq's shape looked
like The Shadow's. It offered a perfect target for the watching rifleman. With
final effort, The Shadow gave Poroq's figure a forward thrust and dropped flat,
as the bulky corpse tilted toward the arroyo.
     At that instant, the rifle spoke again. This time, its bullet found a
mark. Poroq's body quivered as if imbued with new life. The corpse wavered
haltingly; the bullet's impact had slowed its forward fall.
     Before The Shadow could stretch forward to deliver an added shove, the
body caved and rolled headlong. Clearing the sagebrush, Poroq's bulk went
tumbling down into the arroyo, carrying the black cloak wrapped around it.


     THE SHADOW waited. He saw the marksman on the opposite ledge turn and look
westward along the arroyo. The man gave a shout, that must have been answered,
for he pointed downward. He came from his crag, slid down the slope and went
out of sight into the arroyo.
     The Shadow came from the sagebrush and approached the bridge. He could
hear hoofbeats coming eastward in the arroyo, telling the arrival of men on
horses. That proved that the lower road rejoined the upper. By his ruse, The
Shadow had diverted a whole troop of men who had been coming toward him from
the other side of the pass. Since they had gone into the arroyo, The Shadow's
way was clear.
     Moving across the bridge, The Shadow reached the big rock. He mounted his
horse and rode boldly toward the bridge, to prepare for the final dash. The
Shadow knew that the men in the arroyo would soon find Poroq's body.
     Below, the first horseman reached the marksman from the cliff.
Dismounting, he struck a match. The glow showed faces that The Shadow would
have recognized. The marksman was Tompino. The dismounted man was Sancho
Maringuez. Tompino pointed to a black-shrouded body. Maringuez cried angrily,
in Spanish:
     "Fool! Why did you kill him? I told you we sought a prisoner, not a dead
man!"
     Tompino grumbled that the victim had fallen into the arroyo. Maringuez
stooped, whipped back a fold of the cloak. A dead face stared up into the
matchlight. Tompino saw it, also, and uttered:
     "It is Poroq! How did he come here?"
     "He tried his own luck," purred Maringuez. "It was a bad mistake for
Poroq. He has met El Ombre!"
     Tompino recognized the Spanish name for The Shadow. He had heard of that
dreaded foe, whose power stretched out to find all men of crime.
     The match flickered out. A clatter sounded from above. Amid the pound of a
horse's hoofs, there came the burst of an outlandish laugh, that quivered its
echoes down into the arroyo. The walls of the pass caught the mockery, flung it
again and again upon the ears of those who stared upward.


     SHOUTS rose from Maringuez's men. They had heard the horseman's dash
across the bridge. They whipped their rifles from their saddles, expecting an
order from Maringuez. None came. Shots would have been useless, had Maringuez
chosen to give them. Once across the bridge, The Shadow was riding westward
above the sheltering brink of the arroyo.
     "El Ombre!" Maringuez chuckled the name fiercely. "He is riding like the
wind. Go back to the others, Tompino. Tell them that it is useless to pursue
The Shadow."
     Tompino went toward the horsemen. Sancho Maringuez listened in the
darkness. He heard the fading of hoofbeats, far along the upper road. He
shrugged his shoulders, as if to prove to himself that he was correct regarding
The Shadow's speed.
     Maringuez struck another match. Pulling away the folds of the black cloak,
he began a search of Poroq's pockets. Deep in one, he found a rounded object,
larger than a coin. Maringuez brought it to the light.
     The disk looked like an ancient medal. Stamped upon it was the device of
an Aztec pyramid. Maringuez turned the medal over in his hand. Upon the copper
surface he viewed the glaring image of a reptilian face, topped by a plumed
headdress. The medal was the token of Quetzal.
     Maringuez thrust the copper piece into a pocket of his velvet jacket.
Striding back through the darkness, he rejoined his men. Tompino had mounted an
extra horse and was seated beside Maringuez's steed. The bandit mounted; gave a
raspy order for departure.
     As they rode from the arroyo, Tompino spoke to his chief.
     "It was as you expected," declared the lieutenant. "Whoever came from the
hacienda would take the road to Ensenada. It was to please you that Poroq came
here alone, before us."
     "Enough, Tompino," returned Maringuez, in the smooth tone that was as
emphatic as any command. "Let us talk no more of Poroq, nor of The Shadow. It
is your duty to obey my orders; not to question the acts of others."
     The rebuke struck home to Tompino. It made the lieutenant realize that
Maringuez might have ordered Poroq to maintain his own one-man ambush along the
lonely road. That thought gave Tompino speculation for the future.
     Usually, Maringuez's plans were a mystery to the slow-thinking Tompino;
but this time the lieutenant was sure that he could predict them. Sooner or
later, Maringuez would meet El Ombre. Tompino hoped he would be on hand as
witness, when the bandit dealt with The Shadow in repayment for Poroq's death.


     CHAPTER V

     IN ENSENADA

     IT was more than a night's ride across the Sierras to the Pacific. The
Shadow, from the beginning of his journey, had known that he could not reach
the coastal town of Ensenada much before noon. Creeth had emphasized that fact;
but had seen no danger in it.
     By dawn, Creeth had said, The Shadow would be past the danger zone
controlled by Sancho Maringuez. He would be in a region near the coast, where
there were occasional villages along the last stretch to Ensenada.
     To The Shadow, the final stage of the journey offered the greatest hazard,
even though he had not expressed that opinion to Creeth. The Shadow had depended
upon darkness to carry him past the bandit region. He was convinced that agents
of Quetzal would be found beyond the mountain passes, particularly in the
district close to Ensenada. There, The Shadow would have to elude them by day.
     If word reached the master crook that The Shadow had survived the plane
wreck, enemies would be prepared for his arrival at Ensenada. Doubtless, they
would have a description of Lamont Cranston. They could even identify The
Shadow's horse as a mount that had come from Creeth's hacienda.
     That was why The Shadow delayed his approach to Ensenada. The day passed,
until noon had gone by; yet no Americano appeared near the outskirts of
Ensenada.
     It was siesta time when a plodding rider arrived outside the town. He bore
no resemblance to The Shadow. This rider appeared to be a Mexican of the poorer
class. He was attired in old, ill-fitting clothes; his darkened face looked
long and droopy beneath the broad brim of a battered straw sombrero.
     The horse that the Mexican rode was a weary nag that could hardly stand a
half-day's journey. It seemed to sag under the weight of its rider and the
frayed saddle pack that hung beside him. Even though the pack was a light one,
the horse apparently disliked the added burden.
     Close to Ensenada, the Mexican paused to rest his horse. Before him lay
the narrow streets that marked the center of the town; beyond was the blue bay
of Todos Los Santos, where a clumsy steamship was moored among smaller craft.
     To the average traveler, Ensenada would appear to be a pitiful town; and
its harbor a poor one. To local inhabitants, however, the place was important.
Ensenada, with its population of more than three thousand, was by far the
largest town south of Tia Juana. Moreover, it was the only seaport along two
hundred and fifty miles of coast. That accounted for the presence of some
handsome yachts among the smaller craft in the harbor. And the boats also
indicated another fact.
     Ensenada had gained popularity since the opening of a highway south from
the International Boundary. It was a spot that attracted tourists from
California, who wanted a real glimpse of Old Mexico. Most Americans drove down
by car; but some - as the yachts indicated - preferred the water route.


     THE mounted Mexican grinned, as though the view of Ensenada pleased him.
Clucking to his horse, he rode toward the town and soon reached a narrow street
where balconies projected from the second floors of white-walled buildings. He
weaved his way through an alleyway; then to another street. The Mexican had
reached the center of Ensenada.
     Few persons were abroad during the siesta hour. Occasional white-clad
Mexicans, lounging beneath balconies, looked asleep on their feet. Most of the
shops were closed, with blinds drawn; yet there were eyes that scanned the
stranger who rode so slowly. Loungers, and watchers from shop windows, were
studying all persons who came to Ensenada. The ill-clad Mexican passed their
inspection. He could not be the man for whom they watched.
     On a side street, the Mexican stopped his horse beside a small building
that served as a hotel. He eyed it sleepily, as though the place offered a
chance for a siesta. Dismounting, he hitched his horse in the shade and
entered. A sleeping clerk woke up and eyed the new guest sourly, until the
latter plunked some silver pesos on the counter.
     Money commanded respect. The clerk decided that he had a room, even for so
ill-attired a guest. He showed the arrival to a room and arranged to stable the
sorry horse. As the clerk left the room, the new guest sprawled upon the bed to
take his siesta.
     Two hours later, the ill-clad Mexican reappeared downstairs. He slouched
out to the street; saw a clothing shop a few doors away. Siesta time had
passed. The shop had opened for business. The droopy-faced Mexican was grinning
as he jingled a pocketful of silver pesos. When he came back to the hotel, he
carried a large bundle to his room. There, he changed attire.
     In place of a peon, he became an example of the latest in Mexican
fashions. The clothes that he had bought were expensive ones. He looked like a
visitor from Mexico City, rather than an arrival from the hills. His face had
lost its droopiness.
     Looking into a large, cracked mirror beside the bed, the transformed
Mexican indulged in a slight smile. From his lips came the whisper of a laugh.
It was an echo of the taunt that had sounded above the arroyo in the Sierras.
     The Mexican was The Shadow. Outside of Ensenada, he had found a village,
where a silver-hoarding peon had gladly exchanged horses and given old clothes
and pesos in addition.
     Opening the frayed saddle bag, The Shadow produced his briefcase. From it,
he brought a flat make-up kit and retouched the dye that adorned his face. He
also produced a silver-mounted revolver that he had gained in exchange for an
automatic. It was the sort of weapon that went with his new attire.
     Strolling to the stairs, The Shadow watched the clerk counting money. When
the fellow turned to put the cash in a strong box, The Shadow strolled out
through the door. The clerk looked up just in time to see The Shadow's
departure. He thought that the well-dressed Mexican was someone who had stepped
in from the street, and then decided to go out again.


     THE streets of Ensenada had livened. Dusk was approaching; automobiles
were arriving from the North. Storekeepers were preparing their shops for the
benefit of Americanos, who were apt to spend many pesos. All around were
eager-eyed Mexicans, ready to steer visitors to restaurants and casinos where
the night life flourished.
     They paid no attention to The Shadow. They took him for a Mexican, and
they were looking for Americans. But among those watchers, The Shadow knew,
were some who were looking for one specific Americano. They were hoping to see
a hawk-faced stranger who answered the description of Lamont Cranston.
     Agents of Quetzal were due for disappointment. The Shadow had reversed the
tables. He was spotting them, one by one. Entering a tobacco shop, he bought a
packet of cigaros. Pocketing a handful of copper change, he placed a thin cigar
between his lips and politely nudged a staring Mexican away from the cigar
lighter at the window.
     The fellow moved aside; kept up his ceaseless stare toward the street. He
was looking for The Shadow, that lounger, not knowing that the personage he
sought was at that moment lighting a cigaro at his elbow.
     Leaving the tobacco shop, The Shadow came to a small restaurant that bore
the sign: "Cafe Federal." Inside were Mexicans sipping mescal and tequila. A
fat-faced proprietor was at the door, as though advertising the fact that
dinners were already being served.
     As The Shadow paused for a few last puffs at his cigaro, a solemn-faced
Indian staggered up to the cafe, weighted by a huge burden of blankets. He
dropped the load beside the doorway and began to spread the blankets, gazing
askance at the cafe proprietor. The fat-faced Mexican laughed.
     "Very well, Moyo," he said, in Spanish. "You may sell the blankets here.
But you must tell the Americanos that they should try the Cafe Federal."
     Moyo nodded solemnly, and kept on preparing his display of blankets. Two
Americans arrived; they shook their heads as Moyo held up a blanket. The Indian
gestured toward the cafe; the Americans paused, then decided to go in there. The
fat proprietor beamed toward Moyo and followed the customers, to show them to a
table in the cafe.
     Moyo saw The Shadow; held up a blanket in hope that he might sell it to
the well-dressed Mexican. The Shadow took the blanket; then returned it.
Stooping toward the Indian, he spoke in low-toned Spanish:
     "I am Senor Rembole."
     Moyo's dull eyes sparkled. The Indian mumbled the question:
     "You wish a blanket, senor?"
     "Si," returned The Shadow. "One with a red border."
     "I have one." Moyo reached among the blankets. "The price is twenty-five
pesos."
     The Shadow shook his head as Moyo produced the blanket. He took the corner
of the blanket from the Indian's hand, and remarked:
     "It is worth no more than twenty."
     Moyo's eyes gleamed again. The Indian pressed his hand against The
Shadow's. Beneath the corner of the blanket, The Shadow's fingers received a
tiny wad of paper. With a last glance, The Shadow tossed the blanket to Moyo;
turning away, he entered the Cafe Federal.


     AT a table near the window, The Shadow opened the message with one hand,
holding a printed menu, he glanced at the paper in his palm. He read these
words, in English:

                     Casino Del Toro. Room E. Nine o'clock.
                                                       R.

     As The Shadow's glance was lowered, a coupe rolled along the street
outside. Seated by the Mexican driver was a Spanish woman of marked beauty. Her
blackish eyes and hair formed a marked contrast to her olive tinted skin. Hers
was a face so striking that it could not well be forgotten.
     Oddly, the woman could remember faces that she had seen before, as well as
others could recollect her. Like men who strolled the streets of Ensenada, she
was looking for a masklike countenance that went with Lamont Cranston. She saw
The Shadow seated in the window of the cafe; but, on this occasion, her memory
went amiss. Despite the keenness of her gaze, the Spanish woman failed to
pierce The Shadow's present disguise.
     It was unfortunate that Moyo had never seen the woman before. Otherwise,
he might have had a message of his own for The Shadow. As it happened, the
Indian was busy with his blankets. He did not even notice the coupe as it
rolled past.
     Nor did The Shadow. As he pocketed the crumpled message, he looked out to
the street, just too late to see the car that carried the observant passenger.
A waiter approached; The Shadow ordered dinner. He intended to bide his time at
the Cafe Federal until the hour of nine.
     Had The Shadow spied the woman in the car, his plans would have undergone
immediate change. Of all persons who might be in Ensenada, that woman could
prove to be most dangerous. Her present destination had much to do with The
Shadow's cause. If he had seen Dolores Borenza, he would have left the Cafe
Federal and taken up her trail.
     More than that, The Shadow would have sent a warning through Moyo, to
reach the messenger-sender who had signed himself "R." The Shadow would never
have let hours drift, had he known that Dolores Borenza was in Ensenada.
     So far, The Shadow had defeated the thrusts of the superplotter called
Quetzal. At this hour, The Shadow's mission seemed on the verge of success.
That was no longer a certainty.
     Greater menace was to confront The Shadow, thanks to Dolores Borenza.


     CHAPTER VI

     SYMBOLS OF THE SERPENT

     SOON after the coupe had passed the Cafe Federal, it swung from the narrow
streets of Ensenada and followed a road that led to a high-walled quadrangle
just outside the town. That wall marked the presidio of Ensenada;
khaki-uniformed soldiers were on guard outside the military reservation.
     The driver of the coupe announced that he had business with the
commandant. The car was allowed to pass through the gate. It rolled past a
squatly building that served as the military prison, where ugly faces leered
through barred windows. Farther on, the car arrived at the commandant's
headquarters.
     The driver alighted long enough to speak to a sentry. When the soldier
took the message indoors, the man stepped back into the coupe. Dolores Borenza
opened the door on her side of the car, preparing to step out as soon as the
sentry returned.
     In the commandant's office, a tall, lean officer was seated at a desk. He
wore the uniform of a Mexican colonel; and he was busy opening a long envelope
that was addressed to Colonel Pedro Laplata, commandant at Ensenada.
     Anticipation showed on the tawny, withered countenance of Colonel Laplata.
His leatherish lips framed a smile, as his avaricious fingers drew a bundle of
American currency from the envelope.
     There were one thousand dollars in the bundle. The commandant spread the
bills to count them; but stopped abruptly when he heard the sentry's rap at the
door. Thrusting the money into a desk drawer, the colonel barked a command to
enter.
     The sentry stepped in with the news that a senorita named Dolores Borenza
had requested an interview with Colonel Laplata. The commandant ordered the
sentry to usher in the visitor.
     Colonel Laplata was pacing the space in front of his desk when Dolores
arrived. His dryish forehead furrowed when he met the visitor. Dolores Borenza
was clad in black, a hue that added to her charm. Her attire, though, gave her
an insidious appearance that troubled the commandant.
     "You wished to see me," remarked the colonel, cautiously. "May I inquire
why, senorita?"
     Dolores smiled, as she seated herself near the colonel's desk. Without a
word, she opened a silver cigarette case and extracted a silk-tipped cigarette.
She turned the interior of the case so that the inner lid was toward the
commandant. There, the colonel saw an engraved device: the plumed serpent that
represented Quetzal.
     The commandant stood rigid, as Dolores snapped the cigarette case shut.
The click roused him. He faced the inquiring glint of the woman's eyes. Turning
about, the commandant stepped past his desk, to a small shelf that formed a
niche in the wall. On that shelf was a crude vase, a relic of Aztec pottery.
The colonel turned the vase so that the back half came in view.
     Emblazoned upon the Aztec vase was the plumed head of Quetzal. The
commandant turned toward Dolores. His visitor displayed a wise smile.
     "What do you wish?" inquired the commandant, his tone a strained one. "I
have done all that Quetzal has asked, in repayment for the funds that I
receive. My soldiers have arrested none of those who serve Quetzal."
     "They must do more," declared Dolores. "Quetzal has a new demand, senor
commandant."


     THE colonel sat down at his desk. He viewed Dolores steadily. He saw her
as one who was in the close confidence of the mysterious Quetzal.
     "The ways of Quetzal baffle me," admitted the colonel. "For months, he has
been interested in the irrigation project at the mouth of the Colorado River.
But that is leagues from here - across the Sierras, on the Gulf of California.
     "True, there are Americanos there - engineers employed by some huge
company. Perhaps Quetzal does not like the gringos; but why should he send
spies to the Colorado delta? Why should those spies come here? What does it
mean to some foreign government, the one with whom Quetzal has negotiated?"
     Dolores wore a sphinx-like smile, that offered no promise of an answer.
When she spoke, however, she produced the explanation that the commandant
wanted. Her words brought amazement to Colonel Laplata's tawny face.
     "The project at the mouth of the Colorado," declared Dolores, "is not one
of irrigation. It concerns the establishment of a huge military base, for ships
and for planes. The corporation that has supplied the funds is the government of
the United States!"
     "Impossible!" exclaimed the commandant. "The mouth of the Colorado is in
Mexican territory!"
     "Quite true," agreed Dolores. "The operations are the result of a secret
treaty between Mexico and the United States. That is why they have adopted the
irrigation camouflage. The actual men in charge are military engineers from
Washington."
     Colonel Laplata tilted back in his chair. He spread his lips in a smile.
He chortled, as he brought the money from the desk drawer. He thwacked the
bills between his hands.
     "I have worried because of this!" he exclaimed. "I have thought perhaps I
made a mistake to take gringo money from Quetzal. Bah! My worries were foolish!
     "I detest the gringos" - the commandant was glaring as he spoke. "I must
protect the Americanos who come to Ensenada, because it is my duty; and they
have a consul here. You understand that, senorita -"
     "Of course. That is why Quetzal chose you. He knew you would be pleased
when you learned that your efforts would make trouble for the American
government."


     THE commandant seemed more pleased than ever. He nestled his chin in his
hand and gazed from the window, toward the mountains, as if visualizing the
mouth of the Colorado River, miles beyond.
     "It is very plain," declared the commandant. "The gringos fear for their
Pacific coast. They must extend their line of defense. Perhaps they would like
this whole territory of Baja California to be theirs; but they would never dare
to ask for it.
     "Never, for they have robbed Mexico much in the past. So, instead, they
seek a treaty; and they gain it. They are allowed to spend their millions of
dollars, establishing a base. They promise to defend Mexico in return; but it
is their own skins that they wish to protect. Irrigation? Of course, they will
give that, too. They must cover their military operations.
     "One man has learned all that." Colonel Laplata's eyes showed admiration.
"Quetzal, he calls himself. He has sent spies to the Colorado delta. They have
come here, to Ensenada, where all is safe. The information will be gathered by
Quetzal, delivered to the government that expects it. Ah, it is good, senorita.
All very good!"
     The commandant's enthusiasm was exceeding the hopes of Dolores Borenza.
The time had come for her to deliver new orders from Quetzal. Dolores showed
wisdom in her method.
     "All was well," she told the commandant, "until the Americanos learned of
Quetzal. They sent their own spies to Ensenada."
     "Ah!" exclaimed the colonel. "That is why the men of Quetzal were so busy
here."
     "Yes. It became death for any gringo to visit Ensenada in the service of
his government. Only one has stayed here; one whom we could not find. He
belongs to the American secret service. His name is James Rikeland."
     Dolores paused. She saw that the commandant was fuming inwardly, as though
he would have liked the news before.
     "We have found James Rikeland," added Dolores. "Tonight, he will die,
before he can speak the facts that he has learned."
     A smile gleamed from the commandant's face. Colonel Laplata approved of
the prospective murder. Suddenly, his expression changed. Angrily, he snapped:
     "You say Rikeland will die before he speaks? If he is here alone, who can
hear him speak?"
     "The Shadow," returned Dolores. "El Ombre is here in Ensenada!"


     COLONEL LAPLATA stiffened in his chair. He had heard of The Shadow. His
tawny face showed dismay, as he watched Dolores draw a folded paper from a
pocket of her dress. Calmly, the senorita spoke:
     "The Shadow was summoned to Washington. He was sent to contact Rikeland. I
learned of it. I started for Ensenada before The Shadow left Washington. Word
reached Quetzal. The Shadow's plane was destroyed."
     Pleasure showed on Laplata's leathery lips. It faded when Dolores added:
     "The Shadow escaped alive, with the pilot. They reached a hacienda owned
by an Americano named Latimer Creeth. The Shadow rode by horse for Ensenada.
The pilot has gone to Mexico City; no harm will be done him, for he knows
nothing.
     "Death was planned for The Shadow in the mountains. He escaped it. By this
time, he is in Ensenada. Every Americano has been watched. We are sure that not
one can be The Shadow."
     Colonel Laplata sat puzzled. Suddenly, an idea struck him. He recalled
what he had heard of The Shadow's ability at disguise. He exclaimed:
     "El Ombre! Un Mexicano!"
     Dolores Borenza nodded.
     "If The Shadow has adopted such disguise," she declared, "there will be no
complications, senor commandant. Once captured, he will become a prisoner, here
at your presidio."
     The possibility pleased the commandant immensely. He displayed enthusiasm;
then curbed it.
     "Buenos," he declared. "But I shall be careful, senorita. All will be done
in good military fashion."
     "That is the way Quetzal would prefer it."
     Dolores arose. The colonel came up from the desk, turned about to twist
the vase so that its serpent emblem faced the wall. He accompanied Dolores out
to the car. Dusk had settled over the presidio; the lights of Ensenada were
twinkling off beyond the high wall.
     "One question, senorita," remarked the commandant in a low tone, as they
neared the coupe. "You have seen Quetzal?"
     Dolores paused to shake her head.
     "Who has seen Quetzal?" she returned. "No one. Not, at least, to know him.
I might be Quetzal; so might you, senor commandant; but neither of us are.
     "Today, word reached me from Quetzal. I do not know from where he sent it.
I learned the facts that I have told to you. I learned this also" - the woman's
tone had lowered to a whisper. "Quetzal will be in Ensenada tonight."
     "To deal with Rikeland?"
     "Yes. And perhaps to meet The Shadow, afterward. Your assistance, senor
commandant, may not be necessary."
     Dolores entered the car. Colonel Laplata watched the coupe drive from the
presidio. When it had gone, the commandant returned to his office. He counted
his new money; added it to a larger hoard of currency in a metal box at the
bottom of the lowest desk drawer. He gloated, as he viewed the funds that he
had received from Quetzal. That sort of money pleased the commandant.
     Coolly, the colonel began to prepare the orders for the night. Soldiers
would be plentiful in Ensenada this evening; soldiers who wore Mexican uniforms
and were loyal to their government, but who took instructions from Colonel
Laplata.
     As such, the full military force at the presidio would become the
unwitting tools of Quetzal. The master-spy who used the serpent emblem had
chosen well, when he had added Colonel Pedro Laplata to his pay roll.
     The Shadow, should he escape the toils of Quetzal, would find himself
opposed by overwhelming odds, represented by an entire Mexican regiment.
     The capture of The Shadow seemed a certainty to Colonel Laplata; and such
capture would produce a definite sequel:
     Death to The Shadow!


     CHAPTER VII

     AT THE CASINO DEL TORO

     IT was nearly nine o'clock when The Shadow left the Cafe Federal. Beneath
the outer balcony, he saw Moyo, still peddling his blankets. The stout-faced
Indian did not even glance at the supposed Mexican to whom he had given
Rikeland's message.
     Sauntering amid the street throngs, The Shadow summed the facts that he
had been told concerning Rikeland. The man had lived in Mexico for years; he
had served as special contact between the Mexican government and Washington,
chiefly to aid in the maintenance of the arms embargo that prevented
revolutions.
     Spies had been reported at the Colorado delta. They had been linked with
Ensenada. Rikeland had gone to Ensenada immediately, from Mexico City. That was
why he had passed unsuspected by the agents of Quetzal. Unfortunately, Rikeland
could not leave Ensenada; and those who had tried to reach him had failed.
     The task had become The Shadow's. Here in Ensenada, he had found the one
aid whom Rikeland trusted: Moyo, the Indian blanket-seller. The message passed
by Moyo was emphatic proof that Rikeland still believed himself safe.
     Was Rikeland safe?
     The Shadow had asked himself that question often during the past few
hours. The answer was uncertain; but the fact that Rikeland had survived so
long in Ensenada put the odds in the government agent's favor. Nevertheless,
The Shadow kept a keen lookout for any factors that might prove otherwise.
Oddly, the evidences that The Shadow saw pointed definitely to Rikeland's
advantage.
     Quetzal's agents were as numerous as before, apparently looking for an
American who answered the description of Lamont Cranston. Since they were on
the streets in numbers, it was obvious that they would be few at the Casino Del
Toro. The other factor that The Shadow noted was the prevalence of soldiers in
uniform.
     The Shadow had received no information regarding any tie-up between
Quetzal's men and the military. News of such a league would certainly have
reached Mexico City, to be forwarded to Washington. Furthermore, the Mexican
government would have applied quick clamps of its own.
     In fact, the presence of the soldiers looked like a handicap for Quetzal's
agents. The Shadow noticed loungers shift whenever uniformed men neared them.
The mistrust was not faked; that was why it actually deceived The Shadow.
Quetzal was managing a clever game tonight. Neither his own men nor the
soldiers knew that they had a common cause.
     Quetzal's men were looking for an American. The soldiers had orders to
bring in any Mexican who started trouble. Those separate aims promised trouble
for The Shadow. In the meantime, the soldiers were suspiciously watching the
very men who were to become their allies later.


     THE SHADOW reached the Casino Del Toro. It was a pretentious place,
compared with others in Ensenada. The front formed a sidewalk cafe; beyond the
tables was a dance floor, with a small orchestra in the background. Tables
lined the side walls; The Shadow saw booths that were scarcely noticeable
beneath the modulated light.
     Passing among the nearer tables, The Shadow reached the innermost portion
of the sidewalk cafe. He ordered a bottle of wine; while the waiter was
bringing it, he watched a dance begin. The couples who came from the tables
included a fair proportion of Mexicans; but Americans were in the majority.
     The main room was a high one; for its three inner walls were flanked by a
balcony, with stairways at each rear corner. The Shadow saw doors open along
the balcony. Diners who had engaged private rooms were coming down to the dance
floor.
     Counting along the left wall, The Shadow saw one door that did not open.
It was the fifth in the row, the door that would logically designate Room E.
     The waiter brought the bottle of wine. The Shadow filled a glass, lifted
it, and paused to look across the dance floor. His dyed face displayed a sudden
smile; apparently, he had recognized a friend in a party at a far table. Putting
down the glass, The Shadow left his table and went around the dance floor. All
the while, his smile increased.
     Any one who happened to notice him supposed that he was some Mexican who
had recognized old friends. The Shadow seemed quite anxious to reach his
comrades; but he ran into obstacles. Tables blocked his path; so did waiters.
Before he reached the corner table, its occupants had risen and were stepping
toward the dance floor.
     The Shadow paused; with a shrug of his shoulders, he decided to wait at
the corner table until the dance was finished. He sat down and lighted one of
his long cigaros. Through half-closed eyelids, he made sure that he had
attracted no attention.
     The dance ended, patrons began to crowd back toward the tables. Hidden
from conspicuous view, The Shadow arose and strolled toward the near-by
staircase. He followed several persons who were going up to one of the private
dining rooms.
     They passed the door on which The Shadow saw the letter "E," plain at this
close range. As the others went into different rooms, The Shadow kept on past
them until he reached Room A, which, like Room E, was unoccupied. The Shadow
remained there until the music began anew.
     The music of the next dance was the sort that proved irresistible to the
upstairs diners. The orchestra was playing "La Cucaracha"; the notes of the
ever-popular tune brought a round of applause from the crowd. Doors opened
along the balcony. Every one was starting down to the dance floor.
     The Shadow followed the throng until he reached the door of Room E. There,
he paused; he eased the door inward and stepped into darkness. A moment later,
the door eased shut behind him.


     IN the darkness, The Shadow spoke two names, using a low-toned Spanish
accent. They were the only countersign he needed. One, the name of the man whom
he had come to meet; the other, the name which he himself was using:
     "Rikeland - Rembole -"
     With his right hand on the handle of his silver-mounted revolver, The
Shadow pressed the light switch with his left. He had located the switch
instantly, thanks to his inspection of a similar room along the balcony. Lights
glimmered from a ceiling chandelier. The Shadow studied the interior of a
seemingly deserted room.
     His right fingers tightened; the revolver came into view. Nine o'clock had
passed; Rikeland's absence signified that something had gone wrong. The Shadow
had counted upon Rikeland being present earlier than the exact hour named in
the message.
     At first glance, the room appeared undisturbed. Like Room A, it was simply
furnished, with a round dining table and chairs in the center. The wall at the
right had a long mirror; that at the left, a curtained doorway that connected
with the next dining room. In this respect, Room E was the reverse of Room A,
which had the connecting door at the right.
     The Shadow shifted toward the left. The move gave him a view beyond the
table. There, The Shadow saw the projecting elbow of a huddled body. He stepped
past the table, looked down upon an upturned face. He saw the drawn features of
a blunt-faced man, whose head was partially bald.
     The victim answered The Shadow's description of James Rikeland.


     THE slain man was clad in tuxedo; his white shirt front was gory. A
knife-thrust to the heart had finished Rikeland. A hanging corner of the
tablecloth showed crimson streaks where a murderer had calmly wiped blood from
the knife-blade.
     Rikeland's fists were clenched, as though ready for battle that he had
never been able to give. From one projected a torn slip of paper. Stooping, The
Shadow drew it from the dead man's grasp. Spreading the paper in his left hand,
he arose, moved nearer the table and raised the slip to read it in the light.
     There were penciled words, in Rikeland's handwriting. They matched the
message that The Shadow had received earlier. That message had conformed to
specimens of Rikeland's handwriting that The Shadow had been shown in
Washington.
     The strip of paper was a slender one. It had been torn from the right edge
of a single sheet. The murderer had taken the bulk of the message. Not even a
complete word remained on the portion that The Shadow had found. The fragment
showed these parts of words:

                                       zal.
                                      ana
                                      eign
                                      gnal
                                       able
                                       no.

     The letters were carefully written, as had been the case with Rikeland's
previous message. The inference was obvious. Rikeland had prepared a brief
report for The Shadow, in case he found it impossible to make more than passing
contact.
     Much though he trusted Moyo, he had been unwilling to send his information
by the Indian, for Moyo might have made some mistake. Rikeland had intended at
least to see The Shadow, before giving him this important word.
     It was not probable that Rikeland's murderer had been in too great haste
to take the remaining piece of the torn message. The cold-blooded kill was
proof that the assassin was a man of iron nerve. That, and the importance of
the murder, indicated that Quetzal himself had done the deed.
     There were other reasons why a murderer like Quetzal would have left the
torn paper in Rikeland's fist. Perhaps because the narrow fragment seemed a
worthless clue; possibly as a grim jest for the benefit of the person who found
the body.
     Neither of these were sufficient for The Shadow. They did not go deep
enough. There was a greater, more insidious, reason why The Shadow had
discovered the remains of Rikeland's message. The purpose was already realized.
Quetzal expected The Shadow to come here. He had left the clue to attract The
Shadow's attention; to hold him on the scene of crime.
     The Shadow had suspected that, the moment he took the paper from
Rikeland's fist. That was why he raised the paper to the light. At the Cafe
Federal, The Shadow had given full attention to a message, because danger had
been absent there.
     Here, the case was different. By holding the paper almost to the level of
his eyes, The Shadow was able to look beyond it. His slight sidestep toward the
light gave another advantage that he wanted.
     Across the room, The Shadow could see the wall mirror. It gave him a
reflected view of the curtained doorway that was no more than five feet behind
his right shoulder. The Shadow was watching for a motion there. He saw the
slight rustle that he expected.
     There was an upward creep beneath the curtain. It went too high to be a
leveling gun. The motion signified a hidden knife, raised in a murderer's hand.
Behind that curtain, Quetzal was preparing for a forward drive, its finish the
downward sweep of a knife-thrust, with The Shadow's neck the target.


     RIKELAND'S body had been placed at a perfect spot for the murderer to
strike. Quetzal had expected The Shadow to remain there while he studied the
slip of paper. The Shadow had balked that plan; but he was still within the
murderer's range. He had, however, gained two advantages that the killer did
not suspect.
     The Shadow knew that Quetzal intended to use a knife instead of a gun. He
could also see the reflected motions of the curtain that concealed the murderer.
     Music was loud from the dance floor below. The orchestra was repeating the
chorus of "La Cucaracha"; voices were shouting the words of the song. There was
time to deal with the murderer behind the curtain, before persons came up to
the balcony. The Shadow decided to speed Quetzal's move.
     With his left hand, he tucked the torn paper slip into his pocket. He
placed his revolver beneath his coat. His right foot moved, as though starting
its first step toward the door. Instantly, a knife-blade glimmered its
reflection from the mirror. Curtains were parting at the top. The murderer was
starting his drive with a long swing of the arm.
     The move that The Shadow performed was a backward drop, that carried him
below the level of the mirror. He lost all sight of the reflected curtain.
Instead of that view, he received the drive of the killer's body.
     The stabbing hand sped across The Shadow's shoulder. Speeding upward, The
Shadow's fists clamped the assassin's throat. A gurgled snarl sounded from lips
that The Shadow did not see. The blade dropped from Quetzal's hand, as the
halted murderer tried to grapple in return.
     Crouched, The Shadow heaved upward. He was ready to release that hold.
When he did, his opponent would hurtle headlong under the impetus that The
Shadow's arms could give. A skull cracking crash against the wall would end a
murderer's attempt at fight.
     Toying with his writhing antagonist, The Shadow swung around to head
Quetzal toward the wall beside the curtain.
     The twist carried The Shadow's gaze toward the outer doorway. Timed to his
swing, the door bashed inward. On the threshold stood a glaring Mexican. The
fellow's fist was at his hip, leveling a revolver. Chance had brought one of
Quetzal's men here to witness the conquest of his chief.


     WHILE the door still swung inward, The Shadow lunged. Like a human
catapult, he propelled his burden straight for the aiming Mexican. The figure
of Quetzal formed a whirling mass, as it struck the man in the doorway. Both
figures sprawled across the balcony and crashed hard against the wooden rail
above the dance floor.
     There were shouts from the stairs. Others of Quetzal's men had followed
the first-comer from the floor below.
     The Shadow did not wait to view Quetzal's slow rise from the balcony rail.
The killer was on hands and knees, groggy, his face turned toward the floor; but
the Mexican with the revolver was swinging to aim toward The Shadow.
     Slamming the door, The Shadow cut off the attack. He snapped the light
switch; sprang for the curtain where Quetzal had so lately hidden. Beyond the
curtain, The Shadow found the connecting door. It yielded when he turned the
knob. The Shadow had expected that door to open. He knew that Quetzal had
intended to exit that way.
     What The Shadow did not expect was the greeting that he received. He had
seen diners leave this room - the one marked "D" - to join the dance on the
floor below. Room D, therefore, should have been empty. Instead, it was
occupied. Two men stood on either side of the closed outer door, each with a
leveled revolver. One was a grinning Mexican; the other a hard-faced American.
     Agents of Quetzal, both. Sentinels whom the master-plotter had placed here
to guard his retreat. The Shadow, his gun but half drawn, was blocked by these
watchers who had not moved from their posts.
     A clatter from the next room told that new attackers were arriving there.
The Shadow's chance for retreat was ended. Where a lone murderer had failed, a
score of killers were ready to sound The Shadow's doom.


     CHAPTER VIII

     DEATH POSTPONED

     IN the crisis that so suddenly confronted him, The Shadow seized the only
course that promised life. Battle, alone, could save him from the horde of
Quetzal.
     The situation called for a drive past the two guards who blocked the door
of this tawdry dining room; yet blind attack would bring certain death to The
Shadow. That knowledge flashed instantly to his brain; and with it, The Shadow
instinctively found an answer to the dilemma.
     He had swung the connecting door toward the two men who blocked the
outlet. His left hand was on the knob; his right was drawing the revolver.
Instead of driving toward the two men in the light, The Shadow swung back into
the darkened room that he had just left, pulling the door shut with him.
     As he performed the sudden retreat, The Shadow saw the two men spring
toward him. Their revolvers blasted toward the closing door. The bullets were
belated, by less than a half second; but that was sufficient for The Shadow.
     Wheeling clear about, The Shadow still gripped the knob of the connecting
door with his left hand. To his right was the outer door of the darkened room;
through it were plunging Quetzal's main force of desperadoes. They were aiming
for the curtain of the connecting door. Before the first-comers could fire, The
Shadow's revolver spoke.
     Shafts of flame stabbed from the curtain; three quick shots that were
fired with precision. Oncoming attackers floundered; those behind them dived
for the darkness all about the room. Of a half dozen, The Shadow had floored a
pair; but the others, scattering, ended The Shadow's advantage. When those
spreading marksmen aimed, the curtain would be their target. With only three
bullets left, The Shadow's revolver was useless against four foemen.
     Nevertheless, The Shadow had reserved those cartridges for a definite
purpose.
     Already, he could feel tugs at the connecting door. The two men in the
next room were trying to yank the barrier open, that they might join the fray.
The Shadow had not forgotten them. This reminder was to his liking.
     Twisting about, The Shadow drove his full weight against the door, bashed
it inward to the next room. As he plunged, he heard a snarled shout from the
darkened room that he was leaving. It told that Quetzal had leaped in from the
balcony.
     Shots rang; bullets burned the curtains behind The Shadow's back. Quetzal
was using a gun instead of a knife; but again his thrusts were failures.


     THE SHADOW was already through the connecting door; and his hard stroke
against the barrier had served him well. Driving the door inward, The Shadow
had bowled over the man who had been tugging at the knob.
     Sprawling on the floor, his revolver gone from his hand, was the
hard-faced American. His hands were going to his forehead, which had received
the hard swing of the door.
     The leering Mexican was still on his feet, dropping back to aim for The
Shadow. He never fired. The Shadow jabbed a straight shot for his chest. The
Mexican collapsed. By eliminating one enemy with the door as a bludgeon, The
Shadow had managed to handle the other with a gunshot.
     Wheeling across the room, The Shadow fired his last two shots back toward
the curtain. One of Quetzal's men plunged through and sprawled beside the
groaning American. Another face showed at the curtains; with it, the muzzle of
a revolver. The Shadow flung his emptied weapon straight for the fellow's eyes.
The foeman ducked away. His departure gave The Shadow leeway for new action.
     Snatching up the gun that the half-stunned American had dropped, The
Shadow sprang out through the doorway to the balcony. He came head-on against
two attackers, who had heard the shots from the lighted room.
     The Shadow sledged the first with a revolver-stroke to the skull. As his
gun stopped at head level, he fired before the second man could shoot. His shot
clipped the man's gun arm. The aiming revolver sank, unfired.
     At that moment, there seemed a strange lull amid the fray. The Shadow was
at the balcony rail; the stairs were scarcely a dozen feet away. Yet it would
be suicide to use those stairs. Quetzal and half a dozen followers would pour
from the tiny dining rooms, to form a firing squad along the balcony.
     The music had stopped below. Dancers were flocking for the shelter of the
booths beneath the low balcony. The Mexican orchestra was scrambling for
shelter. Across the dance floor lay the one path to safety: the open front
along the sidewalk. Patrons of the sidewalk cafe had hurried for the street. No
one had remained to block The Shadow's possible escape.


     WITH one hand, The Shadow vaulted the balcony rail. His body seemed to
poise, turn slowly as it straightened downward. The drop that he took did not
land The Shadow on the floor. Instead, he ended squarely atop a table just
below the balcony edge.
     His left hand steadied against the table top, as his body doubled to
absorb the force of the drop. Regaining his balance instantly, The Shadow took
a long bound toward the dance floor.
     The frightened customers were treated to a display of one-man strategy.
The Shadow did not dash for the sidewalk. He sidestepped in that direction,
moving rapidly in leftward fashion. His right hand was aiming back for the
balcony, the revolver shifting from one door to the other. Every time a glaring
face poked into view, The Shadow covered.
     Shots were unnecessary. Heads bobbed back at sight of the aiming gun.
Quetzal must have snarled commands from the darkness, for two men suddenly
sprang forth, one from each door.
     The Shadow fired from the edge of the sidewalk cafe. The first of the two
Mexicans bounded in the air, sprawled across the balcony rail and hung there,
his gun arm dangling downward while his glassy eyes surveyed the dance floor.
     The other man dived back for the safety of a dining room. The shots that
he fired as he fled were hopelessly wide.
     The Shadow stood waiting, in case the fellow reappeared. No move occurred.
Quetzal's men had taken all the lead dosage that they could stomach.
     Ready to turn toward the street, The Shadow tightened. He heard shouts
behind him; the clatter of men approaching on the run. He was tense for only a
moment, then a smile appeared upon his disguised lips. The shout of a brisk
command told him who these arrivals were.
     A squad of Mexican soldiers had heard the sounds of battle at the Casino
Del Toro.
     Keeping his gun aimed calmly toward the balcony, The Shadow waited. A pair
of soldiers saw him; sprang upon him and bore him to the floor between two
tables. They wrenched his revolver from his fist. The Shadow let them take it.
He knew that Quetzal's men would not fire while he was in the clutch of Mexican
troops.


     TWENTY soldiers had arrived; the platoon was under the command of a frail,
sharp-eyed lieutenant. Seeing that The Shadow was captured, the officer looked
up toward the balcony and ordered his men to cover the spot with their rifles.
Briskly, the lieutenant shouted for hidden men to surrender.
     Slowly, Quetzal's followers filed from the tiny dining rooms, their hands
raised above their sullen faces. The Shadow watched them, as he stood pinned
between two soldiers. He studied every face. Most of the men were rough-looking
Mexicans; there were a few Americans among them, but the latter were obviously
renegades - riffraff who would serve any master who paid them.
     Not one of the surrendering crew could be Quetzal.
     Oddly, The Shadow had not gained a single glimpse of Quetzal's face.
First, the murderer had been behind the curtains; then he had sprawled beside
the balcony rail. Last of all, Quetzal had returned to the darkened room.
     Nevertheless, The Shadow knew that Quetzal could be none of these. The
master-foe had chosen departure. His task had been an easy one. While his men
were filing forth, Quetzal had left by a window of the darkened upstairs dining
room, dropping to the seclusion of an outside alleyway.
     The trick was a smart one; for the steady surrender of Quetzal's men made
the lieutenant suppose that none had chosen flight. He ordered soldiers to line
up the prisoners; then sent other members of his platoon up to the balcony.
     Scanning the rough-clad prisoners, the young lieutenant passed them with a
contemptuous glance. He turned toward The Shadow; recognized him as a man of
some importance. With a bow, the officer announced:
     "I am Lieutenant Coroza. Your name, senor?"
     "Jose Rembole," replied The Shadow, calmly. "From Mexico City."
     "What happened here, senor?"
     Free from the grasp of the soldiers, The Shadow gave a shrug of his
shoulders. In perfect Spanish, he told a simple story.
     "The place was crowded," he declared. "I went to the balcony, hoping to
find an empty room to dine. I went into the one marked 'E.' There I found a
dead man. Un Americano. He had been stabbed."
     A sergeant was shouting news from the balcony, telling of Rikeland's body;
and of others, who had fallen in the gun fray.
     "The murderer was there," expressed The Shadow. "He tried to stab me also.
He failed. The others came to his aid. They did not manage to kill me."


     THE other prisoners began to snarl protests. They accused The Shadow; the
lieutenant silenced them. They were rogues; their testimony could not be
accepted. The Shadow was producing credentials, to prove that he was Jose
Rembole. Lieutenant Coroza was ready to favor The Shadow's cause.
     From the booths around the dance floor, respectable looking persons had
crowded forward. Some were Mexicans; others Americans, who appeared to be
chance tourists. Cupped hands displayed tokens that bore the feathered serpent
emblem. Tools of Quetzal stepped from the throng. One spoke to Lieutenant
Coroza.
     "I saw Senor Rembole upon the balcony, alone," announced a Mexican
witness. "No one else was there, lieutenant. Perhaps it was Senor Rembole who
stabbed the Americano."
     Nods of approval from other witnesses made Coroza consider the testimony.
At last, the lieutenant shook his head.
     "That does not disprove his story," he declared. "No one saw Senor Rembole
kill any one."
     "Ah, no, lieutenant? Look!" The speaker pointed to the balcony, indicating
the thuggish Mexican who hung across the rail. "There is one that Senor Rembole
killed. We saw him fire the shot!"
     Other witnesses babbled their agreement.
     "Senor Rembole fired from the tables at the sidewalk -"
     "Point blank! Without cause!"
     "The victim was defenseless -"
     "It was murder, lieutenant mio!"
     Looking up, Coroza saw the open hands over the rail. The dead crook's gun
had dropped from his outflung arms; some agent of Quetzal's had slyly plucked
it from among the tables by the dance floor, to hide it. Circumstantial
evidence stood strong against The Shadow.
     Other witnesses could have denied that the dead Mexican had been unarmed;
but few were bold enough to give such testimony. Two who started to step
forward were drawn back by agents of Quetzal, who snarled threats in their
ears. The rest of the false witnesses crowded about Lieutenant Coroza,
asserting their demands.
     "Arrest Rembole!" The cry was in unison. "Take him to the presidio!"
     The lieutenant had no other choice. His opinion had already wavered. He
snapped a command to the soldiers. Clustering about The Shadow, the troops
marched him to the street. Coroza ordered others to bring the witnesses. The
command was unnecessary. Quetzal's tools were following the platoon of their
own accord.


     THRONGS parted on the outside street, to let the soldiers pass. Shouts of
derision were hurled at The Shadow. Mob cries demanded the blood of Senor Jose
Rembole. The Shadow remained oblivious to the shouts. As he marched along amid
the flanking soldiers, he scanned the faces in the crowd.
     The Shadow was looking for the man who might be Quetzal.
     Along the narrow streets of Ensenada, to the road that led to the
presidio; there, the rabble faded, leaving only the platoon of soldiers and the
false witnesses supplied by Quetzal. Nowhere along that march did The Shadow see
a face he recognized. His conclusion was that Quetzal had left Ensenada.
     The Shadow had not seen all the faces along the line of march. Two had
escaped him. One was that of Dolores Borenza, peering down from a balcony above
the narrow street. The olive-hued woman had withdrawn from view as the
procession approached.
     The other face was that of a man who stood in a little doorway, almost out
of view. His roundish countenance wore a downturned smile; his eyes glinted with
narrowed gaze from beneath the brim of his fancy sombrero. When the procession
had gone by, this observer stepped forward with folded arms.
     He was Sancho Maringuez. The bandit's clothes were new and gaudy. He had
dressed well for this visit to Ensenada, and was pleased with his appearance;
for he unfolded his arms to smooth away the few wrinkles in his velvet jacket.
     A scar-faced man approached Maringuez. The newcomer was Tompino; like his
chief, the lieutenant was dressed well. Maringuez spoke in purring tone, that
bore a trace of sarcasm:
     "Ah, Tompino! You have arrived too late. I have been watching the soldiers
take their prisoner to the presidio."
     "From the Casino Del Toro?"
     "Si. You have heard then, what happened?"
     Tompino grinned and nodded.
     "One grand fight," declared Maringuez, as he rolled a cigarette. "Too bad
that you were not there to see it, Tompino."
     "I was late, because of riding into Ensenada -"
     "Of course. I understand. But what does it matter? The soldiers have
captured the man who made the trouble. He is Senor Rembole, from Mexico City. A
brave young officer captured him. Lieutenant Coroza was the officer's name. It
was very bad for Senor Rembole.
     "Tomorrow, at dawn, Senor Rembole will meet the firing squad." Maringuez
was smiling wisely, as he made the prediction. "He will find out what it is
like, to stand unarmed, while others aim their guns for his heart. Ah, Tompino,
it is too bad that Poroq cannot know all this."
     The reference meant nothing to Tompino. The scar-faced lieutenant
recognized no connection between The Shadow and Senor Rembole. He was pleased
when Maringuez suggested that they dine. Tompino was hungry from his ride.
     Maringuez chose the Cafe Federal. He and Tompino paused at the doorway, to
look at Moyo's blankets. Maringuez picked up a blanket, examined its texture and
tossed it down again. The Indian's wares did not impress him with their quality.
     When Maringuez and Tompino had gone into the cafe, Moyo remained as
motionless as before. If Moyo had heard of Rikeland's death and The Shadow's
capture, his face did not betray it. Whatever his thoughts, one fact was
certain.
     The Indian still dwelt unmolested in Ensenada. Moyo, at least, had escaped
the clutch of Quetzal.


     CHAPTER IX

     AT THE PRESIDIO

     A TRIBUNAL was in session at the presidio. Colonel Pedro Laplata sat as
sole judge, eyeing the prisoner before him. Coldness showed on the commandant's
tawny face. His stony gaze was proof that this trial was a farce, its verdict
predetermined.
     The Shadow still retained the pose of Jose Rembole. He shrugged his
shoulders when he heard the testimony of some witnesses; laughed indulgently at
the words of others. All those who had been brought from the Casino Del Toro
placed the blame for battle and death upon Jose Rembole.
     Colonel Laplata was making the whole farce legal. He had summoned the
American consul, because of Rikeland's death. Laplata was emphasizing that the
prisoner - this murderer, Rembole - had been responsible for Rikeland's death.
     The consul, a frail, dreary-faced man, nodded his acceptance of the fact.
He was on his last lap of diplomatic service; he preferred to have matters
settled by the local authorities.
     The Shadow already knew that he could count on no aid from the consul. The
man was merely a temporary occupant of the post, who had happened to be on the
job in Ensenada when matters went wrong. Washington had decided not to recall
the acting consul, fearing that the appointment of a new man would throw
suspicion upon Rikeland.
     To gain the consul's aid, The Shadow would have to cast aside the role of
Jose Rembole. That could prove suicidal; and the consul - who knew nothing of
the real trouble in Ensenada - would not believe that the prisoner was an
American.
     Better help seemed likely from the mayor of Ensenada, who bore the title
of el presidente. He, too, had been summoned by Colonel Laplata; and there was
a chance that he would object to the military taking over the prisoner. In
fact, the presidente did begin an argument along that line, until Laplata
silenced him.
     "Where would you keep the prisoner?" demanded the commandant. "In your own
jail? Pouf! The people are excited. They would demolish that frail cheese-box."
     "You could supply soldiers, senor commandant -"
     "To protect your prisoner?" Laplata leaned back and guffawed. "Suppose the
riot came? What would my soldiers do? They would bring the prisoner back here to
the presidio. So why should he be sent from here at all?"
     The presidente had no answer to that question. With a spread of his hands,
he signified that the prisoner belonged to the commandant. Colonel Laplata
grinned his approval; then straightened his lips and glared toward The Shadow.
     "You may regard yourself fortunate, Senor Rembole," declared the
commandant, sneeringly. "It is better to be accorded military justice, than
suffer the wrath of a mob. I pronounce you guilty of the murder of the
Americano found stabbed at the Casino Del Toro. My sentence is death by the
firing squad, at dawn!"


     WITNESSES grinned at the verdict; both the consul and the presidente
seemed satisfied. A squad of soldiers surrounded The Shadow, to march him to
the presidio prison.
     Just before he faced about, The Shadow saw the satisfied gleam return to
the commandant's lips. Laplata had played his cards well. He had shifted the
charge from the death of a Mexican thug to that of James Rikeland. That, he was
sure, would square matters in Mexico City.
     Drumhead justice was not in good standing; but in this case, the
commandant was sure that he could explain it by stating that he had avoided
international complications through his decree.
     There was one man present who doubted the commandant's wisdom. That was
Lieutenant Coroza. The alert young officer remained after the others had gone.
Laplata eyed him squintily; then snapped:
     "Well, lieutenant? Why have you remained here?"
     "Because of the testimony," explained Coroza. "It was different, sir, than
I expected."
     "Bah! The witnesses saw Rembole commit the murder."
     "They did not see him kill Rikeland."
     "Ah, no. But they saw him shoot an unarmed man upon the balcony. What is
the difference?"
     The commandant stroked his chin, as he waited for the lieutenant's reply.
He foresaw trouble from Coroza; he was looking for a way to offset it.
     "The fight had begun," declared the lieutenant. "Men were seeking
Rembole's life. He was fighting in his own defense, when he fired that shot to
the balcony. At worst, it was a mistake. I expected a fair trial for Jose
Rembole, sir -"
     "And you consider that I gave him none?" The commandant was on his feet;
pounding the table angrily. "You accuse me, your superior, of injustice?"
     "Not for a moment, sir," insisted Coroza. "I accuse the witnesses of
changing their testimony. I have never questioned your orders, colonel. I never
shall."
     The commandant's glare lessened. His lips curled cunningly. He wanted no
trouble from Coroza. He saw a way to escape it. Clapping a broad hand on the
lieutenant's slender shoulders he spoke in a smooth tone:
     "Ah, lieutenant, you will come with me to Ensenada. You may enjoy yourself
there. You have done well tonight. True, you have never questioned my orders in
the past. I have confidence in you, and I shall prove it."


     WHEN the commandant's big car arrived in Ensenada, Lieutenant Coroza
stepped forth alone. He saluted as the car rolled away; but his military pose
lessened as the automobile rounded a corner. A tortured quiver showed on his
lips. His hands were trembling as he tried to light a cigarette.
     Stumbling as he walked along the street, he saw the lighted front of the
Cafe Federal. He almost blundered into Moyo, as he tried to find the door.
Sagging at the first table, Coroza called for a glass of tequila. He gulped the
liquor the moment it was served him, and ordered more.
     From across the cafe, Sancho Maringuez saw the lieutenant. The bandit
grinned, and nudged Tompino. Maringuez whispered the name of Coroza to his
scar-faced follower.
     "The lieutenant is no longer proud," observed Maringuez. "Maybe he does
not like what has happened at the presidio, eh, Tompino? It would not be wise
for him to talk too much."
     Tompino gripped the handle of a knife, to denote that he had a method of
enforcing silence. Maringuez shook his head in disapproval.
     "No, Tompino," he purred. "There is no need to worry about Lieutenant
Coroza. I would say that he has found a duty that he does not want. That is
good. It means that we can leave soon for Tia Juana.
     "But first, let us stroll about the streets and learn the news. As for
that knife - keep it hidden, like mine. That is always wise, Tompino."
     As he rose, Maringuez lifted the edge of his jacket to show where he
concealed his knife. Tompino shifted his own sheath out of sight. Watching
Coroza finish a second glass of tequila, Maringuez gave a little chuckle and
strolled out to the street.


     THE reason for Coroza's strange despondency would soon be known to Sancho
Maringuez. Already, the news was spreading throughout Ensenada. At that very
moment, Colonel Laplata was delivering it, with appropriate guffaws, to a most
interested listener.
     The commandant was seated with Dolores Borenza, in an upstairs room that
fronted on an outer balcony. He had given the details of The Shadow's trial; he
was coming to the sequel. His heavy laughter told that the colonel was pleased
with his own smartness.
     "That fool, Coroza!" derided the commandant. "He could cause me great
trouble, when report of the execution reaches Mexico City. There could be an
investigation. I would be asked why I had sentenced a civilian to death."
     "You are the commandant. You can explain -"
     "I could explain, until they would question Lieutenant Coroza. That was
the difficulty, tonight. I found the way to settle it. I ordered Coroza to
command the firing squad at dawn. When he has performed that duty, he will be
the one responsible for the death of Senor Rembole!"
     From his uniform coat, the commandant produced a partly printed sheet of
paper, which had unfilled spaces, including a final line for the signature.
     "An order to stay the execution," laughed Laplata. "I shall not sign it
until I hear the gunfire that will tell the death of El Ombre. Then I shall
apply my signature. Afterward, I can say that the order went to Lieutenant
Coroza, but that he ignored it. There will be a court-martial for our young
lieutenant."
     As the colonel put away the blank order, Dolores asked: "You are sure that
El Ombre cannot escape?"
     "That would be impossible, senorita," returned the commandant. "The guard
has been doubled. The presidio is alive with my soldiers."


     THE commandant retained his assurance after he returned to the presidio,
long after midnight. He inspected the prison; saw the corridor where two guards
paced. He looked into The Shadow's cell. The prisoner was asleep on a wooden
bench.
     At his own headquarters, Colonel Laplata learned that Lieutenant Coroza
had returned. Though somewhat under the influence of drink, Coroza had reached
his quarters with a reasonable amount of aid. He had left instructions to be
summoned a half hour before dawn.
     Unsuspecting the commandant's plot against him, Coroza was ready to go
through with The Shadow's execution. As commander of the firing squad, he would
have charge of the whole affair. The death of the prisoner would be placed upon
his shoulders.
     With that comforting thought, Colonel Laplata gave orders that he, too, be
aroused before dawn. The commandant intended to be wide awake, watching when the
bullets of the firing squad marked the finish of The Shadow.


     CHAPTER X

     THE SHADOW'S CHOICE

     COLONEL LAPLATA would not have remained so exuberant, had he glimpsed the
present happenings in the corridor outside The Shadow's prison cell.
     The Shadow was confined in a deserted section of the prison, so that the
special guards would have only his cell to watch. Pacing in opposite
directions, the sentries kept a perpetual procession, passing each other at
different places along the corridor. Each paused regularly to peer through the
barred door of The Shadow's cell.
     One guard saw The Shadow lying on the bench. That guard resumed his pace.
The other came from the opposite direction. He placed his face to the bars;
gave an inarticulate gurgle that his comrade did not hear. Hands had come
between the bars. They gripped the sentry's throat.
     The Shadow's thumbs gave expert pressure. The soldier was not merely
choked; he was paralyzed. He sagged to the floor; his body settled outside the
door, as The Shadow released him. The Shadow reached through to catch the
sentry's falling rifle.
     The second soldier turned at the end of the corridor. He saw his fallen
comrade. As he swung his rifle down from its shoulder position, he heard a
sibilant command in Spanish. Staring at the cell door, the astonished sentry
saw the glint of a rifle muzzle. The Shadow was covering the second sentry with
the first man's gun.
     Helplessly, the guard dropped his rifle. At The Shadow's command, he
approached with upraised hands. As the soldier came up to the door, The Shadow
reached quickly through and clutched his throat one-handed, holding the rifle
all the while with his other arm.
     Choking fingers, sight of a rifle muzzle that still loomed, were too much
for the astonished sentry. He felt the same effect that the other guard had
experienced, and he took it without protest. Wavering on his feet, the fellow
plopped slowly beside his fallen comrade.


     THE SHADOW listened intently at the cell door. Sounds had not been heard
outside. A glance at the sentries told that they would remain in their present
condition for quite a while. Carrying the first man's rifle, The Shadow stepped
to the rear of the cell and stood upon the bench. He was on a level with the
bars of a small, square window.
     Those bars were fastened into stone walls; but they had been put there
years ago. Mexican prisons invariably had poor inspection; this one was no
exception. The bars could be loosened, under proper persuasion. They were
strong enough to resist a bare-handed attack; therefore, the commandant had
considered them secure. He had not known that The Shadow would gain a suitable
implement to spring them.
     The soldier's rifle was the very sort of tool required for an attack upon
these bars. Its long steel barrel offered formidable leverage. Choosing the
proper bars, The Shadow thrust the barrel between them at an angle. He
commenced a steady, relentless pressure.
     One bar stirred slightly. A tiny fragment of stone slipped to the bench.
The Shadow rested; he knew that another sustained effort would loosen the bar
sufficiently to remove it. With a single bar gone, The Shadow could squeeze
through the space.
     The rifle barrel might suffer under this new, stronger pressure; but that
would not matter. The Shadow would still have a second weapon available. He
could reach through the cell door and fish for the gun that the second soldier
had dropped. It was less than its own length distant.
     After that, freedom. The window opened toward the presidio wall, where
trees were dim beyond a darkened space. Even without his garb of black, The
Shadow could reach that wall. If sentries spotted him, he could answer their
rifle fire. Escape seemed a surety; the balmy outside air of the jail yard
invited it.
     Still resting, The Shadow looked toward the cell door, to make sure that
the guards were still stiffened. All was well in that direction; but a slight
sound foretold danger from another source. The Shadow heard a distinct scrape,
just outside the window. Quickly, he removed the rifle from between the bars,
rested it on the seat at his feet.
     The sound indicated that the commandant had stationed a special guard
outside the cell window, ready in case The Shadow started a jail-break. The
noise scraped upward; The Shadow crouched just within the window, ready to
deliver another paralyzing treatment to a guard when the time came.
     A hand clapped softly on the ledge; peering up, The Shadow saw the muzzle
of a revolver. He knew that a face would follow; that eyes would see the
sprawled sentries at the cell door.
     Timing his move to perfection, The Shadow made a thrust.
     His lithe body snapped upward. His hands shot between the bars at the very
instant a head appeared outside. As though drawn by a magnet, The Shadow's
fingers caught the neck of the new arrival; his forearm pull brought the
fellow's face squarely against the bars.
     Ready for that paralyzing thumb pressure, The Shadow shifted his head to
one side, so that the light from the corridor would reach the victim's face and
show the results that came. The man's head had tipped forward; The Shadow nudged
it back. Instantly, his thumbs relaxed, withholding their ready energy.
     The man at the window was a friend. The Shadow was staring at the immobile
face of Moyo, the Indian.


     WHILE The Shadow had been eliminating the prison guards, Moyo was scaling
the wall of the presidio. Arriving at the cell window, the Indian had
encountered a welcome that he did nor expect. Yet there was no anger in his
expression, when The Shadow released him. The only emotion that Moyo displayed
was a trace of admiration.
     Resting his hands - one with its gun - upon the ledge, Moyo clung to his
position. He was unshaken from The Shadow's grip. Those thumbs had stopped soon
enough. The words that Moyo whispered were few; they were spoken in Spanish.
     The Shadow nodded. Clutching a bar with one hand, resting his gun on the
ledge, Moyo tugged a slip of paper from his old jacket. The Shadow held the
message into the light. A strange kindle came to his eyes. No longer was his
gaze the feigned one of Jose Rembole. His were the eyes of The Shadow.
     Calmly, The Shadow spoke to Moyo; his instructions were the sort that Moyo
expected, for the Indian had spied the prone guards at the cell door. The Shadow
stepped down from the bench, took the rifle and pushed it out beside the guard
to whom it belonged. Returning to the bench, The Shadow stretched there.
     Minutes passed. The Shadow was watching the guards. So was Moyo, from the
window. The Indian's eyes were just above the ledge; his revolver was in
readiness. Moyo was on his toes, upon the higher ground outside the wall.
     A sentry stirred. The man came to hands and knees; saw his rifle and
picked it up. Groggily, he raised himself by the bars of the door. He squinted
toward The Shadow's bench, raised his rifle as though to aim.
     Moyo, at that moment, had his finger on the revolver trigger; but the
Indian found no need to fire. The guard thought matters over.
     Instead of aiming for The Shadow, who seemed placidly asleep, the guard
stooped and shook the other soldier. The second sentry came to, found his feet
as stupidly as the first. The two held a whispered confab outside the cell.
Their decision was the one that The Shadow expected.
     Each recalled his experience hazily. They knew that the prisoner had
tricked them. Apparently, however, he had gained nothing by his move. He had no
key to the cell door, for the sentries did not carry them. The window was
barred; and had evidently blocked him.
     Why should they discredit themselves by carrying this fanciful tale
outside? They would be accused of having drunk too much mescal. They would be
disciplined. Since the prisoner had accomplished nothing, why not resume their
sentry duty; and see to it that he attempted nothing more?
     Thus did they reason, and so they agreed. They resumed their pacing along
the corridor.


     HALF rising from the bench, The Shadow flipped the crumpled message
through the bars of the window. Moyo plucked the wadded paper from the ground
outside.
     Soft footsteps; the creak of a tree beside the wall - those sounds told
The Shadow that Moyo had left by the route that The Shadow himself had intended
to take. Satisfied that the guards would attempt no harm to the prisoner, Moyo
had departed in accordance with The Shadow's orders.
     The Indian had served James Rikeland in the past. His master was dead;
Moyo's present allegiance belonged to The Shadow. In coming to the presidio,
Moyo had brought word of hope.
     The Shadow had not needed the Indian's aid. His own escape had been but a
matter of minutes, at the time when Moyo had arrived. However, Moyo's message
had offered something better than mere escape. It had suggested a plan that
might help greatly in balking the future schemes of Quetzal.
     Eyes upward, The Shadow saw the spot on the wall from which the chunk of
stone had fallen. It would have been easy to dislodge that bar; yet The Shadow
did not regret the fact that he had foregone escape. His smile showed
confidence that the future would go well.
     The Shadow's eyelids closed. He had chosen sleep for the hours that
remained until dawn. That would be the time when he would gain full benefit
from Moyo's message.


     CHAPTER XI

     BULLETS AT SUNRISE

     DAY was breaking above the high Sierras that towered east of Ensenada.
There was stir at the presidio. Soldiers were jesting, as they watched events.
Death at dawn was always a matter that carried irony, here at Ensenada. It was
an old saying that prisoners at this presidio were fortunate. They had longer
to live than in other parts of Mexico, because the high mountains delayed the
rising of the sun.
     Lieutenant Coroza was standing alone at the door of a small building.
Stiffly, the young officer awaited the arrival of an approaching squad. The
soldiers broke ranks when they arrived. Coroza ordered them through the
doorway. There, the members of the firing squad picked up rifles from the rack
where Coroza had arranged them.
     Coroza marched the armed squad to the prison. Guards produced The Shadow,
turned him over to the executioners. His lips twitching, Coroza gave an order
for the march. Between two files, The Shadow was conducted to the execution
field at the rear wall of the presidio.
     Close behind the firing squad shambled a trio of squatly Indians, carrying
spades and pick-axes. They were to have the job of burial. An antiquated truck
came along, to act as hearse. Colonel Laplata always buried his dead outside
the presidio. The commandant claimed that it was poor business to make a
cemetery out of a military encampment. The colonel was always looking forward
to some revolution, so that he could suppress it with wholesale executions.
     The firing squad had reached the wall.
     A mounted orderly galloped from the commandant's headquarters, pulled up
beside Lieutenant Coroza and showed him a paper. The lieutenant nodded; the
orderly rode slowly back toward headquarters. Hands close to his saddle, he
grinned as he tore the paper and let its pieces flutter in the wind.
     The order was a mere routine one, that the commandant had told the orderly
to show to Coroza; then destroy. In a pocket of his uniform, the orderly had a
more important document. It was the filled and signed blank, calling for
Lieutenant Coroza to stay the execution.


     IN his office, Colonel Laplata had visitors. The Presidente of Ensenada
had arrived with members of the town council. In an all-night session, they had
decided to protest against the interference of the military. The commandant was
pleased to see these visitors.
     "You are right, senores," he told them. "Already, I have thought the
matter over. This morning, I have changed it. Look, here is my orderly
returning."
     The orderly was saluting from the door. Coolly, the commandant inquired:
     "You showed the order to Lieutenant Coroza?"
     "Yes, sir. He returned it to me."
     The orderly brought out the signed blank and tendered it to the
commandant. Laplata showed the countermand to his visitors, and added lightly:
     "This has relieved Lieutenant Coroza from a painful duty. Soon, he will
march Rembole back to the prison cell."
     From his desk, the commandant could glimpse the distant firing squad - a
sight which the others could not see. His quick glance caught the flash of
rifle barrels, tiny at that distance; the guns were being raised to firing
position. Smiling to himself, Laplata wondered how The Shadow was enjoying this
moment.


     AT the wall of the execution area, The Shadow was standing with hands
behind his back. His chin was raised; his eyes wore a smile. Those glinting gun
muzzles that caught the sun from the Sierras did not perturb Senor Jose Rembole.
The Shadow's disguised lips had curled in a disdainful smile.
     The man who showed nervousness was Lieutenant Coroza. The young officer
was poising his sword, to swing it downward as the signal to fire. For an
instant, Coroza hesitated, as though fearfully doubtful of the deed that was
his.
     Just past the aiming riflemen were the squatting Indians. One of that
grave-digging trio was staring stoically toward The Shadow. The watchful Indian
was Moyo; his eyes met The Shadow's. Moyo's expression did not change.
Apparently, The Shadow was going to his doom despite Moyo's efforts. Whatever
the case, Moyo had stolidly accepted the result that was to come.
     "Fire!"
     Coroza gave the order hoarsely, as his trembling hand flashed the sword
downward. Rifles boomed together; puffed their blasts for The Shadow's heart.
The squinting soldiers saw Jose Rembole stiffen upward, as from a galvanic
shock. With the jolt, lips lost their smile. They took on an expression half of
pain, half of surprise.
     The Shadow swayed forward. He twisted as he struck the ground, shoulder
first. His arms went wide; his feet gave a convulsive kick. His eyes were
closed when his face turned upward to the dawning sky.
     Mechanically, Coroza put away his sword. His lips twitched as he
approached the prone form. Soldiers, lowering their rifles, saw Coroza draw a
revolver. Turned away from his soldiers, the lieutenant fired a final shot.
     It was the coup de grace; a bullet through the head, to make sure that the
victim would not linger on the verge of death.
     Veterans in the firing squad grinned contemptuously. Their aim had been
straight. Coroza's shot was superfluous. They saw the lieutenant's concern; a
few thought that he had deliberately fired wide of Rembole's frozen face.
     Coroza ordered the squad to march back to headquarters. He beckoned the
Indians; ordered them to put the body aboard the truck. Coroza stayed; for it
was his task to certify the death and burial of Jose Rembole.


     AT headquarters, Colonel Laplata sprang up in feigned surprise, when he
heard the gunshots of the firing squad. He stared across the parade grounds,
saw the squad marching to headquarters. The commandant turned to his guests.
     "It is impossible, senor presidente!" he exclaimed. "My orderly delivered
the countermand to Lieutenant Coroza. Come, orderly! Tell us - what did the
lieutenant say?"
     "Nothing, sir. He looked at the order and returned it."
     "He was awake? Alert?"
     "Hardly, sir. Lieutenant Coroza was different from usual. He was sleeping
heavily when I summoned him this morning. I would say that he had not fully
aroused."
     Colonel Laplata paced angrily to the door, followed by the presidente. He
saw a sergeant marching at the head of the firing squad. He ordered the
soldiers to halt; he called the sergeant.
     "You saw Lieutenant Coroza receive an order?" inquired the commandant.
"Just before the execution, sergeant?"
     "I did, sir."
     "It is too bad," spoke Laplata to the presidente. "Ah, well! Nothing may
happen because of this; but should there be criticism from Mexico City, I shall
call upon you to testify as to the truth. Keep this countermand, senor
presidente, as evidence of the actual facts."
     The presidente received the paper that Coroza had never seen. He held
conference with his companions. All were agreed that the blame rested with
Lieutenant Coroza. In order not to appear too interested, Colonel Laplata
turned away.
     The sergeant had let the firing squad fall out. The men were jesting among
themselves. The commandant chanced to overhear them. Two veterans were joshing a
younger soldier.
     "Think no more of it," said one. "Bah! A drink of tequila is all one needs
after his first turn with the firing squad. Remember, one rifle always carried a
blank. Yours could have been the one."
     The recruit nodded; managed a smile of bravado as he walked away. The
veteran who had spoken turned to his companion and said, in undertone :
     "Let him think that his rifle had the blank. He never thought to feel for
the kick of the gun. But I - caramba! - this business is old to me. I could
feel that my rifle had no life. I knew that the blank was here."
     He tapped his gun significantly. The second veteran scowled and shook his
head. He lifted his own rifle.
     "The blank was here," he snarled. "Would you make a fool of me? Bah! I am
the one who can always tell when a cartridge has a ball!"
     Another member of the squad stepped into the argument. He began to deride
the others, claiming that the blank cartridge had been his. The face of Colonel
Laplata showed sudden hardness. Looking quickly toward the firing wall, the
commandant saw the old truck lumbering across the parade ground.
     "Halt it!" he bellowed, pointing to the truck. "Lieutenant Coroza is
carrying away Rembole alive! All the cartridges were blank! He has tricked us!"
     Two soldiers raised their rifles, forgetting that the guns were unloaded.
As their triggers clicked, others began to snatch cartridges from their belts,
hurriedly trying to fill the magazines of empty rifles.
     Lieutenant Coroza did not spy the menace of the soldiers; he was at the
wheel of the truck, keeping his eyes straight ahead. It was Moyo, seated
stolidly in the open rear, who spotted the excitement. The Indian gave a grunt
that Coroza heard. As the lieutenant stepped on the gas, Moyo and the other
Indians jumped over the side of the truck, down to the ground.
     Their action was that of men who wanted to be free of a disagreeable
situation. It seemingly showed that they were not leagued with Coroza, but
merely obeying his commands under stress. That left it safe for Moyo to remain
in Ensenada. At the same time, the move served purposes that those at the
presidio did not guess.
     Three men off the truck lightened it and made it speedier. Also, those
three were ready for emergency. If Coroza ran into trouble before he reached
the gate, Moyo and the Indians could make an unexpected attack. Such would mean
their lives; but they were willing to take the risk.
     Sacrifice of the Indians proved unnecessary.
     Coroza was driving with speed, straight for a gauntlet of soldiers who
came running at the commandant's renewed shouts. The lieutenant was past the
blockade; the danger was from men who halted to aim after the fleeing truck.
Coroza could not offset them, but there was one who could and did.
     Up from the low rear wall of the truck bobbed the smiling face of Jose
Rembole. Hands came to view; revolvers gleamed. Coroza had placed those weapons
in the truck. The Shadow, knowing the ruse was ended, had found the time to use
them.
     The Shadow fired. An aiming soldier staggered, dropped his rifle and clung
wonderingly to a wounded arm. A rifle crackled; its bullet whined past The
Shadow's head. Before the soldier who fired the shot could gain new aim, he saw
a revolver swing toward him. Flinging down his rifle, the soldier threw up his
hands.


     THAT broke the resistance. The Shadow began shots for other groups of
riflemen. He did not bother with definite targets. These soldiers at the
Ensenada outpost were not noted for their bravery. They had seen one man fall;
another surrender. The latter course looked best.
     Scattered men in uniform hurled away their guns and hoisted their arms, as
The Shadow's bullets kicked the soil about them.
     Only the guards at the gate tried to make new trouble. They sprang in
front of the truck, barring the way with crossed rifles. Coroza drove through
at full speed. The guards dived for shelter, to avoid being plowed under. When
they came to their feet again, the truck was roaring along the outside road.
The Shadow, leaning over the back, was taking aim with both guns.
     The sentries scrambled into the guardhouse. They were there when a roar
sounded within the walls of the presidio. The commandant's car was surging
forth, carrying the colonel and a squad of sharpshooters. Other automobiles,
snatched from the presidente and his friends, followed with their quota of
pursuing troops.
     The chase was a fierce one. Rifles were speaking steadily, when the truck
reached the narrow streets of the town. The range was too long for The Shadow
to reply with his revolvers. Fortunately, it was also too distant for Laplata's
sharpshooters to get results. The distance, plus the jouncing of the chasing
cars, caused bullets to course wide.
     People scattered from the lazy streets of Ensenada, as Coroza tore
through. The lieutenant knew those twisty thoroughfares, which were deserted of
traffic at this hour. He threaded a course that kept the automobiles from
gaining. He reached a final stretch; drove the truck straight for a rickety
dock that extended out into the bay of Todos Los Santos.
     Boards splintered, beams shook, as the truck jounced for the dock end. The
speed made it seem that Coroza intended to drive off into the water; but the
lieutenant jammed the old truck's brakes full force, in time to prevent the
plunge.
     He sprang to the dock. The Shadow joined him.
     Laplata's car was just reaching the inner end of the dock. It was swinging
to come out toward the abandoned truck. The Shadow and Coroza were running
forward. The lieutenant pointed over the end of the dock, to a trim, rakish
speed boat that was waiting there, its motor idling.
     The two leaped aboard. The speed boat roared for the open waters of the
bay. It was picking up speed when the pursuers stopped by the abandoned truck.
Laplata's riflemen sprang to the pier and began a futile fire.
     Leaning on the stern rail of their swift craft, The Shadow and Coroza
watched wasted bullets splash the water far behind.


     THE pursuit from the presidia was ended. Colonel Laplata looked like a
tiny mechanical doll as he shook his fists at the end of the dock. The speed
boat sped far out through the bay, heading for the open waters of the Pacific.
     "My note last night was brief, Senor Rembole," explained Lieutenant
Coroza. "When I left the Cafe Federal, an Indian followed me. He said his name
was Moyo. He gave me an order signed by the president of Mexico. It said that
the bearer's word must be obeyed.
     "Moyo said but little. He gave me a written paper that explained the plan.
As officer in charge of the execution, I was able to load the rifles unseen. It
was Moyo's task to visit you last night, that you might be able to deceive the
firing squad."
     The speed boat was outside the harbor. Far back, the tubby steamship was
puffing black smoke from its funnel. Coroza pointed, with the comment.
     "That vessel sails for Guatemala. Colonel Laplata will go aboard. He knows
that his game is finished. There will be a new commandant at the presidio of
Ensenada."
     Coroza's prediction was well founded. The Shadow knew that the power of
Quetzal was broken in Ensenada. With Rikeland dead, secrecy was no longer
needed. Laplata, by his actions, had paved the way for the Mexican government
to clean up the town. Aids of Quetzal were by this time scurrying away like
rats.
     What of Quetzal himself?
     There lay the unfortunate angle. The Shadow considered it, as the speed
boat turned northward for its coastal trip to San Diego. Last night, The Shadow
had foregone escape, to aid Lieutenant Coroza's ruse. Though The Shadow was
clear, as he had expected to be, the ruse had failed.
     It would have been preferable for Quetzal to believe The Shadow dead. As
matters stood, Quetzal would soon know that his superfoe was still alive. With
Ensenada barred as a point of contact, Quetzal would have only one other place
to meet the agent of a foreign government. That would be Tia Juana, the
gambling town just south of the International Boundary.
     The Shadow had reason to believe that Quetzal had already picked Tia Juana
as a meeting place. Hence the master-spy would not find his plans disturbed. In
Tia Juana, however, Quetzal would no longer be lulled by false thoughts of
security.
     Quetzal would be ready for the arrival of The Shadow.


     CHAPTER XII

     EYES IN THE DARK

     LATE that same afternoon, a young American was seated in the lobby of a
small Tia Juana hotel. He appeared to be one of many visitors who had come to
the Mexican town, where the races were to open the next day. The American,
however, was present for another purpose.
     He was Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow. Like his chief, Harry had left
the East in connection with the government mission. Until today, Harry had
remained above the Border, in San Diego.
     There, Harry had received a special government report. It was his job to
get it to The Shadow. Today, here in the Hotel Hidalgo at Tia Juana, Harry
expected contact with his chief.
     A message was due from a Mexican named Jose Rembole. To Harry, Rembole
meant The Shadow. There were others, too, who knew of that connection. The
name, itself, was explanatory to those in the know. The letters in "Rembole"
formed those of El Ombre.
     There was a reason why The Shadow had delayed contact with his agent.
Because of the adventure in Ensenada, it was unwise to appear again as Jose
Rembole, when making contact. The Shadow had long since reached Tia Juana; but
he had other plans for meeting Harry Vincent.
     After a while, Harry went up to his room. He stood at the window and
looked over the squatly buildings of Tia Juana. Everything was lazy below, for
Tia Juana slept by day. Even the gambling places looked deserted. The only
sound that disturbed the sunny silence was the note of a bugle, that came in
repeated fashion. Some soldier was practicing bugle calls at the barracks, and
was making a bad botch of it.
     Half in a reverie, Harry forgot time as he stared. Other sounds began to
drown the faulty bugle notes. The hot sky dulled with sunset. Automobiles were
coming into town; the coolness of the evening was bringing life to Tia Juana.
The room where Harry stood was gloomy. From its haze, a voice spoke.
     Harry swung about, as he recognized the whispered tone. Close beside him
was The Shadow, garbed in cloak of black. His garments had been packed in the
speed boat at Ensenada, put there by the faithful Moyo. Coming into Tia Juana,
The Shadow had registered at this hotel; but he had waited for dusk before he
met Harry Vincent.
     "Report."
     At The Shadow's word, Harry produced the required papers. Holding them
toward the window, The Shadow read the details. He handed some of the papers to
Harry, with the comment:
     "You are to use these. Supply your own name. They will identify you as an
American who has an interest in race horses."
     The government had supplied the credentials for The Shadow. The character
of a race-horse owner was a logical one to use in Tia Juana. The Shadow,
however, was delegating that part to Harry. He had other plans for himself.
     There was one special merit in the credentials, that The Shadow did not
overlook. As a horse owner, Harry could take a strategic position in the duel
to come; one that would render him most useful. Briefly, The Shadow recounted
his recent adventures; then added:
     "Those events began at the hacienda, when Maringuez made his visit.
Latimer Creeth should be in Tia Juana tonight. Maringuez may be here also. He
will be watching Creeth. As a man with racing interests, you can introduce
yourself to Creeth. Stay with him."
     With that, The Shadow was gone. Harry turned on the lights, studied his
new credentials and supplied his own name wherever needed.


     IT did not take Harry long to find Latimer Creeth. The portly American was
staying at a club near the race track. Gaining admittance with his credentials,
Harry introduced himself to several persons, and was introduced to others by
his new friends. In one circle that he joined, he met Creeth.
     All talk concerned the morrow's races. Harry was well posted on the
subject. His specialty, as agent of The Shadow, was that of adapting himself to
circumstances like these. In San Diego, Harry had made a thorough study of the
racing entries. He had known that all race-track information would be useful in
Tia Juana.
     Picking up conversation with Creeth, Harry soon made friends with the
portly man. When the crowd went into the dining room, Harry found a seat next
to Creeth and continued his talk of horses. By the time soup was served, Harry
had definitely established himself as a man who knew plenty about race tracks.
     Creeth suddenly paused in his conversation, to stare across the dining
room. A tall personage in evening clothes had entered; was looking around, as
if expecting to find friends. Creeth's face showed a surprise that broadened
into a pleased smile. Harry, in his turn, received a jolt of astonishment.
     The arrival was The Shadow, guised as Lamont Cranston. As he looked across
the dining room, The Shadow saw Creeth; gave a faint smile and a nod. He walked
slowly to the table, to shake hands with the hacienda owner.
     Creeth wanted to talk with The Shadow, but saw obstacles preventing him.
He handled the situation by introducing The Shadow to those about him. Harry
was one who shook hands with his chief and expressed his pleasure at meeting
Mr. Cranston. The others took it for granted that Lamont Cranston was a racing
man; and The Shadow covered that point by remarking, dryly, that he had
recently purchased a horse from Creeth.
     A waiter made a place for The Shadow. He declined it, stating that he had
a dinner engagement elsewhere. Creeth stepped away from the table to bid him
good-by. Harry caught the low-toned words that were not intended for his ears.
     "So you reached Ensenada," expressed Creeth, in a tone of relief. "I was
afraid you encountered trouble, even though Maringuez and his men did not
return to the hacienda."
     "I encountered them in the mountains," returned The Shadow, quietly. "I
tumbled one of them into an arroyo - that brute called 'Poroq.'"
     "Then Maringuez was covering the road to Ensenada!"
     A nod from The Shadow. Creeth became thoughtful.
     "That explains it," he declared, in an undertone. "We saw no sign of
Maringuez, when we rode here today. I had my men with me, just in case he
forgot his so-called promises of protection; but we met neither him nor his
bandits. Probably they have ridden in to Ensenada. They would never dare come
to Tia Juana."


     CREETH spoke the final sentence with assurance; but The Shadow did not
agree with it. He saw good reasons why Sancho Maringuez would like to be in Tia
Juana at the present time. He made no comment, however. He merely shook hands
and left, promising to see Creeth later.
     Something dawned on Harry Vincent at that moment. He realized why The
Shadow could have come here.
     The Shadow, himself, had said that Creeth might be watched. Therefore, any
one meeting Creeth - as Harry had - would be under suspicion, unless something
was done to offset it. The Shadow had supplied that factor by coming here as
Cranston.
     If agents of Quetzal were on the job, they would recognize The Shadow.
They would believe that he was working entirely alone; that he had looked up
Creeth to learn of any recent happenings at the hacienda. Elated by sight of
The Shadow, those agents of Quetzal would think that they had learned all.
     Harry would remain totally unsuspected. The Shadow had met him as a
stranger. Even Creeth could not have guessed that Harry was close in the
confidence of Lamont Cranston. What went for Creeth would go for Quetzal, when
the superspy received reports from his observers.
     In doing this, The Shadow had placed himself open to huge risk. Word, of
course, had reached Quetzal that The Shadow had escaped death in Ensenada. As
far as Harry could see, word of everything eventually came to Quetzal.
Therefore, crooks would be watching for The Shadow in Tia Juana.
     But that did not seem to justify The Shadow's policy of openly thrusting
himself into their view.
     It seemed inconsistent to Harry, particularly because The Shadow had
avoided the character of Rembole. Why should he have dropped the Mexican guise
in which he was known; then deliberately assumed the American character of
Cranston?
     The answer dawned as Harry, with a last glance, saw The Shadow reach the
lobby of the racing club. Before, as at present, The Shadow had been thinking
of Harry's safety; not of his own. He had avoided meeting Harry as Rembole, in
order to keep his agent covered. He had come here as Cranston to smooth the way
for Harry's future actions in Tia Juana.
     By leaving Harry with Creeth, The Shadow not only had placed his agent
with a man who might in some way be drawn into the intrigues of Quetzal. The
Shadow had also put Harry where he would be safe.
     The Shadow's boldness gave Harry confidence. Harry smiled, as he resumed
his meal. He felt that The Shadow had made the first score; that his prompt
visit to Creeth had been accomplished too soon for Quetzal's aids to take
advantage of it.


     IN that assumption, Harry was far from the truth. The Shadow had actually
accomplished his primary aim: he had drawn all suspicion from Harry. In that
move, though, The Shadow had seriously jeopardized his own safety. His risk had
increased one hundred fold through his visit to the racing club, in the guise of
Cranston.
     The proof was where Harry could not see it - behind a pair of heavy
draperies that separated the dining room from a small, dimly lighted lounge,
that was deserted except for one person. That occupant was a woman in black,
whose vengeful eyes peered through a narrow slit between the draperies.
     The woman behind the curtain was Dolores Borenza. The scheming senorita
had been watching the dining room from the moment of Creeth's entry. Up from
Ensenada, following new orders direct from Quetzal, Dolores had come here to
spy on Latimer Creeth. Quetzal had not passed up the chance that The Shadow
might decide to look up the man who had put him on the route to Ensenada.
     Dolores drew back from the curtains, stepped snakily to the closed door of
the lounge room. Opening the door, she snapped her fingers. An attendant near
the doorway heard the sound and looked about. He was a rough, smiling Mexican,
that fellow; his lips tightened when he saw the slender hand of Dolores,
extended with open cigarette case.
     The engraved emblem of Quetzal made the man raise his knuckles. On his
finger was a dull gold ring, that looked like a replica of crude Aztec jewelry.
The signet of that ring bore the likeness of the feathered serpent god.
     Dolores hissed her information. The attendant turned around, sighted the
figure of Cranston leaving the door of the club. With long, ambling stride, he
crossed the lobby and signaled from a front window.
     The attendant's gesture was a trifling one, but it was spied by loungers
outside a tawdry cafe across the way.
     Dolores went to the darkened window of the lounge. She saw Mexicans
leaving their tamales, to sidle from the cafe. Down the street she saw the
strolling figure of The Shadow, moving in no great haste. The others were
taking up his trail. They would pass the word as they went along.
     Eyes in the dark were upon The Shadow. The danger that he had eluded in
Ensenada had returned in Tia Juana.


     CHAPTER XIII

     MARINGUEZ REMEMBERS

     DELIBERATE though his stroll appeared, The Shadow was alert as he
continued his progress from the racing club. He had seen neither Dolores nor
the watchful attendant; but he was confident that spies of Quetzal had been
close by. He had not looked for them, because he knew that their moves would be
preliminary. They would make no disturbance in the club.
     This was the time to be watchful. Nothing escaped The Shadow. A chance
turn of his head gave him a backward glance. He saw the sneaking desperadoes
who were on his trail. He knew that their number was still too few. They were
the same trouble-makers who had been in Ensenada. Mass attack was the only
method that they would use.
     The Shadow turned a corner, continued his way through Tia Juana. There
were people on the streets; but any turn might mean a secluded stretch.
Quetzal's workers knew it. Their number was increasing, as they stalked The
Shadow. Here and there, they flashed symbols of the feathered serpent to
loungers whom they passed. New recruits took up The Shadow's trail.
     Where lights were many, where soldiers appeared, the trailers dropped
their sneaky tactics and slouched along separately, keeping pace with The
Shadow's slow gait. They joined when they came to less frequented spots. Each
time, the evil band was larger.
     The Shadow, meanwhile, was profiting by what he had seen of Tia Juana
while on his way to the club. The town had not gained the gayety that it would
have tomorrow night, after there were winners at the race track. Visitors were
holding their cash for bets. Nevertheless, there was life tonight; and
enthusiasm in Tia Juana could mean trouble.
     On that account, soldiers were more plentiful than usual. Reports from
Ensenada had also caused an increase in the military. There would be no
treacherous commandant here in Tia Juana. Quetzal had been lucky enough,
finding one at Ensenada.
     The Shadow neared a small, darkened building by a corner. He started to
make the turn; paused to light a cigarette. Coins fell from a match pack that
he drew from a vest pocket. The Shadow stooped toward the rough stone sidewalk.
     Assassins saw their chance. They, too, had reached the darkness. Quick
snarls passed as signals; a dozen attackers sprang forward with one objective.
The weapons that they drew were knives; the blades flashed darkly in the gloom.
Silent death was the fate they intended for The Shadow.


     THE SHADOW came up with a long, loping swing. The first of the stabbing
attackers jolted; his arms went high. A knife clattered as the man thwacked the
sidewalk. A second charging killer took a jounce; then a third.
     The Shadow was meeting the sortie with fists instead of guns. His long
arms reached far; his hands gave their punches with speedy precision. His quick
tactics bounced the skulkers in every direction.
     Thugs who relied on dirks were always suckers for punches. The Shadow had
seen that demonstrated; often stabs in the dark required snakish thrusts. One
straight-fist jab could stop the best of them. With a dozen foemen, punches
were better than gunshots. Every drive sprawled an attacker, where bullets
might have wounded men without stopping them.
     Some of The Shadow's punches scored knockouts; others did not. As The
Shadow met the last of the assassins, some of the first ones were rising from
the street, reclaiming their knives. Given a half minute longer, they could
have struck The Shadow from different angles. The Shadow, however, did not
allow that opportunity.
     He changed tactics with a last trio of foemen. Jabbing the chin of one
man, he caught the thug and hurled him against a companion. Nabbing the third
man's wrist, The Shadow delivered a jujutsu hold, that did more than disarm the
fellow. A twist of his body; The Shadow had the thug in air. With a long sweep,
he sent him sprawling past the corner.
     Spinning upon the pair that he had momentarily staggered, The Shadow
lurched one, then the other, in the same direction. Pitching upon two groggy
fellows who were rising, he gripped one with each arm; swung them against the
wall. Heads cracked; the men were sagging in The Shadow's grip.
     Snarling killers saw what they thought was a struggle, as The Shadow
lurched past the corner with his burdens. Scattered men piled into action; as
they came, The Shadow let one man drop and swung the other as a shield. Over a
slumped shoulder, he shot another punch for an attacker's jaw.
     The Shadow was past the corner, his back against the wall. How long his
tactics could have continued, was a question; but The Shadow had no need for a
sustained battle. He had carried the fight from darkness into light beyond the
corner. He had chosen the new battleground with special purpose.
     Down the lighted street, a squad of soldiers were on duty outside a cafe.
The Shadow had seen them at that post; he had planned to bring battle to the
spot where the soldiers could witness it.
     There were shouts, as the troops heard the scuffle and saw massed men
tangled, shifting at the corner.
     The soldiers came on the run. The Shadow twisted back around the corner.
His fists flayed furiously. Thugs staggered, bumped each other. They hurled
their companions aside, trying to find a path to their departing victim. Knives
were clanging the sidewalk.
     The soldiers, too late to see The Shadow pass the corner, thought that
they had come upon a street brawl.
     Like hawks, the military pounced upon their prey. Not only did they grab
those who were close at hand; they sprang after the few who had started around
the corner. Those thugs had stopped short, looking for The Shadow. He was gone;
before they could find him in the darkness, the soldiers arrived. The last of
Quetzal's crew was under arrest.


     SOLDIERS marched their prisoners away. A corporal and two privates
remained to look for stragglers. They saw the doorway where The Shadow had
first paused; one soldier poked in there but found no one. When the soldiers
had gone, The Shadow stepped forth. His laugh was whispered in this area of
darkness.
     By his ruse, The Shadow had drawn all of Quetzal's men upon him. Every
trailer had taken the bait. Shifting back to the doorway, The Shadow had
escaped the notice of the inspecting soldiers, even though he was not wearing
his black cloak. The dark evening clothes of Cranston were sufficient for
temporary concealment.
     Reversing direction, The Shadow resumed his walk through Tia Juana; but
his pace became swifter. He wanted to reach the Hotel Hidalgo before other
enemies spotted him. Odds favored The Shadow in that plan. He had cut off the
trail; and in ten minutes he could be at his destination.
     Chance was to offset The Shadow's hope.
     A limousine was rolling through the streets of Tia Juana. It happened to
pass the grumbling, dejected thugs as the soldiers took those prisoners to
police headquarters. A passenger in the rear seat saw the procession. Her dark
eyes were evil in their glisten.
     Dolores Borenza had come from the racing club in time to learn that The
Shadow had bested Quetzal's assassins. The woman hissed an order through the
speaking tube. The chauffeur sped the car along the street. Passing a corner,
Dolores looked along a side street in time to see The Shadow making a turn at
the next corner.
     The limousine stopped when Dolores gave another order. Leaning from the
window, the senorita beckoned to a blind beggar. The man gave no indication
that he saw her, until Dolores flashed her cigarette case. With that, eyes that
stared through darkened glasses became alert.
     The man lost his blindness; gave a wary glance along the street and
approached the car. He raised his frayed jacket to show the symbol of Quetzal
sewn to the lining.
     A few moments later, the beggar had pocketed his dark glasses. A blind man
no longer, he was slouching hastily along the street to take up The Shadow's
trail. His hand was ready to twist the lapel of his jacket and show the Quetzal
emblem whenever he passed others of the master-spy's men.


     DOLORES had given the beggar definite instructions. The senorita was more
than a mere agent of Quetzal. She was a recognized lieutenant of the
superplotter. Knowing that mass attack had failed once, Dolores saw the
futility of a second attempt. The beggar and other trailers were to use stealth
as they proceeded.
     Thus, when The Shadow neared the Hotel Hidalgo, lurkers were well behind
him. They saw him enter the small lobby. When he had gone upstairs, they
sneaked about the building. One - a smooth-looking Mexican - entered the lobby
to see what he could learn.
     Around the corner from the Hotel Hidalgo was a sidewalk cafe, where two
men sat at a table beneath the shelter of palm trees. Both had their glasses of
tequila; but one man was not drinking. He was Sancho Maringuez. His companion,
who liked the juice of the century plant, was Tompino.
     The Shadow had not passed along this street; therefore, Maringuez had not
seen him. The bandit, however, had observed a lounger across the street; had
watched another Mexican approach him. The two exchanged quick signs. The first
man went his way, while the other took over his post.
     Maringuez started to rise; paused, to look at Tompino. Stroking his
rounded chin, the bandit leader dipped fingers into pocket and brought out a
rounded disk. It was the token of Quetzal, that he had taken from Poroq's body.
     "Take this, Tompino," purred Maringuez, softly. "Show it to the man across
the street. Tell him that you want word to give to Quetzal."
     Tompino blinked, bewildered. He knew the symbol of the serpent god, for he
was one who retained belief in Aztec superstitions. But he was doubtful that
Sancho Maringuez could be on speaking terms with the deity whose name was
legend in Old Mexico.
     Tompino grinned, thinking that the request was a joke. Maringuez stiffened
his gaze; growled the command:
     "Go! Do as I have said!"
     Tompino went across the street. Maringuez watched him hold palaver.
Tompino returned, showing the eagerness of a child. He wanted to tell his
master the surprising news that he had learned.
     "They have found El Ombre," exclaimed Tompino, in an elated whisper. "He
is at the Hotel Hidalgo, in a front room - so they think; but which one, they
do not know."
     "Buenos!" purred Maringuez. "Give me the Quetzal token, Tompino. Later,
perhaps, you may carry it again. It is not wise for any one, too close to me,
to hold this token. It was a mistake for Poroq to carry one."
     "Poroq had the Quetzal coin?" Tompino's eyes gleamed avidly. "You trusted
him with it?"
     "I trusted Poroq too much." Maringuez had given his lips their downturn.
"He failed me. He carried this token when he died. It would have been bad if
The Shadow had found it. Fortunately, I claimed it instead."


     WITH a gesture to Tompino, Maringuez arose. He paid for his unfinished
drink, along with those that Tompino had consumed. Leading Tompino through
alleyways, Maringuez reached a doorway. He pried it open and stepped into a
deserted shop.
     With a lighted match, Maringuez found a stairway and told Tompino to
follow him to the second floor.
     There, at a rear window, Tompino gained a surprise. They were looking
across a street to the Hotel Hidalgo. They could see a balcony that ran along
the third floor of the hotel. There, Maringuez spied a motion.
     There was blackness against the white surface of the balcony. A shrouded
figure was coming from a window, shifting to reach the next room. No one could
have seen that shape from the street. Maringuez and Tompino had, luckily,
gained a higher view from a lookout spot that The Shadow thought to be deserted.
     "El Ombre!"
     Tompino whispered the name fiercely. From his hip, he drew a gun, leveled
it toward the balcony. Drinks of tequila never injured Tompino's marksmanship.
One squeeze of the trigger, and Tompino could drop The Shadow like a puppet.
     Maringuez clutched Tompino's hand with quick, hard fingers. The gun moved
downward with Maringuez's pressure. Smoothly, the bandit leader whispered:
     "There are soldiers on the street below, Tompino. Would you have us
trapped like rats, when they hear the pistol shot? I, Sancho Maringuez, and
you, Tompino, whom many have called bandits. What would our lives be worth, if
they could prove that we had murdered? Bah! We would face the firing squad
tomorrow; and we would not have the luck of Senor Rembole, who escaped today at
Ensenada."
     The Shadow had reached the next room while Maringuez was speaking. Tompino
growled as he put away his gun, then pointed suddenly to a space beside the
hotel. Lurkers were visible there. Three of them sneaked in through a side door
of the hotel.
     "They go to find El Ombre," purred Maringuez. "They do not know that he
has changed his room. We alone know that, Tompino. I, too, shall go to find The
Shadow."
     Drawing a revolver, Maringuez placed it in Tompino's care, with the strict
order that the scar-faced lieutenant was not to fire a shot. Tompino gulped:
     "What! You will go there unarmed?"
     "I have my machete," reminded Maringuez, smoothly. "The knife makes no
noise, Tompino. Sometimes, I have failed with it; but I have learned much from
my mistakes."


     DELAY was encountered by Maringuez, after he started for the hotel. His
course was roundabout; he was forced to wait while a patrol of soldiers passed.
When he reached the alleyway, he was ready with his token, but found no need to
show it. Prowlers had returned from within the hotel; they were buzzing news to
their companions.
     "El Ombre was not there," Maringuez heard one whisper. "I went through the
room next to his, and along the balcony, to peer into his window. He was gone!"
     "Send the news to Quetzal," came a suggestion. "Tell him that we are ready
to return. Once we have his order, we can wait in the room until El Ombre
returns."
     The group went through the alleyway. Lingering there was poor policy,
while soldiers were about. Maringuez entered the side door; he found an obscure
stairway and ascended to the third floor. He had his own theory regarding The
Shadow's absence.
     An assassin - so Maringuez believed - had gone through the adjoining room
without inspecting it. That was how the man had found The Shadow missing. The
Shadow had let him come and go. Maringuez, though, would find The Shadow.
Either in that first room, or in his own.
     The bandit reached the door he wanted. The hallway was darkened; it was
easy for Maringuez to move through the unlocked door of the room that adjoined
The Shadow's. Once inside, Maringuez saw the outline of the window; beyond it,
the roof edge of the building from which Tompino watched.
     Maringuez was sorry that he had not arranged for Tompino to have a signal,
in case The Shadow had returned along the balcony. That was a point that
Maringuez had missed in his hurry.
     Listening as he edged through the room, Maringuez stopped to note a massed
outline on the floor. He stooped struck a match below the window level. In one
instant, Maringuez had remembered something. He had recalled the fate of Poroq,
at the mountain arroyo.
     The match glow showed the sallow face of an unconscious Mexican. This was
the man who had come to assassinate The Shadow. Passing through the adjoining
room, he had met The Shadow too soon. Not only had The Shadow slugged the thug
into temporary oblivion; he had profited by the man's visit.
     Leaving, The Shadow had spoken in Spanish to the men who lurked on the
darkened stairs. They had mistaken him for the assassin, coming back to report.
The Shadow had continued the ruse when he reached the alleyway. As one of the
disbanding Mexicans, he had staged a complete disappearance.
     Unquestionably, The Shadow had dropped the role of Cranston, to adopt the
attire of a Mexican. The Shadow was at large in Tia Juana, prepared to balk the
moves of Quetzal. He would not be Senor Jose Rembole. That part, too, was ended.


     THE match went out. Maringuez lighted another. Ready for departure, he
searched the pockets of the stunned assassin on the floor. They were empty.
This man - like Poroq - had lost his token of Quetzal. The Shadow had taken the
symbol of the snake god.
     Sancho Maringuez had failed to meet The Shadow; but the bandit had
profited by this trip. Not only had Maringuez remembered something of The
Shadow's methods. He had learned The Shadow's future intentions.
     Carrying a Quetzal token, The Shadow would remain in Tia Juana, seeking to
complete the mission that had brought him to Mexico. His success or failure
would hinge upon future developments.
     Sancho Maringuez, bandit of the Sierras, intended to take a hand in those
coming episodes.


     CHAPTER XIV

     AFTER THE RACES

     NIGHT and day had passed in Tia Juana. New evening had produced a spirit
of carnival in the Mexican town. Flocks of Americanos had staked their bank
rolls on the horses. Those who had won were squandering their winnings. Money
was everywhere in Tia Juana; and the population liked it.
     A weary-looking Mexican was seated in his room at a squalid boarding
house. Upon a table lay sheets of paper that bore words in English. They were
new reports, useful to The Shadow. He was the unknown Mexican.
     One batch of information had come through from Vic Marquette, a United
States government man who was stationed in the American settlement just across
the Border. Its information was meager. Nothing had been learned concerning
Quetzal.
     Word from Washington announced that foreign agents had been reported in
Mexico; but who they were, what government they served, was a question. Not a
clue to their identity was available. Once they met Quetzal, all his
information would be theirs. Everything depended upon The Shadow; unless he
could locate Quetzal and learn the superspy's plans, the cause would be lost.
     There was a report from Harry Vincent. He had remained with Latimer
Creeth; had spent the day at the races with the portly American. Not once had
Harry detected any suspicious observers.
     That did not surprise The Shadow. He knew that agents of Quetzal would no
longer have instructions to cover Creeth at close range. They knew that The
Shadow could not risk another meeting with Creeth. The guise of Lamont Cranston
had served its usefulness in Tia Juana.
     The Shadow's own report was a checkered one. As an obscure Mexican, he had
noticed Creeth and Harry at the race track. He had also seen Sancho Maringuez,
accompanied by Tompino. He had spotted others - agents of Quetzal - engaged in
new search. Among them, The Shadow had at last glimpsed Dolores Borenza.
     Knowledge that the senorita was in Tia Juana gave The Shadow some answers
that he had wanted. He knew at last why Quetzal's men had been so efficient in
both Ensenada and Tia Juana. He could trace back to his misadventure aboard the
airplane over the desert.
     Seeing Dolores had almost made The Shadow change his plans completely. By
trailing the senorita, he believed that he could reach Quetzal. Dolores was
undoubtedly a contact between Quetzal and the nameless foreign agents.
Unfortunately, The Shadow had spied Dolores only from distance. She had driven
away in a limousine, leaving the traffic at the race track before The Shadow
could follow her.
     Since then, The Shadow had had no trace of Dolores. He knew that she must
still be in Tia Juana; for she would be recognized by government men if she
tried to cross the border. Dolores, however, had dropped from sight; and only a
wholesale search could locate her. Such a measure might ruin The Shadow's
chances for a success.


     THE SHADOW had decided to adhere to his original plan. It involved the one
clue that he had acquired in Ensenada; that slender strip of paper plucked from
the dead fist of James Rikeland.
     The paper lay here, on The Shadow's table, proclaiming its flimsy portion
of a message:

                                       zal.
                                      ana
                                      eign
                                      gnal
                                       able
                                       no.

     With whispered laugh, The Shadow extinguished the light. Motion occurred
amid the darkness. When it was ended, the slight click of the door announced
The Shadow's departure. There was an exit from the rear of this dingy house;
The Shadow reached it through a darkened hallway.
     When he appeared upon a lonely rear street, he was no longer an
apologetic-looking Mexican. He was an American, with a fuller, but less
distinguished, face than that of Cranston. His features bore but a slight trace
of their hawklike characteristics.
     The Shadow had become a mythical personage. He had assumed the role of
Henry Arnaud, a man who did not exist. As Henry Arnaud, The Shadow had been
many places and had encountered strange adventures; but always, he had been
untraceable. This was an identity that he kept for emergency occasions.
     The Shadow headed for the place that had become the center of gay life in
Tia Juana. That was the big gambling casino - a barnlike structure, viewed from
outside; but a pretentious place within. The hubbub of a gay throng reached The
Shadow the moment he entered the grand casino.
     Roulette wheels were spinning merrily, while money chinked the green baize
layouts. Chuck-a-luck cages were turning, bouncing the dice inside them. Side
rooms showed other species of gambling, where patrons played poker and other
card games that brought a percentage to the house.
     Enough persons had won at the races to fill the casino plentifully. The
gala night had attracted others whom The Shadow expected; the racing men
themselves. He saw Creeth and others from the club, Harry Vincent among them.
     Near a roulette table, The Shadow came face to face with Sancho Maringuez.
The bandit was in his best attire; he looked like a sporty visitor from Mexico
City, rather than an outlaw from the mountains. The Shadow's face awoke no
recognition from Maringuez. The bandit was completely deceived by the disguise.
An incident occurred, however, after The Shadow had walked away from the
roulette table.
     Tompino entered the casino and found Maringuez. Into his chief's hand,
Tompino pressed the token of Quetzal. Maringuez had sent him out with the
token, to bring in a report. Tompino had news.
     "Un Americano," muttered Tompino. "He was seen in a quarter where only
Mexicans live. No one saw his face closely; but he came this way. Here, to the
casino."
     Maringuez grunted, as he looked about. There were hundreds of Americans in
the casino. The news did not help much, even if the American happened to be The
Shadow.


     NOT long afterward, The Shadow garnered the same information that had come
to Maringuez. Near a corner of the casino, he saw a Mexican that he recognized
as one of Quetzal's men. The Shadow flashed the token that he had acquired the
night before. The Mexican showed a finger ring with the feathered serpent
emblem.
     "Any word of El Ombre?"
     The Shadow asked the question in Spanish, but purposely kept his accent
poor. The Mexican was not surprised to find an Americano among Quetzal's aids.
He had met others before. He gave The Shadow a report similar to Tompino's. It
was possible, the Mexican said, that The Shadow might be here at the casino.
     One side room was popular. Some of the racing men had entered it; the
others were clustered at the door. The Shadow came up beside Creeth and Harry.
Looking into the room, he saw a faro table in full blast. A bland-faced dealer
was handling the game.
     The Shadow watched for a few minutes then turned, to see Harry standing
alone. Creeth was temporarily occupied with other friends.
     Close to Harry, The Shadow spoke in a barely audible whisper. Harry
recognized the whisper of his chief. He understood. The Shadow wanted him to
remain alone. New duty awaited Harry.
     Creeth came back. The Shadow had gone into the faro room, unnoticed.
Creeth had a question.
     "Want to go back to the club, Vincent?" he asked. "Or would you rather
stay here? I won't be gone long; it's just a case of finding out if any more of
the boys have shown up. Some always arrive too late for the first day."
     "I'll stay here a while," decided Harry. "If we don't see each other, I'll
look you up at the club."
     The faro room was doing a heavy turnover. It had attracted a cosmopolitan
throng. Among the patrons, Harry saw men who looked like Cubans or South
Americans. There were Europeans present, and a few Orientals. True, many
nationalities were represented elsewhere; for Tia Juana drew foreigners who
happened to be visiting Los Angeles or San Diego.
     It occurred to Harry, however, that among these persons might be certain
ones with whom Quetzal wanted contact.
     A wad of paper reached Harry's hand, pressed there by The Shadow. Glancing
at it, Harry saw that it was a ten-dollar bill. He spread the money; held it as
though he intended to make a bet. He saw a message penciled on the bill:

                                Watch dealer's left hand.

     Harry gave a sidelong glance. The first thing that he noted was a ring the
dealer wore. It looked like a plain gold band; but it widened slightly between
his fingers. That ring was a signet; the man had not quite turned it around
enough on his finger to cover the fact. Instantly, Harry guessed what was
inscribed upon its hidden surface.
     The ring was a concealed token of Quetzal.
     At first, Harry thought that was all The Shadow's message signified. Then,
as he was pocketing the ten-spot and bringing out other money, Harry spotted
something else. The dealer's hand was drumming lightly.
     Deftly, the man stretched his fingers and doubled them again. His action
appeared to be a nervous gesture until Harry observed that the motions were
irregular. With that, the answer came to Harry.
     The bland-faced dealer was delivering a message. His quick finger-moves
were dots; the slow ones, dashes. Though scarcely noticeable, the motions would
be plain to any one who was looking for them. That could apply to any person
present. It applied to The Shadow.
     Somehow, Harry's chief had guessed this phase of Quetzal's game. The
Shadow had found the man whom Quetzal was using as an instrument to signal
information to the foreign agents who were here in Tia Juana.
     By watching the faro dealer, The Shadow was about to learn the most
important feature of Quetzal's entire game. He was to discover the place and
hour at which Quetzal would deliver the details of the secret naval base.
     That learned, the fruits of Quetzal's toil would be ready for The Shadow's
plucking. The Shadow would find a way to prevent Quetzal's information from
reaching foreign hands.


     CHAPTER XV

     QUETZAL LEARNS

     HARRY missed the message that the dealer tapped, for he caught the idea
only at the finish. He gawked at the man's hand, and might have given himself
away, had he not seen an action by The Shadow. Harry's chief was beginning to
place money on the faro board. Harry did the same.
     A deal followed; later, the gambler's fingers resumed their crawly tap.
This time, Harry glimpsed the message easily. It came in detached words:
     Quetzal... Carioca Club... Green Room... Ten-thirty... Quetzal.
     Harry knew of the Carioca Club. It was a night spot recently established
in Tia Juana. So far, the Carioca Club had not done well. Its owners had
counted upon a regular membership and had failed to sell the idea. The lower
floor of the club sold drinks and dinners; but the rooms upstairs were never
used.
     One of those rooms must be the Green Room. Quetzal had chosen that
unfrequented place for a meeting with the foreign purchasers of stolen
information.
     Who else was reading the gambler's message, besides Harry and The Shadow?
Harry could not guess. There were too many likely prospects in the crowd about
the faro table. Even the dealer did not know if the right men were present, for
he began to tap the message again, word for word.
     It seemed to Harry that he and The Shadow were becoming conspicuous; not
because of any action, but owing to the fewness of Americans in the faro room.
The bland dealer had a way of studying his customers that marked him as one of
the shrewdest workers in Quetzal's service. The only thing to do, as Harry saw
it, was to keep on placing bets.
     Harry did that, moderately. The Shadow followed a similar policy, but
played the board somewhat heavier.
     Chips were being used in the play; a busy attendant gave them in return
for cash. The Shadow's heap began to increase. He doubled a bet; the right card
came his way. The dealer looked inquiringly toward The Shadow and asked,
smoothly:
     "Double?"
     In Arnaud's fashion, The Shadow made another double of the bet. He won.
The dealer looked annoyed. He began to concentrate on this lucky player,
meanwhile strumming his repeated message when he found the time. More cards
turned up to The Shadow's advantage.
     Harry thought The Shadow lucky. Particularly lucky, because increased
winnings would naturally keep him in the game for a while. There was still
considerable time until half past ten. Of course, The Shadow would have to make
a break before then; but there was no law against players cashing in their
chips. There was an angle, though, to The Shadow's luck that Harry did not see.
     The Shadow saw it. The gambler was smooth with his deals. He knew how to
handle the faro deck; and he was doing it in an odd fashion. Deliberately, the
dealer was running the cards to make The Shadow win.
     His drummed signals had ceased. In The Shadow, the dealer saw a connection
with the unknown American who had been reported en route to the casino.


     JUST what the dealer expected to accomplish by throwing chips The Shadow's
way was a question. The Shadow wanted the answer; the sooner he gained it, the
better. Therefore, he played in with the dealer's policy. The Shadow's chips
began to overspread the table.
     The dealer feigned worry. He hesitated; grimaced sourly. At last, he
delivered another deal. The Shadow received another win. The dealer beckoned to
the attendant who had taken the cash. They conferred in mumbled fashion.
     "Sorry, senor." The dealer held up the game, as he spoke to The Shadow.
"We have a limit here. You have passed it. We must ask you to cash in your
winnings."
     The Shadow smiled indulgently. He began to stack his chips. The dealer
added:
     "The attendant will show you to the manager's office. You will be paid in
full, senor. Perhaps, later, you may rejoin the game. But that must be decided
by the manager."
     Leaving Harry with the other players, The Shadow followed the attendant
through a rear door of the faro room. They crossed a paved space and came to a
lighted building away from the casino. The attendant explained that cramped
space had caused the manager to move his office to this adjacent building.
     The excuse was a thin one. Wearing a disarming smile, The Shadow prepared
for coming trouble.
     He knew that agents of Quetzal were working on sheer guesswork; that if he
bluffed them properly, they would think that they had made a mistake. Paid off,
The Shadow could depart a few thousand dollars richer; as far as Quetzal was
concerned, The Shadow would be absolutely secure.
     Quetzal's men thought of The Shadow as ever-alert, itching for every
chance of battle. They were counting on that at present, thinking that The
Shadow would give himself away, if they provided the bait. Instead, The Shadow
maintained a perfect bluff.
     He was carelessly counting his chips as he entered the building beside the
casino. A creaking door in a darkened hall did not even attract his attention;
nor did whispers from beneath a stairway. The darkened hall at the top
apparently meant nothing to The Shadow.
     The attendant looked doubtful, very much so, when he ushered The Shadow
into a little office where a heavy, bald-headed Mexican sat gloomily at a big
desk.
     The attendant explained matters; and with it, gave a slight shake of his
head to signify that his own opinion was a negative one. The dealer - so the
attendant tried to indicate - had made a mistake. This was not The Shadow.


     THE bald-headed man introduced himself as Senor Dominio; he began an
apologetic speech while the attendant stood by.
     "So sorry, senor. It is a rule that we must enforce. We have set the
limit, purely so that people will not flock from one room to another. You
understand; when there is a heavy winner - pouf! Every one deserts where he is
playing."
     The Shadow expressed his agreement with the policy. His voice was
even-toned, but less calm than Cranston's. As Arnaud, The Shadow appeared to be
the type of American who would play the faro table at Tia Juana.
     "We must keep record, senor," spoke Dominio. "That is all. When the faro
table loses heavily, the owners always ask who was the winner -"
     "My name is Arnaud," interposed The Shadow. "I believe that I have a card.
Yes, here is one. A few travelers checks, this bank book - they should identify
me."
     Dominio was practically satisfied. He dismissed the attendant. He drew a
handkerchief from his pocket; started it toward his forehead, then put it away
to count The Shadow's chips. He opened small safe by the wall, produced bundles
of currency, and paid The Shadow in full.
     All the while, The Shadow sensed lurkers at the door behind him. They were
waiting, dependent entirely upon Dominio's decision. That pleased The Shadow. He
knew that he had bluffed Dominio to perfection. The manager wrote a brief note.
     "This will straighten matters, Senor Arnaud," he said, politely. "If you
care to resume your play at faro, the dealer will oblige you. Show him this
message."
     He handed the paper to The Shadow, and stepped from the desk. On the way
to the door he proffered his hand; The Shadow paused to receive the shake. Tiny
drops of sweat had started on Dominio's brow. The fake manager had been through
an ordeal, meeting a visitor who might have been The Shadow. Almost
mechanically, Dominio drew his handkerchief and started to mop his forehead.


     INSTANTLY, The Shadow spun about. From the slow-moving Arnaud, he was
transformed into a creature of galvanic fury. His hand whipped a gun from
beneath his coat; he was springing toward the door as he drew the weapon.
     The Shadow had been intent, listening for any outside move. He had heard
one, a split-second before he whirled into action. A pair of Mexicans, with
knives were plunging into the little office the moment that The Shadow turned.
     A halting cry came from Dominio's throat. It changed to an inarticulate
sound. Amazed, the manager saw what followed.
     The Shadow met the two assassins as one. These were no mere thugs who
relied on stabs in the dark. They were experts, taking advantage of the lighted
room. They were sweeping their arms upward for straight throws when The Shadow
met them.
     Slugging rightward with his gun, The Shadow clashed the knife on that
side; the blade bounded from the thrower's hand. Simultaneously, The Shadow's
left hand sped for the other attacker's wrist. A quick clutch halted the throw;
loosening fingers let the dirk bobble to the floor.
     The pair tried to grapple. The Shadow delivered a cross-slug with his gun
and felled the man at the left. Gripping the other, he pinned the man's
writhing arms and swung the fellow as a shield, between himself and Dominio.
     During a momentary stagger, The Shadow kicked the door shut. The barrier
slammed, to form a temporary blockade against other invaders.
     Dominio had not come to action, as The Shadow expected. The bald-headed
man was rooted. His gaping face told what had happened. Dominio had given an
unintentional signal. The mopping move with his handkerchief was the cue that
assassins expected.
     Once, Dominio had halted that move. The second time, he had forgotten. His
cry had been a shout of alarm, for fear that Arnaud would be injured by the
wrongly cued attackers. His gargle; his present pose, were signs that Dominio
was totally astounded by Arnaud's transformation. Only one person could be a
fighter of this caliber.
     The Shadow!


     STARK fear sent Dominio ducking beneath the desk. He pulled a puny
revolver from his pocket; popped a pitiful shot that hit the wall five feet
from The Shadow. With that action, Dominio gained good cause for worry. The
Shadow had ignored him temporarily. Since Dominio wanted trouble, he could have
it.
     With a side twist, The Shadow sprawled the man with whom he struggled;
made a long stride past the desk, toward an inner corner of the room. The leap
was carrying him to a spot from which he could cover Dominio. The bald-headed
man spied the move and made a ludicrous scramble. Turning back from the desk,
he poked his head and shoulders on the far side of the little safe.
     He looked like an ostrich, as he squeezed for cover. But Dominio's move
was less funny than it seemed. His fat hand grabbed a lever on the wall and
gave it a tug, just as The Shadow wheeled in from the corner beyond the desk.
     Frayed carpet parted. Two sections of the floor flopped downward like a
stage trap. The Shadow glimpsed an unfinished, cell-like room below, its walls
lined with cross-beams. The bottom of the space was floorless. Far below was
total darkness that meant the depths of a stone-bottomed pit.
     The Shadow gained his brief glimpse at close range, for it was the weight
of his foot that had caused the trap to drop. Dominio's yank of the lever had
merely released the bolts that held the trap in place.
     The Shadow performed a one-legged drop, keeping his other foot on the
solid floor. Ordinarily, he could have saved himself; but luck was all against
him. The Shadow was moving toward the opening as it fell.
     His hands made a long swoop across the space, as his second foot followed
the first. His gun sped to the solid floor, striking beside the desk. His
fingers clutched the floor edge; their hold was too trivial. The Shadow's
angled dive kept on, carrying him against the wall below the floor.
     The trap, released of weight, returned upward. Shakily, Dominio pulled the
lever to clamp the hidden bolts. He picked up The Shadow's gun and stowed it in
the desk. He came around to the front, to aid the two assassins whom The Shadow
had flattened.
     Footsteps pounded up the stairs while the rogues were finding their feet.
Viciously, the men grabbed for their knives. Dominio stopped them. He opened
the door to admit a corporal, who had come with two soldiers.
     "We heard the gunshot," announced the corporal. "What was the trouble
here?"
     "A misunderstanding," excused Dominio. "It was between these two. They
were here on business; they drew their knives against one another. I was
excited. I fired my revolver."
     Dominio nudged one of the assassins. The fellow took the cue. He grumbled
that he had lost his head, but that the fault was equally the other man's. The
soldiers decided to take both into custody; to hold them until the morning, in
case Dominio wanted to make a charge against them.
     When all were gone except Dominio, the bald-headed men heard shifting
footsteps on the stairs. He stepped out to contact one of Quetzal's lurkers.
Dominio gave a breathless order:
     "Get word to Quetzal. The Shadow was here! Perhaps he has learned too
much. Plans should be changed. There may be trouble."
     Dominio paused; held back the messenger before the fellow could start.
With a broad smile, he added:
     "The trouble cannot come from The Shadow himself. Tell Quetzal that I have
settled that. The Shadow is dead!"
     There was a positiveness in Dominio's tone that made the message-bearer
grin. When the man departed, Dominio went back into the office, sat down and
mopped his forehead in earnest. Real relief was registered on the fake
manager's face.
     Perhaps Dominio would not have appeared so pleased, had he known the truth
about The Shadow's plunge.


     CHAPTER XVI

     FROM THE DEPTHS

     IN surroundings of complete darkness, The Shadow was stretched in a most
precarious position. His body was twisted full about. His left hand was
clutching a beam of splintery wood with a hold that could scarcely support his
body. His right foot was wedged in a narrow crevice that gave him no more than
a toe-hold.
     That position, nevertheless, had saved him from a death plunge. He was
high above the stone-floored pit, clear of the doom that Dominio had regarded
as certain.
     The very factor that had produced The Shadow's fall was responsible for
his temporary safety. The Shadow had pitched through the opened trap only
because he was striding too swiftly to halt his toppling weight. Once past the
brink, he had continued his sweeping plunge, instead of falling straight
downward.
     Thudding the beamed wall below the floor level, The Shadow had clutched
instinctively to gain a hold. His hands had picked up splinters as they slipped
from beam to beam. His left had caught at last, thanks partly to the chance
stoppage that his right foot had provided.
     Because of the darkness, the flimsy condition of the rough woodwork, The
Shadow could do no more than cling for the time being. It was minutes before he
found a chance to change position.
     His right fingers, creeping warily, so that an arm-shift would not
overbalance, found a crevice in the wall. There was a finger-hold between two
cracked boards. The Shadow took it and pulled his body slightly upward. Another
shift, his right hand sped up to join his left. It caught the beam before his
fingers slipped. His foot lost its toe-hold. The Shadow dangled over a space
that seemed limitless in the dark.
     That did not worry him. His double grip enabled him to pull upward. Above,
The Shadow found another hold. Foot by foot, he ascended until his knees were on
the beam. A long stretch enabled him to find a beam above.
     The Shadow rested, eased down to the lower beam and fished a flashlight
from his pocket. He plucked some troublesome splinters from his palm; doused
the light and resumed his climb.
     It would be poor policy to use the flashlight unguardedly. The Shadow knew
that Dominio might decide to inspect the trap. A glow from below would be
disastrous to The Shadow's climb. The Shadow had carried only one gun to the
casino; therefore, he was weaponless, at present. He would need every element
of surprise to deal with Dominio.
     Groping, The Shadow reached the upper beam. As he drew his chin above it
and groped further, he found a mortised space with a flat surface a few inches
higher. He was at the level of the trapdoor. A clutch at the mortise; a pull
that strained his fingers; The Shadow swung up to the beam and flattened there.


     THE trap was something of a problem. It opened downward; hence The Shadow
had to wedge himself along the beam and reach for the dividing crack in the
middle of the trap. He found it, by stretching to a dangerous limit. Following
the crack, The Shadow came to a wire; then a bolt. The release was of the
simplest sort.
     Dominio's lever had pulled the wire.
     The trap had dropped. Coming upward on heavy springs, it had locked again,
like a latching door, due to an angle at the end of the bolt. Fortunately, the
bolt itself was accessible from beneath. Slowly, noiselessly, The Shadow drew
the wire.
     The trapdoor did not budge. It needed weight to bring it downward. The
Shadow's fingers dug, to force themselves between the halves of the trapdoor.
They succeeded. The far half of the trap wavered slightly downward. The Shadow
had reached the crucial part of his game.
     If Dominio saw those fingers that were creeping through the floor, there
would be trouble for The Shadow. Dominio had survived one conflict with The
Shadow. He would have more nerve for the next. That was an important point that
The Shadow considered with his coming strategy.
     Wedging his hand along the space, The Shadow neared the solid floor at the
side. He was ready for his daring uprise from the pit. His right hand was the
one that held the half of the trapdoor. He sped his left to join it. At that
instant, The Shadow's body was almost totally in space. Both hands gripped. His
full-weight was on the section of the trapdoor.
     The hinged slab creaked downward, with The Shadow clinging to it. A
one-foot drop, the angle would be too great. In half a second, he was due to
drop squarely down into the pit that he had previously escaped. It seemed like
an impossible attempt; but The Shadow had calculated the chances. He was not a
drowning man, clutching for a wisp; he was like a skater, taking a hasty spin
across ice that could hold until he passed.
     As the trap started downward, The Shadow snapped his right hand to the
solid floor beside it. His left held his body momentarily, before the trap he'd
angled too far. His right had its clamp before his weight slipped downward.
Hanging by one hand, The Shadow pivoted; clapped his second hand to join the
first.
     The result was twofold. Not only did The Shadow have a hold upon the solid
floor; his shift of weight had stopped the trapdoor's fall. It was bucking
upward, under the pressure of its springs.
     Leaning his shoulder against the pressing slab, The Shadow used it as a
partial brace. That added help assured him of a quick hoist up from the hole.


     THE clatter of the trap foretold The Shadow's arrival. It brought a
response from Dominio, at the desk. The moment that The Shadow's head emerged,
his eyes saw the man who had dropped him through the floor. Dominio was half up
from his chair. His eyes were bulgy.
     Incredibly, Dominio gawked at the face from the floor. To him, the
features of Henry Arnaud were those of a ghost. Had The Shadow been attired in
his usual garb of black, which gave him a spectral touch, Dominio would have
slumped back in fright. As it was the man remained capable of action. He made
himself believe that this was no unearthly reappearance.
     What The Shadow's present features lacked; his voice supplied. From his
lips came a shuddering peal of whispered mirth that needed no additional
effect. That ghostly thrust was a stab that shook Dominio. It raised the whole
belief that he had tried to reject. The Shadow was a visitor from the tomb!
     Dominio gulped for mercy from the supposed ghost of Arnaud. Quivering, he
watched The Shadow reach the floor edge. The Shadow was almost from the trap
when the spell broke. A trifling slip; The Shadow caught himself from sliding
back into the hole.
     It was enough for Dominio. The accident was human, not ghostly.
     Pouncing from his chair, spurred to belated action, Dominio pulled his
gun. He jumped toward The Shadow, to take aim at close range. Though The Shadow
was stretched out from the trap he had not risen far enough to stop Dominio's
shot. He chanced a quick trick of suggestion in the emergency.
     Rolling sidewise, The Shadow delivered a quick, triumphant laugh. His hand
pointed to the door; gave a beckoning motion. Dominio wheeled instinctively; saw
no one at the door. He swung back toward The Shadow, an instant too late.
     Dominio's foot had stepped six inches toward the trap. With a sprawling
stretch, The Shadow clamped the man's ankle with one stabbing clutch.
     The Shadow gave a hard jerk as Dominio aimed. The crook went backward,
losing his gun as his neck cracked the desk edge. Bumping the floor, Dominio
grabbed for the toyish revolver. The Shadow's swift hand plucked it from his
very fingers. The muzzle of the gun pressed cold against Dominio's sweated
forehead.


     THREE minutes later, Dominio was trussed with his own suspenders and a
suitcase strap that The Shadow found in the desk. The victim was gagged with
the large silk handkerchief that he had used in giving his accidental signal.
The Shadow regained his gun from the desk drawer; went from Dominio's office.
     No sign of Quetzal's men below. Matters, apparently, were settled at
Dominio's, hence they were absent. Also, ten o'clock had passed. Soon, Quetzal
would hold his meeting.
     The Shadow doubted that a heavy cordon would be about the Carioca Club.
Too many of Quetzal's men, at one spot, might excite suspicion from patrolling
soldiers, after last night's brawl. The brawl, itself, had thinned the number
of Quetzal's available men. Some of his stoutest fighters were in the local
calaboose.
     Dominio's office was visited, however, soon after The Shadow had gone.
Into the lighted room stepped a dark-visaged, hard-lipped man: Sancho
Maringuez. The bandit was rolling a cigarette in his careful fashion. He stared
about the office. His eyes fixed on a pair of feet that projected from beside
the little safe.
     A minute later, Maringuez had released Dominio. Shoving the bald-headed
man into the chair, Maringuez demanded harshly:
     "What happened here? Word reached me that The Shadow was dead. I come from
the casino, to find you a prisoner!"
     Dominio pointed to the trapdoor.
     "He came out!" he panted. "The Shadow - from there, where I had dropped
him! He was a living ghost, I thought -"
     Maringuez was holding his Quetzal token; Dominio, fumbling in his pocket,
had brought a duplicate to view. The countersign seemed unneeded on this
occasion. Though he had never met Maringuez before, Dominio recognized the
bandit's authoritative manner.
     "The Shadow knows of the meeting," gulped Dominio. "He came from the faro
room. The dealer had already given the signal. The meeting should be changed
from the Carioca Club."
     "Who are you to make suggestions," sneered Maringuez. "Perhaps you are not
so important to Quetzal as you suppose. He has a way of dispensing with those
who fail and send in false reports."
     The bandit lighted his hand-made cigarette. Dominio shuddered; began to
whine. That veiled threat carried weight, coming from the lips of Sancho
Maringuez. Dominio needed no more evidence to accept the bandit as Quetzal.
     "Your pardon, Quetzal," pleaded Dominio. "I thought only that if the
meeting place could be changed -"
     "That is something to which I can attend. Meanwhile, remain here. Turn out
the lights. Bar the door. Admit no one! Drop yourself through your own trap, if
you have nothing else to do. Bah! It proved as worthless as you!"


     MARINGUEZ strode from the office, joined Tompino at the foot of the
stairs. He looked up to see Dominio's light turn out. Tompino questioned his
chief:
     "Where next? Back to the casino?"
     "No," returned Maringuez. "Summon our men, Tompino."
     "What! Our bandits? Here in Tia Juana -"
     "Summon them! Other fighters have been puny. It is time that we showed
what men from the Sierras can accomplish. Bring them silently, Tompino, as
stealthily as we have done in the mountain passes. You have seen the Carioca
Club. Bring them there."
     Tompino, about to start away, ventured one more question that he hoped his
chief would answer.
     "We shall find someone there?" asked Tompino. "At the Carioca Club?"
     "Yes," replied Maringuez. His purr was confident. "We shall find El Ombre!"
     Tompino was leering as he sneaked away. The time that he had long awaited
was due: Another meeting between Maringuez and The Shadow; not like the one
wherein Poroq had figured. This time, Maringuez would be in full control. He
would settle scores with The Shadow.
     A squad of bandits, to Tompino's way of thinking, could accomplish more
than a regiment of soldiers. With his own men behind him, Sancho Maringuez
would prove invincible.
     Tompino could foresee the finish of The Shadow.


     CHAPTER XVII

     THE BANDIT SNARE

     SOON after Maringuez had sent Tompino to summon the banditti, an important
event occurred in the faro room at the casino. There, Harry Vincent had been
playing along with luck, wondering if The Shadow would return.
     It was after ten o'clock. Unless The Shadow came soon, he would not come
at all. Harry knew where he would go instead; to the Green Room at the Carioca
Club. It never occurred to Harry that The Shadow could have encountered
trouble. Harry had seen The Shadow experience luck on his own at gaming tables.
The faro dealer's deliberate effort to give The Shadow money was something that
Harry had not guessed.
     Once again, The Shadow had left Harry in security. Every event in Tia
Juana had pointed to a lone-wolf game by The Shadow. Since last night, Harry's
position had been becoming constantly stronger. The faro room was a safe spot
for Harry; moreover, there was a chance that he could still be useful there.
     Harry, himself, suddenly saw the opportunity.
     Without his knowledge, much had happened. The report of The Shadow's death
had reached Quetzal. An order to change the meeting place was moving about, even
before Maringuez's visit to Dominio's office. Harry saw the result.
     An attendant said something to the faro dealer. Apparently, it concerned
the matter of bets; but the sequel was a new drumming from the dealer's nimble
fingers. As Harry fumbled with his chips, he heard the coded message, in its
slow Morse:
     Quetzal... Change meeting place... Boundary House. Time the same...
Quetzal.
     An interval. The message was repeated. The dealer was gambling with more
than the faro layout. He was counting on foreign agents being here. There was
little reason why they should have left. It was not ten-thirty.
     Some of the players left the faro table. None looked like men that Harry
would expect as persons engaged in espionage. More followed; the faro game was
going dead. Chances were large that in the general exodus, the wanted men were
starting on their way. Harry could not tell by appearances.
     He had a duty; and an important one. The Shadow had gone to the Carioca
Club, in the heart of Tia Juana. Instead, his destination should be the
Boundary House, a hotel actually but a few feet from the border line between
Mexico and the United States. It was Harry's job to get to the Carioca Club,
find the Green Room and tip off The Shadow to the change.


     DEPARTURE was easy. More players were cashing in their chips. Harry's
supply was not a large one. He proffered them, received his money and went out
through the casino.
     The crowd was as large as ever. Near the roulette table, Harry saw Creeth,
back from the racing club. The portly horse fancier was shaking hands with some
old friends. Harry dodged out of sight.
     A chat with Creeth; introductions to more people, would certainly delay
Harry's task. Avoiding that complication, Harry reached the front of the casino
and started a hasty walk toward the Carioca Club.
     Though Harry did not know it, he had begun a race to the Carioca Club
itself. His way would be barred if he did not arrive there before Maringuez's
bandits. Luckily, the distance was short.
     Harry arrived at the Carioca; found a good throng on the lower floor. The
upstairs was completely darkened, presumably unoccupied. Harry found an outside
stairway and reached the second floor.
     There was a dim light in an inner hall. By its glow, Harry found the Green
Room. He listened at the door; then cautiously turned the knob and entered. To
his surprise, he found the Green Room illuminated.
     Its windows were heavily curtained; they shut off this inside light. There
were curtains, too, that denoted connecting doors; others, for servant entries.
This room had been completely fitted and furnished, but never used.
     All the curtains were green; so was the plush upholstery. The room looked
deserted; its mild color gave it an inviting appearance. Quetzal had certainly
chosen a good place to conduct his insidious business. It was one spot that no
one would ordinarily suspect.
     The thought struck Harry again that, after all, this Green Room would not
be the meeting place. Harry knew that he must find The Shadow as soon as his
chief entered.
     A curtain stirred as Harry turned toward the outer door. From a draped
window ledge, The Shadow stepped into view. He was cloaked in black; he had
chosen a sure hiding place to await the coming of Quetzal and the unofficial
representatives of certain foreign governments.
     Seeing Harry, The Shadow approached; so noiseless was his stride that
Harry was startled when he heard the whispered command:
     "Report!"
     Turning to find The Shadow right beside him. Harry gave the news of the
faro dealer's new message. The Shadow breathed a laugh of understanding. He had
foreseen that prospect, but had doubted that Quetzal would change plans at so
late an hour.
     Whether or not Quetzal had found Dominio was unimportant. The Shadow had
counted upon Harry to spot a new signal. He had known that Harry would come
here if such were given. There was plenty of time to reach the Boundary House.
Quetzal, the foreign agents as well, would probably be delayed by the shift of
arrangements.


     THE SHADOW turned toward the door, and Harry followed. The noise that made
The Shadow pause was one that Harry did not hear. Following The Shadow's gaze,
Harry saw a rustle of a curtain at the side of the room. The Shadow watched it;
his quick eyes caught the glint of a gun muzzle.
     The weapon projected too far to be a revolver. It was a rifle - an unusual
weapon to be used in Tia Juana. At that moment, The Shadow could have opened
quick battle with the unwary rifleman. His gloved hand went toward his
automatic; then paused.
     Harry chewed his lips as he saw the halted gesture. Alone, garbed in
black, The Shadow could have faded from that threat. With Harry present, The
Shadow was handicapped. Harry had a gun of his own; he reached for it. He was
ready for battle, even if he should become the opening target. At least,
Harry's few shots would help The Shadow.
     That was not to be. The Shadow whispered restraining words to his agent.
The rifle had partly withdrawn; only its very muzzle showed. The threat,
however, had doubled. There was a second rifle beside the first.
     Harry looked quickly across the room. Two guns were thrusting through from
the curtains opposite!
     More rifles showed at the curtains to the serving exits. Muffled sounds
arrived from windows hidden beyond green drapes. The Shadow turned with Harry
to see a gun at each window. Men with the agility of monkeys had scrambled up
the outer wall to take their posts there!
     The Shadow laughed.
     His tone was a low one; more of understanding than of sinister mirth.
Harry saw his chief look toward the outer door. It, alone, could afford
departure; but chances of reaching it would be small. Guns could blaze from
every other quarter. The Shadow and Harry Vincent were completely covered.
     The last slim chance faded, as Harry stared. The main door, alone
uncurtained, swung inward. Rifles bristled from the hallway, aimed by
rough-clad men who wore sombreros. They looked like the bandits that they were.
Four in all, they spread, as they heard a purred command.
     Between the ranks stepped Sancho Maringuez, in his fancy attire. His lips
held their downturned smile. He bore no weapon; he needed none. His loyal
banditti held full control. Maringuez saw The Shadow, walked toward the waiting
figure in black.
     Behind Maringuez came Tompino, wearing a grin that spread across his
scar-lined face. Maringuez had found The Shadow; and Tompino was glad. At last,
El Ombre would meet his match. Perhaps Maringuez would duel him alone, since El
Ombre was so fixed that he could try no tricks.
     That would be good, thought Tompino. Very good, since The Shadow had a
lieutenant, with whom Tompino could duel. Tompino surveyed Harry; decided that
the Americano would be a worthy foe. Then, with a scowl, Tompino dismissed his
idea as a dream. It would be better, easier for Maringuez to turn his bandits
into a firing squad, to mow down The Shadow and the man with him.
     Tompino had come to the very thought that was gripping Harry Vincent. This
was to be the finish, Harry decided. At best, there could be short battle, an
effort to dispose of a few foemen while murderous rifles pumped. Harry saw
ridicule in the smile that Maringuez wore. He was impressed by The Shadow's
pose. His chief was standing with folded arms, awaiting the bandit's approach.
Perhaps The Shadow had some counterstroke in mind. Yet Harry could not see just
how it would serve.
     From The Shadow's own story of past events, Harry had linked Maringuez
with Quetzal. He had recognized that the bandit leader and the superspy could
be one. Here was the proof of it. Quetzal - otherwise Maringuez - had changed
the meeting place so that he could trap The Shadow while the foreign agents
were assembling elsewhere.


     THE SHADOW spoke, in sibilant Spanish. His words were addressed to
Maringuez. Harry understood their import.
     "We meet at last," declared The Shadow. "I have awaited you long,
Maringuez."
     "Ah, si, El Ombre," returned Maringuez, with a bow. "This meeting is
indeed a timely one."
     To Harry, The Shadow's words were merely an effort to stay the slaughter.
He took Maringuez's reply for a mock courtesy. The next occurrence came as a
total surprise to Harry. His bewilderment, though, was outmatched by that of
Tompino.
     The Shadow peeled the glove from his right hand. He stretched his hand
toward Maringuez. The bandit received it with a hearty shake. The Shadow's
laugh was a pleased one; Maringuez's smile showed real enthusiasm!
     Five seconds later, The Shadow was introducing Harry to Maringuez, who, in
turn, was ordering the astonished Tompino to have his men lower their rifles.
From a spot where doom threatened, the Green Room had become a place of mutual
accord.
     "I thought that Quetzal might be here," apologized Maringuez. "That is why
I posted my men. We must make ready, in case he arrives."
     "There is no need," returned The Shadow. "I saw your men from the window.
I was coming out to meet you when Vincent arrived with news."
     "Concerning Quetzal?"
     "Yes. He has changed the meeting place to the Boundary House."
     Maringuez registered a troubled look. He remarked: "Our time is short -"
     "Not too short," interposed The Shadow. "We cannot reach the Boundary
House before Quetzal arrives there. But we can enter long before he leaves."
     "Only one could enter there, El Ombre. You, alone."
     "You need not be distant, Maringuez. Cover from the south. I shall provide
for the north. We can turn the boundary meeting to our advantage."
     The Shadow and Sancho Maringuez had united in a common cause; together,
they were sounding the doom of Quetzal. Again, they shook hands. Maringuez
brought in his men for new instructions; The Shadow motioned Harry to follow
him.
     Outside the Carioca Club, The Shadow gave Harry a message to take across
the Border and place with Vic Marquette.
     As Harry nodded his response to the instructions, The Shadow faded with
the night. His whispered laugh was a sibilant echo, stranger than Harry had
ever heard it in the past.
     Amazing had been Harry's past adventures with The Shadow; but never had
any been as astounding as tonight's. The Shadow's meeting with Sancho Maringuez
still held its dumfounding spell upon Harry Vincent.


     CHAPTER XVIII

     AT THE BOUNDARY

     "NONE pass but Quetzal! His token is the jeweled serpent!"
     The words were whispered by skulkers, as they met on gloomy streets close
by the Boundary House. The order had come from Quetzal, promptly at half past
ten. The master-spy had bided his time well.
     Quetzal had waited for the foreign agents to reach their destination. They
were in the Boundary House, protected by the cordon of desperadoes that Quetzal
had supplied.
     Buildings were thick where the road led across the Border. The Tia Juana
of Mexico blended into the California town of the same name, except for the
short space where all traffic stopped. There, the customs officials of both
countries surveyed all passers.
     Away from that lighted street, buildings thinned. Instead of watchful
officers, a high, barbed-wire fence stretched in all directions. That barrier
was not impassable; but getting through was not an easy task. American infantry
were near, in case they were needed along the boundary. On the Mexican side,
patrolling cavalrymen were constantly on duty.
     Fugitives were not infrequent from California into Mexico. They stood
little chance of making a run for it, with a horseman in pursuit.
     The Boundary House was not on the main street. It was just off the line of
main traffic; and it was entirely on the Mexican side of the Border. The north
wall of the old hotel stopped short of the barbed-wire fence, allowing about a
dozen feet of space. Patrolling cavalry rode through there whenever they were
on duty.
     The Shadow knew that Quetzal's men would be covering the Boundary House,
but he doubted that they would be numerous near the northern wall; Quetzal had
not conspired with the military in Tia Juana, as he had in Ensenada. Suspicious
prowlers would be apprehended if they lurked along the north wall of the old
frame hotel.
     That situation did not handicap Quetzal. In a sense, it made matters
somewhat easier for his depleted squads of men. They could leave the boundary
line to the regular patrol. Quetzal had simply ordered that a watch be kept
near the fence. That fitted with The Shadow's expectation.
     The Shadow had preserved a former advantage. Quetzal had not found
Dominio. It was Maringuez who had discovered The Shadow's prisoner; and
Maringuez had seen to it that Dominio would pass no further word. Shrewdly, the
bandit leader had posed as Quetzal for Dominio's benefit.
     Quetzal's change of the meeting place was simply a matter of policy. He
wanted his men away from the Carioca Club; so that any rumor, started by The
Shadow while alive, would be regarded as a false report if the law visited the
Carioca. As for the new meeting place, Quetzal was positive that it remained
unknown. Word of it had not gone out until after the supposed death of The
Shadow.


     SILENT, obscured in his garb of black, The Shadow neared a northern corner
of the Boundary House. So far, he had easily circled Quetzal's men. Creeping
closer, The Shadow sensed that his luck might soon end. He resorted to other
tactics, when he heard a harsh growl in the darkness near him.
     One of Quetzal's hidden pickets had heard a slight sound that The Shadow
purposely made. That noise was bait, to draw the lurker from cover.
     Waiting, The Shadow counted on the chance that the picket would retire.
Instead, the man crept closer; gave a sharp hiss to call a comrade. Peeling his
gloves from his hands, The Shadow answered in whispered Spanish. He gleamed a
tiny flashlight, close to the ground. The two men saw a coin of Quetzal beneath
the glow. The token glittered from The Shadow's palm.
     Questions in the darkness. The Shadow replied that he was a new guard,
sent to cover the space between the hotel and the boundary line. Quetzal's men
guided him to his objective, reminding that he would have to be careful
whenever the military guard went past.
     At the corner, one picket returned to his post. The other remained with
The Shadow, never guessing the identity of his companion in the darkness.
     Against the white wall above his shoulder, The Shadow saw a window. He
whispered that he would take this post. The picket started along the wall. As
soon as the man was gone, The Shadow scaled to the sill above.
     Tapping the window pane, The Shadow waited, confident that a response
would come. The window slid slowly upward; a gun muzzle nudged The Shadow's
ribs. One false move would have meant death from the inside guard. The Shadow
held off doom by whispering the name that called for further countersign:
     "Quetzal!"
     The guard struck a match below the window level. Into the flame light came
The Shadow's hand, flashing its disk. The gun muzzle moved away. The Shadow came
over the sill to join the guard. He heard the man whisper:
     "What is the message?"
     "No message," returned The Shadow. "I come at Quetzal's summons. I am to
pass."
     The guard's answer was a fierce, half-suppressed snarl. He teethed the
words: "None pass but Quetzal!"


     THE utterance told The Shadow his mistake. He twisted; felt the movement
of the guard's elbow as the man tried to cover him with the revolver. Sliding
his hand swiftly through the dark, The Shadow located his adversary's gun wrist.
     The bend that The Shadow gave that wrist not only turned away the gun; it
brought the guard halfway to the floor. The revolver struck The Shadow's ankle,
and scarcely thudded as it deflected to the floor. The Shadow sped fingers to
the thug's throat, stopped the gargly cry that the man tried to give.
     Others were questioning hoarsely in the darkness. The Shadow lost no time.
Catching the doubled body of his gulping enemy, he hoisted the man off the floor
and pitched him headlong through the window. There was a thump from the ground
near the wire fence.
     "What was the trouble?"
     The Shadow answered the hoarse question with a snarl of his own. He was
faking the voice of the overpowered guard.
     "An impostor," he told the newcomers. "He tried to pass. I told him that
none pass but Quetzal."
     "Si," was the approving answer. "None pass but Quetzal."
     "His token," added another voice, "is the jeweled serpent."
     The Shadow struck a match; showed his token. It satisfied the other inside
men. From the window, however, The Shadow could hear a stir on the ground. The
stunned guard was recovering. In darkness, The Shadow prepared for emergency
battle. He drew an automatic halfway, then let it slide back.
     There were hoofbeats from the turf. A Mexican cavalryman galloped up,
flashed a light upon the half-groggy guard and grabbed the fellow's collar. The
Shadow heard the soldier haul the fellow away. There would be no trouble from
that captured watcher.
     Other sounds followed from below the window. Pickets had met; were
discussing the capture. They decided that the prisoner was the newcomer who had
joined them in duty. One less picket did not matter.


     FROM then on, The Shadow's course was one of double caution. The other
guards retired. He heard the creak of the door through which they passed.
     Closing the window, The Shadow followed. From the darkened room, he
reached a dim silent passage, that showed several doors ajar. Quetzal's men
were listening from other darkened rooms. The Shadow glided noiselessly, chose
a door that was shut tight. Easing it open, he stepped through to a new spot of
danger.
     He was in a tiny passage that opened directly into the dingy room that
served as hotel lobby. There, he saw Mexicans chatting; fraternizing with a few
Americans who looked like riffraff. A tiny mechanical piano was pounding from
the corner, adding to the hubbub.
     Some of those men, perhaps, were actual guests at the decrepit hotel. Most
of them, however, were agents of Quetzal. The place was a hot-bed of foemen. One
glimpse of The Shadow, and guns and dirks would have flashed in plenty.
     It chanced that no one saw The Shadow. The rear of the hotel belonged to
other guards, so no glances went in that direction. Moreover, The Shadow stood
in a spot that was reasonably dark. His shrouded form could not have been
glimpsed at first sight.
     One thuggish rogue did stare in The Shadow's direction. He saw what he
thought was an outlined shape; fancied that it stirred. Shiftily, the fellow
approached; then he grumbled and went back to his chair. There was no one in
the tiny passage.
     The Shadow had gone. All that the watcher detected was his last motion of
departure. Picking an opening to the right, The Shadow was creeping past the
corner of a short hallway that was totally dark.
     The direction of the hallway told that it led to the far side of the
hotel. This was the route by which visitors had entered; the way by which
Quetzal was due to come.
     Lurkers guarded the darkness. Pressing close to the wall to avoid a
passer, The Shadow felt the edge of a stair above his head. He reached for the
next step; found it lower down. Inching his way forward, he sought to gain the
bottom of the stairway. A stir, up ahead, caused him to pause just short of his
goal.
     A door had opened; then closed. There was a new arrival in the pitch-black
hallway. A flashlight gleamed low, advancing toward the bottom of the stairs.
Guards were close beside the man who held the light in one hand, while he
flickered its rays upon his other palm.
     There, almost within The Shadow's reach, was a shimmering cluster of tiny,
resplendent gems. They sparkled from a large medallion that lay heavy in the
outstretched hand. Those tiny stones were valuable because of their matching,
rather than their individual worth. They formed miniature mosaic, grotesque in
its design.
     The figure typified upon the jeweled medallion was the feathered,
dart-eyed image of Quetzal. This was the master token of all those that
depicted the plumed serpent god.


     THE light's glimmer ended. Footsteps sounded upon the stairway. The
jeweled token was no longer visible; it was being carried by the master-spy who
had taken the name of Quetzal for his own.
     The Shadow had gained opportunity to deal with Quetzal. Shots in the
darkness could have dropped him. The Shadow let the opportunity pass. Death
would have been his own lot, also. Quetzal's followers were too many, here in
this lower hall that offered The Shadow nothing in the way of a barricade.
     Stealth still remained The Shadow's policy. He used it with uncanny skill,
as the followers of Quetzal whispered at his elbow. Their master had gone to a
room above. They would let no one follow. As they took that oath, their very
words were belied.
     Upon the stairs that Quetzal had ascended, The Shadow progressed upward.
Silent, he remained invisible in the darkness that Quetzal had provided for his
own secret entry.
     Quetzal's meeting was to have a visitor as uncanny as one returned from
the dead. Alone, in the midst of surrounding foes, The Shadow was bringing his
challenge to Quetzal.


     CHAPTER XIX

     DEBTS REPAID

     MEN were grouped about a squatly, plain-topped table, their figures
scarcely discernible. The only light in the room came from a hanging lamp with
battered cardboard shade, poised just above the table.
     Only the trickles of light that filtered through the broken cardboard,
showed traces of the grouped men. Their hands and arms were visible, however,
around the table; and their low-toned voices were plain.
     The men were speaking English; but with varied accents. Each in turn, they
were addressing the man at the table head. He had arrived but a few minutes
before.
     "We have decided," came a foreign tone. "At first, we planned to bid for
the information that you possess. Then we decided that such would be useless.
The facts will be good for all. We shall share the cost."
     The speaker paused, while men beside him gave their affirmation. There was
a short halt in the transaction; then came a rasped statement from the man at
the head:
     "Quetzal never bargains. You have been told the price."
     "Of course," agreed one of the foreign agents. "We have the money for you.
Two million dollars that you ask. But before we deliver it, we must see the
plans."
     The hands of Quetzal produced a long envelope. From it, they removed a
batch of thin papers. Drawn with a fine pen were diagrams in black ink. Some
were maps; others, details of military fortifications. Charts of roads formed a
clustered network on one paper.
     Piece by piece, Quetzal had wormed information from different spies. No
one man had gained items of complete value. Only by putting the bits together
had Quetzal succeeded in gaining the whole. His harsh laugh told that story.
     "The information is complete," announced Quetzal. "When old spies failed
me, I employed new ones. Whatever was lacking in any particular, I learned
through special search. Each item is placed where it belongs, to form a work of
art. Like this -"
     From his hand he flashed his jeweled medallion. Quetzal's visitors uttered
their admiration when they saw the tiny mosaic, with its intricate workmanship.
Quetzal could have chosen no better example with which to compare his
documents. The foreign agents recognized that the prepared plans were as
complete as Quetzal claimed.
     There was one lone objector. He began:
     "These diagrams are not explanatory. They mean nothing as they stand. The
symbols upon them do not tell what each item represents."
     "Here is the code." Quetzal plucked one paper from beneath the others. "It
bears the symbols. Space did not permit them on the diagrams. Furthermore" - his
tone was convincing - "I kept them separate until tonight. Since one was useless
without the other, the loss of either would not have mattered."


     THERE were exchanged mutters of admiration from the foreign agents. Paper
crinkled. Into the light, hands began to thrust their quota of money. Quetzal
was being paid his millions in bundles of American currency.
     Pushing the plans aside, Quetzal spread the cash in the light, noted the
prevalence of thousand-dollar bills. With a chuckle, he reached to the side,
raised the bundle of plans to pass them to his visitors.
     "Which of you requires these?" queried Quetzal. "I suppose that you have
decided that among you. Copies can be easily made -"
     A hand stretched in from the table side. Upon its third finger shone a gem
that captured Quetzal's eye. He would have paid high for that jewel; it was as
unique as his gemmed mosaic.
     Quetzal recognized the stone as a girasol, a jewel prevalent in Mexico;
but this fire opal was matchless. He wondered which of the lucky foreign agents
had found so rare a buy in Tia Juana, where good jewels were seldom seen.
     The gem splashed living fire from its ever-changing depths. Quetzal saw
azure change to crimson; then to deep maroon, as the hand moved back into
darkness. The plans were gone with it.
     Quetzal began to bundle his money. He halted, as he heard sharp words
among the foreign agents.
     "I was to hold the plans! That was our agreement!"
     "It was you who took them!"
     "That was not my hand -"
     "Nor mine! Perhaps he -"
     The voices shifted to a babble of foreign expression. One man's hand
clamped upon Quetzal's fist. The man ripped an accusation that Quetzal
understood. They were accusing him of using an accomplice.
     "You tricked us! The plans were false!"
     "Wait!" Quetzal bawled the interruption in English. "Someone else has
tricked us! Someone still within this room! Stay here, while I find the lights."
     He started from the table. The foreign agents blocked him. Furiously,
Quetzal shouted that they were fools; that the thief was escaping, would be
gone within a few brief moments. Quetzal shouted that the room must have light.
     A switch clicked from the wall, close by the door. Quetzal's request was
granted. Old wall fixtures provided light that showed the entire room. Quetzal,
head down, was wresting himself from the clutch of three fighting men, who
stopped their brawl when the lights came.
     Near the door was the person who had pressed the switch; one whom Quetzal
trusted. For a moment, the foreign agents thought that she could have snatched
the plans, for they remembered that a dark-skinned woman had received them here.
     The woman at the door was Dolores Borenza. She had come to the room when
she heard the excitement. Beside her was the opened door. In her right hand,
Dolores held a revolver; avidly, she was searching for a living target. Her
eyes gleamed as she saw the one she wanted.
     Just outside the doorway was The Shadow. His hands were gloved again; he
was a figure of jet-blackness. Like his girasol, the fortification plans were
gone from view. They were tucked deep in a fold of his black cloak.


     WITH one hand on the doorknob, The Shadow gripped an automatic with the
other. He had expected to be clear; to have the door closed before Quetzal and
the foreign agents began their pursuit. Dolores, sliding in before The Shadow
reached the door, had managed to stay the cloaked visitor's departure.
     Dolores was the immediate menace. The Shadow saw her from the corner of
his eye. As the woman swung the gun and jabbed it toward The Shadow, she made
the thrust too far; The Shadow's free hand whipped from the knob. It caught
Dolores by the wrist.
     The murderous senorita fired wildly, as The Shadow ended her aim. The
Shadow's forearm tugged with piston-like power. His fingers relaxed. Dolores
took a headlong lurch across the room. She hit the wall; her gun bounded from
her hand. The Shadow swung to aim for Quetzal.
     Away from the foreign agents, Quetzal was facing The Shadow; he was
tugging to produce a gun, while his face glared its rage. The man's broad
countenance was distorted; but even when he played the role of Quetzal, he
could not lose the features that belonged to him. The vicious face of Quetzal
was that of Latimer Creeth!


     ONLY luck saved Creeth at that moment. He was slow on the draw; and The
Shadow did not intend to wait for the murderer to gain a weapon. Had the duel
been unmolested, The Shadow could have dropped Creeth while the self-styled
Quetzal was still fumbling for his gun. The foreign agents provided the
intervention that saved Creeth.
     They wanted their plans. They wanted escape. They saw The Shadow as a
blurred shape; took him for an ordinary intruder. They surged forward,
shouting, straight into his path of fire.
     The Shadow shifted from the doorway. These men were not murderers. Scummy
though their enterprise might be, they were following orders that they had to
take.
     In the hallway, The Shadow flung the grapplers wide. He chucked one for
the stairway; hoisted another into the room where Dolores had been hidden;
flung the third to the end of the darkened upstairs hall. Wheeling to handle
Creeth, The Shadow saw the arch-spy coming for the door. Again, The Shadow had
no chance to handle Creeth.
     The shot that Dolores had fired was a damaging one. It had echoed far -
down to the floor below, out through the partly opened window. Quetzal's men
were piling up the stairs. Reserves were pouring to the lower hall from
everywhere.
     The Shadow ripped shots down the stairs. Men fired upward; but they were
stumbling as they came. The Shadow gripped the only one that arrived; poured
more lead upon the others. He emptied his automatic in a hurry, then flung the
weapon downward to crack the skull of a rising foe.
     That attack had faltered. The Shadow thought of Creeth. Struggling with
the man who had reached him, The Shadow spun the fellow about and used him as a
shield while getting another gun. Propelling his victim ahead of him, The Shadow
bowled toward the door of the meeting room. He found Creeth at the threshold.
     Creeth fired viciously; clipped his own man with the bullets. He hoped
that slugs would penetrate through to The Shadow; but they did not. The Shadow
chucked his human shield toward Creeth, just as the murderer started more
gunfire. With the slumping thug sprawling between, The Shadow leaped for
Creeth, to knock away his gun.
     Creeth dived back into the room, losing his aim without waiting for The
Shadow. There, he turned suddenly, sprang for the door again as The Shadow came
through. There was time for neither to aim. They grappled; went staggering
across the room. They hit the table; it clattered. Creeth's money fluttered all
about them. The portly murderer saw the sight, as he began to weaken under The
Shadow's pressure.
     Creeth saw more. Dolores had risen. She was standing by the low-silled
window, aiming with her revolver. She wanted one chance to clip The Shadow.
Creeth tried to help make it, but could not.
     The Shadow, too, saw Dolores. He was holding Creeth's bulk in her
direction.


     DESPITE his predicament, Creeth grinned. His leer was ugly; it expressed
his thoughts. Tumult had begun below; shots were barking everywhere. From that
bedlam came the pound of footsteps on the stairs. Rescuers were at hand. They
would clip The Shadow from their angle, if Dolores failed to get him from hers.
     That thought inspired Creeth to tremendous fury. He became what he had
prided himself as being: Quetzal, the serpent master, whose ways were more
powerful than those of man. He had fared badly in a scuffle with The Shadow at
Ensenada; but Tia Juana would tell a different story.
     Creeth writhed with amazing strength. He could not pluck himself from The
Shadow's grasp, but he did accomplish a result that brought a cry of murderous
encouragement from Dolores.
     As stamping feet reached the top of the stairs, Creeth forced The Shadow's
gun hand downward. With it, Creeth shoved the muzzle of his own revolver hard
against The Shadow's neck; Dolores saw Creeth's finger on the trigger; heard
the muffled report of a gun. She shouted shrill triumph that faded on her lips.
     Creeth, not The Shadow, was the one who slumped. White smoke that curled
upward was from an automatic pressed against Creeth's ribs. The revolver was
dropping unfired from Creeth's fingers. The Shadow had dealt a mortal wound to
Quetzal.


     CREETH'S finish brought sudden elation to Dolores. Her service with the
superspy had reached its end tonight. The reign of Quetzal was ended; that did
not matter to Dolores. She had gained the opportunity that her murder-crazed
mind had long craved: her chance to settle with The Shadow.
     This time, it would be a certainty. The Shadow was turning to meet her
aim; and with it, he was settling his own doom. Even if The Shadow fired first,
he would die. The surge of men from the stairs had reached the door. By turning
toward Dolores, The Shadow had rendered himself helpless before that outside
attack.
     Dolores, as she aimed, was willing to take her chance of death, because it
nullified The Shadow's hope of life. There would be no time for him to deal with
others. At last, The Shadow had reached a final trap!
     The Shadow's aim overtook the move of the senorita's gun. So far as
Dolores was concerned, The Shadow was winning by a split-second, although the
woman did not recognize the fact. For a long instant, The Shadow's gun muzzle
loomed straight for the eyes of the murderess. The gloved finger paused on the
trigger of the .45, and made no further move.
     A rifle shot had boomed from outside the hotel. With it, Dolores jolted.
The senorita swayed; staggered back to the low sill. She lost her balance at
the window; plunged out into the darkness below. No cry came from her lips.
Dolores Borenza was dead before she pitched to the ground outside.
     A revolver spoke from the doorway of the room. Its aim was not toward The
Shadow. The bullet was for Creeth, who had made a frenzied effort to rise,
despite his mortal wound. The slug stopped the vanquished Quetzal; rolled him
upon the heaps of blood money that were strewn on the floor.
     The shot was not necessary. Creeth never could have strengthened to take
aim at The Shadow. The man who had fired did not know that. The Shadow turned
to greet Sancho Maringuez.
     The bandit leader and his men were the ones who had arrived from the
stairs. Only Dolores had mistaken them for Quetzal's reinforcements. The Shadow
had known that Sancho would arrive.


     "ONE takes lessons from El Ombre," Maringuez purred, smoothly, as he
looked toward the window. "You already had the senorita helpless when Tompino
fired from outside. Yet Tompino did well, from the distance where I placed him.
     "As for Quetzal" - Maringuez looked toward Creeth's body - "I can see that
you held him also, El Ombre. He was as good as dead when I gave him another
bullet."
     With downturned smile, Maringuez ordered his bandits to gather up the
bloodstained money that surrounded Creeth. In his smooth tone, Maringuez spoke
to the unhearing dead man:
     "Ah, Senor Creeth, you paid me one thousand pesos for your protection.
Perhaps you were sorrowed when I fired - if you were not already too unhappy
because of El Ombre. But remember: I, Sancho Maringuez, have kept my word. I
gave protection to Latimer Creeth; but I made no bargain with Quetzal."
     Battle had ended outside the hotel. The last of Quetzal's followers were
captured. Some had been bagged by Maringuez's outside men. Others, trying to
squeeze through the boundary wire, were grabbed by patrolling Mexican cavalry.
     Those who did get through were captured also. Men met them on the other
side. Those same men came through the fence, piled into the hotel and hurried
upstairs. They were United States government men, headed by Vic Marquette.
Harry Vincent had brought them to the scene of battle.
     Sancho Maringuez, turning, looked for The Shadow. The bandit's eyes
blinked. El Ombre was gone. As Maringuez still stared, puzzled, Harry arrived
with Marquette. The Shadow's agent introduced Vic to Maringuez.
     Smilingly, the bandit leader ordered his men to turn over Quetzal's
wealth. They did so, giving the cash to Vic and the government men. Bandits
lifted Creeth's body, carted it from the room. Marquette spoke anxiously to
Maringuez:
     "The stolen plans - where are they? We captured the foreign agents, but
they had no papers on them -"
     "The plans are safe," purred Maringuez. "You will receive them soon,
senor, from one who will never lose them. They are in the keeping of El Ombre!"
     From somewhere in the stilled outer darkness came a weird, untraceable
token that justified the statement of Sancho Maringuez. A startling burst of
sinister mirth, it rose to eerie crescendo; then faded, shuddering into the
quiet of the night.
     That laugh told the triumph of The Shadow.


     CHAPTER XX

     THE SHADOW TALKS

     THERE were three who met, the next night, on the veranda of the hotel at
Agua Caliente, near Tia Juana. There, Vic Marquette introduced Sancho Maringuez
to Lamont Cranston.
     "Mr. Cranston served as contact with The Shadow," explained Marquette.
"The Shadow has delivered the papers that he took from Creeth. The spy's plans
have gone to Washington, with the two million dollars."
     Maringuez seemed pleased at meeting a friend of The Shadow. Vic suggested
that Sancho tell the details of the part he played.
     "I work with the Mexican government," spoke Maringuez, with a smile. "They
ask me, senor, to search for Quetzal. So I become a bandit on the road between
the Colorado River and Tia Juana. With two lieutenants, Poroq and Tompino, I
watch the hacienda owned by Latimer Creeth.
     "I suspect that spies are using that hacienda; but I am not sure. I learn
that two Americanos come there, so I search. I have gone back to the mountains,
when - pouf! - Poroq disappears. There is only one place he could go: to the
Ensenada road.
     "I send Tompino there to look for him; and I follow with my men. Tompino
thinks that he has shot El Ombre; instead, we find Poroq. I was very glad. I
did not know that El Ombre was in Mexico, or I would not let him make so bad a
mistake."
     Pausing, Maringuez produced the token that he had taken from Poroq's body.
He showed the disk, with its device of Quetzal.
     "I suspect Poroq," explained Maringuez, "because he has tried to kill El
Ombre. I find this token with Poroq. I had sought long to gain a token used by
Quetzal. Tompino and I, we go to Ensenada. There, I learn that El Ombre has
been captured; that he is to die at dawn.
     "I had been told of Moyo, the Indian. To him, I give a message, with the
order signed by the president of Mexico. It reaches Lieutenant Coroza. El Ombre
is safe. Ensenada becomes - as you would say it - 'too hot' for Quetzal. So we
go to Tia Juana.
     "Still, I do not suspect Creeth. El Ombre came from the hacienda. Perhaps
he is one friend to Creeth. Perhaps not; it may be that Creeth bribed Poroq. So
I wait in Tia Juana. I meet El Ombre. Then all is well."


     FROM his pocket, Maringuez brought a crumpled piece of paper. Upon it were
written sentences that were broken by a torn edge. The paper read:

                            Latimer Creeth is Quet
                            He will visit Tia Ju
                            to give plans to for
                            agents. Watch for si
                            from dealer at faro t
                            in main gambling casi

     "I found this in Creeth's pocket," remarked Maringuez. "It is the big part
of a note that he must have torn away from James Rikeland. Perhaps The Shadow
found the rest."
     In Cranston's leisurely style, The Shadow produced the remainder of the
note, as though he had just remembered it. He added it to the large portion, to
produce the complete message:

                            Latimer Creeth is Quetzal.
                            He will visit Tia Juana
                            to give plans to foreign
                            agents. Watch for signal
                            from dealer at faro table
                            in main gambling casino.

     Maringuez eyed the small section at the right of the message. His
expression showed both wonder and admiration, as he tried to figure that
trifling clue. He heard the quiet voice of Cranston explain:
     "The Shadow knew that the first sentence named Latimer Creeth as Quetzal.
The syllable 'zal,' explained that; because it finished the word 'Quetzal' and
was followed by a period. The second line ending in 'ana' obviously referred to
Tia Juana. The words 'foreign' and 'signal' were also plain by their endings.
They gave the key to the message.
     "Quetzal - Tia Juana - foreign agents - signal. A signal that would be
given where? That might lie in the last word. Many words end in 'able'; one
such word is 'table.' To The Shadow, that signified the probability that the
signal would be given at a gaming table; and the finish of the message proved
it. The message would not end with the word 'no'; therefore, those two letters
could mean only the word 'casino.'"
     About to ask a question, Maringuez heard Cranston add:
     "The Shadow picked the faro table, because it was the only one of its kind
in the casino. There were several roulette tables. To specify one such table,
with the longer word 'roulette,' the fifth line of the message would have
carried too far."
     "Very good, senor," commented Maringuez. "Yet how did El Ombre judge the
length of those lines? He had but one bit of paper."
     "From the same pad that Rikeland had used previously, when he gave a
complete message to Moyo. The paper was the same. The Shadow compared it; and
therefore knew the size of the sheet."
     Maringuez was thoughtful, as he rolled his cigarette. He purred the one
question that still puzzled him:
     "Why did El Ombre think that Latimer Creeth was Quetzal? Why could not the
message have said Sancho Maringuez?"
     "Creeth suggested that The Shadow go to Ensenada," was the calm reply of
Cranston. "He also joined Poroq, outside the hacienda, when Poroq was searching
for the two Americans. Poroq's ambush was a one-man job. When you and your men
arrived, you did not shout for Poroq. You did not expect to find him there.
     "The Shadow understood all that. He learned more, the night in Ensenada,
when Moyo came to the prison at the presidio. Moyo described the man who gave
him the order for Lieutenant Coroza. His description fitted you, Maringuez."


     ALL was explained to Sancho Maringuez. He recognized that The Shadow had
divined every detail. Maringuez knew that he did not have to explain how he had
kept Tompino in ignorance of the fact that he - Maringuez - was working with The
Shadow.
     Keeping Tompino uninformed was Maringuez's only policy, after Poroq had
demonstrated treachery. Maringuez knew that the hand of Quetzal could reach far.
     Silence fell upon the veranda. It was moonlight at Agua Caliente; the soft
Mexican night was languorous. The crimes of Quetzal; the battle of the night
before, seemed very far in the past. Yet, as the three talkers parted, Sancho
Maringuez gained chilling recollection of a sound that he had heard before. He
thought that his ears caught the echoes of a sibilant laugh - a haunting tone
that came from spaces of the past.
     The laugh could not be Cranston's, thought Maringuez; for Cranston's
masklike lips were immobile, when Maringuez glanced quickly toward the spot
that he had just left. Nor did Vic Marquette suspect the source, when he, too,
caught the tone. Like Maringuez, Marquette classed the whispered mirth as a
recollection of the past.
     Yet it was from Cranston's motionless lips that the weird taunt had come.
The triumph laugh of The Shadow!
     Echoes of The Shadow's laugh would hardly be stilled before the Master
Crime-fighter would become aware of a "Death Token" that brought destruction to
all who came within its sphere of influence!
     "Death Token" - a silver franc piece - yet many would die before The
Shadow pierced its secret!


     THE END