Wallie screamed his orders. "In the corner—shoot 'em—drill 'em!" He pushed from behind at the instant that the lawyer Lonergan took a bullet from the masked man's gun on the hand, and one from Bryant's big revolver in the belly. He pitched forward, and fell across the writhing form of Lombard. Shrill yells and cries of pain rose far above Wallie's livid curses.
The Lone Ranger snatched the gun from Bryant's hand. "No more shooting," he cried.
He leaped toward the doorway, head low, and charged. Vince had swung to face the surprise counterattack. His gun blazed, but the Lone Ranger was beneath the slug. He crashed into Vince with such force that the runty killer was fairly lifted off his feet and tossed across the room, while his gun was jarred out of his hand.
Wallie, knowing his life depended on the fight, scrambled up from the floor. The thought of losing made him frantic as he swung his empty gun in a vicious blow at the Lone Ranger. The blow struck the Lone Ranger on the bandaged shoulder. A sudden stab of pain like a white-hot iron gripped his side as Wallie followed up his advantage. Still clutching the heavy revolver, he rammed it muzzle first into the masked man's chest.
The Lone Ranger couldn't breathe. The blow must have broken at least one rib, possibly more. He felt his legs caving beneath him, while his brain fought valiantly against the dizziness that threatened to engulf him. He threw both arms about Wallie and locked his hands behind his adversary's neck. He was falling, and helpless to prevent it. He was barely conscious of the fact that Wallie kept driving more blows to his stomach; blows that were too short to have much power behind them. Close to his ear, he heard the other's voice as a meaningless jumble of hissing syllables.
Somehow the Lone Ranger's weight threw Wallie off his balance too. The masked man had the fighter's heart that dictates action after the mind has ceased functioning. A mighty heave—a wrench that split the half-healed wound wide open. Still falling—it seemed that time stood still—and split seconds were like hours—and then a crash.
The masked man's fall was padded by the body of the man he fell on. His superhuman effort had thrown Wallie beneath him as the two went down. Wallie's head smacked hard against the floor.
Now Vince had a gun, was on his feet and coming close. His ugly face looked like a leering demon's as he raised his gun. The Lone Ranger rolled, and as he did so, drew his extra weapon. Two guns spoke as one, their muzzles so close that the flames were intermingled. To the Lone Ranger, close to acrid fumes and scorching flame, it seemed that hell had burst into the room. And then—oblivion.