Bursts of flame were coming from all quarters now. The room was ablaze with revolver shots. Cleve Branch was the target, and bullets smashed against the table which he had chosen for a buffer. Cleve’s answering shots were pitifully small and few.
But he still had help. The man at the door was fighting with him. There, from an angle, the hidden marksman could see all portions of the room. He had a dozen targets, and he chose them well.
Yellow hands spread and dropped their weapons. Fingers that were pressed to triggers suddenly lost their purpose. The sharp, staccato barks of the automatic were tokens of unerring aim.
A strange silence dominated the room as the echoes of gunfire died away. Cleve, bewildered, gradually realized the explanation.
His revolver was empty and useless in his hand. He had brought no reserve supply of cartridges. He knew that his weapon had done little damage. Those shots from the door had turned the tide!
Prone, helpless Chinese were sprawled about the room. Those who still remained active were too wary. They were crouching, fearfully, in corners; or they were back behind the refuge of the doorways.
They knew too well that their own shots would betray their presence. They had seen the havoc wrought. Not one dared risk encounter with that superman whose aim was everywhere!
TO Cleve, the silence became a sign that all his enemies were fallen or had fled. In that he was wrong. His knowledge of the Chinese nature was at fault.
These men were snipers at heart. They had attacked openly because they were many against one. Now, realizing their error, those who remained uninjured were lying low, awaiting a false move by the man whose life they sought.
The blackened door was refuge, in Cleve’s mind. The bursts of flame that had emerged from it were signs of sure protection. With gunfire ended, he felt that escape was the only course. Escape, before fresh attackers might arrive.