The Apaches were flinging themselves into the attack in an effort to capture the intruder before he could flee to safety. There had been shootings in this dive before; and always the participants had tried to escape by the obscure door.
Two husky cutthroats were leaping forward with flashing knives; behind them were others armed with revolvers. Against such odds, only flight seemed feasible; but had The Shadow turned his back to flee, he would have become a target for six deadly weapons.
Instead, he did the unexpected. Barely a dozen feet lay between him and the surging crew. Two automatics were in The Shadow's hands. The pistols roared into the teeth of the attackers!
A knife slashed the side of the black cloak; the man who held the blade pitched headlong.
A revolver shot clipped the slouch hat; the man who fired fell before he could deliver another shot. The Shadow was among the Apaches now. All but one were sprawled along the corridor.
The one fellow had flattened himself against the wall. He had escaped the raking fire, and now his hand swung upward with its automatic.
The Shadow's aim was quicker. His final bullet struck the Apache's wrist. As the arm fell, The Shadow, with a burst of derisive mirth, reached out and plucked the gun away from its owner. The Shadow's empty automatic dropped at the man's feet.
Sweeping along the corridor, The Shadow reached the front room of the Poisson d'Or.
There, a crowd of grinning Apaches were awaiting the return of the killing squad. They were used to these affairs. Always, a gang of cut-throats would rush away and come back with a victim's bullet-riddled body as their trophy.
Into this scene came The Shadow! Before the Apaches realized that the impossible had happened, the cloaked man's automatic was again at work.