As Halstead raced into the corridor Anson Dalton was close behind him, his hand yanking a revolver from his pocket. 245
There would have been a shot in another instant. Halstead might have been badly hit.
But Hank Butts, on duty in the corridor, had heard the cries.
As the door was thrust open Hank leaped forward. Out from under his rain coat he brought that same old hitching weight.
There was an instant, only, for action, but young Butts was an expert with the weapon he had made his own.
His hands flew aloft, then descended, just as Anson Dalton’s left foot was thrust forward in his running.
“Halt, you––” roared Dalton.
Bim! Down came the hitching weight, and landed squarely across the left foot of the pursuer. Dalton let out a fearful yell, while his revolver fell to the floor. There was a flash and a crashing explosion in that confined space; the weapon had been harmlessly discharged.
As for Dalton, he swayed dizzily for a few seconds, trying to lift the injured foot. Then, with a groan and a burst of ugly language, he sank to the floor.
Hank darted in, securing his hitching weight and backing off with it once more.