Slade shook his fist at the cowering men.
“Are you all white-livered kittens?” he shouted. “Are you going to let one man bluff you? Rush at him again, all together!”
The Phantom tensed himself for the attack. He quavered inwardly as he recalled that only two slugs remained in his cartridge chamber. He crouched behind the pistol, fixing each man in turn with a piercing gaze. The line advanced with a rush. Someone, more intrepid than the others, seized one of his legs and tried to pull him to the floor, but The Phantom disposed of him with a vigorous kick. The next was dispatched with a well-aimed bullet, and the third went reeling to the floor from a blow with the butt of his pistol. He took careful aim before he fired his one remaining shot, and a scream of agony told that the bullet had found its mark. Again the line wavered and broke. On the floor lay five who had been maimed by The Phantom’s bullets and one who was still unconscious from the blow with the pistol. Of the original eleven combatants only five remained, but also The Phantom’s ammunition was spent, and at any moment one or more of the wounded might revive and get back into the fray.
Slade’s face was white with helpless rage. He could not know that The Phantom’s cartridge chamber was empty. He stamped his foot and again shook his fist at the men. Taking advantage of his temporary distraction, The Phantom glided forward and, stooping quickly, snatched a pistol from the cramped fingers of one of the wounded. Then he threw down his own weapon and hurried back to his position at the door.
Slade noticed his sudden move out of the tail of an eye, but not soon enough to prevent it. He turned again to the remnant of his little army. His face was dark and bore an ominous scowl.
“We will get him yet,” he declared, snarling. “Form a line and take aim, but don’t shoot to kill. Aim for the arms and legs only. Don’t shoot until I give the word.”
The men spread out in a half circle, and The Phantom saw five pistols pointing at him. There was a malevolent grin on Slade’s lips as he watched the preparations. Then he stepped to one side of the half circle.
“Fire!” he commanded.
The Phantom ducked just as a chorus of shots rang out. A stinging sensation in the shoulder told him he had been hit, but he choked back the cry of pain that rose in his throat. A dense film of powder hung in the air, and for a few moments the firing line was only a row of shadowy forms. The Phantom thought of flight, but someone opened a window and the smoke quickly scattered. In the next instant the blare of a motor horn was heard in the distance.
The men exchanged quick glances, and The Phantom fancied he saw a look of relief on Slade’s face. In the muttered conversation that followed he made out the name of Mr. Shei, and new misgivings caused him to forget the stinging pain in his shoulder. Slade’s handling of the situation had exposed him as a bungler, but for Mr. Shei’s ingenuity and resourcefulness The Phantom had a high respect. If Mr. Shei had arrived, as the blare of the horn and the conversation among the men seemed to signify, then a new and more critical situation awaited him.