In spite of his powerful lunges and swinging fists, Stan was held down and his hands were laced to his sides by the little men. He was jerked to his feet and pushed over to a flare.
A short, fat man, dressed in a red silk waist and wearing baggy silk pants of a bright yellow hue, advanced to face Stan. Two beady, black eyes looked searchingly at the flier over a bushy beard that was trimmed to a point at the chin. The beard parted and the man chuckled.
“So, a Flying Tiger. Te Nuwa is indeed honored.” He stepped back and waited for Munson to step up.
Munson was grimy and his shirt was torn. One eye was swelling shut. There was a savage leer on his lips.
“A friend of yours, Von Ketch?” Te Nuwa asked softly.
“The fellow I told you we had to get out of the way,” Munson snarled.
“Could it be that he has spared my dacoits a pleasant night’s work?” Te Nuwa questioned.
“He has,” Munson said grimly, whipping out a German automatic. “With him out of the way, I can handle things back at the base!”
“We have spent a very profitable evening,” Te Nuwa said pleasantly. He lifted a hand. “I allow no blood to be spilled on my grounds. It is bad for my little men.”
Munson scowled at him. “I’m in a mess, how can I explain this black eye?”