"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 268 - Murder Lake" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

Box and men were over the brink of the shaft. The Shadow had only thirty feet more to climb and he
would be there in a moment. He started to speed his ascent, and the impetus was remarkable. The
Shadow didn't just increase his rate; he actually doubled it!

Then he saw why.

THE rope was going upward, too. Instead of loading the box, the crew on the cliff was first hauling up
the rope ladder. A good break for The Shadow if he could turn it to his own advantage; but seconds had
become highly precious. Rather than waste time drawing a gun, rather than handicap his progress in the
slightest, The Shadow threw everything into his climb.

It wasn't quite enough.

The Shadow's clambering hands were still a dozen rungs short of the top when faces appeared around
the outlet. The Shadow couldn't see those faces plainly because the sunlight was behind them. But the
ruddy glow, slicing down into the shaft, gave an all too good impression of The Shadow.

There were startled shouts above. The rope stopped its upward pull. Those startled men had seen the
thing they feared: the figure of an interloper on the rope ladder, as betokened by its weighty drag.
Revolvers gleamed in the sunlight as ugly fighters whipped them out to deal with the foe that they knew
could only be The Shadow.

If they thought they had the cloaked avenger at a disadvantage, they were wrong. Hanging to the swaying
ladder, The Shadow kept a one-hand grip while his other fist produced a .45 automatic with twice the
speed of those drawn revolvers.

Given another half second, The Shadow would have begun to snipe those foemen like targets on a
shooting-gallery rack. They were on the verge of a surprise that would have been their last on earth if
there hadn't been a cooler head among them.

Another shout was answering the excited calls and, with it, the rope ladder quivered. An instant later The
Shadow was plunging downward, ladder and all, in a fling that caused his shots to ricochet from the walls
of the shaft.

The sunlit outlet was narrowing to a tiny hole from which faces had bobbed away. Revolvers were
answering over the edges, but they were merely bouncing bullets from the shaft walls. Neither The
Shadow nor his rival marksmen were clipped in that short-lived fusillade. Credit for the result belonged to
another hand - that of the man who was hauling up the ladder.

He'd simply released the winch, letting the ladder drop and take The Shadow with it!

At the bend in the shaft, The Shadow almost stopped himself, but his clutch on the stony wall was ruined
when the gathering folds of the ladder came tumbling upon him, lashing his head and shoulders with the
slap of a cat-o'-nine-tails. With a jolt The Shadow went through the bottle-neck to the stone-strewn pit
below.

Revolvers were still barking when a sharp voice stopped them. The man who had dropped the ladder
told his companions to forget their guns and help him with the ropes. As they tugged, the ladder stuck
momentarily, as though hands still clutched it. Then, jerking free, it came up from the shaft.