Doc Savage: Skull Island (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (16 page)

“If so,” returned Doc, “that would mean this island may be the tip of a larger land mass now swallowed by oceanic waters.”

“Stranger things are possible,” admitted the captain.

They could see that the great wall bisected the entire island on its easternmost edge, not counting the low-lying peninsula. It ran right to the sheer edge, which afforded no opportunity for access by sea.

Captain Savage mused, “This is a formidable feat of engineering, as great as the Great Wall of China. Greater! For that barrier was made of stone, which resists the elements. This wall is faced with what appears to be mortar, which must be continually maintained against the ravages of time and kept up where necessary.”

“There are no records of any people capable of such work in this part of the world,” agreed Doc.

Here and there, amid the wilderness of fanged reefs surrounding the island, could be discerned places where the ground sloped down to the sea. But they were rare, and invariably too treacherous to permit a sailing vessel the size of the
Orion
to put in safely.

They moved all the way around the bleak shoreline, at times steering around stony pinnacles resembling dark stalagmites jutting up from the lapping water, finally coming back to the approximate spot where they had first spied the skull-faced mountaintop. It took most of the day to do so. The island was that large.

They realized that the great peak was further inland than it had first seemed. Its brooding mass dominated the plateau on which it stood.

There, the fires still burned. Someone was feeding the flames.

“Inhabited for certain, Mister Savage.”

“But no sign of Dyaks, at least,” returned Doc.

Captain Savage’s voice became stern. “Do not jump to unsupportable conclusions, First Mate,” he warned. “The
bangkongs
of the Sea Dyak are constructed so that they can be taken apart and carried overland. The
balla
was headed in this direction, as I reckon. They might have beaten us here, and secured their canoes in the jungle, out of view.”

Doc frowned. He was studying the great grim prominence that they were calling Skull Peak, now baking in the morning sun.

Captain Savage noticed this. “You have an observation to share, have you?”

“The size of that peak is impressive,” Doc said slowly.

“I would class it with the Rock of Gibraltar. What of it?”

“The winged creature we all saw pass before it, by comparison, would have to possess a wingspan of fifty feet.”

“Preposterous!”

“If a deep-sea octopus can reach the size of the one we encountered last night, I would respectfully suggest that, in this strange spot, very little can be so classified.”

“Point taken, Mister Savage. But I will have to see your pterosaur with my own eyes to credit it.”

AS the morning mist continued to burn off, birds began to rise off from the jungle.

At first, these feathered creatures appeared unremarkable, although they could not be identified at this distance. They climbed, swooped about, then returned to their perches, to all appearances acting like ordinary birds the world over.

Doc kept one golden eye on the plateau of the isle, expectantly.

He was rewarded when something as black as a bat lifted into view on spasmodic wings, climbed high, then settled into a soaring series of circles, gliding closer and closer to the open water.

“Sir, high to port.”

Captain Savage almost dropped his spyglass when he spotted it. He trained the tube on the gliding black thing.

After he fixed it in his glass, and followed it for a time, he announced, “Mister Savage, it appears that I owe you an apology.”

Doc had his binoculars up and studied it. His trilling came to life, low and amazed.

“Rhamphorhynchus,”
he said.

“I am familiar with the name,” allowed the captain. “But I understood that they never reached a size any greater than a common crow.”

“In Jurassic times, this was true—according to the fossil record,” replied Doc.

“In that case, we have stumbled across an island that the Deity forgot.”

As they watched, a second, then a third pterosaur lifted into the sky. All behaved much as albatrosses do, soaring and gliding, occasionally diving into the sea and bringing up a tuna or some other fish in their long, needlelike jaws. These they gobbled whole, fishy tails wriggling as they disappeared down the creatures’ gullets.

After one had gorged its fill, it began circling aimlessly. Doc watched its bald black head, noting the tiny eyes, and thinking how much like a combination bat and buzzard the ugly thing was.

Craning its head around, a blood-red eye on one side of the creature’s skull fell upon the white sails of the
Orion.
Abruptly, it convulsed its membranous wings and angled toward them, spiked tail snapping about.

“Coming this way!” Doc warned.

“Strike sails! Strike sails!” Captain Savage hollered.

They fell upon the lines. Canvas began rattling down on their hoops.

They got the mainsail down all right, but before they could go to work on the other sheets, a great shadow fell over the deck. A sharp hiss breathed down upon them.

Doc had his automatic out, cocked it, and began blazing away.

A smoking round went through one wing. But it was like poking a hole in a sail. There was no other result than the hole. Black wings gathering, it descended. Convulsing, its four claws gathered to clutch and snatch.

Doc shifted his aim. Squeezing the trigger, he broke one of the bony spars that framed the translucent membrane of the right wing.

This brought results. Throwing back its head, the
Rhamphorhynchus
gave forth a piercing scream. Flapping its surviving wing wildly, it attempted to regain altitude. But it was too late for that.

The creature stumbled, collapsing on the forward deck. There it fluttered in distress, extended claws scratching the planking with desperate jerks.

Doc moved toward it, fascinated, his trilling mixing with the distressed sounds of the wounded monster.

Somehow, it scrambled painfully to its feet and stood there, head switching this way and that, resentful red eyes glaring at them, like a distorted stork.

From the helm, Captain Savage yelled, “What are you waiting for, Mister Savage? Dispatch that monster!”

Doc Savage hesitated. Here was a specimen of prehistoric life rarer than the rarest jewel. To destroy it went against his scientific training, against logic.

Wheeling, Captain Savage barked out words in the Mayan tongue.

Chicahua came striding up, a thin cane tube in one brown fist. He inserted something long and thin into one end, applied that end to his lips and puffed out his wide cheeks.

A feathered dart blew out the other end and embedded itself into the creature’s round black body. The thing jumped, began stamping about in circles, ruby-red eyes glaring furiously, and emitting weird gasping noises.

It did not take long for the poison to do its work.

The
Rhamphorhynchus
flapped madly, its head swayed and the ruby eyes began closing. Its mouth snapped open and closed, exposing crocodile teeth.

When it collapsed onto the deck, a glaze of death had already touched the closing orbs.

“Curare poison?” asked Doc.

“Mayans also have their blowguns,” Captain Savage retorted stiffly. “And you are expected to snap to when ordered, Mister Savage.”

Chapter XX

THEY USED BOATHOOKS to jockey the dead
Rhamphorhynchus
to the starboard rail and pitch it over the side. It made an ungainly pile going overboard. One wing—the broken one—caught on the brass railing, or rather its hook-like talon did. Doc unhooked it with his rigging knife.

The splash it made was sloppy, but the thing failed to sink. Crimson pooled in the water. The head floated the way a dead fish would, one eye staring sightlessly. Angular wing portions poked up from the brine, and the tracery of its wing veins showed as a grisly webwork.

Doc Savage watched it for a time, lost in thought. His golden eyes whirled with a busy briskness.

At length, Doc left the rail and faced his glowering captain.

“I will not reprimand you, Mister Savage,” his father began. “I detected no cowardice in your demeanor. No doubt you regretted the dire necessity of the responsibility before you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“But I will not brook a repetition of such hesitancy. We have a mission to accomplish. Is that perfectly understood?”

“I understand, Captain.”

“Let us see to our shared duty, then.”

“What are your orders?”

“We will reconnoiter the island posthaste. Sunset is not far off.”

“I will make ready the dory.”

Doc got the sturdy little boat squared away to go over the side.

When he was done, the bronze man addressed his father.

“A landing party of two persons would leave the
Orion
virtually undefended against attack, and the remaining crewman unable to sail off by himself.”

“I know that!” snapped the elder Savage. “Your point, First Mate?”

“Allow me to go ashore alone.”

Captain Savage gave that suggestion considerable thought. He seemed of two minds. Finally, he said, “I give you three hours. No more. If you do not return within that span of time, I will be forced to go after you, jeopardizing the ship.”

“Thank you, sir. I will not need the dory.”

“Carry on, then.”

Doc Savage unbuckled his gun belt and stripped to his duck trousers. He donned a Bowie knife in its belt scabbard.

Throwing a line over the bow, the bronze giant began to climb over.

He was startled to see a trio of black tentacles reach up and pull down the dead
Rhamphorhynchus.
It went under with a great noisy gulp.

Doc decided to take the dory, after all. He retrieved his gun belt, donned it grimly.

He lowered the dory off the other side of the schooner, away from the disturbed water.

Taking the oars in hand, he pushed off and began rowing shoreward.

BEACHING the craft on a sandbar, Doc immediately smelled the smoke of a cooking fire. He upended the dory on the sand and began his reconnoiter.

Moving inland, he at first noticed that the lush foliage consisted of swaying palm trees of various varieties, and spidery ferns. Intermixed were leafy trees with great branches. This was no ordinary jungle. Some of the growth he could not easily classify.

The phenomenon of still standing on a pitching deck, a legacy of having been aboard ship for so many weeks, plagued him. The bronze giant put it out of his mind, and soon he failed to notice it. It was an example of the mind-over-matter mental discipline he had learned in the Orient, long ago.

There was a village. He gave it wide berth, found a coconut palm, and climbed it by the simple expedient of looping his belt around the glass-smooth bole and “walking” up the trunk by shifting the leather loop upward every few steps. It was a very efficient manner of ascent.

Reaching the thick crown, Doc grabbed a cluster of supporting fronds and peered downward.

A cluster of huts lay in the shadow of the great wall. The people who inhabited were ebony of skin, and went about in clothing not far removed from the primitive.

Studying them, the bronze man failed to categorize them. They were not Malays, nor Indians. Some of their barbaric dress suggested faraway Africa. Yet their faces and limbs displayed the scarring and tattooing that smacked of the Maori and other South Seas island people.

Several minutes of observation caused Doc to turn his attention to the fabulous wall of impressive construction. It was carved. The decorations did not register on his consciousness as anything he had ever seen or studied.

Doc decided to make for the wall.

Unfortunately, as he started down, the feathery palm fronds rustled. Or perhaps it was the wind. Either way, the sound attracted attention.

Doc squeezed the slick bole with his muscular thighs, arresting his descent. He hung exposed, one hand free, the other wrapped around the trunk.

More quickly than he could react, Doc was surrounded by dark warriors bearing stout and very lethal spears. The points appeared to be chipped stone. Flint, perhaps.

A warrior attempted to hurl his projectile at Doc.

The bronze man set himself and one metallic hand snapped out, catching the spear by its hardwood shaft.

A rumble of surprise came from the assembled warriors below. Plainly, this display of physical prowess made a tremendous impression upon the warrior band.

Reversing it, Doc sent the spear back at its hurler. The point chucked the dirt precisely between two toes of his naked feet.

The warrior jumped backward, shocked at the speed with which his weapon came whistling back at him.

The other warriors were equally impressed. They hopped back, then began laughing uproariously.

Doc decided to join in their laughter. It did not have the friendly effect the bronze man had hoped for.

Another spearman drew back and let fly.

Doc ducked that one. The point struck the trunk in the spot where his head had a moment before been silhouetted. The stout shaft quivered strongly.

Doc extracted the spear, examined its tip. Flint.

This one Doc used to make a different point.

He sent it flying toward another palm trunk, transfixing it. This way it would not come back to harass him.

A third native gave it a shot. He set himself exactly in the style of an Olympic javelin hurler, then launched.

Doc caught that one easily and, reversing the weapon, sent it after the previous spear. It landed directly before the other.

More spears came hissing at the bronze man.

He caught them all, sent them flying in the direction of the other palm.

He missed only one. That spear—the one he had artfully placed between the toes of his first attacker—landed in a jungle pool, and sank from sight.

The warriors stood mute with empty hands. Their striated faces were unreadable. They might have been impressed, angry—or simply without emotion.