Doc Savage: Skull Island (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (28 page)

Below, anchored amid the fangs of stony reef, sat the
Orion,
just as they had left her.

Stormalong Savage came up and peered downward, his wrinkled face breaking up into more lines and creases. His feline-yellow eyes blinked.

“I fear,” he said, “as hardy as I may be, I am not up to such a descent.”

“I will carry you, Grandfather,” offered Doc, retrieving the grappling hook and line from the thorn bush where it had been secreted. He began readying the grapnel.

“You may call to mind the legendary Hercules,” Old Stormy observed, “but I weigh a steady two hundred pounds. And I would be a dead weight to you.”

“I can manage it,” said Doc. “First, I must climb down to that ledge below where I can set the grapple. The difficult part will be to negotiate the climb down these high rocks.”

Captain Savage urged, “Go ahead, son.”

Reversing himself, Doc began his descent.

The hours of marching and climbing had not impaired Doc’s muscular strength. The bronze man went down the high rocks, finding hand- and foot-holds as if he possessed the many feet of a spider.

Reaching the ledge, Doc set the grapple’s hooked flukes in place, then dropped the line. Giving both a series of testing tugs, he looked up.

Somewhere in the distance, a great roar came. It seemed to reverberate, a blast of sound that was repeated over and over.

Doc came scrambling up.

The other Savage men stood waiting, heads turning and eyes seeking the source of the roar.

“Could that be Kong?” asked Captain Savage.

Stormalong shook his white head, “No. Kong does not make such a distressful sound. That is a bellow of mingled fear and rage.”

“I have never heard the like,” returned the captain.

“How could you? If I am not mistaken, that is the cry of a bull Triceratops.”

Doc became interested. “A Triceratops? I would like to see that.”

“We have no time,” snapped Captain Savage impatiently.

The sounds of bellowing distress came again and again.

“What could he be fighting?” wondered Doc. “I hear no other sounds.”

Stormalong said firmly, “Men. He is fighting men.”

“Dyaks then,” snapped the captain. “And they are not far off. Let us be about our own business.”

Abruptly, Doc Savage seized his grandfather and shouldered him unceremoniously. The old man started to protest, but the indomitable power of the bronze man’s massive muscles checked him.

Doc used his belt to tie Stormalong’s wrists together, and with the man hanging off him like a long, loose-limbed rucksack, swung out into space.

Doc moved down the cliff side, ignoring his grandfather’s protests that this was undignified.

Reaching the grappling hook, Doc took hold of the line, tested it again and seemed satisfied.

This time, he wrapped cloth around the line to protect his hands and went down the rope in a series of breathtaking spurts. The old man hung on, and was down on the deck of the schooner before he realized that the trip was over.

The only difficulty they had was when Stormalong’s dangling feet struck the deck before Doc did. They upset.

Doc quickly extricated himself, and untied the old man’s wrists.

“That,” the old clipper captain said, “was quite an adventure.”

“Are you all right?”

A youthful grin split the bushy white beard. “Now that I stand on the deck of a good ship,” said Stormalong happily, “I feel like Ahab.”

They looked up.

Doc expected to see Captain Savage at the high point of the cliff face. But he was not there. Nor did his stern mustached face peer down from the high stony lip, as would be expected.

“Where has that youngster gone off to now?” Stormalong huffed.

Doc said, “He would not tarry. It is not like him.”

“I fear that you do not know your father as well as I know my son, Doc. It is just like him to change his mind at the last minute.”

Grasping the dangling cord, Doc said, “My concern is that Dyaks changed it for him.”

Stormalong stopped him.

“Are you forgetting something?” he asked pointedly.

Doc looked momentarily blank, then comprehension dawned on his impassive features.

“Ammunition!”

Plunging below deck, the bronze man returned with every pocket bulging with .45 caliber cartridges for his Annihilator drum.

Doc began the difficult ascent anew, his face a bronze mask of muffled concern.

Chapter XXXIV

DOC SAVAGE WENT up the line in half the time of his first ascent.

He made his way to the grappling hook, and tore up the side of the upper cliff with such speed that he sent small stones tumbling down. There was no time to worry about that now. His grandfather could dodge them, if necessary.

Topping the cliff, Doc pulled himself the last few feet by grasping a tough bush and levering himself up on the high, rocky ramparts of Skull Island.

Of his father, there was no immediate sign. Doc took to tracking his spoor.

It was simple. Trampled grass was slowly straightening. His acute eyes picked up these minute movements, rather like the ticking of tiny green watch hands.

There were other tracks, too, Doc saw. Barefoot men. Some had missing toes. Dyaks. No question about it.

A few yards of tracking and the situation became clear. Hearing approaching men, Captain Savage and Chicahua made for the trees. Dyaks were hunting them. They were not yet prisoners.

No doubt this maneuver was calculated to lure the Dyak warriors away from the cliff edge, where they were certain to spot the
Orion
far below.

Doc followed them, Annihilator at the ready, its recharged magazine rattling with fresh cartridges.

After a time, the tracks ceased to be distinguishable.

Doc looked for other clues, such as tree bark snapped to point in a specific direction or knife hash-marks on the boles of trees. He found none, soon realized that his father dared not make any such signs, lest they alert the jungle-wise Dyaks to his moving presence.

Doc decided to take to the trees, hoping that their higher coigns of vantage would provide a better view of the situation.

Using his acute sense of smell, he attempted to locate the personal scents of his father and Chicahua.

Moving along tree branches carefully to keep from making sounds or disturbing roosting birds, Doc detected the metallic smell of blood. A lot of it. He moved in that direction, losing no stealth as he increased his speed.

But the only human odors he detected were those of the fish-eating Dyaks.

Doc maneuvered to avoid them, but not entirely. If they were tracking the others, he needed to keep them within easy reach.

Once, a tiny tick caused the bronze giant to freeze in place. His supernaturally acute hearing fixed the sudden sound as coming from behind him.

Flake-gold eyes questing about, Doc spotted the bright-feathered fletch of a Dyak dart. It had just struck a spot not far from him.

Using his ears, Doc could detect soft, stealthy footfalls. The Dyak hunter was creeping around the bases of nearby trees, looking upward, blowpipe carried in both hands. His long weapon and tall hornbill feathers gave away his position.

Carefully, Doc removed the splinter-like dart from a nearby branch and moved with infinite quiet until he had positioned himself above the searching man.

Sighting with one eye, Doc held the dart point downward over the Dyak’s black-haired head. He let it drop.

The vicious thorn landed perfectly, seemed to become just another feather decoration in the man’s head.

The unlucky Dyak gave out a yelp of surprise. The sound was swallowed by the creeper-laced trees.

The man reached up, and snapped the projection. When his eyes fell upon it, recognizing it as his own handiwork, he simply sat down on the dirt floor and waited to die. It took less than a minute. He made no other outcry. He simply fell over on his side and expelled a final gusty breath.

Doc moved on, taking even more care. He encountered no more searchers.

In an area clear of trees, Doc discovered the Triceratops that had bellowed so loudly not a half-hour before.

The great gray beast lay upon one side, looking from a distance like a rhinoceros, but many times larger than the greatest African specimen of rhino.

Doc descended and approached the immobile thing.

The creature was dead. Gore splattered the surrounding grass. There were other odors. As had been the case with other dinosaurs encountered on Skull Island, this monster displayed distinct differences from known specimens, suggesting an evolutionary path that diverged at some point in prehistory, producing dinosaur offshoots not recorded in the fossil record.

Slipping around to the head, Doc discovered that the three horns—one on the tip of its nose and the other matched pair over the eyes—had been cut away and carried off. As trophies, no doubt.

The bony crest or frill that marked the Triceratops had been left intact. No doubt it was too unwieldy to remove, never mind lug off as a war prize.

Doc examined the creature. Its skin was a thick, pebbled hide. Touching it, the bronze man found it bristly. Here and there, in the interstices between the alligator-like scales, protruded long Dyak darts. The thing had been brought down by a dozen poisoned darts.

Spears had been used to worry it as it laid dying, Doc saw. There were large holes in the softer parts. One eye had been gouged out. That cruel act perhaps had induced its demise.

Thinking of the potent Dyak darts, Doc Savage climbed the beast and, finding an opening, began to skin out a portion with his Bowie knife. It was no easy task. A man of lesser muscular strength could not have done it. But after several minutes of hard work, Doc had cut out a rectangular patch and peeled it off the red inner meat.

Carrying it to the ground. Doc worked it with his knife until he had a heavy poncho, which he draped over his body, using a hole he had cut in the center for his head.

No doubt he looked bizarre. But now he was armored against Dyak darts where no skin showed.

Flapping heavily, the bronze giant moved on.

DOC SAVAGE came to a mud hole, paused. Deciding that his bronze skin was too shiny with perspiration, he stopped and began to smear his face and hands with a brownish-gray slop that provided cover against the ever-changing jungle background.

Looking like some primeval colossus, Doc continued on his way. It was difficult to move with his usual stealth, the flapping Triceratops hide making silence all but impossible. But the advantage he hoped it would provide him against sudden ambush was too great to abandon.

Soon, Doc detected the odor of a Dyak man. He swept in a circle toward the scent, seeking to slip up on the man, while keeping out of his sight.

As Doc moved closer, he heard a familiar clacking and nattering sound—a coconut crab.

Doc came upon the dead Dyak lying sprawled under a palm tree, where he died. A crab had come upon him and was testing the body for reaction. No doubt the crab was considering whether to consume the cadaver.

Slipping up from the opposite side, Doc examined the body while the crab continued to worry the corpse, like a dog digging at something interesting.

Doc discovered a dart in the man’s shoulder. It was no Dyak dart. It was shorter, and the fletching was different. The dart had come from Chicahua’s blowgun.

Satisfied that he was searching in the correct direction, Doc moved on, leaving the crab to its carrion meal.

Cautiously, Doc Savage allowed his trilling to range free. The sound mingled with the jungle noises, blended with them, seemed to belong, yet added a distinct note that would carry.

Doc did this at intervals, trying to sound like some feathered songster passing from tree to tree, trilling when at rest. The bronze man had only the vaguest notion of what songbirds might populate Skull Island, but he imagined the Dyaks were no more knowledgeable than he in that regard.

After a time, there came an answering whistle.

Doc paused, rotated his head, trying to fix the return call.

Memory of the whistling deathrunner came rushing back to him. Its mimicry had been uncanny. He knew the whistling was not the work of Old Stormy this time. That was certain.

Would his father be making the sound? Or was this a cruel trick of the bird-like deathrunners?

Doc drew back the charging handle of the Annihilator, cocking it. He was ready either way.

WHEN it happened, the ambush managed to come from an unexpected direction.

Doc had been moving from tree to tree, using the thicker boles as added protection, when up ahead, several Dyaks popped out of concealment.

They had been crouched amid a profusion of ferns, and these shook not at all before they leaned out, protruding blowpipes making soft
puff-puff-puff
sounds.

Doc recoiled, but not before he could detect the distinct ticks of darts striking against his Triceratops-skin poncho.

Finding cover, Doc quickly checked his arms and legs. No dart marks. None had embedded themselves into any part of his hide poncho, therefore they must have been repelled.

Doc decided that to unleash his submachine gun would be to draw more attention than he wanted.

So he laid the weapon down carefully, and showed himself.

A blowpipe puffed and Doc flashed back to cover.

The dart whisked by, missing completely. It knocked aside fluttering leaves, finally falling to earth somewhere.

Once more, Doc showed himself. But this time from the other side of the sheltering trees.

This brought two more blowpipes into play. Darts spurted.

One whisked by his arm. The other found lodgment in his chest—fortunately in the interstices of the poncho.

Picking up a rock, Doc lobbed it toward one clump of ferns.

The rock found a head. The resulting sound was very satisfying. A meaty thud, followed by a falling form.

Pitching toward another tree, Doc worked his way around, moving with the practiced stealth of a jungle stalker.

Now it was a deadly earnest case of hide-and-seek. Darts flew. None stuck. The bronze giant was flashing from tree to tree like dark lightning.