Doc Savage: Skull Island (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (38 page)

“Can you swim?” asked Doc suddenly.

“Of course!”

“If I take you with me, can you hold your breath and not panic?”

Penjaga stiffened her spine. “I will walk through fire for Kong.”

“First, I need to thin these ranks. Wait here.”

“Wait!”

“If you stay low, they will not find you,” Doc called back.

“No. Take these, short Savage.”

From her pouch, Penjaga extracted a number of needle-like barbs.

Doc examined them. They resembled sting-ray spines, but belonging to a type he had never encountered. Dark and vicious, they undoubtedly came from an evolutionarily divergent species, similar to the giant devil ray.

“I catch them in the pools and eat them,” explained Penjaga. “Their barbs are filled with a venom that strikes swiftly.”

Studying them, Doc took out a milk-thistle spikelet and saw that it could be attached to the base.

WITHOUT saying a word, he removed his bamboo blowgun from his belt and began tying the downy tufts to the sting-ray spines with thread. They fit perfectly.

Doc asked, “How fast does this stuff work?”

“It causes a man to fall faster than he can take two breaths. But he does not die. He simply goes to sleep.”

“Killing them would be better for our purposes,” Doc said flatly. “A dead warrior does not rise to fight again.”

“It is what I offer you. Would you have me take them back?”

“No,” replied Doc. “Thank you.”

The bronze giant melted into the bush without saying another word.

It was late afternoon now. Darkness would have been preferable. But the bronze man had to work with what he had.

Crouching as he moved closer, Doc inserted one of the spiny darts into his blowgun. He had too few to test one on an animal first. It was do or die.

Sneaking up behind one warrior, Doc sent a spine into the back of the man’s neck.

A hand went to the spot reflexively. Probably the man had an inkling of what had befallen him before he dropped to the grass. But it didn’t matter. He was soon on his face.

On a hunch, Doc extracted the dart from the man before moving on. Sting-ray spines were a venom reservoir, just as a wasp’s sting is an injector for its venom. It was entirely possible that the darts could be reused before they lost their potency.

Sweeping around, Doc lay down on his stomach and began creeping closer.

He had spotted a Dyak warrior loitering at the rear.

Into his bamboo blowgun went the dart. Doc raised the mouthpiece to his lips. He put the entire explosive power of his indrawn breath behind it and expelled it all.

Doc had aimed the dart for the side of the man’s neck, where the carotid artery could be seen pulsing. It was a tough target to strike, but the dart sped true.

The missile appeared as if by magic in the warrior’s neck. This man yelled and hopped in place before collapsing. But when he fell, he stayed down.

Going to his side, Doc retrieved his dart and went in search of another picket.

This time, he filled every tube. The thick spikelets remained in place.

In this manner, the bronze giant picked off unwary Dyaks where they loitered in reserve, awaiting the struggle for control of Skull Mountain to be decided.

When he had vanquished all that he could without risking raising an alarm, the bronze man tucked the ingenious blowgun into his waistband, and returned to Penjaga’s side.

“We will go to the river now,” he announced.

Penjaga followed. They circled Skull Mountain, coming to the blank western side where no Dyaks lurked.

They slid into the water, began wading. Doc led the old woman to the base of the mountain. The riverbank was well-sheltered by undergrowth, so they would not be seen from the low ground. From the air was another matter.

Removing his belt, Doc tied the woman’s age-withered wrists together and then ducked under the loop.

“You will ride on my back,” he told her.

Penjaga said nothing. Either she was too afraid to speak, or her confidence in the bronze giant caused her to concentrate on taking air into her lungs in imitation of Doc Savage, who was charging his lungs with great, indrawn breaths.

Without warning, Doc plunged underwater, began swimming with powerful overhand strokes.

Doc raced for the mountain. He had seen that the river on this side fed into a kind of low cave. This only made sense. The water pressure of the river running under Skull Mountain kept the natural well filled. Otherwise, the constant outflow would have drained it long ago.

Soon, they were knifing through darkness.

There were only two possible outcomes now. Either the current would carry them to the interior well, where Doc could endeavor to propel himself up the great, still water shaft, or he would emerge out the other side, carried out by the torrent, as before.

As his eyes attempted to pierce the anthracite darkness, Doc felt a sharp tug.

His hands moved freely when he tested them. Kicking his legs, Doc found that they, too, moved unencumbered.

Then what—?

Astride his broad back, Penjaga the Keeper began struggling, her feet kicking in panic.

Something had hold of her!

Reaching for his Bowie blade, Doc Savage began twisting, seeking the unseen thing that had arrested their swim.

In the impenetrable darkness, he detected a vast oblate form, sensed whipping disturbances in the water, as if multiple arms were reaching for him….

Chapter LIII

CAPTAIN CLARK SAVAGE looked up from ministering to Stormalong Savage, his mustached face etched in grave lines.

“How goes it?” he asked Chicahua in his native tongue.

“I will hold them back, Captain.”

“How many darts remain?”

“Six.”

Captain Savage frowned. Rising to his feet, he skirted Kong, this time going around the head. The great creature’s eerily human-like eyes were closed now, his scarred chest rising and falling rhythmically.

In the perilous situation, it was as if Kong was the least of their concerns. He might have been already dead, for all the attention they paid him.

About the bristle-coated creature lay myriad Dyak darts plucked from many points. These were tipped with blood, and proved to be useless. Chicahua had salvaged one, but when he attempted to expel it from his own blowgun, it became lodged in his weapon’s barrel. It was like trying to load the wrong caliber bullet into a revolver.

Stepping out onto the rocky cliff ledge, the captain dared a look downward.

Dyaks were posted far back, out of range of dart and bullet. He detected one clambering up the mountain face itself, well below his position. Then another popped into view, withdrawing suddenly from sight.

Taking up his Colt, Captain Savage risked a shot. The hammer clicked, but brought forth no result. Frowning, he tried again. Misfire.

Running through the entire cylinder convinced him that his modest ammunition store was utterly useless. Reloading from his pocket produced no more welcome results.

“If we only had a bow and arrows…” he murmured. He shook his silvery head angrily. “I might as well wish for a Winchester rifle.”

Sizing up the situation, the captain of the
Orion
turned to his Mayan crewman, who had followed him so silently Savage had been unaware of him until now.

“You watch over Stormalong. I will defend the entrance.”

Chicahua hesitated. The look in his obsidian eyes was reproachful.

“I do not doubt your prowess, bosun,” Captain Savage reassured him. “I only wish to conserve your strength for the long siege ahead. No one could have defended us more bravely.”

With that, Chicahua withdrew silently.

Captain Savage saw that the Mayan had made a pile of loose stones.

Picking up one with both hands, Savage raised it over his head, then hurled it down on the shiny black spot that he knew to be the hair of a climbing Dyak.

The climber lost his footing, fell from sight. Two others came into view, began loosing darts upward.

Captain Savage withdrew, began kicking rocks in the approximate direction of the raiders. He started one minor avalanche, but dared not poke his head over the cliff edge to ascertain what he had accomplished. The Dyaks were devils with their blowpipes.

Soon, the captain had exhausted his store of rough ammunition.

Still, the Dyaks came on.

Scrounging up another stone, he cast it downward. It started others rolling, but no Dyak landed amid the rubble that resulted.

Looking about, he found larger boulders too massive for a mere mortal to move.

Having no other choice, Captain Savage sought out Chicahua and said, “We are down to your final six darts. I regret that I will have to ask you to resume your defense, for I have no expertise in blowgun proficiency.”

Chicahua accepted the Triceratops-hide poncho Doc had left for them and placed it over his person. Then he returned to his station, machete concealed beneath it.

There, he displayed cunning by not showing himself for nearly ten minutes. This emboldened the Dyaks, and they began to inch nearer, shooting upward from time to time.

Chicahua spat down five feathered darts and sent five Dyaks reeling and madly clutching stone until their fingers lost all strength. They slipped from sight. The rocks below broke them.

One slender dart remained.

SCOURING the terrain, Chicahua sought the spot where Monyet waited for the path to Skull Mountain’s summit to be clear.

The look in the Mayan’s eyes told all. If he could only bring down that Dyak, he would die content.

But it was not to be.

Chicahua inserted the final dart into his cane tube and caused a Dyak to howl in the knowledge of sudden inevitable death.

Then, having no other recourse, he retreated to the inner chamber of the peak whose countenance was the personification of Death.

Captain Savage read the bleak look in Chicahua’s smoldering eyes.

“I fear my son may be too late,” he said.

Chicahua nodded grimly. His fists clenched and unclenched with repressed emotion.

They looked around for other resources, but to no avail. They had exhausted every last one.

All that remained was the great dark pool. It lay still, untroubled as a mill pond. Dark as tar, it might have been composed of some substance mined from Hell’s lowermost regions itself.

“We could brave the pool,” Savage said gravely, “if it were not for Old Stormy.”

Chicahua nodded. He was being given permission to escape with his life—alone.

Silently, he turned around to stand before the inevitable Dyak swarm, to lay down his life before the enemy could seize his captain and friend.

Hanging his head, Captain Savage looked at the still coppery face of his father. He saw death in it. He wondered if Old Stormy, were he to open his eyes one final time, might not see the same stark cast on his son’s visage?

Then, a rattling of rock, followed by the padding of stealthy feet came from the direction of the ledge.

“Dark men come,” hissed Chicahua.

Stealing a final glance at the sleeping face of his father, Captain Savage issued curt orders.

“Kill as many as you can. Sell your life dearly. Count on me to do the same.”

They made fists of their fingers and waited for feathered heads to peer around from the recumbent form of Kong, who had towered over all, but was now reduced to an insignificant player in the drama to come….

Chapter LIV

THE FIRST DYAK warrior to sneak around the corner brandished a
mandau.
It flashed in the dim cavern light, wicked and wavy.

He came padding on bare feet, his teeth flashing white.

A second and third man came behind them, carrying
duku
short swords. With these, they would cut down their foes, while the first relieved them of their heads with the curved
mandau.

Or would have, if Chicahua had not suddenly rushed forward and seized the lead Dyak in hands that were vises of vengeance.

The warrior, not expecting an attack by an unarmed man, gave out a shriek, bleating inarticulately as his blade was wrenched out of his hands.

Chicahau then unsheathed his machete and employed it to slash twice at the Dyak’s muscular midriff. First, he sliced it open, and then in a back sweep, emptied the man’s exposed bowels into the floor.

As the groaning Dyak died, Chicahua stepped over his crumpling form and proceeded to beat back the two
duku
blades with great downward strokes.

He bisected one Dyak’s sword arm at the elbow and, grinning fiercely, went after the other.

Seeing the terrible ferocity of the Mayan and, remembering the cruel fate inflicted on his fellow
Courser
crewmen, the surviving Dyak turned tail. He collided with others filtering in through the hollow eye-socket entrance.

Chicahua pried the
duku
blade from the dead fingers of the vanquished and tossed it back to Captain Savage, who caught it readily.

Face hard, the Captain of the
Orion
leapt in to join the fray.

Together they charged, blades flying, clashing, smashing, creating brief sparks.

Soon, the Dyaks were in disarray. Chicahua made sure of that. The new arrivals had carried only short swords. The Mayan had the advantage and pressed it. Blades banged, edges skittered and rang. Blood spurted freely.

In this ferocious fashion, the first wave of Dyaks was beaten back to the ledge. But others began pouring in, yelling war whoops.

“A tactical retreat is called for,” puffed Captain Savage, wiping gore off his forehead.

They withdrew to the spot by the pool where Stormalong Savage lay dying, oblivious to his peril. Captain Savage and Chicahua examined their bodies for wounds, then looked over one another. To their amazement, they discovered only freely-running cuts, none very serious. Their superior size and muscularity had won the first engagement.

It was not long before another wave of Dyak warriors resumed the assault.

This time, the blank-faced, charcoal-smeared raiders crept around Kong from his other end in a counterattack.