Doc Savage: The Miracle Menace (19 page)

The grayness was gone. In its place was an utter darkness. It was no more comforting. Less.

“What just happened?” Monk howled, looking around, jaw agape.

“We have arrived at our destination,” came Doc Savage’s very calm voice.

“Why is it dark?”

“The mechanism is set not to return to the exact same segment of time in each instance,” explained Doc. “The timer advances after each reversion. I arrived during daylight hours last time. Now it is night, presumably of the same day. But that remains to be seen.”

They had no flashlights, so they stood around while their eyes adjusted to the absence of light.

Soon, they saw threads of moonlight among the trees. It was a near-full moon. The lunar lantern had been waning when they left.

Going to the parlor windows, they looked over their surroundings. The forest they had left behind them—or ahead of them as the case might be–was still there. But it was noticeably thinner and the solitary path was more distant. At least, they failed to find it with their eyes.

Doc Savage stepped onto the porch.

Monk followed. He sniffed the air. “Cleaner than in our day.”

“We are in the age before automobiles, and far from the industrialized metropolises responsible for modern miasmatic exhalations,” reminded Johnny, sliding back into his big-worded habit.

Doc retreated inside to take possession of Big Neck, chief of the Iowans.

Doc considered how best to handle the unconscious brave. Moving to a closet, he rummaged around. It was not entirely empty. There were tools, including rope. With his clasp knife, Doc cut this into lengths, and fashioned a slip noose which he placed around Big Neck’s thick throat, and then tied the Indian’s wrists to the loop. Then he unwound the rope to a length that could be used to pull the man along once he was on foot.

“Afraid he will get away?” asked Johnny.

“In order to make the ransom exchange,” Doc explained, “Big Neck must be brought before his people as a captive.”

“Makes sense,” squeaked Monk.

From another pocket, Doc produced a vial containing a chemical restorative infinitely more potent than the ordinary run of smelling salts. He hesitated to use them, however.

“Best we carry him until we are ready to make a show of it,” Doc decided.

Packing Big Neck across his shoulder, the bronze giant carried him out of the house.

There, Monk tasted the air again. “I could get used to this country air.”

Doc Savage looked around, golden eyes whirling animatedly.

“We are in the time of our great grandfathers,” he breathed.

The thought filled them with a silent, almost spiritual wonder—until Monk found his tongue.

“Hey, maybe when this is settled, we can hunt them down. I heard some tall tales about mine.”

“That would be unwise, if not dangerous,” said Doc gravely. “We must accomplish our mission as soon as humanly possible.”

Monk peered back at the weird Victorian house. “How long before it goes sailin’ back to the Twentieth Century?”

“Three hours. Let’s go.”

DOC SAVAGE carried Big Neck as if he were hollow, which the muscular Indian was most assuredly not. The Iowan hung limp, empty hands slapping against Doc’s rolling form as they progressed.

Moving along the moonlit path, the bronze-skinned Hercules employed his nostrils.

Monk caught the scent, too.

“Cooking fire,” he undertoned. “Out now.”

Doc nodded, moving in that general direction.

The idea that they were walking through a time long before they were born was uppermost in their minds. Johnny stopped to apply his monocle magnifier to various flora and other items, but discovered nothing more remarkable than a broken flint arrowhead, which he pocketed.

After a while, they understood that they were traversing an ordinary woodland. There was nothing of the incredible about it. They might have been walking a different segment of this same forest in their own time.

But, of course, they were not.

Before long, dawn began creeping. It was a strangely reassuring sight. Darkness, even one split by moonbeams, did nothing positive for their peace of mind.

As the sun rose, fresh woodsmoke could be scented.

“The camp is up,” advised Doc Savage.

Stooping, he lowered Big Neck to the ground and again brought out his smelling salts. These were not the type that could be purchased at any pharmacy, but a quick-acting concoction specially formulated by Doc for unusual situations such as this one.

Uncapping the ampule, he waved the pungent fumes under the Indian’s nostrils.

Big Neck started at once. Eyes snapping open, he took in his surroundings.

A few words in his native tongue from Doc Savage failed to quiet him.

Big Neck sprang to his feet.

Doc Savage was ready. He tripped the brave, placed a foot upon the man’s heaving chest, and gave the restraining rope a hard yank.

Big Neck saw at once the lay of the land. He was a prisoner. He subsided.

Doc instructed him to stand up.

Big Neck was stubborn. He just lay there, his face a knot of resistance.

So Doc pulled the Iowan to his feet, showing no outward strain.

When the bull-necked brave was up on the soft soles of his moccasins, he glared at Doc Savage. Doc met his regard with one of his own. The impassive cast of his bronze features showed no outward concern.

This more than anything else impressed the Iowan chief.

So when Doc started off, Big Neck followed without further protest.

IT took a while to find the camp. They had to work around and through close-packed trees after they left the meandering path. Bees were buzzing in and out of hollow trees. There were many hives about. The morning sun was stirring them to life.

“I’ll be bombinated!” Johnny remarked. “This is the old bee-line!”

Doc Savage nodded. “The ancient trail the pioneers followed, and one of the enticements that drew them to build the settlement called the Cabins, which is not far from here. Honey is plentiful hereabouts.”

“Earlier, you intimated that you had walked smack into the Big Neck War,” Johnny prompted.

“No, its aftermath. I participated only in that I buried poor William Wynn after he perished of his wounds.”

“Remarkable,” breathed Johnny, unable to summon up a more elaborate word.

Soon enough, they could see the hazy gray smoke of a camp fire.

Braves were going about their morning business. It appeared that they had caught a raccoon and were skinning it for breakfast. Like Big Neck, they had shaven heads and a single scalplock trailing down the backs of their heads. To these were attached feathers or deer tails as decoration. Deerskin breechcloths and moccasins were their only attire.

Johnny watched this activity avidly, his interest in other eras and people of the past holding him fixed in place.

“Speak any Iowany?” asked Doc.

“Some.”

Big Neck listened to this exchange and suddenly filled his lungs. There was no mistaking his intent. He gave out a yell of alarm.

Doc Savage let him finish. Then he added words of his own.

The timbre of the bronze man’s voice carried. It seemed to fill the forest.

At the camp, the Indians froze, began looking around. Some reached for tomahawks and war clubs.

One yelled, pointing a finger in their direction.

At that point, Doc Savage stepped out into view, leading Big Neck as if the latter were a recalcitrant mule.

Doc Savage continued his salutations.

‘‘Oho!”
he greeted in the Iowany tongue. “I have returned, bringing Big Neck, as I have promised. Produce the white man you hold captive.”

The Iowan band were advancing, weapons in hand.

Doc Savage ignored this. He continued to approach, towing his reluctant prisoner.

When the dark eyes of the braves fell on Big Neck, there was consternation.

Big Neck yelled something coarse.

Turning, Doc cuffed the man. Hard. Big Neck was knocked off his feet. Everyone beheld this, saw how lightly Doc had seemed to strike. Yet the muscular Indian chief was knocked for a loop.

It made for good theatre, and caused those readying their weapons to hold off and ponder the power of this mighty bronze colossus.

Finally, a brave stepped forward. He was lean and very sunburned.

“We have the white man,” he said.

“Produce him,” said Doc.

This was done.

A man was dragged into view, stumbling feet lashed by buffalo-hide rope. He looked thin and famished. There was nothing distinguished about him otherwise. He had a long thin neck with a prominent Adam’s apple and his disorderly hair was the color of straw that had been bleached by the summer sun. He seemed dispirited, but said nothing.

“We will parley,” said Doc.

THEY assembled around the camp fire in a circle.

The ropes were left shackling Big Neck. Nor was the white man untied. That was the way of it.

Pieces of roasted raccoon were passed around on spilt sticks.

The Iowans ate nervously. The cause of their unease was Monk Mayfair. Being ignorant of apes and gorillas, they had never seen anything remotely like him.

Fingers pointed. Words were whispered.

“What are they sayin’?” asked Monk.

“They are calling you ‘Buffalo Man’,” whispered Johnny.

Grinning, Monk produced his nickel, flipped it. It flashed upward and landed on his other palm.

“Monk,” warned Doc. “Do not lose that.”

“It’s only a nickel.”

“The year stamped on it says otherwise.”

Monk looked. “Says 1932.”

“It would not do to leave a 1932 nickel behind in 1829,” cautioned Doc.

“Gotcha, Doc.”

Monk made a show of displaying the nickel, with its Indian head on one side and standing buffalo on the other. He palmed it, made the coin change hands as if by magic and performed sleights and other mystifying tricks of the magician’s trade.

“What are you doing?” Johnny whispered.

“Just showin’ them that I really am a Buffalo Man. That ought to impress them.”

The Big Necks were duly impressed. Their eyes became very wide.

Doc Savage stood up. He made a speech. It was earnest and went on for a good while. It became clear to Johnny, who translated for Monk, that the big bronze man was recounting the original bargain that had been struck during Doc’s previous visit.

A sense of unreality began returning to the proceedings.

They were in the past. Sometime in the Summer of 1829, to be exact about it. It was an awesome realization. Having journeyed so far from familiar settings, return seemed an undeniable impossibility.

Finally, the Iowan sub-chief spoke his piece. His name, he said, was Red Snake. He dwelled upon his virtues as a warrior, and the honor of his people. A bargain had been made and it would be honored, he declaimed.

It was settled. The sub-chief of the Indians drew forth a skinning knife and cut the rawhide thongs restraining the white man.

Doc made a show of untying his captive and freeing Big Neck, giving the latter a contemptuous kick in the process. This was to impress everyone that the giant bronze man considered the mighty Big Neck to be no personal threat. It was sound psychology.

Big Neck, who had been seated with his head hung in shame all through the convocation, leaped to his feet and looked as if he wanted to prove his prowess to all comers.

Doc Savage calmly reminded him, “A truce is in place.”

Big Neck snarled, clenching jaws and fingers.

Monk sprang to his feet and began growling.

This had a remarkable effect upon all. The Big Necks began shrinking from the colossal creature they called Buffalo Man.

“What are you doing?” hissed Johnny.

“I got’ em buffaloed—I think.” Monk growled anew, displaying as many of his massive teeth as his wide mouth permitted.

Evidently, the simian chemist was not far off in his estimation, for the Iowans began looking uneasy. Red Snake called for Big Neck to sit down and eat.

Big Neck was having none of it.

Now a volley of upset voices began calling for him to settle down.

Doc Savage let them argue it out.

Finally, Big Neck settled down. Nobody other than he wanted a fight, it seemed.

Big Neck reluctantly returned to his place and jammed pieces of seared coon into his mouth, then decided that Red Snake, the sub-chief who had bargained for his freedom, had enjoyed the limelight long enough. He got up and shoved the man aside, taking his place at the council fire.

That seemed to satisfy Big Neck’s injured ego.

A peace pipe was produced. The red catlinite pipe was of the “acorn” type—very short with a big center bowl. Dried tobacco was stuffed into the bowl and ignited. Red Snake took a few puffs, then passed it around.

Ordinarily, Doc Savage did not take tobacco in any form. Under the circumstances, he allowed himself a few puffs. Monk seemed to enjoy his share when the pipe came into his hands. Big Neck took one grudging inhalation, and passed the aromatic calumet to the next man.

The white captive was not invited to partake of the solemn ceremony.

Eventually, the peace pipe found its way back to Red Snake, closing the ceremony.

At that point, Doc Savage stood up and announced, “It is time for us to return to our lodge among the stars.”

Big Neck growled, “It would be well that you did so.”

It sounded like a threat and probably was one.

With appropriate farewells, Doc Savage took his ransomed captive and turned to go.

No one followed them.

Monk looked over his shoulder a time or two, but saw no signs of pursuit.

All seemed to be concluding well when a commotion stirred in the forest. They wheeled, halted.

OUT of the woods charged a familiar, if unexpected and distressing, sight.

Trotting up on his dog-like legs, fabulous ears outspread, scrawny spinal bumps showing, came Habeas Corpus the pig!

Hard on his heels was a black bear, running on all fours. The bear appeared to be gaining.

“Blazes!” exploded Monk. “How the heck did you get here!”

Doc Savage stepped up, and began pegging some of the glass marbles that contained his special anesthetic gas. One struck the bruin on the tip of his long black snout, where it shattered.