Doc Savage: The Ice Genius (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 12) (8 page)

A few Mongols lay scattered about like so many fur-trimmed rag dolls, attesting to Long Tom’s marksmanship. He might have done better, except the sheer numbers of attackers had motivated him to unleash mercy bullets in great streams. Had he set the weapon to discharge single shots, conceivably the slender electrical genius might have actually downed more foes. But he was counting on the deafening bullfiddle roar of the tiny weapons to have a psychological impact upon the attackers.

Bustling up to the control cockpit, Monk Mayfair wanted to know, “They don’t look like they scare easy.”

“Mongols have a reputation for fierceness and courage,” remarked Doc Savage.

“What say Renny and me slip out the trap-door hatch in back and try to pick them off from a good spot?”

Doc Savage shook his head slowly. “We will see what they do. It is possible they will retreat once they realize they cannot harm us.”

Monk made a disappointed gorilla face. Invariably, he preferred to take direct action even if a problem showed signs of solving itself without force. Monk loved action. He thrived upon it.

Soon enough, night breezes tore the billowing clouds of smoke and tear gas into rags and dispersed them.

The Mongol bandit band struggled to reassemble themselves. They held council. The tallest among them, a man with a Russian fur cap and a costume that suggested a Mongolian Cossack, seem to be in charge. There was a great deal of arm waving and other excited gesticulations.

Horses were checked for signs of wounds and those that could not be awoken, because they had succumbed to Doc Savage’s mercy bullets, were kicked savagely and then abandoned.

AFTER a time, the Mongols settled down and the tall leader led his men past the flying boat in the direction of the ice cave.

They seemed unafraid of an ambush. As they walked along in their felt boots trimmed in wolf fur, some of them kept a wary eye on the plane hatch, in case it should pop open and disgorge shooting foes.

These men disappeared into the cave, leaving two pickets behind to stand guard. They were in there quite a long time, inasmuch as they possessed no light by which to search.

When they emerged, the party dragged Monzingo Baldwin out rather roughly. The little man had been lifted up by one leg and carried like a chicken being taken to the tree stump where the farmer’s axe stood waiting.

“They got him!” Renny boomed out.

“Probably gonna shoot him dead,” said Monk, as if the prospect was not unappealing.

Sounding grave of voice, Doc Savage said, “We cannot let him be executed.”

“Can’t we?” rumbled Renny. “The little squirt tagged along without our permission. He may just have earned himself a bullet.”

Doc Savage said nothing. He was not as hard-boiled as some of his men, who believed that mercy should be tempered by justice, and not the other way around.

Kicking and squawling, Monzingo Baldwin was dragged toward the flying boat, and made to kneel in the dirt. His face was twisted something awful. It looked as if tears were streaming down his small squeezing eyes.

The tall Mongol placed the muzzle of his rifle against the back of the midget’s head, and looked up at the faces peering out at him from the cabin windows.

He called out in his own language.

“What’s he saying?” asked Long Tom.

Doc translated, “The bandit chieftain is warning if we don’t come out with our hands in the air, he will shoot Baldwin dead before our eyes.”

Ham said, “We can’t very well surrender to spare the life of that confounded scamp, can we?”

Doc Savage was silent. His golden eyes were molten.

“If we do not, they will slay him for a certainty,” he said at last.

Renny rumbled, “What’s to say if we do, they won’t scrag us all anyway?”

That prospect, obviously, was what was making the bronze man hesitate.

Doc Savage is not a foolish individual. Although he valued life, he also understood calculated risk. To simply surrender, might or might not preserve Monzingo Baldwin’s skin. It was impossible to tell. Probably it would not. But neither did Doc Savage want to be the cause of the little man’s demise.

While the tall Mongol chieftain once more exhorted them to surrender, matters took a strange new direction.

Out of the East came reinforcements.

Another batch of Mongol riders were coming hard. Possibly, they had held back to see which way the warlike winds ended up blowing, with the intention of stepping in, and turning the tide of combat if the battle went against their brethren.

Among the riders was an unusually tall and thin man with a shaggy mop of hair.

Doc Savage, possessing extraordinary visual acuity, was the first to recognize him.

“They are bringing Johnny along,” Doc told his men.

Ham produced a pair of binoculars, and trained them on the oncoming riders.

“Johnny, all right. And he looks like he’s been roughed up pretty bad.”

“Wonder he wasn’t killed,” grunted Renny.

Ham studied the archeologist’s bony frame. There was not much to Johnny but bones.

“He looks more brittle than usual,” he commented.

The new arrivals piled up to the scene, brought their charging ponies to a dusty halt, then dismounted, fists bristling with firearms, ready for battle.

One strode up to the tall chieftain who was holding Monzingo Baldwin at his mercy. A vigorous conversation ensued.

Then the new arrival went back and hauled Johnny off his pony, parading him about for all to see.

The gangling archaeologist was made to kneel beside the blubbering midget.

A long-barreled pistol was placed against his temple, and all eyes went to the watchers at the plane windows.

“We’re in for it now!” moaned Renny.

Doc Savage told them grimly, “Now, we have no choice but to surrender.”

The bronze men’s unequivocal pronouncement caused their tongues to freeze in their mouths. No one questioned their leader’s order. If any of them had been in Johnny’s position, the others would have risked anything and everything to ransom his life. They would perforce surrender, and take their chances, hoping to turn the situation back to their advantage.

Doc Savage went first, flinging open the door.

Stepping out, he began treating with the bandit chieftain in his own language.

The Mongol leader almost fainted from surprise. He did not expect a white man, even one as bronzed as Doc Savage was, to speak his native tongue as fluently as himself.

A short exchange ensued, after which Doc Savage came down the stairs with his hands held high.

The size of the bronze giant impressed the assembled Mongols most profoundly. They trained their weapons on him, and actually looked somewhat awestruck in their impassive way.

Monk and the others soon followed, their hands also held in the air.

They were roughly searched at gunpoint, and relieved of any small items on their possession. They had naturally left their supermachine pistols behind, locked in storage, not wanting them to immediately fall into the hands of their enemies.

The Mongols showed no signs of boarding the plane in order to loot it. At least, not just yet. They seemed more interested in knowing what the big bronze man’s business was in Mongolia.

In their own language, Doc Savage told them. He spoke the truth. He repeated himself often, emphasizing certain points. He made it very clear that his only interest was in rescuing his colleague, Johnny Littlejohn, who was present.

“You are all now my prisoners,” proclaimed the Mongol war chief, who gave his name as Chinua. It meant wolf. His mother had named him well. He had a wild, windy face.

Chinua laughed rather roughly when he said this. His sheepskin-clad men joined in.

While they were convulsing in their triumphant laughter, strong bronze hands whipped out like lightning, and seized Chinua’s rifle from his fingers.

Swapping the weapon in his hands, Doc pointed the long muzzle directly at Chinua’s chest. It was an unnerving move, and so uncharacteristic of Doc Savage that even his men were taken aback.

Every rifle muzzle swept in the bronze man’s direction. Hammers were rocked back, pistols cocked.

“You should have held onto this,” said Doc Savage plainly.

The Mongol, his mouth frozen in mid-laugh, looked a little sick. Then, as the reality of his predicament sank in, he resumed whooping, this time uproariously.

Doc Savage, uncharacteristically, joined in the laughter.

Soon, all the bandit clan were cracking up.

Monk joined in, and gave Ham a sharp elbow to prod him into doing the same thing. Long Tom and Renny added to the raucous merriment. Renny’s booming guffaws caused several Mongols to examine the night sky for the lightning that was certain to follow this strange thunder. This hilarity went on for a few minutes, then naturally subsided.

When quiet returned, Doc Savage informed the Mongol chief that he had something of great value to offer.

“Offer?” returned Chinua.

“Consider it a ransom for our freedom,” said Doc Savage.

Chinua liked the sound of that. Since Doc Savage was holding him at gunpoint, it suggested that he was being respected. And not a mere prisoner.

“What is this treasure you offer, foreign bronze devil?” demanded Chinua.

“Frozen in ice, in that cave yonder, we have discovered a great thing,” intoned Doc.

“What is the name of this great thing?” wondered Chinua.

“The great thing,” explained Doc Savage, “is named Timur.”

Chinua looked blank. His flat face was like a brass gong that had been beaten flat and pitted by the harsh elements of the Gobi.

“Timur?”

“Emir Timur,” stated Doc Savage.

Strange, wistful expressions crossed the faces of the Mongol bandits, as if a ghostly wind had swept by, touching their hardy souls.

They looked to one another in confusion, wonder, and uncertainty.

“He lies buried in Samarkand,” insisted Chinua. “Every Mongol knows this.”

Doc Savage shook his head somberly. “In that cave lies entombed in ice a man, and written on the face of the wall of protective ice are these words: ‘If I still lived, mankind would tremble.’ ”

These words struck Chinua like a whiplash. His wind-weathered face quirked strangely, his brown eyes narrowing.

With the ripping volley of words, he sent his second-in-command to investigate.

This Mongol aide raced into the cave and was therein a very short period of time.

He stepped out, waving his arms over his head excitedly, shouting, crying, “The bronze devil speaks the truth. It is true. Timur lies within!”

A mighty shout erupted from the throats of the Mongol bandit horde. It seemed to shake the very stars.

Chapter VIII

“IF I STILL LIVED—”

STRANGE SOUNDS EMERGED from the pulsing throats of the Mongol bandits. Weird, excited cries. Ululations. They filled the bitterly cold night.

Chinua tore his gaze from his excited comrade and met the hypnotic flake-gold orbs of Doc Savage. “I must see this with my own eyes,” he said, his voice thickened by hoarse emotion.

Doc nodded. He escorted the Mongol to the cave entrance at rifle point.

Chinua’s troops were strangely passive. They appeared absorbed in their unreal surroundings.

Monzingo Baldwin and Johnny Littlejohn were permitted to stand up and accompany the group. Because the latter wore his hair in what was sometimes styled scholastic length, the rail-thin archeologist looked like a well-used mop draped in an ill-fitting suit of clothes. His normally narrow features were more hollow than usual.

Johnny undertoned to Doc, “I have been a prisoner since our last communication. They have been trying to force me to divulge my reasons for being here. I refused to tell them, because of what is in the cave.”

Doc nodded, said nothing.

“What lies in the cave is too precious and too dangerous to fall into their hands,” hissed Johnny urgently.

Doc said, “Your lives are also of value, and must be preserved at all costs.”

Johnny said nothing. He appeared to be torn.

They slipped into the cave, and Doc’s men produced flashlights. The Mongol who first entered the cave had a box of wooden matches, and this he had been using to illuminate the way. Now he threw his flaring match away as unnecessary. It sizzled when it struck the icy floor.

Chinua marched toward the wall of ice, with its dark, shadowy shape floating within. He studied it, wonder becoming a gleam in his brown, curious eyes.

Doc Savage directed his blazing flashlight beam at the Mongol script carved in the rime centuries ago. It seemed to shimmer, as if written in lightning.

No sooner did Chinua read this, than he sank to his knees as if prostrating himself before an idol he worshipped.

Finally, he found his feet, turned stiffly and faced the Man of Bronze.

“It is done. The deal has been struck. You are free to go your own way.”

“Thank you,” said Doc Savage.

Johnny objected, “Doc! This is one of the greatest discoveries of all time! We can’t just turn it over to them.”

“We have no choice in the matter,” returned Doc Savage calmly. “This is their country, and their heritage. We have no legal right to a claim.”

Chinua ignored this argument, which he could not understand since it was in English, and issued barking instructions, as if the white Americans were no longer present.

He picked up the discarded pick axe, while others drew daggers, knives and even short swords. They commenced hacking away at the fractured outlines that Johnny Littlejohn had begun several days before.

The long-worded archeologist became practically apoplectic. “Doc,” he pleaded. “If they drag the ice out of the cave, it will begin melting.”

Doc Savage said firmly, “There is no stopping what has begun. We will have to allow events to take their course.”

But the stork-like geologist would have none of it. He attempted to interfere by stepping up to Chinua and seizing the swinging pick axe.

Snarling, the Mongol chieftain pushed him back and resumed his frantic work.