Читать книгу The Pirate's Ghost: A Doc Savage Adventure - Lester Bernard Dent - Страница 5
ОглавлениеTHE MAN-CAPTIVE
The desert night was either very still, or it was made weird by the tiny whirls of wind that went scurrying through the sand dunes, although some of the winds weren’t so tiny and traveled like Kansas whirlwinds, picking up fine sand, lifting it two and three hundred feet, looking in the moonlight like cinnamon-robed giants hobble-skirting along.
Sagebrush Smith hunkered on his high-heeled boots and felt funny. Not humorous. Just funny. The old man, Meander Surett, was dying, and Sagebrush had started out by agreeing with everything, hoping that would soothe the old fellow. Now he began to see that he was walking into something. Meander Surett apparently had expected some one named Doc to arrive. He thought Sagebrush Smith was one of this Doc’s representatives.
Curiosity assailed Sagebrush. He wanted to know who Doc was. He wanted to know the purpose of all that stuff in the adobe hut. He wondered what was in the alloy-steel locked box. He would like to know why the place was located in one of the prehistoric ruins on the floor of Death Valley.
He could not ask any of these questions without exciting Meander Surett and speeding his death.
“Sagebrush,” said Meander Surett unexpectedly.
“Yeah?”
“How did they find out you were coming?”
“They? Who do you mean?”
“The men who followed you.”
“Oh.” Sagebrush Smith hunted in his mind for a lie. “I don’t know. I thought maybe you could tell me.”
“They’ve been spying on me for years,” the dying man said weakly. “I have been working here for ten years. It was about three years ago that I first noticed them spying. I guess they knew I sent Doc a message.”
“Message?”
“Yes. The letter. Doc got it, of course, or he wouldn’t have sent you.”
Sagebrush Smith swallowed. “Oh, sure,” he said.
“I don’t know the men who watched me,” croaked Meander Surett.
“You’d better be quiet,” the cowboy urged.
Meander Surett coughed and bubbled. “Get me the metal box in the lead-insulated experimental chamber.”
Sagebrush Smith got the box. It was heavy enough that he was sweating and out of breath by the time he had it at the side of Meander Surett.
“Now,” Meander Surett gurgled, “unbuckle my money belt.”
The money belt was made of chamois. It was fat and heavy, and Sagebrush Smith, when he was ordered to do so, looked inside.
“Geewhilikers!” he said.
“There is about seven thousand dollars’ worth of gold dust left,” Meander Surett said. “I had half a million dollars when I started experimenting ten years ago. I had the money changed into gold dust because nobody is suspicious of an old man who comes out of the desert with a little gold dust. They think he is a prospector.”
Sagebrush Smith was stunned. “You mean,” he muttered, “that you spent half a million here in the desert?”
“It was worth it.” The dying man reached out a wasted hand to the shiny metal box. “This”—he patted the box—“is going to change the course of all mankind!”
Sagebrush Smith wiped his forehead. “Uh-huh,” he muttered. He didn’t know what to think.
“Use as much of the seven thousand as you need for expenses,” said Meander Surett.
“Expenses?”
“Plane fare, hotels, taxicabs and so on.” The old man had a coughing spell. “You can give the rest to Sally.”
“Sally?”
“My daughter. Sally Surett.” Old Meander Surett smiled in spite of pain and weakness. “She may call herself Nola. She never did like the name Sally. Her full name is Sally Nola Surett. She lives at 110 North Boulevard, in New York City. You better write that down.”
Sagebrush Smith swallowed.
“I’ll remember it,” he said. “Sally Nola Surett at 110 North Boulevard, New York.”
“Take her to Doc,” ordered Meander Surett, “and give the box to her and to Doc, to be owned and shared jointly.” He shut his eyes and shuddered. “The contents must be used to benefit mankind, not—the other.”
“To Doc—who?” Sagebrush Smith asked involuntarily.
“Why, to Doc Savage,” Meander Surett said.
“Doc Savage!” Sagebrush Smith took off his hat. “Blazes!”
There is probably no institution of mankind better equipped with reading matter than the cowboy bunk house. The height of the stack of magazines in the corner will vary with the seasons, shrinking in the winter when they are handy for starting fires, but usually it ranges around shoulder high. So Sagebrush Smith had read about Doc Savage.
He had read of Doc Savage several times. Once in a medical journal, twice in a physical culture magazine, and a number of times in magazines devoted to science and mechanics. Sagebrush Smith did not believe all he read. He did not think there was any such fellow as remarkable as the Doc Savage mentioned in these magazines.
What got his dander up was a magazine stating that this Doc Savage could take a six-shooter and hit fifty silver dimes, thrown into the air, with fifty shots.
Sagebrush Smith was willing to stand on a stack of Bibles and say it couldn’t be done. He knew. He’d just like to pay a visit to Doc Savage and show the fellow up.
“You want me to take this box to Doc Savage?” said Sagebrush. “And you’re furnishing the expense money?”
“Yes,” said old Meander Surett. “You must promise to go to Doc and my daughter, Sally.”
Sagebrush Smith suddenly became enthusiastic about the job.
“You’re on, old-timer,” he said earnestly. “But what’s in the box?”
The old man was apparently too far gone to hear.
“What’s in the box?” the cowboy asked more loudly.
The dying old man rolled his head. His eyes were strange.
“There is a sheaf of data in the box,” he mumbled. “That will explain everything.”
“But where’s the key to the box?”
“It has already been mailed to Doc Savage,” old Meander Surett mumbled.
“Oh,” said Sagebrush Smith.
Old Meander Surett’s throat began to rattle. Sagebrush Smith had heard that throats rattle when people die.
“Take it easy, pop!” Sagebrush mumbled.
The old man’s hands fastened to the cowboy’s arm like claws.
“Son, they’ll try to take it from you!” he croaked.
“They won’t have much luck,” Sagebrush said soothingly. “Don’t rile yourself, old-timer.”
The old man made noises. The bite of his fingers tightened.
“Son,” he gulped, “I haven’t told you everything!”
“No?” Sagebrush said curiously.
“I caught two of them—one of the men watching me.” Meander Surett was shaking. “I killed one of them. I took the other captive. I’ve got him now—a prisoner. Tried—to make him—talk—for months.”
His words were beginning to be separated by the rattling.
“Sure, you killed one and you’ve got the other prisoner,” Sagebrush said. “Take it easy, pop.”
“The—prisoner—over there!” Old Meander Surett croaked.
“Eh?”
The dying man pointed. “Over—there! Chained!”
“You mean you’ve got a man chained over there?” the cowboy demanded incredulously.
“Fastened—with—a—a chain. He wouldn’t—talk——”
The old man’s eyes rolled and he could only make noises.
Sagebrush Smith got to his feet, took a step or two in the direction in which Meander Surett had pointed. He stared. He bent over to see better.
The mesquite was tall and thick and cast black shadows. It was too dark to make out anything much. The cowboy licked his lips, then advanced.
Suddenly, Sagebrush jerked to a stop and snatched at his six-gun. He had heard a noise, a small, whimpering sound. He listened. His pulse was a-booming. Then there was a small movement. Something was really there!
Holding his gun in one hand, he advanced. It was very dark. His foot struck something, and feeling with his free hand, he found a chain. He tugged the chain. It jerked in his hand, and the low whimpering came again.
“Hey, feller!” Sagebrush Smith called softly. “How long has the old man had you a prisoner here?”
The whimper was his only answer.
Sagebrush Smith struck a match.
There was only a mangy and half-starved coyote pup on the end of the chain. And around about was bedding and odds and ends of clothing and enough of the kind of food that a man eats to show that old Meander Surett had been treating the coyote as a man.
Meander Surett was dead when Sagebrush Smith went back to him.
