Читать книгу The Monsters: A Doc Savage Adventure - Lester Bernard Dent - Страница 4

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On the fifteenth of the month, Bruno Hen did the thing which was actually his first step toward disaster—a disaster that was to affect not only himself, but many others as well.

Bruno Hen sold his furs on this date.

Most of the pelts were muskrats, cunningly stolen from the trap lines of Bruno Hen’s neighbors, the chief loser being big, honest, slow-witted Carl MacBride. The thefts were slyly executed, for Bruno Hen was as foxy a half-breed as the North Michigan woods held.

Oxlike Carl MacBride never suspected.

Not that Carl MacBride liked Bruno Hen. One day big MacBride had come upon Bruno Hen killing a chicken for dinner. The breed had been choking the chicken to death, and taking great glee in prolonging the fowl’s death agonies. After that, Carl MacBride held a suspicion that no more cruel a breed than Bruno Hen ranged North Michigan.

The fur market was strong the day Bruno Hen sold. His pelts brought more than he had expected. So he decided to celebrate.

This decision was his second step toward disaster.

The Atlas Congress of Wonders was showing at Trapper Lake that day. The Atlas did not amount to much as a circus, being financially very much down at the heel. But it was the best Trapper Lake offered. So, by way of celebrating, Bruno Hen went to the circus.

That was his third step in the direction of disaster. The fourth pace, taken all unknowingly, was when he stopped in front of the freak side show.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” bawled the side show barker. “We have here a stupendous, marvelous, awesome, dumfounding sight! We have here the three most amazing beings ever to come from darkest Africa! Look them over, good people. Try to make yourselves realize that these monstrosities are actually human. They are called the pinhead men. They are cannibal savages from darkest Africa!”

The Atlas Congress of Wonders was not above faking an occasional wild man or a cannibal, but it chanced that these pinheads were the genuine articles. They had been brought from Africa by a more affluent circus, which had then gone bankrupt.

Bruno Hen moved close to the platform to stare at the three pinheads. He had never seen such hideous humans.

The pinheads were squat, the tallest reaching barely to Bruno Hen’s topmost vest button. They were nearly as broad as tall, and they were as black as human skin could practically be. They might have been oversize monkeys, shaven bare of hair, dyed black, and given a high polish.

The contour of their heads was especially haunting. Instead of being rounded in the fashion considered normal, the skulls sloped upward to a sharp point. The pin-pointed heads were also very small in proportion to the rest of their gnarled black bodies.

The pinheads had a trait of casting darting, animallike looks about them. At times they jumped up and down, after the fashion of chimpanzees. They emitted caterwauling noises—apparently their way of conversing with each other.

Trapper Lake citizens, looking on, probably thought this behavior was part of the circus act. They were mistaken.

The poor pinheads were beings almost devoid of mentality.

Bruno Hen looked at the pinheads and grinned from ear to ear. The idea of human beings so handicapped by nature tickled him. He laughed out loud. That laugh was his fifth step toward disaster.

The pinheads stared at Bruno Hen, their attention drawn by the laugh. Bruno Hen’s smile was derisive, but the pinheads did not have the intelligence to realize that. They thought the grin friendly. They smiled back, jumped up and down, and beat their chests with nubbins of fists. Back in the African bush, that was the way one showed heart-to-heart friendship.

Bruno Hen thundered another laugh. It was the same kind of a laugh Carl MacBride had heard when he had come upon the breed slowly throttling a chicken to satisfy a lust for cruelty.

The utter cruelty of that loud laugh caused the barker to end his spiel abruptly and stare at Bruno Hen. The barker ran his eyes up and down the breed’s person.

In Bruno Hen he saw a bulky lout constructed on the lines of a brown bologna. Bruno Hen’s clothing was frayed, greasy. It never had fitted properly. He wore high deerskin moccasins, obviously made by himself. He wore a dazzling-green hat and a blinding-yellow necktie, both new.

The barker was a pleasant-natured soul. He did not like Bruno Hen’s laugh; it sent wintry chills along his spine. He decided to bullyrag Bruno Hen to persuade him to move on.

The barker sprang to one of the three pinheads, and made an elaborate pretense of listening to the unintelligible cackle the fellow was making.

“Crowd right up, folks!” he yelled. “An amazing thing has happened! These pinhead cannibals from darkest Africa claim they have just recognized a member of their tribe who was lost years ago!”

The barker leveled an arm at Bruno Hen. “The pinheads claim this man as their brother tribesman.”

The crowd roared its laughter.

The pinheads hopped about, clucked and gobbled. They were just happy. But it looked as if they were agreeing with the barker. Actually, they couldn’t understand a word he said.

Bruno Hen glowered. His fists made big knobs at his sides.

A grinning pinhead leveled an arm at the breed and spouted gibberish.

The barker yelled, “The gentleman from Africa declares that any one can tell this man is his brother by looking at that green hat and yellow necktie.”

At this point, to the barker’s relief, Bruno Hen stamped off. He yanked his green hat over his eyes and loosened his yellow necktie, as if it were too tight.

Bruno Hen’s swarthy neck was purple and he was muttering under his breath. It was a tribute to his stupidity that he thought the pinheads had said what the barker declared they had. Accordingly, he was very angry with the pinheads.

Farther down the midway was the strong-man show. A fellow with remarkable muscles stood on the platform.

“We have one of the strongest men in the world!” the barker was claiming raucously. “Only ten cents, a dime, a tenth part of a dollar, to see him perform. I might even say this man is the strongest in the world. The only other man who might be his equal is Doc Savage. But, unfortunately, this Herculean gentleman and Doc Savage have never matched strength. We do not know who is actually the stronger.”

Bruno Hen scowled blackly.

“You may never see Doc Savage, folks!” yelled the barker. “So step in and see one of the strongest men in the world!”

Bruno Hen tried to remember who Doc Savage was. He seemed to have heard the name before.

Soon the breed came to a show featuring a mental marvel, a fellow who claimed to be able to answer any question asked of him without consulting a reference book. The mental marvel was supposed to know all things—so the barker was saying.

“The only living man who may possibly be a greater mental marvel than this individual, is Doc Savage!” extolled the barker.

Bruno Hen scratched his head, trying to remember.

“Doc Savage you may never meet, my good people,” the barker howled. “So pay a dime and see the mental marvel who is almost his equal!”

Abruptly, Bruno Hen remembered who Doc Savage was. He was an almost legendary figure, a man of mystery, who was reputed to be a superman in strength and mental ability. Doc Savage resided in New York. He traveled to the ends of the earth, punishing wrongdoers and helping others out of trouble.

In Trapper Lake stores, Bruno Hen had heard traveling salesmen tell of Doc Savage’s fabulous feats.

Little dreaming that Doc Savage—to whom amazing feats were commonplace events—was to play an important part in the future of Trapper Lake, Bruno Hen walked on. He did not give a hoot about the future of Trapper Lake, anyway.

Wandering over the circus grounds, Bruno Hen soon found himself back among the tents and wagons which the performers used for living quarters.

He came to a stop; his porcine eyes glittered. He put a wide, fatuous grin on his face.

Coming toward him was a young woman with the most striking hair Bruno Hen could recall having seen—hair the exact shade of steel. The young woman had it drawn like a tight steel skullcap, with steellike knobs over her ears.

She wore boots, laced breeches, and a brilliant red jacket. The garments set off a shapely figure to great advantage. A shiny metal revolver was belted about her waist.

Bruno Hen was nothing if not bold. He prepared to accost the young woman.

The girl evidently knew the ways of such louts. She veered off and avoided him.

Not daunted, Bruno Hen followed her. He stopped, however, when he saw the young woman pick up a chair and calmly climb into a cage with several ferocious-looking maned beasts. These greeted her with ugly roars.

The steel-haired girl was a lion-tamer.

Standing back, marveling that the lions did not devour her instantly, Bruno Hen watched the cage as it was hauled into the Big Top.

Inside the Big Top, the ringmaster was bellowing, “And now we are going to present that extravagant, unparalleled exhibition of human nerve——” He paused to get the proper drama. “Jean Morris, and her troop of blood-thirsty, untamed lions!”

Bruno Hen loitered about in hopes of getting another glimpse of the young woman with the amazing steel hair. But she did not appear. He concluded she must have left by another exit.

He got to thinking of the pinheads again, and his rage arose. He stalked off the circus grounds, bought some groceries in Trapper Lake and betook himself home.

Bruno Hen had no idea that he had laid almost the full foundation for future disaster.

Bruno Hen’s cabin was located not far from the shore of Lake Superior. The structure was a patchwork of logs, cheap slab lumber and tar paper. It had one room. An open fireplace served for both warmth and cooking. There was a window, and plenty of cracks for ventilation.

Except for big, slow-witted Carl MacBride, who lived half a mile down the lake shore, there were no near neighbors. There was no telephone, and Bruno Hen took no newspaper.

Hence, when the Atlas Congress of Wonders went bankrupt in Trapper Lake after counting the proceeds of its last performance, Bruno Hen did not learn of the fact immediately.

The day following his experience at the circus, he expertly robbed a gill net set by Carl MacBride. He took only such fish as he wished to eat; but instead of leaving the others in the net, he removed them and tossed them aside. He was not doing the fish a kindness, for he knocked each finny specimen in the head before discarding it. There was a peculiar twist to Bruno Hen’s brain which made him delight in cruelty.

The pretty circus lion-tamer haunted his thoughts somewhat. Memory of her steel-hued hair especially stuck with him.

The next few days Bruno spent in overhauling his canoe, replacing a staved rib or two, and applying a coat of varnish. The fishing season was near. With the coming of summer, he usually traveled south to a district more inhabited, where he offered his services as a guide.

It was a week to the day after his visit to the circus when Bruno Hen took his next step toward disaster.

He was getting a late supper when he heard a noise. He was frying fish. Over the sputter of grease, he thought he heard a low moan.

With a quick gesture, he put out the light. Being of an evil nature himself, Bruno always expected the worst from others. His eyes became accustomed to the murk. Although there was no moon, the sky was cloudless and the stars furnished fitful luminance.

The breed eyed the window. The pane needed washing, but he could discern an object outside. His hair all but stood on end.

One frenzied leap took Bruno Hen across the cabin to his rifle. He snatched it down, then dashed outside.

The thing at the window had been a hideous apparition, yet vaguely familiar. A cold dew stood on the breed’s skin as he squinted into the night.

“Hell!” he swore.

The odious specter at the window had been one of the pinhead cannibals.

All three of the grotesque little black fellows huddled near the window. They trembled after the manner of frightened animals.

Bruno Hen, seeing that they were very scared of him, felt more bold.

“What d’you want?” he demanded.

The answer was a hooting, clucking conglomeration of sounds. Bruno Hen could understand no word of it. He could not tell that the unfortunate pinheads, stranded when the circus went broke, were slowly starving. Unable to speak English, and lacking the intelligence to convey their needs by making signs, the pinheads were in a predicament.

Bruno Hen scowled at them, thinking of the mortification they had caused him at the circus.

“Get outa here!” he snarled.

The pinheads only waved their arms more vehemently and cackled louder. They were desperate for food. One kneeled, seeking to grasp Bruno Hen’s knees in supplication.

Bruno Hen kicked the pinhead, sending the unfortunate fellow sprawling away.

Apparently pleased by the sound of his foot on human flesh, the breed launched another kick. He struck with his rifle barrel, with his fists.

The pinheads, weakened by lack of food, could evade only a few of the blows. Mauled and bleeding, they finally managed to drag themselves away.

“I’ll do worse next time you show up!” Bruno Hen bawled after them.

The pinheads disappeared in the timber to the southward. The breed stood in the starlight until he could no longer hear sounds of their footsteps. Then, chuckling, he entered his cabin.

It was possibly ten minutes later that he heard faint but terrible human screams.

These came from the direction the pinheads had taken. They lasted only a moment, and ended with unpleasant abruptness.

“Probably two of ’em eatin’ the third one,” Bruno Hen snorted.

The breed did not know, but he had just taken his final step toward disaster.