DOC SAVAGE: THE INFERNAL BUDDHA (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (18 page)

Tigers are creatures of habit, Doc Savage knew. A preferred method of attack was to seize their prey by throat or nape of the neck, employing their powerful jaws to break the spinal column, thereby bringing a victim down. Thus, the bronze man’s efforts were concentrated on evading that unpleasant fate.

A quickening pulsing of nostrils was the only thing that betrayed the tiger’s next move.

Uncoiling like a tawny spring, it executed a clean leap. A wild growl suggesting that it was about to snatch up a victory froze the blood of all onlookers.

Moving like liquid metal, Doc Savage flowed to one side. What happened next showed that speed alone does not settle contests, nor are tigers slow learners.

Seeing it would miss, the tiger swiped out and managed to hook one paw in the bronze man’s right shoulder. Claws pierced flesh. Scrambling for purchase, the tawny fury gained Doc Savage’s broad back. Digging in with foreclaws, it hung onto Doc’s shoulders, hind claws madly shredding hide off his lower back. Gore flowed.

A flicker of shock stabbed the bronze man’s eyes.

Bellowing lustily, Monk charged up. Doc rapped out a warning. “Keep clear!”

Reluctantly, the apish chemist skidded to a stop. He bounced on his bowed legs like a trainer urging his fighter to stay in the ring. Low growls issued from his thick throat.

Twisting about, Doc flailed with his handicapped fists, endeavoring to pry the killer cat loose. No good. Finger strength was what he needed. But for all the good they did him, his iron digits might as well have been set in stone.

Claws went to work, tearing, rending. Scarlet scars became visible on the bronze man’s muscled back. Had the tiger been clinging to Doc’s chest, he would have been disemboweled by the furiously ripping rear claws.

Jumping up and down like a bull gorilla, Monk howled red wrath.
“Ye-e-ow!
I’ll murder that mangy cat!”

As a match for size, Doc Savage had the advantage. But the tiger was one of nature’s more vicious killers. It possessed an animal strength that no human, not even the Man of Bronze, possessed in comparable measure.

Recognizing this, Doc changed tactics.

Bunching shoulders, hunkering his head downward, Doc strove to protect the nape of his neck from the tiger’s fangs. Moist hot breath stirred his hair as the bristled mouth yawned open. A growl suggestive of appetite issued forth.

Throwing out his arms, Doc pitched backward. He landed smack atop of the astonished feline. The bronze man was no bantam weight. Over two hundred pounds of steel-thewed brawn crushed the tiger into the dirt. This made an impression on the stunned animal. Claws retracting from human muscle, it gave forth an unnerved shriek.

With a mighty shrug, Doc flung the startled feline off him, regained his footing. That maneuver succeeded, but at the cost of some skin.

Climbing shakily to its padded feet, the dazed tiger padded angrily to and fro, as if contemplating its next move. Angry eyes never left his metallic antagonist. Now they held a wary light.

Back bleeding profusely, Doc set himself for the next round. He watched the tiger’s tail and eyes, which would give away its intentions.

The black-banded tail commenced switching back and forth, cold eyes crowding together, almost crossing. It was panting now. Snorting black nostrils twitched furiously. Unmistakably, the slash-marked body—it was dappled with the bronze man’s life fluid now—began gathering its remaining vitality for a mighty bound.

Instead, an amazing thing happened.

Doc Savage pounced first!

IT was probably an experience entirely new to the feline. At least, it behaved as if its world had been turned upside down.

Recoiling, it backed away, growling, ears folding flat against its skull, scarred flanks heaving.

Doc advanced confidently. The bronze man began crowding the tiger against one earthen wall. Snorting and spitting, the tiger shied off and tried to slink away, possibly to consider its options.

Discovering none, it peeled back its whiskered mouth to its widest, exposing its full array of fangs. A warning growl issued forth. It lacked its full measure of conviction.

Monk pitched in with a bloodcurdling roar of his own.

It put the tiger’s vocal display to shame, seemingly adding to its discomfit.

Doc kept coming, gloved fists held chest-high before him.

Cornered, the tiger did the only thing left to it—it came on in a flashing, tawny leap!

Doc Savage walked into it, shooting out one arm, then the other, popping the tiger on the proverbial button. One boxing glove landed smartly on the broad black nose, followed by the other. It was the old one-two punch perfected by pugilists. Barely any interval separated the impact sounds.

Tail over teakettle, the tiger was hurled backward, to land in a limp heap of red-streaked fur. It did not rise again. Only its tail twitched. Then it, too, lay down and ceased moving.

A wild cheer went up from Dang Mi’s cut-throat crew. They began chanting.

“Savage! Savage! Savage!
Tuan
Savage, Scourge of  Tigers!” was their cry.

Thus it was when Doc Savage climbed out of the pit, the pirate band cupped their hands to their blue turbans and salaamed respectfully in his direction.

“Lay down your arms,” he told them in the language they knew.

Strangely enough, they did. Monk and the others were summarily released. After scrambling up the restored ladder, Monk picked out a pirate at random and batted him off his feet with a hairy paw.

“Next guy who tries to stick me with a knife,” he growled, “there won’t be enough left of him to snore.”

Renny helped Mark and Mary Chan out of the pit.

Doc Savage removed the boxing gloves that had proved to be more of a boon and a blessing than Dang Mi had ever imagined. He did this by taking first one lacing knot, and then the other, in his strong white teeth, biting down hard and parting the cords easily, showing that he could have done so at any time.

Lastly, Dang Mi was hauled out of the pit and stood before the bronze man.

He was now a miserable excuse for a corsair. Both holsters were empty and the collodion smear that had given one eye an Oriental cast had melted, making him look lop-eyed, if there was such a thing.

“What are you going to do with me?” he mumbled through crushed lips.

“Somebody fetch a plank,” Monk growled.

“They hang pirates in these waters,” Renny reminded.

“We can fashion a noose out of that netting,” Ham suggested.

Doc Savage seemed to consider possibilities.

“If you cooperate, your life will be spared,” he said at last.

Dang Mi narrowed sun-squint eyes. “By who?”

“By us. We will take you back to the States, where you will be attended to.”

“And iffin’ I don’t?”

“You will be turned over to British authorities to face their brand of justice,” the bronze man assured him.

Dang Mi suddenly felt of his neck.

“I got ancestors that were hung for horse thieves. No, thanks.”

Doc eyed him levelly. “Then you will behave?”

Dang peered around at his erstwhile crew. They returned his regard without outward warmth. One made a point of expectorating on the ground.

“Don’t look like I got much of a dang choice,” he admitted glumly.

Turning to his men, Doc Savage said, “Our next order of business will be to recover that strongbox.”

“Where is it, Doc?” asked Ham.

Instead of answering, the bronze man led everyone out into the jungle. Monk and Ham and the others recovered their superfirers and were using them to herd the pirate crew along. They didn’t require much herding. Not having understood the exchange in English between their former leader and the bronze giant, they had concluded that Doc Savage was assuming command of the
Devilfish
and was about to captain them to victories both glorious and innumerable.

The trail led to an area where there were several jungle ponds created by rainwater pooling in depressions in the earth. Water lilies scaled the placid surface under which tadpoles darted like limbless black imps.

“You submerged it in water!” Mary Chan gasped.

“Knowing what it could do?” blurted Mark Chan, goggling.

“It was reasonable to assume that no one would think to look for it underwater,” Doc explained. “And I took into consideration the waterproofing of the container.”

Hearing all this, Dang Mi muttered, “Dang and double dang….”

He was looking down into one pool. It had a brilliant green film on it like pond scum. In the jungle, water does not remain pure for very long. Teeming flora and fauna make certain of that.

Doc Savage started to wade into the pool.

“I’d be careful was I you,” cautioned Dang.
“Buayas
—that means crocodiles—sometimes lurk in these swimmin’ holes.”

This mention of crocodiles bought uneasy expressions to the faces of those who overheard.

“I’ve lost more than a few of my hearties to crocs,” continued Dang, warming to the subject. “They up and lash out of the water with their tails and knock a man into the pool with them. Sometimes they just grab hold of an ankle and yank a bloke underwater, drownin’ him before even botherin’ to eat him.”

“Enough,” said Doc. He began to wade in.

Dang Mi watched him intently. His dark eyes tracked ahead, the way a man plots the progress of a plane by observing its direction.

Without any sound or warning, Dang sudden plunged in.

“Croc! Over there! Crocodile!” he howled wildly.

Machine pistols came up. The others tried sighting on the unseen reptile. But Dang was making such a splashing commotion that the placid green water turned turbulent.

Doc Savage’s flake-gold eyes raked his surroundings. He saw no moving shapes.

“Not there,” Dang cried. “Over there!” He pointed to a specific spot, where a water lily sat placidly.

A splash erupted from that locality.

None saw the well-aimed stone that shot from Dang’s hands before he jabbed a pointing digit. Their eyes were on the purported reptile.

Only half convinced, Doc lunged for the spot.

Dang suddenly turned frog. He threw himself onto the scummy water and began to kick feet toward the first shiny thing he spotted. It was the strongbox, lying there in the silty pool bottom, a wavering metallic-blue gleam.

Doc Savage realized the subterfuge almost at once. He shifted position and made for the same spot.

It was a race that the bronze man was not certain to win.

This time he did not.

The reflective effect on sunlight in water was deceptive. It showed the box to be in a relative position that was slightly illusionary when one looked down into the pool.

Dang Mi, swimming underwater, experienced no such optical deception. He arrowed like a seal toward the box, reached it first.

What he intended to do was never known. But what Dang Mi accomplished in the last moment of his life became etched indelibly on the brains of all who witnessed the awesome, uncanny event.

Dang’s questing fingers brushed the box, upsetting it. In toppling, the lid jarred loose. Just a crack. No one knew that. Only Dang.

Only a crack, but what followed was unforgettable!

FIRST came a noise that could not be easily described. It possessed the noisome qualities of a sucking sound, all agreed afterward. But mixed in were other auditory sensations.

Perhaps Jonah made such a noise when swallowed by the Biblical whale.

Next, the pool began to boil. It was not a boiling that could be ascribed to heat, although it certainly was hot. This was an altogether different kind of boiling—furious, unsettling, and sudden in a way that shocked the senses.

A fog began forming about the pool in rushing aerial streams, as if all the surrounding moisture were being irresistibly summoned by the inhabitant of the mysterious metal container.

Abruptly, everyone was running for their lives. Running partly from instinct, but also because it seemed as if all the oxygen, all the heat, all of everything had abruptly been removed from the immediate environment.

Even Doc Savage veered sharply and quitted the vicinity.

Perhaps he had some inking of what was to come. For the moment Dang touched the box, the bronze man seemed to reverse course.

They ran. All of them. Ran and ran and ran.

And as they ran, they made horrible croakings in their throats—throats that were suddenly parched and dry. Throats that ached with a pain that suggested strained vocal cords.

But their yells had nothing to do with any pain.

It was as if all the moisture was being wrenched from their organs, their lungs, their very inner tissues.

Behind them, the boiling jungle pool abruptly went quiet. They heard this, but did not witness it. No one was looking in the direction of the pool. Furiously they were trying to get as far away from the boiling body as humanly possible—as if their very existences depended upon wild, mindless flight.

A weird silence attended the quieting of the jungle pool.

RUNNING AS FAR and fast as they could, the group—consisting of  Doc Savage and his men, the Chans and the remnants of Dang Mi’s pirate band—eventually reached the edge of a large watering hole.

They plunged in.

Immersing themselves, they began to drink. The water was clear and fortunately not briny. Otherwise matters would have turned out far worse than they did. Drinking salt water is not recommended.

Taking great greedy gulps, they drank their fill. More than their fill. Monk immersed his entire head and seemed determined to engulf as much of the reservoir as possible. Ham was only slightly more refined in his imbibing.

After possibly twenty minutes of this, they dragged themselves back on dry land. Dragged because they were very, very weak.

Doc Savage’s amazing vitality seemed to withstand the influence more tolerably than the others. But even the mighty Man of Bronze looked sorely affected. Doubtless, his recent blood loss contributed to his debilitated state of being.

He lay on his back in the sand gasping for breath, and enjoying the satisfaction of a stomach full of water.