Free Doc Savage: Skull Island (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) by Will Murray Page A

her masts, spars and rigging.”
    “Perhaps a pirate crew looted her, and stole away with her timber,” suggested Doc Savage.
    “Doubtful,” said Captain Savage, shaking his silver-streaked head.
    “I am inclined to agree with your father,” disclosed Friday. “Such freebooters as prowl the Indian Ocean have no use for masts of clipper magnitude. Nor would the wood be of much value. Else, the ship would have been picked over, reduced to a skeleton, and no longer be afloat.”
    “Was there any report of her condition?” asked Captain Savage.
    “I have the wireless communiqués here,” said Talbot Friday.
    He produced two Manila envelopes and emptied them. The reports went around the table.
    Reading them, Captain Savage’s seamed features gathered and smoothed, seeming to alter his appearance of age and maturity. It was as if he were gaining and losing entire decades with each facial alteration.
    Doc Savage read with an impassive countenance.
    AFTER a moment, his trilling issued forth. A sharp elbow in his ribs brought this social faux pas to his attention. He got control of it.
    “This report speaks of a large splash of blood at the taffrail,” said Doc.
    Friday nodded. “Yes. Unpleasant point.”
    Captain Savage took the report and read silently.
    “Could mean anything,” he said curtly.
    “It could,” allowed Friday. “But where Dyak pirates have boarded shipping, they often take the crew to a central point and remove their, ah, heads. A taffrail is rather like a chopping block to them.”
    Doc commented, “This report suggests that the bloodstains, while not fresh, were not old either.”
    “What makes you say that?”
    “Dried blood quickly turns brown,” replied Doc, drawing upon his medical knowledge. “But even dry, monsoon rains would wash any such stain away over a period of months, if not weeks.”
    “Sound point. So you are suggesting that the crew were beheaded comparatively recently?”
    Captain Savage interrupted. “Let us not go too finely into theories, gentlemen. It is only a supposition.”
    “Blood is blood,” said Friday. “And there was quite a lot of it.”
    “Confound it, I do not wish to be jumping at conclusions when there are facts yet to be ascertained!”
    And the coarse grain of Captain Savage’s voice was such that the room fell silent.
    Pouring himself another dollop of tea to freshen his cup, the official went on in a quiet and respectful tone of voice.
    “I imagine that you will want to sail with the dawn.”
    “Sooner,” snapped the captain of the Orion.
    “Really? After all this journeying, surely a sound bed in a solid hotel room would be more to your liking.”
    “It would,” said Captain Savage. “But every hour may count.”
    “Perfectly understandable, if not commendable. Yet I fear, if you hope to effect a rescue, that is sheer fantasy. Surely you grasp the facts of life as they present themselves.”
    “Sir,” Captain Savage returned, his voice cold and shaking, “the Courser may have been reduced to salvage and her decks awash with blood, but my father, Stormalong Savage, will not be declared dead until I have seen his cold clay cadaver with my very own eyes.”
    “Jolly good!” Talbot Friday lifted his cup. “Let’s all drink to a swift family reunion and a happy conclusion.”
    But the official was the only one to raise his china cup.
    Doc Savage and his father read the maritime reports over and over, sifting for clues and gleanings, golden eyes fixed. They were of one mind and one will now.

Chapter X
    BEFORE THE SCHOONER Orion departed Port Blair, Doc Savage spent his last thirty dollars buying crates of .45 caliber ammunition from a native general store.
    As he lugged them up the gangplank balanced on one shoulder, Captain Savage asked, “Expecting another world war?”
    Doc shook his head. “A Thompson Annihilator gun fires 1,500 rounds per minute. These will not last long.”
    “You have unbounded confidence in that contraption.