Free Merian C. Cooper's King Kong by Joe DeVito Page B

my cameras all together and right with me. How do I know when I’ll want ’em?”
    â€œListen, Mr. Denham.” Jack took Denham’s shoulder and pulled him a few feet away from Ann. Then he lowered his voice: “It’s crazy to risk—”
    Denham shrugged him off. “It’s all right, Jack. Get back to work. Okay, if you’re really worried, deal out the rifles and ammunition. See that the men take a dozen of the gas bombs. Oh, and pick me a couple of huskies to carry my picture stuff.”
    Driscoll shrugged and shot a frown in Ann’s direction as he turned to his sailors. Denham shook his head in amiable exasperation and winked at Ann. “I’ll have somebody get the costume box up and into one of the boats,” he said. “If we’re lucky we may get a swell shot right away. Get into the khakis and helmet, Ann. Just in case. And get some makeup on.” He hurried back toward the bridge, and behind him, Ann went below.
    *   *   *
    Captain Englehorn stood sweeping the island with powerful 15 × 60 binoculars. He had skippered dozens of voyages and knew exactly what to do, what details to oversee. But this one—his eyes scavenged for every detail—this one he felt was different. In the surrounding excitement and clamor, his instinctive composure hid an unaccustomed inner tension.
    Englehorn nearly started when Denham, right at his elbow, demanded, “See anything, Skipper?”
    The captain made his voice calm as he replied, “Nothing but a few huts at the edge of the brush on the peninsula.”
    Denham nodded. “I can make ’em out from here. I took a look from the bow and I think there are more and bigger houses back beyond the thicker brush.”
    Englehorn lowered his binoculars. “Strange, though. This is the first native island I’ve called on that the whole tribe didn’t come down to the beach for a look-see.”
    Denham braced his hands and leaned on the rail. “The tribe is somewhere close by, though. Hear those drums?”
    â€œSome ceremony, maybe,” Englehorn said. A deep, soft clamor rolled across the bay, rising and falling in a swift, importunate rhythm.
    â€œFunny they haven’t spotted us yet,” Denham said.
    That had been bothering Englehorn, too. He replied, “You’re right, there. By now, every last native ought to be out and down at the water’s edge.”
    â€œMaybe they have seen us. Drums could be a signal.”
    â€œYou’ve heard native drums before, Mr. Denham,” Englehorn responded. “You know those aren’t signal beats. There’s some kind of ritual going on inland. A big gathering, too, if you ask me.”
    When Denham didn’t reply, Englehorn stood wondering just what kind of ceremony could be going on. He remembered Denham’s mention of Kong, the god of the island. Though he wasn’t a superstitious man, Englehorn couldn’t help wondering if the islanders worshiped something real, something physical, under that strange name. But he wouldn’t be able to learn the truth standing on the bridge. He scanned the deck for Driscoll. “We’ll know soon enough,” he said, as if to himself.
    â€œSoon enough,” agreed Denham.
    *   *   *
    Driscoll stood by the davits and supervised as the crew lowered arms into the boats. He glanced up as Captain Englehorn approached from the bridge. “Mr. Driscoll.”
    â€œAye, Skipper.”
    â€œWhere’s the bo’sun?”
    Driscoll glanced forward and cupped his hand beside his mouth. “Murphy! Over here!”
    The petty officer, a thick, heavy seaman, hurried over. “Yes, sir?”
    â€œBo’sun, I want you to stay aboard with fourteen men,” Englehorn told Murphy. He turned to Driscoll. “You choose the fourteen. All the others will go ashore with us.”
    Driscoll tried not to show his surprise.