Free Return to Skull Island by Ron Miller, Darrell Funk Page A

go and Englehorn wasn’t about to take her an inch further. The countryside reminded me a little of Arizona or New Mexico: arid with lots of scrubby-looking plant life. In the near distance were some rugged-looking highlands.
    There was a port town at the headwaters, called Yulin. It was a sizeable place set in a flat valley that rose quickly from the river. Andrews told me that the surrounding territory was the province of Jehol, which was ruled by the infamous bandit warlord Tang Tulin. “Old Two-Gun Tang,” he added.
    “What do they call him that for?”
    “You’ll enjoy it a lot more if you find out for yourself.”
    While we prepared ourselves for the overland trek to Tang’s hideout, Frank Buck bid us adieu. He was off, he said, to the deserts to the north, where he hoped to find the tigers a couple of stateside zoos had been panting for. “Worth twice their weight in gold,” he said.
    Andrews’ plan was to take us as far as Two-Gun Tang, who had been his patron and protector while Andrews had been hunting for fossils in the Gobi. Being old chums with the warlord, he would help broker the sale of Pat’s planes. Once he’d done that and gotten Tang in an amiable mood, he would negotiate an escort for himself back to the Gobi Desert, where he hoped there was a nest of dinosaur eggs with his name on it.
    Meanwhile, Englehorn would wait for both Buck and our party to return, using the time to reprovision the ship.
    Buck lost no time in taking off in search of his Mongolian tigers, taking along a couple of cases of the antique carbines he was going to use to bribe the locals.
    Pat, meanwhile, was excited by the prospect of the coming adventure. Too excited to suit me. I don’t think she cared one way or the other whether Tang bought her planes and when she met me by the gangway, ready to board the launch that would take us into Yulin, I was sure of it. She was dressed in khaki jodhpurs and shirt, a khaki tie, a brown leather jacket lined with sheepskin, high laced boots and a pith helmet. She had a a nickel-plated .45 automatic and her granddaddy’s Colt slung at her hips and together they didn’t look half as dangerous as the glitter in those coppery eyes of hers.
    “Well, I’m ready to go, Carl!”
    “I think maybe you’re too ready by half, Pat.”
    We met Roy on shore, where he had good news for us. A messenger from Tang had just arrived bearing greetings and Tang’s eager anticipation of our arrival.
    “Oh, goody, Carl!” Pat shimmered. “Did you hear? The old bandit will pay the asking price for my planes! Isn’t that just peachy of him?”
    “Yeah, peachy. We aren’t there, yet, Pat. Let’s wait and see what he’s got to say when we see him face to face.”
    “I am sure he’ll be a darling. Look, Carl,” she continued in a soberer tone, “I know what I’m doing. You don’t have to worry about me.”
    “That’s more or less what is worrying me.”
    It took two days to get to Tang’s hideout, riding those shaggy little ponies that are about twenty-five percent mountain goat, and a good thing, too. I had to laugh at Pat, whose long legs nearly touched the ground on either side of her mount. She scowled and stuck her tongue out and by God I thought I’d never seen her look more appealing. In my career as a film maker, I’ve come face-to-face with charging rhinos, lions, tigers, boa constrictors, giant clams and, of course, Kong—but I don’t think I’ve ever come up against anything as dangerous as that bronze-eyed woman—nor anything as attractive . . . which was exactly the reason she was so damn dangerous.
    The trail our guides followed seemed to wander aimlessly through the mountains northwest of Yulin, through as barren, rugged and primeval territory as I’ve ever seen, Skull Island included. Aimless the trail might have seemed, but it inexorably took us deeper into the wilderness and always higher.
    We finally reached a pass where our guides stopped. One came back to where