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

I waited and said—through Roy—”The Great Tang will see you soon and you must be prepared.”
    “Prepared?”
    Instead of replying, the Mongol drew a melon from his saddlebag. He handed this to me, along with a red ribbon about four feet long. He didn’t say a word—just stood there expectantly.
    “Tie the melon to the top of your head,” Roy said.
    “Pardon?”
    “Tie the melon to your head. It’s the only way Tang will meet you.”
    Well, if I’ve learned anything in my life it’s to go along with local customs, so I did as asked—though it was tricky enough, as you might imagine. Meanwhile, Pat had received the same instruction and had her melon balanced neatly atop her copper head long before I’d managed the trick, looking—naturally—like a magazine model showing off the latest fashion in vegetable wear. Roy, who’d apparently been through all of this before, was wearing his melon as well.
    Once the guides were happy, we continued on over the pass. On the far side and about two hundred feet down the far slope, we entered a broad level area about the size of a football field and surrounded by towering blocks of granite.
    “We’re to wait here,” said Roy, as our guides disappeared among the boulders.
    “What’s up, d’you think?” I whispered to Pat.
    “Haven’t the foggiest.”
    We hadn’t waited for more than a couple of minutes when gunshots suddenly rang out. I couldn’t tell where they’d come from, with the sound bouncing around the rock-ringed arena. It made me mighty nervous, I can tell you, but our ponies stood there stupidly, absolutely unperturbed. This was all apparently old hat to them.
    I was just looking at the rocks ahead—where our guides had vanished a few moments earlier—when a lone horseman came charging out of them toward us. He had a pistol in each hand and was banging away like a fool. He was coming directly toward us, fast as a freight train, without, apparently, any intention of slowing down. I glanced to my right and felt some small gratification in seeing Pat look worried for the first time since I’d met her. If that was going to be the last thing I saw on earth, it was worth it.
    The rider was about ten yards away when he lowered his pistols, one pointed in my direction, the other in Pat’s. There was a flash and a bang and I felt my head suddenly jolted. Wet, gooey chunks poured down my face and I was sure that my brains had been blown out. It was just occurring to me how little sense that made when I heard another bang and saw Pat’s melon detonate in a spray of yellow flesh and liquid. She didn’t even flinch.
    The rider shot between us like a rocket, swiveled and came to a halt a couple of yards in front, his shaggy little horse prancing as though its feet were red hot. The rider was a chunky little yellow man who looked like a cross between a circus dwarf and Fu Manchu. He was dressed head to foot in silk coat and trousers that were quilted, elaborately embroidered and trimmed, like his pointed hat, in furs.
    “Haw! Haw!” he crowed. “Howdy thar, podners!”
    “Two-Gun Tang, I presume,” said Pat.

CHAPTER TEN
    Two-Gun didn’t turn out to be such a bad guy. After scaring the tar out of Pat and me, he holstered his smoking Colts and invited us to tea. I could see right away he had an eye for pretty girls. Something that wasn’t lost on Pat, either, and she batted her eyes at him like a shameless hussy.
    About fifteen minutes of riding brought us into his camp—though it looked more like a small village to me. A dozen or so of those dome-shaped things the Mongolians call “yurts,” which were a kind of carpet-covered igloo thirty or so feet across. They looked like piles of old rags when seen from outside, but inside they were pretty comfortable—luxurious, in fact. Beautiful carpets that would have demanded hundreds of dollars in New York, elaborately carved and enameled woodwork, embroidered cushions: all the luxuries of home.
    Two-Gun