Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 078 - The Crimson Serpent

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THE CRIMSON SERPENT
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. SWAMP TERROR
? Chapter II. CHAINS CLANK
? Chapter III. A THREAT
? Chapter IV. A GIRL CALLS
? Chapter V. AN UNEXPECTED DISCOVERY
? Chapter VI. A SURPRISE ATTACK
? Chapter VII. A PICTURE IS STOLEN
? Chapter VIII. "DOC SAVAGE IS DEAD!"
? Chapter IX. INTO THE SWAMP
? Chapter X. SURROUNDED
? Chapter XI. GUNS ROAR
? Chapter XII. A TRAP
? Chapter XIII. A TORTURE ROOM
? Chapter XIV. PONCE DE LEON’S GOAL
? Chapter XV. A HEAD FALLS
? Chapter XVI. TWO MORE FALL
? Chapter XVII. HAM PLEADS HIS CASE
? Chapter XVIII. A CALL FOR HELP
? Chapter XIX. DOOMED!
? Chapter XX. SECRETS EXPOSED
Chapter I. SWAMP TERROR
A CAMP cook was the first to disappear. Nothing much was thought of that. The cook was believed to
have a weakness for swamp "corn." It was decided he had been the victim of an accident. That he
probably had stepped into a sink-hole in the darkness.
Afterward, it was learned that that was a mistake.
A youth, hired as a handy man about one of the camps, vanished next. He took a rifle late one afternoon
and entered the swamp to see if he could kill some squirrels for supper.
He never came back.
Some uneasy comment followed that. But the youth was known to have been of the restless, wandering
type. Finally, it was believed he had just jumped this job and gone on.
Then the first rumors were heard.
The earliest stories mentioned chains and strange clanking sounds in the night. Government engineers on
the job grinned broadly. The swamp men they were using as helpers didn’t grin at all. They looked
queerly apprehensive, and that was odd. They weren’t the type of men that frightened easily.
A few days later came the rumor of a peculiarly venomous type of snake. At least it was supposed to be
a snake.
Swamp men called it "The Crimson Serpent!"
The natives now looked almost terror-stricken. Singly and in pairs they quit their jobs. Within a week
almost half of them had vanished into the dark recesses of the swamp.
That was serious enough.
And then came the first definite evidence of the weird terror of the swamp! It came with terrible
suddenness. It left another man dead, horribly dead. It changed young Bill Craig from a strong, husky
engineer into a trembling shadow of fear!
EVERYONE had anticipated trouble. But not even the most pessimistic had any idea of the strange,
malignant thing that was to be encountered.
The job was a flood-control project. And flood-control work, particularly where it means building dams
and inundating a considerable section of territory, always brings difficulties.
In this case, even more than the usual trials and tribulations had been expected. The area to be affected
was the almost inaccessible, impassable swamp in the southeastern part of Arkansas, between the
Mississippi and Ouachita rivers. The residents of that swamp were far from friendly to State or
government officials of any kind.
Those in charge realized that. They had gone to the one man they believed could help them.
They had asked the aid of Doc Savage.
Doc Savage was known by reputation even to the swamp dwellers. They knew they could trust him. Doc
had assured them the engineers would not be accompanied by Federal officers, that there would be no
attempt to hunt down petty law violators.
He even had one of his own men, Colonel John Renwick, known as Renny, appointed as chief engineer
for the necessary survey work, so that any trouble between the swamp dwellers and the government men
could be ironed out promptly.
That was all Doc thought there was to it.
Young Bill Craig knew the swamp men, also. He was a graduate of Yale, but he had been born and
reared in Arkansas.
Young Bill was one of the few engineers who did not laugh at the whispered stories of the natives.
Strange stories had come out of the swamp for years, but this one seemed too real, too vivid, to be
dismissed easily.
It was with difficulty he forced himself to go out on the job. The swamp seemed more fearsome, more
dangerous than ever before. His men were strangely silent.
As the morning hours slipped by, his nerves became more and more tense. It seemed as if the swamp
were waiting. Waiting for some terrible thing to occur.
A premonition of coming disaster gripped him.
Young Bill Craig tried to dismiss that premonition as he pushed farther and farther into the swamp. It
didn’t do any good. The feeling of dread continued to grow.
Probably because he could speak their language, Young Bill still had his crew intact. Two natives were
along to cut through the tall grass and thick vines so that he could use his micrometer theodolite. A couple
more handled the long steel tapes. Nearby were two guides in the long, slender boats that were used in
the bayous.
Near sunset, Bill Craig thought it became unusually quiet. The swamp men seemed to be listening, with
ears strained.
The sound itself came without warning. It resembled that of a logging chain being dragged over rough
ground, so that the links clanked together.
Bill Craig was leaning over, peering through the telescope of the theodolite. One of the swamp men
happened to be facing him as he jerked erect.
Utter terror was pictured on the other’s leathery face!
For a time no one moved. Then Jute gave a nervous laugh. Jute was one of the guides. He was fingering
a long-barreled rifle and looking in the direction from which the sound of the clanking chain had come.
That laugh freed Bill Craig’s frozen muscles.
"What is it?" he asked sharply.
Jute sent a stream of tobacco juice against the thick trunk of a cypress tree, but did not answer. He was
a lean, lanky man wearing faded overalls.
Bill Craig glanced at the others. They had regained control of their features, but they couldn’t hide the
look almost of panic that lurked far back in their eyes.
Had Bill Craig been older and more experienced, he might have pushed his question. Then again, he
probably wouldn’t. He knew enough of the swamp dwellers to know he stood more chance of getting
information if he let them volunteer it than if he tried to force them to talk.
He gave his big shoulders what he hoped was an indifferent shrug and turned back to the theodolite.
"Back to work." he rapped. "We’ve still got an hour before dusk."
When he looked up some moments later, he noticed that Jute had disappeared. He hadn’t heard him go,
but then Jute knew how to handle a boat noiselessly.
Bill Craig smiled with satisfaction. That was more like it. Jute, of all of them, had seemed least impressed
by the sound they had heard. He had spent his life in the swamps, and was quite capable of taking care
of himself. Undoubtedly he would reappear soon with some quite simple explanation of the chain rattle.
Then a new sound came. It was a metallic sound, also, but one such as Bill Craig had never heard
before. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn that it was a sound such as would have been
made by men marching in armor.
It was only seconds after that when the screams began!
It was just dusk. That made it harder to tell distance or direction. Besides, sound carries far over water.
The screams didn’t sound human. But Bill Craig knew no animal could make such sounds. They were
too frenzied, too filled with unbearable agony.
Yet it didn’t seem possible that anything could make Jute, if it was Jute, scream like that.
The young engineer stood frozen for several moments. Then he turned to leap toward the other guide and
the second boat.
He was just in time to see that boat flash away.
Bill Craig’s hesitation had been short, but it had been long enough for the rest of his crew to reach the
boat. He was left alone.
Young Bill yelled. Then he cursed. He did a good job at both. The boat did not pause. It went away. As
near as Bill could tell, it was going in a direction opposite to that from which the screams were coming.
Physical danger was something Bill Craig did not fear. He had a small gun in his belt for use in killing
snakes. He got this gun out and began to run to help Jute.
He could still hear the screams. They were fainter now, but no less horrifying.
Before Bill Craig realized where he was going, he fell off the hammock of ground and went into the
water. It was stagnant water, filled with crawly things.
It took him some time to get back to land. He found he had lost his gun. The screams stopped.
For a moment, panic seized the engineer. The only way to get out of the swamp was by boat. He had no
boat, and something horrible was near at hand.
He floundered about aimlessly. Twice more he fell into water. Then he stopped. He stopped because he
heard again the sound of a clanking chain.
The sound was close by, but it was almost dark and he could see nothing. He made himself as small as
possible, shivering. After a while the sound of the chain faded.
BILL CRAIG didn’t know a night could be so long. He was almost thankful for the swarms of
mosquitoes that buzzed about him. They kept him awake and kept him busy slapping. Occasionally he
could hear some animal moving about. Once he heard the piercing scream of a cougar.
Unknown peril seemed lurking on all sides. He didn’t even dare light a cigarette.
Something was horribly wrong, and his only hope was that he might live to tell about it. There was no
question in his mind but that Jute was dead.
As soon as the first rays of daylight came he fished out a compass and started to work his way back to
civilization. The path that had been cut through the vines and grass helped some, but he couldn’t follow a
straight line. There were too many bayous to cross, and he knew cotton-mouth moccasins were plentiful.
It was almost noon when he found Jute’s boat. The boat evidently had drifted down one of the winding
creeks until it had tangled up in the low-hanging limb of a big tree.
Jute’s rifle was in the bottom of the boat. Bill Craig felt a little better when he got his hands on that. Then
he remembered that the rifle evidently hadn’t done Jute any good, and he felt afraid again.
Despite his fear, he poled the boat back up the creek. He kept as near in the center of the bayou as he
could, and had the rifle where he could grab it instantly.
He almost missed finding Jute at that. Then he wished that he had missed him.
The lanky guide appeared to be standing up with his back against a tree. The only thing was that his feet
dangled several feet above the water.
After a bit, Young Bill saw why Jute didn’t fall. Vines were wrapped about his body. They were rattan
vines, and appeared to be encircling Jute just as they encircled trees on all sides.
One loop of the vines was about Jute’s throat. It was very tight. Jute couldn’t have done much screaming
after that vine had encircled him. The guide’s face pictured almost unbelievable pain and horror.
Bill Craig saw the rest of it then, and turned a little sick.
Jute’s shirt was gone. A big red snake, its head buried in the flesh, appeared clinging to the guide’s
skinny chest.
The young engineer jerked up the rifle. He almost pulled the trigger before he saw it wasn’t a snake on
Jute’s chest at all. It just looked that way.
Bill Craig had to get over being sick before he could get closer and make the examination he knew had
to be made.
What he saw made him sick all over again. Frantically he turned, poled the boat away. Jute’s body
would have to be recovered, but he wanted someone else to inspect it before it was moved.
Hair rose on the back of Bill Craig’s neck. He had the eerie feeling that deadly, venomous eyes were
watching him. Unreasoning fear gripped him.
For he knew that the mark of the red snake had not been left on Jute’s body by any animal.
It might be called "The Crimson Serpent" by the swamp men—but the Crimson Serpent was human.
Chapter II. CHAINS CLANK
COLONEL JOHN RENWICK, known to his friends as Renny, found Bill Craig just as the young
engineer was about to emerge from the swamp.
Renny was another who had not scoffed at the rumors he had heard, although he had not credited them,
either. When Bill Craig had failed to return to camp, Renny had gone to look for him.
Bill Craig was big, but he appeared small compared with the giant aid of Doc Savage.
It was some time before Renny could get Bill Craig calmed enough to tell a coherent story. At first all Bill
Craig could do was babble:
"The Crimson Serpent! The Crimson Serpent!"
But Renny knew how to handle hysteria. His features hard, his mouth thin and grim, Renny’s huge
opened palms smacked the other crisply on either cheek.
The blows did not appear hard, but Bill Craig’s head rocked from side to side as if hit by a sledge
hammer. Reason returned to his eyes.
"I—I’m sorry," he stammered,
"Tell me about it," Renny said. His voice was surprisingly gentle.
Bill Craig’s nerve returned. After all, this was one of Doc Savage’s men, the one who had faced
countless dangers unafraid. Hesitantly at first, but with rapidly reviving courage, the young engineer told
what he had heard and seen.
"Holy cow!" said Renny when the story was complete.
For a time the giant said nothing more. His thin lips were even tighter. Then: "We’ll go see," he rumbled.
Bill Craig gulped. He thought of mentioning the feeling he’d had of unseen eyes, venomous eyes,
watching him. He changed his mind. Without a word he held the boat steady while Renny got in, then
turned back into the swamp.
ORDINARILY, Renny enjoyed going through the swamp. Unlike many, he got a secret thrill out of the
practically primeval wilderness.
This time he didn’t. For once, the swamp seemed ominous. Renny, also, felt that beady, unwinking eyes
were watching them. He didn’t mention it, either.
Renny believed Bill Craig’s story. The young engineer wasn’t the kind to be easily frightened. Only one
thing didn’t seem reasonable. That was Young Bill’s description of the wound in Jute’s chest.
That wound, Bill Craig insisted, looked as if it had been made by human teeth.
Renny’s puritanical features became more severe. That was something he’d have to see for himself
before he could credit it.
Bill Craig’s back became tense. "Almost there," he whispered.
Renny said nothing, but he didn’t see anything unusual about the other whispering. He felt the same way
himself. The huge, overhanging cypress created an artificial gloom. The air was hot and humid, filled with
the heavy peculiar odor of bay trees. From somewhere near came the flat splash of an alligator.
The boat rounded a bend. An almost inarticulate sound came from Bill Craig. The young engineer’s face
whitened. One arm raised, pointed toward a big tree.
"It-it-t-the-body is gone!" he gasped.
RENNY’S expression did not change. It was almost as if he had been expecting such a development.
But he asked:
"You’re sure this is the spot?"
Bill Craig nodded wordlessly. Close inspection showed he was correct. There were dark-brown stains
on one of the rattan vines about the tree.
"Friends may have found him," Renny said. The big engineer spoke calmly, but he didn’t feel that way.
And he didn’t believe Jute’s friends had come back for him, either.
Neither did Young Bill. "But-but—" he started.
"I’m going to notify Doc," Renny added softly. "This is a case for him."
They got out of there swiftly. Renny’s enormous arms helped drive the boat at an astounding pace. It
didn’t take them long to get back to camp.
Bill Craig was almost light-hearted, Doc Savage was to be summoned. Everything would be all right.
Young Bill had never seen Doc Savage, but he’d heard much of him. Everyone had, he guessed. There
were so many stories told about him that he was almost a legendary figure.
It was exciting enough to work for Colonel Renwick, but to have Doc Savage on the scene also—
Bill Craig’s eyes shone. He wasn’t beyond the age of hero worship. Now he was going to get to see the
famous Clark Savage, Jr., himself.
If half the stories they told about him were true, then the menace of the swamp, whatever it was, was as
good as conquered. That was the way Bill Craig felt.
Doc Savage was known as master of many sciences. He was recognized as one of the outstanding
physicians and surgeons. But it wasn’t of these things Bill Craig was thinking.
He was thinking of Doc Savage, the adventurer, of the Doc Savage who was the unrelenting foe against
the forces of evil. With his five aids, of whom Renny was one, Doc Savage was known the world over as
the man who had conquered perils that had threatened nations.
So busy were his thoughts that it came as a surprise to Bill Craig to find they had left the swamp behind.
The camp had been laid out on solid ground just outside the wilderness. It was some miles from the
closest town, but served as a base for operations.
A series of wooden shacks had been thrown up. There was one big building, Renny used that as his
headquarters, where he correlated the work of the engineers. Near it was a long structure that was used
as a mess hall.
Smoke was coming from the mess hall stovepipe. The few workers left in camp were at lunch.
"Tell them nothing," Renny ordered crisply. "It won’t do to have this getting out until we know what it is
all about."
Bill Craig nodded. Renny turned toward his office, reaching for his keys. A small, compact short-wave
radio sending and receiving set was there. All Doc’s aids had similar sets. With them, they could
communicate with Doc Savage no matter where they were.
Renny stopped suddenly. His jaw dropped. He’d left his office door closed and locked. It was open
now. A stranger sat inside, feet cocked jauntily on a desk.
RENNY’S monstrosity of fists made tight balls. He advanced menacingly.
"It ees not permeeted to hit a gentleman of the press," the stranger said lazily.
Renny’s advance stopped. The belligerence went out of his eyes. He looked as near stupid as was
possible.
"Holy cow! Why didn’t you say so before?" he grumbled. He went on without pause: "Work is comin’
along as good as would be expected, but it’s quite a job. You can say—"
The other’s feet came off the table, hit the floor. He held up one hand. He was a small man with black
hair plastered close to his head. He was almost elegantly dressed. A perfumed handkerchief was jammed
into the breast pocket of his coat. He showed very white teeth as he grinned.
"Très bon,
a very good act, Colonel Renwick," he complimented. "But it ees of the red serpent and the murder that I
weesh to know."
Renny blinked rapidly, but that was all. "Your name?" he rapped.
"Georges Douter." The little man bowed, "Federation Press man for thees district, and a very good
reporter."
Renny sighed. "I was afraid of that," he said. His manner became confidential. "Can’t you lay off for a
day or so? Then maybe I’ll have a real story to give you. If you spring anything now, you’ll scare off what
few workers I’ve got left, might even defeat the ends of justice—"
He broke off suddenly, and his lips became thin again, his voice cold. "Just how did you know there had
been a murder, anyway?" he snapped.
Georges Douter smirked. "Naturally I know some of the natives, even in the swamp. Rumors have come
to my ears. Now if you’ll just confirm them?"
Renny’s jaw snapped shut. "I’ve nothing to say."
The other bowed again, grinned sardonically. "That ees confirmation enough. I shall send out my story."
He started toward the door. Renny’s hand shot forward, he appeared to reach out and nab the little man.
Then he stepped aside. Georges Douter laughed and walked out. Renny watched him as he went to the
edge of the clearing and disappeared. A few moments later he heard the sound of an auto.
A thin ridge appeared in Renny’s forehead. He wondered just who had put on the best act.
Georges Douter had talked with a French accent. That was all right. Lots of residents of the Mississippi
bottom lands in this district spoke French. He might even be a native of the district. For that matter, he
might even have heard of the red serpent and Jute’s murder as he said he had.
But he wasn’t a newspaperman.
RENNY had encountered plenty of reporters in his time. He had even known a few, mostly cubs, who
carried guns. But he had never met one who carried a gun on his hip, another in a shoulder holster and a
knife sheathed under his coat at the back of his neck.
That was too much arsenal even for the greenest cub.
No, Georges Douter was not a reporter. But Renny had seen no reason for disclosing that he had
learned that fact. The big engineer had discovered long ago that hasty action often was unwise.
But the whole thing was getting more complicated. Doc should be notified without loss of time. He
walked toward a rear room where he had installed the radio sending-outfit.
A moment later and he was racing back out of the building. He ran toward the spot where he had last
seen Georges Douter, even though he knew it was useless. His fists were clenched. It was one of his
tricks to break oaken panels of doors with those fists. Right now he wanted to use them to smear the
features of the dapper little fake reporter.
The radio set had been sabotaged. It wouldn’t work.
Georges Douter grinned as he heard the words Renny was using. He didn’t understand American idiom
enough to recognize all the phrases, but the tone of the big man’s voice was sufficient to indicate what
they probably meant.
The little man wasn’t far away. In fact, he’d moved back to the edge of the clearing, where he had a
good view of the camp. But he was well hidden.
He’d driven his car into a hiding place where he was confident it wouldn’t be found. Then he had raced
back to one end of the camp ground and burrowed under a thick bush. He didn’t seem concerned over
how his clothes would look when he got out.
He had a gun out when Renny came back into view walking toward the office building. But he didn’t use
it.
The engineers who had been in the mess hall had raced out when they heard Renny shouting. They took
one look at the big engineer’s face and quietly returned to their lunch.
That is, all but Bill Craig. Bill Craig followed Renny. Together they inspected the radio transmitter.
"You could drive into town and call up," Bill Craig suggested.
"Go look at our cars," Renny advised.
Bill Craig did so. He returned in a few minutes looking rather pale. Three ancient flivvers were used as
transportation for the engineers. The carburetor floats were missing from all three. That was something
baling wire wouldn’t fix. It was only two hours’ drive to the nearest town. It would take a day to walk
the distance.
"Don’t say anything about it," Renny rumbled.
"It-it doesn’t make sense," Bill Craig faltered.
"Of course not!" Renny snapped. He had the transmitting set apart, was making two drawings. "But why
don’t you think so?"
"The murder of Jute, all the strange sounds and things I heard, might just have been a plot to run us off
this job, to get us out of the swamp," Young Bill said swiftly.
"Yeah?"
"Yes. But if that was it, why then would an effort be made to keep us from getting into communication
with anyone, and particularly to keep us from getting out of here. That is, unless—" Bill Craig’s voice
faltered suddenly.
"Unless what?" Renny asked, more kindly.
"—unless someone, something—intends to kill us all," Bill Craig breathed.
Renny did not answer for a moment. Then he handed the young engineer one of the two drawings.
"Can’t you think of anything pleasant?" he roared. "Here! You make this part. I’ll make the other. Only
two important doodads are busted on this set. If we’re any good at all we’ll have it working by night."
Renny’s voice had excellent carrying power. Georges Douter heard his words without difficulty.
A peculiar expression crossed the little man’s face. Without haste, he wiggled his way back out of the
bush that concealed him. Then he slipped through bushes and trees until he came to the car he had
secreted. He curled up in the rear seat and went to sleep.
Consequently, he didn’t see Renny when the big engineer dodged out of the camp an hour or so later.
No one else saw Renny either. His actions after that were peculiar. He completely circled the camp.
Once in a while he stopped. Each time he stopped he was very busy. His arms had been loaded with
small packages when he left the camp. When he returned, they were empty.
Of all this, Georges Douter was unaware. It was growing dark when the little man awoke. He glanced at
a wrist watch and gave a grunt of satisfaction. Then he inspected the two guns he carried, made sure they
were ready for action.
After that he waited.
He didn’t have long to wait.
The sound of clanking chains came just as the sun disappeared.
Chapter III. A THREAT
BILL CRAIG had just completed work on his part for the broken radio transmitter. He said, "Damn!"
quite emphatically.
Renny nodded somber agreement, his features more puritanical-appearing than ever.
"The message to Doc will have to wait," the big engineer said.
He reached to a high shelf, removed two peculiar-appearing weapons. They seemed to be oversized
pistols, with large drums mounted on the top. He gave one of them to Bill Craig.
The weapons were those often used by Doc and his men. They threw shells with extraordinary rapidity.
Sometimes they were loaded with mercy bullets—bullets that merely brought unconsciousness, a type
that barely penetrated the skin, then released a drug that caused the coma. On other occasions they were
loaded with an explosive type of bullet that had great penetrating power as well as causing a tremendous
blast.
This time they were loaded only with the mercy bullets.
Sound of the clanking chains had been heard by others in the camp as well. Those who had scoffed at
摘要：

THECRIMSONSERPENTADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.SWAMPTERROR?ChapterII.CHAINSCLANK?ChapterIII.ATHREAT?ChapterIV.AGIRLCALLS?ChapterV.ANUNEXPECTEDDISCOVERY?ChapterVI.ASURPRISEATTACK?ChapterVII.APICTUREISSTOLEN?ChapterVIII."DOCS...

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