Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 060 - The Mountain Monster

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THE MOUNTAIN MONSTER
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. TERROR STRIKES
? Chapter II. THE MONSTER KILLS
? Chapter III. PERIL PURSUES
? Chapter IV. DOC TAKES CHARGE
? Chapter V. SEEING DOUBLE
? Chapter VI. A TRAP
? Chapter VII. CHEMISTRY PLAYS GUIDE
? Chapter VIII. DEATH CHAMBER
? Chapter IX. BACK FROM HELL
? Chapter X. ARCADIA VALLEY
? Chapter XI. A COLONY OF FEAR
? Chapter XII. AN INDIAN RAID
? Chapter XIII. A SACRIFICE IS TAKEN
? Chapter XIV. BEAUTY IN DISTRESS
? Chapter XV. THE GIRL’S STORY
? Chapter XVI. TRAPPED
? Chapter XVII. REBELLION
? Chapter XVIII. BACK FROM THE DEAD
? Chapter XIX. THE MONSTER DINES
Chapter I. TERROR STRIKES
"THE MONSTER" came without warning. It came as Indian legend had said it would come,
in the night and while a storm raged. It brought terror and horror to peaceful Arcadia Valley. It
transformed an Alaskan paradise into a panic-stricken, fear-blanched hell.
Arcadia Valley had been chosen as the site for one of the government’s settlement projects.
The land was fertile, water was plentiful. Cabins sprang up swiftly as modern pioneers saw
realization of long-cherished hopes almost within their grasp.
John Alden was one of the government engineers. His cabin was at the upper end of the
long valley, his closest neighbor two miles away.
And it was there The Monster first appeared!
Rain hammered on the tin roof of the cabin. Thunder cracked in the near-by mountains. John
Alden tossed on his cot.
Then came the scream.
John Alden jerked bolt upright. The shrill echo of that scream rang in his ears.
Then it came again. It was high, sharp, not the scream of a man in pain, but the scream of a
man whose nerves have given away.
The scream ended on a high note. It was cut off short, almost as if a giant hand had
crunched about the throat from which the sound came.
Cold chills swept the engineer’s long, lanky body. And then his straining ears caught another
sound, a sound such as he had never heard before. It came like the splashing of boots in
thick mud.
But it was more than that. It was as if some giant man or beast was taking huge steps, and
not with two feet or four, but with many.
Somehow, John Alden found he had left the cot; his fear-numbed hands sought the rifle that
hung over the door. He levered a shell into the barrel. A moment more and he had dashed
from the cabin.
COLD rain whipped into Alden’s face. Drenched and shivering in pajamas, the tall engineer
crouched, all senses alert.
Those screams could have come from only one man. "Buck" Dixon, his partner, must be in
peril. And Dixon was a former soldier, knew how to take care of himself.
Buck Dixon had gone down into the valley to call on some new arrivals. He must be hurt,
possibly dead—
John Alden strained his ears. The queer sounds he had heard vanished. Rain and thunder
broke the stillness.
He found himself recalling the stories the Indians had told him of The Monster, the legend of
a dread, foul beast that lived in the mountains.
And it was then Alden received another indication of the horror that was to come.
There was an odor in the air, an unclean, almost overpowering odor. It was sickening. It
seemed like the scent of some animal.
And the Indians had said such an odor was always present when The Monster appeared!
John Alden’s tongue suddenly felt thick. The odor had a peculiar, cloying sweetness that
hung in the air despite the rain. It penetrated the brain, made him feel almost light-headed.
And it had another result as well: While his entire body shrank with distaste, although the
odor was repelling, yet it had a queer fascination, an almost hypnotic pull.
While his mind cried out for him to turn and run, John Alden found that his muscles were not
obeying. Instead, foot by foot, he was moving ahead into the darkness, where the scent
became more powerful.
John Alden had never been called a coward. But he was afraid then.
He knew that another force, stronger than his own, had taken possession of his body. That
force was dragging him resistlessly onward.
He opened his own mouth to scream. No sound came from his lips. His vocal cords
apparently were paralyzed. The dread odor grew stronger and stronger.
JOHN ALDEN broke into a run. A choking, bubbling sound came from close ahead,
seemed to break the uncanny, hypnotic spell.
The sound came again, but John Alden was no longer afraid. There was nothing
supernatural about that sound. It came from human lips.
The trail made a sudden twist. A dark object, sprawled doglike, loomed ahead. The queer,
bubbling sounds came from it.
The sprawled figure tried to rise as John Alden came in view. Shrill words burst from it:
"I saw it! I saw it! It was a big monster, a huge, creeping shape with many legs. It almost got
me. Then it went away. It jumped over the trees."
John Alden grabbed the figure by the shoulders, shook violently. "Buck! Buck! Snap out of
it!"
Of all things that happened that night, what occurred next was strangest to John Alden.
Buck Dixon suddenly scrambled to his feet. His face underwent an amazing transformation.
The fear and panic left it. It set in its usual hard, self-reliant lines.
"What are you doing out here with that gun in your hands?" Buck Dixon rumbled. Only faint
embarrassment was in his voice. He grabbed John Alden by an arm, propelled him toward
the cabin.
"Come on, we’d better get under cover before you take your death of cold."
John Alden gasped. He sniffed the air, hesitated. His eyes held an unbelieving, baffled look.
That strange, overpowering odor had vanished. The air was clean and pure.
JOHN ALDEN and Buck Dixon did not tell the Arcadian colonists what had happened. In
fact, John Alden had difficulty in making his stocky partner admit the next day that anything
out of the way had occurred.
Outside, the sun was shining. The events of the night did seem improbable to John Alden,
too. But he remembered the queer sounds he had heard.
A harried look came to Buck Dixon’s face when the tall engineer told of those sounds. His
hands trembled.
"It was huge, with enormous legs. A terrible smell came from it. It came right toward me. I
thought I was a goner. Then it leaped over the trees," he whispered.
"There should be tracks," John Alden said.
John Alden was right. They found tracks!
The tracks were curious. Both Dixon and Alden were woodsmen. They knew how to read
signs. But they could not identify the marks they found.
Back-tracking, they found the first marks near the mountains, three miles away. The tracks
came almost in a straight line toward the cabin. They were widely spaced, sometimes as
much as fifty yards apart.
And they were the marks of an eight-legged beast!
The marks disappeared just before the line of trees that surrounded John Alden’s land. They
did not reappear on the opposite side.
A frown creased Buck Dixon’s square face. He shivered, despite the heat.
"I think we’re up against something too big for us, something I don’t want to go up against.
I’m scared," he said at last. "But there’s a man I’ve heard of who could figure out the
answers for us. I think we’d better go to him."
"And who is that?"
"Doc Savage," said Buck Dixon, and there was awe in his voice.
Doc Savage! The bronze giant, who, with his five aides, had become world famous, whose
name was as well known in the far regions of China and the jungles of Africa, as in the
skyscraper district of New York.
There were stories of Doc Savage’s almost incredible strength; of his amazing scientific
discoveries and dangerous exploits. Doc Savage had dedicated his life to aiding those
faced by dangers with which they could not cope. His name brought fear to those who
sought to prey upon the unsuspecting. His name was praised by thousands he had saved.
John Alden paused. A dozen pictures flashed to his mind; his memory recalled a score of
stories he had read.
Yes, John Alden conceded, Doc Savage could solve this problem. But the engineer thought
of other things as well.
He thought of the scores of colonists who now called Arcadia Valley their home. To send for
Doc Savage would be to spread word that there was something to be feared.
John Alden was not as old as Buck Dixon. He had the confidence of youth. He did not like to
admit he was facing a problem he couldn’t solve himself.
He made a mistake then.
"Let’s wait until we have more to go on," he said. "After all, this may be something we can
handle. I suggest we round up a few of the Indians, talk to them. They are superstitious, I
know. But they may be able to tell us something that will help."
Buck Dixon made no reply. He merely raised a hand and pointed. John Alden looked.
Tiny dots were moving on the far side of the valley. They were taking a trail that would lead
them far from Arcadia.
The Indians were leaving.
THE MONSTER did not come again that night. John Alden and Buck Dixon stood watch.
Neither got much sleep.
But the following night, the horror struck.
It began to rain shortly after dusk. The sky clouded over as the sun set.
John Alden stood guard first. At midnight, Buck Dixon relieved him. The husky man made no
attempt to hide his nervousness. It was thundering again. A premonition of evil gripped John
Alden as he went to the cabin.
For a moment he considered returning, staying with Buck Dixon until daylight. Then he
changed his mind. He would have a cup of coffee first. He went to sleep with the cup in his
hand.
Buck Dixon crouched in an open space, keeping his rifle under his slicker. He felt as he had
when he’d first done sentry duty in the trenches.
The strange odor was his first warning. One moment the air was pure, the next, and his
nostrils twitched with the fearsome, foul scent.
Buck Dixon might have saved himself. Had he run at once, he might have stood a faint
chance.
But the burly veteran did have nerve. He hesitated. And almost instantly the peculiar smell
became strong. It sent his brain racing.
He was able to scream once, tried to get his rifle out from under his slicker. His feet moved,
his arms did not. The rifle dropped from his hands. He started to run toward the head of the
valley.
Then The Monster came into view.
It was huge. It towered as tall as a two-story building. And it was racing toward Buck Dixon
on long, spidery legs.
A huge spider! That was what the Indians had said The Monster was—a huge, bloodthirsty
spider.
Its speed was amazing! It came across the mesa as fast as a racing car could move. Buck
Dixon’s mind told him to stop, to fall flat.
He could not. He rushed on toward the fate that awaited him.
The Monster was almost upon him. It slowed. Two enormous, pincerlike projections came
from its mouth, reached down for Buck Dixon.
Buck Dixon opened his mouth to scream again. No sound came forth.
Chapter II. THE MONSTER KILLS
JOHN ALDEN came awake with his rifle in his hands. He had the impression that he was
reliving a nightmare, that he was hearing again Buck Dixon’s screams of two nights before.
Then he caught a faint whiff of the cloying, sickly sweet odor. He knew it was no nightmare.
A hysterical laugh came from him. Frantically he rushed outside.
He saw The Monster just as it grabbed Buck Dixon!
Later, John Alden tried to picture just what did occur. It was all over in less than five seconds.
But at the time it seemed horribly slow, as if he were witnessing some fiendish scene in
slow motion.
The Monster had come practically to a stop. Two weird twisted legs on the front of its
loathsome body bent down, two pincers reached out, wrapped themselves about Buck
Dixon’s body.
The burly veteran was whisked into the air as if he were weightless. Then the monster
paused for an instant, apparently savoring the feast ahead of it. Buck Dixon’s arms and legs
beat futilely. He was twisted about, disappeared into The Monster’s maw.
The rifle came to John Alden’s shoulder. Calmly, he pumped bullet after bullet at the hideous
monstrosity.
The crash of the rifle was echoed by dull, vicious smacks as the bullets reached their mark.
Slowly, deliberately, the spiderous shape turned, ran toward John Alden. The foul odor
freshened.
Then it was that panic seized the lanky engineer. He jammed fresh cartridges into the rifle.
He pulled the trigger as fast as he could lever bullets into the barrel.
The bullets had no effect!
The rifle dropped from John Alden’s hands, even as Buck Dixon had dropped his weapon.
The Monster towered almost above him. Once more the cruel pincers reached out.
The pincers waved in the air. They waved almost mockingly. The loathsome beast turned. Its
legs spurted across the ground.
It headed directly for the ridge of trees. As John Alden stood frozen, the huge spider leaped
into the air, vanished over the trees.
John Alden fainted!
IT was dawn when John Alden recovered consciousness. The rain had stopped. His head
was clear, his brain alert. All sign of the hideous odor had disappeared. But close to him,
not a dozen feet away, were the huge tracks of The Monster.
The lanky engineer scrambled up. And now he wished he had listened more closely to the
story of The Monster.
The Indian who had told him the legends had gone into much detail. John Alden had
laughed, had paid little attention. He was not laughing now, he was trying hard to recall what
he had heard.
"For many years my people shunned this valley," the Indian had said. "Perhaps they should
yet."
He had been an Indian educated in the States. John Alden had thought it strange at the time
that a well-educated man could believe legends that must be based on superstition. That no
longer seemed strange, either.
A monster lived in the mountains. It was a huge spider that lived on human beings, the Indian
had related. When it had eaten its fill it would disappear, often for years. Then it would return.
The Indian who had told the legend had spoken seriously of mammoths and other huge
creatures that once had roamed the earth. He had suggested the spider might be a relic of
some such forgotten species.
John Alden was no authority, but he recognized that there might be a germ of truth in that
theory.
There was little chance that Buck Dixon was still alive. In fact, John Alden did not believe that
he was.
The lanky engineer was quite methodical. He went back to the cabin and changed into dry
clothes. He got his rifle, oiled it, then filled his pockets with bullets.
Then he set out to follow the tracks. Once more they led directly toward the ridge of trees,
vanished just at the edge. John Alden looked up, estimated the height that jump must have
been.
And then he saw it—a small object, clinging to the side of a tree, a tree against which The
Monster must have rubbed.
John Alden did not want to believe the evidence of his eyes. But something was there.
As the lanky engineer climbed the tree, came closer to the object hanging there, a faint odor
became apparent. It was dim, scarcely discernible. It was the odor that always
accompanied The Monster.
The object hanging to the side of the tree looked almost like a cane. It was practically the
same thickness, but not as long. It had snagged against a big limb. But it was not a cane,
and it was not of wood.
John Alden forced himself to take hold of it. It felt repulsive, slimy. There were tiny pores
along the side from which a thin, oily liquid oozed.
It was a giant hair! And the bodies of some spiders are covered with fine hair.
Alden scrambled down to the ground. He started to throw the hair away, then changed his
mind. A shrewd expression came to his eyes. Clutching his rifle tighter than before, he ran
on through the ridge of trees.
No tracks were there. John Alden did not appear discouraged. He made wide circles,
scouting for sign. It was a mile from the ridge of trees before the next tracks came into view.
The tracks were imbedded far down in the ground, showing the force with which The
Monster had landed. The engineer broke into a trot, eyes on the ground.
A dark puddle appeared close beside the tracks. Hope died in John Alden.
The puddle was blood. And fifty feet farther on, he found what was left of Buck Dixon.
Buck Dixon’s body was horribly mutilated. It had been torn open and ripped from end to end.
Only the face was untouched.
John Alden wished he had not seen that face. Never had he seen such agonizing lines of
suffering etched on human features. It was almost beyond description. It made him quite ill.
He went for a shovel, buried what remained of Buck Dixon. He took care to muss up the
earth, to hide all trace of blood.
John Alden knew something of anatomy. And as he’d buried the torn remains of Buck Dixon,
he’d realized something had been missing. That thought had recalled another detail of the
Indian legend.
The Indian had said the spider was searching for just one thing—that when it found that, it
would leave the valley in peace forever.
It was searching for the heart of a bronze-haired man.
It had been the heart that was missing from Buck Dixon’s body. Buck Dixon had not been
bronze-haired.
But Doc Savage was!
John Alden laughed, almost hysterically. He would take the giant hair he had found, would
rouse Doc Savage’s interest.
Hurriedly, John Alden ran to pack.
Chapter III. PERIL PURSUES
JOHN ALDEN told no one where he was going, or why. That did not arouse comment from
the colonists. The engineer had made frequent trips to the United States and to Washington
since the homestead project had started. Nor did the absence of Buck Dixon cause more
than idle gossip. Buck Dixon had slipped away before on hunting trips.
There was some talk about big tracks being seen in the upper end of Arcadia Valley. A
majority merely shrugged when told about them. Others put them down to a hoax. The
Indians had not been too pleased when the settlers came.
Before any real inspection could be made of those tracks there was another heavy rain.
Practically all sign of The Monster was washed away.
Arcadia Valley was still in ignorance of the horror and terror in store for it.
John Alden wanted to make all speed possible. But he did not want to bring suspicion by
undue haste. He waited until he reached Juneau before he hired a plane.
When he landed at Portland, he rushed at once to a hotel. He needed a night’s rest. He did
not notice the big man who had been lounging around the airport.
This man questioned the pilot who had flown John Alden from Juneau. His questions were
casual. The pilot never knew the part he played in what was to come, but he did look
curiously after his departing visitor.
There was a reason for that. The big man looked like a prospector. He was sun- and
wind-burned until his skin was dark. He had huge shoulders, and was as solidly built as a
wrestler. One ear was cauliflowered. He had yellow hair that was almost bronze.
But it was his feet that made him outstanding. They were out of proportion to his body. They
were downright gigantic! They dwarfed the rest of his body, and he was by no means small.
Yet he moved easily and with unexpected swiftness.
He made his way to a telephone and called a long-distance number. When he got an
answer, he said:
"This is Barge Deeter, chief. I got a report to make."
He spoke swiftly, some of the time arguing. Then he hung up.
When John Alden took a plane for San Francisco in the morning, "Barge" Deeter’s huge
feet were tucked only two seats behind him.
But John Alden didn’t notice this. His conscience was bothering him. He had intended to
merely arouse Doc Savage’s interest, to let the bronze man fall a victim of The Monster and
save Arcadia valley.
Now he knew he couldn’t do that. He would have to tell Doc Savage the entire story, let him
decide whether he would take a chance on meeting the huge spider.
Doc Savage had faced many perils, as John Alden knew, but he didn’t think the bronze man
had ever faced an enemy as loathsome as that spider, an enemy against whom bullets were
harmless, and who could leap over trees and disappear without a trace.
The engineer stared unseeingly from the windows of the plane. He was faced with a
desperate problem.
He had to take some action to save the settlers of Arcadia valley, but he couldn’t let an
innocent man face terrible peril without warning. But Doc Savage had to come, he had to
save those colonists. No one else could do it.
AT San Francisco, Alden tried to telephone Doc Savage’s office in New York. There was no
answer.
John Alden’s face became old and haggard. He did not see the big man with gigantic feet
watching him as he left the telephone booth.
A newsboy thrust a paper into Alden’s hands. He paid for it automatically. A sleeper plane
for the East taxied up to the runway. Grabbing his bag, he darted for it.
Behind him, huge feet covered ground with amazing speed as Barge Deeter trailed after
him.
John Alden heard the sound of those feet. His face was white and shaken as he looked
around. For an instant, the sound reminded him of the plop The Monster’s feet made in the
mud.
He was still shaking as he took his seat in the plane. He raised the newspaper to cover his
confusion. Headlines leaped out at him:
CHICAGO MEDICS
TO HEAR TALK BY
CLARK SAVAGE, JR.
John Alden’s heart pounded. Swiftly he read the story beneath:
Chicago, July 12—(DP)—Clark Savage, Jr., the famous scientist and adventurer, has
consented to address a meeting of the Chicago Medical Association here to-morrow
afternoon, it was learned to-day.
Savage, one of the leading medical men of the world, although he is not an active, practicing
physician, has promised to speak on the subject of "The Landular Theory of Super-Growth."
Leading medical men here to-day said they hoped to persuade Savage to reveal details of
some of his latest experiments, which are alleged to have surpassed anything yet
attempted.
The Medical Association was fortunate in obtaining Savage as a speaker, as he and his
men have just returned, it was learned, from one of their trips of adventure.
Savage, it will be recalled, is more or less a man of mystery since he has never been
persuaded to give a press interview on any of his amazing adventures. But it is known that
he has won the gratitude of many nations, including that of the United States, for his exploits.
He is a man completely devoid of fear, who brings to his work not only an amazing scientific
knowledge, but also physical prowess that is said to have no equal.
Friends have explained that this is due to a rigid training regime that keeps him in perfect
condition. Since childhood he is understood—
John Alden’s eyes gleamed. He was smiling as he looked up. Doc Savage was the man to
combat The Monster. And he would be in Chicago to-morrow. Even the address of his hotel
was given.
THE steady stare of eyes attracted the engineer’s attention. He turned his head suddenly.
Behind him, and across the aisle, was the man he had seen running after him at the airport.
The big man with gigantic feet.
The big man’s eyes dropped as John Alden turned, but the engineer’s hands shook with a
queer, unexplainable fear. He glanced down at the paper again, and received a shock.
The item was small. Metropolitan editors had been fooled too often to take chances. They
gave this story only a small box, intimating to the reader that he was not to take it too
seriously.
But John Alden took it seriously. He forgot all about the man with the big feet across the
aisle. The item read:
NEW MONSTER SEEN
THIS ONE IN ALASKA
Here’s another "monster" story for those who like them—this time from Alaska. Each year
sea serpents and other fantastic reptiles are reported—usually being seen near some
tourist resort that needs business.
To-day, our yarn comes from Arcadia Valley, the government homestead project in Alaska.
摘要：

THEMOUNTAINMONSTERADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.TERRORSTRIKES?ChapterII.THEMONSTERKILLS?ChapterIII.PERILPURSUES?ChapterIV.DOCTAKESCHARGE?ChapterV.SEEINGDOUBLE?ChapterVI.ATRAP?ChapterVII.CHEMISTRYPLAYSGUIDE?ChapterVIII.DEATH...

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