Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 048 - The Derrick Devil

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THE DERRICK DEVIL
A Doc Savage Adventure By Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. THE FLOWING RED DEVIL
? Chapter II. THE MAN NEEDED
? Chapter III. MURDER IN THE AIR
? Chapter IV. DEATH WITHOUT REASON
? Chapter V. HE WANTED TO HELP
? Chapter VI. THE TRAIL
? Chapter VII. PREPARATION
? Chapter VIII. THE HIGH EYE
? Chapter IX. HIDE-OUT BELOW
? Chapter X. RED MYSTERY
? Chapter XI. SEIZED
? Chapter XII. BLAST TRAP
? Chapter XIII. FLIGHT
? Chapter XIV. MASTERMIND
? Chapter XV. RAID
? Chapter XVI. CAPTIVES
? Chapter XVII. THE TANK TERROR
? Chapter XVIII. TRICKS
? Chapter XIX. LAST DITCH
? Chapter XX. THE BLAZE OF GLORY
Scanned and Proofed by Tom Stephens
Chapter I. THE FLOWING RED DEVIL
THE man carried a .30-30 rifle in one hand and two boxes of cartridges, both open, in the other hand. He
acted as if ready to drop the cartridges and use the rifle any instant.
The girl had a shotgun.
"I’ve got a hunch guns ain’t a lot of good against this thing!" the man muttered.
"What’s the matter, Reservoir?" the girl asked. "Believe in hobgoblins?"
It was too dark to tell much about them, only that the man was tall and skinny, except for his middle, which
was big around, making him like a snake that had swallowed an egg. A nice snake, of course.
The girl was about the right size, and if she didn’t have a good form, the darkness lied. It was impossible to
tell about her coloring.
"I still maintain I saw something coming out of the casing of that wildcat well, Miss Vida," the man muttered.
"Reservoir Hill may be old, but he ain’t going nuts!"
The girl laughed. It was, somehow, not a very enthusiastic mirth.
"Sam Sands was to watch the well until midnight," she said. "It’s eleven. Time you and I were relieving Sam."
Holding the rifle with his finger in the trigger guard, the man shuffled off. The girl took long strides and kept at
his side.
Tall, dry grass brushed their field boots. Leaves of scrub oak rustled in the night breeze. Over in the hills
somewhere, an owl was making a racket.
They topped the small hill and before them the spidery thin pyramid of an oil well derrick stood reared against
the cloudy night sky. A modern pipe derrick, and the drilling rig was evidently a rotary.
The well was not a producer, because the breeze was coming from that direction and it carried, instead of the
smell of crude oil, the odors usually found around drilling wells.
"Reservoir" Hill stopped.
The girl waited, but when he did not move or speak, she grew impatient. "Well!"
"We’ve got the wildcat shut down because our boss driller has disappeared," Reservoir Hill said, slowly.
"Well?" the girl said again, sharply.
"I’ve got a horrible suspicion," continued Reservoir Hill, "that we’ve already found our driller!"
THE girl was puzzled. She held her shotgun in the crook of her elbow and eyed her companion. A stray beam
of moonlight came through a crack in passing clouds to illuminate the man. He looked as if the ends of him
had been squeezed to make him big in the middle.
"What are you driving at, Reservoir?"
"Remember that gummy stuff we found in the gully below the drilling rig? It was near where we found the
clothes our driller was wearin’—when he—well, when he disappeared."
"That was just old lube or grease that somebody had scraped out there."
"It wasn’t lube," Reservoir Hill said, shuddering.
"No?"
"I know lube oil." Reservoir Hill wet his lips. "I’ve worked in refineries too many years not to know grease or
lube. This stuff looks more like—well—" He fell silent.
"Like what?"
Reservoir Hill gave a large shrug.
"Forget it! When they have been in the oil fields as long as I have, they sometimes got funny!"
The two of them walked toward the drilling rig. It was a complete outfit, even more modern on close
examination. Everything was in readiness for the striking of oil, catch dams have been thrown across gullies
with fresnos.
It was a steam rig, and the boiler was located far enough away that a possible unexpected outpouring of
natural gas from the well would not be likely to reach the boiler fires before they could be extinguished by a
supply of water which was kept close at hand. Steam was brought from the boiler to the machinery at the
well by pipe.
And oil field scouts, fellows who know their business, would have said that here was a wildcat drilling outfit
which knew what it was doing.
Hill stopped, inhaled until his chest was almost half as big as his stomach, and blasted a yell.
"Sam!" he howled. "Sam! Where are you?"
Echoes came gobbling back from the red oak carpeted hills.
"Tsk! Tsk!"
the girl clucked. "You must think Sam’s over by Ponca City or somewhere!"
They waited. Night breeze seemed to have suddenly stopped rustling the red oak leaves, but it might have
been a freak of the night.
Reservoir Hill growled, "Well! Didn’t answer, did he?"
The girl had become concerned.
"Sam can’t be asleep! Your yell must have made half the Indian warriors in the Osage sit up in their graves!"
They ran forward, guns ready. The man, Reservoir Hill, produced a big, shiny flashlight which gave poor light
and not much of it. The light immediately found shiny substance on the ground.
Reservoir Hill stared. His throat made a rasping noise more eloquent than any other sound could have been.
"Them’s Sam’s clothes, ain’t they?" he croaked.
THE male clothing—hat, shirt, coat, trousers, socks, heavy oil field shoes—lay exactly in a position they
would occupy if the former wearer had lain down on his back and his body had become nonexistent.
The shirt was inside the coat, with the shirt sleeves down inside the coat sleeves in a natural manner. The
socks were even inside the shoes.
"Ah-h-h!"
Reservoir Hill growled. He sounded as if trying to bolster his own courage.
The girl eyed him curiously. "Why are you scared? This is a practical joke! It’s too silly to be anything else!"
"Humph!" Reservoir Hill, to avoid the question, walked forward with his flashlight.
He took only a few paces before he wrenched to a rigid halt. His throat made its queer noise.
The girl ran forward, stood at his side and stared at what he had found.
"Some one had dumped more of that queer-looking grease," she said.
Reservoir Hill wet his lips. "Listen! Our boss driller disappeared! We can’t find him anywhere! But we find this
gummy stuff!"
"I still say it’s grease!’
"I haven’t been working with crude oil and things for nothing, all my life," growled Reservoir Hill. "And I know
this ain’t grease!"
"What is it then?"
"Ain’t quite ready to say what I think it is!" Reservoir Hill mumbled.
"Why not?"
"Don’t like to scare women when there maybe ain’t no need!"
"I was brought up on Indian massacre stories," the girl said, dryly. She was calm enough to make it seem as
if she had been, too.
Reservoir Hill skulked forward. Silhouetted against the glare of his own flashlight beam, he was like a
caricature of an old Indian fighter on the trail of a hostile redskin. He threw his light over toward the derrick.
He lifted his .30-30 and flame and noise came out of its muzzle.
The girl ran forward. "What is it?"
"Going into the well casing!" Reservoir Hill shrieked. "Throw my flashlight on the durn thing!"
The girl grabbed his flashlight, pointed its poor light in the direction of the derrick floor and the drilling casing
which stuck upward in the center. The light was extremely weak.
"Battery about gone!" she complained. "I can’t see—!"
Then she saw. Maybe she had been brought up on tales of Indian massacres, but the scream she poured out
now would have done justice to the most easily frightened maid.
THE thing going into the oil well casing had substantial reality to it, that was certain. It was not transparent,
like a jelly. It flowed as some jellies will melt and flow when dropped on a hot stove. It was going into the
sixteen-inch casing.
Color of the flowing mass was red.
"Whatever it is, we’ll stop it!" The girl’s shotgun banged hugely, banged again. Louder than the .30-30, it did
not have as ugly a sound.
But the translucent red mass disappeared down the casing.
The girl and Reservoir Hill dashed forward, weapons ready. There was no sign of the red mass on the derrick
floor.
Reservoir Hill touched the steel casing pipe. He wrenched his hand back, leaped to one side, grabbed up a
fistful of waste and scrubbed his palm furiously.
"There’s gooey stuff on the casing!" he howled.
The girl looked closely. The "gooey stuff" was there. She did not touch it.
There were other marks on the casing. Shiny streaks left by lead! Big streaks made by the .30-30 slugs, and
small ones where the shotgun slugs had hit.
The girl said, hoarsely, "Our bullets hit everywhere!"
"Hah!" Reservoir Hill took the flashlight out of her hand, and turned it on the derrick floor. "Look! A trail of the
gooey stuff!"
The girl said, "Let’s follow it."
They followed it to the mysterious, shapeless mass they had found on the ground—the stuff that looked like
grease, and yet didn’t.
Then the smeared path continued on to the clothes lying on the ground.
"It goes right to Sam Sand’s duds!" Reservoir Hill dropped to a knee, explored briefly, then gulped, "Vida!"
"What?" asked the girl.
"The gooey stuff is all over Sam’s clothes!"
There was rustling of leaves and crackling of dry twigs in the red oak thicket near by. This sound proved to be
made by two men, who soon galloped up.
Reservoir Hill used his weak flashlight to identify the newcomers.
"Ah-h-h!"
he grunted. "Andershott and Cugg! Practically nobody!"
Chapter II. THE MAN NEEDED
ENOCH ANDERSHOTT was a man who strove for the effect of a rugged pioneer. He was big. His ruggedness
stuck out all over him. His clothes were calculated to enhance the rugged aspect. Tweeds. He had a small
mouth wrapped around a big cigar. His red face was redder because of running, and his breathing was a
wish-wish-wish series of noises.
"Give me those guns!" he yelled. "Your bullets almost hit our cabin! Such carelessness is inexcusable!"
Which was typical of Enoch Andershott, who was always trying to browbeat some one.
Alonzo Cugg had big eyes with a permanent scare deep in them, and a way of holding his hands as if ready
to sprint. No one knew of any reason why he had ever been scared of any one or why he should be. He
seemed about one hundred and thirty pounds of skin over wires, and was about two shades lighter than a
khaki shirt.
A big black dog came out of the red oak brush, making no noise. The dog was nearly pony size and had
bloodshot eyes. The canine lifted a whiskered black lip off nicotine yellow fangs that were more than an inch
long.
"Heel, Whitey!" ordered Enoch Andershott arrogantly.
The black dog skulked to Andershott’s heels. There was no white whatever on the dog.
Enoch Andershott and Alonzo Cugg owned an adjacent oil lease. They had scouted the Sam Sands-Vida
Carlaw-Reservoir Hill drilling wildcat and a geologist had told them that the way the strata was running, there
might be an oil dome under this region, a few thousand feet under the old production. So Andershott and
Cugg were here in person, keeping an eye on things.
The oil blue book listed both as millionaires.
"You might have shot us!" Enoch Andershott yelled.
"You got a cellar over there you can get in?" suggested Reservoir Hill sourly.
No one said anything for a while.
"What was happening?" Andershott growled.
"At risk of being called crazy," said the girl, "I’m going to tell you.
"Our driller, Ben Hogan, disappeared last night. We’d shut down drilling when a broken gear we’d ordered
hadn’t come. Ben Hogan took a walk. We never saw him again. We found his clothes. There’s no reason why
he should walk off naked—"
"You’re forgetting that gummy stuff!" interposed Reservoir Hill.
"We found some stuff that looked like jelly or lube or something on the ground," explained the girl. "To-night,
Reservoir Hill wanted to post a watch at the well. Sam Sands had first part of the night."
THE girl fell silent, looked at the dog. The dog’s eyes were luminous green and almost awful in the weak
flashlight’s glow.
"We came out to relieve Sam Sands, found his clothing, saw a red object going into the oil well, and shot at
it," the girl finished.
"We found another gob of that gummy stuff and it ain’t lube oil!" added Reservoir Hill.
Enoch Andershott asked, "Miss Carlaw, were you here last night when your driller disappeared?"
"No."
"Then you just have this man Reservoir Hill’s word for it?"
"Bless my children!" growled Reservoir Hill. "I’m gonna pat your wrist for that!"
Reservoir Hill started forward, and the big black dog came walking, stiff-legged, from behind Enoch
Andershott. The dog made, deep inside himself, sounds like something dying. His fangs curved inward like a
snake.
"Heel, Whitey!’ said Enoch Andershott.
The dog stopped, but did not cover the fangs with lips.
Nobody spoke. Alarm in Alonzo Cugg’s eyes had increased; his hands were more than ever in position for
running.
"If there’s more reckless shooting," said Enoch Andershott shrilly, "we’ll call the sheriff!"
That seemed what they had come over to say. They walked away.
There was considerable crashing of brush when they went away, as if Enoch Andershott were smashing his
path through instead of making any effort to go around.
"He does everything alike!" growled Reservoir Hill. "Just bulls through!"
The girl murmured, "You don’t like him?"
"He flimflammed me out of my first stake," growled Reservoir Hill. "I had a lease over by Bartlesville, years
ago. Enoch Andershott, a young man then, was my driller. He came into Bartlesville one night and told me
the tools were lost in the hole.
"I didnt have money enough to run a fishing job. I was disgusted. He knew that. Andershott bought me out
through another guy for a song. You know what I found out the next day, Viddy?"
"What?"
"My well had hit oil!"
"I’m sorry," the girl said sympathetically.
"So was I."
On a lease to the north, pumping started up and walking beams squeaked. The sound had an unnatural
quality.
The girl and Reservoir Hill poked about with the poor flashlight. They found nothing. Then they walked toward
the house.
THE house was one of those oil field things. Wood and corrugated tin. Inside, it was beaver-boarded, and no
paint had been used. Floors were bare. Living-room furniture consisted of a table and ten kitchen chairs.
On the table was a deck of cards and an ash tray half full of ashes and cigarette butts. The girl accidentally
upset the ash tray when she put her shotgun on the table. Reservoir Hill helped her in cleaning up the mess.
"Wish you’d try to get along with Enoch Andershott," the girl said. "Since he and Cugg have the lease
adjoining us."
"We’ll be all right!" Hill grunted. "Unless I meet him in a dark cañon when nobody is looking!"
They threw the ash tray mess outdoors.
"Reservoir!" the girl said.
"Huh?"
"Why are you so worried over the disappearance of our driller and Sam?"
Reservoir Hill went to the door and expectorated into the darkness. He had not laid his rifle down. He said,
without looking at the girl, "Viddy, did you ever hear of that Indian legend about the papoose that was warned
by his mamma not to dig holes in the tepee floor?"
"First time I knew you were interested in native folklore, Reservoir," the girl smiled.
"The papoose dug the hole in the tepee floor, anyway," said Reservoir. "An earth devil that lives in the center
of the world sent his mean, red spirit up through the hole and grabbed the little papoose and ate him all up,
except his grease, which would fry and sputter in the hot place at the center of the earth."
Reservoir Hill gave the girl a chance to speak, but she didn’t seem able to think of anything.
"There’s other legends about earth devils who send red spirits up to get men."
"Nonsense!" snapped the girl, "Indians have legends about everything!"
"Not everything!" Reservoir corrected. "And where there’s smoke, there’s sometimes fire."
"You actually believe such an insane theory?" the girl asked.
"‘Now look," Reservoir grinned wryly. "Don’t be so tough on your old partner."
The girl got up and paced. "But it’s impossible! It’s too ridiculous!"
She paced some more, stopped, reached for the cards, and absently turned over the top one. It was a king.
"Reservoir!" she said suddenly. "Did you ever hear of Doc Savage?"
RESERVOIR HILL sat in the chair, tilted it against the wall and balanced the rifle across his knees.
"I guess there ain’t many who ain’t heard of that fellow. Once I heard that fellow was going to stop his plane
for fuel in Tulsa, and I drove up from Okmulgee, hell-bent for election just to see him. Me, who wouldn’t cross
the road to see Adam eat the apple."
"Did you see Doc Savage?"
"Nope, He had come and gone."
"But you know Savage’s reputation, don’t you?" Reservoir Hill eyed his rifle. "I know that he has invented a
type of drilling bit that I think is gonna come into general use. I’ve also heard that a lot of geologists use his
theories."
"Do you know what his real business is?"
Reservoir Hill wet his lips, did not lift his eyes from the rifle, and said nothing.
The girl continued, "Doc Savage’s life work is supposed to be the righting of wrongs, the aiding of oppressed,
and fighting crooks whom the law cannot bring to justice."
"I read that somewhere," Reservoir admitted. "I wondered how he made it pay."
"Doc Savage would probably be interested in this."
Reservoir Hill sniffed. "He wouldn’t touch a thing so small!"
Outdoors, a man screamed. He was some distance away. His first scream sounded as if it took out some of
his throat lining.
In grabbing her rifle off the table, the girl knocked the saucer ash tray to the floor and it broke. She and
Reservoir Hill ran outside.
"That squawk was over toward the wildcat derrick!" Reservoir yelled.
They ran in that direction. Before long, they heard a hideous growling and snarling, sounds loud and utterly
ferocious.
Enoch Andershott appeared suddenly. He charged toward them.
"Help!" he squawled. "It tried to kill me!"
It was his voice which had screamed.
He reached Reservoir Hill and the girl and grabbed them both at once.
"A damned jelly thing flowing along the ground!" he screamed. "It almost caught me!"
"Hell!" Reservoir Hill ran toward the oil derrick, holding his inefficient flashlight.
The giant black dog with the fangs came unexpectedly out of the brush, and stalked, snorting, toward
Reservoir Hill. Hill spun madly, and beat the dog back to the girl and Enoch Andershott.
"Heel, Whitey!" screamed Andershott, and the dog stopped.
"Keep that durn man-eater here!" growled Reservoir Hill and went back with his flashlight and rifle to search in
the darkness.
It was almost fifteen minutes before he finished. "Couldn’t find it," he said. "There’s another one of them slimy
trails coming out of the well casing. It goes around through the brush and back again."
THE giant black dog made hideous slobbering and snarling noises. It had been making them steadily.
Enoch Andershott shuddered. "I was p-prowling around your lease because I didn’t believe your story! This
thing g-g-got after me! I r-ran!"
"An’ didn’t fall down!" Reservoir Hill said, gloomily.
Enoch Andershott did not resent the insult. For a man who affected a rugged pioneer air, he looked scared.
"Want us to accompany you to your cabin?" the girl asked.
"If you would!" Enoch Andershott said, gratefully.
Reservoir Hill sniffed.
The cabin on the Andershott and Cugg lease was the customary type. The living room held one rocking chair
and only six kitchen chairs. There were no cards on the table. An old pipecap served as an ash tray, and a
newspaper was folded so that black headlines showed. The headlines said:
OUTLAW "TOMAHAWK" TANT TRAPPED
POSSES SURROUND ELUSIVE BADMAN
Not much more of the story was readable, because some one had spilled coffee on the paper.
Alonzo Cugg gave them a meaningless stare. Enoch Andershott grunted fiercely at them, having regained his
courage. The black dog showed long teeth.
Reservoir Hill said, as he and Vida went back to their own lease, "Fine thanks, we got!"
The girl went into a tiny room that evidently served the Sands-Hill-Carlaw partnership as an office. There was
an old country-style telephone beside the desk. She gave the hand ringer a crank.
"Get me Doc Savage, in New York City," she said into the mouthpiece.
"Viddy!" Reservoir Hill yelled. "What crazy thing you gonna do?"
"It has suddenly dawned on me that this mystery is serious!" the girl said, grimly. "I am going to get it
solved!"
"Wait a minute!" Reservoir Hill yelled. "I don’t think—"
"I want to talk to Doc Savage," the girl said into the telephone.
She listened for a time, then said, "That’s unfortunate. I’m coming to New York. I have to see Doc Savage.
You try to find him in the meantime."
She hung up.
"Well?" asked Reservoir Hill.
"I TALKED to a man named Monk, who said he was one of Doc Savage’s assistants," the girl explained. "He
said Doc Savage was not in New York, that he was off at some place called a ‘Fortress of Solitude.’"
"That," grunted Reservoir Hill, "let’s Doc Savage out!"
"It does nothing of the kind!" said the girl, firmly. "I’ll stop off and tell Andershott and Cugg that I’m on my way
to New York to get Doc Savage. It may make them more comfortable if they know that."
"But why the heck go all the way to New York yourself? Telephoning will do just as good!"
"There’s another reason."
"Huh?"
"Money."
"Oh!" Reservoir Hill pursed his lips out in the manner of a man who understands perfectly.
The girl said, "We’re drilling this wildcat well on borrowed money. It’s been an expensive well. We’ve already
sunk over fifty thousand dollars. Our oil properties here in the Indian Dome Field are mortgaged heavily.
Unless we can borrow more money on them, we may be sunk before long."
"Don’t tell me about it!" groaned Reservoir. "I recite it in my sleep!"
"There’s money in New York," said the girl. "I’m going after it! And after Doc Savage!"
Chapter III. MURDER IN THE AIR
THE plane was a big, low-winged cabin job, and probably one of the fastest and most comfortable
commercial types of airliner in the world. It was one of hundreds of such planes flying regular schedules on
Uncle Sam’s air lines.
The plane was an hour out of Cleveland, Ohio, bound eastward, and flying high. Pilot and co-pilot were taking
it easy. The hostess, having noted that it appeared no one was going to be sick on this flight, had stopped to
talk to the fellow who wore pince-nez glasses.
The fellow was a wiry chap with a plain blue suit and a bright necktie. His face had a deep tan, and it was this
tan which had moved the hostess to stop and talk to him, to permit herself to be talked to was more like it.
The man looked like a city grifter, except for the deep tan. Tans like that did not come from sunlamps. The
pince-nez glasses made him look more gentlemanly, too.
The man had been trying outrageously to flirt with the hostess, and she had ignored him until this point.
As she halted beside his seat, the hostess noticed that the fellow wore plain black gloves of a very
rich-looking leather.
Privately, the hostess wondered why the fellow had not tried to flirt with the girl in the adjacent compartment.
This girl was as pretty as any young woman the hostess had ever seen on a plane. That was something,
because chorus girls and millionaire’s cuties are frequent travelers by plane. The girl in the next compartment
was preoccupied, as if she had something on her mind.
The hostess happened to know that this pretty girl was down on the passenger list as Vida Carlaw, of Tulsa,
Oklahoma.
The hostess immediately wished she hadn’t stopped to let the wiry fellow with the black gloves speak to her.
"Listen, baby," said the man. "How about you and me going places and doing things after this magic carpet
parks us in little old New York?"
The hostess didn’t like the dead look in the man’s eyes. Anyway, it was the crudest kind of approach.
"I beg pardon!" she said frigidly.
"Listen, sweetie pie," said the black-gloved man. "I’m the little airplane girl’s friend. I like your type. You’ve
got me all up in the air—"
"Then stay there!" suggested the hostess, and walked to her seat in the rear of the plane.
The hostess was angry as she plumped down on the cushions. Perhaps the anger dulled her wits. She did
not dream at the moment that she had been deliberately insulted. The wiry man had purposefully made her
so angry that she would flounce back to her compartment and not show herself for a while.
The hostess remembered that another queer customer had come aboard the plane at Cleveland, too. This
individual was big and wore a light gray-belted combination topcoat and a large gray hat, with the brim yanked
down.
He had, the hostess also recalled, worn gloves, but she couldn’t remember their color. This man had kept his
chin in his collar when he came aboard, and had been wearing large horn-rimmed glasses, such as the movie
stars affected when they wanted to disguise themselves.
The hostess was so wrapped in her thoughts that she failed to witness what was happening forward in the
cabin. It was just as well, for it probably saved her from having nightmares.
摘要：

THEDERRICKDEVILADocSavageAdventureByKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.THEFLOWINGREDDEVIL?ChapterII.THEMANNEEDED?ChapterIII.MURDERINTHEAIR?ChapterIV.DEATHWITHOUTREASON?ChapterV.HEWANTEDTOHELP?ChapterVI.THETRAIL?ChapterVII.PREPARATION?ChapterVIII.THE...

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