Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 018 - The Squeaking Goblin

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THE SQUEAKING GOBLIN
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. THE COONSKIN CAP GHOST
? Chapter II. THE SAVAGE SUMMONS
? Chapter III. SQUEAKING DEATH
? Chapter IV. MOUNTAIN MEN
? Chapter V. MOUNTAIN GIRL
? Chapter VI. DERELICT
? Chapter VII. THE SNOWS
? Chapter VIII. THE SCARED RAYMOND
? Chapter IX. THREE SKYMEN
? Chapter X. THE GOBLIN KILLS
? Chapter XI. THE SAFE SURPRISE
? Chapter XII. MOUNTAIN TRICKERY
? Chapter XIII. THE TRAP
? Chapter XIV. OLD JUDE
? Chapter XV. THE UNEXPECTED DEAD
? Chapter XVI. THE ENTERTAINER
? Chapter XVII. THE SUBSTANTIAL GHOST
? Chapter XVIII. THE FIERY MESSAGE
? Chapter XIX. SUSPECTS
? Chapter XX. THE GOBLIN TRAP
? Chapter XXI. THE GOBLIN’S LAST SQUEAK
Scanned and Proofed by Tom Stephens
Chapter I. THE COONSKIN CAP GHOST
THE cream-colored yacht was anchored fully a mile from the nearest shore habitation. That in itself was
vaguely suspicious.
It was night and a moon hung high, spilling a silver flood of brilliant light. By that luminance, a close watcher
might have perceived two men on the yacht deck, crouched in the shadow of an upper deck awning. Both
held rifles, and their attitude was one of a strained waiting and watching.
Other and better coves were to be found nearer Bar Harbor, the Maine summer rendezvous of yachtsmen, but
these held anchored pleasure craft of varying size. The inlet where the cream yacht lay was otherwise
untenanted. It was as if those aboard wanted solitude.
The watching men maintained silence, keeping their eyes on the shore and occasionally cupping their hands
behind ears. One used binoculars.
"See it, Tige?" asked a man with a rifle.
"Ain’t sartin," said the one with the binoculars. "Calculate I’ll know in a minute."
Tige continued to peer through his glasses at the shore, often lowering them as if he distrusted their prisms,
and using his naked blue eyes that were like the snouts of two rifles seen from directly in front.
He was a lean, brindled man with something of the hawk in his face. His slab of a jaw moved regularly and
the tobacco it masticated occasionally made a squishing sound.
Sumptuous, luxurious, flamboyant and befitting a king, were descriptives applying to the yacht. The craft
hardly exceeded a hundred feet in length, yet she had obviously cost as much as a less pretentious vessel
three or four times as long. The woodwork was of mahogany; upholstery was genuine and rich, and there was
a profusion of built-in trinkets—bars, indirect lights, radio speakers and the like.
Rugged, rocky, misshapen, a place where anything might happen, described the cove. It was a harsh crack
where the stony shore had been gouged by nature, and there were no trees and little vegetation to garnish the
place. Boulders were present in profusion, ranging upward to the proportions of a railroad locomotive.
The silver light sprayed by the moon made black, awesome, shapeless shadows behind the boulders,
shadows that somehow were like monsters asleep.
"That be it!" Tige breathed abruptly, "I be plumb sartin!"
"Better give the signal, huh?" asked the other man.
Tige hesitated, seemed to consider while his teeth mashed at the tobacco quid; then he shrugged.
"Yeah," he muttered. "But lemme do it."
A moment later, Tige walked out on a wing of the bridge and lighted a cigarette, letting the match flame up
like a torch in his fingers for a moment before he twirled it over the rail. The gesture was casual, a natural
one—but the match flame could have been seen from shore.
Tige strode back out of sight, dropped the cigarette on the deck and extinguished its tip with a lance of
tobacco juice sent expertly through the darkness.
Perspiration droplets, not unlike spattered grease, had come out and covered Tige’s forehead while he stood
in plain view on the bridge. He scraped some of the sweat off with a forefinger, eyed the moist and slightly
glistening digit and shuddered violently.
"Suppose they saw the signal?" asked the other.
"Damn well better have seen it, or reckon as how they’ll get fired," Tige growled.
THE cream yacht might have been a floating sepulcher, so dead was the silence which held it. Tige and his
companion waited, rifles nursed close to cheeks, eyes on the shore.
"How many times has it tried to get Chelton Raymond?" Tige asked quietly.
"Twice." The other stirred and the moonlight glistened faintly on brass uniform buttons and the shiny visor of a
yachtsman’s cap. "Thought Chelton Raymond told you?"
"He did." Tige expectorated, and did it so that there was only the noise of the liquid hitting the deck. "You
better keep down. That shiny cap bill would make a tolerable shootin’ mark."
The yacht officer ducked lower. "Thanks."
"Chelton Raymond gab much?" Tige inquired.
"Gab? You mean talk?"
"Yep. About this thing gettin’ after ‘im, I mean."
The other hesitated, as if thinking. "No-o-o. He did not talk, exactly. He just said two attempts had been
made on his life, and that he was going to send to the Kentucky mountains for what he called ‘a real fighting
man’."
Tige’s chuckle was as emotionless as paper crackling. "Us Raymonds be all fightin’ men."
"Chelton Raymond sent for you, and you came," concluded the other. "That’s all I know about it."
Silent for a time, Tige scrutinized the shore; the shadows were too much for him, and he shook his head
disgustedly.
It would have taken sharper eyes than the gaunt mountaineer possessed to follow the exact course of the
skulker ashore—if there was really a skulker, for a close watcher would have doubted at times that the
marauder was a flesh-and-blood reality.
There was something of the phantom about the figure, a touch of the supernatural, since the form merged
with the dark shadows in uncanny fashion, making no sound appreciable to the ear. An apparition might have
been a-prowl.
In the lee of a great boulder the ghostly presence came to a halt, and all of its attention seemed bent upon
the yacht.
The yacht portholes—those along the upper decks, were squarish and almost as large as windows, and
several were whitened by lights ablaze in the cabins behind. Framed against a port was a head and
shoulders, the lines of which indicated the presence of a man in a chair inside the cabin.
On this shadowy outline the attention of the phantom figure seemed to concentrate, and there was a dead
silence, stirred only occasionally by the mushy slop of a wave piling onto the stony beach.
Then, out of the black shadow jumped a tongue of flame which could only come from a rifle fired by the
ghostly prowler.
Instead of the usual rifle blast, there was only a squeak. It was shrill, almost ear-splitting, a sound such as
might be made by a titanic mouse.
The figure behind the yacht porthole upset, vanishing from sight.
THE shore of the rocky cove blasted into life. The boulder shadows spewed men who had been in hiding, men
who gripped guns, waved flashlights and yelled.
A flash beam sprouted a glaring wedge which waved and sought the spot where the rifle flame had licked. It
came to rest upon a remarkable figure.
There was a ghostly quality about the form outlined by the flash, coming, perhaps, from the dead, immobile
grayness of the face. The sunken holes where the eyes should have been, the rigidity of the mouth, gave it a
corpselike aspect.
Most striking was the garb of the figure, for the clothing was that of a frontiersman of another century.
Moccasins were of beaded deerskin; the trousers were buckskin, the blouse of doe, beaded and fringed. A
powder horn was slung over a shoulder. A belt supported bullet pouch and a sheath containing a long-bladed
knife.
Standing high like the headgear of a Cossack, lending an unnatural height to the strange apparition, was a
coonskin cap, the tail dangling down behind.
Notable also was the rifle the figure carried. A muzzle-loader, it had an extraordinary barrel length, the barrel
being thick, heavy. The weapon was obviously handmade, a rare piece.
Hardly had the flashlight outlined this fantastic form when the rifleman gave a great leap and vanished behind
the boulder with a speed which defied the eye.
Half a dozen pistol and rifle slugs screamed through the space he had vacated, the lead being fired by the
two men on the yacht and by the other men around the cove edge.
"Git that thar cuss!" Tige bawled from the yacht deck.
More flashlights sprayed radiance. The beams darted, searching. With its confusion of lights, the rugged cove
shore became eerie in aspect. Weapons ready, the men advanced.
The rock masses through which they worked made it difficult to light every recess, so they went slowly and
kept the white funnels of luminance prowling. The first excited shouts subsided, and their manners became
grim, determined, deadly.
"Hit’s a crafty critter!" Tige howled from the yacht. "Take a heap a’ care!"
One of the men, advancing on the spot where the weird figure in ancient frontiersman’s garb had been seen,
swore softly.
"Listen to that hill-billy!" he grunted. "He’s talkin’ like that guy in the fur cap ain’t human."
A circle of glaring flash beams, the men closed upon the spot where the deerskin-clad figure had stood. They
fanned their lights, staring, and a few hands quivered with tension that arose from expected action. But after a
few seconds the searchers swore softly in a low-voiced and dazed manner.
There was no trace of the weird figure in the coonskin cap.
WHAT’S a-happenin’?" Tige yelled. "Did that thar thing git away?"
Every man on the shore noticed that Tige was not speaking of the deerskin-garbed figure as if it were human,
and that fact obviously impressed them, especially in view of the uncanny way in which the quarry had
escaped.
"Looks like the guy give us the slip," called one of the group on shore, answering Tige.
After shouting, the man brushed back his coat to hook a thumb in a suspender, and a small badge was
disclosed, pinned to his vest. The shield marked him as an operative for the Coastal Private Detective
Agency. From time to time, badges were visible on the other men, an indication that they were all private
detectives of the Coastal Agency.
"Mought as well give up a-lookin’!" Tige bellowed. "You all won’t find nothin’."
"Hell!" said one of the detectives. "That bird must’ve left some tracks in this sand."
"You ain’t agoin’ t’find nary a one," forecast Tige.
The sleuths began to search, confidently at first, then with an almost stunned carefulness. There were no
footprints to be found, although the sand was soft enough to allow them to sink in to their ankles.
"You-all find any?" Tige demanded.
"He must’ve jumped from one rock to another!" snapped a detective.
"Ya-h-h-h!" jeered Tige. "Ain’t no use scratchin’ around thur for the varmint. Come a-runnin’. We got tur see if
the fisty cuss hit Chelton Raymond with thot thur bullet."
The sleuths hesitated, puzzled. One remarked that he had seen the shadow behind the yacht porthole upset
after the loud squeak which had accompanied the flash of the coonskin-capped one’s rifle. Tige overheard this
statement.
"Come a-runnin’!" Tige howled urgently.
"We’d better do that," grunted a Coastal Agency man. "After all, that hill-billy and Chelton Raymond hired us
to take orders."
"We were to be bodyguards, too," interjected another. "A swell job we did of that, lettin’ this spook in the
coonskin cap come up and take a shot at the porthole of Chelton Raymond’s cabin, even after the hill-billy
warns us, by lightin’ that cigarette, that the thing is prowling around here."
"Horsefeathers! Now you’re talking as if the thing wasn’t human." The other sleuth was frankly skeptical.
"Well, it got around like a ghost, didn’t it?"
They ran down to the water’s edge and dragged out a small boat concealed among the boulders. Floating it,
they got aboard and paddled out to the yacht.
Tige was not on deck, but the newly arrived detectives could hear loud blows from below, accompanied by an
occasional expletive.
The sleuths ran below and found Tige with a fire ax, battering at the door of a stateroom. The blows had a
metallic sound.
"Carn-sarned door’s locked!" snapped the gaunt Tige. "‘Pears like she’s made a’ iron."
The mountaineer delivered a great smash with the ax, with the result that the blade penetrated the sheet
metal. He wrenched it free and struck again, opening a triangular aperture at which he chopped vigorously.
"‘Low I kin git a hand in thar directly!" puffed Tige. "Mought be able to unlock the door."
He struck, chopped, wrenched—and the metal squealed and bent; then he thrust a hand through the hole he
had made, groping for the knob of the spring lock.
"Here, Tige!" called a new voice. "Let me go in there first."
Tige wrenched his hand out of the hole as if he had taken a hold on something hot. He wheeled, his eyes
protruding a little and his mouth sagged far open so that the little lake of tobacco juice within was revealed.
"Chelton Raymond!" he gulped. "You wasn’t in this hure cabin!"
"No," said Chelton Raymond. "Damned lucky for me, eh?"
CHELTON RAYMOND was a long, thin man who looked as if he bathed frequently in peroxide. He was very
blond. His hair, eyebrows, and waxed and upturned mustache were almost white, and contrasted with his
tanned skin. His tan, however, did not have a weathered look, but more the velvety aspect of one who had
gone deliberately and carefully about the business of having the sun darken his skin.
The man’s clothes were rich of fabric, expert of cut. The frames of the spectacles perched on his sharp hook
of a nose were obviously of platinum. He had an air of wealth about him.
He advanced quietly on rubber-soled shoes and reached through the rent Tige had made in the stateroom
door.
"I was up forward, watching through a porthole with these." He drew a pair of binoculars from a pocket, then
let them slide back. "I kept an eye on the shore after the detectives put off."
"Kaitch sight a’ anythin’?" asked Tige.
"Nothing." Chelton Raymond’s voice had a drawl which marked him as having spent some time in the
mountains, possibly his youth, but it was seldom that he slipped into the abused English which was Tige’s
vocabulary.
The stateroom door swung open. Chelton Raymond entered, drew Tige inside, then motioned the private
detectives and members of the yacht crew back, closing the door after them.
"So you-all fixed a jigger in the cheer to fool the fisty cuss," Tige mumbled, eyeing the chair before the
porthole.
Chelton Raymond went over and examined the cleverly constructed dummy of pillows and bedclothing, coat
and a yachting cap, which the chair held. Particularly, he gave attention to the head.
"Look, Tige," he suggested. "See where the bullet struck."
Tige examined the head. "Plumb swack a-tween the eyes."
"Amazing shooting."
"Right peart," Tige agreed. "‘Tain’t nohow unusual fer thot varmint, though."
Chelton Raymond ran the tip of his tongue under his waxed, blond mustache, keeping his eyes fixed
unblinkingly on the gaunt, knobby mountaineer.
"You ever see it before, Tige?" he asked abruptly.
Tige moved over to the porthole, stood to one side of it and expectorated a noisy, slanting stream of brown
fluid through the port, which was open.
"Kain’t say as I have," he muttered. "Thot ain’t to say as how I’m a stranger to the varmint, ‘cause I been
a-seein’ a lot a’ his work back in my mountains."
"I saw something about it in the newspapers," Chelton Raymond said, nodding slowly.
"Them thar level-land newspapers hain’t been a-hearin’ the half a’ it."
"Tige," the other said slowly, "I want your honest opinion."
"You be my cousin. I wouldn’t go fer tellin’ you no lies."
Chelton Raymond made a grim mouth. "Do you think this fellow in the coonskin cap is actually a ghost? Do
you really think he is the Squeaking Goblin?"
"Squeakin’ Goblin been dead nigh eighty years or thar’bouts," Tige said slowly.
"I know."
Tige pulled a sigh from deep in his chest. "Tige Raymond Eller ain’t never been one to believe in hants,
anyhow not a hant of a cuss that’s been a-layin’ in the grave fer eighty year."
"Don’t beat around the bush, Tige," Chelton Raymond said dryly. "Do you think the man in the coonskin cap
was human?"
Tige was silent a moment, then took a deep breath and spoke loudly and rapidly, as if desperately resolved to
get the words out.
"Thot varmint wur a hant!" he exclaimed. "I’m a-tellin’ you it wur a spook, ‘cause I shot right at it and thar
warn’t no sign a’ the bullet hittin’ nothin’."
SOME moments of silence followed Tige’s earnest declaration, both men keeping faces long and sober, as if
engaged with thoughts that were gloomy.
"It’s silly, of course," Chelton Raymond said at last.
"Yop," agreed Tige. He poked a bony finger thoughtfully into the hole the bullet had made in the head of the
chair dummy. "This here ain’t so silly, though."
"No." Chelton Raymond, hardening his lips together, was suddenly harsh and wolfish of feature. "Listen, Tige;
I’m thinking this is more than you and I can handle."
"A Raymond ain’t ‘feared a’ no man," muttered Tige.
"Hell, no, but this Squeaking Goblin isn’t a man. He’s been dead more than eighty years, and he was almost
a hundred years old when he died, if there’s anything to the story about him that my granddad told me."
"We ain’t spook fighters, fur a fact," Tige agreed.
"That’s the idea. Did you ever hear of Doc Savage, Tige?"
"Who?"
"Doc Savage."
Tige puckered his brows. "Kain’t say as I have."
"Your education has been badly neglected, Tige," said Chelton Raymond, and there was no levity in his tone.
Chapter II. THE SAVAGE SUMMONS
CHELTON RAYMOND opened the stateroom door, swung outside and moved along the corridor, the silent
and staring detectives making a path for his passage.
The sleuths were curious, but when the tall, expensively dressed blond man made no suggestion that they
accompany him, they did not move to do so.
Tige trailed Chelton Raymond. They stepped through bulkhead doors, mounted a companionway and entered
a cubicle walled with instrument panels—the radio room. A rather meek young man was handling the
instruments.
"I want a shore line," said Chelton Raymond briskly. "Get the Aquatania Hotel in Bar Harbor, hooking up by
telephone."
The radio man flicked switches; generators began to hum. After some moments of low-voiced speaking, the
operator spun in his swivel chair.
"Your connection, Mr. Raymond," he said. "Radio-land line hookup."
Tige looked on, as his blond and more sophisticated cousin lifted a mouthpiece-receiver set, and there was
an almost open-mouthed wonder in the gangling mountaineer’s expression. The look told plainly that Tige
was awed by the fact that one could converse from the boat to shore with such ease. Radio transmitters were
evidently foreign to Tige’s environment.
"Aquatania Hotel?" Chelton Raymond asked over the radio-land line hookup. "It is. . . . Has Doc Savage
registered there yet?. . . When he does, tell him Chelton Raymond desires his presence at once aboard the
yacht."
With a few words, the blond man gave the location of the cove where the yacht was anchored. Then he hung
up, nodding at the radio man to break down the connection.
Tige blinked. "You already sent fur this hure feller?"
"I radioed for him this afternoon," Chelton Raymond admitted.
"You ‘lowed as how we’d need ‘im?"
"Don’t we?" the other demanded dryly.
"Yop. We be needin’ somebody." Tige knobbed a fist and looked at its flinty hardness. "Mought take a
pow’ful lot a’ man to put the fritz on this hure Squeakin’ Goblin spook."
"This Doc Savage is a ‘powerful lot of man,’ as you call him."
"How d’you know?"
"I’ve heard talk, Tige."
"I ain’t never heard a’ him."
"Talk don’t get around the mountains much, Tige."
"Yop, thot’s so. This hure Doc Savage—whut mought be the trade thot he makes his livin’ with?"
"His profession is helping other people out of trouble, Tige."
Tige drew out a twist of native "long green," then extracted a knife from a holster inside his shirt. As indicated
by certain small marks, the long and razor-sharp blade had been hand-hammered from a file. He cut himself a
fresh chew.
"Doc Savage be a hired fighter?" he asked. "Thot it?"
"No!" Chelton Raymond shook a vehement negative. "This man never takes money for his services."
That seemed to bewilder Tige. "He don’t go fur to take no pay?" he asked incredulously.
"Doc Savage is an unusual character—a very famous individual," declared the other. "They tell many stories
of his great strength and his remarkable knowledge. If we have time, Tige, I’ll repeat some of the yarns before
he arrives."
"Be he a lowlander?" Tige demanded.
Chelton Raymond shrugged. "I don’t know."
"You ain’t called in a furriner, be you?" Tige asked sourly. "Kain’t no feller from the low country be man
enough to help us."
Chelton Raymond smiled faintly at that. He had been away from the mountains and their people for many
years, and contact with the wild scramble of the cities had caused the foibles and pet hates of the mountain
folk to become small and trivial in his mind. It struck him as funny that the mountaineers should consider
anybody not of their mountains as not worth associating with. Another time, he would have laughed.
ONE of the detectives came running toward the radio room. He was excited; he breathed rapidly as he
popped through the door.
"
Did you take the bullet?" he demanded.
"
What bullet?" questioned Chelton Raymond, not comprehending.
"Slug that was fired at you, of course. The one that went through the dummy you fixed up in front of the
porthole."
"No," said the blond man. "I didn’t get it."
"We been huntin’." The sleuth threw out his hands, palms upward, to indicate defeat. "We can’t find it."
"What?"
"There is a hole in the bulkhead, Mr. Raymond, where the bullet must have hit. It’s a small hole, as if the slug
wasn’t much bigger’n a twenty-two. But there ain’t no lead in the hole."
Chelton Raymond came forward suddenly and grasped a handful of the detective’s coat front. "Are you sure?"
he gasped.
"As sure as I stand here," the detective said earnestly.
Chelton Raymond released his grip and stepped back. He gazed thoughtfully at the floor, at his rubber-soled
shoes, then roamed his glance up until he and Tige were exchanging steady, blank looks.
"Hell!" he said. "Not so good."
"‘Pears like this spook shoots spook bullets," grunted Tige.
"Spook?" said the detective. "There ain’t no such animal."
"So I always thought," Chelton Raymond agreed.
"Mought be," corrected Tige. "If thot be the Squeakin’ Goblin, he’s sure enough a spook, ‘cause my
great-grand-daddy shot the Squeakin’ Goblin plumb dead comin’ on eighty year ago."
The sleuth clapped fists on his hips, arms akimbo. "Say, what’re you guys givin’ me?"
"Did you," Chelton Raymond asked dryly, "get a good look at that figure in the coonskin cap?"
"Did I? You said it. I was holdin’ the flashlight that first picked him out."
"How did he strike you?"
"Well—" The detective reached up absently and loosened his collar. "I didn’t care much for him. If he didn’t
have the face of a corpse, I never saw one."
Chelton Raymond nodded vehemently, as if he had seen as much watching from the boat with his binoculars.
"You don’t watch the newspapers very close, do you?" he asked.
"I read the big stuff," retorted the sleuth.
"This wouldn’t be big stuff," the blond man told him slowly. "It would be a small story on an inside page,
about a mountain feud in Kentucky. There wouldn’t be much. You see, the mountaineers do not talk to
outsiders, to lowland men, as they call them. They regard such as foreigners. Many mountain feud killings
never come to the attention of the local sheriff, much less to the newspapers outside."
"So what?" grunted the detective.
"So you haven’t read those short newspapers items, and that explains why you don’t know that a
phantomlike figure such as we saw tonight, clad in deerskins and a coonskin cap and with a long rifle, has
killed several mountaineers in Kentucky within the last two months."
"Several!" Tige snorted. "More’n thot!"
Chelton Raymond eyed Tige. "How many people has the Squeaking Goblin killed in the last few weeks,
Tige?"
"Ain’t sure a’ the exact number," said Tige, "but hit’s more’n twenty."
"
WELL for—" The detective gulped, swallowed. "Twenty!"
Tige nodded soberly. "Ain’t be no less’n thot."
"Twenty! Hell’s bells! And that hasn’t been in the newspapers?"
"Why should we-all ‘uns peddle our troubles to lowlanders?" Tige growled.
Chelton Raymond put in dryly to the detective, "So you see why Tige and myself called in the Coastal
Detective Agency."
"Yeah—for protection."
"Exactly. This Squeaking Goblin—this phantom, appeared and on two different occasions took shots at me.
Once, the bulletproof window of my car saved me. The second time, the shot was directed at a mirror in my
home, the sniper evidently being fooled by my reflection. I sent for Tige."
Tige nodded. "Raymonds stick by Raymonds, so I come a-runnin’."
"You sure it was the same guy who fired the first two shots as let that one go tonight?" asked the Coastal
operative.
"The same rifle, at least. There was no sound of a shot in each case—only that loud squeak."
The sleuth rubbed his nose, pulled at an ear, the gestures indicating an upset mind and much puzzlement.
"But why’s this Squeakin’ Goblin after you, Mr. Raymond?" he questioned.
Raymond spread his hands. "You guess!"
"Meanin’ you don’t know?"
"I mean that very thing. I haven’t the slightest idea why this Squeaking Goblin wishes to kill me."
The detective turned on Tige. "Well, why’s the Goblin shootin’ guys back in your mountains?"
"Kain’t say," said Tige.
"I hope he ain’t doin’ it without a reason!" snapped the sleuth.
"Fur as folks kin tell, thar ain’t no reason fur his shootin’ nobody," Tige muttered.
The operative of the Coastal Detective Agency thought it over deeply, his heavy features wearing a profound
摘要：

THESQUEAKINGGOBLINADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.THECOONSKINCAPGHOST?ChapterII.THESAVAGESUMMONS?ChapterIII.SQUEAKINGDEATH?ChapterIV.MOUNTAINMEN?ChapterV.MOUNTAINGIRL?ChapterVI.DERELICT?ChapterVII.THESNOWS?ChapterVIII.THESCAR...

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