Johnny looked mysterious.
"Here’s the strange part, Doc," he declared. "That crater is a monster. It must be twenty miles across. And it is always filled with steam. Great clouds of vapor hang over it. I talked to an airplane pilot who had flown over it some years ago. He gave me an excellent description."
"That’s fine." Doc smiled.
"He says there’s another island, a coral atoll, about fifty miles from Thunder Island," Johnny continued. "This is inhabited by a tribe of half-savage natives. He recommended that for our headquarters."
"Not a bad idea," agreed Doc.
Oliver Wording Bittman had been away in search of the native New Zealanders who had taken Jerome Coffern and Kar to Thunder Island months ago. He returned shaking his head.
"A ghastly thing!" he said hollowly. "Every man who accompanied Jerome Coffern and Kar has mysteriously disappeared in recent months."
Doc Savage’s golden eyes gave off diamond-hard lights. He saw Kar’s hand here, again. The man was a devil incarnate! He had callously murdered every one who might connect him with Thunder Island. His only slip had been when his two hired killers slew Jerome Coffern almost in the presence of Doc Savage!
"I hope I get my hooks on that guy!" Renny said grimly. His great hands — hands that could squeeze the very sap from blocks of green timber — opened and shut slowly.
"We’ll do our best to get you that wish." Determination was uppermost in Doc’s powerful voice. "We’re hopping off for Thunder Island at once!"
Chapter 15. THE FLYING DEVIL
THUNDER ISLAND!
The great cone projected high enough above the southern seas that they sighted it while still more than a hundred miles distant. The air was clear; the sun flamed with a scintillant revelry. Yet above the giant crater, and obviously crawling out of its interior, lurked masses of cloud.
"The dope I got from that pilot was right!" Johnny declared, quickly removing his glasses with the magnifying lens to the left side so he could peer through high-magnification binoculars. "Note the steam which always forms a blanket above the crater."
"Strange lookin’ place!" Monk muttered, his little eyes taking in Thunder Island.
"Not so strange!" Johnny corrected. "Steam-filled volcanic craters are not so uncommon in this part of the world. It is a region of active craters. There is, for instance, Ngauruhoe, a cone in New Zealand which emits steam and vapor incessantly. And for further example of unusual earth activity, take the great region of geysers, strange lakes of boiling mud and hot springs, which is also in New Zealand. Like the phenomena in the Yellowstone Park, in the United States, this region — "
"You can serve that geology lecture with our supper," snorted Monk. "What I meant was the shape of that cone. Notice how steep it gets toward the top? Man alive! It’s a thousand feet straight up and down in more than one spot!"
"The cone rim is inaccessible," said Johnny, peevishly.
"You mean nobody has ever climbed up there and looked over?"
"I believe that is what inaccessible means!"
"You’re gettin’ touchy as Ham!" Monk snorted. "Hey, fellows! There’s the little atoll that is inhabited! We make our base there, don’t we?"
The atoll in question was much smaller than Thunder Island. Of coral formation, it was like a starved green doughnut with a piece of mirror in the center. This mirror was, of course, the lagoon.
Doc banked the plane for the atoll.
As they neared the green ring, they saw the vegetation was of the type usual to tropical isles. There was noni enata, a diminutive bush bearing crimson pears, ironwood, umbrella ferns which grew in profusion, candlenut trees, and the paper mulberry with yellow blossoms and cottony, round leaves. Hibiscus and pandanus spread their green and glossy flowers, and there were many petavii, a kind of banana, the fronds of which arched high.
"It’s inhabited, all right!" announced Monk. "There’s the native devil-devil house on top of the highest ground!"
Johnny used his superpower binoculars on the structure of pagan worship, then gasped, "The inhabitants must be near savages! The devil-devil house is surrounded by human skulls mounted on poles!"
"Not an uncommon practice," began Johnny. "Formerly — "
"There’s the village!" barked Long Tom.
The cluster of thatched huts had been lost among the coconut palms at the lagoon edge. They looked like shaggy, dark beehives on stilts.
Natives dashed about, excited by the plane. They were well-built fellows, gaudy pareusof tapacloth, made from the bark of the paper mulberry, girded about their hips. Many had tropical blooms in their hair, a number of the women wearing a blossom over an ear. Some of the men had scroll-like designs in blue amaink upon their bodies, making them quite ugly, judged by civilized standards.
Several prahusappeared on the lagoon, each boat filled with perturbed natives. The brown men grasped spears, and knives of bamboo as sharp as a razor, which could be sharpened again simply by splitting a piece from the blade.
"They seem kinda excited!" Monk grunted.
"Yes — entirely too excited!" Doc replied thoughtfully.
DOC’S big plane wheeled over the atoll as gracefully as a mighty gull. It dipped. With a swis-s-s-hof a noise, the floats settled on the glass-smooth lagoon.
The prahusfilled with natives fled as though the very devil was after them. Thousands of koi, a black bird which travels in dense flocks, arose from the luxuriant jungle. As Doc cut the motors, they could hear the excited notes of cockatoos.
"I don’t like the way they’re acting," Doc warned. "We’d better keep our eyes open, brothers!"
He grounded the plane near the cluster of thatched huts. Tall palm trees showed evidence of being cultivated for coconuts — at least, they were fitted with the ingenious native traps for the destructive tupacrab.
The traps consisted of a false "earth" well up the tree. The crabs, wont to descend the palms backward, upon touching these "earths," would release their grip on the tree under the impression they were on the ground, thus falling to destruction.
Suddenly Ham gave a startled yelp, and dropping his sword cane, clapped a hand to his leg. An instant later, the fiendish, chuckling echoes of a rifle shot leaped along the lagoon.
Some one was sniping at them!
More bullets buzzed loudly near the plane.
Ham was barely scratched. He was the first to dive out of the plane and take shelter among the palms. The others followed, guns ready.
Doc’s golden eyes noted a surprising thing. The shot seemed as much of a shock to the natives as to the flyers!
After a moment, Doc’s perceptive ears caught a word or two of the native language. He recognized the lingo — it was one of the myriads of vernaculars in his great magazine of knowledge.
"Why do you treat peaceful newcomers in this fashion?" he called in the dialect.
The natives were impressed by hearing their language spoken in such perfect fashion by the mighty bronze man. Soon they replied.
For some minutes, strange words clucked back and forth. The tension subsided visibly. The very power of Doc’s pleasant voice seemed to spread good will.
"This is strange!" Doc told his fellows, none of whom comprehended the native tongue. "They don’t know who fired that shot. They’re trying to tell me they thought there were no rifles on the island!"