TEXT:  
   
  LAND OF LONG JUJU 
  A Doc Savage Adventure By Kenneth Robeson 
   
  Originally published in DOC SAVAGE Magazine January 1937 
   
      LAND   OF  
      LONG   JUJU 
   
  and     of     the     terrible     power     of     The 
  Shimba—with     Doc       Savage      smashing 
  the jungle terror’s menace to solve its secret! 
   
   
   
  Complete Book-length Novel 
   
  By KENNETH ROBESON
   
   
   
  Chapter 1 
  RUNNERS TO DEATH 
   
  Two weird figures came running in the 
  white fog. Their queer garments flapped like 
  the sheets of ghosts. Runners of the jungle 
  should not have been so dressed. The togalike 
  attire was pulled above bony knees, but the 
  garments were hampering. Any white man who 
  had been in Abyssinia would have identified 
  these sheets as the chamma. This was 
  distinctive of royal or official rank. 
  These grotesquely clad runners were 
  far south of Abyssinia. They were now below 
  the great Taveta forest of Central East Africa, 
  in the foothills of the Parri Mountains. It was a 
  green, fog-soaked wilderness of silence just 
  now. 
  Doubtless the place was too silent in 
  the judgment of the taller of the two runners. 
  The pair was approaching a water hole. 
  
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  The taller runner halted suddenly. He 
  held up one long, skinny arm. The other runner 
  became motionless. Both listened intently. 
  There came only a strange, distant 
  throbbing; like the hard heel of a human hand 
  beating upon some hollow vessel. The runners 
  knew the sound for a drum. The stretched skin 
  of a kudu, the great antelope of the country, 
  over the end of a hollowed senecio log. 
  The runners had been hearing the 
  drum talk for two days and two nights. Five 
  days and nights before, when they had started, 
  there had been six runners. Only these two 
  had survived to reach this place. 
  “Safi maji,” whispered the tallest 
  runner hoarsely. 
  He meant the pool contained clean 
  water. Some other pools had been poisoned. 
  Two of the original six runners had drunk of 
  these pools. 
  These two had remained behind. 
  The 
  taller 
  runner 
  directed 
  his 
  companion to drink while he kept watch. The 
  skin drum continued to throb. 
  The shorter runner dropped to his 
  hands and knees. He crept through the white 
  fog to the pool. His brown hands divided the 
  broad leaves of a senecio tree. 
  No sound had been given forth by the 
  fog-drenched leaves. The taller runner rasped 
  a warning. The shorter runner stretched on his 
  stomach. His tongue lapped up water where 
  his hand had pushed away the scum. 
  Then he made a sudden, violent effort 
  as if to rise. His neck seemed incapable of 
  lifting his head. His face splashed into the pool. 
  Air bubbles arose around the man’s head. 
  The tall runner made no effort to 
  rescue his companion. He whispered a word. 
  “Okoyong.” Then he added, “Masai, 
  the Long Juju.” 
  The tall runner seemed almost to 
  dissolve into the wall of the jungle. His 
  companion was already a stiffening body. A 
  small dart had appeared behind one ear of the 
  runner who had died beside the pool. 
  Though he had been running for five 
  days 
  and 
  nights, 
  halting 
  only 
  when 
  overpowered by sleep, the tall man slipped 
  through the tangled vines of the liana with 
  amazing speed. 
   
   
  THE tall figure was the last of the six 
  runners. On the shoulders of this single man 
  rested the burden of the message that had 
  been carried by six. 
  Whatever the encircling menace, the 
  runner escaped temporarily. He carried but a 
  single weapon. This was a sharp-bladed, 
  short-hafted stabbing spear. 
  He had said, “Okoyong” and “Masai.” 
  No fiercer tribes dwelt in all of Africa. The 
  Masai were blood-drinkers and head-hunters 
  of this interior central country. The Okoyong 
  were from a distant place. They had come into 
  the land of Kilimanjaro, bringing witchcraft, the 
  worship of the Long Juju. 
  Perhaps the tall runner had no hope of 
  escaping with his life. But his message must 
  be delivered verbally. 
  More than one drum was talking now. 
  The taut skins throbbed from four points of the 
  compass. 
  The runner’s face was different from 
  that of other tribes in the Kilimanjaro and 
  Taveta forest country. His skin was lighter than 
  the smoky black mostly to be found. The nose 
  was thin and hawklike, an arching bone that 
  might have belonged to an ancient Roman 
  rather than to a native of Africa. 
  The thin nostrils now were twitching. 
  The runner’s keen olfactory sense told him he 
  was not far from his goal. The odor was that of 
  meat being cooked as only an inglesi would 
  want it. All white men were inglesi, or 
  Englishmen. 
  The runner came to a wide, open 
  glade beside a flowing stream of white water. 
  His thirst was very great, almost unendurable. 
  The man hesitated for less than five 
  seconds. His long legs plunged him forward 
  into the open space. Then he cried out, only 
  once. The impeding chamma fell down around 
  his knees and entangled his legs. The stabbing 
  spear flew from his hand. 
  The man lay still, except for a twitching 
  of his muscles. From his back, between the 
  shoulder blades, protruded a long spear haft. 
  Ostrich feathers, dyed red with ochre, quivered 
  in the wind. 
   
   
  “IT was in this direction I heard it,” 
  spoke a deep, resonant voice in English with a 
  broad American accent. 
  A white man pushed aside the vines. 
  He started into the open space where the 
  sheeted figure lay with a spear in his back. 
  
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  3 
  A big native, wearing only a garment 
  of colobus monkey fur, thrust an ebony arm in 
  front of the white man. 
  “No like, b’wana!” he grunted. “Me first 
  go see!” 
  But the white man was bigger. He 
  pushed past the restraining arm. He looked 
  like a giant beside the other. His figure was 
  huge, an immense bulk of perhaps more than 
  two hundred and fifty pounds. 
  “Thunderation, Souho!” he boomed. 
  “That fellow’s still living! Maybe we can save 
  him! Here, grab a hatful of water!” 
  The huge white man swept off his 
  helmetlike, tropical hat and thrust it into the 
  native’s hands. 
  “Hurry, Souho!” he commanded. “We’ll 
  see what we can do!” 
  “Will make do, B’wana Renwick,” 
  muttered the native. 
  Souho obeyed the order of B’wana 
  Renwick. He reached the stream by keeping 
  close to the jungle wall. 
  “Come, give me a hand, Mapanda,” 
  said B’wana Renwick. “I’ve got a hunch that 
  fellow was trying to get to our safari. Maybe 
  he’s from old King Udu himself.” 
  A quick-moving youth with a yellowish 
  skin and snapping black eyes moved behind 
  the white man. Mapanda was of an Arabian 
  cast, probably from one of the upper coastal 
  tribes. 
   
   
   
  B’wana Renwick had faced too many 
  dangers in too many outlandish places to 
  betray any fear. 
  For the white man was Colonel John 
  Renwick, 
  world 
  famous 
  engineer. 
  To 
  thousands he was known simply as “Renny.” 
  He was one of the world’s most noted group of 
  adventurers. 
  Clark Savage, Jr., known to the world 
  as Doc Savage, was soon to know of this dead 
  native runner in the African jungle. For, as 
  Renny lifted the head of the dying native in the 
  strange chamma, Doc Savage, in New York, 
  was attempting to get in touch with the giant 
  engineer over the world’s most powerful short-
  wave radio. 
   
   
  WHEN Souho, the native hunter, 
  brought the hat filled with water, the dying 
  runner gulped some of it. Renny lifted the man 
  in his arms. Death was certain. The blade of 
  the spear had pierced the man’s body. 
  “B’wana—B’wana 
  Renwick?” 
  whispered the dying man. “It is good you 
  come—Ras Udu—the king of Koko is going—” 
  The runner’s head dropped. Renny 
  quickly produced a small hypodermic syringe. 
  In a few seconds, the man opened his eyes. 
  Whispered speech came to his lips through 
  bloody foam. 
  Renny held him in his arms. The 
  words were partly English and partly a native 
  patois. 
  “Yes?” he said, when the runner halted 
  and choked. “King Udu wants the railroad? 
  And what is this other?” 
  The runner could say only a few 
  words. His speech ended. Renny pulled the 
  chamma over the man’s face. 
  “Doc’s got to know about this,” he said 
  slowly to himself. “Come, Souho! Mapanda! 
  We’ll take the body to camp! He must be 
  buried!” 
  Souho and Mapanda, Renny’s head 
  carrier, did not relish this task. Souho, the 
  hunter, was a brave man. He had faced a 
  man-eating simba, the great lion of the Taveta, 
  with only his spear. But he carried the body of 
  the dead runner as if it were some dangerous 
  high explosive. 
  Equatorial 
  night 
  descended 
  upon 
  Renny’s camp as they arrived with the body. 
  Already the carrier boys had a great fire going. 
  The skin drums had never ceased 
  talking. The throbbing was spaced between 
  beats like dots and dashes of the regular 
  Morse telegraph code. 
  The carriers were eating. Their meal 
  was a delicacy with them. It consisted of 
  elephant feet baked for two days in a hot pit. 
  “Hyrax no make much talk, B’wana 
  Renwick,” said Souho. “The spear is of Masai, 
  b’wana. It means they make do war.” 
  
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  4 
   
  “Holy cow!” growled Renny. “And if 
  they make do war, as you call it, they’ll bust up 
  the whole railroad scheme! Them Britishers 
  won’t back any steel into war country right 
  now!” 
  The night was oppressive. There had 
  been no visit of the small colobus monkeys. 
  Renny had been on this railroad survey for 
  nearly six weeks. The small monkeys had 
  followed the camp. 
  Only an engineer of outstanding ability 
  could have plotted the line of steel from Muoa 
  Pemba, on the Indian Ocean south of Mobasi, 
  through the Parri Mountains to the great 
  Taveta country. The line was intended to open 
  up the rich lands of the Kilimanjaro mountains. 
  Renny believed their camp was being 
  closely watched. The silence of the hyrax and 
  the absence of the monkeys in the dense 
  jungle could mean only one thing. Many men 
  must be close to the camp. 
   
   
  RENNY brought from his tent a huge 
  square box. From this he produced a radio 
  transmitter. The transmitter was one of Doc 
  Savage’s system. Its short wave made it 
  possible for his men to reach him across many 
  hundreds of miles. 
  Renny set the dials to the wave 
  lengths employed by the Doc Savage group. 
  Mapanda’s black eyes glittered. To this 
  native’s mind, B’wana Renwick was a greater 
  sorcerer than the most powerful Juju priests. 
  The generator started humming. Still 
  the drums were talking. 
  Suddenly one of the carriers let out a 
  wild screech. Others of the native boys threw 
  aside their platters of elephant feet. 
  The screech became a death scream. 
  A native boy arose. His bony body teetered 
  back to its heels. He fell in the edge of the big 
  fire. His flesh burned sickeningly. 
  The blade of a long spear stuck 
  through the carrier’s throat. Before Renny 
  could get to his feet, two more native boys 
  were impaled. The other carriers howled and 
  dashed toward the denser jungle. 
  “Come back, you fools!” roared Renny. 
  “Make cover here!” 
  Renny was whispering into his tent. 
  Screams of agony came from the jungle. 
  Souho, the hunter, threw himself flat on the 
  ground. His hands had grabbed the most 
  powerful gun. 
  This was a .450 Express, a British 
  model. Souho exploded the big-game killer. 
  But its high-velocity bullets only clipped leaves 
  from the jungle where no one seemed to be 
  moving. 
  Renny came out with a clumsy looking 
  weapon. It was a superfire machine pistol, 
  loaded with a drum of quick-firing bullets. The 
  pistol made a noise like an immense bullfiddle. 
  But its slugs only mowed a path a little to one 
  side of where the carrier boys were running. 
  Perhaps most of the score of native 
  boys had been killed. The others had slithered 
  away. Renny muttered grimly. 
  “Holy cow!” boomed Renny. “If I could 
  only get an eye on some of them devils!” 
  While the guns were whooping and 
  banging, no more spears had fallen. If three 
  boys had not been lying transfixed by the 
  murderous blades, it would have seemed there 
  had been no attack. 
  This was amazing. The tribal warriors 
  usually accompany their attacks with much 
  shouting. 
   
   
  Chapter II 
  WHITE MAN’S VOICE 
   
  ONLY Souho and Mapanda had 
  remained with Renny. The big engineer 
  ordered them behind the tents. A faint moaning 
  came from the jungle bush. 
  Renny judged this must be one of his 
  carrier boys. He was about to investigate, 
  when Souho interfered. 
  “Masai make some trick, b’wana,” he 
  warned. “Him be Juju voice. Most good stay 
  now.” 
  Renny, always ready for an open 
  scrap, was somewhat bewildered. He listened 
  carefully. Souho’s warning had been well 
  judged. The moaning voice was not that of a 
  man in pain. 
  Renny started to pull away the body of 
  the dead carrier closest to the fire. A whistling 
  wind 
  fanned 
  his 
  head. 
  A 
  long 
  spear, 
  ornamented with red-dyed ostrich feathers, 
  jammed its blade into the ground. 
  Around the haft of the spear a white 
  paper was tied. Renny unrolled the white 
  paper. There was a note printed in English: 
   
  COLONEL RENWICK MUST LEAVE 
  THIS LAND AT ONCE. THE RAILROAD WILL 
  
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  5 
  NEVER BE BUILT. THIS WILL BE THE ONLY 
  WARNING. 
   
  “So there is a white man mixed up in 
  this,” growled Renny. “That poor devil they got 
  was right. This is something Doc must know at 
  once!” 
  Renny whipped back toward his tent. 
  He twisted the dials of the radio transmitter. 
  Possibly the leader of the natives 
  concealed in the jungle had never seen a radio 
  broadcast from so small an instrument. Renny 
  started speaking. Almost at once, a low but 
  penetrating voice replied. 
  “Doc speaking, Renny. I can hear you 
  clearly.” 
   
   
   
   
  The voice of Doc Savage never was 
  raised. It had a peculiar timbre, a great 
  carrying quality. 
  “Doc, there’s trouble breaking over 
  here!” boomed Renny. “The richest region in 
  Central Africa is about to be invaded. King Udu 
  of Kokoland sent six runners to me. Only one 
  arrived, and he was dying.” 
  Souho gripped Renny’s arm. The 
  hunter raised the heavy express rifle. He was 
  pointing it at the thick foliage beyond the fire. 
  More than leaves had suddenly appeared. Red 
  ostrich plumes suddenly marked the green 
  wall. 
  “Don’t 
  shoot!” 
  snapped 
  Renny, 
  catching Souho’s arm. 
  “Doc—I’ve gotta talk fast—I’ve been 
  ordered out—this King Udu has a son, Prince 
  Zaban, in New York—the kingdom is about to 
  be overthrown!” 
   
   
  GUTTERAL, snarling cries came from 
  the bush. A fantastic figure dressed in the hide 
  and the mane of a lion, leaped into the circle of 
  the fire. Souho’s rifle exploded. 
  One of the red blotches came from the 
  wall. A huge warrior with a red ostrich 
  headdress slammed on his face. 
  “They’re on top of us, Doc!” roared 
  Renny. “King Udu has sent men to guard his 
  son in New York—one of his former subjects 
  lives there—he is called Logo—King Udu has 
  sent him a—” 
  Spears hissed across the fire. Renny 
  paused to pull the transmitter out of immediate 
  range of the spears. 
  “What did King Udu send?” came 
  Doc’s clear voice. 
  “King Udu has sent the kingdom’s 
  royal—” 
  Souho roared with pain. The haft of a 
  spear had struck him over one ear. Two luridly 
  painted warriors sprang from between the 
  tents. They were dragging Mapanda between 
  them. 
  “Holy cow, Doc!” shouted Renny. “See 
  Prince Zaban—he’ll know—the Long Juju 
  has—” 
  Renny was completely ringed by the 
  attackers. In the language of the Masai, a 
  white man’s voice emanated from the lion’s 
  head. 
  “Seize him! Break up that box!” 
  Half 
  a 
  dozen 
  warriors 
  hurled 
  themselves back of the tents. 
  Renny heaved to his feet. He was 
  suddenly facing a ring of long-bladed spears. 
  “If you are wise,” said the lion-clad 
  man in English, “you will not resist. We want 
  only that you should forget this crazy railroad 
  and leave the country.” 
  “Not in a thousand years!” bellowed 
  the enraged engineer. 
  He sprang between two of the spear 
  blades. One fist, many pounds in weight, 
  mangled the headdress of the nearest warrior 
  into his skull. 
  Renny hurled himself straight toward 
  the English-speaking leader. He saw only what 
  looked like the shadow of some flying object. A 
  war club covered with painted knobs cracked 
  across the back of Renny’s thick neck. As he 
  fell, Renny let out one thunderous roar. He 
  was close to the radio transmitter. 
   
   
  
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  6 
   
  RENNY’S yell traveled a few thousand 
  miles. It roared from the loud-speaker of a 
  radio board on the wall of Doc Savage’s 
  laboratory in the heart of Manhattan. 
  The man before the radio was bigger 
  than the huge Renny. He did not appear to be 
  as big, due to the symmetry of his massive 
  figure. The skin of his face and of his hands 
  and bared forearms was of the smoothest 
  golden bronze. His hair fitted closely to his 
  skull. Its color seemed almost a continuation of 
  his skin. 
  At Renny’s yell, a childlike voice spoke 
  anxiously. 
  “Howlin’ calamities, Doc! Now Renny’s 
  gone an’ got himself into some sure enough 
  trouble!” 
  The speaker could easily have been 
  mistaken for a dressed gorilla. Red, furry hair 
  covered all of his visible parts. 
  “Looks that way, Monk,” stated Doc 
  quietly. “Undoubtedly we have just been 
  listening to an attack of warriors in the heart of 
  an African jungle.” 
  “African 
  jungle?” 
  crackled 
  a 
  dry, 
  sarcastic voice. “Now, that’s right up Monk’s 
  alley. Maybe if we go to Africa, we’ll succeed in 
  leaving him with his kinfolks!” 
  This speaker was an elegantly clad, 
  waspish-waisted man. His face was thin and 
  his eyes were keen. 
  “Dag-gonit, Ham!” squeaked the hairy 
  one. “Renny’s in a jam, an’ you go makin’ 
  shyster jokes that don’t mean nothin’!” 
  “Renny’s probably having the time of 
  his life,” observed Ham. 
   
   
   
  “Ham,” Theodore Marley Brooks, was 
  the legal luminary of Doc Savage’s group. He 
  was one of the country’s smartest lawyers. 
   
   
   
  “Monk” was Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, 
  noted industrial chemist. Monk was still glaring 
  at Ham. Doc ignored their dispute. 
  “It is to be regretted Renny was unable 
  to inform us what King Udu has probably sent 
  to New York,” said the bronze man. “First, we 
  shall have to make contact with this Prince 
  Zaban, if he happens to be in Manhattan.” 
  “Renny said this African potentate has 
  sent men to New York,” said Ham. “An’ that 
  fellow he called Logo? Maybe we could find 
  him. The only trouble is, he’s likely living over 
  in Harlem under the name of Brown or Smith 
  or something.” 
  “You are possibly correct,” said Doc 
  Savage. “However, I believe we shall learn 
  something of Prince Zaban in a very short 
  time. This King Udu is old, but he is a 
  remarkably well-informed ruler. He is king over 
  nearly forty different tribes, some of them wild, 
  but his own race seems to have sprung from 
  an early invasion of the Kilimanjaro country by 
  the ancient Romans.” 
   
   
  DOC SAVAGE and his men were to 
  hear news of Prince Zaban very soon. For, as 
  the man of bronze discovered all further effort 
  to contact Renny was useless, two groups of 
  strange, dark-skinned men were approaching 
  the towering skyscraper. 
  Brilliant morning sunshine afforded an 
  unusual atmosphere for the grim tragedy which 
  was closely impending. 
  A uniformed messenger was hurrying 
  along one of the narrow streets. This 
  thoroughfare converged with another at the 
  intersection 
  above 
  which 
  the 
  glittering 
  skyscraper reared its tower. 
  On this intersecting street was another 
  messenger. This was not unusual, but each of 
  
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  7 
  these messengers was swarthy of skin, and 
  each had a thinly boned, arching nose. Each 
  hurrying man carried a package wrapped in 
  heavy manila paper. 
  A 
  short 
  distance 
  behind 
  each 
  messenger, half a dozen or more men 
  threaded their way through the dense crowds. 
  They, too, were of dark skin. These men wore 
  the turbans of native Hindus of India. Yet any 
  observer would have noted these men were 
  not Hindus. 
  The noses of all these men were flat 
  and very broad. Their turbans were tightly 
  wrapped. The folds of cloth concealed their 
  ears. 
  One messenger carried his package 
  under his arm. He had nearly reached the 
  street intersection. Turbaned men suddenly 
  shoved other pedestrians aside and sprang 
  toward the messenger. 
  A woman emitted a scream. One of 
  the turbaned men had torn the package from 
  under the messenger’s arm. Another clamped 
  his hands on the messenger’s throat. 
  Four or five wearing the turbans had 
  blocked off others on the sidewalk. Smart 
  pedestrians sprang away. A husky, Irish traffic 
  policeman let out a shrill alarm from his 
  whistle. He had seen the beginning of the 
  attack. 
  The copper had his gun in his hand. 
  He yelled, “Hey! Get ‘em up, you devils, before 
  I blast yuh!” 
  Perhaps the traffic officer saw an 
  opportunity to cover himself with glory. No 
  weapons showed in the hands of any of the 
  turbaned men. 
  The 
  turbaned 
  men 
  ignored 
  the 
  policeman’s order. The one who had seized 
  the package, ripped off the manila covering. 
  The object inside looked like a solid block of 
  polished wood. 
  The turbaned man let out a yell of 
  triumph. The man in the messenger’s uniform 
  had ceased to resist. A queer smile played 
  suddenly over his face. 
  That smile was his last. It was a 
  sardonic grin. Possibly it should have warned 
  the men who had seized him. 
  The man holding the strange block 
  fumbled his fingers along one edge. This man 
  was almost completely obliterated. The block 
  exploded with a terrific impact. The blast 
  ripped open a small crater in the sidewalk. 
   
   
  THE 
  traffic 
  policeman’s 
  revolver 
  exploded in the grip of a hand that probably 
  was already dead. A score of persons were 
  hurled onto the sidewalk and into the building 
  where plate glass was shattered. 
  In the intersecting street, the attack of 
  turbaned men upon the other messenger had 
  been almost simultaneous with the terrible 
  explosion. This messenger put up a fierce 
  fight. 
  No weapons were used. But two of the 
  turbaned men were knocked down before one 
  wrested the package from their victim. Then 
  one of the attackers struck the messenger with 
  what appeared to be a small, pointed dart. 
  The messenger’s nostrils dilated. He 
  emitted a strange, terrible laugh. The heavy 
  paper was being torn from another object that 
  was apparently only a block of solid wood. 
  The polished oblong gave forth a 
  hissing. The turbaned man holding it crumpled 
  to the sidewalk. The block struck and burst into 
  flames. 
  Five men wearing the peculiar turbans 
  fell down. One clawed madly at his eyes. It 
  pulled the turban loose. Parts of his ears 
  seemed to fall away. But they were still 
  attached. They were the lobes of the ears, 
  horribly distorted into great rings of flesh. 
  All of the men who fell died almost 
  instantly. Close to the ashes of the oblong 
  block lay the messenger who had carried it. 
  Across his lips was a sardonic grin. A small 
  dart protruded from his neck. 
  Radio police cars and ambulances 
  screamed 
  into 
  the 
  two 
  blocks. 
  Nothing 
  remained of either of the oblong packages. It 
  was plainly evident one had been packed with 
  high explosive. 
  It was equally evident the other had 
  been the container of some deadly, instantly 
  effective gas. 
  A captain of detectives found a small 
  piece of manila paper intact. He stared at it. 
  “You might have known he would have 
  something to do with this!” he growled. “Joe, 
  have headquarters get in touch with Doc 
  Savage!” 
  On the salvaged bit of heavy paper 
  was the name CLARK SAVAGE JR. The 
  package had been sealed with a blue wax. 
  Where this had been broken appeared the 
  imprint of a curious seal. 
  The small figure in this seal was 
  grotesquely ugly. 
   
  
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  8 
   
  Chapter III 
  THE SEALED BOX 
   
  IF the white messenger bearing a third 
  package had known of the first two, he might 
  not have so jauntily entered the elevator in the 
  glittering skyscraper. 
  The tragic explosion took place while 
  he was shooting toward the eighty-sixth floor. 
  Arriving at the eighty-sixth floor the messenger 
  was directed to Doc Savage’s door. 
  Almost immediately the messenger 
  became somewhat dizzy. He had walked over 
  to a door that looked like a panel in the wall. It 
  had neither lock, knob nor latch. Clark Savage, 
  Jr., appeared in small bronze letters. 
  Before the messenger could reach for 
  the buzzer, the door opened silently. The 
  fuzzy, ugly face of Monk glowered at the 
  visitor. Monk reached for the package. 
  “Gimme your book an’ I’ll sign for it,” 
  said Monk. 
  “Got to deliver this personal to Mr. 
  Savage,” said the messenger. “He’s got to see 
  me!” 
  “Yeah?” piped Monk. “He’s already 
  seen you. I’ll take it.” 
  A hand at the end of an incredibly long 
  arm flipped the package from the messenger’s 
  hands. 
  “You’ll stand right here!” snapped 
  Monk. “An’ don’t move!” 
  Monk’s foot did something to the thick 
  rug of the big reception room. The messenger 
  heard nothing. The door by which he had 
  entered was no longer in evidence. He was 
  looking at a smooth, unbroken wall. 
  Monk carried the package through the 
  library with its thousands of scientific and other 
  books, into the laboratory. Doc Savage turned 
  from the radio. 
  “There seems no doubt but they’ve got 
  Renny,” he stated. “I have called Johnny. He 
  will know the whereabouts of Prince Zaban.” 
   
   
  “JOHNNY” 
  was 
  William 
  Harper 
  Littlejohn, geologist and archaeologist. When 
  strange visitors came to Manhattan, Johnny 
  nearly always made contact with them. 
  Monk shifted the oblong package in 
  his hairy hands. The manila paper covering 
  was sealed with blobs of blue wax. 
  In each of these seals was a 
  grotesque miniature. It had somewhat the 
  shape of a scorpion. 
  Monk started to tear off the paper. 
  Ham caught the package. 
  “Wait a minute, insect,” snapped the 
  lawyer. “Probably that package is for Doc.” 
  “Yeah, sure,” said Monk. “I was just 
  goin’ to open it.” 
  Doc Savage’s flaky gold eyes were 
  fixed on the parcel. In those eyes life stirred 
  like the movement of small whirlpools. 
  The big laboratory was suddenly filled 
  with a fantastic sound. It was a low, mellow 
  trilling, as if a wind were playing over reed 
  instruments. 
  Monk hastily deposited the package 
  on a table. Doc’s trilling sound seemed to 
  emanate from his whole body. Sometimes it 
  warned of impending danger. At others it 
  announced the bronze man was on the eve of 
  a discovery. 
  “Leave the package untouched for a 
  moment,” advised Doc. “I have seen the 
  messenger. He seems to be from a regular 
  agency. We will investigate.” 
  In a few seconds the agency was on 
  the telephone. In the reception room the 
  puzzled messenger was in somewhat of a 
  daze. He walked along the wall which he 
  believed to be facing the outside corridor. He 
  ran his hands along its smooth surface. 
  “It’s dog-goned screwy,” he muttered. 
  “I know that door’s right here somewhere.” 
  Another door of chrome steel leading 
  into the library had been closed by Monk. The 
  messenger was temporarily a prisoner. 
   
   
  DOC SAVAGE finished his talk with 
  the messenger agency. 
  “The package was left with the agency 
  less than half an hour ago for delivery here,” 
  announced Doc. “It was brought in by a 
  colored man in a chauffeur’s uniform. He said 
  it was important this be delivered at once.” 
  The man of bronze inspected the 
  oblong package carefully. The whirlpools 
  stirred again in his flaky gold eyes as he 
  studied the seal in blue. 
  It was not odd that the only address 
  was Clark Savage, Jr. In the upper left-hand 
  corner was printed with ink a return address: 
   
  WILLIAM SMITH, 
  4404 Crooked Neck Road, 
  Long Island. 
   
  
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  9 
  “That isn’t in Harlem,” observed Ham, 
  “but I mentioned this fellow Logo probably 
  would be living under the name of Smith or 
  something near it.” 
  “That might be,” stated Doc. “But if this 
  should develop into what Renny was trying to 
  inform us about, it is a most remarkable 
  coincidence that it should arrive just now.” 
  Doc Savage took the oblong package 
  in his hands. 
  The man of bronze stripped the manila 
  paper carefully away. He was holding what 
  appeared to be a solid block of polished 
  teakwood. 
  If there was a hollow space inside, the 
  craftsmanship of the maker had left not so 
  much as a hair line in the fine-grained wood. 
  “I would proceed with extraordinary 
  caution, Doc,” suddenly spoke a calm voice 
  behind the bronze man. “As nearly as I have 
  assimilated the facts, that package resembles 
  two others that have just killed a dozen 
  persons.” 
   
   
   
  Johnny had appeared abruptly. The 
  archaeologist had come from a sliding panel 
  concealed by a glass tank filled with tropical 
  fish. 
  Doc replaced the oblong block on the 
  table. Johnny told of the weird tragedies. 
  “You say some of the men who were 
  killed had deformed ears with extended lobes,” 
  stated Doc. “The Masai and the Waperri of 
  Central Africa are among the tribes having that 
  practice. The man who carried one of the 
  boxes had a lighter skin and an arching nose. 
  That would make him one of the Kokonese.” 
  “Indubitably,” observed Johnny, who 
  was addicted to long words. “I judged the dead 
  men to be omophagous Ulotrichans. They are 
  likely to demonstrate they can be as poisonous 
  as the Proterogluphya.” 
  “Howlin’ calamities!” squeaked Monk. 
  “They couldn’t possibly be that bad!” 
  “Yes,” smiled Doc. “Those tribes do 
  eat raw flesh and they would have woolly hair. 
  Some are as deadly as cobras.” 
  Doc’s bronze hands played along the 
  edges of the oblong block. The block had 
  weight that indicated it might indeed be solid. 
  Yet the man of bronze was convinced 
  something was contained inside. 
  “Perhaps it would be well not to 
  employ force,” Doc stated. “We will lock this 
  away for the present.” 
  He placed the polished oblong block 
  carefully in the strong safe. 
   
   
  IN the other room the nonplused 
  messenger tried whistling. 
  “I don’t care if this guy is Doc Savage,” 
  he complained. “He can’t make a monkey 
  outta me!” 
  He did not hear the step of Monk 
  behind him. 
  “There ain’t anything holdin’ you,” said 
  the ugly-looking chemist. 
  “Oh, yeah?” rapped the messenger. 
  “And how the—” 
  He gulped and looked at the outer 
  wall. Monk had stepped on something under 
  the rug. The messenger was looking at the 
  door which led to the outside. 
  There 
  was 
  the 
  corridor. 
  Directly 
  opposite were the elevators. The lock was 
  operated by an invisible electroscope. 
  “Good gosh!” howled the messenger. 
  “I don’t like any of this shenanigans! Where’s 
  that door been?” 
  “The door hasn’t moved,” stated Monk. 
  The messenger was beginning to 
  believe he had been seeing things. A smoothly 
  moving panel had made a false wall over the 
  door. 
  Doc Savage had found it convenient at 
  times to prevent some of his many visitors 
  from finding their way out too quickly. 
  The messenger breathed a sigh of 
  relief when the elevator’s doors closed behind 
  his back. He had been glad to get away. 
   
   
  BACK in the laboratory, Doc Savage 
  was summoned to the telephone. It was the 
  commissioner of police. 
  
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  10 
   
  “Whatever you do, Mr. Savage, don’t 
  accept or open any packages!” said the 
  commissioner. “Hell seems to have broken 
  loose! Unless I’m crazy, somebody is trying to 
  move an African war right into Manhattan! 
  You’ve heard of the explosion?” 
  “I have just been informed of the 
  regrettable facts,” stated Doc. 
  “Well, your name was on the paper 
  around the infernal machine that went off first!” 
  said the commissioner. “Have you had any 
  recent dealings with a bunch of heathen that 
  runs around with their ears hanging down to 
  their shoulders?” 
  “I have had no contacts of that 
  character,” stated Doc truthfully. “Perhaps 
  some one was trying to reach me.” 
  “Yes!” rapped the commissioner. “And 
  there must have been two of them, for that 
  other box burned up! Maybe it had your 
  address, too!” 
  “It might be,” stated Doc. “I shall see 
  what I can ascertain and keep you informed of 
  anything that may aid the police.” 
  “I’ll let you know if anything more turns 
  up,” said the commissioner. “We’ve had a 
  report of some funny dark fellows that seem to 
  be camping out over in the Crooked Neck 
  section of Long Island.” 
  Doc turned to his three companions. 
  Another of his men, Major Thomas J. Roberts, 
  known as “Long Tom,” the electrician of the 
  group, was attending a convention on the 
  Pacific coast. 
   
   
   
  “I have no doubt,” stated Doc, “but all 
  of this may be connected with King Udu and 
  Kokoland. King Udu probably has sent some of 
  his most loyal subjects to this country. The 
  block of teakwood we have received may or 
  may not be all right.” 
  “But those others, Doc?” said Ham. 
  “We 
  will 
  take 
  all 
  necessary 
  precautions,” advised Doc. “But I imagine the 
  enemies of King Udu are even now in New 
  York. If this is true, the first two packages may 
  have been a deliberate decoy of death, while a 
  similar box was being delivered to us.” 
  “Dag-gonit!” 
  complained 
  Monk. 
  “It 
  looks like a lot of monkey business to me!” 
  “And who would know more about 
  monkey business than a human ape,” grinned 
  Ham. “If we do have to go to Africa, we’ll be 
  busy keeping you out of the trees.” 
  “You’ll be plenty busy keepin’ me from 
  pattin’ the ground on your shyster face!” 
  howled Monk. 
   
   
  “JOHNNY, we should make immediate 
  contact with Prince Zaban of Kokoland,” 
  announced Doc. “You know something of his 
  royal highness and where he might be?” 
  “Prince Zaban is stopping at the 
  Adirondack Hotel. He is one of the few royal 
  princes of a long family line. Educated at 
  Oxford. Apparently he has been sent to 
  America to absorb some of our modern ideas.” 
  “Then he has a retinue of his own 
  servants?” said Doc. 
  “No,” replied Johnny. “The prince is 
  accompanied by a former Oxford student, a 
  Count Cardoti. Count Cardoti seems to have 
  become his patron in this country. He has 
  arranged several public appearances. The 
  prince is to speak before one of the 
  archaeological societies tonight.” 
  “Count Cardoti could then be of the 
  Spanish race,” said Doc. 
  “Apparently, though that is somewhat 
  obscure,” said Johnny. “The count is a 
  polished fellow. But he has spent a number of 
  years in the Taveta country of Africa.” 
  Doc Savage made one more attempt 
  to pick up the distant radio transmitter of 
  Renny. There was no response. 
  “I believe Renny has been made a 
  prisoner,” stated Doc. “He probably will be safe 
  for some time. Those behind the trouble in the 
  Kilimanjaro country would hardly want to 
  become involved with the United States. We 
  will get in contact with Prince Zaban.” 
  Doc’s call to the Adirondack Hotel was 
  connected with the suite of Prince Zaban. 
  There was no reply. 
  “I don’t understand why they don’t 
  answer,” said the girl at the switchboard. “I am 
  
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  11 
  sure they are in. There were some visitors 
  went up quite a while ago, and they are still 
  there.” 
  Doc 
  Savage 
  whipped 
  from 
  the 
  telephone. The trill of danger was emanating 
  from the bronze man. 
  “Johnny,” he directed, “you will come 
  with me at once. We may be too late. Ham, 
  you and Monk, stay here. Be careful whom you 
  admit. I would not be surprised if you would 
  have some visitors.” 
  Doc did not explain why he expected 
  visitors. 
   
   
  WHEN Doc Savage and Johnny 
  arrived at the hotel, police cars were lined up 
  at the curb. Johnny gasped. Grimly, Doc led 
  the way to Prince Zaban’s suite. More police, 
  reporters, and a jabbering hotel manager were 
  crowded about the door to the royal prince’s 
  suite. Doc Savage elbowed his way inside. 
  And then the odd trilling sound came from his 
  lips. 
  “I was afraid of this,” he said grimly. 
  Police officers and reporters stepped 
  back as Doc moved forward to take a glimpse 
  of the motionless figure on the expensive rug. 
  A short stubby arrow, cruelly barbed, had been 
  jammed deep into Prince Zaban’s throat. Red 
  Ostrich feathers were affixed to the haft of the 
  arrow. The life blood of Prince Zaban had 
  gushed out in a stream. It was not a pretty 
  sight. 
  Count Cardoti lurched through the 
  group to Doc Savage’s side. The count looked 
  white and stricken. He was choked with grief 
  as he recounted what had happened. 
  “It was four Negro porters!” he cried. 
  “They forced their way in here as I was 
  admitting two newspapermen. But they weren’t 
  really porters. They were Africans! They were 
  Jujus!—and they tried to make Prince Zaban 
  tell them the location of the Blood Idol.” 
  Two reporters crowded forward. “What 
  is the Blood Idol?” demanded one. 
  “I’m sure I cannot tell you,” said Count 
  Cardoti. “There are many tribal gods and 
  fetishes in Central East Africa. I only know that 
  my poor friend feared some evil was about to 
  overtake his father, King Udu.” 
  “You have been a friend of Prince 
  Zaban?” questioned Doc Savage. 
  “Since he was a small boy,” said 
  Count Cardoti sadly. “Prince Zaban was like a 
  younger brother.” 
  Policemen were reporting. The zone 
  around the Adirondack Hotel had been blocked 
  in. Down on the street a woman had fainted. 
  Revived, she had screamed, “His ears! Those 
  terrible ears!” 
  The police learned she had seen four 
  Africans drive away in a fast car, She had not 
  seen the license number. But she believed the 
  car had turned toward the Queensboro Bridge 
  across the East River. 
  Doc Savage said to Johnny, “There 
  may be more in that Long Island address than 
  we think.” 
  “This dead man,” stated the medical 
  examiner, “seems to be of a peculiar type. You 
  tell me he is an African? It is strange.” 
  The erudite Johnny spoke. 
  “Centuries ago the land of Kilimanjaro 
  was raided by a lost legion of the ancient 
  Romans under Caesar,” he stated. “These 
  raiders never returned to their own country. 
  You see the results of a mingling of the races 
  in the distant past.” 
  “That is true, I believe,” said Count 
  Cardoti. “And my friend was the direct 
  successor to the throne of King Udu. He was 
  the only living heir.” 
  Doc Savage said quietly, “When you 
  have finished here, Count Cardoti, will you 
  come to my headquarters?” 
   
   
  LEFT 
  together 
  in 
  Doc 
  Savage’s 
  headquarters, Monk and Ham were, as usual, 
  apparently about to murder each other. 
  “You’ll 
  keep 
  that 
  filthy, 
  misfit 
  quadruped off my coat or I’ll make shark bait of 
  him!” rasped Ham. 
  “You touch that pig and there won’t be 
  enough shyster lawyer left to feed the sharks!” 
  howled Monk. 
  The subject of this virulent discourse 
  waved his long ears. He was Habeas Corpus, 
  the Arabian bush hog which Monk had 
  adopted as his special pet. 
  Habeas Corpus was a wise pig. He 
  was only a few slats of ribs put together on 
  ludicrously long legs. 
  Habeas 
  Corpus 
  suddenly 
  was 
  forgotten. The telephone buzzed. Each of the 
  sparring companions got to an instrument. The 
  voice that spoke was another point of keenest 
  rivalry between them. 
  The speaker was Patricia Savage, the 
  beautiful and talented cousin of the famous 
  Doc. She was talking from her beauty parlor 
  
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  12 
   
  and physical culture institution just off Park 
  Avenue. 
  “I must find Doc as soon as possible,” 
  announced Pat Savage. 
  “You sound excited, Pat,” replied Ham. 
  “What’s happened?” 
  “I can’t tell you—but I want Doc to 
  come over—I can’t say any more from here—
  but it’s important—tell Doc—no, wait! It’s too 
  late—I’ll—I’ll call back!” 
  The connection was cut off abruptly. 
  But not quick enough to drown out a woman’s 
  scream. 
  “Howlin’ calamities!” exploded Monk. 
  “Somebody’s done something to Pat! Come 
  on!” 
  Ham was a little more calm. 
  “That wasn’t Pat’s voice yelled,” he 
  advised. “Besides, Pat never screamed in her 
  life.” 
  “I ain’t wastin’ any time!” howled Monk. 
  Ham apparently decided Pat was more 
  important than waiting for possible visitors. He 
  was with Monk as Doc’s special high-speed 
  elevator dropped them. The pair made a dash 
  for the garage underground. 
   
   
  Chapter IV 
  THE BLACK HIDE-OUT 
   
  MONK and Ham knew nothing of the 
  assassination of Prince Zaban. At the time 
  they arrived at Pat Savage’s establishment, 
  Doc Savage was returning to his headquarters. 
  Count Cardoti had convinced the 
  police of his genuine grief over the death of the 
  prince. He readily accepted Doc’s suggestion 
  that he accompany him. Apparently Count 
  Cardoti knew something of the bronze man’s 
  reputation. 
  “If any person on earth can run these 
  assassins to earth, you can do it,” he stated to 
  Doc. 
  About this time Ham and Monk were 
  interviewing Margaret, Pat’s assistant at the 
  beauty shop. She could furnish only one lead. 
  “Miss Savage got into a car with 
  Señorita Moncarid,” she told Ham and Monk. 
  “The señorita was here getting a facial. Then 
  four Negroes came here and she was terrified. 
  She asked Miss Savage to take her to a hotel. 
  The four men followed them in a big car, 
  although Miss Savage had the señorita 
  disguised in a blond wig and a different coat.” 
  “Anything else?” prompted Ham. 
  “Well, this señorita—” exclaimed the 
  assistant, “I don’t think she’s Spanish. She had 
  funny ears, and a little thing like a scorpion 
  tattoed on her shoulder. She said something in 
  an odd language when she saw the Negroes.” 
  “Dag-gonit!” complained Monk. “I’ll bet 
  Pat’s got herself into a real jam!” 
  “Yeah,” 
  drawled 
  Ham, 
  “and 
  she 
  probably thinks she’s having the time of her 
  life. I’m calling this señorita’s hotel.” 
  “I hope Pat went there,” said Monk. 
  Ham’s face clouded. He was on the 
  phone. He said, “Yes, all right,” and hung up. 
  “It seems Pat must be all right,” he 
  said in a relieved voice. “She is with this 
  Señorita Moncarid. The señorita had called her 
  hotel. She left an address if any one called 
  inquiring for Pat. It’s on the upper East Side.” 
   
   
  HAM and Monk drove rapidly to the 
  East Side address. They surveyed the gloomy 
  warehouse and loft building. 
  “Betcha the whole thing’s a trap!” 
  complained Monk. “Maybe we oughtta call up 
  Doc!” 
  Ham 
  vetoed 
  wasting 
  any 
  time. 
  Descending from the car, he walked toward 
  the 
  partly 
  open 
  door 
  of 
  the 
  deserted 
  warehouse. 
  “But there’ve been a couple of cars 
  here not long ago,” said Ham, pointing to the 
  tire marks in the dust. “They’ve been inside.” 
  The lean lawyer flourished his smooth 
  black cane and stepped inside the doorway. 
  Monk lumbered after him. The interior of the 
  warehouse was too dark to give a view more 
  than a few feet. 
  Ham kicked around disgustedly. He 
  was careful not to soil his trousers and coat. 
  Tracks 
  showed 
  many 
  feet 
  had 
  trampled in the dust. 
  Ham poked his black cane into the 
  dust. That cane was a dangerous weapon. It 
  sheathed the finest steel blade with a tip 
  drugged to put an enemy out of business. 
  Monk let out a yell and dropped to his 
  hands and knees. He scurried around like 
  some furry gorilla. 
  “I thought you’d go that way some 
  time,” drawled Ham sarcastically. “Now what 
  do you think you’re looking for?” 
  “Pat was here!” shouted Monk. “I’d 
  know her feet in a million! Hey! Look at this!” 
  Monk heaved to his feet. He was 
  clutching Pat’s small automatic pistol. 
  
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  13 
  “Dag-gonnit!” he yelped. “She’s put up 
  a fight! Maybe she’s still upstairs somewhere!” 
  They listened for a few seconds. The 
  only sound was a rat gnawing wood. The place 
  was ghostly. 
  Ham found a door leading to a 
  stairway. The narrow entrance was opaque. 
  He preceded Monk through the door. Then he 
  yelled out a rare oath. 
  “Hey, you danged shyster!” squealed 
  Monk. “Where’d you think you’re goin’?” 
   
   
  HAM had seemed to perform a queer, 
  acrobatic feat. He had leaped straight up. One 
  of his flying heels rapped Monk’s ugly chin. 
  “Dag-gone 
  you!” 
  exploded 
  Monk, 
  making a grab for the foot. 
  Monk’s long arm remained extended. 
  His short legs were jerked from under him. He 
  made a short, breath-taking flight that ended in 
  a jouncing jolt. 
  “Hey, lemme go!” he yelled. 
  Ham’s body banged against him in the 
  darkness. Monk slapped out with one fist. Ham 
  kicked at him. 
  The feet of both men dangled several 
  feet from the floor. They were being bounced 
  gently up and down. Loops tightened around 
  their bodies. 
  Near by sounded a rush of feet. Monk 
  let out a whoop and produced his superfire 
  pistol. The warehouse seemed suddenly to be 
  filled with a million bees. 
  Monk 
  sprayed 
  mercy 
  bullets 
  at 
  random. Hoarse voices squawked. Ham had 
  loosened his sword blade. He punched at 
  shadows. Then a light flashed; Monk and Ham 
  were ringed in by dark faces. They saw 
  dancing heads with grotesque ears. A dozen 
  short swords slashed at their feet. 
  Ham flicked back with his long blade. 
  Two attackers suddenly fell, knocked out by 
  Ham’s sword. 
  Monk got four or five men with mercy 
  bullets. These would keep them asleep for a 
  couple of hours. 
  Ham attempted to loosen the thing that 
  had caught them. It was a device such as 
  might have been found in the jungle. Pieces of 
  steel had been bent and fitted with slipnooses. 
  Ham and Monk had walked into these loops. 
  They were held off the floor as wild 
  animals might have been lifted on some 
  tropical water trail. 
  Monk’s superfirer and Ham’s sword 
  set the Africans back for a moment. They went 
  into a huddle. Ham started to slice the loop 
  around him with his sword blade. 
  But the lawyer did not complete his 
  escape. He gave a shout of warning. 
  “Drop your pistol, Monk, or we’re done 
  for!” 
  Ham let his sword blade clatter to the 
  floor. Monk gave one look at the near-by men 
  and his superfirer thudded after the sword. 
   
   
  TWO men had stepped forward. They 
  were holding what might have been bean-
  shooters. The tubes pointed at Ham and Monk. 
  “We give up!” yelled Ham. “Hold up on 
  that stuff!” 
   Whether 
  or 
  not 
  the 
  Africans 
  understood, they lowered the short tubes. Ham 
  had instantly recognized the bean-shooters as 
  deadly blowpipes of the African jungle. 
  The jabbering men lowered Ham and 
  Monk. They enwrapped them with long strips 
  of rattan. Monk gurgled over the chunk of evil-
  tasting wax thrust into his mouth. 
  The Africans carried their prisoners up 
  three flights of stairs. They dumped them into a 
  room. 
  Monk and Ham at first thought it was 
  empty. Neither could speak. There was a 
  shuffling on the floor. A little light came through 
  a dirty window. 
  Pat Savage lay there blinking at them. 
  She made gurgling noises in her throat. 
  Ham’s hands were secured behind 
  him. He began thumping with his heels. The 
  thumps were unevenly spaced. Pat Savage’s 
  small heels also thumped. This was an 
  abbreviation of the Morse code devised by Doc 
  Savage. 
  “Where is Señorita Moncarid?” was 
  Ham’s message. 
  “Believe she is boss of these men,” 
  thumped Pat. 
  “Knew it,” tapped Ham. “She trapped 
  us. It is scheme to get Doc. Sent him infernal 
  machine. He has it in safe.” 
  The Africans appeared to have gone 
  to another part of the building. Ham attempted 
  to cut his rattan bindings with a keen blade 
  which sprang from the inside of a signet ring 
  on his right hand. 
  But the tough, bark fibre of the jungle 
  could not be severed. 
   
  
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  14 
   
   
  AT about the time Ham was telling Pat 
  Savage of the supposed infernal machine in 
  Doc’s safe, the man of bronze was ascending 
  to his headquarters. Count Cardoti exclaimed 
  as Doc Savage’s door opened without being 
  touched. 
  Inside the door, Doc Savage halted 
  abruptly. From him came the mellow, fantastic 
  trilling. He lifted his hand as a signal for 
  Johnny and Count Cardoti to proceed with 
  caution. 
  “We have had visitors,” he announced 
  quietly. 
  The bronze man had glanced at one of 
  the wall panels. This panel contained several 
  dials. A red needle was slowly vibrating. 
  This informed Doc that one of several 
  secret entrances had been disturbed. 
  “What do you suppose has happened 
  to Ham and Monk?” questioned Johnny. “They 
  were to stay here.” 
  Doc Savage whipped through the 
  library into the inner room. Count Cardoti and 
  Johnny followed closely. 
  Count Cardoti let out a surprised oath. 
  “I can’t understand what has caused 
  this visit in force to America,” he added. “Good 
  grief, Mr. Savage! They have had a death 
  battle right here in your place!” 
  Count Cardoti had spoken correctly. 
  Huge glass retorts and scores of small glass 
  containers had been shattered. 
  Two dead men lay in front of the huge 
  safe. The door of the safe had been deeply 
  gouged 
  with steel instruments. But the 
  invaders had not succeeded in gaining an 
  entrance. 
  “They’re Masai or Waperri,” said Count 
  Cardoti. “They are of the same tribe that killed 
  Prince Zaban. Their ears are the same.” 
  The dead men’s ear lobes were loops 
  of deformed flesh. 
  “Again we seem to have the arrow of 
  the red ostrich,” stated Doc. “That is the war 
  sign of the Masai.” 
  “That offers a strange contradiction,” 
  stated Johnny. “Unless they have started 
  killing each other.” 
  Arrows were stuck into the throats of 
  the dead men. 
  “I imagine,” stated Doc, “these men 
  were not killed by their own tribesmen. Their 
  own arrows were used as murder weapons.” 
  Count Cardoti bent over two small 
  glasses on the floor beside the bodies. Each 
  was filled with blood. Undoubtedly it had been 
  drawn from the veins of the two dead men. 
  Count Cardoti’s face was gray and 
  pinched. His black eyes glittered. 
  “It is strange,” he announced. “Here is 
  evidence there must be a considerable number 
  of Kokonese in New York. Neither the prince 
  nor myself knew of their presence. The 
  glasses of blood tell it.” 
  “The 
  Kokonese 
  are 
  not 
  blood-
  drinkers,” stated Doc.  
  “That’s just it,” replied Count Cardoti. 
  “The Masai and the Waperri do drink the blood 
  of their enemies. So, when they are killed by 
  the Kokonese, the victors often leave a vessel 
  of their own blood. It is a gesture of contempt.” 
  “These aborigines seem to be very 
  pleasant people,” commented Johnny. “What 
  do you suppose happened to Ham and Monk?” 
   
   
  DOC SAVAGE did not reply. He had 
  produced a small cylinder. A pressure of a 
  button set a generator buzzing. The man of 
  bronze moved with apparent aimlessness 
  across the laboratory. 
  But when Doc halted, one foot was 
  pressing a spring concealed under the edge of 
  a table. He pointed the gleaming cylinder at 
  the big safe. The tumblers of the lock slid back 
  noiselessly. 
  The ponderous door swung open. 
  The 
  block 
  of 
  polished 
  teakwood 
  reposed inside. Count Cardoti had been 
  staring at the opening of the safe. He 
  associated the unlocking with the buzzing 
  cylinder in Doc’s hand. 
  The cylinder had no connection with 
  the apparent magic. It was a ruse sometimes 
  employed by the bronze man when he desired 
  to open the safe in the presence of visitors. 
  Doc had already informed Count 
  Cardoti something of the tragedies of the early 
  morning. The police had mentioned them. Not 
  until now had the man of bronze made any 
  reference to his own teakwood package. 
  “Good grief!” exploded Count Cardoti. 
  “This is like the infernal machines on the 
  street! Where did it come from?” 
  “It 
  was 
  delivered 
  by 
  a 
  special 
  messenger this morning,” stated Doc. 
  The count’s pointed face became the 
  color of wax. 
  “I thought I would keep it and see what 
  happened,” said Doc calmly. “If it is an infernal 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx LAND OF LONG JUJU xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  15 
  machine, these men would hardly have been 
  so eager to obtain possession of it.” 
  Count Cardoti’s face lighted a little. He 
  nodded. 
  “I had not thought of that,” he 
  admitted. “Still, I think it is dangerous. Have 
  you opened it?” 
  “Perhaps you might suggest some way 
  it could be done,” stated Doc unexpectedly. “I 
  know now it has come from some of these 
  tribal factions. Have you ever seen anything 
  resembling it?” 
  “Never,” declared Count Cardoti. 
  Doc’s bronzed hands slid over the 
  polished surface as if seeking for some hidden 
  spring. 
  “Please, 
  Mr. 
  Savage, 
  I 
  wouldn’t 
  attempt to open it, if it can be opened,” said 
  Count Cardoti. “I admit since what happened 
  to Prince Zaban my nerves are on edge.” 
  “Perhaps that is good advice,” said 
  Doc. “We will leave it for the present.” 
   
   
  HE returned the teakwood block to the 
  safe. 
  Without explanation, Doc suddenly 
  glided into the library. When he emerged in the 
  outer room, he carried a square black box. Its 
  lens gave it the appearance of an old-
  fashioned stereoscope. 
  No light came from the lens, but when 
  it was pointed at the window of the outside 
  room, glowing words leaped into view. 
  The beam was the ultra-violet or black 
  light. The words had been written with a 
  substance which fluoresced under this invisible 
  ray. The message had been left by Ham: 
   
  PAT POSSIBLY IN TROUBLE. WE 
  HAVE GONE THERE. 
   
  Doc 
  whipped 
  instantly 
  to 
  the 
  telephone. His brief conversation with Pat’s 
  establishment brought the only facts they had. 
  Pat Savage had disappeared with a 
  mysterious 
  dark 
  woman 
  calling 
  herself 
  Señorita Moncarid. There had been an 
  invasion of Africans. Monk and Ham had 
  received a message from the señorita’s hotel. 
  They had gone to find Pat. 
  Doc immediately called the hotel 
  named. No. There had been no further word 
  from Señorita Moncarid. Only she had left 
  some message for any one seeking Pat 
  Savage. 
  “Wait 
  a minute,” 
  said 
  the 
  hotel 
  operator. In a few seconds she added, “The 
  message was delivered. The girl who was on 
  the board before me destroyed the address it 
  gave. Now she has gone to Coney Island.” 
  Doc’s fantastic trilling broke out. He 
  was convinced that Pat was in serious danger. 
   
   
  SEÑORITA MONCARID was a new 
  angle. In what manner could she be connected 
  with the fantastic tribal warfare? 
  The man of bronze analyzed the whole 
  situation quickly.  
  King Udu of Kokoland had sought to 
  safeguard Prince Zaban in New York. In some 
  manner, his subjects had failed. There had 
  been the apparent deliberate decoying of 
  enemy Masai warriors to their deaths in the 
  explosion and by the other flaming package. 
  Then the teakwood block had come to 
  Doc Savage. 
  Doc whipped back into the laboratory. 
  Picking up the paper wrapping which had been 
  around the package, he studied the address 
  again: 
   
  WILLIAM SMITH, 
  4404 Crooked Neck Road, 
  Long Island. 
   
  Doc got on the telephone. The 
  commissioner of police replied. 
  “No,” said the commissioner, “we have 
  been unable to get anything definite on Long 
  Island. Some farmers living on Crooked Neck 
  Road in Long Island have reported strange 
  Negro men in the vicinity. But the place is 
  almost a wilderness.” 
  “I know,” stated Doc. “The region is in 
  upper Suffolk County. For the most part the 
  land there consists of sandy barrens.” 
  The man of bronze thumbed through a 
  Long Island directory. He put his finger on 
  Crooked Neck Road. There was no definite 
  address of 4404, and there was no name of 
  William Smith. 
  Despite the evident falseness of the 
  address, Doc announced to the others, “I 
  believe 
  we 
  may 
  discover 
  something 
  of 
  importance on Long Island. We should arrive 
  there shortly after sunset.” 
   
   
   
   
  
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  16 
   
  Chapter V 
  DEAD MEN SIT UP 
   
  PERHAPS Count Cardoti got a kick 
  out of being with Doc Savage. He certainly 
  found no dull moment. 
  A night motor ride with Doc on Long 
  island had its thrills. His supermotor, silenced 
  to a whisper, shot the bulletproof sedan over a 
  series of back roads. 
  The bronze man drove, as he did 
  everything else, with greatest concentration. 
  Twice motor-cycle cops started to pick up the 
  car. Then they dropped back. 
  Doc 
  Savage 
  carried 
  a 
  police 
  commission. When he hit seventy miles an 
  hour, it must be serious business. The big car 
  threaded the most dangerous traffic. 
  “If I knew more of the tribal affairs of 
  Kokoland I might be of greater assistance,” 
  said Count Cardoti when they were flying 
  along a quiet road. “King Udu’s people are 
  mysterious. His family has ruled forty or more 
  of the wildest tribes through some tradition. 
  The crown must be passed on to a direct 
  descendant. This descendant is obliged to be 
  in possession of some tribal or family fetish.” 
  “Perhaps analogous to an escutcheon 
  or the emblazonment of some individual 
  armorial bearings,” suggested the long-worded 
  Johnny. “In Africa, this may be some trivial 
  object such as a feather, a weapon or an odd 
  stone.” 
  “I am not aware what it might be,” 
  stated Count Cardoti. “As it developed, when 
  my poor friend was so brutally killed, the Masai 
  seemed to be seeking something the prince 
  called the Blood Idol.” 
  “Had you known of trouble being 
  fomented in King Udu’s empire?” said Doc 
  Savage. 
  “Ever since I have known these tribes, 
  there has been dissension,” said Count 
  Cardoti. “But King Udu has been a good ruler. 
  The great fear of Kokoland has been the greed 
  of 
  some 
  outside 
  power. 
  Their 
  land 
  is 
  wonderfully rich.” 
  “And the assassination of the prince 
  removes the last of the direct heirs to the 
  throne?” questioned Doc. 
  “Yes,” declared Count Cardoti. “King 
  Udu had only two children. One, the sister of 
  Prince Zaban, was killed by the Masai in an 
  outbreak when she was about four years old. 
  The death of my poor friend throws his country 
  wide open to rebellion and conquest of outside 
  powers.” 
  “So I had judged,” stated Doc. “It 
  becomes apparent we should visit the land of 
  the Kokonese.” 
  Count Cardoti’s intense black eyes 
  lighted. 
  “You would permit me to accompany 
  you on such a mission?” he ventured. 
  “I should expect you to do so, as your 
  knowledge of the land may prove valuable,” 
  advised Doc. 
  “Good 
  enough,” 
  exclaimed 
  Count 
  Cardoti. “I am pleased.” 
   
   
  THE car’s headlights bored a white 
  tunnel along a straggling road. A white corner 
  post bore the name: “CROOKED NECK 
  ROAD.” The car slid into the narrow lane. 
  The land all about seemed to be poor. 
  Larger trees had given way to scrubby brush. 
  Open fields appeared. 
  “The terrain hardly seems conducive 
  to habitation,” commented Johnny. “There 
  seems to be an absence of domiciliary 
  structures.” 
  “There are a few scattered farms,” 
  stated Doc. “There is a small red house just 
  beyond the bend, half a mile ahead.” 
  The bronze man’s knowledge of little 
  known roads was astounding. A button flicked 
  out the headlights. Count Cardoti gasped. 
  “You might try the effect of these,” 
  suggested Doc.  
  What 
  appeared 
  to 
  be 
  oversized 
  goggles were thrust into Count Cardoti’s 
  hands. Johnny was putting on a similar pair. 
  Doc also had donned the goggles. 
  “Why, it makes everything like a black-
  and-white cinema,” said Count Cardoti. “I can 
  see more plainly than with the other light.” 
  “The 
  infra-red 
  beam,” 
  explained 
  Johnny. “It is invisible to the unassisted optic, 
  but provides an etching of high-lights when 
  picked up by the lenses.” 
  The house Doc had mentioned was 
  around the bend of the road. The big car 
  whispered into the stretch. Doc abruptly 
  braked to a noiseless stop. 
  A 
  black-and-white 
  panorama 
  had 
  flashed into view. And the scene spelled 
  trouble. The double blast of a shotgun 
  shattered the night. 
  “We have a strange faculty for arriving 
  at the psychological interim,” observed Johnny 
  
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  17 
  dryly. “It seems we need not journey to darkest 
  Africa to discover violent conflict.” 
  “Good grief!” exploded Count Cardoti. 
  “It seems impossible!” 
   
   
  PROBABLY the whole thing seemed 
  impossible to a farmer and his gangling son. 
  They could not see Doc Savage’s car. They 
  were ludicrous figures in the invisible infra-red 
  beam. 
  “Gosh whang your hides!” squawked 
  the bearded farmer, raising a double-barreled 
  shotgun. “I’ll learn you skunks to come milkin’ 
  my Jersey’s!” 
  Whoom! Whoom! 
  The shotgun belched again. The shot 
  spattered with a swish into a weird scene. A 
  score or more of nearly naked shadows were 
  dancing. As the stinging shot plastered their 
  hides, they howled. Their wild dance became 
  wilder. 
  “Ifehe! Ifehe! Ifehe!” squawled several 
  voices. 
  “Masai!” barked Count Cardoti. “That 
  word means to run!” 
  Doc had the infra-red beam playing 
  directly upon the contorted figures of the 
  leaping savages. They looked like sharply-cut 
  shadows. Ostrich plumes waved from shaved 
  heads. 
  Loops of the Africans’ ears drooped to 
  their shoulders. These now were filled with 
  curious objects. Some displayed shining cans 
  that had contained food. The cans had been 
  stripped of paper. Other ear loops held mirrors. 
  “Blast their hides, Willy!” yelled the 
  farmer. 
  The gangling young fellow whanged 
  with another gun. The dance became a rout. 
  The savages started throwing short spears as 
  they ran. The farmer and his son escaped 
  being hit. 
  “Strange they should miss at that close 
  range,” said Count Cardoti. “The Masai are 
  expert spearmen.” 
  “You forget they are in total darkness,” 
  advised Doc. “The farmer and his son are 
  shooting blindly. They cannot see the invisible 
  beam with which we are observing them.” 
  Realizing it was being fought in total 
  darkness, the battle between the farmers and 
  the Africans became ridiculous. The Masai 
  squawked with pain and ran. 
  The 
  shotguns 
  whoomed 
  in 
  the 
  direction of the yells. No doubt these weapons 
  were loaded with fine birdshot. They did no 
  great damage. 
  A number of spears stuck in the 
  ground. They were tufted with ostrich feathers. 
  These did not look red in the invisible beam. 
   
   
  THE FARMER produced a flashlight 
  and cast its illumination around. Then he let 
  out a loud oath. 
  “The danged, gosh-whanged skunks!” 
  he bawled. “Damn if they ain’t killed two of my 
  best heifers!” 
  “We will keep out of this,” advised Doc 
  quietly. “We have other business.” 
  Doc switched off the infra-red beam. 
  He flicked the boring headlights across the 
  field. The old farmer jumped up and aimed his 
  shotgun at the car. 
  “So that’s where the wallopers come 
  from!” he shouted. “Well, I’ll pulverize yuh!” 
  Whoom! Whoom! 
  The shotgun belched straight at the 
  sedan. Count Cardoti ducked his head. 
  Birdshot pattered like rain on Doc’s car. The 
  man of bronze only smiled. 
  The sedan was impervious to even 
  steel-jacketed slugs. The fine shot had no 
  more effect than a handful of sand. 
  “We are friends,” stated Doc quietly. 
  “We heard the shooting.” 
  The old man quit shooting. Doc and 
  the others got out and climbed the fence into 
  the field. 
  “I don’t know who you are,” said the 
  older farmer suspiciously. “You ain’t much 
  whiter’n them dang skunks!” 
  The farmer’s flashlight had picked out 
  Doc’s bronze face. Doc smiled slightly. 
  “You seem to have strange visitors 
  here in the backwoods,” he said. “Is this the 
  first time?” 
  “It’s the second time, an’ the other time 
  they killed one of my best heifers!” complained 
  the farmer. “Lookit this!” 
  “Omophagous 
  Ulotrichans,” 
  stated 
  Johnny. “Well, I’ll be superamalgamated, Doc!” 
  “What’s that? Whatcha callin’ me?” 
  rapped the farmer. 
  “He means your visitors are eaters of 
  raw flesh and drinkers of blood,” stated Doc. 
  “Well, why in time don’t he say so?” 
  growled the farmer. “Lookit them heifers!” 
  “It would seem a ghastly rite has been 
  performed,” said the man of bronze. “Your 
  visitors were following a native custom.” 
  
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  18 
   
   
   
  TWO fine, yellow-hided Jersey cows 
  lay on the ground. They were young heifers of 
  the best stock. Around these two animals the 
  Masai had been performing a tribal rite. 
  Doc Savage knelt beside each of the 
  animals. His quick hands stripped away coils 
  of brass wire. These had been wound tightly 
  around the throats of the heifers. 
  Above each binding of wire appeared 
  the wounds made by short arrows. The big 
  veins of the Jerseys had been tapped. 
  Though they were now in a land where 
  salt might be had in abundance, these blood-
  drinking savages had reverted to a custom of 
  their tribal land. In that land there was no salt. 
  The natives obtained it from living blood. 
  “They keep some animals alive and 
  use them for this purpose,” explained Doc 
  Savage. “Now we will see what a bit of magic 
  will accomplish.” 
  No doubt the old farmer thought it was 
  magic. He did not observe Doc’s hands closely 
  enough. Doc had administered the contents of 
  a hypodermic syringe. It had been injected into 
  the veins of the prize Jerseys. 
  “Well, I’ll be teetotally hornswoggled!” 
  gasped the farmer. 
  Both Jerseys had come to life. The 
  heifers scrambled awkwardly to their feet and 
  bawled. 
  “Is there a William Smith living on 
  Crooked Neck Road?” asked Doc. 
  “Never 
  heard 
  of 
  no 
  such 
  feller 
  hereabouts,” said the farmer. 
  As they returned to the sedan, Johnny 
  said, “That fixes the country these Africans 
  come from. The blood-drinkers are in the 
  region near Lake Jipe north of the Parri 
  Mountains in Central East Africa.” 
  “Renny is somewhere in the Parri 
  Mountains,” said Doc. 
  “He is among pleasant people,” said 
  Johnny. 
  “It looks bad for him,” said Count 
  Cardoti soberly. “They have a habit of inflicting 
  the Long Juju torture on prisoners.” 
  “Renny’s big enough to take care of 
  himself,” declared Johnny. 
  “He is in bad country indeed,” asserted 
  Count Cardoti. “Besides these Masai and the 
  Waperri, there are many fierce tribes, including 
  the Warusha, Wataita, Watatura and Swahili. 
  Then recently the Juju tribes of the Okoyongs 
  and the Enyongs have come into the land.” 
  “And they send a prince to Oxford for 
  the privilege of being king over that mess!” 
  observed Johnny. 
   
   
  DOC SAVAGE fixed the location of 
  what should have been 4404 Crooked Neck 
  Road. 
  “It is as I suspected,” stated Doc. 
  “There is no human habitation in this section.” 
  The return address given on the 
  teakwood block was hardly one to be found in 
  the postal guide. 
  Fallen slabs of stone that had once 
  been white marked a grass-grown field behind 
  a tumble-down stone fence. The address was 
  an old private burial ground. 
  The man of bronze stood close to the 
  broken stone fence. He had turned toward the 
  car. Suddenly he halted. His keenly trained 
  auditory sense had picked up a sound. 
  The weird graveyard was filled with 
  mellow, fantastic trilling. Doc sprang lightly 
  over the old fence. From a pocket, he 
  produced a bottle of powder. Walking a half 
  circle, he sprinkled some of this on the grass. 
  “The abode of the departed has had 
  recent visitors,” said Johnny. 
  Count Cardoti saw glowing streaks on 
  the long grass. The bottle contained a 
  fluorescent chemical powder. The tender 
  blades of grass were still moving. They had 
  been trampled only a short time before. 
  Doc led the way back among the 
  sunken graves. 
  “Well, 
  I’ll 
  be 
  superamalgamated!” 
  rapped Johnny. “Apparently they have been 
  head-hunting as well as drinking blood.” 
   
   
  DOC’S generator flashlight widened its 
  beam. The illumination revealed two human 
  heads. They were the heads of Africans, with 
  gruesomely distorted ears. 
  On each head was an old hat of straw. 
  But the heads had not been severed. 
  They were attached to bodies. Two dead 
  Masai had been buried in this queer fashion. 
  “It is a custom of the Masai to bury 
  their dead sitting up,” stated the erudite 
  Johnny. “Later, they preserve the skulls and 
  keep them around as family heirlooms.” 
  “True,” shuddered Count Cardoti. “And 
  a jolly ghostly custom it is. I have seen the 
  practice among the tribes of Kokoland.” 
  
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  19 
  The dead men had been given all of 
  the tribal ceremony. The corpses had been 
  stripped. The black skins glistened with an 
  anointment of ground-nut oil. They had been 
  marked with symbols. 
  Doc Savage seemed to have lost 
  interest in the buried warriors. He had 
  produced the square box with the lens of the 
  black light. Walking slowly in a circle, he 
  moved to a position back of the two bodies. 
  Count Cardoti suddenly saw queerly 
  glowing spots. There were two sets of these. 
  They were about as far apart as men’s heels 
  would have touched. 
  Johnny saw what Doc was doing. 
  “Well, I’ll be superamalgamated!” he 
  exclaimed, “Nobody but Ham and Monk could 
  have left those prints!” 
  Doc’s men wore heels of spongy 
  rubber. They contained a chemical which left 
  this definite fluorescent trace. 
  The trail of Ham and Monk lay through 
  the sunken graveyard. 
   
   
  Chapter VI 
  TWO LIVING HEADS 
   
  THE heads of the dead Waperri were 
  not the only heads on the ground tonight in the 
  Long Island wilderness. There were two other 
  heads. The heads of the dead men were 
  gruesome. 
  The other two heads would have been 
  ghastly, if they hadn’t been funny. At the same 
  time, they were weird objects. For these two 
  heads moved with nothing visible to cause the 
  motion. 
  The skulls had hair and the faces of 
  men. There in the blackness of that isolated, 
  abandoned graveyard, the heads abused each 
  other. 
  “There ain’t a bit of doubt but what 
  them heathen mistook you for one of their 
  close relatives!” rasped a strident voice. “And I 
  suppose they put me out here so you’d have 
  company!” 
  The other head let out a chuckling 
  squawk. 
  “Yeah?” it stated in a high-pitched 
  voice. “Seeing you’re so full of conversation, 
  I’d like to see you talk yourself outta this mess! 
  If I only had Habeas Corpus here, he’d dig me 
  out!” 
  “I’d rather stay where I am than have 
  that shote kicking dirt in my face,” said the first 
  head. “What do you suppose those devils did 
  with Pat?” 
  “Howlin’ calamities!” groaned the other 
  head. “I’ve been tryin’ not to think about that! 
  Ouch! There’s a danged ant bitin’ my ear!” 
  Having an ant working on an ear when 
  your head hasn’t any visible body is annoying. 
  Monk’s ears were fairly well protected by his 
  furry, stiff red hair, but Long Island raises some 
  big, black ants with forcible pincers. Monk 
  howled. 
  “Confound you, insects!” rasped the 
  adjoining head. “Stop that squawking or your 
  cousins might come back! If they do, they’ll 
  probably make a good job by shaving you off 
  close to the ground!” 
  “Yeah?” howled Monk. “An’ if they 
  done the same thing to you, they wouldn’t 
  have nothin’ an’ they wouldn’t leave nothin’.” 
  “Shut 
  up!” 
  rapped 
  the 
  usually 
  sartorially 
  elegant 
  Ham. 
  “Hear 
  that? 
  Somebody’s shooting!” 
  This man at the moment the irate 
  farmer was engaged in chasing a few, 
  assorted wild African warriors out of his cow 
  pasture. 
   
   
  THE distant guns whoomed faintly. 
  Then everything became still. 
  “Thunderation!” rapped out Ham’s 
  head suddenly. “Now the mosquitoes have 
  found us!” 
  Monk’s head must have grinned in the 
  darkness. 
  “Keep on talkin’,” said his head, “an’ 
  maybe the hot air’ll burn ‘em up the way it 
  does your friends.” 
  The shotguns whanged again in the 
  distance. In one of the near-by trees, a 
  lonesome 
  owl 
  hooted. 
  Ham 
  and 
  Monk 
  shivered. 
  “I’ll 
  betcha that danged Señorita 
  Moncarid had something to do with this,” 
  complained Monk. “There was some kind of a 
  fight downstairs in the warehouse before they 
  hauled us out.” 
  “Pat isn’t so sure where the señorita 
  stands,” replied Ham. “She knows there are 
  two gangs of these Africans. One gang looks 
  as if the señorita belongs to it. They have 
  arched noses and are lighter in color than the 
  others. The gangs could be mixed up in a fight 
  over Señorita Moncarid herself.” 
  “Dag-gonnit?” squeaked Monk. “Who 
  is she, anyway? I guess the señorita’s gang 
  
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  20 
   
  took Pat away. I think then they run into this 
  other crowd with the funny ears, and the funny 
  ears licked ‘em. Anyway, we’re here, what little 
  is stickin’ above ground.” 
   “In your case, it’s only your head an’ 
  that ain’t much,” cut in Ham’s head. “Now take 
  me, the best part of me is still outside.” 
  “I only hope a squirrel comes along 
  and jumps down your shyster throat!” exploded 
  Monk. “What do you suppose all that dancin’ 
  was about?” 
   
   
  THE dance had been a fantastic orgy. 
  When they had buried Ham and Monk, the 
  loop-eared warriors had stripped off most of 
  their 
  American 
  clothes. 
  Their 
  remaining 
  garments had been Colobus monkey fur. 
  To the rhythm of a weird chanting, the 
  Masai had formed a circle around the 
  protruding heads. All had brandished long 
  spears. Their shaved heads had been adorned 
  with red ostrich feathers. 
  Along with Ham and Monk, the Masai 
  had brought along two warriors who had been 
  killed in the clash at the warehouse. 
  The burial of Ham and Monk alive with 
  only their heads exposed, likely was the 
  Masai’s idea of carrying out a tribal rite. In 
  addition to burying their warriors sitting up, with 
  the heads outside, the Masai make a practice 
  of sending along some living relative to keep a 
  dead man company. 
  Perhaps they imagined Ham and 
  Monk would serve in the absence of the 
  nearest of kin. 
  Now 
  Ham 
  and 
  Monk 
  saw 
  an 
  approaching light. A car stopped near the 
  highway side of the old burial ground. 
  Voices murmured beyond the trees. A 
  little later, the pencil ray of a flashlight flicked 
  over the ground. 
  “Well, 
  I’ll 
  be 
  double-and-triple-
  superamalgamated!” exploded the voice of 
  Johnny. “I’ve always expected to witness this 
  phenomenon! Ham and Monk have fought 
  each other right down to terra firma at last!” 
  “Of all the incredible happenings!” 
  exclaimed Count Cardoti. “They’ve buried 
  these men alive!” 
  Doc Savage played the flashlight over 
  the moving heads. 
  “They do seem to be living,” he stated 
  solemnly. 
  “Perhaps we have fallen under the 
  spell of their Long Juju and this demonstration 
  is only an hallucination hypnotically induced,” 
  stated Johnny. 
  “Howlin’ calamities, Doc!” squeaked 
  Monk. “A dag-goned ant’s eatin’ one of my 
  ears! Get me outta here!” Then he suggested 
  cheerfully, “You might leave that shyster, so’s 
  them heathen won’t be disappointed when 
  they come back!” 
  “Wait’ll I get out of here!” promised 
  Ham. “I’m going to slice off both of your 
  baboon ears!” 
  Count Cardoti stared at the bickering 
  heads. Doc and Johnny made the dirt fly. 
  “We’ve got to get on the trail of Pat,” declared 
  Ham. “I believe the gang with Señorita 
  Moncarid took her.” 
  “I wonder how much this señorita 
  might be mixed up in the murder of my poor 
  friend?” said Count Cardoti. 
  “Perhaps when we have found Pat, my 
  cousin, we may have an answer,” stated Doc. 
  “There seems no more we can discover here. 
  This William Smith, who sent the teakwood 
  block, selected a strange address.” 
  Doc Savage was speculating at the 
  moment if the sender of that mysterious 
  package could have had a purpose in the 
  return address. Undoubtedly the sender of the 
  teakwood block must have known the old 
  burial ground had been made a location for 
  primitive savage ceremonies. 
   
   
  DOC SAVAGE and his men returned 
  to headquarters. Their immediate purpose was 
  to rescue Patricia Savage. 
  This remarkable and beautiful young 
  woman needed no rescuing. She was seated 
  calmly in Doc’s library. 
  “I was about to start out looking for 
  you,” stated Pat. “I thought we would try and 
  save Ham and Monk. It seems that chore has 
  been accomplished.” 
  “We found them buried to their necks 
  in an old graveyard,” said Johnny solemnly. 
  Pat smiled sweetly upon the pair. 
  “It should keep them cool for a while,” 
  she suggested. “Doc, I have something I must 
  show you.” 
  The man of bronze accompanied her 
  into the laboratory. 
  “This Señorita Moncarid who got me 
  into this jam, Doc,” she said, “it seems she 
  also got me out of it. I have discovered there 
  are two battling factions of Africans in New 
  York.” 
  
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  21 
   
  “Howlin’ calamities, Doc!” squealed Monk. “Get me outta here!” 
   
  “That is pretty generally suspected by 
  this time,” said Doc dryly. “Any more news?” 
  “Yes,” snapped Pat. “Plenty. Renny is 
  in trouble, isn’t he? Well, this señorita is 
  somehow mixed up with one of the African 
  gangs. They are Kokonese, and with them 
  they have some Wataveta warriors. Señorita 
  Moncarid has represented herself as Spanish. 
  After I was set free, I didn’t see her. But one of 
  the Kokonese handed me this message.” 
  The message was from Señorita 
  Moncarid: 
   
  FORGIVE 
  MY 
  DECEPTION. 
  I 
  REALLY CAME FROM SPAIN. A SPANISH 
  FAMILY, 
  FRIENDLY 
  WITH 
  MASAI 
  TRIBESMEN, SENT ME HERE TO BE 
  EDUCATED. YOUR LIFE IS ENDANGERED. I 
  HAVE BEEN TOLD TO GET IN TOUCH WITH 
  DOC SAVAGE. I DO NOT KNOW WHAT ALL 
  
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  22 
   
  THIS MEANS. I HEAR THE KOKONESE SAY 
  SOMETHING ABOUT KEEPING A BLOOD 
  IDOL 
  FROM 
  THE 
  MASAI—SEÑORITA 
  MONCARID. 
   
   
   
  Returning with Pat to the outer room, 
  Doc said, “Pat, you will go home now. I wish 
  you to forget all of this. The señorita has 
  spoken the truth. I do not want you to be 
  involved in the danger which threatens.” 
  Pat looked at her bronze cousin with a 
  little smile. 
  “I was sure that was the way it would 
  be,” she said. “But I’ll bet something happens 
  to let me get in on this one.” 
  “Not if you remain at home where you 
  belong,” stated Doc 
  Count Cardoti was a polished young 
  man. There was no doubt of the approval with 
  which he regarded Doc’s beautiful cousin. 
  Pat seemed to find Count Cardoti 
  appealing. The title before his name had 
  nothing to do with this. Count Cardoti had an 
  Oxford finish. 
  “I think you have been befriended by 
  some of the most loyal subjects of King Udu, 
  Miss Savage,” said the count. “The whole land 
  over there has come under the curse of the 
  Long Juju brought in by wandering Okoyong 
  from the South African coast.” 
  “I would be delighted to study this 
  witchcraft at close range,” commented Pat, 
  with one eye on Doc. 
  “It is not so romantic when seen at 
  close range,” advised Count Cardoti. “In the 
  end, I suppose only the conquest and 
  domination of the white race can settle the 
  tribal differences.” 
  “I believe I’m going to visit your 
  country,” stated Pat, still with the idea of effect 
  upon Doc Savage. 
  But Doc Savage was no longer 
  present. He had vanished silently. 
   
   
  THE man of bronze whipped from his 
  special elevator into his underground garage. 
  From here he passed through a paneled door. 
  Doc had chosen a strange route. 
  He was now in one of the subway 
  tunnels. 
  A 
  downtown 
  train 
  roared 
  its 
  thunderous warning. Doc stepped aside into 
  one of the lighted niches. When the train had 
  passed, Doc glided toward the nearest exit. 
  A few minutes later, he was again 
  ascending toward his headquarters. But he 
  was using an entrance which emerged from 
  the wall of the laboratory. 
  The man of bronze was in the 
  laboratory only a few seconds. He departed by 
  the same route he had come. The voices of his 
  companions had been murmuring in the 
  library. 
  When Doc Savage again appeared 
  before the others, Ham and Monk were glaring 
  balefully at Count Cardoti. Pat Savage was 
  preparing to depart. Count Cardoti had offered 
  to escort her home. 
  Pat had accepted with alacrity. Ham 
  and Monk were burning up. 
  “If I can make contact with some of 
  these Kokonese,” Count Cardoti was saying, 
  “perhaps I can get a clue to this mysterious 
  Blood Idol. I would like, indeed, to clear it up. It 
  might explain the assassination of Prince 
  Zaban.” 
  “Isn’t it customary for the burial of a 
  tribal prince to be carried out in his own land?” 
  questioned Doc. 
  “Yes, it is a custom,” said Count 
  Cardoti. “But in this case I am afraid it will be 
  impossible. I have cabled, but the message 
  may be some time reaching King Udu. 
  Arrangements have been made for a funeral 
  here tomorrow. The body will be placed in a 
  vault.” 
  Doc Savage said nothing. His flaky 
  gold eyes had taken in Johnny. The scholarly 
  skeleton of a man casually moved from the 
  room. He went into the laboratory. 
   
   
  
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  23 
  PAT SAVAGE was just preparing to 
  leave with Count Cardoti, when Johnny came 
  rushing in. 
  “Doc! They’ve got it!” he shouted 
  excitedly. “They’ve busted the safe with a torch 
  an’ grabbed the teakwood block!” 
  Johnny had to be greatly upset to state 
  a fact so simply. 
  Count Cardoti followed the others as 
  they whipped into the laboratory. 
  “By all the holies!” he cried. “That safe 
  didn’t look like it could be cracked!” 
  “It would have resisted most experts,” 
  stated Doc. 
  But the safe undoubtedly had been 
  cracked. It appeared as if an electrical torch 
  had been hooked into the wall. The connecting 
  cord was still in evidence. 
  “Howlin’ 
  calamities!” 
  whipped 
  out 
  Monk. “They made some job of it!” 
  The hard steel door hung by one of its 
  ponderous hinges. The heavy tumblers of the 
  lock had been sheered off as if by acid. 
  “The 
  teakwood 
  block!” 
  exclaimed 
  Count Cardoti. 
  Doc 
  Savage 
  said 
  nothing. 
  The 
  exposed interior of the safe was the answer. 
  Where the block had reposed, the shelf of the 
  safe had been crumpled. The secret exit 
  behind the tropical fish tank was partly open. 
  “Oh, I’m glad it happened!” declared 
  Pat Savage. 
  Doc Savage was running his fingers 
  along the seared edges of the steel. 
  “I agree with you, Miss Savage,” 
  stated Count Cardoti. “I am very much afraid 
  there might have been death in that wooden 
  block.” 
  “It might be there is death in it,” stated 
  Doc. “If so, it is most important that we 
  discover it.” 
   
   
  Chapter VII 
  SHRINE OF LONG JUJU 
   
  IT was not yet midnight in Manhattan 
  when Patricia Savage departed from Doc’s 
  headquarters. She was accompanied by Count 
  Cardoti. Nothing had been discovered to afford 
  a trace to the thief who had taken the 
  teakwood block. 
  Doc Savage and his companions were 
  left with the wrecked safe. 
  The man of bronze seemed to lose 
  interest in the robbery. As soon as Pat and 
  Count Cardoti had departed, Doc stepped to a 
  wall panel in the laboratory. His hand moved a 
  switch. 
  “Well, it sure looked like a real job,” 
  grinned Monk. “Anyway, that count guy won’t 
  be worrying about the block blowing up.” 
  As Doc pushed the switch, the whole 
  wrecked safe moved. It slid to one side and 
  disappeared where there apparently had been 
  blank wall. Immediately behind it stood Doc’s 
  big safe. It had not been touched. 
  The cracked front and the sagging 
  door were false. 
  “I feared Count Cardoti might concern 
  himself needlessly,” was all the explanation the 
  man of bronze offered. “Now we must see if 
  Renny’s transmitter can be picked up.” 
   
   
  A FEW thousand miles away, the 
  chances 
  for 
  communicating 
  with 
  Renny 
  seemed slim. Though it was at the midnight 
  hour in New York, there was the hint of dawn 
  coming in the far-away Parri Mountains. 
  At the edge of a dripping jungle, six 
  persons were chained to the smooth trunks of 
  senecio trees. 
  Renny had been given an extra load of 
  the chains. These were of the manacle type 
  used on slaves. They were thick with the 
  corroding red rust of the tropics. Many pounds 
  were on Renny’s limbs. 
  But in the rust and roughness was 
  weakness. Slowly, with infinite caution, Renny 
  was setting his strength against the shackles. 
  He had to be careful to prevent the senecio 
  tree bending. 
  First of Renny’s fellow prisoners was 
  Souho. The huge hunter had the failing of his 
  race. Superstition filled him with fear. This 
  turned his blood to water. The slow chanting 
  and the tunk-tunk-tunk of the log-skin drums 
  were more terrible to Souho than the fangs 
  and claws of the fiercest beasts. 
  Mapanda, 
  the 
  Arabian 
  half-caste, 
  came next. He was not afraid. His midnight 
  eyes were like polished black beads. He was 
  fiercely loyal to Renny. 
  Two 
  miserable 
  natives, 
  evidently 
  captured enemies, sat in their chains. Like all 
  of their kind, they were resigned to death. 
  Their eyeballs were rolled until only the whites 
  showed. 
  The sixth prisoner was an aged black 
  woman. She was not held by chains. They 
  were unnecessary. 
  
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  24 
   
  All of the prisoners understood they 
  were to die. With four it was fate. The coming 
  of dawn over the blue lake with its snow-white 
  cranes near-by would be the signal. 
  Renny was no fatalist. The big 
  engineer didn’t believe he was going to die. 
  The hideous, leering faces of the bedaubed 
  warriors did not inspire him with terror. 
  They only made Renny mad. He had a 
  railroad to build. It would link an Indian Ocean 
  seaport with an inner native kingdom. 
  Water chugged in the blue lake. Heads 
  with protruding knobs were sticking up. These 
  were hippopotamuses. White cranes flew 
  about them. The river flowed into the lake. Its 
  water was slow, sluggish. 
  Over all this the light of the sun came 
  with the suddenness of an explosion. 
  Tunk-tunk-tunk 
  banged 
  the 
  monotonous skin drums. 
   
   
  “TRUNDERATION!” growled Renny to 
  Mapanda. “Why don’t the fool heathen stop 
  jumpin’ around and get down to cases?” 
  Twoscore 
  oddly 
  painted 
  warriors 
  continued their slow circling. They swung long 
  spears in circles, within inches of the prisoners’ 
  noses. 
  Renny 
  set 
  one 
  tremendous 
  arm 
  against the weakest links of the tropically 
  rusted chains. He heard a metallic snap. 
  Back of the prancing warriors stood 
  the grotesque figure of the man in a lion’s pelt. 
  The head of the beast topped his face. The 
  fangs and claws dangled about his ears. 
  Renny knew he was a white man. 
  He was “The Shimba.” He was giving 
  the orders. 
  In the middle of the slow, little river 
  was a small island. 
  Upon this island reared a square 
  shrine of polished woods. 
  On this burned the fire of a cooking 
  pot. Old women stirred bubbling goats’ meat, 
  beans and blood in the big vessel. 
  The women moaned and chanted. 
  They stirred the boiling mess with their bared, 
  skinny hands. 
  On the square shrine weaved a 
  fearsome figure. Renny knew this was a priest 
  of the Long Juju. He was known as a Papa Loi. 
  At the corner sat a huddled priestess garbed in 
  red ostrich feathers. She was the Maman Loi. 
  The Papa Loi was wrapped in a red 
  robe of store calico. His fantastic head was 
  intended to represent a skull. It was a crude 
  mask. 
  The slow water flowed around the little 
  island toward the blue lake with the white 
  cranes. 
  With the daylight, the fire around which 
  the warriors had been dancing, became only a 
  smudge of smoke. 
  “Holy cow!” boomed Renny. “Hey, 
  funny face! When do we come to something?” 
  “It would be well to make to talk with 
  wisdom, b’wana,” murmured Mapanda. “They 
  make do ready for the appearing of Long Juju!” 
  Tunk-tunk-tunk! 
  The 
  warriors 
  suddenly 
  ceased 
  prancing. They set their long spears in the 
  ground. 
  The Shimba strode into the circle with 
  a grand gesture. Renny was not impressed. 
  “Cut out the clowning, funny face!” he 
  rumbled. “Say what’s on your mind, an’ get it 
  over with!” 
  “B’wana Renwick has little wisdom,” 
  spoke The Shimba impressively in English. 
  “The Inglesi never will build their railroad. This 
  King Udu on whom you depend, is old, and fat, 
  and foolish. He is soon to die. He has refused 
  the faith of the Long Juju.” 
  “Long Juju, my eye!” exploded Renny. 
  “You’re not scarin’ me with all this tommyrot! 
  You’d better call off this bunk or there’ll be a 
  guy worse than a thousand King Udus right on 
  your tail!” 
  “Foolish talk will accomplish nothing,” 
  droned the voice of The Shimba. “You must 
  give up this railroad. You will be conducted 
  with your safari back to Muoa Pemba. That is 
  the last word of The Shimba.” 
  “Bunk!” roared Renny. “Wait till Doc 
  Savage—” 
  The Shimba interrupted with an angry 
  snarl. 
  “The cheap magic of the bronze man 
  will avail nothing against the power of the Long 
  Juju!” he shouted. “B’wana Renwick must be 
  shown!” 
  The white man with his flapping lion’s 
  pelt whirled upon the Masai warriors. He 
  barked an order in their own tongue. 
  “B’wana Renwick, they make do for 
  test of Long Juju death,” said Mapanda 
  huskily. “They who make not believe die in red 
  water.” 
   
   
  
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  25 
  RENNY was straining fiercely at other 
  links of his rusted chains. The big engineer 
  was sure he could break loose if he had the 
  time. Already, he was estimating where he 
  would start mowing down Masai with his 
  ponderous fists. 
  At The Shimba’s order, the two 
  chained warrior prisoners and the unfettered 
  old woman were seized by the Masai. The 
  Long Juju priest fluttered his bony fingers from 
  the island of the shrine. He gestured, as if 
  inviting the three cringing natives to join him on 
  the island. 
  There was no movement on the 
  surface of the slow, little river. Renny could 
  see the water was shallow. It looked as if any 
  person could easily wade out to the island of 
  the Long Juju. 
  “Ai-ee! Ai-ee! Ai-ee!” 
  It was the old woman moaning. She 
  was being pushed toward the low bank of the 
  river. The chains of the other two native 
  prisoners were dropping from their arms and 
  legs. 
  “Ai-ee!” they took up the moaning 
  chant. “Ai-ee! Ai-ee!” 
  “Holy cow!” boomed Renny. “What the 
  devil an’ all are they scared about?” 
  “They must walk to the altar of the 
  Long Juju, B’wana Renwick,” said Mapanda. “If 
  they come do through water, the Long Juju is 
  make do pleased, and they will live.” 
  “Well, what are they groanin’ about?” 
  growled Renny. “There ain’t any crocs in sight 
  an’ the water ain’t deep!” 
  The long hands of the Papa Loi 
  fluttered toward the shore. 
  “Ai-ee-ai-ee!” screamed the old native 
  woman. 
  She was the first to go into the water. 
  At the points of Masai spears the captive men 
  also were forced in the river to their waists. 
  All three prisoners were screaming 
  now. This did not make sense to Renny. It 
  looked as if a couple of jumps would put any 
  able-bodied person on that island. Even the 
  old woman ought to be able to wade the 
  shallow river. 
  The Masai warriors hopped up and 
  down along the shore. Their red ostrich 
  feathers quivered in the breeze. 
  The two black men and the old woman 
  were halfway from the shore to the Long Juju 
  island. The water was only a little above their 
  waists. 
  Renny did not see any movement in 
  the sluggish river. So it could not have been a 
  crocodile. A crocodile would have heaved his 
  body to the surface. 
  “Thunderation!” 
  gulped 
  the 
  big 
  engineer. “Look at ‘em!”  
  Souho, the black hunter, moaned and 
  rocked his massive, kinky head with his chin 
  sunk on his breast. 
  Mapanda hissed through his white 
  teeth. 
  Scream after scream squawled from 
  the throat of the two men in the river. The old 
  woman did not scream. Her frail shrunken 
  arms suddenly were thrust upward and her 
  feeble body went under the quiet surface. 
   
   
  “HOLY cow!” rasped Renny. “What is 
  it?” 
  “The Long Juju, they say, b’wana,” 
  muttered Mapanda. “The Long Juju is not 
  pleased.” 
  The two natives leaped in the water. 
  They slapped down with their hands. Over 
  them waved the skinny arms of the Papa Loi. 
  The Long Juju priest was chanting in frenzied 
  exultation. 
  Slap-slap-slap, went the hands of the 
  natives in the river. 
  Then they must have sunk to their 
  knees. Still, no body of any attacking crocodile 
  appeared. Around the spot where the old 
  woman had vanished, and where the natives 
  were going down, the water was turning to 
  scarlet. 
  “Ai-ee—ai-ee!” screamed the last of 
  the prisoners. 
  Already the other had become only a 
  few bubbles showing on the red water. Now 
  the third one went. And on his face Renny saw 
  such a look of agony and horror as he had 
  never before witnessed. 
  Then the slow, little river was still. Its 
  red surface had ceased churning. It flowed 
  tranquilly toward the blue lake with the white 
  cranes flying. 
  “It’s crazy!” rumbled Renny. “There 
  ain’t anything in there!” 
  The Masai were prancing madly. They 
  shook their hideous faces over the edge of the 
  river. Suddenly The Shimba rapped out a 
  command. 
  Before Renny realized what the next 
  movement would be, two huge warriors had 
  
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  26 
   
  seized upon Mapanda. They pulled him loose 
  from his chains. 
  “B’wana Renwick!” moaned the loyal, 
  half-caste youth. 
  “Keep your hands off him!” shouted 
  Renny. “Whatever it is, if you put him in there, 
  I’ll tear you to pieces one at a time!” 
  The Shimba mocked him with a 
  sneering tone. 
  “B’wana Renwick will perhaps give up 
  this crazy railroad then?” 
  “No! Not in a million years!” yelled 
  Renny. “You wouldn’t dare—” 
  Beside him, Souho, the native hunter, 
  was moaning over and over again, “They feed 
  Long Juju—they feed Long Juju—” 
  “Very well then!” rapped the voice of 
  The Shimba. 
   
   
  NO doubt but Renny would have 
  changed his position if he had been given the 
  chance. He might even have abandoned the 
  railroad plan, temporarily, to have saved 
  Mapanda. But the Masai were now lusting for 
  the sight of more blood. 
  Some of the chains clanked on 
  Mapanda’s slender arms. The African boy’s 
  hands were uplifted as he was plunged into the 
  river. But the youth did not cry out again. 
  Renny heaved against the multitude of 
  rusted chains binding him to the senecio tree. 
  The Shimba laughed mockingly, tauntingly. 
  “B’wana Renwick, the great Renny, 
  will see the power of the Long Juju!” 
  The Papa Loi chanted. Mapanda was 
  in the river to his waist. Whatever it was had 
  snatched the three prisoners, its voracious 
  hunger must have been aroused. 
  Mapanda was only waist deep, a few 
  feet from the shore. Masai spears still pushed 
  cruelly into his bared flesh. Across the African 
  boy’s face came a spasm of pain. 
  But Mapanda was stoical. He did not 
  cry out. Only his eyes looked mournfully at 
  Renny. Then he was sinking, going down in 
  the water. 
  Around Mapanda boiled a reddening 
  pool. Yet no fangs or head had appeared. 
  Mapanda was looking at Renny. His 
  lips were moving. It seemed as if the part of his 
  body under the water was being dissolved into 
  scarlet flesh. 
   
   
  AT the base of the smooth senecio 
  tree, an earthquake erupted. No bull gorilla 
  ever roared more mightily. The sturdy tree was 
  almost uprooted. Renny had unleashed a 
  maddened strength. 
  The rusted, weakened links of the 
  many chains started snapping. Mapanda’s 
  head and shoulders were still above water. 
  The Papa Loi was crying out his chant with 
  unholy delight. The ancient women with the 
  boiled arms ceased stirring the devilish mixture 
  in the bubbling pot. 
  Before The Shimba could issue a 
  command, or his Masai warriors could swing 
  their spears, the giant Renny became a 
  hurtling mass of enraged flying chains and 
  bone. His massive fists, with deadly links 
  enwrapping his wrists, swung with the force of 
  trip hammers. 
  Two Masai warriors yelled and went 
  ahead of the big engineer into the river. They 
  had been hit so hard their bodies turned over 
  twice before they splashed into the bloody 
  water. 
  Renny reached Mapanda with one 
  jump from the shore. He pulled Mapanda into 
  his big arms. 
  Mapanda’s eyes were closing. He 
  opened them slowly. 
  “Thanks, too much, B’wana Renwick,” 
  he whispered weakly. 
  All of the boy’s body became like a 
  rag. Renny knew he was dead. The blood had 
  been drained from his veins. 
  The big engineer started wading back 
  toward the shore. A hundred stabbing pains 
  shot through his legs. Perhaps only the 
  leathers to his knees and the rough cords of 
  his trousers saved him. But even these could 
  not altogether resist a thousand needlelike 
  teeth that sunk into his flesh. 
  Renny saw the flash in the bloody 
  water. So this was the Long Juju. There were 
  millions of tiny, flesh-eating fish. They were 
  only three or four inches long. 
  Despite their miniature size, these 
  tropical man-eaters are the worst killers of 
  jungle waters. 
   
   
  WITH Mapanda in his arms, Renny 
  reached the muddy shore. The big engineer 
  saw scores of the vicious fish clinging to his 
  legs. 
  Renny roared again. The pain in his 
  legs meant nothing. For a moment the 
  
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  27 
  shocked Masai warriors had stood motionless. 
  Where the two had been knocked into the 
  river, now were reddening pools. 
  “Get him!” yelled The Shimba. “Run 
  the inglesi through!” 
  At the command, half a dozen warriors 
  attempted to obey. They charged with their 
  long spears held stiffly. 
  “You killin’ devils!” boomed Renny. 
  The spear points were jamming toward 
  him. The Masai’s eyes were red rimmed. 
  Renny wished greatly for the bulletproof 
  garments of fine chain mesh which Doc 
  Savage had devised for his men. But the 
  engineer was not wearing these. He knew 
  grimly he had only one chance. 
  One small object reposed in the little 
  watch pocket at the top of his cord trousers. It 
  was something he had planned to test on one 
  of the isolated mountain walls. 
  A spear blade grazed Renny’s head. 
  He could do only what he did. He had made 
  every effort to save Mapanda. The youth had 
  died. Now Renny lifted the body in his huge 
  hands and drove directly upon the spears of 
  the Masai. 
  He knocked down half a dozen 
  warriors with the bleeding body. Dropping the 
  corpse, Renny caught up a fallen spear. He did 
  not make the mistake of using its blade. 
  The heavy haft of the long spear 
  mowed a circle around the roaring giant. Masai 
  skulls cracked. One warrior’s neck was broken. 
  The Shimba was dancing excitedly, urging the 
  spearmen to the kill. 
  Renny stumbled over an object on the 
  ground. A spear blade clipped a chunk from 
  his shoulder. Renny arose with a great shield 
  of dried oxhide. 
  Directly before him were a dozen 
  rallying warriors. They must have had the 
  same sensation as if an army had charged 
  upon them. The shield and the spear became 
  terrible 
  weapons 
  with 
  Renny’s 
  bull-like 
  muscles behind them. 
  Renny had cleared a space all around 
  him. But there were too many Masai. They 
  were moving warily now. 
  “Come on an’ fight, you killers!” 
  bellowed the enraged engineer. 
  Under cover of the shield, he dropped 
  the spear. He thumbed a small round object 
  from the watch pocket of his cords. This was 
  no larger than a child’s play marble. On its side 
  was a tiny lever. 
   
  Chapter VIII 
  WHEN THE BOX OPENED 
   
  RENNY estimated the position of his 
  surrounding enemies. They were between him 
  and the island of the Long Juju. 
  The engineer stooped low. Spears 
  thudded upon the great oxhide shield. One 
  point pierced the hide into Renny’s arm. 
  Renny’s right hand flipped upward. His 
  thumb nail had flicked the lever on the small 
  globe. The object became a mere flash of light 
  flying through the air. 
  Renny hurled himself backward. He 
  saw The Shimba running madly into the jungle. 
  The Shimba was a smarter man than his 
  warriors. 
  The 
  more 
  stupid 
  Masai 
  were 
  charging. 
  Renny flung himself beside Souho, the 
  native hunter. The big oxhide shield covered 
  their bodies. 
  The air itself seemed to explode. The 
  hurtling object had not reached the island of 
  the Long Juju shrine. It had burst in mid-air. It 
  was a diminutive grenade containing what was 
  perhaps 
  the 
  world’s 
  highest-powered 
  explosive. 
  The shrine of the Long Juju, with the 
  Papa Loi, the old women beside the boiling 
  pot, and the island itself seemed to dissolve. 
  The slow, little river heaved from its 
  shallow bed. For scores of yards, it became 
  transformed into flying rain. With the water, 
  came a deluge of millions of tiny, voracious 
  fish. 
  The 
  diminutive 
  man-eaters 
  lay 
  gasping, snapping their needlelike teeth. 
  Such of the Masai warriors as were 
  not blown from their feet and brained against 
  the trees, were trying to crawl away. 
  The Shimba had disappeared. 
  Renny wrenched loose the chains of 
  the moaning Souho. 
  Souho stared unbelievingly at the 
  place where the island of the Long Juju had 
  been. 
  “No 
  make 
  do 
  believe, 
  B’wana 
  Renwick,” he mumbled. 
  The giant hunter knelt at Renny’s feet, 
  clinging to his hands. 
  “Holy cow!” boomed the engineer. “Get 
  up, you fool! I oughta used that on ‘em last 
  night! It would have saved poor Mapanda!” 
  Renny led the way back toward their 
  camp. Not a breath stirred in the jungle. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  28 
   
  “We’ve got to dig up the radio 
  transmitter an’ get word to Doc,” announced 
  Renny. 
   
   
  AT this time, Doc Savage, back in 
  Manhattan, was trying to pick up a possible 
  short wave signal from Renny. The signal 
  came. It was indistinct at first. 
  A few thousand miles away, Renny 
  was sweating to keep that generator going. 
  The transmitter had not been demolished. A 
  Masai had made the attempt with a spear. 
  Renny had repaired the damage. 
  Ham, Monk and Johnny were crowded 
  around the man of bronze. They were 
  delighted to hear Renny. 
  “I’m free—lost all but one—King Udu 
  needs help—” 
  Renny was saving all the words he 
  could. His generator sputtered. The short wave 
  squawked with the screaming interference of 
  some ship at sea. Renny’s voice came on 
  again. 
  “King Udu is dying—his son must take 
  throne—The Shimba threatens with Long 
  Juju—Northern Legion planning conquest—
  tribes follow Blood Idol—King Udu has sent—” 
  The interference broke in on the 
  crippled transmitter. Doc Savage worked 
  rapidly to pick up more. It came in spaced 
  jerks. 
  “King Udu great ruler—family eight 
  generations—must have Blood Idol—King Udu 
  very ill—need you greatly, Doc—”  
  Doc Savage broke in with a message. 
  “Prince Zaban has been slain. Who is 
  next ruler?” 
  Renny’s reply came slowly, the words 
  being jumbled. 
  “No other heir—Prince Zaban must 
  be—must be buried in Kokoland—demand 
  ceremony—tribal custom or family ceases to 
  rule—” 
  Renny was trying to send a further 
  message. But his generator went out. Doc 
  Savage could only understand the evil Shimba 
  was behind most of the trouble. Doc suspected 
  there might be a great treasure in the 
  Kilimanjaro Mountains. 
  “We have no time to waste,” Doc 
  stated. “Renny is temporarily free. But he has 
  lost his safari. The danger for him is very 
  great.” 
   
   
  THE man of bronze was opening the 
  big safe. From it, he removed the polished 
  teakwood block. The closest scrutiny had not 
  revealed so much as a seam or crack. 
  Doc Savage amazed his companions. 
  He had become unusually cautious with the 
  teakwood block. Now he used the radio beam 
  which operated the electroscopic lock of the 
  door leading into the library. 
  Perhaps the teakwood block lay in the 
  path of the beam. Monk let out a shrill 
  exclamation. 
  “Howlin’ calamities! Lookit, Doc!” 
  The man of bronze was taking no 
  chances. He whipped over to the table. The 
  upper half of the teakwood block must have 
  been fitted by a cabinetmaker more skillful 
  than most. Where there had not been the 
  faintest hair line of division in the wood, was 
  now a gap that slowly opened wider. 
  “Stay back,” cautioned Doc. “There still 
  may be danger.” 
  But if he believed there was peril, the 
  bronze giant ignored it for himself. He lifted the 
  heavy teakwood in his hands. All of the upper 
  half had slid open. Doc’s flaky gold eyes gazed 
  at the inside of the mysterious box. 
  He spoke no words. His fantastic 
  trilling spoke for itself. The man of bronze had 
  seen something amazing. 
  Monk, Johnny and Ham were standing 
  close by. But before any of the three could look 
  inside the box, Doc was slowly closing the lid. 
  “Brothers, this box contains a single 
  jewel,” he stated. “Only one, but I would judge 
  it is beyond all price. I never suspected such a 
  gem could exist. We must guard this with our 
  lives.” 
  The mystic box had again become 
  what appeared to be a solid block of wood. 
  “We must prepare to join Renny at 
  once, in Kokoland,” advised Doc. “Count 
  Cardoti will accompany us. He should be of the 
  greatest assistance.” 
  “I don’t know whether I trust this Count 
  Cardoti too far,” said Ham. 
  “Yes,” drawled Johnny. “He is now 
  escorting Pat home.” 
   
   
  PAT SAVAGE was at this time with 
  Count Cardoti in a taxicab. The car was 
  threading through thick traffic in Fifth Avenue. 
  Count Cardoti was nervous. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx LAND OF LONG JUJU xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  29 
  “These taxi drivers keep me on edge,” 
  he said to Pat. “I’d rather risk some of the 
  wildest beasts of the jungle.” 
  Pat Savage laughed musically. 
  “Perhaps if I get to see Kokoland, I’ll 
  know more about it,” she stated. 
  “Will Mr. Savage permit you to join this 
  expedition?” 
  “Not if he can find some excuse to 
  keep me at home,” smiled Pat. “Doc seems to 
  think I ought to be put in a glass case and kept 
  for exhibition purposes.” 
  “Well, I agree with that,” said Count 
  Cardoti 
  gallantly. 
  “But 
  I 
  would 
  like 
  it 
  tremendously if you could accompany us.” 
  “I might do it yet,” mused Pat. “Lots of 
  things can happen in a very short time. I 
  understand there will be a big funeral for your 
  friend, Prince Zaban, this afternoon.” 
  “Yes,” said Count Cardoti heavily. “It is 
  unfortunate, but I can see no way to return 
  Prince Zaban to his native land.” 
  Pat Savage did not seem to be 
  listening. The taxicab was dodging other 
  vehicles by inches. The driver slid under the 
  nose of a double-deck bus. 
  Pat Savage was leaning forward. She 
  was looking at the rear window of a big sedan. 
  The sedan was moving rapidly away. 
  “Miss Savage! Look out, you’ll be 
  hurt!” 
  Count 
  Cardoti 
  exclaimed 
  with 
  apprehension, for Pat Savage had snapped 
  open the door of the taxi. Her graceful figure 
  was in the street. Another taxi and a small 
  delivery truck bore down upon her. 
  “Miss Savage!” yelled Count Cardoti. 
  He had attempted to follow. The 
  delivery truck blocked his way. Pat Savage 
  dodged it by a few inches. 
  A traffic policeman whistled shrilly. 
  Drivers hooted their horns. 
  “She’ll be killed!” shouted Count 
  Cardoti. “Can’t you get to her, fellow?” 
  He was talking to his taxi driver. The 
  driver scowled and let out an oath. 
  “Tryin’ to beat it on me, huh?” he 
  grunted. “Hey, you come across with the fare 
  before you do any fadeout!” 
  Count Cardoti fumbled a bill from his 
  pocket. He slapped it into the driver’s hand. 
  When he turned Pat Savage had disappeared 
  somewhere in the midst of it. 
  Half a block away, Count Cardoti saw 
  the door of a black sedan open and close. 
   
   
  IN the rear window of the sedan, Pat 
  Savage had seen the lovely, dark face of 
  Señorita Moncarid. 
  The driver of the sedan was an 
  African. He had a thin, arching nose. He 
  glanced swiftly at Pat Savage, then held the 
  car until she had entered. 
  Pat noted this was the same chauffeur 
  who had been knocked out in the attack at the 
  East Side warehouse. 
  “Oh, it’s you, Miss Savage!” exclaimed 
  the señorita. “You must not be seen with me! It 
  is very dangerous! I am going away and I had 
  hoped you would not find me!” 
  “I had suspected that,” stated Pat. “But 
  I imagine we can find a number of things to 
  discuss.” 
  Señorita Moncarid protested. But the 
  black sedan whirled away in traffic, carrying 
  Doc’s cousin. 
   
   
  SHORTLY 
  after 
  this 
  time, 
  Doc 
  Savage’s own sedan glided up to a shabby 
  looking warehouse on the Hudson River. This 
  building 
  bore 
  an 
  inconspicuous 
  sign, 
  “HIDALGO TRADING COMPANY.” 
  The 
  name 
  Hidalgo 
  had 
  little 
  connection with the purpose of this warehouse. 
  It was the designation of a town in Central 
  America. Through that city, from the fabulous 
  treasure of a surviving nation of Mayans, came 
  the millions which supported Doc Savage’s 
  great purpose in righting wrongs and punishing 
  evildoers. 
  But few would have guessed this 
  weather-beaten warehouse was the home of 
  the world’s most modern air and undersea 
  devices. 
  Streamlined planes were ready for 
  departure to any of the four corners of the 
  world at a few minutes’ notice. 
  But the aircraft which Doc already had 
  ordered prepared for the flight to Central East 
  Africa was the strangest of all. It was neither a 
  dirigible nor an airplane. It looked like a single, 
  great wing. 
  As the man of bronze drove his sedan 
  into the narrow street near the warehouse, he 
  laid one hand suddenly on Johnny’s wrist 
  “Take the wheel,” he said. “I shall 
  rejoin you presently.” 
  The sedan did not cease its forward 
  motion. Doc had whipped from under the 
  wheel. Johnny slid his long, bony body into the 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  30 
   
  driver’s seat. Doc was out of the car. He had 
  vanished between two buildings. 
  “What was it?” inquired Ham. “I didn’t 
  see anything.” 
  Neither 
  had 
  Doc’s 
  two 
  other 
  companions. Doc alone had caught the 
  glimpse of the dark face in a small areaway. 
  The man of bronze glided around the building. 
  He came upon two Africans. 
  Neither 
  could 
  have 
  heard 
  the 
  movement behind them. Both men were still 
  watching the sedan intently. Johnny had just 
  driven it into the doorway of the old 
  warehouse. The door had closed. 
  Then one of the Africans suddenly 
  whipped around. From his belt flashed a 
  game-stabbing knife. 
  “Ifehe! Ifehe!” the man shouted. 
  He meant, “Run! Run!” His companion 
  had only time to see a great, bronze giant 
  hurtling upon him. 
  The man with the knife threw the 
  weapon. The keen, heavy blade became a 
  flash of light in the sun. Its point was directed 
  at Doc’s skull. The knife hurler was accurate. 
  The blade struck and parted Doc’s smooth 
  bronze hair neatly. 
  There was a terrible, metallic clank, as 
  if the heavy knife had split the bone of the 
  bronze man’s skull. The Africans, for the 
  moment, must have been incapable of 
  movement. Certainly they had expected to see 
  the man of bronze topple to the pavement of 
  the alley. 
   
   
  DOC’S movement had not even been 
  impeded. His bronze hands were faster than 
  the eye could follow. Superstitious yells of fear 
  burst from the throats of the Africans. They 
  were cut off as if they had been garroted. 
  Doc’s hands were on their throats. The 
  thumbs found the great nerve centers at the 
  tops of their spines. The eyes of the two men 
  rolled until only the whites were visible. From 
  under dirty turbans, the loops of their hideous 
  ears slipped down and dangled. The two 
  Africans seemed to go to sleep. 
  Doc seemed to lift off the whole top of 
  his head. This was a close-fitting, bullet-proof 
  metallic cap. Over it was hair exactly the same 
  color as the bronze underneath. 
  Doc Savage disregarded one of the 
  two men. The other he swung over his 
  shoulder. He was inside the warehouse hangar 
  within four minutes after he had left the car. 
  “Thunderation!” rasped Ham. “The 
  devils are watching every move we make! Doc, 
  it looks to me as if white brains were behind all 
  this!” 
  “I haven’t any doubt of it,” stated Doc. 
  “Oh, perhaps, educated brains which may be 
  under a native thatch. We have not yet 
  determined the part Señorita Moncarid is 
  playing in all of this.” 
  “What are you going to do with this 
  fellow?” said Monk. 
  “He might be induced to speak,” 
  advised Doc. “We shall see 
  when he 
  recovers.” 
  The bronze giant manipulated the 
  nerve centers at the base of the brain. The 
  African with the hideous ears slowly opened 
  his smoky eyes. He acted as if he thought he 
  had already died and entered the land of the 
  Long Juju. 
  “You have been given orders by your 
  b’wana?” stated Doc, in native Masai. “He has 
  talked with you not long ago?” 
  Doc’s flaky gold eyes had a hypnotic 
  quality. But they could not compel either fear 
  or compliance in this black Masai. His own 
  rolling orbs had no expression other than a 
  touch of awe. He stared at Doc’s smooth, 
  bronze hair. 
  It was there he had seen his heavy 
  knife strike. He thought he had heard the 
  grinding of bone. Now there was not even a 
  mark. 
  The Masai looked at Doc stupidly. 
   
   
  DOC SAVAGE turned to direct the 
  loading of his strange, new wing of the air. 
  “Watch this fellow closely, Monk,” he 
  directed. “After a while, he may be induced to 
  tell us something.” 
  In the street near the low warehouse, 
  rubber squealed on the pavement. Count 
  Cardoti climbed from a taxicab. He came 
  running to the door of the warehouse. 
  As he came in, he said breathlessly, 
  “They’ve got Miss Savage again! And Señorita 
  Moncarid!” 
  “Howlin’ calamities!” yelped Monk. “I 
  know you wasn’t to be trusted! Dag-gonit! 
  What happened. I oughta take you apart!” 
  “You mean Pat was seized again by 
  the men with Señorita Moncarid?” questioned 
  Doc. 
  “Yes—well, no,” said Count Cardoti. 
  “Miss Savage seemed to go willingly. We were 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx LAND OF LONG JUJU xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  31 
  in a great tangle of traffic. Suddenly, she got 
  out of the taxi and ran to a sedan. There was 
  an African fellow driving. I’m sure I saw the 
  dark face of a woman in the window of the 
  sedan. Miss Savage got in. Before I could 
  reach her, the car had been driven away.” 
  “Sometimes Pat follows out her own 
  ideas,” said Doc. “But we shall have to 
  investigate as soon as possible. Perhaps this 
  Masai will be able to tell us something.” 
  Count Cardoti had been looking at the 
  prisoner. 
  None 
  had 
  noticed 
  the 
  swift 
  movement of one of the man’s hands. His 
  fingers had slipped to his mouth. Now his 
  heavy jaws crunched something. 
  Doc Savage caught the Masai’s wrist. 
  The man only rolled his eyes. His head, with its 
  hideous ears, lolled on one shoulder. 
  Doc Savage dropped the wrist. 
   “I should have taken greater care,” he 
  stated. “He must have been prepared for this. 
  He would not speak.” 
  The Masai never would speak. From 
  his fingers dropped a small object of the size of 
  a kidney bean. 
  Count Cardoti exclaimed, “The fellow 
  took an esere bean! It’s deadly! They use it 
  among the natives to test the guilt or 
  innocence of suspected murderers! And once 
  they taste the esere bean, they never prove 
  themselves innocent!” 
  Doc 
  Savage 
  had 
  vanished. 
  He 
  whipped into the alleyway, where the other 
  man had been left senseless. The second 
  Masai had disappeared. 
   
   
  Chapter IX 
  THREE BLACK HEARSES 
   
  PRINCE 
  ZABAN’S 
  funeral 
  was 
  conducted the afternoon of the day following 
  the self-poisoning of the Masai in Doc 
  Savage’s hangar. The cortège extended for 
  several blocks. Manhattan always turns out for 
  heroes living or royalty dead. 
  The usual crowd thronged before the 
  exclusive funeral parlor. A line of police kept a 
  space cleared. But while services were being 
  conducted inside the chapel, into this clear 
  space came a score of strange, solemn 
  figures. 
  Manhattan 
  has 
  witnessed 
  some 
  strange rites. But never any more fantastic 
  than this. The police, at first, would have 
  blocked the Africans in their curious garb, or 
  lack of it. 
  A wise, old police inspector issued an 
  order. The score of strange mourners were 
  permitted to proceed with what they had come 
  to do. 
  They were tall, light-colored men. All 
  had thin, arched noses. Their hair was twisted 
  into fantastic knots. The powerful dark bodies 
  glistened with ground-nut oil. Stripes of red-
  and-white 
  ochre 
  ornamented 
  faces 
  and 
  breasts. 
  “Ai-ee! Ai-ee! Ai-ee!” chanted the 
  Africans. 
  They formed in a solemn circle. They 
  walked heel and toe, around and around. In 
  the middle of the ring they deposited a curious 
  object. This was an immense shield of oxhide. 
  Around its edges were white ostrich feathers. 
  “Ai-ee! Ai-ee! Ai-ee!” droned the men. 
  One began thumping slowly with the 
  heel of his hand, on dried skin stretched tight 
  over a hollow piece of wood. 
  They kept on chanting. A gorgeous 
  headdress was laid beside the oxhide shield. 
  Some vessels containing cooked meat and 
  beans were put with these. Around and around 
  moved the circle of the impassive arched-
  nosed men. 
  “Dag-goned if I ever expected to see 
  one of them voodoo heathen dances, right 
  here in downtown Manhattan!” exclaimed 
  Monk. 
  “It must make you feel very much at 
  home,” commented Ham. 
  With Johnny and Count Cardoti, Doc’s 
  companions had come from the funeral chapel. 
  The assassinated Prince Zaban had been paid 
  all the honor which Manhattan could give an 
  African prince of the royal blood. 
  “Perhaps this ceremony may mean 
  more than that in the chapel,” said Count 
  Cardoti. “It is the tribal rite of the Kokonese. I 
  am surprised to know there are so many of 
  Prince Zaban’s own people in New York. It 
  explains much of this trouble we have been 
  having.” 
  When the funeral cortège formed 
  outside, the offerings of the chanting natives 
  were placed in a separate motor car. This 
  closely followed the black motor hearse at the 
  head of the procession.  
  Doc Savage was not with his other 
  men attending the funeral. At the time of the 
  ceremony, the bronze giant had disappeared. 
  
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  32 
   
  He stated he had received a message from 
  Patricia Savage. 
  Johnny and Ham walked slowly along 
  the cars ready to move into the procession. 
  They were disappointed. They had hoped to 
  find Pat Savage and Señorita Moncarid. 
  Most of those in the procession were 
  city notables. They were paying the civilized 
  honors to the murdered man of royal blood. 
  Ahead of the slowly moving motor hearse rode 
  a dozen motor-cycle policemen. 
   
   
  “PERHAPS that tribal ceremony over 
  here will have some effect on the kingdom of 
  Kokoland,” suggested Ham. 
  “I fear it would count for little,” stated 
  Count Cardoti. “Even if King Udu now had an 
  heir, it is a tribal obligation that those of the 
  ruling family shall be placed in the spot, which 
  for eight generations, has been the burial crypt 
  of the royal family. It is a tribal tradition that this 
  must not be broken.” 
  Owing to the ceremonial delays, the 
  sun had gone down when the funeral cortège 
  of Prince Zaban arrived in the vicinity of the 
  cemetery. 
  As a tribute to Prince Zaban, a city 
  official rode with the driver of the motor hearse. 
  This driver was himself an African. His nose 
  was thin and arched. 
  The sirens of the motor-cycle escort 
  suddenly screamed. A lumbering truck had 
  come into the avenue from a cross street. A 
  traffic policeman was arguing with its driver. 
  The driver had the hood lifted from the engine. 
  “After all that has happened, I don’t 
  like being held up until after dark,” said the 
  official beside the driver. “I wonder if we 
  couldn’t go around the block?” 
  The African driver spoke excellent 
  English. Apparently he was an employee of the 
  funeral establishment. 
  “We could go around this block,” said 
  the driver. “That truck may hold us up until long 
  after it’s dark.” 
  A 
  motor-cycle 
  cop 
  nodded, 
  and 
  headed up to the others of the escort. The 
  procession halted for half a minute. The motor 
  cycles swung into the side street. The truck 
  ahead remained motionless. 
  In the narrow, darker side street, there 
  was suddenly a mix-up among the motor-cycle 
  men. Two automobiles had started across the 
  head of the procession. 
  “Hey!” yelled a motor-cycle cop. “You 
  ain’t crossin’ here!”  
  Others of the escort rode up to him. 
  Then out of side alleys slid two more vehicles. 
  The city official beside the hearse driver let out 
  a gasp. 
  “Good grief!” he exclaimed. “There’s 
  something haywire about this! Look! There are 
  two more motor hearses!” 
   
   
  A PAIR of big, black hearses rumbled 
  into the narrow canyon of the street. Their 
  drivers whirled them into the car tracks. One 
  motor hearse skidded and almost collided with 
  the other. 
  “Hiya!” shouted one of the motor-cycle 
  cops. “Hold up there!” 
  But the fender of one hearse crashed 
  into his machine. The cop sprawled on the 
  pavement. The other hearse ran down two of 
  the motor-cycle men. 
  Africans were driving both hearses. 
  One skidded to a stop directly in front of the 
  motor hearse in the regular funeral cortège. Its 
  rear door swung open. A stream of turbaned 
  men poured into the street. 
  “Holy mackerel!” barked the official 
  beside the arched-nosed driver. “Whoever 
  heard of holding up a funeral?” 
  The motor-cycle men were now off 
  their machines. A few carried clubs. These 
  started smacking heads. Horns of the following 
  autos created a bedlam of sound. 
  The city official continued squawking. 
  He was struck over the head with a knobby 
  club. 
  Other Africans were climbing onto the 
  regular motor hearse. They attempted to seize 
  the arched-nosed driver. One of his fists struck 
  with unexpected speed. He knocked three men 
  into the street. 
  Two men had reached the top of the 
  motor hearse. One swung the heavy half of a 
  short spear. The arched-nosed driver caught 
  the blow across one ear. He slumped 
  sideways. A turbaned man pushed him from 
  the seat. 
  “Grab 
  all 
  them 
  motor 
  hearses!” 
  shouted one of the motorcycle cops. “Now I 
  don’t know which is which!” 
  Two small, closed cars seemed to lead 
  two of the hearses out of the street. The motor-
  cycle cops were putting up a stiff fight. None 
  had attempted to use a gun. It did not seem 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx LAND OF LONG JUJU xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  33 
  the thing to do in a mix-up over the funeral of a 
  prince. 
   
   
  COUNT CARDOTI, with Ham, Monk 
  and Johnny, hastened up. 
  “By all the holies!” he ejaculated. 
  “What is all this unseemly disturbance! You 
  would think a funeral procession would be 
  respected!” 
  One of the motor-cycle cops with a 
  blue knob over one eye came up. A motor 
  hearse with the casket inside, was in place at 
  the head of the procession. A tall, African 
  driver sat on the seat. 
  “I don’t know what it’s all about,” said 
  the cop, “but the fellows jumped out of a 
  couple of cars, then they beat it. I guess 
  everything’s all right.” 
  “Everything’s far from all right,” rapped 
  out Ham, the lawyer. “We’ve got the wrong 
  hearse! And that’s quite a lot all wrong!” 
  “You 
  are 
  undoubtedly 
  correct,” 
  announced Count Cardoti. “This is not our 
  original funeral car. The body of Prince Zaban 
  has been stolen!” 
  Newspaper 
  and 
  news 
  reel 
  photographers added to the jumble. They were 
  getting spot news pictures. A prince of Africa 
  had been assassinated, in the heart of the 
  world’s greatest city. 
  Now, apparently, the body of the 
  prince had been stolen from the head of a 
  funeral cortège. 
  “I wish Mr. Savage were here,” 
  declared Count Cardoti. “I cannot understand 
  his absence. He intended to attend the 
  funeral.” 
  Doc had not appeared at the prince’s 
  funeral. 
  “I 
  think 
  Doc 
  was 
  interested 
  in 
  discovering the whereabouts of this Señorita 
  Moncarid,” stated Johnny. “He said we were to 
  join him at the hangars on the Hudson. I 
  believe he is having the Wing loaded to depart 
  for Africa tonight.” 
  “But good heavens!” insisted Count 
  Cardoti. “I simply cannot leave New York until 
  we recover the body of my poor friend!” 
   
   
  RAIN had begun to drizzle. This was 
  an hour after the funeral abduction. On an 
  unpaved road it made the mixed clay and sand 
  slippery. A motor hearse rocked along this 
  road. 
  The driver was one of the turbaned 
  men. The vehicle came to an open space, 
  where there had been a truck garden. A light 
  winked and went out. 
  The motor hearse turned into the 
  vacant field. Near the middle it was brought to 
  a stop. The limp body of the arched-nosed 
  driver was pushed to the ground. 
  The turbaned men gabbled in low 
  voices. Two other cars stood at the edge of the 
  field. Half a dozen men pulled the casket from 
  its place. Many offerings and tokens of flowers 
  had been heaped on the coffin. 
  The Africans set the casket on the 
  ground. Several were for loading the coffin into 
  one 
  of 
  the 
  other 
  cars, 
  without 
  further 
  investigation. But the idea of one tall African 
  prevailed. Hands unscrewed the lid. 
  Cries of rage and surprise went up. 
  They crowded around the casket. Lights were 
  brought. 
  The coffin was unoccupied. Apparently 
  the motor hearse, which properly belonged at 
  the head of Prince Zaban’s funeral procession, 
  had never contained a body. The superstition 
  of the turbaned men with their hideously 
  looped ear lobes cropped out. 
  A pair produced the short, stabbing 
  spears. Uttering shouts of killing anger, they 
  rushed upon the place where the driver of the 
  arched nose had been tossed from the hearse. 
  Again the night resounded with wild yells. 
  The driver had vanished. The mud 
  showed where his body had lain. But tracks 
  also indicated he must have recovered. He 
  was no longer in the field. 
  “Ifehe! Ifehe!” yelled a voice. 
  Leaving the motor hearse in the 
  middle of the field, the Africans fled. It was not 
  until next day that the strange spectacle of the 
  black hearse in an open field attracted 
  attention. 
  The empty casket had been left as it 
  had been opened. For the time, the police 
  believed the body of Prince Zaban had been 
  removed and taken away. The hearse driver 
  with the arched nose was believed to have 
  been murdered. 
   
   
  Chapter X 
  SOME STRANGE CRAFT 
   
  POLICE 
  were 
  baffled. 
  The 
  disappearance of Prince Zaban’s corpse was 
  added 
  to 
  New 
  York’s 
  unsolved 
  crime 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  34 
   
  mysteries. 
  Likewise, 
  all 
  traces 
  to 
  the 
  whereabouts of the turbaned Africans were 
  lost. 
  Nothing directed the search toward the 
  Hudson River. The police would have been 
  amazed, could they have seen the crew of a 
  vessel having the lines of a speedy, ocean-
  going cruiser. 
  Aside from its lines of evident speed, 
  the craft bore no distinguishing marks. Shortly 
  after Prince Zaban’s casket was found to be 
  empty, there was great activity aboard this 
  vessel. 
  Two other craft slipped out into the 
  dark water from this cruiser. They were long, 
  low and narrow. Not enough of them was 
  visible to mark them as different from anything 
  that had ever been seen on the Hudson. It was 
  the matter of their power which so marked 
  them. 
  Thuck! Thuck! Thuck! Thuck! 
  Like the steady beat of drums. The 
  thucking of wood on wood. 
  For each of these craft was propelled 
  by twenty paddles. Ten were on each side. 
  They rose and fell with the rhythm of 
  clockwork. 
  Though they were man-driven, the 
  long canoes moved with the speed of motor 
  boats. 
  Besides the twenty paddlers to the 
  canoe, there were ten other figures in each. 
  These men were armed with long spears 
  which stuck straight up into the darkness. A 
  few occupants of the canoes carried short 
  blowpipes. Some others carried bows and 
  arrows. All of these weapons were adorned 
  with ostrich feathers, dyed brightly red. 
  The canoes were like war craft. The 
  kind of war craft which glide through the 
  miasmatic mist of some jungle river in Africa, 
  to attack a native village. 
  Only these primitive craft, with their 
  old-fashioned weapons, were on their way to 
  attack some of the most modern craft known to 
  the world. 
  Thuck! Thuck! Thuck! Thuck! 
  They 
  swept 
  down 
  toward 
  the 
  warehouse 
  which housed Doc Savage’s 
  scientific air fleet. And at this moment, the 
  most modern of all the aircraft was preparing 
  to take off. 
   
   
  DOC SAVAGE had reached the 
  Hudson River hangar ahead of his companions 
  and Count Cardoti. As he left his car, a great 
  change took place in his appearance. 
  The man of bronze removed thin glass 
  shells from his flaky eyeballs. These shells 
  were like the smoky eyes of an African. He did 
  something to his arched nose. Pieces of hard 
  wax came loose in his hand. 
  When the deeper hue was cleaned 
  from his bronzed skin, Doc was no longer the 
  same man who had driven Prince Zaban’s 
  motor hearse in the funeral procession. He had 
  stayed in the open field long enough to witness 
  the terrified reaction of the turbaned Masai, 
  when they had discovered the empty casket. 
  The man of bronze now wondered 
  what would be the result of their report to the 
  brains commanding this expedition to New 
  York. Would it be the distant Shimba, of whom 
  Renny had reported, or would it be the nearer 
  Señorita Moncarid who would get that report? 
  Doc Savage was convinced that at 
  least both would eventually know of the ruse 
  which had been employed to prevent the body 
  of the prince being seized by his enemies. 
  Doc made no comment as Count 
  Cardoti and his three companions arrived and 
  told of the abduction of the motor hearse. 
  “We shall take off within the hour,” Doc 
  stated. “I believe we are sufficiently equipped 
  to cope with some of the forces now menacing 
  the land of the Kokonese.” 
  Count Cardoti’s bright, black eyes 
  studied the strange, streamlined aircraft lying 
  in one of the docks. He noted it seemed 
  buoyant. It was like a giant wing without 
  propellers. 
  Doc Savage’s men had christened this 
  new aircraft the Wing. It was neither airplane 
  nor dirigible. But it was sustained by a new 
  type of noncombustible gas of the greatest 
  lifting capacity. 
  No propellers were visible on the 
  smooth wing. Within the wing itself were tubes, 
  or what might have appeared to be wind 
  tunnels. 
  These tubes overcame the constant 
  danger of propellers being snapped off at high 
  speed. 
  “What is the motive force?” questioned 
  Count Cardoti, as Doc’s helpers were lashing 
  many boxes aboard. 
  The erudite Johnny explained. Doc’s 
  newest 
  ship 
  was 
  propelled 
  by 
  a 
  new 
  compound explosive of his own devising. This 
  was composed of oil and air carried under high 
  pressure into a forward combustion chamber. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx LAND OF LONG JUJU xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  35 
  Here the oil and air combined and 
  burned with intense heat. The result, as in the 
  cylinder of a Diesel engine, was to produce a 
  mixture of nitrogen of the air with water vapor 
  and carbon dioxide at high temperature. 
  Expanding gas and heat created great 
  pressure. This caused gases to pass through 
  the tubes with enormous velocity. 
  The Wing had proved capable of a 
  speed of more than five hundred miles an 
  hour. 
   
   
  DOC SAVAGE’S helpers had made 
  everything ready. The Wing was divided into 
  many compartments. Its controls were much 
  the same as those of a dirigible, except the 
  Wing could climb, bank and dive with the 
  mobility of the fastest plane. 
  “At last, you must feel like you’re going 
  home,” drawled Ham. He was talking to Monk. 
  “Hey, for the love of Pete! I thought you’d left 
  that shote behind this time!” 
  “Habeas Corpus would feel lonesome 
  without 
  having 
  your 
  yap 
  to 
  listen 
  to,” 
  announced Monk. 
  The ornate, chromium-lined pen he 
  was putting aboard the Wing contained the 
  long-eared, long-legged Arabian hog. 
  “I don’t feel I should leave New York 
  without knowing more of what happened to 
  Prince Zaban’s body,” said Count Cardoti. 
  “There is nothing can be done now 
  about Prince Zaban’s corpse,” stated Doc 
  Savage. “If the police discover it, I have 
  arranged for the commissioner to make 
  immediate radio contact with our craft. After all, 
  it may be the police will never find the body.” 
  The wide doors of the Wing’s dock 
  swung slowly open. Doc had placed Count 
  Cardoti and his companions where they could 
  best observe what would be a rapid ascent 
  above Manhattan. 
  The man of bronze swung on direct 
  lighting beams which shot in wide fingers 
  across the Hudson. The interior of the 
  warehouse 
  hangar 
  was 
  itself 
  brightly 
  illuminated. 
  Thuck! Thuck! Thuck! Thuck! 
   
   
  THE 
  drumming 
  beat 
  of 
  wooden 
  paddles hitting the sides of high-prowed war 
  canoes swung the strangely primitive craft 
  directly into the beams. 
  The canoes were fantastic. Queer 
  figures of native gods and fetishes were 
  carved on the tall prows. The keels were the 
  hollowed trunks of single trees. Above these 
  were bound thinner sides, secured by tough 
  bark fibre. 
  The warriors were tall and almost 
  naked. Around their arms and throats were 
  pounds of shining copper wire. The loops of 
  their ears swung hideously free. 
  An upright figure in the bow of one 
  canoe was shouting. The Wing had not started 
  to move. The helpers were preparing to cast 
  off the mooring lines. The explosions of the 
  tubes would shoot the aircraft onto the river 
  with the speed of a rocket. 
  Doc Savage was cautiously picking 
  out a pathway in which no river craft might be 
  lying. 
  From the hand of the weird figure in 
  the bow of the leading canoe hurtled a long 
  spear. Its ostrich feathers trailed. The weapon 
  was ridiculous. Its blade fell short of touching 
  the gleaming alloy metal of the Wing. 
  The native spear, hurled at perhaps 
  the world’s most advanced aërial machine, 
  was no more ludicrous than the giant figure in 
  the prow of the canoe. Tufts of white ostrich 
  feathers denoted his status. 
  The man was a chief. As such, he was 
  a sort of Ras. This meant he was royalty of a 
  sorts. While his warriors were weirdly adorned, 
  the chief went them one better. 
  The hideous loops of the chiefs ears 
  seemed to dance. In one loop was a can of 
  condensed milk. The other loop contained no 
  less than a can of condensed beef. 
  Doc Savage gave a signal. His helpers 
  stuck by the mooring lines. The first of the long 
  canoes was directly in the pathway of the 
  Wing. The man of bronze could have 
  annihilated the natives. He did not wish to do 
  this. 
  Thuck! Thuck! Thuck! Thuck! The 
  paddles of the second canoe beat in rhythm. 
  The hard heel of a hand pounded on a skin 
  drum. 
  Flames like small torches danced in 
  the water. The warriors in the second canoe let 
  out a yell. Arcs of fire arose. They were 
  shooting flaming arrows into the opening of the 
  old warehouse. 
  Some of the arrows struck in tinderlike 
  wood. Smudgy blazes started. Hangar helpers 
  ran with fire extinguishers. But the arrows had 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  36 
   
  become a cloud. Fire was breaking out in 
  several spots. 
  Count Cardoti shouted, “They’ll burn 
  us alive before we can get out of here!” 
   
   
  LED by their prancing chief with the 
  cans in his ears, the crew of one canoe was 
  scrambling onto the wharf of the hangar dock. 
  Monk and Johnny sprang from the Wing. They 
  carried the superfiring pistols with drums of 
  mercy bullets. 
  The machine pistols whanged like 
  swarms of angry bees. The dazed warriors 
  dropped their spears and fell. They were 
  overcome instantly by the anaesthetic of the 
  mercy bullets. The chief jumped back into the 
  canoe. 
  One of the cans fell out of an ear loop. 
  This seemed to discourage the chief. The 
  whooping mercy pistols had virtually wiped out 
  the warriors of the one canoe. The chief then 
  proved he was of a royal strain. 
  As a Ras of the wild Masai, he was 
  disgraced. In the language of America, he 
  couldn’t take it. With a wild cry, the chief flung 
  himself forward. His short, stabbing spear was 
  in his hand. The broad sharp blade pierced his 
  breast. 
  With a final gulping cry, the chief 
  committed himself to the Long Juju or 
  whatever other gods he might have had in 
  mind. The body splashed and sank. 
  The front of the warehouse was 
  flaming. The warriors continued to shoot 
  flaming arrows. They varied these with small 
  darts from short blowpipes. A dart struck one 
  of the hangar helpers. The man fell instantly. 
  “Get aboard,” Doc ordered. “We must 
  bring this to an end or more lives will be lost.” 
  A sheet of fire whipped across 
  between the Wing and the open river. The 
  Masai backed on their paddles. Their canoe 
  slid out of the blaze. 
   
   
  WITH Monk and Johnny aboard, Doc 
  Savage touched a lever. The result was like 
  the sudden whistling of a mighty wind in a 
  cavern. 
  The Wing moved with a darting 
  suddenness that hurled Count Cardoti from his 
  position. Doc’s men had braced themselves for 
  the shock. The Wing immediately whipped off 
  the water. 
  Had the tons of the streamlined aircraft 
  hit the canoe, nothing would have remained 
  but small splinters and shredded flesh. 
  “Howlin’ calamities!” squawked Monk. 
  “The warehouse is going up in smoke! It’ll take 
  all the planes an’ the subs!” 
  Doc Savage said nothing. 
  The magical, bronze hands played 
  over the multiple controls of the Wing. It lifted 
  as suddenly as an eagle dropping from a high 
  peak. A peculiar thing happened to the 
  remaining war canoe of the Masai. 
  “Good grief!” rapped out Ham. “I’ve 
  heard of ships being blown out of water, but 
  never anything like that!” 
  The man of bronze had deliberately 
  directed the terrific blast of the propelling 
  gases upon the canoe as the Wing passed 
  over it. The quaintly carved craft of the Masai 
  lifted like a feather caught in a cyclone. 
  As the canoe whirled over in midair, 
  the nearly naked warriors spilled grotesquely 
  into the murky Hudson. 
  “The hangar’s going up in smoke!” 
  yelled Monk again. 
  Then even Doc’s men were silenced. 
  Doc must have stood the Wing on one of its 
  tips. It hovered like a hawk about to drop on a 
  fish or a field mouse. From its tubes roared the 
  tremendous blast of the gases of propulsion. 
  Having 
  already 
  burned 
  in 
  the 
  combustion 
  chamber, 
  the 
  thunderous 
  explosion was like a mighty, driving piston of 
  compressed air. It had the same effect as the 
  slipstream of an airplane on the ground, only 
  its power was perhaps a thousand times 
  greater. 
  The front wall of the warehouse 
  collapsed. Some of the men inside were hurled 
  from their feet. But the fire was extinguished 
  instantly. It was like a giant’s breath blowing 
  out a match. 
  Suddenly the partly burned warehouse 
  was dropping away. The Hudson River, the 
  spilled Masai canoe and the lights of other 
  water craft fell back. 
   
   
  “WHEW!” gasped Count Cardoti. “I 
  would never have believed such power 
  existed! It’s like being blown up on a leaf in a 
  whirlwind!” 
  In the blast of its own power, the Wing 
  was much like a single leaf. Only Doc Savage 
  had complete control of its course. The ascent 
  to ten thousand feet was like the rush of a 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx LAND OF LONG JUJU xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  37 
  rocket. The man of bronze touched a 
  stabilizing device. 
  The Wing glided over the glittering 
  skyscrapers of Manhattan at tremendous 
  speed. 
  Doc Savage was setting a course 
  somewhat south of the Great Circle crossing, 
  used by both ordinary aircraft and ships. When 
  necessary, he would send the Wing to an 
  altitude unaffected by the currents of wind 
  closer to the earth’s surface. 
  “We shall be somewhere over Africa 
  shortly after dawn,” announced Doc. 
  “It is incomprehensible,” stated Count 
  Cardoti. “Why, with a machine such as this, the 
  fastest pursuit ships and the most powerful 
  modern bombers would be rendered helpless!” 
  The man of bronze said nothing. 
  Possibly he might have had something of the 
  same thought. 
  “Listen, ape, you put that confounded 
  shote back where he belongs or he’s going to 
  make a jump without any ‘chute!” rapped out 
  Ham. “I’ve stood for a lot, but this is too much!”  
  Monk emitted a howl of delight. 
  Habeas Corpus had discovered a new way to 
  torment the irascible Ham. While the lawyer 
  had been looking at the vanishing lights of 
  Manhattan, the rough tongue of the pig had 
  been busy. 
  He had removed most of the polish 
  from Ham’s carefully shined shoes. Habeas 
  Corpus bared his teeth and waved his ears. He 
  was grinning at Ham, if a pig could be said to 
  grin. 
  Count Cardoti was looking at the mass 
  of equipment inside the Wing. 
  “If King Udu had you for an army, he 
  would scarcely need any other force to retain 
  his kingdom,” announced Count Cardoti. “It is 
  to be regretted that King Udu must soon pass 
  away and leave his kingdom to the ignorant 
  prejudices of the wilder tribes.” 
  Doc Savage said nothing. If he had 
  spoken, he would have said that Count Cardoti 
  had voiced what he had in mind. If King Udu 
  proved to be the worthy ruler he was 
  represented by Renny to be, then the monarch 
  of Kokoland might have Doc Savage and his 
  men for an “army.” 
   
   
  THE interior of the Wing was as 
  steady as if the occupants had been standing 
  on solid ground. Special stabilizing aërolons 
  compensated for the worst of the air pockets. 
  At the terrific speed of nearly five hundred 
  miles an hour, such pockets had almost 
  ceased to exist. 
  “I feel we are leaving several matters 
  in a tangled condition,” commented Count 
  Cardoti. “I realize the importance of reaching 
  Kokoland, but I would have liked to learn more 
  about what happened to the body of Prince 
  Zaban. And I am greatly worried about your 
  cousin, Miss Savage. There seems to be 
  something 
  sinister 
  about 
  this 
  Señorita 
  Moncarid.” 
  “Pat usually can take care of herself,” 
  stated Doc. “About the body of Prince Zaban, 
  you yourself said it would be highly important 
  for the prince to be buried in his own country, 
  with the proper tribal rites. Then, if it should 
  happen a successor to King Udu could be 
  discovered, the kingdom might be continued.” 
  “If even that could be true,” said Count 
  Cardoti, “you forget the Blood Idol which 
  seems to be missing. I am beginning to believe 
  that whatever this fetish may be, King Udu’s 
  rule would be overthrown without it.” 
  “I have not forgotten the Blood Idol,” 
  advised Doc. “And I have been somewhat 
  concerned about the safety of my cousin. 
  However, several queer circumstances may 
  have arisen.” 
  Monk interrupted with a cry from the 
  rear of the Wing cabin. Here were a number of 
  doors leading into side compartments. Monk 
  had opened one of these doors. 
  “Dag-gonit, Doc!” he exclaimed in his 
  childlike treble. “What I’m seem’ ain’t possible! 
  Doc! Ham! Johnny!” 
  The ugly-looking chemist had screwed 
  his hairy face into a knot. His sloping forehead 
  gave him the appearance of a puzzled baboon. 
  He hopped up and down much like one. 
  “What can it be?” exclaimed Count 
  Cardoti. 
  “The prince! The prince!” squeaked 
  Monk. “Doc, did you know about this?” 
  “The idea of going back among his 
  nearest living relatives in the African jungles 
  has been too much for him,” murmured Ham. 
  “Doc, we may have to tie him up.” 
   
   
  THE Wing was now at a height of 
  nearly five miles. The air in the cabin was 
  being supplied by oxygen and nitrogen tanks. 
  Doc turned quietly from the stabilizers. 
  Count Cardoti followed the others to 
  the small door of the compartment. Inside this 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  38 
  an ornate casket stood erect. The plate over 
  the face was opened. The quiet features of 
  Prince Zaban were fully revealed. 
  Count Cardoti sputtered wildly. 
  “Mr. Savage! How in the world could 
  this have happened? The body was seized—
  Mr. Savage—you couldn’t have known—” 
  “I did know,” stated Doc calmly. “The 
  body never was seized. In fact, it was not at 
  any time in the funeral procession. I decided it 
  might be best to see that Prince Zaban was 
  returned to Kokoland.” 
  Count Cardoti was staring wildly at 
  Doc. He recovered quickly. 
  “You 
  are 
  remarkably 
  wise, 
  Mr. 
  Savage,” he stated. “No other living man would 
  ever have thought of such a clever ruse. Yet 
  you could not have known the funeral 
  procession might be attacked. At the time, you 
  were somewhere else.” 
  “I happened to be driving the funeral 
  car in the cortège,” advised Doc. “I imagined 
  there were those who would want to make 
  sure Prince Zaban’s body did not get back to 
  his own land.” 
  Count Cardoti was about to reply, 
  when he let out a strangled cry. 
  “Look! Look! The coffin is moving—it’s 
  falling!” 
  The 
  casket 
  was 
  slowly 
  toppling 
  forward. It was as if some force behind were 
  pushing it. Monk and Johnny sprang inside the 
  compartment. They caught the weight before it 
  struck. 
  “It’s Pat!” exploded Monk. “Pat herself, 
  back in there!” 
  “This 
  is 
  indeed 
  a 
  most 
  weird 
  materialization,” 
  stated 
  the 
  long-worded 
  Johnny. “If it is not an hallucination, Patricia 
  has company.” 
  “Oh, Doc! Please don’t look like that!” 
  came Pat Savage’s voice. “I just knew you 
  wouldn’t let us accompany you, so there didn’t 
  seem to be any other way!” 
  Count Cardoti’s black eyes gleamed 
  with appreciation at the lovely Pat. This 
  remarkable young woman’s face was flushed 
  and dirty. Pat had a remarkable faculty for 
  getting her face dirty. It only seemed to add to 
  her beauty. 
  “I instructed you to go home,” stated 
  Doc Savage. “You not only have stowed away, 
  but you have taken the liberty to bring others.” 
  “Yes—yes—I brought them—but when 
  you know, you can’t do anything but take us 
  with you!” stammered Pat. 
  “I can still reverse our direction,” stated 
  Doc. “We would lose only a little time.” 
  “No—no—please, 
  Doc!” 
  exclaimed 
  Pat. “This is Señorita Moncarid, and this is—” 
  “The man representing himself to be 
  William Smith of 4404 Crooked Neck Road, 
  Long Island,” interrupted the man of bronze. 
  “But known to King Udu of Kokoland as Logo.” 
  “Well, 
  I’ll 
  be 
  superamalgamated!” 
  exclaimed Johnny. 
  The African with the thin, arched nose, 
  beside the lovely Señorita Moncarid, was the 
  chauffeur who had been driving her car when 
  Pat Savage had entered it. 
   
   
  Chapter XI 
  LAND OF LONG JUJU 
   
  THE Wing of Doc Savage hovered 
  over a great mountain at dawn. 
  Great Mount Kibo was a floating cloud 
  of mist. Its 19,800 feet of bulk presented one of 
  the strangest spectacles of the equatorial 
  tropics. 
  This highest peak of the Kilimanjaro 
  Range rose from the steamy swelter of matted 
  jungles to the cold, stark rocks of the snow. 
  High on its plains played the kudu, or 
  great antelope. But at its feet the great beasts 
  of the Tertiary Age still haunted its lower 
  regions. Hippopotamuses abounded in the 
  lakes and swamps. 
  Across the Kilimanjaro plains the 
  simba, the lion, sent its fear-inspiring roar at 
  night. Leopard, hyena, cheetah and jackal 
  prowled in its secluded places. 
  “It’s the world as it was before the 
  flood of Noah,” announced the learned Johnny. 
  “It seems the deluge never reached the 
  heights of the Kilimanjaro.” 
  Doc Savage’s marvelous flying Wing 
  was at the time suspended over a remarkable 
  vista. Here, in 1848, the first German 
  missionary had found a gleaming cone of 
  snow, rising almost from the equator. He was 
  awed by the unexpected beauty and majesty 
  of the peaks. 
  The world got a book, written to prove 
  there could be no snow near the equator. It 
  was said the missionary had seen a mirage. 
  His story was not believed until 1860. 
  Because of its sustaining gas, the 
  Wing could be held almost stationary. Below, 
  was all the panorama of Central East Africa. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx LAND OF LONG JUJU xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  39 
  The dense Taveta Forest stretched southward 
  toward the blue-ridged Parri Mountains. 
  “Within the region between these 
  mountains are the forty or more tribes of King 
  Udu’s Kokoland, the richest monarchy in 
  Africa,” said Count Cardoti. “And it is to this 
  country we have, through Mr. Savage, the 
  great honor of returning my poor friend, Prince 
  Zaban, for the proper tribal burial.” 
  Count Cardoti was speaking to Pat 
  Savage. The dark eyes of Señorita Moncarid 
  observed him closely. Señorita Moncarid 
  talked little. She had admitted to Pat Savage 
  that she had at one time been a Masai. A 
  Spanish family had been attracted by her 
  beauty. 
  Señorita Moncarid had been spirited 
  away to Spain. Later, she had been educated 
  in the United States. Tribal marks of the Masai 
  tribe had been eliminated by good surgery. 
  Count Cardoti had calmly accepted the 
  surprise of accompanying Prince Zaban’s body 
  back to Kokoland. 
   
   
  DOC SAVAGE now was observing 
  many miles of the country. 
  “Dag-gonit!” 
  complained 
  Monk. 
  “Renny’s down in all that smother somewhere!” 
  Doc had been trying to pick up 
  Renny’s transmitter. He had met with no 
  success. 
  “I have heard of The Shimba,” Count 
  Cardoti told Doc Savage. “Only the warriors 
  who had killed man-eating lions with their 
  spears are permitted to wear the mane and 
  head of a lion. I fancy this one they call The 
  Shimba is some renegade white man.” 
  Doc Savage said nothing of his own 
  belief. The first few hours had been spent 
  reconnoitering the mountain region. 
  Now Doc Savage was employing 
  powerful binoculars of four dimensional lenses. 
  These not only brought distant objects closer, 
  they made them stand out in stereoscopic 
  detail. A low, fantastic trilling came from the 
  man of bronze. 
  Far below the snow line south of the 
  Kilimanjaro, was what had the appearance of 
  still more snow. Down there, north of the 
  range, separated from Kokoland by a narrow, 
  high-walled mountain pass, a small army was 
  camped. The expanse of white was a double 
  line of grounded war planes. 
  Beyond these white planes lay a wide 
  splotch of what might have been black snow. 
  But this black was the color of the tents of the 
  country. 
  “I would say,” observed Doc Savage, 
  “that we have arrived none too soon. The 
  Northern Legion, of which Renny told us, 
  seems preparing to strike. In addition to fifty or 
  more bombing planes, the army has four war 
  tanks. The activity would indicate they are 
  preparing for movement through the mountain 
  pass to the southward.” 
  Count Cardoti exclaimed over the 
  clearness 
  with 
  which 
  the 
  high-powered 
  binoculars revealed the army camps. 
  “It would seem as if those chaps were 
  looking directly at us!” 
  “Yeah, and if they were, we wouldn’t 
  be hanging around here for long,” replied Ham. 
  “Doc, what are your plans?” 
  “First, I would place Prince Zaban’s 
  body in a secure spot,” said Doc. “We will then 
  see if we can locate Renny’s safari.” 
   
   
  FAR 
  below, 
  the 
  invaders 
  were 
  unaware 
  their 
  movements 
  were 
  being 
  observed. The one camp was of foot soldiers 
  and the tanks. These were all that could be 
  employed for attack in the jungle wilderness of 
  Kokoland.  
  Doc Savage’s study revealed the army 
  to be made up of representatives of several 
  nations, a freebooters’ legion. 
  “If I were King Udu, I would deploy my 
  forces so strategically they could not be 
  touched by bombs from above,” commented 
  the astute Johnny. 
  “That is a thought to remember,” 
  stated Count Cardoti. “Only I fear King Udu is 
  too old, and too ill, to be of much account in 
  directing his armies.” 
  The equatorial sun seemed to be 
  rolling along the rim beyond the mountains. It 
  painted the jungles in myriad colors. The Wing 
  was again beyond the ground vision of the 
  encamped invaders. 
  “When darkness has come, we will 
  descend and observe if there are plans for 
  immediate movement,” stated Doc. 
  The Wing had descended once. The 
  body of Prince Zaban was hidden securely in a 
  niche in the mountains. During the afternoon 
  there had been faint stuttering static on Doc’s 
  radio finder. 
  Doubtless this had been Renny trying 
  to make contact. Perhaps the big engineer 
  
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  40 
  might even have observed the Wing through 
  his own high-powered binoculars. 
  The sun was on the horizon. Though 
  the Wing was miles high, the sun sank as 
  abruptly as if it had been pulled away by a 
  giant hand. 
  “Oh!” exclaimed Pat Savage. “I’ve 
  never seen anything more beautiful!” 
  “Or more likely to be deadly,” observed 
  Ham. “If some of those air scouts down there 
  take a notion to go sky hunting, we may have 
  our hands full.” 
  “It is hardly likely they would find us,” 
  said Count Cardoti.  
  The Wing was merged with the milky 
  brightness of the tropical, star-studded sky. Its 
  greatest advantage was its lack of vibration or 
  motor 
  impact. 
  At 
  cruising 
  speed, 
  the 
  compound mixture was only a hissing through 
  the tubes, which could not have been picked 
  up by airplane detectors. 
  “King Udu has two obsolete planes, a 
  couple of rickety Spads of the World War 
  period,” Count Cardoti informed Doc Savage. 
  “If they ever get off the ground, they’ll be more 
  dangerous for their own fliers than for the 
  enemy.” 
  “I wish we could get in touch with 
  Renny,” complained Ham for the twentieth 
  time. “I’m afraid something has happened to 
  him.” 
  “If he really encountered The Shimba, 
  as you believe, then he is in the gravest 
  danger,” declared Count Cardoti. “The Shimba, 
  as I have been told, never lets up on any one 
  who has beaten him once.” 
  “Dag-gonit!” 
  boasted 
  Monk. 
  “The 
  Shimba may be something, but if he ever gets 
  in front of Renny’s fists, he’ll need something 
  more than bum magic!” 
   
   
  SURROUNDED by tropical darkness, 
  Doc Savage determined to become better 
  informed of the number of the foreign white 
  men 
  and 
  of 
  their 
  possible 
  movements. 
  Suddenly the Wing was dropping with a speed 
  that caused Count Cardoti and Señorita 
  Moncarid to draw in deep breaths. 
  It seemed as if the Wing had suddenly 
  lost all of its sustaining gas. 
  “If you will put on the infra-red goggles, 
  you may be able to observe what our friends 
  below are doing,” advised Doc Savage. 
  Señorita 
  Moncarid 
  gasped 
  with 
  wonder. It was her first experience with the 
  high lights of the infra-red rays. Through the 
  huge goggles, she was looking down on a 
  strange spectacle. 
  The squadron of planes was clearly 
  revealed, as if in a motion picture still. So were 
  the grim army tanks. Among them several 
  hundred men were moving about. It was clear 
  they were preparing for some action. 
  “This gives us a clear conception of 
  their position and the route they must follow to 
  enter the pass,” stated Doc Savage.  
  Abruptly, the vibration detector on the 
  instrument board of the Wing itself began 
  oscillating. From the machine came a low 
  humming. 
  “They’ve got a plane up!” exclaimed 
  Ham. “We’d better have a look around!” 
  “None of the legion planes have left 
  the ground,” advised Doc. “There are eleven 
  pursuit planes and eighteen bombers.” 
  Count Cardoti took in the bronze man 
  with a look of wonderment. He would have 
  been more amazed if he had known that Doc 
  Savage could have told him accurately, at this 
  moment, the exact number of men in the 
  camps, and the extent of their equipment and 
  ammunition. He also had ascertained some of 
  the invaders were Asiatics. 
  Doc Savage had dropped the Wing to 
  a low level. At this spot they were hedged in by 
  high ridges. Clearly now, came the drumming 
  of a plane somewhere overhead. 
  Doc tuned in the observation lens. Into 
  it rocketed a single plane of an obsolete 
  pattern. In the television arrangement, the 
  plane’s wings trembled as if they were about to 
  drop off. 
  “It’s one of King Udu’s shaky Spads!” 
  exclaimed Count Cardoti. 
   
   
  FROM the ground below shot a plane 
  detector beam. It enveloped the Wing and the 
  Spad in spreading illumination. Immediately 
  men poured from the tents like black ants from 
  hills. Brass guns gleamed suddenly. 
  Fire spouted. Incendiary tracer bullets 
  painted a line toward the Wing and the shaky, 
  old Spad. Doc Savage could have shot the 
  Wing to a safe height within a few seconds. 
  Instead, the man of bronze flattened the Wing. 
  “They’ve got our range!” shouted Ham. 
  “I can feel them smacking the undercarriage!” 
  Slugs of the anti-aircraft stream were 
  hammering at the lower part of the Wing. 
  Some of the tracer bullets found the Spad. The 
  
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  41 
  edge of one of its wings went ragged with a 
  bursting explosion. 
  The radiant beam from the ground 
  showed the face of a scared native flier. 
  “Shouldn’t we get out of this before 
  they hit some vital part?” questioned Count 
  Cardoti. 
  “Thunderation!” spouted Monk. “That’s 
  one thing this Wing hasn’t got! There ain’t any 
  vital parts!” 
  “They can do us no damage,” advised 
  Doc. “They are now using their magnetic ray. It 
  will be unfortunate for the plane of King Udu.” 
  The magnetic ray was invisible. The 
  Wing remained unaffected. Having no motors 
  operated by electrical ignition, its combustion 
  tubes continued their slow hissing. 
  “Howlin’ calamities!” shouted Monk. 
  “Look out, Doc! The native flier’s out of 
  business!” 
  The magnetic ray was invisible. It had 
  the quality of paralyzing the motor of an 
  airplane. Apparently the engine of the old Spad 
  instantly went dead. The crazy wings flashed 
  into a twisting spin. 
  “Oh, he’ll be crushed to pieces!” cried 
  Pat Savage. “Doc, the plane’s going to hit us!” 
  Doc’s quick hands had flattened the 
  great metallic Wing. Its broad surface now was 
  directly under the falling Spad. 
  “Keep the control steady, Johnny!” 
  directed Doc. 
  The man of bronze had whipped from 
  his seat. He was swinging through an 
  automatic hatchway in the roof of the wing. It 
  seemed as if he would be flattened by the 
  smash of the spinning Spad. 
  “He’ll be killed, and then what will we 
  do?” exclaimed Señorita Moncarid. 
  The strange woman had spoken but 
  little. Now she was concerned for the safety of 
  the man of bronze. Reared as she had been 
  among the superstitious Masai, the señorita 
  must have believed Doc Savage to be some 
  sort of a god. 
   
   
  PERHAPS the terror-stricken flier of 
  the King Udu plane also believed he had 
  encountered some unknown god of the air. 
  Probably he had been resigned to take the 
  death crash. The old Spad carried no 
  parachute. The exploding bullets had broken 
  its wings. The magnetic ray had killed its 
  motor. 
  Now the flier was plunging toward the 
  earth. Next, it must have seemed to him that a 
  great, bright-winged monster had interfered. 
  And on the back of that monster appeared a 
  tremendous figure. 
  As the Spad crumpled into the metallic 
  surface of the Wing, Doc Savage leaped. One 
  steel-strong hand gripped the rim of the Spad’s 
  cockpit. The other hand fastened on the 
  shoulder of the dazed flier. 
  The grip of the bronze fingers was 
  tremendous. They sank into the flesh until 
  blood slowly oozed. 
  On the terrain below, amazed airmen 
  and 
  soldiers 
  witnessed 
  an 
  unbelievable 
  episode. The crumpled old Spad whirled down 
  upon them. Its weight crashed into one of the 
  black tents. 
  The Spad contained no flier. No man 
  had been seen to fall in the beam still playing 
  steadily upon the strange Wing. 
  The Wing was still so low that machine 
  guns were turned upon it. The pounding 
  stream of bullets caused no damage. The 
  mysterious Wing turned like a lazy, scornful 
  monster. It went hissing upward. 
  Doc Savage slipped into the Wing’s 
  cabin through the sliding hatchway. The native 
  flier fell on his knees. He pulled a killing knife 
  from the broad hide belt wrapped around his 
  middle. Slowly he placed the rounded edge 
  over his stomach. 
  One hand caught Doc Savage’s wrist. 
  The lips pressed the back of the bronze man’s 
  hand. The arched-nosed William Smith, or 
  Logo, sprang to the man’s side. He spoke to 
  him rapidly in Kokonese. 
  “He says he is forever the slave of the 
  god, B’wana Savage,” explained Logo. 
  “Tell him to arise and explain to you 
  what the situation may be in King Udu’s 
  kingdom,” directed Doc. “Inquire if a big white 
  man with a gloomy face has appeared?” 
  In the flier’s mixed patois of Kokonese 
  and English it seemed the situation in King 
  Udu’s village was acute. The people believed 
  King Udu to be dying. The tribes had heard 
  Prince Zaban had been killed and taken away 
  by evil spirits without proper burial. The priests 
  of the Long Juju had become strong. 
  No 
  white 
  man 
  answering 
  the 
  description of Renny had appeared. Masai and 
  Swahili warriors, led by the mystic Shimba, 
  had been stealing women and children. They 
  had practically surrounded King Udu’s palace. 
   
  
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  42 
   
  Chapter XII 
  THE KING IS DYING 
   
  “SUMMING it all up,” stated Ham, “it 
  would seem our King Udu is having his share 
  of trouble. What do you suppose has become 
  of Renny, Doc?” 
  “Perhaps Renny is remaining in a safe 
  position, where he can observe affairs until our 
  arrival,” stated Doc. “We shall move at once to 
  the king’s village.” 
  In spite of its tremendous power, 
  contrary winds around the Kilimanjaro Range 
  hampered the flight of the Wing. Following the 
  crash of the Spad, the European Legion had 
  got half a dozen pursuit ships into the air. 
  Count Cardoti polished his finger nails 
  nervously. A dozen beams of light flashed 
  around the Wing. Doc Savage apparently 
  made no effort to avoid the pursuers. 
  “It would be as well perhaps that they 
  now learn to be cautious,” stated Doc. 
  Señorita Moncarid’s eyes sparkled. 
  “I have never seen any one so 
  wonderful as your great cousin,” she said to 
  Pat Savage. “He is what you call—invincible.” 
  Pat merely nodded and smiled. At this 
  moment machine gun bullets had begun 
  hammering the Wing, like rain on a tin roof. 
  They had about as much effect upon its 
  bulletproof composition. The crystal alloy glass 
  of its observation windows did not show so 
  much as the trace of a spider crack. 
  This 
  new 
  composition 
  had 
  been 
  perfected by Monk, directed by Doc. The old 
  bulletproof glass with its spreading spider 
  tracks had been annoying. 
  Doc flew the Wing steadily southward. 
  He had discovered a nook in the mountain 
  range, where no plane of regular construction 
  could have possibly landed. Even a close 
  approach would have been prevented by the 
  furious updraft of the mountain wind. It was in 
  this place the casket containing the body of 
  Prince Zaban had been concealed. 
   
   
  THE pursuit planes darted around like 
  angry hornets. One bomber made an attempt 
  to attack the mysterious craft. The man of 
  bronze avoided it easily. Each time the bomber 
  moved into position for a possible dropping of 
  explosive, the Wing sideslipped. 
  Suddenly there was a yell from Monk. 
  “Doc! That crazy guy’s tryin’ to commit 
  suicide!” 
  The apelike chemist had been closely 
  observing the pursuit planes. One flier had 
  separated from the others. He had zoomed 
  suddenly for height. Now he was coming down 
  in a full power, screaming dive. The shrieking 
  of his propeller could be heard above the low 
  hissing of the Wing. 
  Suicide was the exact word. The flier 
  might have been obeying a death order. 
  Doc Savage manipulated the controls. 
  The Wing banked, started to roll. But the 
  pursuit ship was like a darting arrow. Its silvery 
  nose crashed in almost the exact middle of the 
  stiff metal of the Wing. 
  “We’re going down!” shouted Count 
  Cardoti. “I knew they would get us, if we kept 
  on fooling around!” 
  Escaping gas let out a loud hissing. 
  Fortunately, the Wing was constructed for just 
  such an emergency. Its sustaining gas was 
  contained in separate compartments. 
  In the roof of the Wing a dead, 
  mangled flier lay in his smashed plane. Flame 
  shot up from his cockpit. The aviator had been 
  even greater than a mere suicide. He had used 
  his brain as well as his life in an effort to wipe 
  the Wing out of the sky. 
  The man’s body was rapidly charring 
  to cinders in his blazing plane. The pursuit ship 
  was locked tightly in the metal of the Wing. 
  Fortunately, it was not in contact with any part 
  which might have been set afire. 
  Only, the weight and position of the 
  wreckage hampered operation of the controls. 
  The Wing was sinking toward the 
  jagged teeth of the range which extended east 
  and west from Mount Kibo. 
  “Perhaps all had better put on the 
  parachutes,” 
  advised 
  Doc 
  Savage. 
  “The 
  mountain has many perils.” 
   
   
  THOUGH it was crippled, the Wing 
  was kept circling by the marvelous skill of Doc 
  Savage. His bronze hands played on the 
  controls. He jockeyed for a safer position in the 
  sky, near the ragged range of the mountain. 
  Other pursuit ships were withdrawing. 
  They must have believed they had 
  witnessed the finish of their terrible, mysterious 
  visitor. For the flames from the burning plane, 
  locked in the metal top, made it appear that all 
  of the Wing was blazing. 
  Mount Kibo with its hungry blasts was 
  too perilous a spot into which to venture 
  needlessly. The great Wing flashed out of sight 
  
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  43 
  in the night mist. Then it became only a dull 
  flare behind the serrated range. 
  No doubt the pursuit fliers believed 
  their fellow flier’s death had accomplished its 
  purpose. Surely none could be left alive when 
  the falling aircraft crashed. 
  But Doc had brought the Wing safely 
  to earth. 
  “He was a brave man and deserving of 
  a better fate,” stated Doc Savage. 
  Thus the man of bronze paid tribute to 
  the flier who had burned in the wreckage of his 
  plane, atop the grounded Wing. The plane was 
  removed. Monk and Ham were repairing the 
  damaged gas compartment. 
  “Johnny, you will remain with the 
  Wing,” directed Doc Savage. “We will make 
  our way to the village of King Udu.” 
  The man of bronze had brought the 
  Wing back to the sheltered gorge, where the 
  body of Prince Zaban had been concealed. 
  Now a strange funeral procession made ready 
  to move overland to the palace of the ruler of 
  Kokoland. 
  The foreign casket was borne on the 
  brawny shoulders of Logo and the flier who 
  had been snatched by Doc Savage from death 
  in the sky. 
  The descent to the thicker and warmer 
  bush of the jungle was a trying march. Señorita 
  Moncarid and Pat Savage were enwrapped in 
  heavy 
  garments. 
  Here 
  at 
  the 
  fourteen-
  thousand-foot level, were patches of dirty 
  snow. 
  Something in the night began whistling 
  in cheery fashion. The sound was so 
  remarkably human that Monk halted instantly. 
  “That is not one of your kinsfolk,” 
  observed Ham sarcastically. “The first baboons 
  are much lower down. If I have it correctly, that 
  is a brown stonechat bird.” 
  Pat Savage repressed a little scream 
  as several animals darted almost under their 
  feet. They were striped like chipmunks, but 
  had the tails of rats. 
  “Those,” said Ham, “are Rodentis 
  Macqueniensis.” He hastily added, “Johnny 
  told me their names. They are field rats to you, 
  Monk.” 
   
   
  A FEW thousand feet below Mount 
  Kibo, moist heat took the place of the sharp air 
  above. Logo, and the other native carrying the 
  casket of Prince Zaban, sweated. 
  This modern casket, one of the finest 
  New York City could produce, afforded a 
  marked contrast to the steaming jungle. The 
  Colobus monkeys were highly excited. 
  The homely Monk was followed by 
  Habeas Corpus.  
  “Looks like you’ve come to a place 
  where you’ll have to give up that shote,” 
  drawled Ham, with a sarcastic grin. “You’ve got 
  to make up your mind about one or the other.” 
  “Dag-gonit!” 
  yelped 
  hairy 
  Monk. 
  “Whatcha tallkin’ about, shyster?” 
  “I think some of your monkey cousins 
  would like to visit with you,” grinned Ham, “only 
  they can’t make up their minds what kind of an 
  insect that thing is following you.” 
  Count Cardoti had been silent for 
  some time. He had stayed close by Pat 
  Savage. Now he spoke to Doc Savage. 
  “I had almost forgotten,” said Count 
  Cardoti. “The teakwood block, that package in 
  New York, did you have any report after it was 
  stolen?” 
  “I had no report after it was stolen from 
  me,” replied Doc. 
  Ham, the lawyer, smiled to himself. 
  The bronze man had spoken the exact truth. It 
  was what Ham would have termed a legal 
  evasion. 
  At 
  this 
  moment 
  Ham 
  also 
  was 
  wondering. Events had come so swiftly that the 
  curious teakwood box had apparently been 
  forgotten. Doc Savage had said it contained a 
  priceless jewel. 
  Ham knew the marvelous brain of the 
  bronze man never overlooked even a trivial 
  detail. The teakwood box was more than that. 
  Doc had said they must guard the contents of 
  the box with their lives. 
  The box had not been stolen from 
  Doc. It had been replaced in the big safe, 
  before the interrupted funeral of Prince Zaban. 
  Ham could not recall the teakwood box having 
  been removed to the Wing. 
  And if it had been, where now was the 
  mysterious block with its lid that would open 
  only at the impulse of an electroscopic ray? 
  Even Ham and Monk, aware of the 
  ways of Doc Savage, would have been 
  amazed to know the teakwood block was very 
  close to them. At the time Count Cardoti asked 
  the question concerning a report on the theft of 
  the package from Doc’s safe, the teakwood 
  block was moving toward the palace of King 
  Udu. 
   
  
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  44 
   
   
  MORE than the Colobus monkeys, 
  more than the chattering of the baby-voiced 
  hyrax squirrels disturbed the jungle, as Doc 
  Savage’s small safari moved into the heart of 
  Kokoland. 
  Tunk-tunk-tunk-tunk! 
  From 
  hilltop 
  to 
  hilltop, 
  spaced 
  messages were being tapped. 
  This was the rapid thumping of the 
  tight skin over the ends of hollow logs. Doc 
  Savage knew the eyes of the jungle were now 
  fixed upon the little procession. Count Cardoti 
  glanced about apprehensively. 
  “King Udu already knows we have 
  arrived,” he stated. “I fear also that others 
  much less friendly have been informed.” 
  Tunk-tunk-tunk-tunk! 
  The swift telegraph of the bush was 
  telling its story. 
  Doc Savage only hoped none of the 
  spies of the wild tribes had been far enough up 
  Mount Kibo to have observed the landing of 
  the Wing. Detection now would make it tough 
  for Johnny, who was alone on guard. 
  The man of bronze was not, however, 
  so greatly worried about the geologist. The 
  Wing was equipped with several automatic 
  devices. The approach of enemies would bring 
  the release of stupefying gases. Other weird 
  manifestations would doubtless frighten away 
  superstitious natives. 
  Not a liana vine moved. There 
  appeared to be no life in this lower jungle. The 
  splashing of beasts in occasional waterholes 
  was missing. This of itself was most ominous. 
  For the drums continued talking. 
  Doc Savage was well aware the body 
  of Prince Zaban had more than their own small 
  escort. Half-naked figures were weaving 
  through the jungle bush. Eyes surrounded by 
  white circles of ochre no doubt were fixed on 
  the ornate casket of gleaming plush and silver, 
  borne on the shoulders of Logo and the other 
  native. 
  “I don’t like this at all,” complained 
  Monk. “It is suddenly too quiet. I wish they 
  would stop pounding them drums.” 
  Doc Savage suspected an attack 
  might have been made upon the small party 
  except for one thing. The eyes observing them 
  were conveying a weird message to primitive 
  brains. 
  The message passing from drum to 
  drum may have been of the arrival of a new 
  god in the land of the Kilimanjaro. The 
  concealed natives must have believed the 
  ornate casket could bear only gifts to such a 
  god, or perhaps the great fetish itself. 
  And at this time, King Udu was 
  receiving word of the visitors with their strange 
  burden. 
   
   
  KING UDU reclined on a couch of 
  spotted leopard skins. Long, white hair fell 
  about massive shoulders. The shoulders were 
  great, even though they now sagged. 
  For King Udu was of tremendous 
  weight. Though in the late nineties, the ruler 
  was still enormously fat. His faded eyes 
  peered out over three rolling chins. 
  King Udu moved his pudgy hands 
  feebly. On nearly all of his fingers flashed 
  jewels of many colors, but crudely cut. 
  But fat as he was, King Udu’s nose 
  was thin and highly arched. 
  “What do you see, Selan?” questioned 
  the king in a weak voice. 
  Before 
  the 
  monarch 
  squatted 
  a 
  grotesquely thin figure on bony haunches. He 
  had all the decorations of a tribal medicine 
  man. His head was shaved and polished. 
  “They are evil ones,” intoned the 
  medicine man. “They are bearing a shining 
  box. In it may be destruction.” 
  Plainly, Selan did not approve of the 
  coming of what might be some new form of 
  witchcraft. His face was long and twisted into 
  countless wrinkles. He wore a heavy scowl as 
  he replied to King Udu. 
  Though 
  Doc 
  Savage 
  and 
  his 
  companions were still some distance in the 
  jungle, the village of King Udu was marking the 
  approach. More than twenty tribes were 
  represented in the thick dust of the streets. 
  King Udu had ordered a mobilization 
  of all his people. He had attempted to quell an 
  uprising of the wild Masai and the Swahili. The 
  threat of the mysterious Shimba had caused 
  terror among those of the more peaceful tribes. 
  Word had come of the assembling of 
  an European and Asiatic army beyond the 
  mountains. Messengers had been sent with 
  demands upon King Udu. 
  “The radio box has informed me we 
  must prepare for action,” said King Udu. “What 
  has Selan to advise? Should we send out an 
  army to meet these foreign devils? Or should 
  we scatter to the hills?” 
  As King Udu’s hand waved, his 
  togalike chamma draped over his slumped 
  
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  45 
  figure. This snow-white, cotton garment, 
  hitched over the rolling shoulders, was an 
  Abyssinian mark of royalty. Only the archives 
  of the family of King Udu knew how this 
  distinguishing garment had come into the 
  Kilimanjaro Mountain country, more than eight 
  lifetimes before. 
  “Great 
  King,” 
  intoned 
  Selan, 
  the 
  medicine man, wagging his bare skull and 
  frowning deeply into his many wrinkles. “The 
  invaders are too strong. The time may have 
  come to yield. The successor to the throne is 
  no longer living. The Blood Idol has been sent 
  away. Many of our people are afraid.” 
   
   
  A SCORE of nearly naked chanters 
  sat in a row, in what King Udu evidently called 
  his throne room. Now his only throne was the 
  couch of skins on which he was forced to 
  recline. 
  The raftered walls of the king’s palace 
  afforded strange contrasts. 
  On one side of King Udu’s couch of 
  skins were weird, smiling heads. Hundreds of 
  these were stuck upon teakwood pegs driven 
  into walls of palmetto thatch. They were the 
  skulls of enemies slain by King Udu’s head-
  hunting tribes. 
  These tribal trophies must remain 
  close to the throne, if Udu was to continue his 
  domination of all his blood-thirsty chiefs. 
  Beyond 
  the 
  couch 
  loomed 
  a 
  contrasting apparatus. This was no less than 
  one of the most modern of radios. Beside this 
  was a glass square. 
  The wise and advanced King Udu had 
  even attempted to have television installed. 
  This had never worked as it should. 
  At one end of the huge room was an 
  airplane. True, it was only an obsolete old 
  Spad from the World War. 
  But it was a plane. And every part was 
  kept polished. 
  Outside in the streets of the village, 
  the natives of several tribes were chanting, 
  dancing or gathered in subdued groups. One 
  tribe circled, waving long spears to the 
  tuneless thumping of tom-toms. 
  The 
  Kokonese, 
  King 
  Udu’s 
  own 
  people, seemed to be attempting to drill with a 
  few guns. 
  In King Udu’s palace were six very old 
  men. They sat in a row behind Selan, the chief 
  counselor. The six counselors to the king were 
  worried and solemn. 
   
   
  DRILLING of the natives in the street 
  abruptly ceased. They gazed with superstitious 
  fear at the figure of the bronze Doc Savage, 
  who had come striding into the village. Logo 
  walked with head erect, helping bear the 
  casket of silver and black. 
  Logo rapped out sharp words in 
  Kokonese. 
  “Prince Zaban has come home!” 
  Many 
  tribesmen 
  prostrated 
  themselves. The drilling Kokonese bowed their 
  heads and muttered. Drums started beating in 
  dirgelike cadence. Voices of warriors and 
  women wailed in time with the drums. 
  “Some homecoming for the prince!” 
  observed Monk. 
  “We will do well for the moment to 
  make no observations,” advised Doc Savage. 
  “Meaning for you to shut your trap, 
  ape,” growled Ham. “Maybe that shote of yours 
  is worth something.” 
  Ham 
  referred 
  to 
  the 
  long-eared, 
  grotesque Habeas Corpus. The smart pig 
  stuck close to Monk’s heels. 
  Many of the natives of the flat noses, 
  those from the farther hills, must have been 
  impressed by the Arabian hog. 
  Doc Savage had taken in all of the 
  fantastic village. Every manner of grass hut 
  and thatched, bamboo building known to the 
  various tribes appeared on different streets. 
  The man of bronze noted the separate 
  establishments 
  for 
  the 
  women 
  of 
  the 
  Kokonese. He spoke with Patricia Savage. 
  “It is against the custom of the people 
  for women to appear before the king,” stated 
  Doc. “You will accompany Señorita Moncarid 
  to the long hut of the women. There you will be 
  safe enough.” 
  “Well, I like that!” exclaimed Pat 
  Savage, viewing the long hut in which many 
  women were gabbling. “You think I came all 
  the way to Africa to be stuck with a bunch of 
  women?” 
  “As I recall it, you were not especially 
  invited to come to Africa,” said Doc calmly. 
  “We will see that you have some of the more 
  modern comforts if that is possible.” 
  “It is the custom of the people, Miss 
  Savage,” interjected Señorita Moncarid. “It is 
  only when we are requested, that we may 
  appear before the king or one of the royal 
  chiefs.” 
  
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  46 
   
  “That is true, Miss Savage,” agreed 
  Count Cardoti. “As soon as we have concluded 
  the necessary interview with King Udu, I will 
  see about a separate establishment.” 
   
   
  MONK gasped at the fantastic array 
  inside the throne room of King Udu. The 
  chanters, Selan, the medicine man, and the six 
  solemn counselors gazed with awe on the 
  giant figure of Doc Savage. 
  The clear bronze skin, the flaky gold 
  eyes and the smooth golden mask of Doc’s 
  hair must have given him the appearance of 
  some sort of a god. Even Selan, who partly 
  ruled King Udu by virtue of his position, 
  mumbled humbly before the bronze giant. 
  King Udu spoke in the best of English. 
  “I 
  appreciate 
  your 
  coming, 
  Doc 
  Savage, the great one,” he said. “B’wana 
  Renwick had informed me of some of your 
  powers. The bringing home of my only son 
  places me enormously in your debt. First of all 
  you make possible the necessary tribal 
  ceremony. But I fear your arrival is too late. I 
  have not many days, Doc Savage.” 
  “No man’s days are finished until they 
  are all counted,” stated Doc Savage. “We will 
  do what we can. Count Cardoti has told me 
  much of your problem.” 
  King Udu attempted to rise from his 
  couch of skins. But the aged monarch fell back 
  heavily and gasped. 
  “I am grateful indeed to Count Cardoti 
  for his companionship with my poor son,” he 
  said, when he could speak. “My people had 
  hoped Zaban would return with much of the 
  wisdom of the white man to rule over them. 
  Count Cardoti has done his work well.” 
  “I would advise,” stated Doc, “that 
  during the days the body of the prince must 
  repose in state, the casket be opened only for 
  the glimpse of his face.” 
  “That shall be so ordered,” agreed 
  King Udu. 
  The old king called Doc Savage and 
  Count Cardoti close to his couch. 
  “The influence of witchcraft and the 
  Long Juju has become too strong for my 
  people,” he murmured. “Since my son has 
  been murdered, there is none to carry forward. 
  My many chiefs know this. Listen!” 
   
   
  IN the dusty streets of the fantastic 
  village, the beat of many drums suddenly 
  increased. 
  The 
  tunk-tunk-tunk-tunk 
  had 
  become a deep throbbing. The dirgelike chant 
  of mourning was rising higher. 
  The voices in the many dialects of the 
  tribesmen were shrilling into a threat. At one 
  end of the village a weird war dance had been 
  started. 
  “They would not have a chance 
  against these armed invaders, when they 
  come through the mountain pass,” declared 
  King Udu. “My Masai and Swahili have 
  deserted to the Long Juju. The foreign devils 
  await only my death to enslave my people. The 
  Masai and the Swahili will join them in bringing 
  back 
  slavery, 
  the 
  hunting 
  of 
  heads, 
  cannibalism. Even the treasure—the great—” 
  Old King Udu slumped into the skins of 
  the couch, gasping. 
  Some of the chanters began a high 
  wailing. This was a cry, which informed those 
  outside King Udu was dead. Though the King 
  was not dead, the sudden cry was disastrous. 
  Mingled tribesmen suddenly jammed 
  the low doorways of the fantastic throne room. 
  Their wails joined those of the excited 
  chanters. 
  The massive figure of Doc Savage 
  suddenly stood before the figures of the tribal 
  chiefs. More than a dozen of those with the 
  waving ostrich feathers crowded into the room. 
  They were amazed to hear this bronze 
  giant speaking abruptly in a mixture of their 
  own tongues. Doc spoke rapidly. 
  “King Udu has only passed into a 
  dream,” said the man of bronze. “In it he will 
  discover what must be done to defeat your 
  enemies.” 
  The jabberings of the chiefs drowned 
  Doc’s voice. Tribesmen armed with long 
  spears surged into the room. Selan, the 
  medicine man, spoke sharply. Doc Savage 
  knew Selan had said King Udu was dead. 
  Perhaps the king’s counselor saw 
  opportunity for himself in the passing of the 
  monarchy. 
  Doc Savage lifted one hand. None 
  saw the tiny object shatter at Selan’s bent 
  knees. The chiefs only saw Selan close his 
  eyes and cease speaking. Anaesthetic powder 
  had filled Selan’s nostrils. 
  Doc Savage turned. In the palm of his 
  hand was a small syringe. But the chiefs saw 
  only the bronze giant’s hand pass across King 
  Udu’s forehead. 
  King Udu opened his eyes. His great 
  body lifted. Then he stood on his feet. 
  
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  47 
  The royal chiefs of the tribesmen fell 
  upon their faces. 
   
   
   
   
  The jabbering of the chiefs drowned Doc’s voice. Tribesmen armed with long spears surged into the room. 
   
  Chapter XIII 
  FEAR OF THE PEOPLE 
   
  KING UDU’S weight was well above 
  three hundred pounds. Amazed counselors, 
  chanters and warrior chiefs saw Ras Udu lifted 
  as easily as though he were only a small 
  monkey. 
  King Udu had stood on his own feet 
  only long enough to make an announcement. 
  “My chiefs, servants of all the gods!” 
  his voice rolled. “We will not bow before the 
  invading devils! Aid has come to us! We will go 
  before our enemies with our spears sharpened 
  and our heads erect!” 
  Guttural voices of approval were 
  sounding. King Udu swayed. His strength was 
  leaving his bones. 
  Doc Savage lifted the weighty king. 
  Lifted him and carried him with ease through 
  the low doorway into the inner room, where 
  Prince Zaban had been placed. 
  Before this casket, knelt half a dozen 
  weird figures. They were priests with tribal 
  offerings to the dead. At the command of Doc 
  Savage, they arose and departed. 
  The man of bronze placed King Udu 
  quickly upon another royal couch of skins. 
  Monk and Ham had followed to the doorway. 
  “Let none enter,” commanded Doc. 
  “See that we are undisturbed. Speak to those 
  outside and say King Udu will prepare his plan 
  of defense against his enemies.” 
  Ham and Monk blocked the doorway. 
  Count Cardoti stood in the middle of the throne 
  room. His bright, black eyes gleamed with 
  apparent appreciation. 
  “Your Doc Savage has by simple 
  magic made it almost possible to set himself 
  up as a successor to Ras Udu,” he stated. 
  “Thunderation!” squealed Monk. “Doc 
  wouldn’t want any part of this funny place! 
  What could we do here?” 
  “I don’t know what I would do, but any 
  animal with a shape like yours ought to fit in,” 
  remarked Ham. “The way things are lining up, 
  we might have to stay longer than we 
  imagine.” 
  
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  48 
   
  “Dag-gonit!” howled Monk. “I suppose 
  you think your brains are too good for this 
  place! I don’t like Pat being left out there with 
  all them native women!” 
  “I have been thinking about that,” 
  exclaimed Count Cardoti. “I know these people 
  well. I shall see what arrangements can be 
  made for more exclusive quarters.” 
  Ham and Monk noticed the chiefs of 
  the various tribes moved aside quickly as the 
  dapper figure of Count Cardoti passed. Some 
  bent their heads and touched their foreheads. 
  “You know,” growled Monk, “I believe 
  this count fellow’s got the Indian sign on some 
  of these guys.” 
  “No ‘count fellow, you mean,” snapped 
  Ham. “He does too much thinking about Pat to 
  suit me.” 
  Count 
  Cardoti 
  went 
  through 
  the 
  doorway into the dust of the street. The drums 
  kept up their tunk-tunking. Bare feet of the 
  Kokonese shuffled about in their conception of 
  a white man’s army drill. 
  “Howlin’ calamities!” exploded Monk. 
  “I’d like to play top sergeant to some of them 
  guys! They’d hotfoot it right or get their toes 
  stepped on!” 
  “Maybe you’d do better teachin’ ‘em to 
  swing through the trees,” suggested Ham. 
  “That’s more in your line.” 
  Neither of the bickering partners 
  realized how soon Monk was to have the 
  opportunity of playing something more than top 
  sergeant to these Kokonese. Nor what a 
  ridiculous figure Ham, once a brigadier 
  general, was to cut in the make-up of the 
  Kokoland army. 
  At this time it did not seem as if there 
  ever would be an army. Had the invading army 
  found its way through the mountain pass now, 
  there would have been little resistance to its 
  advance. 
   
   
  IN the meantime, King Udu had 
  revived enough to talk with Doc Savage. The 
  ruler of Kokoland was now able to speak only 
  in whispers. 
  His council of six, and Selan, the chief 
  medicine man, were unable to quiet the fears 
  of the people, King Udu imparted. 
  “Selan and the others are fearful and 
  their faces are long when they appear before 
  the chiefs,” said King Udu. “Only a smile of 
  courage can lead my people to war. My council 
  no longer has courage. Selan and the others 
  have betrayed their fear. The chiefs believe it 
  is my own fear, because my son is dead my 
  days are numbered.” 
  Doc Savage touched the old king’s 
  wrist. He felt the weakness of the pulse. Then 
  the bronze man spoke rapidly. 
  The name of Señorita Moncarid was 
  mentioned. 
  “First, we must discover who is The 
  Shimba,” declared Doc. “It is this figure which 
  seems to sway your more superstitious chiefs.” 
  “That I have been unable to discover,” 
  whispered King Udu. “Yet from Logo I have 
  learned The Shimba of my own kingdom 
  seemed able to impose his will upon wild 
  tribesmen sent to your great country.” 
  “That would seem to be true,” admitted 
  Doc. “Your loyal Logo and his Kokonese 
  helped defeat them. He set a trap with 
  teakwood boxes whereby many were killed. He 
  also assisted in removing the body of Prince 
  Zaban for transportation back to his own 
  country. I am looking deeper into this matter of 
  Señorita Moncarid.” 
  “Yes—yes—” King Udu’s voice was 
  very faint. “Señorita Moncarid—it is of peculiar 
  coincidence—the treasure—” 
  The 
  monarch 
  lapsed 
  into 
  unconsciousness. 
  For 
  the 
  present, 
  Doc 
  Savage judged it best to permit him to rest. 
  The mystery of Señorita Moncarid must wait. 
  Also that of the treasure which King Udu had 
  twice mentioned. Doc now understood the 
  object 
  of 
  the 
  invading 
  army 
  of 
  mixed 
  nationalities. They were adventurers seeking 
  treasure rather than conquest. 
  The man of bronze stepped into the 
  throne room. Selan had revived. The medicine 
  man was slightly dazed. But it could be seen 
  he was also furiously angry. The council of six 
  had downcast faces. 
  Selan led in the scowling with which 
  Doc Savage was greeted. 
  “King Udu is about to depart,” asserted 
  Selan. “He has spoken much of 
  your 
  greatness, Doc Savage. But you cannot 
  restore confidence to these many tribes. I shall 
  lead the council in an appeal to the priests of 
  the Long Juju.” 
  Doc Savage surveyed the heavy 
  faces. He could imagine the six stolid advisors 
  of King Udu were under the power of Selan. 
  The bronze giant’s flaky gold eyes held those 
  of smoky black. When he smiled, there were 
  only scowls to answer. 
  
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  49 
  “We will confer shortly,” announced 
  Doc. “King Udu will live to see his people 
  victorious. Selan, you and the others will join 
  me presently in the room of eating.” 
  Doc Savage apparently dismissed 
  Selan and his six followers. He turned back to 
  Ham and Monk. 
  “Where is Count Cardoti?” he inquired. 
  “Gone to see if he can make 
  arrangements for Pat and Señorita Moncarid to 
  leave the house of the black women,” said 
  Ham. 
  “Count Cardoti must not do that at 
  present,” stated Doc. “You will go outside and 
  see that Pat and Señorita Moncarid stay 
  closely with the other women of the Kokonese. 
  There may be grave disturbances soon.” 
   
   
  WHEN Doc Savage again faced Selan 
  and the six long-faced black men of King Udu’s 
  council in the room of eating, the bronze man 
  was cheerful and smiling. 
  The man of bronze had spoken with 
  the cooks of the palace. They had set certain 
  delicacies before Selan and the advisors. 
  Among these was one of the land’s most 
  appealing dainties. 
  Perhaps no white man would have 
  appreciated this Kokonese dish. For it was no 
  less than a great pie containing baked white 
  ants. The flavor might have been a little off for 
  a Caucasian palate. 
  Doc Savage viewed with relish the 
  great pie. He saw that Selan and his scowling 
  followers also appreciated being offered the 
  opportunity for such a feast. 
  The 
  man 
  of 
  bronze 
  spoke 
  ceremoniously. 
  “We will add greatly to the flavor of the 
  white ant dish, especially for those of great 
  medicine in the land,” he stated. 
  Doc had placed what resembled a 
  housewife’s cream whipper on the long table. 
  Into this he poured goat’s cream from a 
  hollowed bamboo. The small machine whirred. 
  The goat’s milk was whipped into a frothy 
  mixture. 
  The man of bronze poured some of 
  the froth on a portion of the white ant pie. He 
  gave every indication of being well pleased 
  with the result. 
  “It is a dish fit only for the gods,” 
  declared Doc. “None but those of superior 
  medicine should partake of such a delicacy.” 
  The frothy whipped cream ornamented 
  seven portions of the white ant pie. Selan and 
  the others may have been medicine men. They 
  professed to have the power of witchcraft 
  But they were no less than hungry 
  children. They wolfed their shares of the white 
  ant pie. 
  “Good food gives courage for great 
  wars,” announced Doc. 
  It seemed as if mere pie was having 
  that effect. Selan, whose face was the most 
  wrinkled and perhaps the sourest in Kokoland, 
  suddenly widened his toothless mouth in a 
  broad smile. 
  Others of the six began to crinkle the 
  corners of their jaws. Selan tossed back his 
  polished, bald skull and laughed. At first it was 
  a hideous croaking. It changed to a howl of 
  glee. 
  The other six looked at him. Their 
  muscles relaxed. They laughed boisterously. 
  “King Udu is a great king,” stated Doc 
  solemnly. “He will live to lead his many 
  peoples to victory.” 
  “He will—will—will—” Selan’s wrinkled 
  face contorted, as if with some inner mirth. The 
  ancient medicine man howled with laughter. 
  He was so tickled he choked and couldn’t 
  finish the sentence. 
  The six others agreed with howls. 
  “King Udu will—King Udu will—” 
  Tears were rolling down their cheeks. 
  Their ornaments of everything from copper 
  wire to the teeth of the cheetah and the 
  leopard danced and clacked. 
   
   
  DOC SAVAGE arose and led them 
  toward the throne room. He could see many of 
  the 
  tribal 
  chiefs 
  had 
  again 
  assembled. 
  Apparently, they were awaiting word of King 
  Udu’s condition. 
  To the accompaniment of the war 
  drums outside, wild cries were arising. 
  “What does the king say? Shall it be 
  war? Will King Udu live to lead his army?” 
  In their various dialects, a score of 
  nearly naked chiefs were asking questions. 
  They were demanding answers. 
  Doc Savage faced Selan and the six 
  advisors. He repeated the demands of the 
  chiefs. 
  “King 
  Udu 
  will—oho-ho-ho-ho!” 
  shouted the wrinkled Selan. 
  He and the others seemed convulsed 
  with mirth. They howled until tears ran down 
  
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  50 
   
  their cheeks. They slapped each other’s bared 
  shoulders. 
  “Ho-ho-ho! Ho-ho! Ho-ho!” 
  Amazed 
  chiefs 
  arose. 
  They 
  brandished their spears and shouted. 
  This was a proclamation of war they 
  could understand. They saw Selan and King 
  Udu’s 
  advisors 
  well 
  pleased. 
  From 
  the 
  appearance of the man of bronze and the 
  silver casket bearing the body of Prince Zaban 
  had come a strange inspiration. 
  The chiefs understood Selan, the great 
  medicine man, to be well pleased. All of his 
  glum expression was gone. Before the 
  tribesmen, the seven representatives of King 
  Udu continued to howl with laughter. 
  The chiefs rushed into the streets. The 
  beat of the drums took on a fury of action. 
  Each tribal chief called to his warriors. 
  Hundreds of gleaming, oiled bodies started 
  writhing in the weird dances that would arouse 
  to killing fury. 
   
   
  DOC SAVAGE did not delay. King Udu 
  still was resting. The will to fight was not 
  enough. The primitive warriors must have 
  more expert direction. 
  The man of bronze hastened to 
  present the names of Monk and Ham as 
  officers who could help organize and lead the 
  army of Kokoland. 
  Selan and the six advisors were still 
  laughing. But they were becoming more 
  subdued. Something strange had happened to 
  them. 
  “These strange ones of Doc Savage 
  then will be named to lead,” agreed Selan, the 
  medicine man. “The one called Monk, he is the 
  greatest, so he shall be a chief. The other one, 
  Ham, is smaller and of not so much presence. 
  He will be made the leader of the carriers.” 
  The six advisors agreed to these 
  strange commissions for Monk and Ham. None 
  quite knew to what Kokoland had been 
  committed. The advisors who would have 
  sacrificed the kingdom, through fear or their 
  belief in the power of the Long Juju, would 
  have slight headaches after it was all over. 
  The whipped cream Doc Savage had 
  served on the white ant pie was a common 
  mixture. The goat’s cream had been shaken 
  up with nitrous oxide under pressure. Its most 
  common name is laughing gas. Once it was 
  used by dentists. 
  Selan, the great medicine man, had 
  laughed the loyal, primitive people of King Udu 
  into a war of defense against all enemies. 
   
   
  Chapter XIV 
  RAID OF THE SHIMBA 
   
  UNDER strong stimulants, King Udu 
  appeared 
  before 
  his 
  palace. 
  His 
  vast, 
  chamma-clad figure brought howls of approval. 
  In the streets, the tribal chiefs were organizing 
  their straggling, primitive warriors in their own 
  manner. 
  Doc 
  Savage 
  realized 
  even 
  the 
  inspiration of King Udu’s appearance could not 
  create an army to resist the modern weapons 
  of the Asiatic and European adventurers 
  beyond Mount Kibo. King Udu was using the 
  last of his waning strength to come before his 
  palace. 
  Thousands of barefooted followers 
  jammed this royal avenue. It was a street thick 
  with dust. This drifted like mist over the long, 
  thatched hut, in which dwelt the Kokonese 
  women. 
  “Either we get out of here and get 
  some air, or we’ll choke to death,” declared Pat 
  Savage to Señorita Moncarid. 
  “They do not permit the women to walk 
  abroad when the war drums are being beaten,” 
  said Señorita Moncarid. 
  “Huh!” snapped Pat Savage. “Any time 
  I need a permit to get my breath, I’ll let your 
  king know about it! Come on! The wind is 
  blowing across the river! I’m half strangled!” 
  Señorita Moncarid reluctantly followed 
  the impetuous Pat Savage. It was cooler and 
  there was less dust by the river. Count Cardoti 
  was walking toward the long hut of the women. 
  Perhaps he had arranged for Pat 
  Savage and Señorita Moncarid to have better 
  quarters. 
  Count Cardoti saw the figures of the 
  two women vanish in the green bushes close 
  to the slowly flowing stream, below the place of 
  one of the war dances. The warriors from this 
  dance now were thronging toward the king’s 
  palace. 
  Count Cardoti cried out, “Look out, 
  Miss Savage! Señorita!” 
  As he called, Count Cardoti ran toward 
  the river. Four long canoes glided into the quiet 
  pool below the village. 
  Erect in the middle of one of these 
  canoes, stood what at first appeared to be a 
  
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  51 
  shaggy animal. It was a man. But his body was 
  wrapped in the tawny skin of a great male lion. 
  The mane and the head of the beast 
  concealed his features. 
  The man shouted in Masai. 
  “Seize them quickly! Also, get that 
  other!” 
  From the bottom of the canoe heaved 
  a bulky form. The unshaved face could hardly 
  have been recognized. But Pat Savage 
  identified the roaring voice of Renny. 
  “Back, Pat! They’ll grab yuh! Holy—” 
  A knobby club slashed downward. 
  Renny’s thick skull took the impact of the blow. 
  As he fell, Pat Savage heard the slapping of 
  chains. She saw that Renny had been 
  manacled to one of the cross-pieces of the 
  long canoe. 
  “Renny! Renny! Doc’s here!” cried Pat. 
  “I’ll—” 
  The brutal club struck again. Pat cried 
  out in furious anger. 
  Señorita Moncarid caught at Pat’s 
  arm. But she was not quick enough. Pat had 
  taken an automatic pistol from the bosom of 
  her dress. The little weapon crackled viciously. 
  In the long canoe, the first of the four warrior-
  filled craft, the oiled native who had swung the 
  club, yelled in agony. 
  The club flew from the warrior’s hands. 
  Blood spouted from one of his arms. He 
  splashed over the side into the river. Pat did 
  not know why this warrior sank and did not 
  arise. She knew nothing of the vicious, man-
  eating fish with the globular, staring eyes. 
  “Look 
  out, 
  Miss 
  Savage!” 
  Count 
  Cardoti repeated, still running toward the river. 
  Apparently he had no weapon. 
  Back of Count Cardoti some tribal 
  warrior cried out loudly. 
  “The Shimba! The Shimba! Ifehe! 
  Ifehe!” 
   
   
  NO doubt the mysterious Shimba had 
  struck great terror among some of the loyal 
  tribes of King Udu. For the nearest group of 
  warriors seemed to forget the purpose for 
  which they held spears. Some cast their 
  weapons aside. They dashed into the cover of 
  the green liana wall of the jungle. 
  A few hardy tribesmen did not flee. 
  This handful darted for the cover of a jutting 
  point where the canoes must pass. This was a 
  great mistake. The white man called The 
  Shimba doubtless had planned this sudden 
  descent very carefully. 
  Howls of pain broke out from the few 
  warriors who had started throwing their long 
  spears at the canoes. The liana wall seemed 
  to come suddenly alive with small, thrusting 
  tubes. Little darts made no sound. 
  The defending natives scattered as 
  they fell. Some had been hit by as many as a 
  dozen of the deadly barbs. One dart would 
  have been sufficient. 
  “Back 
  this 
  way!” 
  cried 
  Señorita 
  Moncarid to Pat Savage.  
  But Pat, heedless of danger, was 
  running along the shore of the river. She was 
  trying to follow the canoe in which she had 
  seen Renny. She succeeded only in running 
  directly into the jungle wall, through which the 
  many, deadly blowpipes had appeared. 
  Señorita Moncarid followed. A strange 
  thing happened, Pat Savage was seized and 
  her cries were throttled by a pair of hands. The 
  men holding Pat had hideously looped ears. 
  They lifted their hands above their heads when 
  Señorita Moncarid appeared. 
  “The Shimba! The Shimba!” they cried 
  out. 
  It would be difficult to determine what 
  they meant by that. 
  Señorita Moncarid did not retreat. Nor 
  was she seized. It must have been she had 
  decided to stick by Pat Savage. 
  Directly behind Señorita Moncarid 
  came Count Cardoti. He was shouting angry 
  words in Masai. The hands of two loop-eared 
  warriors pinned his arms. 
  One of the laden canoes sheered 
  close to the river shore. Pat Savage found 
  herself lying on the bottom of this canoe. Near 
  her, sat the rigid figure of Señorita Moncarid. 
  The woman’s lips were moving. 
  Pat could not read what she was 
  saying. Señorita Moncarid was talking in the 
  Masai tongue. Count Cardoti had been pushed 
  forward toward the prow of the canoe. 
  A sharp order was rapped out by The 
  Shimba in the lion’s pelt. The Masai warriors 
  bent to their paddles. At the first turning, the 
  four canoes glided into one of the narrow 
  channels. Scores of these tortuous passages 
  penetrated the jungle bush. 
   
   
  IN the meantime, Ham and Monk had 
  been seeking Pat. A native had directed them 
  toward the river. They arrived at the spot 
  
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  52 
   
  where the women had been seized. They had 
  been close enough to hear screams. 
  “Howlin’ calamities!” yelled out Monk. 
  “It couldn’t have been anybody but Pat! Look, 
  Ham, here’s her pistol! These other footprints 
  are those of Señorita Moncarid!” 
  “I didn’t trust that dame from the 
  beginning!” barked Ham. “We can’t get through 
  this way without canoes! Come on! I’m sure 
  they got Count Cardoti along with the others!” 
  Monk and Ham reached the place 
  where Kokonese warriors had been wiped out 
  by the poisoned blowpipe darts. The canoes 
  had vanished. 
  After fighting their way a few yards 
  through the liana vines, Monk and Ham 
  discovered themselves helpless to follow 
  farther. 
  King Udu’s tribesmen were scurrying 
  about in great disorder. The cry of “Shimba” 
  had created widespread terror. Monk and Ham 
  hastened to their bronze leader. 
  “We will not add to Pat’s safety by 
  hasty pursuit,” said Doc Savage, when Monk 
  and Ham sputtered out their story. “No doubt it 
  is intended to create disorder. The one they 
  call The Shimba is working with the invaders.” 
  This was plain common sense. King 
  Udu’s tribesmen were scattered. For a time 
  they seemed to forget they had a war on their 
  hands. Logo, the man from far-away Long 
  Island, became valuable in rallying the 
  Kokonese. These in turn subdued some of the 
  panic of the tribes from the hills. 
  “War or no war, we’ve gotta find Pat!” 
  insisted Monk. 
  “War or no war, we will find her,” 
  agreed Doc. “She is safer for the time if we 
  wait.” 
  This 
  seemed 
  incredible 
  to 
  the 
  impatient Monk. The ugly chemist had always 
  been infatuated with the beautiful Pat. 
  King Udu’s radio box was crackling. 
  Doc apparently had expected this. The 
  disturbance was in the short wave area. 
  “Renny’s transmitter,” said Ham. “We’ll 
  not get anything over that thing.” 
  Ham was mistaken. A man’s speech 
  came in disconnectedly. But it was not Renny 
  sending the message. 
   
   
  “DOC SAVAGE—” 
  This was repeated several times. The 
  bronze man had no means of replying. He 
  could only wait. 
  “The Shimba is speaking. We will keep 
  the white woman and Colonel Renwick until 
  you leave Kokoland—you have twelve hours—
  unless you are gone—the Masai woman 
  remains with us—the other white man—twelve  
  hours—” 
  The broadcast came in stuttering 
  spasms. Many words were lost. 
  “It is as I thought,” announced Doc. “I 
  believe Pat and Renny will be held as 
  hostages to insure our departure. Then they 
  will be freed. I have no doubt the one called 
  The Shimba has conspired to bring about the 
  invasion. Certainly, he will want to avoid too 
  many complications.” 
  “I don’t like it,” said the stubborn Monk. 
  “I’m for going into the bush and blastin’ this 
  Shimba off the map.” 
  “We might blow up a thousand square 
  miles of jungle swamp and never touch him,” 
  declared Ham. “But if we try to stop this army 
  coming through the mountain pass, they’ll 
  probably torture Pat and Renny.” 
  Doc Savage said nothing. He went into 
  King Udu’s royal bedroom. When he emerged, 
  he was carrying a small canvas sack. 
  Monk gaped at him. Ham muttered 
  under his breath. There were times when his 
  closest companions did not quite understand 
  the man of bronze. 
  Doc tossed the canvas bag into the 
  cockpit of the shaky old Spad. 
  “We will get the plane into the open,” 
  he announced. “The fate of the whole kingdom 
  and probably the security of Pat and Renny 
  now rests on unexpected action. We must 
  strike the first blow.” 
  “Strike a blow with that wreck?” 
  exploded Monk. “It won’t even fly!” 
  The old Spad had been gassed. Its 
  motor vibrated like a man with swamp ague. 
  The canvas covered wings threatened to fall 
  apart. 
  “Monk, the council has placed you in 
  command of the Kokonese army,” advised 
  Doc. “Logo will be your aide. He will help you 
  get the tribesmen together. Ham will look after 
  the transportation. Move all available warriors 
  at once toward the mountain pass of the 
  Kilimanjaro.” 
  “You mean—you don’t mean I’m to be 
  general of all these heathen?” spouted Monk, 
  with his small eyes suddenly upon Ham. “An’ 
  the shyster here is only one of the boys that 
  carries things?” 
  
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  53 
  “King 
  Udu’s 
  advisors 
  have 
  so 
  decreed,” said Doc. “Logo will help assemble 
  the army. Collect all the blowpipes among the 
  warriors.” 
  With a rattling roar that threatened to 
  tear it to pieces, the old Spad rolled down the 
  open square in the village. Only a flying wizard 
  could have contrived to lift the rickety plane’s 
  tail and not have nosed it over. 
  Monk took one look at the disgusted 
  features of Ham. 
  “Well, sergeant!” snapped the chemist, 
  suddenly elevated to the status of a general. 
  “Take off your shoes! None of the carriers for 
  this 
  army 
  wears 
  em! 
  We’re 
  marchin’ 
  barefooted!” 
   
   
  AIRMEN of the invading treasure 
  hunters must have grinned among themselves. 
  Their own trim pursuit planes lay in position for 
  a dashing take-off. Their bombers were loaded 
  with enough explosive to have blasted King 
  Udu’s village from the map. 
  “By all the saints!” grunted a flying 
  captain. “Is that lunatic trying to conduct a lone 
  raid or is he only spying on us quietly?” 
  The amused captain and his airmen 
  smiled some more. Over the mountain range 
  flopped and banged this vehicle of the air. If it 
  had a greater ceiling, the flier was not 
  attempting to use it. Perhaps he feared his 
  bucking craft would fall to pieces if he 
  ascended above two hundred feet. 
  “Doesn’t seem much use to go up after 
  him,” smiled the amused captain. “Let him 
  alone and he’ll fall down himself.” 
  It seemed as if this might happen. The 
  airmen on the ground could almost see the 
  whites of the flier’s eyes. A dark face was 
  stuck over the edge of the quivering cockpit of 
  the Spad. 
  Plainly, this scout from Kokoland had 
  come to look things over. So he was staying 
  close enough to have counted the shining 
  buttons on the airmen’s uniforms. 
  Doc had wisely visited the Wing before 
  making this aërial dash over the mountains. 
  The limited tank of the rattling old Spad carried 
  only sufficient fuel for a couple of hours. 
  Johnny was sticking by the concealed 
  Wing. The scholarly fellow would have been 
  disgusted, had he not made a discovery. He 
  had been bursting with his news. 
  “I’ve been getting a line on what all this 
  war’s about,” Johnny told Doc. “The whole 
  answer lies under the mountain!” 
  But few men in the world exceeded 
  Johnny in his knowledge of mineralogy. The 
  man of bronze smiled at the discovery. But all 
  of that could wait. 
  Johnny had seen two scout planes of 
  the invaders flying high up. They had not 
  detected the Wing hidden in the gorge. 
  “I believe they are planning to make an 
  aërial attack within a few hours,” was Johnny’s 
  belief. 
  “If something doesn’t happen to upset 
  their plans,” stated Doc. 
  The amused captain of the airmen 
  would not have believed the crippled old Spad 
  could have affected his plans in the least. It did 
  not seem as if the trembling wings of the 
  ancient bus would ever carry it back over the 
  mountains. 
  The Spad flew in circles. The dumb 
  looking flier kept peering over the edge of the 
  cockpit. Shooting him down wouldn’t have 
  been even good hunting. 
   
   
  DOC SAVAGE pulled the Spad for a 
  little more altitude. He tossed over a small 
  round object. Apparently his aim was very bad. 
  The object was a grenade. It caused a 
  mushroom explosion not far from the line of 
  pursuit ships. But it damaged nothing. 
  “We will have to send up a ship for 
  him, after all!” said the captain. “One will be 
  sufficient! If you fly close enough, the 
  slipstream probably will knock him out of the 
  sky!” 
  A 
  pursuit 
  plane 
  screamed 
  in 
  a 
  zooming take-off. The extremely modern war 
  plane carried a gunner. Its machine gun snouts 
  were so mounted as to sweep all of the area 
  around the ship. 
  Doc was pulling the stick of the old 
  Spad into his stomach. He was taking on more 
  altitude. It seemed as if he were trying to 
  escape the war hawk that flashed right onto his 
  tail. 
  The gunner of the pursuit plane 
  slapped a preliminary burst from both of his 
  guns. The Spad trembled, fell off. It looked as 
  if the smoke of the tracer bullets was about all 
  the Spad needed to pull it out of the sky. 
  The 
  legion 
  airmen 
  down 
  below 
  suspected the scouting flier was badly scared. 
  Just when the Spad was in direct line of fire, its 
  
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  54 
   
  rickety wings tumbled into a spin. The old ship 
  went around so fast it seemed it would screw 
  its nose into the ground. 
  The pursuit plane was pulled up and 
  leveled off. Little use to waste bullets on the 
  obsolete native craft. By some miracle, the 
  Spad missed a round hilltop. It slid out of sight 
  of the airmen at the squadron camp. 
  “Crashed and he wasn’t even hit,” 
  smiled the captain. “Well—” 
  He ceased speaking. He had been 
  mistaken. Like a crippled bird, the Spad was 
  beating its wings back into the sky. Doc was 
  still flying low. His hands manipulated the stick 
  as he played ski-jack with a few jutting 
  shoulders of the hills. 
  The pursuit plane banked and waited. 
  The Spad held too close to the ground to make 
  power diving safe. 
  Suddenly the Spad seemed to have 
  begun exploding on a new motor. Its wings 
  must have been almost torn off. Doc sent it 
  into a zoom that carried it five hundred feet 
  above the pursuit plane. 
  The pursuit ship gunner let go one of 
  his blasts. But the Spad flopped around. It 
  could have been nothing but an accident that 
  carried it just a few yards beyond the range of 
  the screaming slugs. 
  Officers of the grounded squadron 
  climbed a low hill above their camp, to watch 
  the strange antics of King Udu’s crazy scout 
  plane. All of the squadron airmen streamed up 
  the hill. 
  Doc again had jumped the old Spad 
  out 
  of 
  a 
  burst 
  of 
  machine 
  gunfire. 
  Unbelievably, he was flying upside down for 
  several seconds. 
  “That heathen’s either crazy or he’s 
  been imported from the United States,” 
  commented 
  the 
  captain. 
  “None 
  of 
  the 
  Kokonese ever learned to fly like that. They will 
  bring him down on the reverse.” 
  But the pursuit fliers did not bring the 
  Spad down on the reverse. The amazing flier 
  proved he knew all about an Immelmann. 
  Doc made no effort to use the machine 
  gun of the Spad. It would have been 
  impossible. Tropical rust had ruined the 
  mechanism. Having been synchronized to 
  shoot through the propeller, the gun now 
  probably would have shot off the blades. 
   
   
  PERHAPS the legion fliers did not 
  realize they were being drawn well away from 
  their camp. Their lines of pursuit planes and 
  bombers were now nearly half a mile back 
  over a rolling hill. 
  Each second promised to be the last 
  for the acrobatic old Spad. 
  “There’s beginning to be something 
  decidedly fishy about this,” commented the 
  captain. “No dumb sky pusher could have that 
  many lucky accidents.” 
  Doc Savage now was proving to the 
  pursuit airman that even a crazy old Spad 
  cannot be hit if properly handled. The pursuit 
  ship was of the latest type. But it neither rolled 
  nor winged over fast enough to trap King Udu’s 
  wandering scout. 
  More than two hundred officers and 
  men of the flight squadron were grouped on 
  the slope of a hill. The Spad was less than half 
  a mile away. It was holding now at about five 
  hundred feet. 
  Abruptly, Doc Savage was sliding the 
  Spad toward the sloping hill. The power dive 
  toward the ground group threatened to tear 
  loose the plane’s propeller. Some of the men 
  on the ground yelled. They started running. 
  Doc Savage was peering down. The 
  Spad was no more than fifty feet from crashing 
  when its nose lifted. One bronze hand swept 
  over the edge of the cockpit. 
  The pursuit plane screamed on the tail 
  of the Spad. A stream of bullets chewed off the 
  end of a wing. But the gunner was compelled 
  to hold off his fire to avoid hitting his 
  companions below. 
  Suddenly the fliers of the legion felt 
  something like crystal snow stinging their 
  cheeks. But when the flakes struck, they burst 
  with a moist feeling on the skin. 
  The first of the running men fell down. 
  They dropped so suddenly that their bodies 
  flopped and plowed on down the hill. 
  The captain attempted to shout. Some 
  of the flaky, crystal snow entered his mouth. 
  His jaws remained wide open. He went to 
  sleep on his feet and sat down. 
  The man of bronze was pulling the old 
  Spad out of its wild dive. The fliers in the 
  pursuit plane undoubtedly were swearing 
  wildly. 
  Not one of their companions below 
  remained on his feet. They lay all over the 
  slope of the hillside, as if they had decided to 
  take a midmorning nap. They had been due to 
  move in an aërial raid over King Udu’s 
  kingdom at noon. 
   
  
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  55 
   
  THE Spad did not zoom for great 
  height now. It was being readily overtaken by 
  the pursuit ship. The flier at the controls should 
  have been more suspicious. Perhaps he did 
  not notice the spreading clouds of blue mist 
  which suddenly appeared ahead. 
  These little clouds had spread from a 
  few small grenades tossed out by Doc. The 
  motor of the pursuit plane sputtered. It did not 
  pick up. All of its cylinders quit at once. 
  The pursuing gunner cursed wildly. He 
  let go with both guns. But the nose of the 
  pursuit ship had dipped. Contrary winds 
  swirled over the Kilimanjaro. They caught the 
  pursuit plane. It was being pulled down toward 
  the pitted terrain, where the earth looked as if it 
  were pockmarked by small volcanic craters. 
  Doc watched as the plane made a 
  crippled landing. The blue mist had been a gas 
  which was sucked into the motor of the other 
  plane. It had congealed the fuel. Its effect was 
  to so coat the cylinders as to make it 
  necessary to take the motor apart, before it 
  would function again. 
  The pursuit fliers would be hours 
  getting back to the camp. Their companions 
  would sleep all day from the effect of the 
  anaesthetic. 
  Doc held the trembling Spad in a spiral 
  bank above the trim lines of the grounded 
  planes. Pursuit ships and bombers, they were 
  all ready to blast King Udu’s village. 
  The bronze man smiled grimly. He 
  wiped some black smudge from his cheeks. 
  Not a sign of life appeared in the squadron 
  camp. Officers, airmen, mechanics and grease 
  monkeys; all were sleeping beyond the hill. 
  The camp was in a safe spot. It had 
  been deserted to watch the good show of a 
  dumb, black aviator pitting a decrepit World 
  War plane against a modern ship. 
  Doc pulled the Spad to a safe height. 
  Small, glistening objects gleamed in the sun. A 
  dozen of these fell among the modern planes 
  of the European Legion. 
  The old Spad was being pulled toward 
  Mount Kibo when the first object exploded. A 
  dozen blasts shook the mountain with terrific 
  detonations. Where the invading squadron had 
  been, was what looked like a new volcanic 
  crater. 
   
   
   
   
  Chapter XV 
  THE BAREFOOTED ARMY 
   
  WITHIN the hour of Doc Savage’s 
  amazing attack upon the camp of the treasure-
  seeking invaders, a strange army moved. 
  Jungle animals on the rising slopes of 
  Mount Kibo were silent. But in one spot a great 
  howl was going up. This came from a human. 
  He didn’t resemble a man any too much. A 
  great deal less did he resemble the one-time 
  Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, 
  otherwise known as Ham. 
  It hardly seemed that this scrawny, 
  barefooted object, ludicrously clad in a worm-
  eaten leopard hide, part of a Colobus 
  monkey’s fur and a few straggling ostrich 
  feathers, could be the fashion plate of distant 
  Park Avenue. Now and then he sat down 
  abruptly. This was to extract thorns from his 
  bare feet. 
  “Keep them carriers comin’ along with 
  the waterbags, sergeant!” piped up a childish 
  voice. “The fellows up ahead are gettin’ dry!” 
  “I don’t care if you think you’re sixteen 
  generals, the next time you yelp at me I’m 
  goin’ to plug you with one of these blowpipes!” 
  rapped out Ham. “Wait’ll I find out how you 
  managed to steal my clothes!” 
  Monk’s only reply was an ugly leer. It 
  hardly seemed possible the apelike chemist 
  could have made his face any more homely, 
  but he had. 
  “Brigadier General Andrew Blodgett 
  Mayfair to you, sergeant,” he grinned at Ham. 
  “An’ when we make camp tonight, I want you 
  to help some of your boys wash my pig!” 
  Ham reared up suddenly. He waved a 
  short, stabbing spear in his hand. 
  “I’ll show yuh—” he yelled. 
  Monk ducked his head. But he need 
  not have taken the trouble. Ham stepped on 
  another thorn. The spear fell from his hand and 
  he flopped on his knees. 
  A dozen Kokonese carrier-boys looked 
  at the two men without expression. The army 
  of King Udu was on the move up the 
  mountainous Kilimanjaro jungle plateau. 
  Logo, the native from Long Island, had 
  donned native garb. He was a stalwart warrior. 
  “My people believe you’re some kind 
  of a god,” he told Monk on the side, as the 
  nondescript army straggled from King Udu’s 
  village. 
  Logo had a sense of humor. He might 
  have added he had heard the warriors say 
  
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  56 
  they believed Monk to be a god of the 
  baboons. Many of the tribes worshiped the 
  humanlike monkeys. 
  “I’ll show them what a real general is 
  like,” boasted Monk. “I’ll become one of them.” 
  This was not difficult. Monk had 
  shucked his clothes. His grotesque, hairy 
  body, with the long trailing arms and the short 
  legs, hardly needed the buffalo hide he had 
  chosen to wrap around him. 
  This was a barefooted army. So Monk 
  displayed his own huge feet. Though Ham was 
  only a carrier sergeant, he would have 
  disobeyed the order to lay aside his somewhat 
  tattered raiment, which had been elegant 
  enough when he had arrived. 
  Monk had taken care of that angle. 
  Ham’s clothes had been stolen. The lawyer 
  could wear monkey fur and ostrich feathers or 
  nothing. 
  “The tribal chiefs will obey your orders 
  as long as you keep them believing you have 
  superior knowledge,” the astute Logo advised 
  Monk. 
  So, at the first waterhole, the gorilla-
  like 
  Brigadier 
  General 
  Monk 
  suddenly 
  appeared among the waterboys. The carriers 
  were already kneeling to fill the waterbags of 
  goat skin. 
  “Hold everything!” squeaked Monk. 
  “None must drink of the water that burns!” 
   
   
  MONK truly was an appalling figure. 
  He swung to the branch of a tree over the 
  waterhole. Logo looked on with a wide grin. 
  Monk wrapped one arm around the branch and 
  looked into the pool. 
  “You never looked more natural!” 
  rasped the disgusted and half naked Ham. “I 
  hope you see your own face in that hole and it 
  scares you to death!” 
  Monk’s fingers appeared to touch the 
  surface of the small waterhole. Instantly the 
  black boys cried out and shrank away. Across 
  the pool swept a blue flame. It spread until all 
  of the water in the pool seemed to be blazing. 
  “See,” announced Logo, “the fire of 
  water does not burn one who is a god.” 
  Monk apparently was bathing his 
  naked feet in the blue fire. The carriers fled 
  back into the jungle. 
  “If you think monkeyshines like that will 
  lick an army, you’re crazier than I always 
  thought you were!” rapped Ham sarcastically. 
  Monk climbed from the tree. It would 
  be many months before water would be taken 
  from this pool by the natives. Monk stuck the 
  vial of simple chemical he had employed back 
  into his furs. 
  “That makes Monk a greater general 
  than the licking of a dozen armies,” advised 
  Logo. “His orders will be obeyed.” 
  It was a strange army moving up the 
  mountain. Only King Udu’s Kokonese had a 
  semblance of order. Hundreds of wilder 
  tribesmen filtered through the jungle armed 
  only with their spears, blowpipes and oxhide 
  shields. 
  Monk pranced about, as if he were not 
  in the least aware he was leading this primitive 
  horde to meet a modern army at the mountain 
  pass, a few miles above. The natives were no 
  more than an unorganized mob. They were on 
  the way to battle the most modern war tanks, 
  machine guns, high explosives and poison 
  gas. 
  “With you reverting to what you’ve 
  always been destined to be, this is nothing less 
  than plain suicide,” predicted Ham darkly. 
  “Anyway, we’re safer here than back in 
  the village if they happen to pull a sudden air 
  raid,” said Monk seriously. “I’m glad we got the 
  army started before they found out King Udu 
  seems to be dying.” 
   
   
  MONK and Ham did not know then 
  what had happened to the aërial squadron of 
  the invaders. They were obeying certain 
  instructions issued by their bronze chief. 
  While only some of the tribesmen were 
  armed with their long spears, the primitive 
  army carried all of the hundreds of blowpipes 
  which could be gathered. It looked as if Doc 
  Savage had decided to lay aside, for the time, 
  his reluctance to be responsible for killing. 
  At this time, the old Spad was 
  sputtering back over King Udu’s village. The 
  few old men and boys, and the women in the 
  town must have been amazed to see the 
  rickety bus return. 
  Selan, the medicine man, and the six 
  advisors to the king, looked at Doc Savage 
  with glittering eyes. 
  “King Udu believes we should send 
  the women and the children into the hills to 
  save them from the death from the air, which 
  soon will come,” announced the wrinkled 
  Selan. “The king thinks his own hours are 
  
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  57 
  numbered. He wishes to remain here beside 
  the body of his son.” 
  “The women and children may remain 
  in the village with safety,” Doc stated. “The 
  fliers of the devils beyond the mountains are 
  taking a noonday sleep. They will awaken to 
  find their planes have all been destroyed.” 
  The man of bronze glided into the 
  room where King Udu lay on the royal couch. 
  He had not stated that though the aërial 
  squadron had been wiped out, not a single 
  man had been killed or even wounded. 
  Selan, the medicine man, would not 
  have believed in such magic. 
  In the streets of the village, the drums 
  were tunk-tunking ominously. The word had 
  been passed out that King Udu was dying. 
  Wails of women filled the thatched huts. Old 
  men mumbled. 
  The hard heels of the hands pounding 
  the drums were accomplishing what might 
  amount to disaster. 
  Through the jungle, in the direction of 
  Mount Kibo, other drums were being beaten. 
  The tom-toms thumped from one hill, to 
  another. 
  They were saying, “King Udu is dying! 
  King Udu is dying! There is no hope! There is 
  no hope!” 
   
   
  UNTIL this time the hundreds of 
  Kokonese and tribesmen had been moving 
  steadily forward through the jungle. Monk and 
  Ham had been abusing each other with great 
  fervor. As long as he lived, Ham would be 
  remembering and seeking to repay the ugly 
  chemist for this barefooted torture. 
  The primitive army had been moving 
  silently, steadily. Tunk-tunk went the drums. 
  Monk and Ham could almost feel the 
  movement through the jungle coming to a 
  pause. 
  Carrier boys suddenly laid down their 
  goat skins of water. Some slashed the skins 
  with their knives and permitted the fluid to run 
  out on the ground. 
  “Logo, what do you think they’re 
  doin’?” yelled Monk. 
  The loyal black Logo shook his head 
  sadly. 
  “They have been told the life blood of 
  King Udu is ebbing,” he stated. “If King Udu 
  dies, all of the army will turn back. They will 
  take it as an omen of disaster.” 
  Monk loped back and forth through the 
  jungle. A dozen feathered chiefs sat down 
  stubbornly, waiting. They shook their heads 
  when Monk attempted to get the army moving 
  again. 
  Monk at last was forced to appeal to 
  Ham. 
  “Listen, 
  shyster, 
  you’ve 
  been 
  a 
  general,” said Monk. “An’ what does a general 
  do when his army sits down on him?” 
  Ham grinned ironically. He forgot even 
  the pain of his scratched feet. 
  “A good general stays behind an’ gives 
  his army a kick in the pants,” he advised with a 
  long face. “I don’t know what a general does 
  when his army isn’t wearin’ any pants.” 
  Abruptly there came a change in the 
  note of the drums. The beat was more rapid. 
  The strokes set millions of brilliant birds 
  chattering and squawking in the trees. 
  “Ho-hee! Ho-hee!” shouted the nearest 
  tribal chiefs. 
  They leaped to their feet, chanting. 
  They swung their great oxhide shields over 
  their 
  arms. 
  Their 
  long 
  spears 
  waved 
  commands to their own people. 
  “Ho-hee! Ho-hee! Ho-hee!” 
  The cry became a steady chant 
  around the mountain. It passed through the 
  hundreds of the army. Once more the primitive 
  horde of King Udu swept toward the mountain 
  pass where modern weapons might soon 
  annihilate them as easily as if they were so 
  many flies. 
   
   
  DOC SAVAGE sat beside old King 
  Udu in the royal chamber—at the time the 
  army moved again. 
  The access of strength which had 
  brought King Udu before his advisors and his 
  people was swiftly fading. It had been this new 
  appearance immediately after Doc Savage’s 
  return that had started the drums beating the 
  glad news; that had sent the primitive, 
  barefooted army of tribesmen on toward the 
  mountain pass. 
  The man of bronze had resorted to the 
  most powerful stimulant. But King Udu was 
  nearly one hundred years old. His great, fat 
  body was already breaking up. Only the spirit 
  that had hoped to save his people and his 
  kingdom had kept King Udu living until this 
  time. 
  When Doc emerged from the royal 
  chamber, he held up his hand for silence. 
  
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  58 
  Selan’s keen, black eyes glowed in his 
  wrinkled face. The ancient medicine man was 
  not to be greatly fooled. 
  Doc realized Selan and the other 
  advisors would quickly turn to a rule of the 
  Long Juju, where their supposed witchcraft 
  would give them power. The man of bronze 
  was worried over the captivity of Renny and 
  Pat Savage, of Count Cardoti and Señorita 
  Moncarid. 
  Upon the wrong move now would 
  hang their lives. 
  The weird, fantastic army led by Monk 
  and Ham and Logo, must remain at the 
  mountain 
  pass. 
  Moreover, 
  its 
  primitive 
  weapons must be made to prevail against the 
  most efficient death-dealing machinery. 
  “The time has come to have the advice 
  of great wisdom,” said Doc solemnly. “Selan, it 
  is with your eyes we must see the army which 
  lies beyond the mountain. Their birds of death 
  have been destroyed. You will come with me in 
  the Wing that flies.” 
  Selan, the man of great medicine, was 
  susceptible to flattery. No doubt he realized the 
  greatness of Doc Savage. Yet in his conceit, 
  he forgot that his own belief in himself might be 
  used against him. 
  “I will gladly accompany the great one, 
  Doc Savage,” bowed Selan, as if conferring a 
  real favor. “I would have the experience of 
  flying in the Wing.” 
  Doc was using a radio transmitter. He 
  contacted the short wave in the Wing. Johnny 
  replied. 
  “Bring the Wing at once to the village 
  of King Udu,” directed Doc. “The wise one, 
  Selan, who has great medicine, will observe 
  with us the army of the invading devils.” 
  Doc Savage knew this ruse must 
  succeed. For on his royal couch of skins, King 
  Udu was more than sleeping. 
  The king of Kokoland was dead. The 
  army, his people must not know. 
   
   
  Chapter XVI 
  THE BURNING “WING” 
   
  MONK was informed of Doc Savage’s 
  summoning of the Wing to King Udu’s village. 
  Tropical darkness had struck across Mount 
  Kibo. Scouts of the invading adventurers no 
  doubt had reported the motley, barefooted 
  army—a veritable primitive horde. 
  Commanding officers of the foot 
  soldiers, the tanks and the light artillery, were 
  preparing to move. Dazed, recovering airmen 
  of the sky division were disbelieved. 
  It was difficult for officers of this great 
  legion to accept such a story. That a 
  disreputable old Spad of the World War period, 
  flown by a lone lunatic, had wiped out a pursuit 
  and bombing squadron. 
  Officers and fliers of the squadron 
  found themselves disgraced. Orders were 
  rapped 
  out. 
  Communication 
  had 
  been 
  established with allied cohorts in the jungles. 
  The Masai and Swahili, commanded by The 
  Shimba, were ready to join in a quick invasion. 
  It 
  was 
  fantastic 
  that 
  the 
  aërial 
  squadron could not be sent ahead to bomb 
  King Udu’s kingdom and pave the way for the 
  army. 
  But the army must move. 
  At this time, it might have been 
  expected that King Udu’s skin-clad, barefooted 
  army would be mustering the few modern guns 
  it had. Yet, except for the odd-looking 
  superfiring pistols possessed by Monk and 
  Ham, and one in the hands of Logo, no 
  modern weapons were being prepared. 
  Any smart war correspondent would 
  have been convinced Doc’s companions were 
  crazy. Judged by appearances, Monk and 
  Ham would have been candidates for an 
  asylum. 
  Monk’s furry, red-haired body was 
  crudely daubed with red and white ochre. Red-
  dyed ostrich plumes waving over his low 
  forehead, gave him the appearance of some 
  gorilla looking through a bush. 
  “If I can only live to remember what 
  you looked like when they made you a 
  general,” grinned Ham. “We don’t need any 
  guns, ape. All you’ve gotta do is show yourself 
  to the attacking army.” 
  Monk, for once, was amiable. Ham 
  himself was also striped with red and white 
  ochre. One long ostrich feather drooped over 
  his thin nose. 
  “If I can take your picture back to Park 
  Avenue, that’s all I ask,” said Monk. “Especially 
  when you were kickin’ them boys around at the 
  last waterhole.” 
  “Confound your baboon brain, you 
  didn’t take any pictures, did you?” rapped 
  Ham. 
  “It’ll be a sensation, all right,” grunted 
  Monk. 
   
  
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  59 
   
  HUNDREDS of tribesmen were lurking 
  in the crevices and gullies of the Mount Kibo 
  pass. Warriors shivered in fireless caverns in 
  the volcanic walls of the mountain gorge. The 
  song of the stonechat birds and the crickety 
  chattering of mountain rats did not warm their 
  nearly naked bodies. 
  With great reluctance, the chiefs had 
  given orders to lay aside their spears, their 
  bows and arrows. They would have preferred 
  putting on a few war dances with blazing 
  wood. Thus, they would have laid themselves 
  open to massacre before the modern guns of 
  the army they were soon to face. 
  And in preparation for this modern 
  army, Monk, Ham, Logo and some of the more 
  intelligent chiefs were working fiercely. Their 
  occupation was too fantastic for belief. 
  Against war tanks, machine guns and 
  repeating rifles, perhaps bombs of poison gas, 
  the natives were loading thousands of the 
  blowpipes. Other weapons had been laid 
  aside. 
  Monk, Ham and Logo were preparing 
  the small darts. As fast as loaded, the 
  blowpipes were passed along both sides of the 
  mountain gorge. It now seemed as if Doc 
  Savage, in this extremity, had abandoned all 
  thought of sparing lives. 
  For the blowpipes, of all weapons, 
  were the most deadly at short range. The 
  poison used by the natives on the barbs 
  instantly paralyzed the hearts of those who 
  were struck. 
  In the midst of the occupation, a tribal 
  runner came breathlessly into the cavern 
  where Monk and Ham were directing the 
  defense. 
  “The foreign devils are moving,” he 
  announced, falling on his face. “The elephants 
  without heads trumpet before them.” 
  “He means the war tanks,” stated 
  Logo. “Have all the chiefs been placed?” 
  The report was interrupted by a 
  sudden hissing. What appeared to be a great, 
  triangular system of neon lights arose over the 
  pass. Tribesmen fell on their faces. This was 
  the first view they had been given of Doc 
  Savage’s flying Wing. 
  Monk and Ham had been informed by 
  radio of part of what had taken place in King 
  Udu’s village. But the man of bronze had not 
  trusted the truth to the air. He feared the news 
  of King Udu’s death might be picked up by The 
  Shimba with Renny’s radio box. 
  “Now what do you suppose Doc is 
  trying to do?” squealed Monk. 
  “I would say he is anticipating the 
  initial maneuvers of our enemies,” drawled a 
  slow voice at the mouth of the cavern. “Doc is 
  merely ascending to observe.” 
  Johnny had come up the side of the 
  pass. 
  “I wonder why he has all the lights 
  going?” said Ham. “Looks like he’s inviting 
  trouble.” 
  “I have been informed that is the 
  purpose 
  of 
  this 
  peculiar 
  demonstration,” 
  advised Johnny. “The invaders still have a 
  pursuit plane which might be employed to 
  carry bombs.” 
  “Say, but won’t that bring the army 
  hotfooting into the pass?” asked Ham. 
  “Perhaps,” said Johnny. “But Doc also 
  is taking that wrinkled old buzzard of a 
  medicine man, Selan, for a little ride.” 
  “Selan is with him?” exclaimed Logo 
  quickly, his eyes piercing Johnny’s with the 
  question. “Then there must be a purpose?” 
  “Doubtless there is,” advised Johnny, 
  “but I have not been informed of all of it.” 
   
   
  THE Wing swung into the mists higher 
  up. Its ascent suddenly was checked. Monk, 
  Ham and the others heard the whooming of an 
  airplane motor. 
  “That’s the one pursuit plane Doc 
  didn’t put out of business this morning,” stated 
  Johnny. “I think that was a mistake.” 
  The low hissing of the Wing was 
  altogether lost in the increasing thunder of the 
  pursuit ship. Doubtless it was manned by the 
  same fliers who had been so successfully 
  tricked by the obsolete Spad. If so, they were 
  out to get revenge. 
  “There won’t be anything to that 
  scrap,” said Monk confidently. “I’d like to see 
  what happens when those fellows hit the 
  projector rays. Doc’ll stop them like nobody’s 
  business. They’re going high.” 
  The two aircraft were seeking altitude. 
  Apparently 
  Doc 
  was 
  doing 
  some 
  experimenting in the climbing ability of the 
  pursuit ship. 
  “Maybe he’s just taking them for a ride 
  along with that old monkey, Selan,” observed 
  Ham. “Too bad it couldn’t be a real fight, so the 
  medicine man could rattle the spare teeth he’s 
  wearing.” 
  
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  60 
  The Wing and the plane again swung 
  downward over the mountain pass. The tube 
  lights of the Wing marked its passage in the 
  mist. The beating of the pursuit plane’s prop 
  indicated it was close to the other craft. 
  Red fire blossomed like two pinwheels. 
  This was accompanied by the chattering of 
  machine guns. 
  “Might as well save their ammo,” 
  commented Ham. “I wonder if Doc will feed 
  their motor some of the cold gas?” 
  The 
  question 
  was 
  given 
  an 
  unexpected answer. Certainly it was not cold 
  gas that suddenly expanded with the glare of a 
  bursting sun over Mount Kibo and the pass. 
  All of the stark outlines of the volcanic 
  mountain leaped into view. It was like the sun 
  had suddenly been turned into the middle of 
  the tropical night. 
  “Well, 
  I’ll 
  be 
  superamalgamated!” 
  rapped Johnny. “The plane has smacked into 
  the Wing! Our gas was not combustible! Now 
  what’s happened? Doc hasn’t a chance!” 
  Monk and Ham gasped. They were too 
  paralyzed to speak. 
  The Wing seemed to have fallen into 
  thousands of small pieces. In the great flare of 
  light, the pursuit plane of the legion was 
  whisked upward as if driven by a hurricane 
  wind. All of the air seemed to be sucked from 
  the pass by the great explosion. 
  Among the echoes came the rattle and 
  clatter of metal clanking on rocks. Some of the 
  scared tribesmen called out. They were 
  dashing away from a sloping side of the great 
  gorge. 
  Parts of the Wing were falling like a 
  rain of death. 
  “Doc! Doc!” yelled Monk. “He didn’t 
  have time to jump!” 
  “He must have seen what was 
  coming,” insisted Ham. “He would not be 
  caught in that kind of a trap. We’ll find him 
  somewhere close by. I’ll bet he’d save old 
  Selan, too.” 
   
   
  AWE-STRICKEN natives avoided the 
  spot where the flying Wing had been scattered. 
  The metallic parts covered a space of several 
  hundred yards. Monk led the scramble to the 
  spot. 
  “Hey, Doc!” yelled the big chemist. 
  “You all right?”  
  There was no answer. For a long 
  distance, all of the rocks were bare. Johnny 
  had caught up an infra-red beam projector. He 
  clapped goggles like milk cans over his eyes. 
  Monk and Ham jammed on their own infra-red 
  observers. 
  “I would not make too much noise,” 
  advised the smart Logo suddenly. “We should 
  not permit the tribesmen to discover what may 
  have happened.” 
  “Dag-gonit! 
  Dag-gonit!” 
  squawked 
  Monk. “Nothin’ could have happened to Doc!” 
  Johnny was not so sure. They had 
  swept all of the possible space where a 
  parachute might have descended. 
  “The down draft of night wind from the 
  mountain would have carried a ‘chute right into 
  the pass,” stated Johnny. “I fear we can arrive 
  at only one conclusion.” 
  Though they scoured the base of the 
  mountain wall, no trace of the bronze man was 
  found. 
  But near one of the caverns, Logo 
  cried out. 
  “Selan! It’s the medicine man!” 
  The wrinkled old medicine man was 
  crouched in a niche of the wall. 
  “Where is his parachute?” demanded 
  Ham. “What happened to Doc? Ask him, Logo. 
  I don’t get his crazy lingo.” 
  Logo 
  questioned old 
  Selan. The 
  medicine man shook his wrinkled jaws and 
  mumbled. 
  “Selan says he was placed here to 
  wait by Doc Savage,” interpreted Logo. “He 
  would not permit him to ascend to meet the 
  enemy.” 
  It was the steady, well balanced 
  Johnny who assumed command. He led the 
  sad group back to the cavern. From the 
  distance came the rumbling of moving war 
  tanks. 
   
   
  Chapter XVII 
  KING UDU’S RESURRECTION 
   
  KING UDU was dead. Selan, the 
  ancient chief of medicine men, was absent. 
  Thus the news was withheld for some time. 
  But in the night, came a wailing chant from the 
  king’s palace. 
  The six remaining advisors were 
  forced to come before the people. Before they 
  did this, they saw that King Udu’s body was 
  prepared to lie in tribal state on the royal 
  couch. 
  
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  61 
  Chanters sat on the earthen floor. 
  They rocked their bony bodies. 
  “Ai-ee! Ai-ee! Ai-ee!” 
  The strident wail reached the old men 
  in the huts. It was carried on in the long hut of 
  the women. Children awakened to join the 
  tribal lament. 
  Tunk-tunk-tunk-tunk! 
  Once more the skin drums conveyed 
  their message. Because of the explosion of 
  Doc Savage’s Wing, and the roaring of 
  oncoming army tanks of the invaders, the 
  telegraph tom-toms of the hills were slow in 
  transmitting their message. 
  Monk showed unexpected genius. He 
  was among the first to hear the slow dirge of 
  the drums. This was because the apelike 
  chemist still was searching the slopes where 
  the man of bronze might have fallen. 
  “Dag-gonit! It couldn’t have happened 
  to Doc!” 
  Monk’s ugly face worked with grief. He 
  examined parts of the fallen Wing. The 
  explosion had been terrific. Yet Monk knew the 
  gas of the Wing itself was noncombustible. 
  Some twisted metal containers had not been 
  destroyed. Monk examined these. 
  A queer understanding light appeared 
  in Monk’s small eyes. 
  “I’ll bet that’s the answer,” said the 
  chemist. “That would have blown the old 
  mountain itself to bits.” 
  Not for nothing was Monk a great 
  industrial chemist. He had discovered Doc had 
  been carrying high explosive bombs. 
  Now he heard the death message of 
  the drums. He had learned to read the tunk-
  tunking of the hollowed logs. 
  “So, that’s what Doc was trying to 
  cover up,” muttered Monk. “He knew King Udu 
  was dead, so he took the old medicine man 
  away before he could start trouble.” 
   
   
  MONK loped with ungainly strides 
  back to the cavern. If the tribal chiefs scattered 
  about the mountain pass got the message of 
  the drums, it would send their warriors pell-
  mell in retreat. 
  Monk came leaping into the big cavern 
  where Ham, Johnny, Logo, old Selan and a 
  dozen of the tribal chiefs were gathered. He 
  could tell they had not yet heard the message 
  of the drums. 
  “Well, 
  I’ll 
  be 
  superamalgamated!” 
  gasped Johnny. “He has been seized with 
  anthropoidal psychosis!” 
  Ham looked at Monk with worried 
  eyes. Logo showed that he thought Monk had 
  gone crazy. 
  “Ho-hee! 
  Ho-hee! 
  Ho-hee!” 
  yelled 
  Monk. 
  His childlike voice was a shrill scream. 
  Jumping across the cavern, Monk seized the 
  sticks of one of the greater drums. This was an 
  immense, hollowed senecio trunk with dried 
  Kudu skin over its end. 
  “Ho-hee! Howlin’ calamities! Ho-hee! 
  Make ready!” 
  Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! 
  Monk’s powerful muscles rapped the 
  stick across the skin drum. He was hitting 
  twenty tremendous slow beats to the minute. It 
  was like the tolling of a great muffled bell. 
  At the same time, Monk’s lips were 
  moving. He was looking at Ham and Johnny. 
  They began to understand. All of Doc’s men 
  were expert lip readers. Monk was talking to 
  his companions silently. 
  Logo and old Selan did not get it. 
  Perhaps the wise Logo understood partly. 
  “King Udu is dead,” Monk was saying 
  with his lips. “We must cover up! Call the tribes 
  to attack!” 
  His measured beating of the tom-tom 
  was the tribal call to battle. Twenty slow beats 
  to the minute. But they filled the pass. Some of 
  the nearer tribesmen immediately took up the 
  drumming. 
  Ham and Johnny acted. From the 
  Wing had been brought boxes of supplies. 
  Now hundreds of queer goggles were being 
  passed through the chiefs to their warriors. 
  Many viewed these with distrust. 
  “These will make your people see 
  where there is no sight,” was the advice from 
  the smart Logo. “The coming devils will march 
  in darkness, but they will appear in your eyes.” 
   
   
  ONE of the assembled chiefs cast his 
  goggles down. He showed every evidence of 
  superstitious fear. 
  “Voodoo devils,” he mumbled. “I hear 
  a distant message.”  
  Monk confronted the tall warrior. It was 
  time for a demonstration. He fastened a 
  gorillalike hold on the tall chiefs wrist. The 
  savage 
  leader 
  squirmed, 
  but 
  he 
  was 
  
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  62 
  powerless. Monk was using one of the 
  paralyzing grips taught by Doc Savage. 
  Below the cavern, the pass was a bowl 
  of darkness. It was as thick as smoke. Monk 
  pointed one hand at this. 
  “Johnny, the magic!” he rapped out. 
  Johnny understood. He picked up one 
  of the infra-red beam projectors. The invisible 
  light shot across the pass. Monk clapped the 
  goggles on the helpless chief’s eyes. He 
  turned the savage around. 
  “Now you see where there is no sight!” 
  announced Monk in the chiefs own language. 
  “All of your people will be greater than the 
  Long Juju! We prepare to resist the invading 
  devils!” 
  The chief saw clearly where there was 
  no light. All of the pass showed in black and 
  white. And he could pick out his own warriors 
  crouching among the rocks. 
  “Ho-hee! Ho-hee!” cried the chief. 
  The other chiefs donned the goggles. 
  They joined in the cry of battle. The banging of 
  the battle drums still submerged the slower 
  telegraph of the drums in the hills. 
  “See that all of the blowpipes are 
  placed!” commanded Monk. 
  Ham seldom admitted Monk amounted 
  to anything. Now the lean face of the lawyer 
  held some admiration. 
  “Sometimes, you confounded insect, I 
  think you’ve got brains,” he said grudgingly. 
  Then 
  he 
  spoke 
  quickly, 
  in 
  the 
  language of the ancient Mayans. 
  “But if these heathen get wise the old 
  king has passed out, we are sunk. With Doc 
  gone and King Udu dead, these natives would 
  quit on us cold.” 
  Old Selan, the wrinkled medicine man, 
  bored his black eyes into Ham. All this time, he 
  had been sitting in dejected silence. Ham had 
  made a great mistake. 
  The Mayan language was little known. 
  Doc and his men employed it to confuse their 
  enemies. But one man in the kingdom of 
  Kokoland knew the Mayan language. 
  Old Selan understood what Ham had 
  just said. 
  “Ai-ee! Ai-ee! Ai-ee!” the wrinkled 
  medicine man suddenly screamed. “The white 
  chief lies! King Udu is dead! The Long Juju will 
  rule!” 
  Before he could be seized, the old 
  medicine man had dashed from the cavern. 
  Almost at once, a near-by drum changed its 
  war beat. 
  The warrior chiefs in the cavern cast 
  themselves on their faces. They joined in the 
  wailing chant which old Selan had started. 
  “Now the devil and all’s to pay!” 
  rapped out Johnny, forgetting his long words. 
  “That’s what Doc was trying to keep under 
  cover when he brought old Selan up here!” 
  “There’s nothing we can do,” said 
  Logo. “All of the tribesmen and our own loyal 
  Kokonese will quit cold. We are defeated by 
  our own people before the battle begins.” 
   
   
  AS wailing panic spread among the 
  hundreds of tribesmen in the mountain pass, 
  the chanters mourned in the palace of King 
  Udu. The death torches of nut oil were lighted. 
  Before the great throne room, a dozen tom-
  toms tunked out the grief and despair of the 
  stricken people. 
  In strange contrast, the loud strains of 
  a jazzy band march broke in on the drums. 
  The music was military. It sounded like some 
  naval band. For a few moments it drowned out 
  the dirge. 
  This weirdly unexpected music was 
  coming from the old king’s powerful, modern 
  radio. It was indeed a naval band. And the 
  band was playing a war march. 
  The radio stood across the royal 
  throne from the hundreds of skulls of 
  beheaded enemies. Before the doorway where 
  King Udu lay, was piled an assortment of 
  objects. 
  Those were the lifetime adornments 
  and weapons of King Udu’s family for 
  generations. Vessels contained meats. A white 
  goat was alive. He bleated shrilly. The 
  Kokonese had prepared their stricken monarch 
  for his journey into another land. 
  Oil torches gave dim light in the royal 
  death chamber. The great bulk of King Udu lay 
  on the couch of skins. In the same room still 
  reposed the casket containing Prince Zaban. 
  Tom-toms beat. A radio gave forth the 
  strains of a modern military march. 
  Skulls of the beheaded grinned down 
  on the painted chanters. A dozen guards with 
  long spears stood before the death chamber 
  door. 
  All the tribal fetishes were represented 
  in preparation for King Udu’s death journey. 
  Old 
  men 
  ground 
  their 
  wrinkled 
  foreheads in the dust of the streets and 
  mumbled. Women wailed in the long hut. 
  
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  63 
  The guards with the spears were 
  standing as impassive as statues of carved 
  mahogany. Their giant bodies were dyed 
  vividly red. 
  At the edge of King Udu’s village, the 
  earth trembled. There arose a thunderous 
  trumpeting that drowned both the radio band 
  and the tom-toms. The Kokonese were 
  bringing up the elephants. 
  The passing of the elephant herd was 
  a funeral custom. Sometimes the mourners 
  failed to move from before the elephants. 
  Some would be trampled. But mostly the wise 
  beasts stepped over them. 
   
   
  THE radio band crashed to a finish. 
  From inside the palace came wild cries. First, 
  the chanters came rushing into the street. 
  They were followed closely by the guards. The 
  guards flung away their spears and fled. 
  The six wrinkled medicine men, the 
  advisors, were the last to emerge. They tried to 
  conceal their terror. With upraised hands, they 
  were invoking the gods in mumbling voices. 
  The immense figure of old King Udu 
  came walking behind the advisors. On his 
  tremendously fat body hung death ornaments. 
  From his neck and arms and hands gleamed 
  countless jewels. The tribal death mark was on 
  King Udu’s forehead. 
  The fat old body of the ruler of 
  Kokoland quivered as he walked. But his eyes 
  were black and keen beside the high-arched 
  nose. His voice spoke clearly above his rolling 
  chins. 
  “A great mistake has been made,” he 
  stated calmly. “I have only been sleeping. I 
  have defeated the attempt of my enemies to 
  put me to death. Bring the elephants, even the 
  funeral herd. I shall go to lead my army.” 
  The wrinkled advisors fell on their 
  faces. Fat King Udu, very much alive, walked 
  down the incline from his palace into the street. 
   
   
  ONLY an increased chirping of the 
  stonechat birds, and a subdued chattering of 
  hyrax, indicated the tropical dawn was not far 
  away. Thick mists crowned Mount Kibo and all 
  of the Kilimanjaro. 
  “Don’t seem any use,” groaned the 
  voice of Monk. “Some of the chiefs are 
  ordering their men to throw away the infra-red 
  goggles.” 
  “Yes,” stated Logo. “They now believe 
  they have been tricked. They are saying you 
  are yourselves of this devil army and you have 
  brought them into this pass to be killed. They 
  are preparing to leave.” 
  “I haven’t heard the war tanks moving 
  for some time,” advised Johnny, who had been 
  outside scouting along the wall of the gorge. “It 
  doesn’t look good. The invaders will wait until 
  just before daylight to strike. A great many of 
  the 
  tribesmen 
  are 
  sneaking 
  down 
  the 
  mountain.” 
  “Dag-gonit!” groaned Monk. “I oughta 
  choked that old medicine guy to death while I 
  had him here! We’ve got to put up some kind 
  of a fight! I’ll go out and try and talk to them!” 
  Monk emerged on the rocks outside 
  the cavern. He played a flashlight over his 
  gorillalike figure, so he could be plainly seen. 
  That was a mistake. 
  Excited 
  tribesmen 
  shouted. 
  Bow 
  strings twanged. A shower of arrows slapped 
  about the mouth of the cavern. 
  “Ouch!” howled Monk. “The ornery 
  heathen!” 
  An 
  arrow 
  stuck 
  bloodily 
  in 
  his 
  shoulder. Ham pulled him back into the cave. 
  From the upper end of the pass came the 
  explosion of war tanks’ motors. 
  The invading army was starting its 
  drive through the pass. 
   
   
  Chapter XVIII 
  THE ARMY STRIKES 
   
  THE horde of Monk’s Kokonese and 
  the allied tribesmen had begun their retreat. At 
  the sound of the attacking movement the 
  terrorized natives scrambled back to the walls. 
  The beat of the drums mourning the death of 
  King Udu was suddenly stilled. 
  “If we only had some way to get them 
  fighting mad,” declared Ham. “The trouble is 
  that old voodoo man, Selan, is hooked up with 
  the Long Juju stuff. I wouldn’t be surprised but 
  what he has been playing in with The Shimba 
  all the time.” 
  “Thunderation!” exploded Monk. “That 
  ain’t the worst of it! I know now this Señorita 
  Moncarid is running part of this unholy show! I 
  wouldn’t be surprised if she is The Shimba!” 
  Logo shook his head. 
  “I 
  think 
  you 
  are 
  mistaken,” 
  he 
  asserted. “She is a prisoner along with your 
  Miss Savage.” 
  
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  64 
   
  Monk emerged on the rocks outside the cavern. 
  An arrow stuck bloodily in his shoulder. 
   
  “That may be true,” stated Ham, “but 
  with Doc gone, it looks bad for all of us. If this 
  army drives through, whoever The Shimba 
  might be, Pat and Renny are done for.” 
  In the pass below came the rustling of 
  many bare feet. From the upper end of the 
  pass a few guns crackled sharply. Apparently, 
  the army leaders believed a few tribal guards 
  had been placed at the pass. 
  The clanking of the war tanks and the 
  movement of light artillery told plainly the 
  invaders were moving in massed force. A few 
  howls of death agony floated up to the cavern. 
  The retreat of the tribesmen had 
  begun. It had become a rout. 
  “Howlin’ 
  calamities!” 
  snapped 
  out 
  Monk. “This may be the finish, but I’m goin’ to 
  fight!” 
  Blood dripped from his shoulder where 
  Johnny had extracted the arrow. The apelike 
  chemist started to spring again into the open. 
  “Kafee! Kafee!” This meant, “Kill! Kill!” 
  This wild cry broke from the back of 
  the cavern. Led by two hideously painted tribal 
  chiefs, a dozen warriors burst into the rock 
  
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  65 
  room. They held long spears poised. These 
  ringed in Monk and the others. 
  “Kafee! Kafee!” again cried one of 
  these chiefs. 
  He 
  shook 
  his 
  feathered 
  head 
  ornaments. From under one side, a great loop 
  of flesh fell down onto his shoulder. 
  “Masai!” shouted Logo. “Selan and 
  The Shimba have betrayed us even among our 
  own people!” 
  Monk and Johnny had whipped out 
  their superfiring pistols. The tribesmen had 
  never seen these in action. They could not use 
  their spears quickly enough. The pistols 
  moaned. The two chiefs fell down. Some of the 
  spearmen dropped their weapons. 
  But others were pouring into the 
  cavern. 
  “Our only salvation is to surrender!” 
  advised Logo. “We cannot overcome all of 
  them!” 
   
   
  SUDDENLY the whole pass seemed 
  to be split by a trumpetlike blast. More guns of 
  the army were cracking. It was too dark to pick 
  out targets. An occasional howl told of a hit. 
  With 
  the 
  trumpeting 
  came 
  a 
  thunderous tramping below the cavern. A 
  brilliant flare burst between the mountain walls. 
  Into this almost blinding light appeared a single 
  mass. 
  “Well, 
  I’ll 
  be 
  superamalgamated!” 
  exclaimed Johnny. “It’s an elephant, the 
  biggest I ever saw!” 
  The beast was as big as a small 
  house. His trunk stuck out rigidly. His trumpet 
  blast was like the scream of a locomotive. His 
  vast red mouth was a cavern of furious sound. 
  Long tusks gleamed in the strange glare. 
  This white light was coming from the 
  ground. It seemed to have burst from a dozen 
  points. Hundreds of fleeing tribesmen fell upon 
  their faces, groveling in the rocks. 
  “Great Julius Caesar!” rapped out 
  Ham. “If it ain’t old King Udu himself, in 
  person!” 
  The immense, fat figure of King Udu 
  sat upright on the head of the monster 
  elephant. Rolls of copper and brass wires hung 
  from his neck and arms. Weirdly cut jewels 
  played from his hands and ears. 
  “Great Scott!” cried Logo, with a 
  peculiarly American phrase. “He’s wearing the 
  funeral headdress! King Udu was dead, and he 
  has come to life with all of his death 
  ornaments!” 
  The strangely burning, chemical light 
  played for perhaps less than half a minute. In 
  these thirty seconds, King Udu raised one 
  tremendous arm. His old voice rolled clear and 
  strong. 
  “Turn 
  back, 
  my 
  people!” 
  he 
  commanded. “My enemies have said I was 
  dead! You see for yourselves, I live! I have 
  come to command you! We will not yield our 
  kingdom! You see what I bear!” 
  “Howlin’ calamities!” yelled Monk. “The 
  war’s on again! Logo, can you make them 
  dumb chiefs understand to do, as we 
  planned?” 
  Logo was staring at the figure of King 
  Udu. 
  “It’s the Blood Idol!” he shouted. “The 
  Blood Idol has come back to the kingdom! 
  Look!” 
  Monk, Ham and Johnny could see only 
  a great splash of scarlet in the middle of the fat 
  King Udu’s breast. This caught the white light 
  and threw it back with flashes of blinding red. 
  An enormous jewel of some sort hung by a 
  chain around the ruler’s neck. 
   
   
  PEHAPS the advance guard of the 
  army was too surprised to act quickly. The 
  white glare revealing King Udu and the 
  mammoth elephant was dying before the first 
  guns flamed. A machine gun chattered then 
  from one of the clanking war tanks. 
  A trumpeting scream of death agony 
  burst from the elephant. The huge pachyderm 
  settled over on one side like a great house 
  falling on the rocks. The fat King Udu rolled off. 
  At this instant, the flare of light from 
  the ground winked out. The mountain pass 
  was plunged into Stygian darkness. 
  But now the tribesmen of Kokoland 
  were shouting the cries of war. King Udu lived. 
  Monk gave the word and Logo passed 
  it along. The drums beat as had been ordered 
  previously. 
  “I will try and get King Udu up here!” 
  shouted Ham. “Perhaps the bullets did not hit 
  him!” 
  As if in reply, came King Udu’s clear, 
  old voice in the darkness. 
  “I am unharmed, my people! I am with 
  you as you fight! Stop these invaders of the 
  kingdom! I am your king! The Blood Idol 
  speaks!” 
  
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  66 
  It was well for the hundreds of loyal 
  tribesmen they could not then see what was 
  happening in the darkness. 
  The hundreds in the higher rocks were 
  equipped 
  with 
  the 
  infra-red 
  goggles. 
  Searchlights leaped out on the war tanks. Foot 
  soldiers were marching in long files. But the 
  lights did not find the hidden natives. 
  From the cavern, Monk and Johnny 
  were operating two huge boxes which had 
  been brought from the Wing. Generators 
  hummed. Invisible to all but those with the 
  goggles, fanlike beams played over the white 
  army with its modern weapons. 
  Machine guns rattled from the tanks. 
  Some of the soldiers were shooting with 
  repeating rifles. Lead spattered aimlessly 
  along the walls. The searchlights were of little 
  value in picking out the hidden tribesmen. 
   
   
  “LET ‘em have it!” yelled Monk. “Feed 
  ‘em the darts!” 
  Logo translated the command with a 
  shout of his own. 
  King Udu had returned from the dead. 
  Or, he never had been dead. Wild tribesmen, 
  firm believers in witchcraft, found themselves 
  looking through the glasses that could see in 
  the darkness. 
  “Kafee! Kafee!” shouted many chiefs. 
  The war drums rolled in sudden 
  clamor. Hemmed in the pass below, unable to 
  pick out more than a few figures on the 
  honeycombed walls, the foot soldiers of the 
  invading army set themselves for a burst of 
  gunfire. 
  None came. The soldiers themselves 
  were in opaque darkness. It lacked only a few 
  minutes to the tropical dawn. But these few 
  minutes were sufficient. 
  The bony, scholarly Johnny was 
  dancing up and down. He was looking through 
  a pair of the huge goggles. 
  “Never but once in a lifetime could a 
  man ever have opportunity to observe such a 
  manifestation of psychological suggestion,” 
  stated the geologist. 
  Modern weapons were rattling their 
  bullets into the air. The black warriors had laid 
  aside their spears, their bows and arrows, their 
  great oxhide shields and even the few antique 
  guns they possessed. Those with the goggles, 
  held blowpipes to their lips. 
  “By all the saints, the poisonous 
  devils!” screamed a white officer in the army 
  and fell on his face. 
  Others were falling down. Some were 
  shooting, but they had no marks. Among the 
  soldiers rained tiny darts. They were striking 
  with uncanny accuracy. The barbs stuck in 
  faces and necks. When they missed, they 
  seemed to make mushy little explosions as 
  they struck the rocks. 
  “Great guns!” squealed Monk. “Look! 
  They think they’re all being poisoned, Johnny!” 
  The white men of the invading army 
  thought just that. They could see but little. 
  They dropped like flies. Some screamed. They 
  had heard much of the poisoned blowguns of 
  these savages. 
  Drivers of the tractor tanks found 
  themselves blocked. The bodies of the 
  marching soldiers piled before them. They did 
  not want to crush the dead. 
  These drivers and gunners would have 
  been surprised to know there was not a dead 
  man yet in the pass. The blowpipe darts had 
  been loaded with anaesthetic chemicals. The 
  victims would sleep for perhaps a day, and 
  they would feel rather groggy afterward. 
  “That just about puts a quietus on this 
  invasion,” stated Johnny. 
  “Dag-gonit! I told them not to use them 
  spears!” said Monk. 
  Armed with the superfiring pistol, Monk 
  slid down the wall. Some of the war-enthused 
  tribesmen were hurling spears. A few were 
  shooting arrows. These did not have goggles. 
  Some soldiers now were being wounded and 
  killed. 
   
   
  THE drivers and gunners of the tanks 
  suddenly 
  went 
  to 
  sleep. 
  Their 
  motors 
  continued to hum, but the tanks did not move. 
  Tropical dawn was the usual blast of 
  light. It revealed a mountain pass apparently 
  choked with dead men. The invaders lay in 
  grotesque 
  heaps. 
  Painted, 
  whooping 
  tribesmen were hard to restrain. 
  “I’ll shoot alla you myself, if you start 
  murderin’ anybody!” yelled Monk. 
  The chemist did let go at one 
  bloodthirsty band with his superfirer. This had 
  the effect of quelling others. The hundreds of 
  warriors now regarded Monk as no less than a 
  real god. Even if he looked like only a god of 
  the baboons. 
  
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  67 
  Monk and Johnny climbed on the war 
  tanks. Loaded with the weapons of the 
  sleeping army, the warriors of Kokoland 
  started triumphantly back toward the village of 
  King Udu. 
  “Dag-gonit!” complained Monk. “Now 
  what do you suppose became of Ham and the 
  old king himself?” 
  “The Masai!” exclaimed Logo. “It is 
  lucky this was all over before our people 
  discovered it! The Shimba must have trailed 
  King Udu! And they have seized the one you 
  call Ham!” 
  “If it ain’t one thing, it’s a couple more!” 
  howled Monk. “First, we lose Renny and Pat 
  Savage! Then Doc disappears with the Wing! 
  Now them black devils have grabbed Ham and 
  the king himself!” 
  It seemed no doubt this was true. For 
  three black warriors lay close to the dead 
  elephant. Their ears showed the hideous loops 
  of the Masai. Monk pointed out where their 
  faces had been stuck with the drugged point of 
  Ham’s sword. 
  There must have been a tough, but 
  brief battle. In the face of the battle, King Udu 
  and Ham had been seized. 
  The hundreds of tribesmen were now 
  too intoxicated with their amazing victory to 
  show anxiety over the absence of King Udu. 
  Perhaps each group imagined the king was 
  with some other, or had returned to the village. 
  Logo hastily directed the concealment 
  of 
  the 
  unconscious 
  Masai. 
  Luckily, 
  the 
  Kokonese 
  showed 
  some 
  reluctance 
  at 
  approaching the slain pachyderm. The bull 
  elephant was one of the funeral herd. 
  “I haven’t seen old Selan, the medicine 
  man, anywhere,” stated Johnny. “I’ll bet that 
  wrinkled old buzzard had something to do with 
  grabbing the king.” 
  Logo was staring at the ear of the 
  dead elephant. He gasped with amazement. 
  Then he lifted the leathery flesh. 
  “Howlin’ calamities!” squawked Monk. 
  “The old king was pretty smart!” 
  An enormous red jewel had been 
  hidden in the elephant’s ear. It was a 
  grotesque figure. It seemed to be partly a man 
  and partly a scorpion. 
  “The Blood Idol!” said Logo. “We must 
  get back to the village!” 
   
   
   
   
  Chapter XIX 
  THE BURNING KING 
   
  FOR the first time in the history of the 
  village, modern war tanks ground and clanked 
  through the dusty streets. The capital of 
  Kokoland blazed with fires of victory. 
  Giant plumed warriors, glistening with 
  oil, their faces made into many hideous masks, 
  pranced and whooped after their own tribal 
  customs. Stacks of modern rifles, machine 
  guns and light pieces of artillery were packed 
  into the great throne room of King Udu. 
  “Dag-goned if it don’t seem to me 
  them skulls are grinnin’ more than they did 
  before,” pointed Monk. “We’ve won a war, an’ 
  what do we get out of it? Doc’s gone. Pat and 
  Renny and Ham maybe have been killed. Even 
  King Udu comes back to life and they grab 
  him. We’ve got to do something.” 
  “If we had hold of that old buzzard, 
  Selan, I’ll bet we could get a line on where 
  these Masai hold out,” mused Johnny. “Logo, 
  what do you think?” 
  “I’ve talked with Selan’s medicine men, 
  the advisors, and they know something they 
  don’t want to tell,” said Logo. “But be prepared 
  for action. I’ve still got a card up my sleeve.” 
  In the streets, the tom-toms beat with 
  wild fury. 
  The great elephant may have been 
  one of the sacred funeral herd, but he was 
  meat. Steaks of the pachyderm were being 
  boiled. The feet were being baked in pits. 
  “I had some elephant steak once,” said 
  Johnny. “I boiled it from Monday morning until 
  Friday night. Then I chewed it from Friday 
  night until Monday morning. By that time I had 
  enough elephant steak to last me the rest of 
  my life.” 
  Monk was not listening. He was 
  watching Logo. Suddenly the man from Long 
  Island produced the red, flashing jewel taken 
  from the ear of the elephant. 
  “The Blood Idol!” gasped the medicine 
  men in unison. 
  All six fell on their faces. They 
  mumbled in their native tongue. All seemed 
  strangely stricken. 
  “These men of Doc Savage have 
  saved the kingdom!” thundered Logo. “Now 
  they must know more of The Shimba! That 
  which Selan knew and concealed from his 
  king, must now be told! The Blood Idol will 
  strike death to those who evade the truth!” 
  
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  68 
  The threat brought a few seconds of 
  silence. Then all of the medicine men tried to 
  talk at once. Neither Monk nor Johnny could 
  make head or tail of their jabbering. 
  “I have it!” shouted Logo. “The white 
  invaders have been left helpless! While the 
  blood of the warriors is hot, we will strike 
  again! They have told me the place of the Long 
  Juju!” 
   
   
  SMOKY fires blazed on a flat, stone 
  shrine or altar. This was a broad platform. On 
  its top was a smaller table of stone. Around 
  this flat stone walked two hideous figures. On 
  the rough table a body lay under a white sheet. 
  The two figures chanted. 
  One was a man. The other was a 
  woman. The man was fantastically garbed in 
  blood-red garments. His face was ochred to 
  resemble a skull. The skull grinned at the 
  woman. 
  The woman wore only a flowing robe 
  of green. It was woven with many serpents. 
  They had wings. They were the “Flying Green 
  Serpents” of voodooism. The woman’s face 
  was fat and oily. 
  The man was the Papa Loi. The 
  woman was the Maman Loi. 
  They were the priest and priestess of 
  the Long Juju. 
  Old women stirred a filthy mixture of 
  blood and goat’s meat in a great pot. They 
  stirred this boiling mess with their bared hands. 
  The skin and flesh was all burned away. 
  Hideous 
  warriors 
  pranced 
  slowly 
  around a fire on the ground. In the horrible 
  loops of their ears were many bright objects. 
  Their long spears were brandished close to the 
  faces of the prisoners chained to stakes driven 
  into the ground. 
  “Holy cow!” groaned the deep voice of 
  a heavily bearded man. “An’ Doc got himself 
  blown to pieces in the Wing? There ain’t much 
  hope for any of us then! If there was only some 
  way to get Pat and the señorita outta this 
  mess!” 
  Big Renny was so loaded with chains 
  he looked like a statue of rusty iron. The 
  chains were looped over a heavy stake. 
  Beside him another figure, more 
  waspish, also was chained to a stake. This 
  man spoke out of the corner of his mouth. 
  “Don’t get too downhearted, Renny. 
  We’re not dead yet. You may get a big 
  surprise.” 
  Despite his position, the queerly clad 
  Ham was grinning as if he knew something he 
  could not divulge. 
  The enormously fat old King Udu was 
  among the prisoners. His corpulent arms and 
  legs had been loaded with chains. Only the 
  stake behind him prevented the aged king from 
  sagging to the ground. 
  Many jewels had been stripped from 
  King Udu’s body. There had been howls of 
  rage when the Masai had discovered the Blood 
  Idol to be missing. The raiding warriors, 
  directed by the mysterious Shimba, had seen 
  the king’s display of the great, red gem. 
  But when King Udu and Ham were 
  seized, the Blood Idol had vanished. After he 
  had craftily placed the jewel fetish in the ear of 
  the elephant, King Udu had appeared to lapse 
  into a coma. 
  Perhaps the old king’s apparent revival 
  from death was only a flash. The tired heart 
  must have been nearly exhausted under all of 
  that mountain of flesh. And King Udu had not 
  the satisfaction of knowing that his appearance 
  had caused the defeat of the invading army. 
  King Udu’s eyes were closed. His 
  head with its straggling white locks was 
  drooping. The arched nose was buried in his 
  multiple chins. 
  Perhaps the old king realized he had 
  saved his kingdom for the time. Perhaps he 
  was only exhausted. He did not seem to know 
  that the fierce Masai and Swahili warriors were 
  being worked into frenzy for a new descent 
  upon his village. 
  Papa Loi chanted. He walked up and 
  down, keeping time with his hands to the slow 
  beating of the skin drums. The eyes of all the 
  Masai warriors were upon him. 
  The hideous face of the Maman Loi 
  leered at the dancers. The old women 
  mumbled and stirred the pot 
   
   
  “WARRIORS of the Masai!” spoke a 
  commanding voice. “The Long Juju demands 
  the sacrifice of the white goat! With this Juju 
  none of our enemies can survive!” 
  The 
  speaker 
  wore 
  a 
  strange 
  combination of monkey fur and lion’s pelt. His 
  upper body was wholly concealed by the 
  flowing mane of the lion and the enormous 
  head. His voice came through the gleaming 
  teeth of the man-eating beast. 
  He was The Shimba. Near him, 
  another white man hovered in the background. 
  
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  69 
  This man seemed to have been wounded. His 
  head was downcast. 
  “Ho-hee! 
  Ho-hee!” 
  chanted 
  the 
  warriors. 
  “Thunderation!” growled Renny. “That 
  don’t sound like the same Shimba that tried to 
  drive me outta this heathen country! What in 
  the devil does he mean by the white goat?” 
  The grin suddenly was erased from 
  Ham’s thin face. 
  “Renny, where’s Pat, an’ where’s that 
  Señorita Moncarid?” he rapped out. 
  “I don’t know where they’ve tied ‘em 
  up,” stated Renny. “They took them away 
  somewhere with that Count Cardoti fellow. 
  They—” 
  Something was coming to a climax. 
  The chanting of the Papa Loi became a 
  frenzied outburst. The Maman Loi swayed and 
  groaned. 
  Masai warriors slapped their spears 
  into the ground. They howled like wild animals. 
  Some were slashing their own bodies with 
  sharp rocks. Blood lust apparently was being 
  stirred. 
  On the stone platform, the Papa Loi 
  dipped his hand into the mixture of goat’s meat 
  and blood. He held his dripping fingers to his 
  lips. Then he let out a blood-curdling shriek. 
  “The white goat! The white goat!” 
  thundered the voice of The Shimba. “It is the 
  Long Juju!” 
  The hand of the Papa Loi swept away 
  a cloth covering that had been over the small 
  stone table. Renny heaved in his chains and 
  roared. Ham strained and fought silently. 
  The Papa Loi whipped a long knife 
  from his clothing. He threw up his hand. 
  Clad in a winding white sheet, her 
  beautiful face as still as if she were sleeping 
  quietly, Patricia Savage lay on the stone altar. 
  This was the “white goat.” 
  The Papa Loi whirled the knife. He 
  swung and pranced. 
  “Ai-ee! Ai-ee! Ai-ee!” 
   
   
  THE 
  Masai 
  warriors 
  had 
  started 
  screaming. But they had turned their eyes from 
  the altar of the white goat. They were no 
  longer looking at the Papa Loi. They did not 
  hear the shouting voice of The Shimba. 
  All were looking at the enormously fat 
  body of King Udu. 
  A terrible, an unbelievable thing was 
  happening. 
  The vast, corpulent figure of the 
  Kokoland ruler was dissolving. From his feet to 
  his flowing white hair, King Udu seemed on 
  fire. He was glowing with a weird, blue flame. 
  The blaze seemed to crackle and consume his 
  flesh. 
  “Seize him! It’s a trick—it’s—” 
  The Shimba was yelling. But his Masai 
  warriors seemed turned to stone. 
  Not only was King Udu a blue pillar of 
  fire, his flesh was apparently being rapidly 
  consumed. Great rolls of fat were peeling off. 
  Because of this, the many chains were 
  clanking to the ground. 
  “Holy cow!” gasped Renny. “I might 
  have known—” 
  Masai warriors were falling on their 
  faces. Even the Papa Loi and the Maman Loi 
  had ceased chanting. The Papa Loi stood as if 
  frozen. The gleaming knife was still uplifted. 
  More than a hundred pounds of flesh 
  rolled from the figure of old King Udu. Then the 
  king was standing erect. From his still melting 
  body issued the most fantastic sound the 
  Masai had ever heard. 
  It was like the trilling of some death 
  bird in a tomb. It was a weird warning. No 
  doubt it struck a chill to the superstitious 
  hearts. 
  “Doc! Doc!” shouted Renny. “Look out! 
  He’ll get Pat!” 
  The Papa Loi had whirled with his 
  knife. But from the fat old body of what had 
  seemed to be King Udu, sprang the amazing 
  man of bronze. 
  Doc’s figure still glowed with blue fire. 
  This light was no more than a mixture of 
  luminol and sodium hydroxide in water, with 
  potassium ferrocyanide and hydrogen peroxide 
  added. It was nothing but the cold glowing of a 
  firefly. 
  Other chemicals had been released 
  from the gross rolls of fat. They had severed 
  the chains. And packed in the extra weight it 
  had required to make up for King Udu, were 
  many other chemicals. 
  The knife of the Papa Loi had begun to 
  strike down at Pat Savage. The man of bronze 
  was on the stone platform with a single leap. 
  His hands waved. The Papa Loi shivered and 
  fell on his face. The Maman Loi drooped 
  forward. The old women went to sleep with 
  their withered hands still in the boiling pot. 
  Masai warriors were no less than 
  paralyzed. Some started to flee. 
   
  
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  70 
   
  ONLY The Shimba realized the truth. 
  Seizing a long spear, he drove it directly at 
  Doc Savage’s back. 
  There was something like the rumble 
  of a human earthquake. The giant Renny 
  unable to break his chains, had hurled his 
  huge body upward. The heavy stake pulled 
  from the ground. The big engineer was like a 
  ball of hammering iron. 
  Though he could not use his fists, 
  Renny beat The Shimba to one side. The 
  Shimba snarled an oath in English. He crashed 
  Renny’s skull with the heavy haft of the spear. 
  The Masai warriors were rallying. They 
  saw now this was something less than a 
  manifestation of magic. The strange body that 
  had been King Udu struck among them. 
  Spears were thrust straight at the man 
  of bronze. Some of these he caught and 
  snapped as if they were mere toothpicks. He 
  whirled one huge Masai from his feet. Big as 
  he was, Doc used the man as a club to beat 
  his way to Renny’s side. 
  “You’re smart, but we’ll get all of you!” 
  rapped The Shimba. 
  He lifted a spear. Its point was at 
  Renny’s throat. Doc felt the wind of a thrown 
  weapon. Another long spear grazed his head. 
  It carried away tufts of the white hair that had 
  seemed to be on the skull of King Udu. 
  The 
  Shimba’s 
  blade 
  plunged 
  downward. It missed Renny’s throat. The 
  spear that had come close to Doc knocked 
  The Shimba’s thrust to one side. At this, the 
  lion-clad man leaped toward the white man 
  who had been hovering in the background. 
  His lion’s head still concealed his 
  features. Doc drove to interpret the Masai 
  leader, but many of the natives had rallied. 
  They were rolling in a wave upon the 
  prisoners. Their oxhide shields protected them. 
  The man of bronze was forced by 
  close fighting to permit The Shimba and the 
  other white man to fade into the jungle 
  shadows. 
  Renny staggered to his feet. The big 
  engineer got to the stone platform. With his 
  chain-bound body, he threw himself forward. 
  He intended to shield Pat Savage to the last 
  from the Masai spears. 
  Trapped by the spears, the man of 
  bronze crushed several anaesthetic capsules. 
  These halted a score of warriors. For a 
  moment, they piled as an obstacle to Doc 
  Savage. 
  But the charging line was wide. 
  Hundreds of warriors were coming from the 
  bush. Hope seemed scant for the survival of 
  any of the prisoners. 
  Then came the rapid beating of 
  several drums. The Masai halted. The wave of 
  death receded. In the distance, toward the 
  village, a new battle cry was arising. Gunfire 
  suddenly outdrummed the tom-toms. 
  Ham’s 
  waspish 
  body 
  rattled 
  his 
  imprisoning chains. 
  “Doc!” he cried out. “They’ve executed 
  a flank movement! The village of the Kokonese 
  is burning!” 
  Thick, whitish smoke rolled upward in 
  a cloud. Guns were exploding between the 
  shrine of the Long Juju and the spreading fire. 
  Doc and his companions did not know 
  this, but Monk, Johnny and Logo, with their 
  new army of Kokonese, had been outflanked 
  by a horde of Masai and other wild tribesmen. 
  The rescue of old King Udu, as they still 
  believed Doc to be, abruptly became less 
  important to many of the Kokonese, than the 
  saving of their homes and families. 
  Logo was unable to stay an avenging 
  rush back to the village. The Kokonese, with 
  modern rifles, returned to meet this new attack, 
  to rescue their women and children. 
  In the meantime, Doc Savage quickly 
  freed Señorita Moncarid and Ham. 
   
   
  Chapter XX 
  THE SHIMBA REVEALED 
   
  “SAFEGUARD Señorita Moncarid at 
  all costs,” instructed Doc. “With King Udu 
  dead, she is the final hope of the Kokonese. 
  None but she will ever rule under the Blood 
  Idol.” 
  The man of bronze was leading the 
  others in a silent advance toward the village. 
  Ham gazed in amazement at the dusky beauty 
  of the young woman who had been Pat’s 
  companion. 
  “You mean Señorita Moncarid is of the 
  Kokonese?” said Ham. 
  Pat Savage, a trifle white-faced, but 
  quick to recover, gave Ham a superior smile. 
  “I have known that for some time,” she 
  said calmly. “With the king, her father dead, 
  she is the last of the family line. She was taken 
  prisoner by the Masai when a little girl. She is 
  really the Princess Monca.” 
  
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  71 
  “We have no time to discuss that now,” 
  stated Doc. “Some of the Kokonese now are 
  well armed, but the Masai and their allies are 
  numbered by the thousands. No doubt The 
  Shimba means to destroy the village, rout 
  those who are loyal, then hunt us down.” 
  Knowing now King Udu had been 
  impersonated by Doc Savage, this had 
  become the purpose of The Shimba. Many of 
  his warriors had been sent to the attack on the 
  village while the ceremony of the Long Juju 
  was in progress. 
  Because of Pat Savage and Princess 
  Monca, the man of bronze approached the 
  village warily. Several times passing bands of 
  Masai, this forced the small group to hide 
  among the thick lianas. 
  At 
  last 
  they 
  reached 
  a 
  rolling 
  eminence. From this they could hear the battle 
  cries and the screams of dying men. The 
  village was being deserted by a fleeing stream 
  of women and children. 
  Kokonese were using the rifles to 
  guard this line.  
  “Holy cow!” groaned Renny. “The 
  king’s palace is going up in smoke! Look! 
  There’s The Shimba himself!” 
  Once in the village, the thronging 
  Masai were crowding around the flaming 
  palace. The six, old counselors of the dead 
  king sat on the ground and rocked their bodies. 
  Though 
  many 
  had 
  fallen 
  before 
  Kokonese rifles, the Masai made up a 
  seemingly unbeaten horde. The Shimba was 
  directing a surrounding movement to capture 
  these riflemen. 
  “Their ammunition won’t last long 
  against that mob,” stated Ham. “Perhaps, Doc, 
  we should retreat deeper into the jungle, while 
  we have the chance.” 
  “Remain hidden,” directed Doc. “If you 
  are discovered, employ the explosives!” 
  The man of bronze vanished as 
  noiselessly as a shadow. He left with Ham and 
  Renny several of the small globes, any one of 
  which was sufficient to wipe out a hundred 
  men. 
  As Doc disappeared, Renny suddenly 
  let out a rumbling plaint. 
  “Now we’re in for it! The Kokonese are 
  out of bullets! They are falling back! We’ll be 
  caught in the massacre!” 
  A tide of retreating natives, with yelling 
  spearmen driving it, came surging through the 
  jungle. 
  “Now we are sunk!” rapped out Ham. 
  “We can’t use the grenades without blowing up 
  our friends! We’ll have to move!” 
   
   
  BEFORE they could act, the bush 
  beside them parted. Logo, once of Long 
  Island, appeared. In his tribal war garb, he was 
  an impressive figure. 
  Renny would have swung a huge fist. 
  Ham caught his arm.  
  Logo dropped on his knees before 
  Princess Monca. From his belted Colobus fur, 
  he produced a gleaming object. It shot out 
  dazzling reflections. 
  “Princess Monca!” he exclaimed. “I 
  have seen Doc Savage! Take the Blood Idol!” 
  Renny let out a whooping gasp. Ham 
  stared in amazement. 
  “The Blood Idol?” said Ham. “Great 
  Scott! It’s a huge, red diamond! Was that in the 
  teakwood box Doc received in Manhattan?” 
  Logo bowed his head. He smiled upon 
  the dusky beauty who had been known as 
  Señorita Moncarid. 
  “Fitting for Queen Monca,” he stated 
  quietly. “It is only part of the vast treasure of 
  the red diamonds under the Kilimanjaro. I sent 
  it to Doc Savage in New York for safekeeping. 
  The leader of the Masai was seeking it there 
  and brought about the assassination of Prince 
  Zaban.” 
  The explanation was hasty. Hoarse 
  cries of Kokonese and Masai were coming 
  nearer. Logo said, “Come with me quickly. We 
  have one chance to escape. Perhaps Doc 
  Savage will succeed in a daring stroke.” 
  Princess Monca’s garments had been 
  torn from her arms. As the group pushed 
  through the jungle, Ham saw the blue scorpion 
  on the young woman’s shoulder. The astute 
  lawyer realized this was the mark of the royal 
  family of Kokoland. 
  All around the little party, the bush 
  crashed and echoed to the clash of warriors. 
  “Holy cow!” grunted Renny. “We’ll 
  never get out of this without blowing up some 
  of your own people!” 
  “This way,” said Logo, parting a green 
  wall. 
  “Well, that is something to write home 
  about!” exclaimed Ham. 
  One of the invading army’s captured 
  war tanks had been concealed. Before the 
  Masai reached that spot, all were inside the 
  
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  72 
  steel fortress and Renny had the motor 
  turning. 
   
   
  AT this time, in the burning village, 
  The Shimba’s Masai warriors were emitting 
  exultant yells. Others of their tribe were 
  pursuing the retreating Kokonese. 
  One end of the king’s palace was still 
  untouched. The Shimba commanded some of 
  the tribesmen to enter. They started carrying 
  out some of the royal treasures. Stalwart 
  Masai emerged, bringing with them the casket 
  of Prince Zaban. 
  “Return it to the fire!” ordered The 
  Shimba. “Let the body be destroyed!” 
  The order never was carried out. From 
  one end of the village, roared two clanking 
  Juggernauts of war. Before the startled Masai 
  could decide upon their next movement, the 
  tanks were upon them. 
  Some of the boldest stood their 
  ground. The tanks’ machine guns beat upon 
  the air. The first bursts of bullets were directed 
  over the heads of the tribesmen. 
  “Get into the bush!” yelled The 
  Shimba. “We can wait!” 
  But his Masai were caught by the fever 
  of fear. Those who were not already fleeing, 
  were falling on their faces in abject terror. 
  Among them were falling almost invisible glass 
  objects. Terror was being replaced by sleep. 
  None, for the moment, heeded The 
  Shimba. The smart leader apparently saw the 
  uselessness of making a stand. He once more 
  vanished from the scene of battle. 
  Doc Savage and Monk emerged from 
  one of the war tanks. Johnny and two 
  Kokonese tribesmen came from the other. 
  Sleeping men lay around them. The old and 
  wrinkled king’s counselors were asleep with 
  the others in the village street. 
  “I fear we are too late to save much of 
  the palace,” stated Doc. “But only a portion of 
  the village will burn. Wait here. I will return to 
  Pat and the others. They may still be trapped.” 
  Monk let out a yelp. 
  “Look, Doc! There’s another tank! 
  Maybe them heathen grabbed it!” 
   
   
  MONK would have turned a machine 
  gun upon the slowly moving tank as it 
  approached, but Doc Savage interfered. The 
  iron door of the tank slowly opened. First to 
  emerge was Pat Savage. She gave one hasty 
  glance at the burning palace and the sleeping 
  Masai in the street. 
  “Some homecoming for the queen!” 
  she exclaimed. “Monca, you haven’t any 
  throne left!” 
  “Queen Monca will have a much more 
  modern throne,” stated Logo, climbing from the 
  tank with Renny and Ham. “A palace fit for a 
  civilized queen.” 
  Princess Monca stood there smiling. 
  “And fit also for the king,” she said. “I 
  would not care to rule Kokoland alone.” 
  Logo, who had been William Smith of 
  Long Island, rubbed his hands nervously. 
  “The words spoken in New York must 
  of course be forgotten,” he muttered. 
  “Well, I like that!” snapped Princess 
  Monca. “Your proposal made in New York 
  before you knew my identity is accepted! You 
  can’t jilt me now! If you do, I’ll hide the Blood 
  Idol and I’ll—” 
  Doc Savage had glided close. 
  “Too many lives have paid for the 
  Blood Idol to permit its purpose to be 
  unfulfilled,” stated the man of bronze. “King 
  Udu sent it to Logo in New York, for 
  safekeeping. Prince Zaban was murdered, 
  though Logo’s Kokonese tried to guard him. 
  Some of the Masai were tricked to their death 
  seeking the Blood Idol. I think Logo has earned 
  his right to be called a king.” 
  This was a long speech for Doc 
  Savage. He might have explained more, but 
  Pat Savage cried out. 
  “Count Cardoti! We thought the Masai 
  had killed him! But he is alive!” 
   
   
  DOC SAVAGE and his companions 
  whipped around. With his clothing in rags, 
  Count Cardoti came running from the jungle. 
  His face was streaked with dried blood. He had 
  every appearance of a man who had just 
  escaped from the Masai. 
  “Doc Savage!” cried Count Cardoti. 
  “You have beaten them off! I was staked in the 
  bush! They intended to kill—” 
  The count quit speaking. A look of 
  dazed surprise came over his face. Both hands 
  clutched 
  at 
  something 
  which 
  suddenly 
  protruded from his breast. 
  Count Cardoti fell forward, hands still 
  clawing at the point of a spear. The weapon 
  had come whistling from the jungle behind him. 
  It had struck him squarely between the 
  shoulders and pierced his heart. 
  
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  73 
  Pat Savage covered her face. The 
  man of bronze whipped toward the dead man, 
  eyes searching the bush. Another man 
  stepped forth. He was remarkably like the 
  count in appearance. He spoke clearly. 
  “I did that because he tried to double-
  cross me! He would have left me behind, and 
  he would have told you I was the only one who 
  played Shimba! He was my brother! When he 
  was absent I took his place here! My brother 
  had Prince Zaban assassinated!” 
  Doc Savage was moving swiftly. But 
  the bronze man was not fast enough. 
  “As brothers of the blood, we plotted to 
  steal King Udu’s kingdom and brought the 
  invaders!” cried the other Shimba. “Count 
  Cardoti intended to replace King Udu! Now as 
  brothers of the blood we die!” 
  The man cast himself forward. A short, 
  stabbing spear in his hand was forced through 
  his body. The Cardoti brothers, in whose vein 
  had run the hot blood of the Spanish, or 
  perhaps Portuguese, were dead. 
   
   
  A LITTLE later, Doc Savage said, 
  “Yes, old Selan was working with Count 
  Cardoti. 
  I 
  suspected 
  Cardoti 
  back 
  in 
  Manhattan. He was convinced I had the Blood 
  Idol, so he decided to accompany us to 
  Kokoland. That was why I returned the body of 
  Prince Zaban.” 
  “Then he would have killed Princess 
  Monca,” stated Ham. 
  “Count Cardoti did not suspect the 
  identity of Señorita Moncarid until after we 
  arrived in Africa,” said the man of bronze. “But 
  Logo knew. Yes, Logo had well earned his 
  right to be king.” 
  Pat Savage sighed deeply. 
  “And I miss my one chance of a 
  lifetime to be a queen,” she complained. 
  “Count Cardoti asked me to marry him.” 
   
   
  THE END 
   
   
   
   
  In the land of the black liquid gold, where fortunes are made or lost 
  overnight, where men walk side by side with death, there springs up a 
  new gusher, spouting crime and death— 
   
  THE 
  DERRICK DEVIL 
   
  —to menace a great industry, to threaten lives of innocent people. It is a 
  strange call that comes to Doc Savage, and stranger still are the stirring 
  events which lead to the amazing climax of this great novel. You'll find it, 
  complete, in the next issue of 
   
  DOC SAVAGE MAGAZINE 
   
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SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Vault2.0.-.Fiction-and-audiobooks/Books/R/Robeson, Kenneth/047 Land of Long Juju.pdf