Doc Savage: The Miracle Menace by Kenneth Robeson, Lester Dent, Will Murray Page B

alcohol fumes. Gull stooped, lifted him, found him surprisingly heavy. Because it was a little difficult to carry a burden through the brush, Gull moved to one side, found the path which was the shortcut, and followed that, using his flashlight clumsily with the hand which also held the old shotgun.
    Broken glass on the path stopped him for a moment. A shattered whiskey bottle, the liquid still splattered over the ground and the surrounding bushes. Gull decided this was where Spook Davis had been whacked over the head with a whiskey bottle.
    The Great Gulliver staggered on, his thoughts more occupied with the young woman than with the rest of the mess. Saint Pete, as she had called herself, was something unique. He had distinctly liked the warm feeling he got by looking at her exquisite lines.
    He reached the fence, moved along it to where he had left the girl, then poked around for some moments with the flashlight before the truth yanked him up rigid, causing his mouth to fall open and the flashlight beam to become motionless, pointing at nothing in particular.
    Saint Pete had taken her departure.

Chapter VI
    THE WILDEST INDIAN
    THE DIRIGIBLE PASSED over the small landing field in Millard, Missouri, a little past midnight and, seeing no activity through the quartz lens, they pushed on toward the spot where the weird house was reputed to stand, somewhat northwest of the town of La Plata.
    At this point, Doc Savage had donned a pair of goggles that were thick and complicated, obviously housing intricate apparatus. These enabled him to see what the infra-red searchlights disclosed to the others.
    He followed a highway until he came to a dirt turnoff, then tracked that for a while.
    Below, forest grew thick. Leaves had begun falling off trees. These should be brown and gold with some scarlet, but in the infra-red light, colors could not be discerned. All was an eerie world of shifting contrasts.
    Suddenly, a thin white whisker of light shot up. It was amazingly intense, for all the fact that it was no thicker than a pencil. It might have been composed of hardened light.
    A second rod popped into life. Then a third. They waved about like incandescent insect feelers.
    “Those are our spring-generator flashlights,” called out Monk. “They’re directly below.”
    “Radio them,” Doc told Monk.
    The hairy chemist flew to the radio set and raised the party below. Each of Doc’s men carried small portable radio transceivers. They had a limited range, but were very effective within that range.
    “Everyone O.K.?” Monk asked.
    “Holy cow!” came a booming voice that could only be Renny Renwick. “Have I had a night!”
    “It ain’t over yet,” Monk reminded him.
    “First I was set upon by a scalping Indian, and then I saw a house up and disappear when I walked up to it,” Renny thumped mournfully.
    Doc Savage called over, “Ask Renny to direct us to the house in question.”
    Monk repeated the request. A rapid exchange followed.
    “Renny says it’s due south, about a mile and a half up the trail they’re on,” reported Monk.
    A frown flickered in Doc’s golden orbs.
    “No better road?”
    “No. He says the only way to the house is along this path, which ain’t wide enough for an automobile.”
    Doc nodded. “Tell the others to remain where they are for the time being.”
    Doc Savage gave the throttles a stiff bat, and the tiny airship nudged ahead, dual propellers whirring.
    Following the forest trail was easy. It was the only one.
    “Looks kinda like the Indian paths of the olden days,” Monk muttered, as he watched it unreel beneath his feet in the big quartz lens.
    “No doubt it was,” said Doc.
    Soon, they were upon the site of the mysterious dwelling.
    Except that there was no dwelling. There was a clearing all right, and a foundation. It was a slab type of foundation. No cellar hole. The path ran straight toward it and picked up on the other side. There was no sign of any water or electrical