Doc Savage: Skull Island (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) by Will Murray

fingered one splintery stub, removing a tendril of wood for closer examination.
    “Sails caught in a gale would not create this,” he murmured. “The canvas would be sundered before the masts began turning in their collars.”
    “We have already established that,” said Doc. “Each mast was individually torn loose and carried away.”
    Challenge burned in the old man’s eyes. “By what? I await your explanatory theory.”
    Doc considered this for a long period.
    “Occam’s Razor suggests one possibility,” he mused. “Something wrenched the masts loose and flung them in such a way so as not to damage the rest of the Courser. ”
    “Yes, yes, I comprehend your drift,” said the elder Savage impatiently. “But by what miraculous agency?”
    Doc pondered this question. “Were we living in the days of Ulysses, I would have suggested a Cyclops. But it would appear that only a giant approximately the size of Alfred Bulltop Stormalong could have accomplished this easily. He was said to stand thirty feet tall.”
    “Myth and legend are not acceptable to the scientific mind,” snapped Captain Savage. “You are jumping at conclusions, sir.”
    “Sir, my conclusions appear sound. I see no other alternative.”
    Captain Savage stared at his son with reserved incredulity.
    “Next, you will be leaping from tree to tree like Tarzan of the Apes,” he grumbled.
    “Or mast to mast,” said Doc, suppressing a smile. He was pleasantly surprised to learn that his father had read that book.
    Realizing that his son had already demonstrated that feat, the old man made an impatient gesture that could only be interpreted as, let’s get on with it.
    Doc led his father to the taffrail, beneath which a bloody blob sat in the sun, looking like a dead jellyfish engorged with plasma.
    “Heads were taken here,” intoned Captain Savage after a difficult silence.
    “I would judge within the last two months, perhaps less,” offered Doc, after toeing the encrimsoned matter carefully.
    Savage Senior favored him with a sharp glance. “And you judge this how?”
    “My medical training, sir.”
    “Such as it stands,” said Savage glumly. “But I do not doubt you in this particular matter. The way of the Sea Dyak is to remove the heads as trophies and dispose of the bodies at sea. If we wish to know who perished at this ugly spot, we must locate the trophies of war. For they always carry them away.”
    “Does that mean we are now in the business of hunting Dyaks?”
    Captain Savage nodded solemnly. “Beginning with the balla operating in these reaches.” His voice was very firm, the tone akin to a vengeance vow.
    They went below, Captain Savage leading. He lit his hurricane lantern to light the way, and its mellow glow made the varnish of the golden oak paneling below gleam brightly.
    CAPTAIN SAVAGE went directly to the master’s cabin, which was in disarray, the bed stripped of all linen. Chests stood open and empty. He ignored these things and stood before a mirror. It was dusty, but amid the dust were pale streaks.
    “My father had a habit of using his mirror to mark messages in soap,” Captain Savage told Doc. “It had the advantage being impermanent, and could therefore be erased with water.”
    A word appeared to be scrawled in the glass, barely readable now.
    “‘King,’” said the captain, frowning. “Without proper context, I fail to fathom the meaning.”
    “I believe that second letter to be an ‘O,’ not an ‘I,’” suggested Doc. “Perhaps this is an attempt to write bangkong. ”
    “Either way, it is insufficiently informative,” snapped Savage Senior.
    They exited. The other cabins were not only deserted, but appeared to have been emptied of any meaningful possessions.
    “Looted, no doubt,” decided Doc.
    “Looted, or carried off by the crew at landfall,” countered the captain.
    “Possibly,” admitted Doc, looking about.
    Having made a cursory investigation and finding nothing of interest,