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

people?” asked Ham.
    “It is too dangerous to allow him to run loose in the present time,” said Doc, as if he had not heard the question.
    They set off back to the anchored dirigible, reasoning that it would provide the best vantage point from which to conduct their woodland search.
    At Doc’s direction, they walked along with their machine pistols firmly in hand, held at the ready should they sight their quarry.
    “It would be best to bring him down with mercy bullets at our first opportunity,” Doc advised. “Capturing him might prove difficult.”
    “But how the deuce did you learn his name?” questioned Ham Brooks, walking along with his sword cane in one hand and intricate superfirer in the other.
    Instead of replying directly, Doc Savage began telling a story.
    “The last battle between white and red men that occurred in this area took place in July of 1829,” he said steadily.
    Johnny nodded. “It was lost ignominiously by the palefaces.”
    Doc went on. “A hunting party of Iowan Indians known as the Big Necks because that was the name of their chief, came into the Chariton area west of here, near a settlement known as the Cabins. Here the Indians’ dogs attacked the settler’s pigs and killed a few of them. The Indians ate the pigs.”
    Monk looked down at Habeas Corpus totting along beside him and suddenly gathered him up in one arm protectively.
    “The next day,” continued Doc, “three white settlers—Isaac Gross, John Crain and Jim Myers—called on the camp to make a complaint about the lost hogs and ordered the Iowans out of the area. Big Neck refused to comply with their demands. He also stated that if anyone wanted to start something, be at it. The three white men took to their heels. They fled south to Randolph County, some seventy miles away, where they stirred up a scare.
    “About forty volunteers got together under the command of Captain William Trammell to chase the Big Necks back to Iowa. They made a fast march, forty-four miles in two days, to reach the Indian camp.
    “There was an argument, and at first it seemed Big Neck was willing to go back to Iowa without a rumpus. However, the talk got loud, both red men and white made a show of waving guns and loading flintlocks—until a gun went off by mistake. Jim Myers thought he had been shot, and killed an Indian. With a war-whoop, the Big Necks tied into the settlers. The white men’s horses stampeded. Several threw their riders. The whites took to their heels.”
    “I remember this account,” interrupted Johnny. “Three settlers were killed—James Owenby, Frayer Myers, and a poor devil named William Wynn, who was wounded and carried for a short distance by friends, then tossed aside to be scalped and burned at the stake.”
    “Nothing of the sort happened to him,” Doc related.
    “How do you know that? There is only one account of the Big Neck War. I have read the same document that you are recalling from memory.”
    “Because I came upon William Wynn, who was dying of his wounds. I could not save him, so I buried him.”
    A long silence greeted that remarkable statement. The sounds of the forest along the dirt path, the leaf rustling and the calling of waking birds in trees, were all that filled their ears.
    “What does the record say about Big Neck?” asked Monk after a suitable interval.
    “Big Neck, alarmed by the fuss he had stirred up, went back to Iowa and was not heard from again.”
    “Wondered what happened to him?” muttered Monk.
    “History,” Doc Savage said thoughtfully, “may not record his fate because it has yet to be decided.”
    Another thick silence followed.
    AT length, they reached the blimp-sized dirigible.
    Because he felt a need to work off some of the nervous excitement he felt, and not because it was necessary, the bronze giant vaulted into the trees and reached the leafy crown. Amid the changing leaves, he was hard to discern, the browns and gold blending with his clothes, which ran to