"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 049 - The Mental Wizard" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

"What’d they find?" he asked, trying to be sociable.

The pilot got up from the mangled floor of the plane.

"Never mind!" he barked shortly. "Forget it!"

"Who found what?" O’Neel asked, suddenly interested.

"Forget it, I said!" barked the aviator.
Amber O’Neel jerked his head toward the girl. "Did you find her inland somewhere?"

The emaciated flier said, in a disquietingly earnest tone, "I figure maybe I should shoot you because
maybe I was excited a minute ago, and now you know too much!"

O’Neel had used that tone himself a time or two. He whirled, fled wildly. At every jump, he expected a
shot, but none came. When he finally gained the jungle and flopped behind a tree, he caught his breath
and made a resolution: More caution in the future.

That pilot must have seen him coming with his guns drawn and had faked senselessness until he had a
chance to get the upper hand.

"I wonder," muttered O’Neel, "what he meant by that stuff about finding something inland?"

He crawled cautiously for a spot where he could watch the clearing unobserved.

"Probably he found the dame inland," he decided. "Some looker after her style, but I’ll take mine a little
more baby-faced. But I could use some of the stuff her bathing suit was made out of—if the whole thing
ain’t some phony set-up!"

He got a look at the clearing. His natives were cackling happily among themselves. Gloating over his
ignominious flight!

The flier was fleeing with the girl.

O’Neel stared, then emitted a low, hissing noise, his way of indicating surprise. The girl was not going
willingly with the aviator. He had her by one wrist, was dragging her along toward the opposite side of
the clearing.



IN his emaciated condition, the flier was not equal to the girl in strength. She got her wrists free of his
clutch, and swung on him. Her punching would have done credit to a pugilist with medical training. She
knew just where to hit. She staggered the flier away with a blow, then whirled and ran.

O’Neel held his breath. The aviator had a gun. He’d have to use it to stop the girl. But the flier did not try
to fire his automatic.

"Danged rusty thing ain’t no account!" decided Amber O’Neel, and promptly charged out into the
clearing, drawing a tiny, flat pistol out of each hip pocket.