"Robeson, Kenneth - Doc Savage 1938 02 - The Mountain Monster" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

at the time that a well-educated man could believe legends that must be based on
superstition. That no longer seemed strange, either.
A monster lived in the mountains. It was a huge spider that lived on human
beings, the Indian had related. When it had eaten its fill it would disappear,
often for years. Then it would return.
The Indian who had told the legend had spoken seriously of mammoths and other
huge creatures that once had roamed the earth. He had suggested the spider might
be a relic of some such forgotten species.
John Alden was no authority, but he recognized that there might be a germ of
truth in that theory.
There was little chance that Buck Dixon was still alive. In fact, John Alden did
not believe that he was.
The lanky engineer was quite methodical. He went back to the cabin and changed
into dry clothes. He got his rifle, oiled it, then filled his pockets with
bullets.
Then he set out to follow the tracks. Once more they led directly toward the
ridge of trees, vanished just at the edge. John Alden looked up, estimated the
height that jump must have been.
And then he saw it—a small object, clinging to the side of a tree, a tree
against which The Monster must have rubbed.
John Alden did not want to believe the evidence of his eyes. But something was
there.
As the lanky engineer climbed the tree, came closer to the object hanging there,
a faint odor became apparent. It was dim, scarcely discernible. It was the odor
that always accompanied The Monster.
The object hanging to the side of the tree looked almost like a cane. It was
practically the same thickness, but not as long. It had snagged against a big
limb. But it was not a cane, and it was not of wood.
John Alden forced himself to take hold of it. It felt repulsive, slimy. There
were tiny pores along the side from which a thin, oily liquid oozed.
It was a giant hair! And the bodies of some spiders are covered with fine hair.
Alden scrambled down to the ground. He started to throw the hair away, then
changed his mind. A shrewd expression came to his eyes. Clutching his rifle
tighter than before, he ran on through the ridge of trees.
No tracks were there. John Alden did not appear discouraged. He made wide
circles, scouting for sign. It was a mile from the ridge of trees before the
next tracks came into view.
The tracks were imbedded far down in the ground, showing the force with which
The Monster had landed. The engineer broke into a trot, eyes on the ground.
A dark puddle appeared close beside the tracks. Hope died in John Alden.
The puddle was blood. And fifty feet farther on, he found what was left of Buck
Dixon.
Buck Dixon’s body was horribly mutilated. It had been torn open and ripped from
end to end. Only the face was untouched.
John Alden wished he had not seen that face. Never had he seen such agonizing
lines of suffering etched on human features. It was almost beyond description.
It made him quite ill.
He went for a shovel, buried what remained of Buck Dixon. He took care to muss
up the earth, to hide all trace of blood.
John Alden knew something of anatomy. And as he’d buried the torn remains of