"048 (B074) - The Derrick Devil (1937-02) - Lester Dent" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

The shirt was inside the coat, with the shirt sleeves down inside the coat sleeves in a natural manner. The socks were even inside the shoes.
"Ah-h-h!"
Reservoir Hill growled. He sounded as if trying to bolster his own courage.
The girl eyed him curiously. "Why are you scared? This is a practical joke! It's too silly to be anything else!"
"Humph!" Reservoir Hill, to avoid the question, walked forward with his flashlight.
He took only a few paces before he wrenched to a rigid halt. His throat made its queer noise.
The girl ran forward, stood at his side and stared at what he had found.
"Some one had dumped more of that queer-looking grease," she said.
Reservoir Hill wet his lips. "Listen! Our boss driller disappeared! We can't find him anywhere! But we find this gummy stuff!"
"I still say it's grease!'
"I haven't been working with crude oil and things for nothing, all my life," growled Reservoir Hill. "And I know this ain't grease!"
"What is it then?"
"Ain't quite ready to say what I think it is!" Reservoir Hill mumbled.
"Why not?"
"Don't like to scare women when there maybe ain't no need!"
"I was brought up on Indian massacre stories," the girl said, dryly. She was calm enough to make it seem as if she had been, too.
Reservoir Hill skulked forward. Silhouetted against the glare of his own flashlight beam, he was like a caricature of an old Indian fighter on the trail of a hostile redskin. He threw his light over toward the derrick.
He lifted his .30-30 and flame and noise came out of its muzzle.
The girl ran forward. "What is it?"
"Going into the well casing!" Reservoir Hill shrieked. "Throw my flashlight on the durn thing!"
The girl grabbed his flashlight, pointed its poor light in the direction of the derrick floor and the drilling casing which stuck upward in the center. The light was extremely weak.
"Battery about gone!" she complained. "I can't seeЧ!"
Then she saw. Maybe she had been brought up on tales of Indian massacres, but the scream she poured out now would have done justice to the most easily frightened maid.
THE thing going into the oil well casing had substantial reality to it, that was certain. It was not transparent, like a jelly. It flowed as some jellies will melt and flow when dropped on a hot stove. It was going into the sixteen-inch casing.
Color of the flowing mass was red.
"Whatever it is, we'll stop it!" The girl's shotgun banged hugely, banged again. Louder than the .30-30, it did not have as ugly a sound.
But the translucent red mass disappeared down the casing.
The girl and Reservoir Hill dashed forward, weapons ready. There was no sign of the red mass on the derrick floor.
Reservoir Hill touched the steel casing pipe. He wrenched his hand back, leaped to one side, grabbed up a fistful of waste and scrubbed his palm furiously.
"There's gooey stuff on the casing!" he howled.
The girl looked closely. The "gooey stuff" was there. She did not touch it.
There were other marks on the casing. Shiny streaks left by lead! Big streaks made by the .30-30 slugs, and small ones where the shotgun slugs had hit.
The girl said, hoarsely, "Our bullets hit everywhere!"
"Hah!" Reservoir Hill took the flashlight out of her hand, and turned it on the derrick floor. "Look! A trail of the gooey stuff!"
The girl said, "Let's follow it."
They followed it to the mysterious, shapeless mass they had found on the groundЧthe stuff that looked like grease, and yet didn't.
Then the smeared path continued on to the clothes lying on the ground.
"It goes right to Sam Sand's duds!" Reservoir Hill dropped to a knee, explored briefly, then gulped, "Vida!"
"What?" asked the girl.
"The gooey stuff is all over Sam's clothes!"
There was rustling of leaves and crackling of dry twigs in the red oak thicket near by. This sound proved to be made by two men, who soon galloped up.
Reservoir Hill used his weak flashlight to identify the newcomers.
"Ah-h-h!"
he grunted. "Andershott and Cugg! Practically nobody!"
Chapter II. THE MAN NEEDED
ENOCH ANDERSHOTT was a man who strove for the effect of a rugged pioneer. He was big. His ruggedness stuck out all over him. His clothes were calculated to enhance the rugged aspect. Tweeds. He had a small mouth wrapped around a big cigar. His red face was redder because of running, and his breathing was a wish-wish-wish series of noises.
"Give me those guns!" he yelled. "Your bullets almost hit our cabin! Such carelessness is inexcusable!"
Which was typical of Enoch Andershott, who was always trying to browbeat some one.
Alonzo Cugg had big eyes with a permanent scare deep in them, and a way of holding his hands as if ready to sprint. No one knew of any reason why he had ever been scared of any one or why he should be. He seemed about one hundred and thirty pounds of skin over wires, and was about two shades lighter than a khaki shirt.
A big black dog came out of the red oak brush, making no noise. The dog was nearly pony size and had bloodshot eyes. The canine lifted a whiskered black lip off nicotine yellow fangs that were more than an inch long.