"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 011 - Brand of the Werewolf" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

silence by an eerie sound.

This noise pealed out erratically. At times, there was five minutes of dead silence. Then weird, unearthly
cries would shiver out, a babbling volley of them. They had a human quality, those cries. They were
tremulous with an incoherent horror.

The bird life could not have been more silent had death been astalk.

The latest outburst of the banshee cries was somewhat more human than before. They sounded very like
some one in frightful agony.

Inside the Alex Savage cabin, a feminine voice called sharply: "Boat Face! Haven't you got that rifle fixed
yet?"

There was no answer.

"Boat Face!" the girl called again angrily.

There was a moment of silence. Then a squaw shuffled out of the kitchen region. She was very fat, very
brown, and wore enough clothes to garb several of her whiteskinned sisters. She looked as competent as
the Rock of Gibraltar.

"Boat Face, him in kitchen, Miss Patricia," she said calmly. "Him scared out of skin."

"Boat Face won't go out and investigate those cries?" the girl asked.

"Him heap big coward," said the squaw.

The girl stepped back from a window. She had a wealth of bronze hair - hair very closely akin in hue to
that of Doc Savage. She had been watching the brush that circled like a wall.

She was tall; her form was molded along lines that left nothing to be desired. Her. features were as
perfect as though a magazine-cover artist had designed them.

She wore high-laced boots, breeches, and a serviceable gray shirt.

A cartridge belt was draped about her waist. From it dangled a heavy Frontier Single Action six-shooter
- freely admitted by those who know to be one of the most reliable guns ever made. In the crook of her
right arm lay a very modern automatic big-game rifle.

"I'll talk to him, Tiny," said the girl.

"0. K., Miss Patricia," said Tiny. "It do no good. That damn half-breed husband of mine plenty afraid."

Tiny was the cook. Boat Face was man-of-all-work around the place. These two were the only
servants.
Patricia's heels tapped angrily into the kitchen.

Boat Face was a squarish, copper-colored man, who sat in a corner, holding a rifle. His squaw, Tiny,
had called him a breed, but he looked pure Indian. Just what had given him the name of Boat Face was a