"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 076 - The Flaming Falcons" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

got some of the blinding sand out of his eyes; he began to see what he wanted to hit.
It might have had a very different outcome, except that their volcanic gyrations carried them across the
sand to a spot where the naked brown man, who could see the better, got his hand upon a large dark
Arizona rock. He struck Hobo JonesтАЩ skull with this, and the rock proved much the harder.

When Hobo Jones opened his eyes and shook the stars out of his head, he saw that he was beside the
strawstack. He was being tied hand and foot with quarter-inch rope. The naked brown man was at the
moment finishing the tying.

The brown man stood up and dusted the sand off his arms, off his shoulders, and the rest of himself.
From the way the sand stuck to the naked brown skin, Hobo Jones decided the fellow was greased all
over, which helped explain why he had been so hard to hold.

The brown fellow picked up a piece of white cloth which was lying on the ground, and wrapped it
around his hips with an expertness that showed he had dressed that way many times before.

"Help!" Hobo Jones howled, as loud as he could. "Help! Murder! Sheriff!"

He didnтАЩt figure it would do any harm.

The brown man came over. He stuck his thumbs in Hobo JonesтАЩ eyes. He poured sand in Hobo JonesтАЩ
mouth.

"Woo-gluhoo,"
he said, approximately.
"Listen, my heathen acquaintance," said Hobo Jones, "I donтАЩt understand a word you say. Let me go! IтАЩll
gladly find me another strawstack."

So the brown man, not as naked now, dragged Hobo Jones inside the strawstack.



IT was quite a thing, that strawstack, for it was a strawstack only as far as appearance went, being in
reality a two-room shack made out of two-by-fours and boards, fitted with electric lights and electric
stove and electric refrigerator, and furnished well enough for comfort, with the straw on the outside, in the
shape of a conventional strawstack. There was a faint sound, somewhat like that of a bumblebee which
had accidentally landed on a piece of flypaper, and this came from under the floorboards, so it was not
unreasonable to suppose that there was a motor-generator down there, and that this furnished current for
the electrified fence.

Hobo Jones was becoming puzzled.

"Say," he said, "what kind of a setup is this, anyway?"

He got no answer.

"WeтАЩre fifty miles from nowhere," added Hobo Jones.

He still got no answer.