Killer's Town (23 page)

"Right," said Pretty eagerly. The Phantom's guns were still on the gound. "I'll keep those for a while," said Pretty casually, his own gun barrel still pointed at the Phantom.

"You don't trust me with them?"

"I don't trust anybody," said Pretty. "Maybe later. Don't worry. I can handle anything that comes along."

"I know."

"What do you mean by that?" said Pretty, as always, touchy as a boil.

"I've heard you're a great shot."

Pretty smiled. It was rare that he received compliments for anything. "That's no lie," he said, almost modestly.

Then, suddenly suspicious, gun pointed: "Who told you that, Moogar?"

"Who?"

"Never mind." How would this creep know? "You're damn right I can shoot. I never miss. Don't forget that."

"I won't," said the masked man casually. "I'll bet you can't hit that bird up there."

"Yeah? What bird?" said Pretty, unable to refuse a challenge. It was one of the oldest tricks in existence, but Pretty fell for it. He looked up into the sky over his shoulder where the masked man had indicated. It was the last view he would have of this jungle, or any jungle. For as his head turned ever so slightly, his eyes no longer watching the Phanton, a steel fist crashed upon his jaw. The sound of that blow made the old people wince for a hundred yards around. Pretty dropped like a rock, in a heap. Those who were watching said the Phantom's arm moved faster than the eye could see.

Phantom moves like lightning in the sky
—old jungle saying.

The old people poured out of their huts and ran toward the Phantom from all directions, as he stood without moving, looking at the fallen man. The old people chanted and laughed and cried as they ran or walked or hobbled. This was no imposter. This was their friend whose sign had promised protection, and who had kept his promise.

"Ghost Who Walks . . . Ghost Who Walks," they chanted in their many tongues ... for the tribal dialects differ. Then they surrounded him, touching him, patting him, kissing his hands, their happy frail voices sounding like a chorus of forest birds. He put his powerful arms around those closest to him to reassure them. He knew the torment and fear they had endured. Then they stood back as their spokesman, the elder of Wambesi, addressed him.

"That was a terrible blow. Is he dead?"

"No," said the Phantom. "I was tempted. This is a hateful killer. But at the last moment, I held back."

"Held back?" said the elder, marveling. "He is unconscious. I believe he has broken bones. And if you had not held back?"

"He might be dead.*"

The oldsters discussed this softly among themselves, then quieted as the elder spoke again.

"May I ask another question, O Ghost Who Walks?"

The Phantom nodded.

"I observed while he was in the hut with Nagy and Dryga [the old hostages], the door was open and you were at the side. You had the opportunity to shoot him in the back. You did not. Why?"

"I cannot shoot any man in the back, even one such as this. To do that would be to decide his fate. That was not for me to do."

All nodded and understood, for all jungle folk know that the fates of all men everywhere are spun by the three-headed Witch of Grimgaldny, within whose six hands the life strands of all mankind are interwoven.

"He grieviously wounded two of our people," said the elder.

"I will send warriors with litters to bear them to a place of healing," said the Phantom.

The elder of Wambesi, a famous warrior in his time, drew his long knife from his woven belt.

"Should we not judge this evil man here?"

"No, man of Wambesi. He caused your people harm, yet he killed two men or more in a faraway town. And they will judge him for his murders."

The talk was over. The Phantom draped Pretty over the back of Cuddles. Trader Ed's patient donkey had been tethered nearby all this while. He lashed the unconscious man on the pack saddle, so that his head and arms hung down one side, his legs down the other. Then the Phantom opened the big gates and whistled, a loud clear sound. In a few moments, a big white stallion bounded to the gates. At his side was the large gray mountain wolf. All the oldsters knew these famous animals by reputation, the Phantom's Hero, the Phantom's Devil.

He placed the end of Cuddle's lead rope in Devil's mouth, then swung up into the saddle of the great stallion. Hero reared high into the air, the Phantom waved, and they started off, Devil leading the donkey with its burden—Pretty. All the people of the old folks' town rushed to the gates and waved until they were out of sight Then they closed the gates and went back to their tables or huts. They would discuss these two dramatic days for months and years to come. And as time passed, the legend would grow as legends do. And the figures would grow as well, until the Phantom and Pretty would tower above the treetops: the good giant, the evil giant And the blow that felled the evil giant would topple high trees and crack the very earth. Yes, there was plenty to talk about for a long time. But once more, all was well in this peaceful haven of the old people.

When the Phantom reached the clearing, Moogar was waiting, seated at the foot of the tree that bore the good mark. He jumped to his feet and ran to them.

"Is he dead?" he said, looking at the dangling Pretty.

"No. A few fractures. He can be patched up."

"What—what happened to Trader Ed?"

"He would be at Dr. Axel's hospital by now."

Moogar sighed with relief.

"I didn't shoot him," he said.

"I know. You didn't run away."

"I'm tired of running away. I want to go back, take my punishment get it over."

"A good decision, Moogar. When you are free, go back to your people of Oogann. They need good men."

"Good men?" said Moogar bitterly. "I'm a criminal. I'll be an ex-con. Such are not welcome."

"True. Your people will be suspicious. They have a right to be. You made them so. But you must earn your welcome. I know you to be a man of good heart. They must learn that, too."

Dawn at the front gates of Jungle Patrol headquarters. The night guards stumbled sleepily back to their bunks. The yawning day guards took their stations. Then the Sergeant- in-Charge noticed two pair of feet sticking out from bushes on the drive just outside the gates. One pair of feet was bare and black. The other pair was booted and, on further inspection, turned out to be white. The owner of the white feet was unconscious, his jaw wrapped in a bandage. The owner of the black feet was propped up on his elbow, waiting for them.

"I'm Moogar. This is Pretty. Youve been looking for us."

The arrival of these two, the last missing fugitives from the notorious Killer's Town, was a mild sensation. No one ever knew how they really got there. A few had a good idea. Moogar, the petty criminal, had given himself up. But Pretty, the "mad dog" killer, was in no state to give himself up. He was in the hospital for two weeks before he could talk. When he could, he refused to answer any questions. In his own mind, he was not certain how it happened. He remembered looking for the bird. Then a smashing pain and blackout. How long ago had that been? Over two weeks? Wow!"

As he regained his strength, he talked to a black lawyer provided by the court. America was trying to extradite him for the killings at the Jewelry Mart.

"Can they get me?" he asked.

"Bangalla has no extradition treaty with your country.

"That means they can't get me. Good."

"No. You will be tried here."

"For what?"

"The murder of Matthew Crumb."

"Who? Oh, that old guy. I didn't do it."

'They have eyewitnesses. Also verbal reports of Crumb
's
last words, accusing you."

"Uh, what are my chances?"

"Not good." "What'll happen to me? Life?"

"We are an old-fashioned nation. We still have capital punishment. Execution by hanging."

Pretty sat up in bed, his hands to his throat.

"No," he said. "No! Let them—what do you call it—extradite me."

"In America, you killed an old night watchman and
a
police officer."

"Sure. But I'll get off. I got a mental history. You know —mental history? That means they send me to the bughouse."

"Bughouse?"

"Foolish factory, insane asylum, stupid! Know what happens then? Two years, three years, they give me a review. They let me out, cured."

"Is that possible for a man like you?" said the black lawyer, genuinely shocked.

"All the time." Pretty grinned. "So extradite me, Uncle Sam." It's going to be all right, he thought. I'll beat this, like I've always beaten everything. I'll come back, find that Moogar who was ready to bear witness against me, then find that masked guy, shoot first, enough to drop him, find out where he hid that stuff. It's going to be all right "I'll beat this," he told the black lawyer.

"No. You will not be sent back to America. You will be tried here. The court has decided."

"I'll be sent to a nut—to a mental place?"

"We have none here; the mentally sick stay in the villages."

"I got no village to stay in," said Pretty anxiously.

"Correct. Also, you are a murderer. No village would be safe with you in it."

"Wait a minute, are you my lawyer?"

"I have been assigned. You will receive a fair trial."

"Okay. But tell me . . .my lawyer . . . how will it come out?"

"We are an old-fashioned country, as I have said. You will be hanged by the neck until you are dead."

And that is what happened. Moogar received a three-year sentence with time off for good behavior.

The former pesthole, Killer's Town, was a busy place now as Dr. Axel's Coast Hospital. The casino and bar had become modern clinics with the latest equipment most of it contributed by grateful donors of many lands whose stolen goods had been returned from Killer's Town. It was no longer a forbidden place. Traffic flowed through the jungle to this place, patients and visitors. The gates were no longer closed—and on the gate post was the familiar sign of crossed sabers ... or were they crossed P's—the good mark of the Phantom.

Colonel Weeks sat in his office with Sandy, Tamos, Hill, and Morgan.

"Colonel, that place, Killer's Town—who broke it up?" said Hill.

"When we got in there, we found these skull marks painted all over the place. Some kind of voodoo? Who did that?" said Morgan.

"Who brought in Trader Ed after that creep shot him?" said Sandy.

"Maybe it's the same one who brought in Moogar and that 'creep,' as you call him." said Weeks.

"And who would that be?" said the four patrolmen, almost in unison.

Weeks was doodling with a pen on a scrap of paper—curious designs—a mask—a skull—and something that looked like crossed sabers—or crossed P's.

"Who? That is the question. Perhaps you'll know someday. Excuse me now, gentlemen. I've work to do."

Colonel Weeks knew. Dr. Axel knew. Moogar and Traded Ed knew. The old folks' town knew. To the rest it would remain a mystery.

The killer was gone. The jungle breathed a sigh of relief.