The Slave Market of Mucar

by Lee Falk

  The iron band around Larsen's neck tightened, stopped at the chief guard's involuntary shriek.

  "I'll tell you," he said. Sweat flew in rivulets down his cheeks as he sagged in the Phantom's arms.

  "I lied," Larsen said feebly. "He flew to Mucar. The slave market at Mucar."

  He sagged slowly to the ground as the Phantom released him. He lay panting on the sand, breathing the night air greedily into his aching lungs.

  The Phantom stood over him, the light of the rising moon etching his shadow lengthily along the canyon wall.

  He tapped significantly on the holster in his belt.

  "Another lie?" he asked softly.

  Larsen's legs kicked convulsively.

  "No ..." he whispered. "Mucar is the market. Saldan auctions his slaves there. The escaped prisoners are the slaves."

  The Phantom moved away. He went to stand looking out over the canyon at the rising moon. He marveled at the audacity of Saldan's plan. Who could have suspected a scheme enacted in such a setting as a supposedly impregnable prison? He listened to Larsen's gasping cries of pain, his mind busy with other things. He feared nothing from the big guard. He was a broken man. Larsen was sitting up now, massaging his swollen throat with lacerated hands. He looked a terrible sight. The Phantom turned back to him.

  "It's an incredible story, Larsen," he said. "Escaped prisoners taken to the desert city of Mucar and sold as slaves. You're sure you haven't been embellishing things again?"

  "You can't prove I said it," Larsen said in a beaten voice. He tried to stand and found he couldn't, "You can't prove anything. By tomorrow night they'll all be gone. Sold as slaves!"

  The Phantom had an enigmatic smile on his face which sent another stab of fear through Larsen. The Phantom didn't look like a human being at all. His strength was godlike; he had already proved that and Larsen did not wish to tangle with him again. He winced as the Phantom let out a high, piercing whistle.

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  The guard opened his eyes with amazement as he heard the thud of hooves on the rough grass and saw the big stallion galloping toward them. Holding the reins in his mouth was the dark form of Devil.

  "Well done!" the Phantom called out in his powerful voice. He turned back to Larsen. The big horse was already standing before them, blowing impatiently through his nostrils. Larsen winced as the Phantom lifted him and threw him over the pommel. He lay like a sack of potatoes while the powerful stallion curvetted beneath him.

  "Tomorrow night!" the Phantom mused. "Then I'd better get there before them!"

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  CHAPTER 12

  NO SLEEP FOR COLONEL WEEKS

  Colonel Weeks was enjoying his first deep sleep of the night. He had tossed for hours, debating the extraordinary events of the previous evening and had at last fallen asleep a little before 2:00 A.M. It was a cool, windless night and he was not at first aroused when the shutters of his room were quietly slid aside. A shadowy figure surveyed the room, making sure that the Jungle Patrol Commander was unaware that he was observed.

  Then there was a crash and a low moan and something tumbled forward in a heap into the room. Weeks was awakened in a second by the noise which shook the entire bedroom; he bolted upright in bed, fumbling for the light switch, his bewilderment changing into rage.

  "What's going on here?" he bellowed, blinking in the radiance of his bedside lamp. A low moan was the only answer. Colonel Weeks swiveled his gaze over toward the window. His jaw momentarily sagged with surprise as he took in the limp and groaning form, dressed in a tattered, blood-stained uniform with its arms tied behind its back.

  He bounded to the floor and crossed to the prostrate form. He had not at first noticed the ropes which bound the groaning Larsen.

  "What the blazes is this?" he grunted. His eyes widened as he recognized the big guard.

  "The chief officer from Masara Prison!" he gasped. "What are you doing here?"

  Larsen had dragged himself painfully upright now and sagged against the wall below the window.

  "Doing?" he mumbled, his eyes blinking up at the pajama-clad figure of the colonel, who was none too pleased at being disturbed for the second consecutive night.

  "I've been assaulted-savagely attacked, mauled, and dragged here. I demand you get in touch with the prison."

  "Colonel Weeks!"

  The commanding, incisive voice Weeks was beginning to know so well echoed throughout the room.

  "The Commander," he said to himself, looking round keenly. He hurried to the window, but, as on the previous evening, there was nothing but the moonlight silvering the palm fronds.

  "Keep this man locked up until further notice!" came the Phantom's voice again.

  "Yes, sir!" said Colonel Weeks.

  He glanced down curiously at the cowering form of Larsen. The big guard raised his head.

  "That's illegal!" he complained. "I demand you call my attorney ..

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  "You can have twenty attorneys," the calm voice of the Phantom went on. "You're going to need them.

  Now, Colonel Weeks, I want you to listen carefully."

  Colonel Weeks went to sit in a chair near the window as Larsen sagged back against the wall.

  "This man Larsen, the chief of guards at Masara, framed Patrolman Slingsby. Need I say more, Colonel Weeks?"

  "No, sir!" said Weeks, gazing sternly at Larsen.

  "It's a lie!" the chief officer gasped. "You can't prove that."

  "You'll have your day in court, Larsen," the Phantom's voice went inexorably on. "Listen carefully, Colonel. I need the Patrol helicoper at once. I also want Patrolman Slingsby. Tell him only to report to Mr. Walker at the helicopter. Is that clear?"

  "Perfectly, sir," said Weeks, his mind turning over the exciting possibilities raised by this strange conversation.

  "Slingsby will take further orders from Mr. Walker," the Phantom said.

  The voice died away again and once more the night was still. Weeks stood up and put on his dressing gown. He picked up the phone. Three minutes later one of the night-duty patrolmen rapped at the door. He gaped at the sprawled form of Larsen on the floor.

  "See to this man's wounds, give him some food and drink, and then lock him up until further notice," said the colonel coolly. "Also tell Patrolman Slingsby to report to me at once."

  "Yes, sir."

  The big patrolman saluted and then dragged Larsen to his feet.

  "I want my lawyer!" Larsen muttered as he was led away. Weeks grinned at his retreating back. He rubbed his hands, and rummaged on his bedside table for his pipe. This was more like it.

  Ten minutes later Slingsby reported in full uniform with automatic weapons. Weeks, by this time, was fully dressed and smoking his pipe, though looking somewhat crumpled after his disturbed night.

  Weeks surveyed the saluting youngster closely.

  "Slingsby, you're off on a special mission," he said. "You'll meet a Mr. Walker on the drill ground, near the helicopter hangars. Take all your further orders from him."

  "Yes, sir."

  Slingsby saluted and then paused near the door.

  "This mission with Mr. Walker, sir? Can you tell me any more?"

  "No! Vamoose!" said Weeks curtly. He grinned again at the door closing behind the young officer.

  "I wish I knew myself," he said ruefully to the walls of his room.

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  Down on the drill ground, it was dark and Slingsby made for the helicopter hangar, which showed yellow squares of radiance at its entrance. As he neared the big, eight-seat scarlet-painted Jungle Patrol helicopter, Slingsby reached a high state of curiosity. He wondered what authority Mr. Walker had to inspire Colonel Weeks's complete confidence. Well, he would know soon enough.

  A shadow moved behind the big machine and a huge form advanced into the dim light emanating from the hangar doors. Slingsby saw a man in a light check raincoat with a hat pulled down over his eyes. He had a square jaw and a determined mouth, but big, square sunglass
es masked the upper part of his face, shielding his identity. Slingsby was not aware of Mr. Walker's exact rank, but he knew it must be a high one, so he gave the huge man a smart salute.

  "Mr. Walker?" he said somewhat nervously. "Colonel Weeks detailed me to join you on a mission, sir. I'm to take my orders from you."

  The big man bowed slightly. Walker was a name he used when traveling in normal attire. It was derived from another of his names-The Ghost Who Walks.

  "Hop in," he said informally, sliding back the door of the helicopter with a flick of his huge hand.

  "Come on, Devil," he said in a strong, resonant voice. Slingsby did not have to see the yellow eyes of the wolf or to listen to the voice more than a second to know that once again he was in the presence of his masked befriender of two nights earlier.

  "Glad to meet you again, sir," he said, getting up into one of the passenger seats of the helicopter and stowing his gear. The big man didn't answer and Slingsby felt he might be on dangerous ground; so he didn't venture any further comments.

  Mr. Walker kept his hat and raincoat on, even in the helicopter. Devil went to sprawl on a rear seat, in apparent comfort, and regarded the two men sleepily. He put his big head down on his forepaws.

  "I'll tell you our mission when we're in the air," Walker said, sliding into the pilot's seat and checking the instruments. He closed and locked the door after them and fastened the chest belt. He tapped Slingsby's belt and held it up.

  "Strap yourself, in."

  Slingsby did as he was told. Walker switched the engine on, it coughed once or twice, and the big blades over their heads chopped the air spasmodically. The rotors cast deep bars of shadow over the pilot's face.

  He was an incongruous sight at the controls, but Slingsby had no doubt he knew how to fly the powerful machine. Then the motor picked up and the blades were turning faster, invisible now. The cabin began to vibrate and he could feel the lift of the rotor. Devil lifted his head in momentary alarm, but then dropped it again on command from his master. The pilot sat warming the engine, watching the control tower through the plexiglass bubble in front of him. A green light finally flashed twice from the tower and Mr. Walker spoke into the microphone he wore on a harness round his neck.

  "GKH-2Y0 taking off," he said crisply. "Special mission authorized by Colonel Weeks. Over and out."

  The light winked again from the tower and then the motor roared; as the r.p.m.'s increased, Walker altered the pitch of the blades and the heavy machine started to lift off. Soon the drill ground faded away

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  beneath them and then Walker set course. The vibrations lessened as they gained altitude, and shortly Slingsby saw a river like graven steel in the moonlight, following the course of a ravine, wrinkled mountains like the surface of the moon, the sea like a dull shield, the strip of desert and then the green bowl of the jungle below them.

  He realized for the first time what an incredible variety of scenery there was in Number Eight Patrol's area; they were fortunate not to be confined to the baking heat of the desert. Then life would be really hard.

  Slingsby was lost in reverie for the next fifteen minutes, lulled by the beauty of the night; the noise of the motor had decreased now and formed a background to his thoughts.

  Then he roused himself, conscious that Walker was pointing down. He saw a long, square-turreted building, beautiful in the moonlight.

  "One of the old Arab forts," said Walker, raising his voice above the motor.

  Slingsby nodded.

  "May I know where we're going now, sir?" he asked. The pilot grinned, showing strong, square teeth.

  "About seven hundred miles," he said. "To a place called Mucar. To see an old friend of yours."

  Slingsby was puzzled.

  "Who might that be, sir?" he said.

  "Warden Saldan of Masara Prison!" said Walker simply.

  Slingsby's eyes widened in amazement.

  "Saldan!"

  He was stupefied.

  "Yes," said the pilot calmly. "He's selling the escaped prisoners as slaves in the old slave market of Mucar."

  He moved the controls and the helicopter leaned sideways, following the contours of a fertile valley.

  "Normally I'd go alone," said Walker, when they were level again. "But there'll be a few dozen slave guards, not to mention a thousand men in the Prince's army."

  The pilot smiled.

  "On top of that, there'll be five hundred miles of desert to cross with ten prisoners."

  He turned approvingly toward Slingsby.

  "So I thought the job would need the two of us!"

  Slingsby gulped, but thought it wiser not to make any comment of his own. He took out his handkerchief, and wiped his forehead wonderingly.

  "Warden Saldan arranges the prison breaks, then sells the prisoners for slaves? That's fantastic, sir!"

  "But true," said Walker quietly. "And he's only a few hours ahead of us this time."

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  Presently they skimmed across a thin wedge of sea, which slid along a shoreline of jagged, inhospitable mountains. Walker took no notice of the solitary dhow which ploughed its lonely way onward. But the handcuffed men aboard the ancient craft had noted the machine's passage with envy.

  "How much longer on this cursed boat, Zadok" said a tall, ugly man with a shaved head. "We've been sailing for days already."

  "More important, when do we get the cuffs off?" said another.

  Zadok chuckled confidently.

  "Tomorrow at dawn, boys," he said reassuringly. "It will be all over then. You'll gain your freedom."

  He went to the rail, his thin shoulders shaking, and looked across the silver water to the mountains over which the helicopter had disappeared. The men were right. It had seemed a long voyage. But now they were reaching journey's end.

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  CHAPTER 13

  A VISIT TO THE PRINCE

  Saldan's light aircraft banked and started its final approach to a small oasis at the edge of the desert. It had been a pleasant trip and Saldan was pleased. The refrigerated food on board had been a delicious change from the commissary at Masara and the stewardess had been a delightful companion. He smiled approvingly at her. He tapped the pilot on the shoulder as they rolled to a stop on the tightly packed sand.

  "Take off again immediately, mind you," he said. "We don't want to advertise ourselves."

  The pilot nodded.

  "Don't worry, sir. We'll be off in no time and we never remember where we've been!"

  Saldan nodded with approbation. "Just don't forget it," he said. He gave the stewardess another insincere smile and descended through the air-door. With his light gray suit, blue bowtie, brown homburg in his left hand and attaché case in the right, he looked just as dapper as when he had set out. This was certainly the way to travel in this part of the world-coolness, after the infernal heat. It reflected off the rim of the desert like a furnace once he had left the plane. He looked longingly back at the stewardess as she closed the door behind him, banging on the panel to let the pilot know he was out.

  Then the machine gained momentum across the sand, its slipstream throwing up thousands of particles; it slowly lifted off into the overheated air and was rapidly lost to sight in the cobalt-blue sky. Saldan waited a moment longer, the sun drilling into his back. He walked over toward the fringe of palm trees, conscious of the tall figure of an Arab standing as straight and slim as a tree at the edge of the clearing. The man bowed as Saldan came up.

  "The Prince sends his greetings, Mr. Saldan," he said.

  Saldan acknowledged his greeting, Arab fashion, but clicked his tongue in annoyance.

  "Now, now," he said heavily. "You know we don't use my name here."

  He took a heavy case the Arab handed him and opened it. It contained his boots, pith helmet, riding kit, and other desert gear and, of course, his mask. He smiled cynically. The mask was assuredly necessary here.

  The Arab went to stand beyond the rim of the t
rees, as though he were the brooding spirit of the desert.

  Despite the heat he wore heavy robes and a blanket about him, Saldan wondered how these people stood the heat. He himself, though only out of the plane for a minute, was already drenched in perspiration. He spread out the gear from the case and quickly changed into what he called his slaving outfit. Then he put his suit and other clothing back into the case with his briefcase on top and closed it.

  He handed the case to the Arab who had now come back. The man bowed, and led the way between the palms.

  "Prince Selim is eagerly awaiting your arrival, sir," he said in his singsong English.

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  I'll bet, Saldan thought to himself, but all he said to the Arab was, "We have, after all, been friends for a long time, your master and I."

  The Arab smiled a lopsided smile and Saldan was irresistibly reminded of Zadok, the only man he had been able to half-trust among all the desert tribes. He was the most reliable Arab he had ever met, which did not bring him even halfway up to Western standards, in Saldan's book. He smiled heavily to himself. Zadok should be nearly here now with the latest cargo.

  Two white horses were tethered to the boles of two of the palms, the long halters allowing them to crop the sparse, stunted grass of the oasis.

  The Arab vaulted on to a beast which had no saddle or bridle. The other whinnied on recognizing Saldan and thrust its soft nose into the big man's outstretched hand. Saldan got up into the saddle, the stirrup-leathers creaking beneath him. He wondered idly how many trips he had made to Mucar in the past few years. They were many, he knew that. Every bag of gold credited to his secret accounts in undisclosed banks had been hard-earned in sweat, time, pain, and danger.

  Saldan and the Arab spurred out across the desert, the horses' hooves throwing up feathery plumes of sand behind them. The serrated ridges of the dunes looked like knife-edges in the clear, hard light; it was amazing the way the wind carved the sand into fantasies which seemed so permanent. Yet disturb one grain and the whole edifice came tumbling down. At the moment a light wind was starting up from the East; as Saldan watched, a whirling plume eddied in the far distance.