Lee Falk - [Story of the Phantom 11]

by The Swamp Rats (v0. 9) (epub)

  “Sir?”

  “That’s who that fellow is,” said Weeks. “I should have known, but in all the confusion, this Phantom of yours, he’s here.”

  “I know he’s supposed to be,” said Sgt. Barnum. “Because he was coming here and traveling a lot faster than us.” He glanced around the camp. “I don’t see him.”

  “He’s right over . . .” The Colonel turned to point with the stem of his pipe. “He was there with that injured man. I don’t see him now.”

  After carefully putting down the stretcher, Sgt. Bamum searched the camp for the Phantom. He didn’t find him.

  The masked man was gone.

  CHAPTER 32

  Sixty giraffes went galloping by below.

  The afternoon was bright and clear, the sky a brilliant blue, tinged with pink. The plain across which the giraffes were progressing was thick with high, yellow, swaying grass.

  “A big improvement over the swamp,” remarked Kitambaa. He was sitting in the seat behind the pilot and Peg’s, his gun ready in his hand.

  “I reckon,” said Sgt. Yates, “you must have grown up in these parts.”

  “That’s no business of yours,” answered the black man. “There’s a small forest coming up on our left. You start looking for it.”

  “Is that where you want to land?”

  “Just keep your damned eyes open.”

  Peg asked the Sergeant, “Where are we?”

  “This appears to be the Gonjwa territory.”

  “There’s the forest, I mean.” Kitambaa touched his gun barrel to Yates’ head. “You land this thing in the grass as close to the trees as you can get.”

  The forest area covered several miles. Beyond it rose rocky hills.

  “I suppose,” said Yates as he swung the ’copter toward the forest, “you ain’t going to have much use for this old boy once we’re on the ground.”

  “Not much, no.” Kitambaa laughed. “Sure, I know what you’re thinking now. You’re thinking about maybe crashing the ship and taking me out with you. But you won’t. You’re too sentimental. You can’t stand the idea of the girl maybe getting killed. So you’ll land this thing just like I asked you too.”

  “Yep,” said Yates.

  The Jungle Patrol helicopter dropped down toward the yellow plain.

  “Get us closer to those trees,” ordered Kitambaa. “Any closer and I can build a nest in one of them.” The ship set down, the engine stopped. The propeller turned slower and slower and ceased to turn at all.

  “Belax,” the black man told Yates, “you ain’t dead yet. I got a chore for you to help out on.”

  When they were standing in the high grass beside the helicopter, Sgt. Yates asked, “What was it you had in mind?” He took his dark glasses off, dropped them into his breast pocket.

  “You should be able to guess,” said Kitambaa. “I don’t want any of your Jungle Patrol buddies spotting this thing from the air. We got to hide it.” He pointed with his gun at the shadowy forest. “Looks to me like there’s enough room to roll it right between those trees over there.”

  “Be a mighty tight squeeze.”

  “We’ll do it.”

  With Peg, as well as Yates helping, the ’copter was pushed through the grass and in among the trees. A flurry of small yellow birds went flying up out of the branches in protest.

  Dusting his hands on his trouser legs, Yates eyed the small river which cut through the forest at this point.

  It looked several feet deep, bordered by grey rocks and spikey grass. “Reminds me of a stream that ran right through my pappy’s place,” he drawled. He drifted over nearer to the rushing water. “Right pretty.”

  “Come on back here,” said Kitambaa.

  “Nope, I don’t think so.” He turned his back on the black man and dived for the water.

  Kitambaa fired twice.

  Another flock of tiny birds went swirling up.

  Kitambaa ran across the grassy ground to the edge of the river. He didn’t see Yates at all. “Must have nailed him,” he said.

  Peg came up to the rocks, one hand pressed flat against her chest. “Now is it my turn?”

  He kept his eyes on the water. Yates’ body hadn’t surfaced. “You, I need to keep alive for a while,” said Kitambaa. “You’re going to be what they call my ace card. We got to make it through this forest and up into the hills. I don’t expect no trouble, but in case we run into any JPs I’m going to need you.” He pulled her away from the river.

  She didn’t look back.

  The scarlet Cessna airplane was cutting across the bright blue of the afternoon.

  The pilot was a plump man, wearing a too-tight, nylon jumpsuit. He chewed on an unfit cigar, wore a World War I aviator’s helmet, complete with goggles. “With one of the American magazines maybe?” This was the eleventh, occupational question he’d put to his passenger in the course of their flight.

  The passenger answered, “No.” He wore a tan trenchcoat, dark glasses and a wide-brimmed hat.

  “Not many people go to Gonjwa,” said the plump pilot after a few minutes more. “It’s not exactly a tourist spot, Mr. Walker. So naturally, I’m curious about why you hired my little ship.”

  “Naturally,” said the Phantom.

  “You’re not a hunter, you said?”

  Smiling, the Phantom said, “Well, in a way I am.” After learning from Kling where Kitambaa might head, the Phantom had sped through the Great Swamp to Nyokaville. He had acquired new outer clothes, then hired a car to take him to the nearest airfield. There he had chartered this plane to carry him to the Gon-jwa territory.

  The pilot took out his cigar, then took a new grip on it with his teeth. “You don’t have any guns or anything, though. For a hunter, isn’t that sort of odd?” “I have all the weapons I need.”

  The pilot shrugged. “We’re getting near the Gonjwa field. I better talk to them and let them know Lazy Susan is heading in,” he said. “Lazy Susan, that’s the name of my plane.”

  “Yes, I saw it painted on the fuselage.”

  “Named after my wife,” explained the pilot. “Or my former wife, that is. I keep the name on, in hopes maybe we’ll get together again.” He sighed and began talking to the tower man at the Gonjwa field.

  The Phantom looked out the cockpit window.

  CHAPTER 33

  Pop Benfield was concentrating on peeling an apple. Tongue thrust slightly out of the comer of his mouth, he sat rocking in a wooden rocker in the center of his store in Nyokaville. He whistled as he worked on the yellow apple.

  Someone came in out of the sunny afternoon.

  Pop didn’t recognize him at first, the glare of the day outside made it difficult to see the man clearly. Then the old storekeeper realized who it was. He set his knife and half-peeled apple atop a barrel and stood up out of the rocker. “Well, sir, if this ain’t an all-fired surprise for sure.”

  “I imagine it is,” said Eric.

  Pop managed a smile. “Right nice to see you again, young fellow.”

  Eric grinned back at him. “But, as you say, a surprise.”

  “Well, sir, yes, it is. ’Cause I figured as how you’d be in the Great Swamp longer than this.”

  “Forever maybe.”

  The old man pushed his spectacles up to the top of his head. Rubbing at his eyes, he said, “I don’t think I follow the drift of your conversation, young fellow.

  Course, I guess it’s the way young folks talk nowadays.”

  “Never mind,” said Eric.

  “Well now,” said Pop, “what can I do for you?”

  Eric reached out and put a hand on each of the old man’s shoulders. “Suppose you tell me first off what you know about Kitambaa.”

  “That’s easy,” answered Pop. “Nothing. Never heard the name before.”

  “Really?” Eric’s grip tightened. “Search your memory a little bit more, Pop. I’m going to find out where Kitambaa took Peggy. I think you might have some idea about where Kitambaa went.”
/>
  Pop’s glasses fell back down over his eyes. “You’re not making any sense.”

  “Look,” said Eric, “if you help out, maybe I can see to it that things go easier for you.”

  “I don’t know any Kitambaa and I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  “They have Glaze,” said Eric. “He’s in the Nyoka-ville jail right now. Otter is still loose, but half a dozen of the other Swamp Rats are in custody.”

  Pop felt out behind him with his hand. “Well, sir, that sure does put a different complexion on things,” he said. He twisted free of Eric’s grip and sat down again in his rocker. “Yes, it surely does.”

  “Kitambaa took off with Peggy as a hostage. He’s got a JP helicopter. Where do you think he’d go?” Pop smiled. “Shucks, I ain’t got no idea.” He scratched his head, then reached over into a cracker barrel. “I never even seen most of them fellows.” He jerked a .38 long-barrel revolver out of the crackers. “Get away from me now, young fellow. I’m heading out the back way. You try to stop me and ...”

  Eric tackled him.

  They both fell back into a display of tinned peaches.

  The tins thudded together, thunked to the floor, and rolled around in all directions.

  The pistol went off. It was aimed upward at the time and the slug shot the glass out of a hanging lantern.

  Pop kicked Eric in the face, pivoted and went trotting away.

  The young man went after him.

  Pop was ten feet from the back door when Colonel Weeks appeared there, his service revolver drawn. The shopkeeper slowed.

  “Drop the gun,” said the Colonel.

  Pop ran his tongue around the inside of his cheek. He dropped the gun. “You was back here all the time, huh?”

  “Yes,” answered Colonel Weeks. “Eric wanted a chance to question you about Peg McWorth, and I gave it to him.”

  Pop nodded, poking at his fallen weapon with his toe. “I’ll tell you true,” he said. “If I knew anything about Kitambaa, I’d sure now tell you, hoping for a little mercy and kindness on your part. But I really don’t know where the dickens he might of took the girl. That’s a fact.”

  “All right,” said the Colonel. “Come along then.” “Tell you something else,” said Pop. “I never really had much of a part in this here Swamp Rats business. I mean to say, no matter what the likes of Glaze tells you, I was almost an innocent bystander.”

  After Colonel Weeks had led the old shopkeeper away, Eric stooped and gathered up the cans which had been knocked over. He stayed in the general store until he had them all stacked up again. He didn’t know what to do next about finding Peg.

  A quarter of a mile downstream from where the helicopter had been hidden, the water began to chum. A dripping Sgt. Yates pulled himself free of the river. He looked around to be sure Kitambaa was nowhere near, then shook himself like a dog. “My old pappy’d be proud of me,” he sputtered. “I did a dam good job of playing possum.”

  He sat on a rock to catch his breath. It had been a long time since he had done much underwater swimming. Getting up, he moved away from the river and in among the trees. He’d come out of the water on the side away from where he’d gone in.

  “Shouldn’t be too hard to keep out of Kitambaa’s way,” Yates said to himself. “Leastways, for a while.” He began to work his way back through the forest toward the helicopter. He didn’t encounter Kitambaa and the girl. The ’copter sat silently among the trees, thin stripes of late afternoon sunlight cutting across it.

  Yates watched it from in among the shadows for a few minutes. Deciding it was safe to approach, he walked up to the ’copter. After climbing into the cabin, he first reached under his pilot seat. “Too bad I couldn’t get hold of this while we were up in the air,” he said as he eased out the revolver he always kept under there.

  He sat down in the seat, saying, “Boy, I sure am soggy still.” Reaching out, he turned on the radio set.

  CHAPTER 34

  Sgt. Barnum, wearing newly-purchased, civilian clothes in place of his ruined uniform, was squatting in front of an old-fashioned water cooler. “I can’t see why this darned gadget doesn’t work,” he was saying.

  At one of the pale-green room’s two wooden desks, Colonel Weeks was talking on the phone.

  This was a spare office in the Nyokaville town hall, serving as a temporary base for the JP. From the windows, you could see a grassy public square with a dozen, white-painted, iron benches and a statue of a general whose achievements no one was quite sure of anymore. The afternoon was waning.

  “Usually when you whack it with the heel of your hand,” Bamum said, “it starts working.” He banged his hand against the upended water jug, then tried the faucet again. “Nothing.”

  The Colonel hung up the phone. “Well, that’s one bit of good news.”

  “About the missing ’copter?”

  Shaking his head, Weeks said, “No, there’s still no word of any of our air or land patrols sighting it.” He picked up his pipe, dipped it into his tobacco pouch. “This news is about Ted Sills.”

  “About the killing of that shopkeeper?” He stood up, an empty paper cup in his hand.

  “That’s just it. The man isn’t dead,” said Weeks. “That was Lt. Farasi of the local police on the phone. When I discussed the business with him earlier, he told me he had no recollection of any such murder.” “There wasn’t one then?”

  “No. Farasi’s been checking it out, and it seems, the shopkeeper Ted Sills thinks he killed, is very much alive. He never even reported the incident to the police.”

  “Ted told me he saw blood all over.”

  “Apparently, when the gun went off, the bullet nicked the man in the arm. When he saw the blood, it scared him.”

  “Is he going to make a complaint now?”

  “He’d prefer to have as little to do with the law as possible.”

  “So,” said Barnum as he turned and swatted the water cooler again, “where does that leave Ted? He’s locked up in the jail across the square with the rest of the Swamp Bats we brought in.”

  “I think we’ll be able to have him released within another day or so.”

  Sgt. Barnum gave the glass jug a few more jabs. “What about McWorth?”

  “I’ve got a call in to his attorneys in Mawitaan,” said Colonel Weeks. “Eric Haggard told me about them. We’ll see what they have to say about the possibility of a new trial for him. At the very least, considering the help he gave you, we should be able to have some time taken off his sentence.”

  “It’s a life sentence.”

  “That can be changed.”

  “Ah, water.” Barnum had forgotten to hold his cup under the faucet. He thrust it hurriedly under, now, as water came spouting out.

  The phone rang. “Colonel Weeks speaking.”

  While the Colonel was talking, Eric came into the office after a quick knock. “Any word about Peggy?” he asked the sergeant.

  Brushing water off his knee, Bamum stood up. “Nothing so far,” he said, taking a sip of the water in his cup. “Hey, this tastes worse than swamp water.” “We’ve got something,” said Colonel Weeks as he put down the phone. “Sgt. Yates just sent a message in to headquarters.”

  “They got away from Kitambaa?” asked Eric.

  “I’m afraid only Yates did,” replied the Colonel. “But he gave us the position of the helicopter. They landed in the Gonjwa territory.”

  “What did Kitambaa do with her?”

  “He’s heading up into the hills, according to what Yates thinks. After radioing his message, Yates went after them.”

  “Are you planning to take a ship to Gonjwa?” Eric wanted to know.

  “We’ll have to stay here in Nyokaville,” answered Weeks. “But I’ve ordered three JP choppers to fly to the spot,” said the Colonel. “Some of our best trackers will be aboard. They’ll find Kitambaa and Miss McWorth.”

  “I’d like to be the one to find him,” Eric said as he went to the door. “
I’m going to see about renting a plane.”

  “Be careful,” the Colonel began. But Eric was already running down the corridor outside.

  CHAPTER 35

  Kitambaa finished skinning the rabbit and wiped his hands on the side of his trousers. He dropped another thick branch on the campfire, then walked a few yards from the blaze to clean the animal. “Don’t want you to have to see anything unpleasant,” he said over his shoulder to Peg.

  The blond girl was sitting on bristly turf, her ankles and hands bound. “After a day with you,” she said, “nothing phases me.”

  They were in the foothills on the other side of the forest. Large, grey rocks poked up through the ground. The last light of the day showed along the scalloped hilltops far above.

  “Wait till you meet my brothers,” laughed the long, black man. You’ll like them better even than me.”

  “I haven’t been in Bangalla that long,” said Peg, “but I have the idea the Jungle Patrol is pretty stubborn. They may not be all that anxious about me, but they’re going to keep looking for you until they find their helicopter.”

  ‘Looking and catching are two different things,” he said, returning to the fire with the rabbit on a stake. The hilltops turned black. Night began all at once.

  Squatting beside the fire, Kitambaa began to roast the rabbit. “My people have lived in this country for centuries,” he said through the flames. “They lived here before there was any Jungle Patrol, and they’ll live here long after it’s gone. No Jungle Patrol is going to find anything in these hills that we don’t want them to find.”

  “Maybe,” said Peg.

  “The only way you are ever going to get out of Gonjwa again,” continued Kitambaa, “is if somebody pays a price for you.”

  “If you took me back right now,” Peg told him, “I’d see to it you got a reward.”

  He laughed. “Something for my trouble? A little tip for the bellhop?” said Kitambaa. “No, I’m talking about lots of money. Because of you and those JPs I never had a chance to take my share of the Swamp Rats’ profits. So somebody’s going to have to pay me enough to make up for what I left behind.”