by Lee Falk
"Don't call me stupid," said Moogar angrily.
"Okay genius. Now what? Into the woods?"
"There is no other way," said Moogar, annoyed with Pretty but realizing he'd done a clever thing.
"We can't carry these crates," said Pretty.
"These knapsacks were in the car. We can use them."
They transferred the essential supplies into the knapsacks. As they started off the trail into the woods, an antelope broke cover and leaped across the road. That was a mistake. Pretty jerked his rifle to his shoulder and fired. The animal fell to the trail, writhed a moment, then was quiet. Dead. Moogar glared at Pretty.
"Why did you do that?"
"We're miles from anybody. Nobody can hear," said Pretty.
"I don't mean that," said Moogar. "We can't carry that doe. Too big."
"Carry it? You kiddin'? Who wants to carry it?" said Pretty.
"You want to eat it here?"
"You losin' your marbles? We got to move." "Then why did you shoot it?"
Pretty grinned at him, and for a moment the wild light danced in his eyes. "Because I wanted to," he said.
They walked off through the bushes into the woods. Behind, on the Phantom Trail, the dead fawn was already attracting a host of flies and ants. Larger scavengers would soon arrive by air and land. And far below, the wreck of the car blazed at the bottom of the Canyon of The Ghost Who Walks.
In Jungle Patrol headquarters, Sergeant Tamos stood at ease before Colonel Weeks.
"Report of a robbery and shooting at Obano yesterday. Those may be our men, Sergeant."
"I hope so, sir. I am most anxious to put my hands on the one who shot Sandy in the back". Tamos spoke with a slight accent. He had come all the way from Crete to join the Patrol. "What's the latest news on Sandy, sir?"
"Doc says he'E be okay. Narrow escape. If that bullet had been a quarter-inch over, he'd be paralyzed for life."
"Thank God," said Tamos.
"Take Morgan with you, Tamos. Check the area. Try to find those two." He held up the "Wanted" placard that had the photos and descriptions of Pretty and Moogar. "Be careful. They're both tough. From what we know, this one —Pretty—is a cold-blooded killer."
"Yes sir," said Tamos. He saluted and went to the door, then turned back.
"Thanks for this assignment, sir. Sandy's my buddy."
"I know, Sergeant."
The helicopter dropped out of the sky on the broad lawn in front of Dr. Axel's jungle hospital. Patients and white- clad doctors and nurses leaned out of the windows, and thronged on the broad veranda to watch the landing. Morgan and Tamos went quickly to the office of Dr. Axel who was expecting them, having been advised by radio of their coming.
"The man from Obano is in critical condition, but he is conscious, able to talk," said Dr. Axel as he led them through the corridor. The wounded storekeeper had been brought on a crude stretcher by his neighbors who carried him half a day and all night to reach the hospital. At the bedside, Tamos held up the placard. The man, wrapped in white bandages, partially sedated, looked at him with dull, sick eyes that suddenly blazed.
"Know these men, Mr. Muzzas?"
"Yes. Those are the ones. They robbed me. That one"— he pointed a finger weakly at Pretty—"that one shot me."
"What else can you tell us about them?" said Tamos. The man muttered and coughed.
"I'm afraid that must be enough questions for now," said Dr. Axel. But as the patrolmen reached the door, the man called after them with sudden vigor.
"Find them. They took my radio."
The patrolmen nodded and left. That battery radio was probably the only one in the village. Their next stop was at Obano. The helicopter dropped onto the wide main street, raising plumes of dust and scattering squawking chickens and shouting children. The villagers converged on the patrolmen at the side of the craft and, in answer to their questions about the robbers, pointed down the road. Two husky young men, sons of the storekeeper, begged to go along, and bravely entered the helicopter before the admiring gazes of their relatives and neighbors. Neither had ever flown before, but after their first moment of terror, anger against their father's attackers overcame their fear.
The helicopter sailed over the treetops, following the Phantom Trail below. They continued to the end, where the trail dropped off into the canyon. They circled for a few minutes, then Morgan spotted the wreckage. They dropped down as far as they dared, among the sheer walls of the canyon, examining the twisted, blackened wreckage with binoculars. There was no sign of bodies. On the hood, still partially readable, were the numbers 604.
"That's Sandy's buggy all right," said Tamos.
"They were barreling along. Didn't know the road," said Morgan.
"A lousy way to go, even for those two," he added.
"I don't know," said Tamos, Sandy's buddy. "They had it all coming."
He talked into his microphone, transmitting back to Patrol H.Q. He spoke directly with Colonel Weeks.
"The car obviously fell to the bottom, maybe five hundred feet, exploded, and burned. Anybody in that car is dead. We can't land close enough to examine the wreck, sir, Over."
"Return to Obano. Form a search party to go down on foot for a final look. It would appear the fugitives are dead, Over."
The Mawitaan radio station carried the news bulletin.
"Escaped killers believed dead in jungle accident, according to a report from the Jungle Patrol. The burned wreckage was spotted from the air. The fugitives, Moogar of Qogaan and a foreign gangster nicknamed Pretty, were the last survivors of the infamous Killer's Town, which will soon be converted to a hospital."
The radio broadcast was received in many places, as well as at Colonel Weeks's table as he was dining with Caroline.
"That's wonderful," she said. "I remember that Pretty. He was a monster."
"We think they're dead. Not positive yet," said Weeks.
"When will you be positive?"
"A search party's climbing into the canyon to examine the wreck."
Somewhere east of the canyon, in deep jungle, Pretty and Moogar sat at a campfire roasting a rabbit Moogar had snared. The radio was on a stump near them. They heard the news. Both men shouted with relief.
"The killers are dead. Hey, that's us!" yelled Pretty. "Didn't I tell you? They fell for it!"
Farther east, in an inaccessible part of the jungle, the Deep Woods, the Phantom sat beside his radio in a rocky chamber inside the Skull Cave. Devil, the mountain wolf, lay at his feet. The Phantom had followed the news broadcasts since returning. These were the two who had shot old Matthew Crumb. The first bulletin announced the shooting of Patrolman Sandy Dunker and the theft of his car. The next announcement told of the robbery and shooting at the general store in Obano. Now this—dead in a car wreck at the bottom of the canyon. Was there positive proof they'd died in the crash? One, or both might have survived, jumped out in time or fallen free. He knew the area well. He pictured the end of the trail at that point, the pile of boulders that formed the roadblock. Impossible not to see that. Possible, with some effort, to drive around them. Could the fall, the crash, not have been accidental, but planned? A search party was going there on foot. He would wait for more news.
Seated at their campfire, Pretty and Moogar were having their after-dinner coffee when they heard the next radio bulletin.
". . . and a local team headed by the Jungle Patrol's Sergeant Tamos is descending into the canyon to retrieve the bodies of the fugitives. It is a difficult climb down the steep sides of this little-known canyon. Word should be received soon when they report the findings." Music continued. Pretty laughed.
"Hey, that's good. Maybe we can go to our own funeral."
"How about when they go down there and find we're not there?" said Moogar.
"In that explosion, we coulda been blown into seven countries. Let them look. They can't find anything. Our trail's cold."
There was a rustle in the bushes, Pretty sat up quickly, rifle in hand.
The weapon never left his side. Moogar remained relaxed. He knew the sound of a little animal. A little animal it was, an ordinary house cat, a big torn that had probably wandered away from a village. It moved across the clearing steathily, like a miniature tiger. Pretty fired. The heavy-caliber blast tore the small animal apart. Moogar sat up in surprise. The shot caused movement and chattering in the branches around as monkeys and birds moved in the foliage. Pretty shot again. There was a shower of bright feathers, all that was left of a parrot. A split second later, another shot. A small brown monkey fell onto the ground. Moogar jumped to his feet.
"You wild 1" he said. "You got to kill everything
that moves?"
"You bother me," said Pretty, holding the smoking rifle. "Want to make something out of it?"
"No," he said, looking at the grim face of the killer. This is how he thought of Pretty now, the killer. He's crazy, a nut, he told himself, using an expression he'd heard Pretty use. I'll shake him when I can.
Pretty sat on a boulder near the radio and looked at Moogar's broad back. I hate these woods, and I hate this jungle creep, he thought. But I need him in here. As soon as I get out, I'll finish him.
They both slept poorly that night, both trying to keep one eye open to watch each other. They fell asleep through sheer exhaustion. Both awoke in the morning, delighted that nothing had happened. After coffee, bacon, and cigarettes, they shouldered their packs and moved on.
"Moogar, where's this place we're going?"
"A place for old people."
"An old folks' home? Are you kidding?"
"Not a home. More like a town. A village."
As the two trudged through the thick underbrush—there was no path—Moogar explained. In the olden times, the tribes put their old folks out in the woods for the big cats to eat.
"Before they were dead?" asked Pretty.
"Yes. That's how they got rid of them."
"A good idea," pronounced Pretty.
"Then the Phantom stopped that, and started this village where the old folks could go to live out their last years. They can't work so all the tribes bring food and what they need."
"Phantom. Is that the same spook Killer tried to bluff us with? Moogar, you don't really believe it way down. Do you?"
Moogar was tired of the old argument.
"Believe what you like. Just pray you never meet him."
"I won't hold my breath till I do, either. How much farther to this old folks' place?"
"A day and a night."
A day and a night more of these woods? It was impossible to see more than ten feet in any directions. They had to struggle for every foot through thick thorny bushes. They needed big knives, machetes, to clear the way. They had none. So they trudged and struggled on. There were fleas and mosquitoes, scorpions, spiders as big as dinner plates, snakes, and an occasional big animal rustling in the bushes. At night, glowing eyes. Strange cries and howls. Pretty suddenly felt grateful for stolid Moogar, thankful he hadn't already shot him.
"Lonesome out here. Good to be with a pal," he said.
Moogar's thoughts were interrupted. First chance I get to ditch this crazy killer, I'll take off, he thought.
"Yeah," he said aloud.
The search party—Sergeant Tamos and the two sons of the storekeeper—reached the wreck at the bottom of the Canyon of the Ghost Who Walks. It had been dangerous, climbing down. Each had slipped many times. There had been too narrow escapes from plunging to death. But now they were down there. High above, the helicopter hovered, watching them, watching the surrounding area for men or animals. The team carefully searched the wreck which was cold by now. They searched the area for hundreds of yards on both sides. They searched the swift little river, the trees and bushes. They looked into every possible and conceivable place. They wanted to find the bodies. These were the men who had shot Sandy in the back, who had robbed and critically wounded their father. But there was no trace of the fugitives. Not a thread, not a bloodstain. Nothing.
Using his walkie-talkie, Tamos contacted the helicopter above.
"No soap, Morgan," he said. "Nothing here. But nothing. The supplies they stole—no trace. No guns, no ammo, nothing. My guess is they weren't in the car when it went
over."
"Pushed it over? Faked it?"
"Could be. Just send word back. May still be at large. Morgan, we'll climb out now. Meet us back at the village.
Over."
"This is terrible," said Colonel Weeks. "We told everyone they were dead. Get the word out at once—they may be alive." The news bulletin followed swifdy on the Mawitaan radio.
"The two fugitives, Pretty and Moogar, are now believed to be alive, according to the Jungle Patrol. A search of their wrecked vehicle revealed no trace of the killers. Everyone in the area east of Obano is warned to be on the lookout. These two men are dangerous and armed. If you see them, report to the Jungle Patrol at once."
Colonel Weeks listened gloomily to the news broadcast.
"One slight problem," he said. "Our jurisdiction doesn't extend as far as Obano, much less east of it."
"Who is the law east of Obano?" asked Caroline.
"That's the joker in the deck. There is no law. Only the local tribes who manage their own affairs. They'd have no concern about fugitives like these unless they disturbed their village. Which I'm sure these two won't do. That's why they went that way. One of them is a jungle man. He knows they're safe there.
"That's terrible, said Caroline. "You mean, nobody can go after those two who shot Sandy and that old man?"
Weeks's staff at the Jungle Patrol had the same reaction.
"What if it is beyond our legal jurisdiction?" said Captain Smyth. "No one—but no one—will object if we send a posse after them."
The others agreed. Weeks shook his head.
"Our charter is precise and definite about our area," he said.
"Okay. Suppose we go on our own? A private hunting party," said Smyth.
Weeks considered that. Like his men, he was loath to give up the search for the desperadoes. At that moment, a call came on his desk phone.
"The X band," said the excited voice of the radio operator.
"Excuse me, men," said Weeks. The men filed out. They'd heard the magic words "X band." All knew what that meant. The Commander. Somehow, when things became crucial, he was always in touch. How did he always know?
The same thought went through Weeks's head as he answered the phone.
"Weeks here," he said.
"What did they find in the wreck out there, Colonel?" said the familiar deep voice, wasting no time on small talk.
Weeks told him.
"You believe the men are alive?"
"Sergeant Tamos does and he was on the spot. He believes they faked the accident. My men are anxious to go after them. As you know, it's beyond our jurisdiction."
"True, Colonel."
"What'll we do?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing? Sir, my men have a plan to go out as a private hunting party, off-duty so to speak."
"Interesting idea. But no, Colonel. The original plans for the Patrol control area were drawn up to protect the deep jungle people from all outside interference. That includes the Patrol," said the voice with an amused laugh.
"I understand. What are our orders?"
"Do no more in this case. I will take over. Understood?"
"You will take over. Er—sir?"
"Yes, Colonel."
"These are bad ones. Particularly that Pretty—a coldblooded killer."
"I know. He shot old Matthew Crumb. Anything else, Colonel?"
"No sir."
The connection clicked off. Somewhere, a phone receiver had been hung up. Matthew Crumb? How did the Commander know that? How did he know everything? Where was he? What was he? Who was he? Blast!
Trader Ed was one of the last of a vanishing breed of wandering merchants who carried their entire stock of merchandise on the back of a donkey. No one, i
ncluding Ed, knew exactly how old he was. Some said sixty. Some said eighty. He had walked the jungle trails for decades, bartering his goods—costume jewelry, medicines, everyday hardware like needles, pins, scissors and knives, a few utensils, recently a few small battery radios. It was Ed's boast that he could go anywhere in the jungle and be welcomed, even by the savage Tirangi (headhunters, off and on) and the Massagni (cannibals, now and then). Only the shadowy land of the pygmy Bandar, the Deep Woods, was out of bounds for him. He was known and liked by all jungle folk, because he was a fair trader, a friendly man, and spoke most of the jungle dialects.