Killer's Town

by Lee Falk

  "What is it, Devil?"

  The wolf looked at his master, then raced through the bushes. The Phantom and Hero followed. In the clearing, they saw and heard a flock of vultures moving about and partially concealing the object of their attention. Devil raced at the flock, a growling roar coming from his open jaws. The awkward big birds ran flapping their wings, moving as fast as they could to escape from this attacker. Two didn't get away. Devil leaped, catching one by its snaky throat. The other one was settling on Ed's chest when the Phantom drew and fired. The big bird flapped its wings frantically once, then fell to the ground. The Phantom dismounted and rushed to the man. Though Ed had never seen him, the Phantom recognized the old trader, having seen him many times on the jungle trails.

  The Phantom examined him quickly. He was wounded, but still alive. The cruel vulture beaks hadn't touched him. They'd come just in time. Devil finished the scavenger he'd attacked with one snap of his powerful jaws, then trotted over to his master to be rewarded with a pat. Hero, the mighty white stallion, stood like a marble statue, testing the air with his ears and nostrils. The Phantom opened Ed's shirt, and examined the bullet wound in the old man's abdomen. Ed's eyes were open. He tried to guess who the masked man was. He sighed.

  "Thanks, stranger," he said finally, giving up. "Varmints were gettin' ready to have me for lunch. Will I be all right?"

  "Bullet wound, close range. Doesn't look good. Who did it?"

  "Pretty," said Ed. His voice was so low and weak the Phantom had to bend close to his lips to hear him. "Told those varmints, wouldn't like me. Too tough. Too sour." His voice sank to a mumble. He fainted.

  Kneeling beside the unconscious man, the Phantom came to a quick decision. From his wide experience in treating the wounded, including himself, he knew Ed's wound was a bad one and that he shouldn't be moved with the bullet in him. For the Phantom to decide was to act. He quickly built a small fire, sterilized the sharp point of his hunting knife in the flames, wiped it with antiseptic from the kit in his saddle and cleansed the area around the wound. Then as Devil and Hero watched, he delicately and carefully probed for the bullet, found it, and removed it. He staunched the bleeding with antiseptic-soaked cotton, then bandaged it. He placed a mound of grass under Ed's head and covered him with Hero's saddle blanket. He built a small shelter of leaves to shelter Ed's face from the sun. Then as the white stallion grazed in the thick grass the man and wolf sat and watched their patient.

  At twilight, Ed opened his eyes. He started to move. The Phantom's hand restrained him.

  "Easy, Ed," he said. "You had a little operation."

  "Water," croaked Ed.

  The Phantom gave him a sip of sweet mountain water from his canteen.

  "Operation?"

  "Took out the bullet, Ed," said the Phantom. He held up the lead slug so Ed could see it. Ed grinned, then fell asleep for another hour. When he awoke, fireflies were flickering in the tall grass.

  "Took the bullet out of me?" he asked softly.

  "It had to come out, so I could move you."

  "You saved my life."

  "It still needs more saving. I want to get you to Obano. They'll take you to Dr. Axel's hospital where you can get proper treatment."

  "That Pretty shot me. He's a mean one. Then he robbed me. Took my wallet out of my pocket and took Cuddles."

  "Cuddles?"

  "My donkey."

  The Phantom smiled in the firelight.

  "Any idea where Pretty went? He and the other man?"

  "The old folks' town. I heard them talkin'!"

  I'll have to move you now. It may hurt, Ed."

  "Move away."

  The Phantom picked up the old man and lifted him onto Hero's back. Ed leaned forward and put his arms around the stallion's neck. The Phantom tied his hands together so he wouldn't lose his hold. Then as the Phantom went over to stamp out the fire, Ed noticed the good mark on the tree. He smiled.

  "I know who you are now," he said. "I've been in these parts a long time. I shoulda guessed right away."

  "Save your breath, Ed. You've got a long ride back."

  "I can take it," said Ed. "I'm as tough as an old rooster."

  A full moon was shining through the trees as they moved out of the clearing. The old folks' town, thought the Phantom. Ill have to hurry to protect those helpless old people from that human shark, Pretty, and the other one, Moogar. They had chosen well—a remote place, rarely visited by outsiders, unarmed, unable to resist such predators as those two. It was unfortunate he couldn't follow them now from here. They weren't too far ahead. But he couldn't leave Ed.

  The old man needed medical attention. There was nothing else he could do, but take him back to Obano then return to the pursuit. Now, at least, he knew where to find them. But they might wreak terrible damage among the old folks before he could reach them.

  "I've been in these parts more years than I remember," said Ed, mumbling through Hero's mane. "But I never thought I'd see you, much less have you save my life."

  "Save your breath, Ed. You'll need it."

  A few miles to the east, Pretty and Moogar were stretched out on the grassy bank of a little stream. As was their arrangement, one slept while the other sat watch. It was Moogar's turn at watch. He sat against a tree trunk, his rifle over his knees, and looked at Pretty lying with his back to him. It would be easy to put a bullet in that back. But Moogar of Oogaan couldn't do that and Pretty of Brooklyn knew it They were only a few hours walk from the old folks' town now, and would reach there the next morning.

  Ever since they'd left Killer's Town, he'd thought and planned how he would break off with this "mad dog" killer, and get away on his own. Now that they were in deep jun- ble, he no longer feared either police or Jungle Patrol. He could survive here. This was his home. His own tribe might even take him back. As for Pretty, he spoke none of the local languages, he had a total ignorance of the jungle, and despite his bullets would not last long. If he was ever going to make the break, Moogar told himself, now was the time. If he could get twenty yards away in this thick underbrush, Pretty could never find him. He listened to Pretty's breathing. He couldn't see the white face, but Pretty was motionless. Moogar got to his feet quietly and reached for a knapsack containing a few supplies, slipping it over his shoulder. One more glance at the recumbent Pretty, then he turned and, with rifle in hand, began to creep away.

  "Going somewhere?" said the familiar voice.

  Moogar whirled around, raising his rifle. But Pretty was pointing his gun at him.

  "Drop it."

  Moogar dropped his rifle. "What's the matter with you, you crazy?" he said, trying to bluff. "I was going "

  "Going to relieve yourself?" said Pretty, mocking Moogar's delicate Oogaan expression and also seeming to read his mind, for this was exactly what Moogar was trying to say.

  "I—er " stammered Moogar.

  "Bull!" said Pretty, getting up, his gun still in his hand. "You were trying to take off."

  Moogar was ready to explode angrily, to admit he was

  leaving, to say he was a free man and that both should go their own way from here on. But he knew Pretty's temper. That gun in his hand could explode at any moment. He had seen too many die in front of Pretty—Koy, Matthew Crumb, Trader Ed. Die just like this, facing Pretty's wild smile and the barrel of his gun.

  "You're not going anyplace," said Pretty. "I need you to get me out of this damn place."

  Then they both knew that Pretty didn't want to shoot Moogar. At least, not yet. He needed him. But both also knew that if worse came to worst, he could shoot and would.

  "Moogar," said Pretty in a mollifying tone of voice, "you been my pal. Know what I'm goin' to do for you? Do you, huh?"

  Moogar shrugged.

  "Those diamonds I brought—Koy only stashed some of them in his safe. I got the rest, most of them, buried outside that town. When the heat's off, we can go back and dig them up. Half for you. How about that?"

  "Great," said Moogar
.

  Maybe Pretty thought Moogar believed the story. Moogar was sure it was a lie. No matter. If Pretty thought he believed him, then Pretty would be off guard and a second chance would come to get away. Pretty was holding Moo- gar's rifle.

  "Ill keep this," he said flatly, offering no explanation. There was nothing Moogar could do about it. Maybe later. .. .

  "Okay," said Moogar. He returned to his tree and started to sit down. "Now I sleep. You watch."

  "No," said Pretty. "We're movin' now. Going to the old folks' place."

  "Now? Travel at night?" Moogar was genuinely taken aback. No one in the jungle traveled at night.

  "Why not? It's cooler at night. You know the way."

  "But you can't see as well at night. There are insects, snakes, holes."

  "We got flashlights from the old geezer. We go," said Pretty firmly. His gun was still in his hand. He was taking no chances on being left alone in this crazy jungle. At the old folks' place, at least there were people. Maybe he could talk to some of them and wouldn't need Moogar any more. As Pretty held the gun, Moogar loaded Cuddles and they moved on, Pretty following the man and donkey taking no more chances.

  The old folks' town was unique in the jungle. Unlike modern "civilized" races, the jungle folk had always respected the aged. As long as there was enough food, the young happily supported and cared for their elders. But in times of famine, a curious thing happened. The helpless among the aged were left in the jungle far from village walls to die of starvation or by the claw and fang of the jungle. But the unique factor is that the young did not force their aged into the jungles. The old people went of their own accord, following their ancient traditions whose origins were lost in antiquity. It was a simple, realistic decision. When there was not enough food to go around, the younger generations had the first right to survival. The aged had lived their lives; the young must be given their opportunity. This decision was made not by the young but by the Council of Elders in each jungle tribe. Often, the decision was made over the tearful protest of their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Once made, the decision was irrevocable. When the sad day arrived, the aged would move out through the gates for the last time, walking with canes or improvised crutches. Those too ill to walk would be carried on litters by the sturdier among them. This tragic exodus would be watched by the entire village from the walls. There would be weeping and wailing from the young as the aged proudly made their sacrifice for their children and walked to their deaths. This could occur anywhere along the tangled paths of the deep jungle. These events were remembered in songs, poetry, and stories that were handed down from generation to generation.

  Such was the custom before the Phantom founded the old folks' town. (It had actually been the father of the present Phantom. But to the jungle, the Phantom was the Phantom.) When the old folks could no longer function or produce their share, they went of their own accord to the town. The tribes kept the town supplied with food and necessities. High walls protected them from animals. There was no need for protection against men. No one in the jungle would dream of molesting the town. It would be considered a sacrilege. In the town, the old folks lived a peaceful, secure life. They were happy with their peers and enjoyed this rest after a long, hard jungle life. This is the idyllic place that Pretty and Moogar reached shortly after dawn. There was a mark on the gatepost. Neither noticed it at the time.

  The high gates were closed to keep animals out. There was no lock, and it was a simple matter to open the latch.

  They entered a small village with huts and larger communal buildings lining an immaculate street. A few old people were strolling at this early hour. Both men and women wore flowers in their hair, or in garlands about their necks, freshly plucked from the bushes that grew in profusion on all sides. They looked at the two men and the donkey and smiled gently. Travelers were rare here, but they passed by occasionally and, as in all deep jungle villages, received a night's hospitality. Pretty and Moogar walked on. In a courtyard, a dozen old people were seated at a long table having their breakfast. All turned and smiled. To Pretty, these wrinkled old blacks looked grotesque and alien. To Moogar, they appeared gentle and loving. Into this haven comes the killer, thought Moogar with a shudder. Memories of his brief days at missionary school returned. Were he and Pretty like two serpents entering the Garden of Eden? An old man approached them, Smiling. Pretty watched him sharply, his hand on the butt of his gun.

  "Welcome, young strangers," he said. "The hospitality of our village is yours. What are your needs?"

  "What did he say?" demanded Pretty quickly. Moogar translated.

  "Can't any of them talk English?"

  Moogar snorted. "Are you kiddin'?" he said, using an expression he'd often heard Pretty use.

  "We want hot water, soap. We want food, booze, and some clean beds," said Pretty to the old man. The old man looked at him inquiringly, then at Moogar. Pretty was suspicious. Maybe Moogar was holding out. It seemed impossible this old man couldn't understand a few simple words.

  "Hot water . . . soap, food ... booze . . . beds," he said loudly. Like many faced with someone who doesn't speak their language, he felt that if he shouted loudly enough, the man would understand. But the old man did not understand. He shook his head and waved his hands in confusion, looking appealingly at Moogar. This infuriated Pretty.

  "We want a bath, food, booze you !" he shouted, his

  face red. The old folks at the table and in the street stared.

  "Pretty, he doesn't understand you," said Moogar, grinning.

  This angered Pretty even more. "Tell him then," he shouted. Moogar translated. The old man nodded, looking in fright at Pretty. Pretty slapped him hard, so that the old man staggered.

  "And make it snappy!" he shouted. 'Tell that to the dummy!" he shouted. Moogar translated.

  Soon they were seated alone at the long table. The old people hurriedly piled it with food: fruit, nuts and berries from the woods, wild and domestic fowl, baked fish. A feast. Again Pretty asked loudly for "booze." Moogar told him there were no alcoholic drinks in the place. He had to be satisfied with spring water or fruit juice. Pretty was satisfied. The heaps of food, the rapid service, and the obvious fear he inspired in all these old people pleased him.

  "What a place," he said, stuffing breast of wild hen into his mouth. "A bunch of old crocks with nothing to do but wait on me. Bring me anything I want. I can live like a king here."

  Good-humored for the moment, he nodded to Moogar who was also eating, and reached over to slap him on the back.

  "I mean, we can live like kings. Right?"

  After the feast, they walked around the village. Pretty looked into every hut. Word had spread about this violent young stranger. The old people looked at him with fright, their peaceful way of life shattered. Pretty was delighted with all he saw. So many old people, all potential servants, slaves to wait on him. As he made the tour, he formed a picture of the place. There was no opposition to him besides Moogar. And that would be solved soon. He could actually rule this place, live here like a king. It was a heady thought. All of his past life, all the misery—the hard experiences had prepared him, had toughened him so that he could take over here. He felt euphoric, like the time he'd loaded up on champagne with that fat blonde. Moogar had never seen him so happy and easy, though Pretty still carried the guns, his own and Moogar's. Then they passed the gatepost and saw the circular carving. It contained the good mark of the Phantom.

  "That damn thing again. I didn't see that before. Did you put that there?"

  Moogar snorted. "When would I have had time to do that?"

  Pretty drew his pistol and fired at the mark. "Bad luck?" he said. "Brought us good luck before. How about that, you jungle bunnies," he said, looking at the crowd of old folks who were watching from a safe distance. They all reacted in fright at the gunshots. Deface the Phantom's mark? A terrible thing to do. What an evil man this one was, they whispered to each other.

  "What are
they yappin' about?" said Pretty.

  Moogar shrugged. "They don't like the gun. They are afraid."

  "They'll be more afraid before I'm through with them," he shouted, walking toward the small crowd. They parted quickly to let him pass. The people looked helplessly at Moogar.

  "Do what he says. He is like the leopard. He kills for pleasure."

  "Can you help us, Moogar of Oogaan?" asked the old spokeman.

  "He took my guns. He is like a mad dog."

  "He is not of this world [meaning the jungle]. How did he come here?"

  Moogar had been afraid of this question. He answered, ashamed. "I brought him here. I am sorry for that, There is nothing I can do now. But the time will come."

  "When he sleeps?" asked the old man wisely.

  Moogar was confused. As an Oogaan, he could not kill in cold blood. Besides, his only hope was to get away from Pretty precisely when he was asleep. He glanced at the gatepost.