by Lee Falk
"He will come. He will help you," he said.
"Do you know his ways? How do you know he will help?"
"Because he always has," said an old woman, listening at the side. All smiled, relieved. Yes, he always had. There was hope in that. Their smiles faded as Pretty pounded the table and yelled.
"Moogar, what's going on over there?"
"They wanted to know how long we're stayin'. I told them I didn't know."
Pretty got his hot bath, a wooden tub of water heated over a campfire. He bathed alone in a hut with his guns within reach. He came out, refreshed, fed, bored. Nothing to drink. Nothing to do. The old people were gathered in little groups along the street, whispering. Should they send someone to the Llongo or Wambesi to get young warriors to help them? That meant a long trip through the dangerous jungle. None felt able to do this. Pretty sat at the long table watching them moodily, biting into a small fruit that looked like a plum but was sour. He threw it to the ground.
"Moogar, what are they jawin' about?"
"Nothing special," said Moogar.
Pretty was as impatient as a child and as easily bored. As he played with his gun on the table, he looked with disgust at the strange people and strange scene around him. How did he ever wind up here? All those old crocks watching, whispering. He had an idea. He grinned.
"Moogar, line up those old crocks. Have a race. A quarter mile race."
"You're crazy. That'd kill them."
"Don't use the word to me."
"Kill?"
"No. Crazy," snapped Pretty, memories of the mental hospital coming back to him. "Tell them."
"Tell them yourself," said Moogar.
Pretty pointed his gun at Moogar. "You know I can't talk their talk. Do it."
Moogar walked to the groups and waved them together.
"He is trying to make you race. Go to your huts and stay there," he said. The old people understood. With scared glances toward Pretty they separated and started for their huts. "What are they doin'!" yelled Pretty.
"They don't want to race. Maybe you can talk them into! it," said Moogar flatly. Pretty's temper flared. He raised his gun, but controlled himself. He needed Moogar in this strange world, needed him to talk to them. He looked about, saw something that pleased him, then barked at Moogar.
"Go to that post," he said. It was a thick upright used for tying up animals. "Tell those guys to come here with some rope."
The men obeyed, bringing not rope but a tough jungle vine. Pretty tested it with one hand, then ordered Moogar to sit against the post, with his arms behind him behind the post.
"Now tell them to tie you," said Pretty.
Moogar hesitated. Pretty fired a bullet into the post, a few inches above Moogar's head. The old men trembled at the sound. Seething with anger but helpless, Moogar ordered the old men to tie him. They obeyed. That done, Pretty went on one knee to test the tightness of the vine and the knots. Satisfied, he grinned at Moogar.
"That's where you sleep. Now I can sleep. I don't want you takin' off again, Moogar. I need you to talk to these monkeys."
He went to the nearest hut, chased an old woman out of it—she ran terrified down the street—then glared from the doorway.
"Tell these monkeys, if anybody tries to help you get loose, they'll be dead monkeys. Tell them!"
"He says he's going to sleep now," said Moogar. The old men nodded and went away. They didn't have to be told any more.
Pretty was tired, but before lying down, he carefully inspected the hut. A city boy, he had a terror of the big jungle bugs, particularly spiders, which were the size of saucers. But the place was immaculate. The old people were good housekeepers. He stretched out on the straw mat and dozed. Heavy sleep was not possible. He was still too nervous for that in this strange world where he understood not a word, where his only communication was with Moogar.
Outside, tied at the post, Moogar also slept out of sheer exhaustion. And from their windows and doorways, the old people watched and talked in whispers.
Sometime later, Moogar awoke with a start. Shadowy figures were bending over him. Old men with long knjves that gleamed in the pale moonlight.
"You brought that monster here, Moogar of Oogaan," said the old spokesman.
"I did. I am ashamed," said Moogar, sweating with fear. "If I could be free, I know where I can find guns. I would return to destroy him." Even now he could not use the jungle word for "kill."
"Can we trust you, Moogar of Oogaan?"
"You have my sacred word by the blood of my ancestors," said Moogar. All the jungle knew the Oogaan worship of their ancestors. Such an oath was believed. The sharp knives sliced and hacked at the vine. It fell away from him.
"I will go and find guns."
"No, in that time, the mad dog will kill us. We will rush upon him now with knives." The spokesman handed him a long knife.
"No." said Moogar. "He will slaughter you like lambs. Wait until I return."
"We will not wait. He will slaughter some. But others will reach him with knives."
Moogar was on his knees, getting to his feet when Pretty's hut door burst open. Pretty stood in the doorway, a gun in each hand.
"I heard you gassin' out there. Don't know what you're sayin', but I don't have to be a genius to guess. You're mak- in' to take off, Moogar. I warned you."
Moogar dropped flat on the ground as Pretty's guns blazed. Two of the men closest to Moogar fell. The others rushed at Pretty with shrill cries, waving their knives. Pretty's guns blazed again. Two more fell. The others turned and fled. During the turmoil, Moogar crawled to the side, then got to his feet and ran. Pretty saw him in the moonlight running away. He aimed his gun. A dark figure, one of the fleeing old men, crossed his path. Furious, Pretty shot, missed, then chased after Moogar, who was disappearing in the darkness.
The big gates were closed for the night. Moogar did not stop to open the latch. He jumped high, reaching the points of the sharp stakes at the top of the wall, pulled himself up and swung over, dropping to the other side. His hands and legs were bleeding from deep scratches caused by the sharp stakes. But he ran like a frightened antelope, sweating and terrified. Pretty saw him go over the wall in the distance. He fired a shot, missed, then rushed to the gates. He opened the latch and flung open the gates. Beyond was the black jungle, unknown. No sign of Moogar. He was gone.
Pretty stood there, cursing with fury and growing fear. He was alone now in this alien place. As he turned back into the town, he saw the mark on the gatepost. The crossed sabers, or were they crossed P's? Bad luck? Phantom? What was all that malarkey. He closed the gate and fixed the latch. There were animals out there, big ones, lions. Maybe they'd get Moogar. He visualized that pleasant thought for a moment, then walked back warily, alone now.
In the dim shadows made by the pale moon, he saw the old people struggling to carry their wounded away. One pair saw him coming, dropped their burden, and ran away. He knew by now that they could not understand a single word of his, nor he of theirs. He needed some protection through the night while he slept. He must sleep, he told himself groggily, the days of exertion were catching up. If I can get a good night's sleep, then I'll go back the way we came, find that town again . . . what was its name . . . make somebody lead me to real people, he thought. He passed a hut where faint candlelight shone through an open window. He kicked open the door. An old man and old woman stared at him in fright, then hugged each other desperately. He looked about the hut. There was a coil of vine there, the kind they'd used to tie up Moogar. Pushing the old people into a corner and ignoring their whimpering, he tied them together. Then he pulled the lashed pair to the doorway, where other old people in the darkness could see them.
"If anybody bothers me, they'll get it," he shouted, point
ing his gun at the old people. Then he shut the door and locked it with the inside latch. They can't understand English, but they'll understand that, he thought. He was right. They did. The old couple whimpered and uttered l
ittle cries as he came near them.
"Sit down," he said, pushing on their shoulders so that they sat on the dirt floor. He lay down on the straw mat. Now for some sleep. With daylight, he'd decide what to do. Take off or stay. Play it by ear. See how it goes. He fell asleep, "with one eye open" as the jungle saying goes. This is how jungle animals sleep, alert at the slightest sound to awake and take off. Pretty was one of them, a predator living in constant danger between anger and fear.
Outside, the old people watched the hut from a distance. They understood the theory of hostages. If they attempted anything against the "mad dog" stranger, the old couple would be sacrificed. An uneasy calm settled over the old folks' town, the well-storied calm before the storm.
Moogar ran frantically for more than an hour without stopping. He tripped over roots and vines, picked himself up, ran again, as though pursued by demons, such was his fear of the malevolent Pretty. At length, exhausted and drenched with his own sweat, he stumbled into a clearing and leaned against a tree. He could run no farther. He had to rest. His legs were weak, his heart pounding, his breath coming in gasps. He put his arms around the tree to steady himself. His cheek rested against an unfamiliar surface, not bark. He stood back and stared. In the moonlight, he could see what it was. The carved good mark of the Phantom, the same one Pretty had shot at. He fingered the bullet holes.
Protection? Hadn't been much help to Old Ed or the people in the old folks town. Maybe Pretty was right. It didn't mean a thing. He realized that in his frantic run, he had covered the same distance it had taken them hours to cover the day before. And here he was back in the same place. He looked around for the old trader. No sign of him. Had the hyenas dragged him off? Most likely. He shuddered. He was feeling better now, secure in the thought that Pretty could never find him. Would he get guns, return to the old folks town? Maybe. Or get help from the tribes. He suddenly leaped in terror as something cold touched his ankle.
He recoiled at the sight of a big animal facing him—a wolf! Its nose had touched him. He had no weapons. He moved back slowly, feeling with his foot for a rock, something to protect himself against this big animal that stood staring at him.
Then a deep voice came from behind him. He stood stunned with surprise and fear.
"You are Moogar of Oogaan."
"I am."
"Turn around. Do not attempt to use a weapon."
"I . . . have no weapon," he said slowly as he turned, not knowing what he would see or expected to see.
What he did see was probably the last thing he might have imagined. A huge white stallion—and seated on its broad back a big powerful figure, hooded and masked. Moogar had never seen him before. But from the years of tales and legends, he knew who he was, who he must be. He leaned back against the tree that bore the mark. Strong men do not faint easily, even when they are exhausted. But for the moment, Moogar almost slipped into unconsciousness, such was the shock of the moment.
The sight of the Phantom on a dark jungle night can freeze the blood—old jungle saying.
"Where is Pretty?"
The figure on the horse knew about Pretty. It had always been said that he knew about everything.
"In the old folks' town."
"Why did you take that killer to those poor old people? He will frighten them, if not worse," said the deep voice out of the darkness. It was already worse as he would find out. ,
"Before I knew him well, I made the mistake of telling him about the town. He took my guns. He made me take him there," said Moogar in a sudden rush of words.
"The Jungle Patrol wants both of you. You will wait at this tree until I return." A small object came through the air from the shadowy figure and fell at Moogar's feet. It was a short knife and matches tied together. "You are a jungle man. With these, you can manage for yourself. Do not run away. If I have to go after you, it will be bad for you. Do you understand?"
Moogar nodded and stammered his agreement. The last thing he wanted now was to have this big figure come out of the dark after him.
"I will wait here. I promise," said Moogar as he stooped to pick up the knife and matches. There was a slight swish in the grass and leaves. When he looked up, horse and rider and wolf were gone. Moogar stared with amazement into the darkness, then listened keenly. Were those hoofbeats in the soft loam, heard for a moment, then gone? The Phantom moves on cats' feet was another old jungle saying. Was it true about his celebrated stallion as well? Moogar was thankful he had escaped from the old folks' town, glad this grim figure wasn't coming after him. He felt no pity for Pretty. The killer had it coming to him.
Moogar was suddenly alarmed. Pretty was heavily armed and would shoot at every shadow. Was it true what the legends said that the Ghost Who Walks was the Man Who Cannot Die? Though stern and ominous, that shadowy figure on the white stallion nevertheless sounded like a real man.
"Pretty has guns. He will shoot," he shouted. There was
no answer except for the chirping of crickets in the grass and the shrill piping of tree frogs. He felt foolish, shouting in the darkness like that. As for his own future, that was too much to face or think about. All he could do was wait as he had been told. He sank to the base of the tree, the knife in his hand. He would sleep, and if the big cats came, then they would come. He was tired of fighting.
The Phantom reached the walls of the old folks' town shortly before dawn. He left Devil with Hero, hidden in nearby bushes. As Moogar had done, he made a running leap to grasp the tops of the sharp stakes on the wall. But he knew about the stakes and avoided the points. He swung easily over the fence and dropped lightly to the ground. The moon was behind a cloud and he moved on in the darkness.
Most of the old people were awake in their huts, staring at each other or whispering. In one hut, they nursed the wounded. Luckily, Pretty's wild shots had killed no one outright. But several were in serious condition, requiring attention the town could not offer. In another hut, several of the elderly leaders sat together around the feeble light of a single candle, trying to decide what to do about the killer. Had Moogar escaped or been killed in the woods? None knew. If he had escaped, would he return with guns or with help? Who could tell? And what of the Phantom? His good mark, promising protection, was on their gatepost. He himself had personally visited the town many years before. None presently living there had seen him, but the tale of his visit had been retold many times. (That the visitor was the Phantom's father would have meant nothing to them. The Phantom was the Phantom.)
"Perhaps we hope foolishly for the Phantom. How can he know about us?" asked an oldster of Wambesi.
"The Phantom knows all," said the old man of Llongo next to him.
"If that is so, why did he permit this killer to come here?"
The old men sighed.
"The Phantom will not come. Either he does not know of this or if he knows he has deserted us," said an old man of Mori the fisher folk.
That was undeniable logic and all sighed and fell into depressed silence. It was at that moment that the Phantom slipped into the doorway, almost without a sound. The old men gasped.
"Shh," be warned them. "I have come to help you."
None needed to be told who he was. His huge figure seemed to fill the hut. To these frail old men, he was a giant.
"Where is the white?" he said.
They pointed to the hut, and explained about the two hostages tied in there.
"He will kill them if anyone tries to enter. We are sure of that," said the elder spokesman. "We have seen him. He kills without care. He is a man with no soul."
"He has a demon for a soul," corrected the old man of Mori. All nodded. That explained heedless killers like Pretty. All the old men had known one or more like that in their lifetimes.
A demon for a soul thought the Phantom. A perfect description of what other old men in white coats and glasses would call by a fancier name—paranoid, Schizophrenic. These old men who lived close to the earth knew. A demon for a soul.
"Stay
in here. I will go for him," said the Phantom and he slipped out into the darkness as quietly as he had come. The old men looked at each other with jubilation. He had come. He knew and he had not deserted them. But their happiness was tinged with fear. For most of them, it was the first view of the Phantom. And though he was big and powerful, he appeared to be flesh and blood as other men. And the mad dog's bullets could kill that flesh as well as theirs. Or was he—the Man Who Cannot die?
The Phantom moved silently over the soft ground to the hut. He crouched at the thin wall and listened. There were slight stirrings inside, faint murmurs. Pretty was evidently awake or dreaming, talking to himself or talking in his sleep. The Phantom was half-right on both counts. Pretty was half-asleep, coming in and out of tortured dreams, muttering to himself. The old couple, unable to sleep, sat lashed together in the corner, watching their captor with terrified eyes. The Phantom considered. The windows and door were closed, latched with crossbars inside. He could break through the walls or door quickly, but not quickly enough to keep Pretty from shooting the two hostages. He guessed correctly that Pretty either sat or was lying down with his gun in his hand. Dawn was breaking over the tree- tops. He must move now. He knelt below the window and whispered loudly.