Killer's Town

by Lee Falk

  "Pretty, Pretty."

  He strained his ears, and was on his knees now. He looked at the old folks. They were watching him with such terror, he didn't know if they had heard anything and couldn't ask them.

  "Pretty, Pretty."

  The sound had been near the window. Now it came from the door, then from the other window across the room. Only Moogar knew his name. Had he come back? Possible. The voice was louder now.

  "Pretty, Pretty."

  That wasn't Moogar's voice. He got up and began to move in the direction the sound came from, hoping to hear footsteps. He heard nothing. Silence, then the loud whisper from the other side. He rushed to that side. The whisper came from another side. Pretty turned to the old couple.

  "Do you hear that? Answer me you old !"

  They huddled against each other, not knowing what was coming. He watched them closely to see if their eyes moved in the direction of the whispers. But they didn't. The old people continued to stare at him with their eyes fixed with fear. They were so frightened by this violent stranger, it's possible they heard nothing.

  "Pretty, Pretty."

  This time from the door. He rushed to it and pounded the wood with the butt of his gun.

  "Stop it!" he shouted. "This is a trick to get me out. It won't work."

  "Pretty, Pretty."

  He fired two shots through the door. The explosions reassured him. Through the old folks' town, the people trembled at the sound. Had he shot the hostages? Pretty listened. Had his shots hit?

  "Pretty, Pretty."

  This time high up, from the edge of the ceiling where it touched the wall. He shot again, three times, into the roof.

  "Pretty, Pretty."

  His patience was exhausted. His nerves were frayed, at the breaking point.

  "Get up you two!" he shouted at the old couple. They stared, naturally not understanding. Angrily, he grabbed them by their thin arms and jerked them to their feet, then shoved them towards the door. They trembled and whimpered, certain that he would kill them now. Daylight was coming through the cracks of the door and window and openings in the ceiling and walls. He threw off the latch bar and pulled the door open. His gun was pointed against the old woman's head.

  "Listen," he shouted. "Whoever is out there. I'm standing here with my gun at this old dame's head. Whoever you are, if you have any guns, drop them where I can see them. Then show yourself. Do this by the time I count three or I swear I will blow off the top of this old dame's head. I will say all this once more, then start counting."

  The old woman felt the cold steel barrel against her temple. She began to scream, then collapsed to the floor, dragging her lashed partner with her. Pretty followed them down to the floor, kneeling beside them, his gun still held at her head. In response to the screams, the sound of wailing came from the village. Pretty repeated his instructions, shouting them through the open doorway, then began to count.

  "One ... two . . ." , .

  A gun dropped in front of the doorway, then a second gun, tossed from the side. Pretty did not move, his eyes glaring, sweat pouring from his face.

  "Show yourself," he yelled.

  A huge figure stepped into the doorway, blotting out the early morning light. Pretty stared. Hooded, masked, a weird skin-tight outfit like—like something.

  "I've dropped my guns," said the man in a deep voice. "Take yours away from that woman's head."

  Pretty almost breathed a sigh of relief. In this alien nightmare world, here at least was a man who spoke his language. He stood up, his gun pointed at the stranger's broad chest.

  "Back up slow like," he ordered. The stranger obeyed and Pretty followed him outside the hut. In the daylight he stared curiously at his captive. Pretty was still trembling from his recent ordeal, but the sounds of his own language had restored his confidence. This man was big, like a professional football player or a heavyweight boxer. His eyes were masked in some way that concealed his eyes. There was a large death's head on his broad leather belt, a ring on a finger of each hand.

  "Who in hell are you?" he asked.

  The masked man stood quietly and said nothing.

  "I heard you talk. You said my name. You heard what I asked you. Who are you?"

  "Men call me by many names," said the deep voice. "Some call me the Phantom."

  This was a jolt for Pretty. He almost dropped his gun.

  This was the one Moogar kept talking about. The one . . „ he looked again at the death's head on the belt. It all began to come together.

  "You were at Killer's Town. Are you the one who did all that? Blew up the warehouse, made all those skull marks like that?"

  "I was there," said the deep voice.

  Pretty noticed that though his gun was pointed at th© broad chest, the stranger stood relaxed and easy, showing no fear.

  "And you knocked out all those guys and made off with that redhead? Hey, what did you do with that little dish?"

  "Home with her father."

  'Took her home? Aren't you the fool?" said Pretty.

  The stranger did not reply. He seemed to stand motionless, like a statue, showing no sign of even breathing.

  "How did you know I was here. How did you know my name?"

  "Everyone knows your name. You are well known in these parts," said the stranger.

  Pretty motioned to a bench. "Sit down there," he commanded. The stranger obeyed. Pretty sat on a beneh facing him, but the gun remained aimed at him.

  "I can kill you, you know." said Pretty.

  "You won't. I'm your only hope of getting out of here."

  "You going to get me out?"

  "That's why I came."

  Pretty could hardly believe his ears. This stranger was so cool, so calm. What did he mean?

  "You came here to help me?"

  "To get you out of the jungle."

  Pretty considered. That could mean anything.

  "I want to get out of here," he said suddenly. "I want to go where there are real people."

  "Aren't these real people?"

  "These monkeys?"

  The stranger remained silent. It was upsetting, having this big man sitting there and not being able to see his eyes.

  "Why do you wear all that?" said Pretty.

  The stranger shrugged.

  "When I ask questions, I want answers," said Pretty, flaring up.

  The stranger sat quietly. Pretty realized he couldn't handle the man this way. Both knew Pretty needed him.

  "Who are you anyway?"

  "I told you." "Phantom? Means nothing. Not good enough."

  "Then, let's just say I'm a masked man."

  Pretty grinned. He was beginning to see the light.

  "Oh, a hood, a jungle hood."

  The stranger smiled.

  "Look, we can make a deal," said Pretty eagerly.

  "Why not untie those people first?"

  "Why not? You do it, Mr. Spook."

  Pretty laughed appreciatively at his own humor. The masked man moved to the old couple and untied them. They were stiff and exhausted from their ordeal.

  "You had a bad time," he told them. "Go to another hut now and sleep."

  They nodded, too weary to thank him. They staggered off, hand in hand.

  "What did you say to them?"

  "I told them to sleep."

  "Do they think you're the spook?" said Pretty, laughing again.

  In the huts, the old people watched. They saw the Phantom sitting with the killer. They heard the laughter. What could this mean? Was the Phantom making friends with this mad dog? That seemed impossible. Was he afraid of the gun and agreeing to join the outlaw? What did it mean? So they whispered among themselves, knowing the Phantom was their last hope. This killer could move among them like a plague, destroying all of them. How could the Phantom sit in such a friendly manner with this terrible man from outside? Were they really friends? That could not be, they argued. "Yet," said the logician among them, the oldster of the Mori, the fisher folk, "they are s
itting as friends and making jokes and discussing matters. The real Phantom could not do that with such a man. So it follows, this is not the real Phantom but an imposter." They all gasped at the thought, and their hopes died. Instead of one terror, would there now be two? The mad dog and an imposter?

  "Man, you've really got this crowd spooked," said Pretty, laughing. "How do you do it?"

  The masked man shrugged.

  "Whatever it is, you got them all scared dizzy. The way you handled that thing at Koy's place. Wow. Did you do that all alone?"

  The masked man nodded. He was watching Pretty carefully. The killer was becoming chatty and casual, and the gun was gradually lowering in his hand. Then Pretty sud-

  denly stiffened, his face grim, the gun pointed at the broad chest.

  "Wait a minute," he said. "When you did all that, the Jungle Patrol, the fuzz, were all waiting outside. You were working with them!"

  "I work alone."

  "Yeah," said Pretty, his eyes now flickering with the wild light. "What were you doing when they grabbed all those guys?"

  "I opened Koy's safe."

  Pretty stared at him with open admiration, almost hero worship. Nothing that the Phantom could have said would have impressed him as much. Safecrackers are the aristocrats of the underworld, at the top of the pecking order.

  "You saw all the stuff? My diamonds and all the rest?"

  The Phantom nodded.

  "Wow! Where is it now?"

  The Phantom smiled briefly, but did not answer.

  "But you know?"

  The Phantom nodded.

  "Look, we gotta deal?" said Pretty excitedly. 'You'll take me out of this place, back to a real place, real people?"

  The Phantom nodded. Pretty smiled, his mind going a mile a minute. Once out of the jungle, he could force this hood to show him the cache. All the stuff in Koy's safe. Wow! Not only the diamonds he and Finger had brought, but the rest he'd heard about—gold from the bank robbery, gems and drugs from Hong Kong, diamonds from London, another heist from Amsterdam, and probably lots more he didn't know about. All in Koy's safe. Now this guy had it and it would be his, Pretty's, for the taking. All it would take would be one bullet above that mask, he thought, as he smiled at the Phantom.

  "Time to go," said the Phantom, standing up.

  "Right," said Pretty eagerly. The Phantom's guns were still on the gound. "I'll keep those for a while," said Pretty casually, his own gun barrel still pointed at the Phantom.

  "You don't trust me with them?"

  "I don't trust anybody," said Pretty. "Maybe later. Don't worry. I can handle anything that comes along."

  "I know."

  "What do you mean by that?" said Pretty, as always, touchy as a boil.

  "I've heard you're a great shot."

  Pretty smiled. It was rare that he received compliments for anything. "That's no lie," he said, almost modestly.

  Then, suddenly suspicious, gun pointed: "Who told you that, Moogar?"

  "Who?"

  "Never mind." How would this creep know? "You're damn right I can shoot. I never miss. Don't forget that."

  "I won't," said the masked man casually. "I'll bet you can't hit that bird up there."

  "Yeah? What bird?" said Pretty, unable to refuse a challenge. It was one of the oldest tricks in existence, but Pretty fell for it. He looked up into the sky over his shoulder where the masked man had indicated. It was the last view he would have of this jungle, or any jungle. For as his head turned ever so slightly, his eyes no longer watching the Phanton, a steel fist crashed upon his jaw. The sound of that blow made the old people wince for a hundred yards around. Pretty dropped like a rock, in a heap. Those who were watching said the Phantom's arm moved faster than the eye could see.

  Phantom moves like lightning in the sky—old jungle saying.

  The old people poured out of their huts and ran toward the Phantom from all directions, as he stood without moving, looking at the fallen man. The old people chanted and laughed and cried as they ran or walked or hobbled. This was no imposter. This was their friend whose sign had promised protection, and who had kept his promise.

  "Ghost Who Walks . . . Ghost Who Walks," they chanted in their many tongues ... for the tribal dialects differ. Then they surrounded him, touching him, patting him, kissing his hands, their happy frail voices sounding like a chorus of forest birds. He put his powerful arms around those closest to him to reassure them. He knew the torment and fear they had endured. Then they stood back as their spokesman, the elder of Wambesi, addressed him.

  "That was a terrible blow. Is he dead?"

  "No," said the Phantom. "I was tempted. This is a hateful killer. But at the last moment, I held back."

  "Held back?" said the elder, marveling. "He is unconscious. I believe he has broken bones. And if you had not held back?"

  "He might be dead.*"

  The oldsters discussed this softly among themselves, then quieted as the elder spoke again.

  "May I ask another question, O Ghost Who Walks?"

  The Phantom nodded.

  "I observed while he was in the hut with Nagy and Dryga [the old hostages], the door was open and you were at the side. You had the opportunity to shoot him in the back. You did not. Why?"

  "I cannot shoot any man in the back, even one such as this. To do that would be to decide his fate. That was not for me to do."

  All nodded and understood, for all jungle folk know that the fates of all men everywhere are spun by the three-headed Witch of Grimgaldny, within whose six hands the life strands of all mankind are interwoven.

  "He grieviously wounded two of our people," said the elder.

  "I will send warriors with litters to bear them to a place of healing," said the Phantom.

  The elder of Wambesi, a famous warrior in his time, drew his long knife from his woven belt.

  "Should we not judge this evil man here?"

  "No, man of Wambesi. He caused your people harm, yet he killed two men or more in a faraway town. And they will judge him for his murders."

  The talk was over. The Phantom draped Pretty over the back of Cuddles. Trader Ed's patient donkey had been tethered nearby all this while. He lashed the unconscious man on the pack saddle, so that his head and arms hung down one side, his legs down the other. Then the Phantom opened the big gates and whistled, a loud clear sound. In a few moments, a big white stallion bounded to the gates. At his side was the large gray mountain wolf. All the oldsters knew these famous animals by reputation, the Phantom's Hero, the Phantom's Devil.

  He placed the end of Cuddle's lead rope in Devil's mouth, then swung up into the saddle of the great stallion. Hero reared high into the air, the Phantom waved, and they started off, Devil leading the donkey with its burden—Pretty. All the people of the old folks' town rushed to the gates and waved until they were out of sight Then they closed the gates and went back to their tables or huts. They would discuss these two dramatic days for months and years to come. And as time passed, the legend would grow as legends do. And the figures would grow as well, until the Phantom and Pretty would tower above the treetops: the good giant, the evil giant And the blow that felled the evil giant would topple high trees and crack the very earth. Yes, there was plenty to talk about for a long time. But once more, all was well in this peaceful haven of the old people.

  When the Phantom reached the clearing, Moogar was waiting, seated at the foot of the tree that bore the good mark. He jumped to his feet and ran to them.

  "Is he dead?" he said, looking at the dangling Pretty.

  "No. A few fractures. He can be patched up."

  "What—what happened to Trader Ed?"

  "He would be at Dr. Axel's hospital by now."

  Moogar sighed with relief.

  "I didn't shoot him," he said.

  "I know. You didn't run away."

  "I'm tired of running away. I want to go back, take my punishment get it over."