Story of the Phantom

by Lee Falk

  He climbed over the wall, and carefully examined the ground beyond. It was lawn, worn away in some places with patches of dirt or dust. It was not difficult for Kit to follow the panther's trail. Its claws dug slightly into the grass and dirt as it sped over the open ground. The trail led over a hill toward a clump of bushes and trees near a group of brick buildings. This was the girls' school, and as he moved cautiously toward it, he was alarmed to see the big doors open and the young girls pour out.

  This was one school that had not sent the children home at once, having decided they'd be safer there.

  But so many phone calls came from anxious parents that they finally decided to send the girls out with strict orders to go directly home.

  Kit ran toward them. Some deep instinct coming out of his training told him he was near his prey. It was an almost subconscious tightening of muscles, a sudden increase in alertness and a quickening of breath and heartbeat as his adrenals pumped into his bloodstream. It was a familiar feeling, common to hunters and hunted in the jungle.

  There was a scream from the girls. Some of them were running under a huge oak tree. They were looking up, screaming as they ran. Several fell down on the path. Above them on a big branch, partially concealed by brown autumn leaves was the black panther. It was crouched, ready to leap.

  Teachers and students on the steps, in the doorway, and at the windows, all screamed. Girls in their uniforms of blue-black skirts and white shirts, ran in all directions, their braids flying. Books and papers fell to the ground as they bumped into each other in their panic. Perhaps it is fair to say there was only one cool head at that moment: the hunter's.

  In a motion so fast it was almost a blur; Kit pulled an arrow from his quiver and threaded it into the bow. Then the panther leaped, a bloodcurdling snarl coming from its open jaws.

  The long bow was bent in a wide arc. Then ... twang! The steel-headed arrow met the panther in midair striking it in the side. The beast crashed to the ground only a few feet from several fallen girls.

  But it was not dead. It whirled, furious, on the ground, trying to grasp the arrow in its jaws. The nearest girl on the ground started to crawl away frantically. During these split seconds, the panther managed to get the arrow in its teeth and jerk it out. Then it crouched, panting from exertion, dripping red foam from its jaws. The "crazy" yellow eyes darted from side to side as the girls 72

  screamed and ran, and crawled in all directions. It was at its most dangerous now, a wounded animal at bay. Not far from it, one young girl was having trouble moving away. She had twisted her ankle and was crying and in pain as she tried to move on one foot, and knee, and hands. She could be the first victim, and this beast could move among the children like a tornado, destroying a dozen in moments. Now it made a tentative move toward the hobbling girl. She screamed in terror, but a figure flashed between her and the panther. Again, the bow was in a wide arc. The crazy eyes focused on the upright figure, the jaws widening, and with a bloodcurdling roar, it leaped at him.

  Twang! The steel-headed shaft drove a foot into the beast's body, through the heart, cutting into the spine. And the panther dropped like a rock, stone-dead.

  For moments that seemed endless, the entire crowd of onlookers, girls and teachers, were silent, frozen by the utter terror of the scene. It was during this silence that Kit picked up the girl, her little body shaking with sobs.

  "It's all right. Don't cry. He can't hurt you now," he said.

  With the girl in his arms, he turned to the crowd. "He's dead," he said. There was an outcry of relief from everyone. Some of the students wept, still terrified by the event. But girls and teachers alike swarmed around Kit, carefully avoiding the beast on the path. Several women took the weeping girl from his arms, and a fat woman with a big pile of white hair, silver pince-nez glasses, and an enormous bosom, embraced him.

  "Oh you wonderful boy, you wonderful boy," she said, laughing and sobbing. She was the headmistress of the school. Other teachers crowded about him, patting him on the back, shaking or kissing his hand. He endured it stoically, not trusting himself to speak yet. For tension and fear had gripped him violently, and now that it was over, his body trembled. He hoped no one would notice.

  The teachers called their students back into the building. There was no reason to go home now. The headmistress asked him to come into her office for tea. He nodded and said he would join her in a few moments. He walked over to the dead panther. A few of the school children and teachers watched him from the steps and from the windows.

  The beast was lying in a pool of its own blood, lips curled up over white fangs, the yellow eyes open, no longer "crazy." This type of big cat was never friendly, he knew. But what had made it so abnormally vicious? Suspicious, evasive, stalking.... Someone, a trapper, a dealer, or a keeper had mistreated it badly when it was small, so much so that it feared all beings with the human scent. He tugged at the arrow. It wouldn't come out. The first arrow, chewed in half, was still in its side. This worried him. He had taken the equipment without permission. Would Mr. Hobbes be angry with him, he wondered. He knew the archery sets were Hobbes's private property and did not belong to the school. Oh well, he thought, as he walked away from the panther, arrows didn't cost too much. He could replace them.

  He refused the headmistress's offer of tea, but accepted a glass of milk. She then wanted him to come to the auditorium where the student body and faculty were waiting to greet him. But he couldn't face this, and excused himself, saying he had to get back to school. He walked between rows of admiring teachers and students in the corridor, then ran down the stairs. A garbage truck was standing on the path, and the men were lifting the panther.

  "Wow, a heavy one. How much you figure?"

  "Three hundred pounds anyhow," said the other one.

  "Heard a kid shot him with that arrow."

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  "Wow."

  They tossed the body on the truck. Kit trotted after the truck as far as the school gates. He felt remorse for the animal lying on top of the garbage. It was an ignoble end for the powerful creature.

  He ran all the way to the school, and went down to the locker rooms to return the bow. The school was almost empty, having been dismissed-but a few were still there, among them Mr. Hobbes.

  "I hope you don't mind, Mr. Hobbes, that I borrowed the bow. Two of the arrows are gone, but I'll pay for new ones."

  The news of Kit's feat bad already reached them. They stared at him.

  "Two arrows ... gone?" Hobbes managed to stammer. "Gone?"

  "I had to use them," he replied. "How much are they? I'll bring the money tomorrow."

  Hobbes put his arms around Kit. "My boy," he said. "My boy, my boy." He was too moved to say anything else.

  When Kit reached home, there were neighbors, newsmen, cameras, and microphones on the porch.

  Inside, the phone was ringing constantly and Aunt Bessie and Uncle Ephraim were bursting with pride and excitement. They embraced the boy, as the newsmen and newscasters made a rush for him.

  He answered their questions briefly, stood with his aunt and uncle for the cameras, then ran up to his room where he fell upon his blankets on the floor, drained and exhausted. He fell asleep at once and did not move for many hours.

  He awoke when it was dark, and was amazed he had slept so long. He had not know how tired he was. Then he realized that tension and fear had drained him. The memory of his fear worried him.

  Except for the time he had killed the wild boar-and Guran and the others were with him-he had never faced death before. And he had never known real fear before. Deep down, was he a coward? Did his father ever feel fear? He brooded and worried about this, and wrote his father about this.

  His father replied, by letter, that he always felt fear when facing real danger, that all men did, unless they were stone drunk, or lying, and that fear was part of nature's equipment for survival. "Fear and anger come from the same wells in your body," he wrote, "and
in all my experience, intelligent living things are aware of both. Fear for flight, anger for attack, and often a combination of both. Yes, Kit, all men know fear. I have been afraid many times. Some are childish, are foolish enough not to admit it. It is nothing to be ashamed of. Aunt Bessie wrote us about your archery feat. Mother and I are proud of you, though Mother was upset. She didn't think you'd run into a black panther in Clarksville on the banks of the Mississippi. (Neither did I.)" The letter was signed with his father's "good mark"-

  the symbol of the ring on his left hand-"closer to the heart."

  But that letter would come a bit later. That night, when he awoke from his sleep of exhaustion, the phone was still ringing, and people were still babbling on the porch. He crept down the back stairs and entered the empty kitchen. He was hungry, and took milk and fruit from the refrigerator. Aunt Bessie entered, her eyes shining.

  "You're awake. Poor boy, you must have been so tired. Oh Kit, do you know who that little girl was you picked up, the one you saved?"

  He shook his head, munching on an apple.

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  "Her mother's a dear friend of mine, and she says her little girl knows you. Her name is Diana Palmer."

  Now he remembered, the little girl who had found him on the bank of the swimming hole with Guran.

  "Is she okay?" he asked.

  "A sprained ankle, that's all," said Aunt Bessie. "Oh Kit, so many people are waiting to see you."

  The town rang with Kit's feat for weeks. Unfortunately, there had been no cameras during the actual event, but the story was mentioned from coast to coast. It was the first time the name Kit Walker had been seen. It was not the last time.

  Life returned to normal as he went back to his routine of classes, sports, and homework. It wasn't quite the same as before. He had become a town hero, and everyone in Clarksville knew him. People nodded and smiled at him when he walked through the street. People standing by the fence, watering their lawns, or working in their gardens waved and chatted. It was a warm, good feeling, as though he had been born and raised there, as though they had known him all his life. All his anxieties, fears and loneliness were at rest now. Though he had an occasional pang of missing his parents, he was content and happy in Clarksville.

  Then one day, a letter came from the Deep Woods. There weren't many. The last one had been weeks before, about the black panther. He opened this one eagerly. Then he crumpled it and dropped it to the floor, and went to his room where he remained locked in for several days, refusing any food. The brief note from his father said simply that his mother had died suddenly of jungle fever. The end had come while she was asleep. She had no pain. The letter told him to stay in Clarksville, as there was no reason for him to return now. Behind his locked door, Kit wept, no schoolboy wonder, but a lonely, unhappy child. Beautiful mother. Like a jungle animal that crawled into hiding when it was hurt, Kit had to be alone with this pain. When he came from his room, thin and red-eyed, he accepted his aunt and uncle's condolences silently, and talked no more about it.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE CHAMPION

  Between studies and sports, Kit was kept busy at Clark Academy, and the four years sped by. Kit grew in those years, mentally as well as physically. He was reaching his full height, his shoulders broadening, his muscles filling out. And his skills in the various sports increased. The fame of the

  "schoolboy wonder" spread. Offers of athletic scholarships came from many major colleges and universities. Scouts, alumni, and coaches came to the locker rooms and even to the Carruthers' home, trying to catch this prize. This annoyed Aunt Bessie, though Uncle Ephraim enjoyed it. The dour man was proud of this amazing nephew and was actually learning to smile. Kit rejected all the offers.

  He had come to America primarily for an education. The sports were secondary. He chose a small college near the north woods, that specialized in forestry, for his natural interests were in this field.

  He graduated with highest scholastic honors from Clark Academy, and coaches and faculty alike were sorry to see him go. He had put the obscure little boys' school on the map. Harrison University was to have a similar experience.

  His arrival at tiny Harrison U. was heralded by the college paper and the local town newspaper. No longer the strange foreign boy starting school, his fame had preceded him: the "schoolboy wonder,"

  holder of a dozen world's scholastic track records, boxing and fencing champion, football star. News of Kit's selection of Harrison U. had influenced other high school athletes to choose this little school.

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  The nucleus of a good team arrived with him, at a school whose teams had always been obscure and unimportant.

  Kit took up where he had left off at Clark. Under his young leadership, Harrison's teams mopped up their traditional opposition-minor colleges like themselves- and their small stadiums overflowed and were inadequate.

  National television and radio crews came to broadcast these obscure games, all because of the phenomenal Kit Walker. Schedules were hurriedly rearranged. Within a year, Harrison's teams were invited to the major stadiums on both coasts. Their track teams entered all the national meets. Even the boxing teams of the large universities- usually minor sports relegated to a corner of the gym-needed larger quarters for the fans. It seems that all the world wanted to see Kit Walker.

  He ran wild over the gridirons of the nation, and was an All-American choice his sophomore year.

  Now, scouts of the professional football teams haunted the locker rooms, as the college scouts had done at Clark. In track meets, Kit began to break meet records, then national records, then world records. He trained for the ten-sport decathlon events and was looked upon as the coming champion.

  A light-heavyweight boxer his freshman year, he went into the heavyweight class by his senior year, and dominated each division, remaining undefeated. This interested promoters and professional managers. They told him he could have a future in the boxing ring. As with the football scouts, he put them off politely.

  His courses-particularly zoology-and such subjects as botany, fascinated him. He was learning scientific fact about the plants and animals he had always known.

  College was not all studies and sports. There was an active social life, as on any college campus.

  Kit's activities kept him busy, but he went to dances and parties. Girls were attracted to him, and were surprised to find him shy and modest, and uneasy with them. He had no knowledge about girls, either from the jungle, from Clark Academy, or from Clarksville. He had a strange old-world courtesy that charmed the co-eds, but he had no romances those first two years. Too busy perhaps; or waiting for someone. Who? He didn't know.

  He had an inkling of 'who' during Christmas vacation in his third year. By this time, magazines, television, and newspapers had made his face familiar. Traveling home by bus, he tried to sleep, but autograph hunters and fans made this impossible. 'When he reached the Carruthers' home, the neighbors' children filled the yard, waiting to see him. Bessie and Ephraim were as proud as peacocks. There was a Christmas Eve dance at the country club, and they were anxious to show off their famous nephew. He hesitated. That place had been off limits to him in the first months because of Guran, and he had always refused to go after that. But his aunt and uncle were so proud and happy, that he felt he must go to please them.

  A crowd surrounded him at the bar while he drank fruit juice. The place was decorated with colorful seasonal decorations and pine trees covered with flashing colored bulbs. Music came from the next room where the couples were dancing. Kit was bored and needed sleep, but was polite and courteous to all the questions. A slim dark- haired girl was brought to him by smiling Aunt Bessie. She was sixteen or seventeen, simply dressed, with a shy smile on perfect lips. She was the most beautiful girl Kit had ever seen.

  "Do you know who this is?" asked Aunt Bessie gaily, shouting above the hubbub of music and voices.

  Kit looked at her intently. There had
been so many pretty girls at all the games and meets, quick introductions, short dances, endless crowds of pretty girls, but none like this one.

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  "I'm sorry," he started to say.

  "You've stopped running away from home," she said. "Have you shot anything else with your bow and arrow?" Her voice was low and pleasant, and she had a silvery laugh as she saw his confusion about her.

  "Oh, silly boy, this is Diana Palmer, don't you remember?" said Aunt Bessie.

  The little girl with the lisp, missing two front teeth. A big red ribbon in her hair. The black panther.

  She lived in the next town, but he hadn't seen her since that day.

  "How you've grown," he said.

  "So have you," she said, looking at the young giant.

  She had been only eight years old when he saved her life on that dramatic afternoon. The shock of the event had blocked most of it from her mind, so she remembered very little. What she did remember was what she heard from her parents and other people and what she read later in the old newspaper accounts her mother had saved. From time to time, she would have glimpses of Kit in the street or at a movie, but he never noticed her. After all, he was a big boy, but she followed his sports career avidly while he was at Clark and later at Harrison. She was thrilled every time she saw his picture in the paper or heard people discussing him. Without realizing it, she had been in love with him as long as she could remember. He was her Prince Charming, though she somehow never expected to meet him.