The Slave Market of Mucar

by Lee Falk

  He moved over into the shadow. The Arab shifted round and surveyed him carefully.

  "Why should I try anything?" Slingsby asked. He was feeling a little more at ease now. "I am a peaceful traveler. No one has anything to fear from me."

  The Arab regarded him ironically, the cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth.

  "Maybe," he said casually. "But maybe Mucar will have something to fear from you."

  He spat onto the sand in front of him and Slingsby could have sworn a brief puff of steam went up, for the sand was so hot.

  "We no like strangers in Mucar," the Arab said. "Especially those with pale skins. What are you doing here?"

  Slingsby did his best to construct a smile with a mouth that was beginning to get a little rigid from the strain. He hoped Mr. Walker was near, but he did not dare to turn his eyes in the direction from which he expected help to come. Fortunately, the Arab was still standing with his back to the rock.

  "I've come for the sale," he said.

  The Arab looked at him with hardening suspicion.

  "What sale?" he said.

  "The slave market tonight," Slingsby said. "I heard there were some good bargains to be had so I came over."

  "I no know you," the sentry snarled. "And I go all sales and know everybody. I think you spy."

  "Don't be ridiculous," Slingsby protested.

  The guard smiled, closing his eyes to narrow slits.

  "I think I kill you anyway," he said. "If I'm wrong I apologize tomorrow."

  He started to bring the rifle up.

  Things began to blur for Slingsby then. Perspiration ran into his eyes, blinding him. What now? he thought.

  Mr. Walker only told me to say I'd come for the sale. Now I've run out of conversation. He shifted awkwardly on the stony ground and tripped. He started falling sideways, and put out his hand to save himself. The sentry, suddenly startled, took a step back and pointed his rifle at the sky. A great shadow swooped across the sand. The sentry looked up, incredulity in his eyes changing into fear.

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  The astonishing sight of a hooded, masked man, flying through the air from the top of the rocks onto him, broke his nerve. He dropped his rifle, turned to run. He didn't cover a foot before a tornado was on his back, driving every ounce of breath from him. His face slammed into the sand and he lost consciousness.

  The Phantom got up and rolled over. He bent over the sentry, swiftly examining him. The black pistol holster slapped at his side.

  "He's still alive," he said, conscious of Slingsby's astonished expression.

  The young man had sagged back against the rock wall, and was trying to regain his wits.

  The Phantom stood up. He looked a commanding figure as he gazed keenly across the distant whiteness of the dunes to the dazzling sky beyond.

  He glanced down at the recumbent sentry again.

  "We shall need him," he told Slingsby. "Thanks for holding his attention."

  Slingsby gulped.

  "Don't mention it, sir," he said. "Thanks for saving my life."

  The Phantom did not appear to have heard him. He knelt by the Arab's side. He turned him over. He slapped the man's face several times. The sentry started to groan. The Phantom pulled his beard. Tears began to run out of the corners of the Arab's eyes. He coughed a few times and was then fully conscious.

  He blinked his eyes in alarm, anger clouding his face.

  "I want your clothing," said the Phantom gently. "And I'm not particular how I get it, so behave yourself."

  The sentry spat and struggled up.

  "What is the password at the gates of Mucar?" said the Phantom sternly.

  The Arab shook his head. A look of cunning came into his eyes.

  "I do not know," he said attempting to shrug but wincing painfully instead.

  The Phantom reached down a big hand and shook the sentry much as a terrier shakes a rat.

  "Give me your robe," the Phantom said. He pulled it off him as though he were peeling a banana. The Arab struggled in vain.

  "Let's try again," the Phantom said, He gave Slingsby a meaningful look.

  "I don't know," the sentry gasped.

  Very well," the Phantom said crisply.

  He glanced over behind them to where a red-colored heap of earth towered up to a height of about eight feet. Slingsby knew what it was and he licked his lips, for he had an idea of what was to come.

  The Phantom hauled the sentry upright and pulled him round so that he was facing in the opposite direction.

  The Phantom jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

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  "You don't know," he said thoughtfully. "See that? It's a hill of desert ants and I've heard they can strip a man to the bone in thirty minutes."

  The Arab's eyes widened in terror. He gave a choking cry as the Phantom suddenly lunged forward. He was as powerless as a child in the big man's grip as he was lifted with hands of steel and flung over the Phantom's shoulder.

  "Let's find out," the Phantom said, striding forward with his struggling burden. Slingsby found himself sweating as he followed along behind.

  The Phantom flung the Arab down on top of the anthill, held him there with an inflexible grip. The Arab shrieked and turned a pale gray beneath his dark skin. Thousands of big black ants milled about as the Arab's body disturbed the dust of their nest. An angry buzzing noise came to Slingsby even over the distance of several yards.

  "The password!" said the Phantom in a terrible voice.

  "No!" the Arab choked. Then he shrieked as the ants started swarming over his recumbent body.

  "I talk! I talk!" he said excitedly as the Phantom hauled him to his feet. He collapsed onto the ground again as the Phantom let him go. He started to crawl away, feebly brushing ants from his clothing.

  "It's Nadlas," he said. "Don't put me back there again."

  The Phantom smiled.

  "Simple," he told Slingsby. "It's Saldan spelt backward."

  He chuckled at the expression on the young officer's face. He answered the unspoken question.

  "No, I wouldn't have left him there," he said.

  Then his jaw tightened and he stared out across the desert to where the ancient city of Mucar was hidden behind the dunes.

  "But you learn one thing out here, Slingsby," he said. "You can't ever be soft with cutthroats."

  He started putting the Arab's robe on, turning up his nose at the pungent smell of goatskin which came from it.

  "Now tie this man up and put him in the shade of the rocks," he told Slingsby.

  "Then I want you to give me a hand in camouflaging the helicopter. We'll cover it with a tarpaulin and sand in case a hostile aircraft or some wandering tribesmen should come near here."

  The next few minutes were busy ones. When Slingsby had finished his task, leaving the Arab bound and gagged, he rejoined the Phantom and they carried out the work on the helicopter. Devil was glad to be out of the machine and bounded around them in excitement, his pink tongue lolling from his jaws. When they went back to the rocks the Phantom looked every inch a Bedouin, complete with burnous and headband.

  But he retained his mask so that Slingsby still could not see his features. The Phantom swung himself into the saddle on the sentry's black horse.

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  "I'm afraid I shall have to leave Devil with you," he told Slingsby. "He won't hurt you so don't be afraid. He won't obey you, of course, but he will protect you if any marauders come this way. And he will stay here until I return."

  He reined in the plunging horse.

  "There's food for Devil in this pack."

  He smiled briefly.

  "You'll also find food for yourself when you're hungry. I suggest moving away a bit in case anyone comes to relieve the sentry. If it's a single man you know what to do. Keep hidden until my return. And don't light a fire, of course."

  "May the people in Mucar not expect the sentry to light a fire?" Slingsby ventured.

>   "Too risky," the Phantom decided. "And it will give your position away. Pity there weren't two sentries-then we could each have a disguise. I'll be back as soon as I can."

  He waved and galloped away across the dunes in the direction of Mucar,

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  CHAPTER 15

  FORBIDDEN CITY

  The Phantom followed the contours of the dunes for a mile or two until he felt he had disguised his direction sufficiently, and then rode boldly toward the distant turrets of the city. He knew the wind would blow away his tracks in an hour; so that they would not lead back to Slingsby. The Arab horse was a good one, though badly trained, and the Phantom needed his iron hands on the reins as it tended to jib from side to side.

  In less than an hour, the turrets and walled battlements of Mucar had composed themselves before him in the haze and presently he was trotting over a flinty track that wound in and out between scrubby trees that grew in the shelter of the walls. It was an ancient town, he noted, and one that would lend itself well to such a trade as that indulged in by Saldan. He halted finally before a watch tower above which the green crescent of Islam flew and where men with long rifles lolled.

  The Phantom hammered with the butt of his pistol on the panels of the massive wooden- and iron-bound gate that barred the entrance to the city. A small postern gate in the main structure opened and a lean, crafty face surveyed him, appraising the Phantom and his mount from head to foot.

  "The password?" the man asked in Arabic.

  "Nadlas," the Phantom replied. Then adding in the dialect of the border tribes, "May Allah be with you all your days."

  The man bowed with an ill grace.

  "If it be so willed, brother."

  He drew back and a moment later huge bolts rasped back. One side of the main gate opened and the Phantom clattered into the city. The door clanged to hollowly behind him. He found himself in a maze of narrow courts, his mount picking its way delicately between laden carts, herds of goats and sheep, and peddlers pushing their wares on flimsy barrows. The smell was indescribable and the big man pulled his cloak across his mouth more tightly as he urged his mount through the cursing passers-by crowding the narrow ways.

  Presently he was clear of the crowd, walking his mount through a more affluent part of the city, a place of elegant squares and courtyards, where fountains played in the sunshine and lattice-work grilles, showing the influence of the Moors, threw fretwork patterns across exquisitely tiled pavements. Clouds of white pigeons flew here and tropical flowers grew in great stone troughs. In this place of great space and light, the Phantom found a bronze vessel full of muddy water for horses and he slipped down from his mount, which drank gratefully.

  Tying the horse to the metalwork of a filigree balcony, the big man took the opportunity to mix with the passersby, keeping his ears open for any snatches of conversation which might lead to news of Saldan. He paused beneath the striped awning of a prosperous brass-merchant's establishment and examined a pair

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  of finely wrought vases. Near him two men, obviously merchants, by their prosperous bearing, spoke of cattle and sheep prices.

  Presently they glanced around and lowered their voices. The Phantom pressed closer beneath the awning, as though examining the brass-merchant's wares more closely. The men did not appear to have noticed him, or, if they had, had dismissed him from their thoughts.

  The taller of them, a courtly man with-a grave, bearded face, plucked at his belt with long-nailed fingers and said casually, "When is the sale?"

  The other glanced around the half-empty court and replied in low tones, "After dark, in the usual place."

  The first man nodded with satisfaction and the two men stepped away. As the brass-merchant was now approaching from the dim interior of his shop, the light of avarice in his eye, the Phantom moved casually away and walked back to his horse. He remounted and rode farther back into the fastnesses of the secret city.

  The prisoners were exhausted. They staggered across the burning face of the desert toward the distant turrets of Mucar as though it were a city in a mirage. One stubble-faced convict, his neck chafed red with the grass-rope halter, said bitterly, "We left Masara for this!"

  Even Zadok was beginning to feel the strain. He still had his handcuffs and, too late, he had found that there was no spare horse. He would make sure about this detail on his next trip. Saldan should have seen to it. The Arab slavers declined to let him ride two-up with one of them, so Zadok was reduced to bringing up the rear. He did not dare walk among the convicts. That would have been asking for assault. He smiled bitterly to himself. This was his toughest assignment so far. Another dozen trips or so and he would have enough money to establish his own trading concern. That day he would escape from Masara for good. He chuckled to himself at the thought.

  It was late afternoon and the sun was casting long shadows before the group came to one of the smaller gates of Mucar town; this was a postern much favored by the slavers and one of three most frequently used by Saldan and his Arab partner. The dejected men filed through in almost complete exhaustion. Zadok was the last through, but his spirits rose when he saw the form of his master in jodhpurs, open-neck shirt, and pith-helmet waiting for him within the shadow of the walls.

  The two men exchanged curt greetings, as was their fashion. Saldan's eyes looked at Zadok sardonically from behind the mask, taking in his assistant's bedraggled condition.

  "So you know what it's like now, Zadok, do you?" he said raspingly. "You had a nice walk?"

  Zadok smiled his lopsided smile, his lips drawn back from the teeth like a dog.

  He almost spat out his reply.

  "The fool you sent had no key for my handcuffs," he said holding them out and rattling them.

  "Too bad," said Saldan, shaking his head. "Had a rough trip, did you?"

  "Rough wasn't the word," said Zadok, some of his rage evaporating. "There wasn't a spare horse, either."

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  Saldan waved away his grumbling.

  "Take them to the usual quarters," he called after the Arab slavers. "Give them food and water. I want top price for them tonight!"

  He turned back to find Zadok at his elbow.

  "Saldan, you should have gotten me a horse," the Arab hissed. "I'm worn out."

  "Quiet, you fool!" the big man growled, raising his fist to strike the Arab, who dodged back to avoid the blow. "How many times have I told you not to use my name."

  "It was a good job, wasn't it?" said Zadok.

  "Very good," said Saldan, stroking his chin. "One of your best." He turned away to follow the slavers.

  "Just a minute, boss," said Zadok, plucking at his arm. "You've forgotten something. My handcuffs."

  "I haven't forgotten anything," said Saldan calmly. He spat expressively upon the ground.

  "Times change, Zadok. The pressure at Masara from the Jungle Patrol is getting too much for the trade to stand."

  Zadok turned pale.

  "Wh-what do you mean?" he stammered.

  He held up his handcuffed hands, jangling the chain in mute appeal. Saldan lit a cigar, puffing the fragrant smoke in his assistant's face.

  The Arab reeled away, his eyes stinging. He felt tired and faint after the long march and he was light-headed from the heat.

  "This is my last haul," said Saldan, looking Zadok closely in the eyes. "After tonight I'm going out of business."

  There was a long pause as the Arab stood very still.

  "So I don't need you any more, Zadok," Saldan said gently.

  The Arab shook his head as though he had not heard properly.

  "What do you mean?" he asked, shaking his head again.

  "Just what I said," Saldan replied. "I'm going out of business."

  The Arab's face cleared.

  "I understand that, sir," he said. "But how about these cuffs?"

  There was a tinge of regret in Saldan's voice as he went on.

  "Zadok, don't you understand, I can't hav
e you running around loose, shooting off your mouth."

  He blew cigar smoke thoughtfully in the Arab's direction.

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  "So I'm putting you in the sale-with the others."

  There was a howl of rage from the Arab and the next moment a bundle of flailing fury sprang through the air at Saldan's throat. Taken off guard he reeled back as one of the Arab's handcuffs caught him across the side of the mouth. His cigar fell to the ground in a shower of sparks as the Arab traders turned back, aroused by the uproar behind them. One big man spurred to Saldan's side as the slaver fell against the city wall. Blood was beginning to ooze in an ugly trickle from the side of his mouth.

  "You're selling me? You scum!" Zadok went on screaming.

  He screamed again as one of the slaver's whips cracked across his back, sending him sprawling into the dust.

  "Get away from me, you filthy pig!" said Saldan, seizing the whip from the guard. He dabbed at his bleeding mouth with a handkerchief and as it came away scarlet it seemed to enrage him more than ever.

  The whip descended again and again onto Zadok's recumbent form. The Arab groveled, trying to avoid the blows rained on him.

  "You can't do this" he shouted. "I worked for you for years. I arranged the breaks and brought the men in here.

  I even stayed in prison to organize the trade-the trade which made you rich."

  Saldan finally threw the whip down, his body trembling. Two of the guards dragged Zadok to his feet.

  "I took all the risks!" the Arab went on shouting. "I was loyal to you. You can't put me in with them. They know now. They'll kill me."

  Saldan had recovered some of his calm. He kept on dabbing with the handkerchief.

  "You should have thought of that before," he said.

  He motioned to the guards.

  "Take him away," he said.

  Unnoticed in the general melee, the tall figure of an Arab had been surveying the chaotic scene from behind a shadowed pillar fringing the court. He slipped away silently to mingle with the crowds in the bazaars as the big wooden door closed behind the still-shouting Zadok and his captors. Saldan stood a moment longer. He picked up the whip. Holding it loosely coiled in his hand and still dabbing at the side of his face, he too disappeared among the crowd.