by Lee Falk
"Yeah!" said someone else. "Slavery went out in the nineteenth century. Everyone knows that."
The Phantom smiled an enigmatic smile. He went to stand over the slumped figure of Zadok.
"Perhaps this man will tell you what happens after you leave the auction block!" he snapped. "Tell them, Zadok!"
He picked the Arab up by the scruff of his neck and held him clear of the ground. Zadok squirmed for a moment or two and was still. He hung suspended more than a foot from the ground, stupefied at the almost supernatural strength of the huge man who held him so effortlessly.
"Tell them, Zadok," the Phantom said again.
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He put the Arab down. Zadok staggered to the table and sat down. All the strength seemed to have drained out of him.
"Slavery still goes on," he said in a low voice. "In distant places, hidden oases, mountain kingdoms."
He was silent for a moment, looking at the floor. He seemed to see Saldan's face there, in the dust, as when they had ridden together on so many expeditions across the desert. He went on in the same low, hopeless voice. "When you leave the auction block here, you disappear forever. To the world you are dead."
The convicts were silent, absorbing every word.
"There are no laws in that world," Zadok went on. "No police. And no escape, except the grave."
He stirred, moving his feet awkwardly, the chains clinking. He smiled his lopsided smile, looking at the men indirectly.
"So now you know," he said.
There was a sudden explosion of breath, like the men had recovered from a trance.
"You got us into this horror, Zadok," said the dark- haired man. "You deserve a lingering death."
The Phantom strode into the middle of the angry group. Once again silence returned as he exerted the force of his personality.
"Wait!" he told the men. "You're all in it together now."
"But what can we do?" said the bald-headed man desperately.
"We're in the middle of nowhere."
"Just be patient," the Phantom said.
He left them gathered around Zadok in his corner and strode to the door. He looked out cautiously, sidled into the next bay. It did not look as though it would be a very big market that evening. There were half-a-dozen slaves in the next section and, beyond that, five men and two women, the latter having the usual bath treatment. That was why most of the dealers and guards were up at that end. The Phantom went back to his own section.
He closed the heavy door behind him. He went round the whole section carefully. He found another door in the back and secured that with a wooden bar. Next he turned his attention to the windows. When he was satisfied with his inspection, he turned to the guards. One of them was groaning. The Phantom went over and tapped him on the back of the head with the barrel of his pistol. The man went back to sleep again.
That found favor with the men. There were one or two sniggers, which moderated the tension. Zadok still stood cowering against the wall. With the barring of the doors, hope had fled. But he had not completely given up.
"I will help you to escape on one condition," said the Phantom, looking round at the grim faces of the convicts.
"Anything!" said the bald-headed man.
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The Phantom smiled.
"You haven't heard my condition yet," he said.
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CHAPTER 18
DECREASING THE ODDS
There was another confused murmur of voices as the Phantom folded his massive arms across his chest.
His eyes, beneath his black mask, looked steadily at the men.
"My condition is this," he said.
"I said anything and we meant anything," said the bald-headed man, looking fiercely round the group.
There was a murmur of assent.
Zadok went and sat on the edge of the table again, away from the angry stares and threatening fists of his fellow convicts. He cast longing glances toward the door.
The looks were not lost upon the Phantom and he quickly unbuckled his holster again and slid the pistol out. He held it in his right hand as he faced the men. Its barrel was inclined in Zadok's direction and began to make him uncomfortable as the minutes went by.
"You haven't heard the condition yet," said the Phantom. "When you do you may not be quite as pleased."
There was another murmur of refutation from the assembled convicts. The Phantom finally had to hold up his hand for silence. Time was passing and he needed more to carry out his preconceived plan.
"I want you all to return to Masara Prison and finish your sentences!" he said.
There was a deep silence which was eventually broken by such a clamor that the big man was afraid the racket would bring the guards from the other sections. Quickly the bald-headed man perceived the danger and rapped the table, restoring order.
"Let's hear what he has to say," he said bitterly, shooting the Phantom a wry glance.
"Exactly what I've just said," replied the Phantom crisply. "That's my offer. I think you'd agree that anything is better than being sold into slavery forever?"
He looked round the group, searching the hard-bitten faces, each bearing the stamp of sullen despair.
"A great choice," said the bald-headed man ironically. "We break out of jail into slavery. Then we break out of the slave market and into jail again!"
"The choice is yours," said the Phantom simply.
The dark-haired man looked round his colleagues quietly.
"We've got no other choice," he said. "Prison is a rest cure compared to the picture Zadok painted."
The blond man with the shaven head disagreed.
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"We can still make a break for it," he said, looking round him eagerly. "The guards are out and no one knows."
"With ball and chain-and against a thousand of Prince Scum's soldiers?" said the Phantom ironically.
He moved over toward the door, the pistol dangling from his big hand. He kept his eyes on Zadok's face.
There followed another long and despairing silence.
"Better make up your minds quickly," the Phantom said. "I've got a plan, and it all depends on my getting out of here and back in time."
His words decided them.
"As you say, sir," said the bald-headed man, giving him an ironic bow, "we've no choice at all."
He looked round the table.
"We're all agreed?"
There was a hoarse affirmative response from the men.
"Back to Masara Prison, then," said the Phantom crisply.
"But how?" said the dark-haired man. "What'll we do?'
"You leave that to me," the Phantom said. "Just sit tight here and I'll be back with help. Don't let Zadok out of your sight."
"Some chance of that," the bald-headed man said. He spat grimly. Then the Phantom was gone like a shadow.
Devil raised his head. His yellow eyes glowed and his ears pricked up. His tail began to agitate the sand.
Slingsby, sitting quietly smoking, keeping an eye on the bound guard, was alerted. He listened carefully.
Presently he made out what the hypersensitive ears of the wolf had picked up minutes before. A horse was galloping swiftly across the sand toward them.
Slingsby was on his feet in an instant. He went into the shadow of the rocks, his revolver in his hand. He bent and re-gagged the sentry. Then he went back to where he could watch the desert. The moon was up now but it was difficult to pick out anything, for the dunes cast deep shadows. Presently he made out a thin plume of sand which advanced in zigzags. The puffs marked the progress of a horseman. Then Slingsby relaxed; he recognized the Phantom.
Devil bounded out excitedly as the rider reined in, greeting his master. The Phantom slid from the saddle and scratched the big wolf behind the ears. He carried Arab clothing on the saddle pommel.
"Everything okay?" asked Slingsby in worried tones.
The Phantom nodded.
"Put these on, Slingsby," he
said, tossing the robes to the young officer. "I need you."
Slingsby took the garments and swiftly put them on over his own clothes.
"What about the automatic weapons?" he asked.
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"Better leave them here," the Phantom replied. "They would be awkward to carry and it would look odd if ordinary Arabs were seen carrying them in Mucar."
"Did you get me a mount?" Slingsby asked. The Phantom smiled, his teeth glinting in the moonlight.
"That would have been ridiculous," he said. "What do you think the sentries would have thought?"
Slingsby bit his lip. He was glad the darkness hid the expression on his face.
"We'll ride two-up," said the Phantom, getting into the saddle again.
"What about Devil?" Slingsby asked.
"We'll have to leave him to keep an eye on the Arab," the Phantom said. "A few more hours won't make any difference. He's used to it."
He reached down his hand and helped Slingsby up behind him. His strength was so great that the Jungle Patrol officer almost flew into the air.
"Did you feed him?" the Phantom asked.
"Devil or the Arab?" Slingsby asked.
"Both," said the Phantom, turning the horse in a plunging curve.
"About an hour ago," Slingsby said, winding his arms tightly about the big man. The Phantom's build was so massive that Slingsby's arms did not reach around his chest. The big man snapped some instructions to Devil. The wolf whimpered once and then went to sit down in the shadow of the rock, his eyes glued on the recumbent figure of the sentry.
"He won't be moving," the Phantom chuckled. He kicked his heels into the sides of the horse and they went galloping back toward Mucar.
"I take it you've had success," said Slingsby, adjusting his body to the motion of the horse.
"It's all set," the Phantom said. "I've had a talk with the prisoners and made them see reason. They've all agreed to return to Masara Prison."
Once again Slingsby marveled at a will power that could achieve such things. But then he himself was beginning to understand something of the personality of the huge man who was controlling the half-broken Arab horse as it plunged and slid in a dangerous manner across the dunes. Sand flew in all directions, choking them. Slingsby clung tighter to the man in front of him, and adjusted his burnous across his mouth to keep the dust out.
"Its going to be difficult, sir, to say the least," he said cautiously. "We've got to cross about eight hundred miles of desert."
He lurched sideways as the horse shied over the top of a dune and then recovered himself as they went scrambling down to the bottom. It was like being aboard a ship during a typhoon.
"We also have to get them out of Mucar, through a thousand soldiers, not to mention crossing the desert."
The Phantom cut into his speech with a little dry comment.
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"Details, Slingsby, details . . ." he said laconically.
He chuckled quietly to himself.
"We'll figure that out later-once we've got back inside again."
Half an hour passed and they were close up against the city walls. The Phantom stopped the horse and the two men got off. They both walked the last few hundred yards. At the Phantom's instructions Slingsby was limping and his face was contorted with simulated pain beneath the headdress.
Again came the challenge from the watchtower. Again the big man gave the password, "Nadlas."
A new guard grumblingly opened the postern gate.
"What happened to your friend?" he grunted, indicating the limping Slingsby.
"He had a bad fall from his horse about ten miles back," the Phantom replied in the dialect of the border tribes. "The horse broke his leg so we had to shoot him."
The guard nodded sympathetically.
He opened the main gate and latched it behind them as they walked the horse through.
"Truly the desert is a harsh master but, as Allah says, a true friend."
"You speak wisdom, brother," the Phantom said.
The sentry appeared to be a garrulous type, for he held the Phantom in conversation. Slingsby had already limped some way ahead.
"It is fortunate you come this evening, brother," the sentry told the Phantom. "Your friend will be able to purchase a horse as well as a woman."
The Phantom smiled; he had wound his headdress tightly about him so that his mask could not be seen in the dim light of the alley.
"Ah, then, it is the mart this evening, brother?" he queried.
"Within half an hour," the sentry replied. "You had better hurry if you wish to eat before it begins."
The Phantom thanked him and rejoined Slingsby.
"I thought you'd never get away," said Slingsby.
The Phantom smiled again.
"It pays to be thorough, brother," he said in Arabic.
Slingsby understood enough to get the drift of what he was saying, and he smiled in return.
"I've been looking around while you were talking with the gatekeeper," he said. "The place is swarming with soldiers and they're armed to the teeth."
The two men were walking farther into the city now, the Phantom leading the horse.
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"What's the next move?" Slingsby whispered, as they passed group after group of horsemen in the narrow streets.
The Phantom tied the horse to a railing and led the way onward as though he knew Mucar intimately. They were now in a more affluent section of the city, with palaces, courtyards, and public squares.
"We'll pay a little visit to the corrupt Prince of this evil place," the Phantom said, gazing keenly about him as they walked.
"Surely you can't be serious, sir," Slingsby protested. "The city is a fortress. How will we get ten men out of here? Let alone ourselves?"
"Allah looks after him who looks after himself," said the Phantom with a broad grin. "Ancient proverb."
And with that Slingsby had to be content. The two men now came to a white stone wall, on which the shadows of palm leaves were stenciled by the moonlight. It had a huge postern gate. The two men looked up and down. The narrow alley was deserted.
"This is the rear entrance to Selim's palace," the Phantom whispered.
"But it's guarded!" said Slingsby in uneven tones.
He had just seen the burnous of a sentry appear from round the corner. The two men guarded their station before the postern with long rifles in their arms. To Slingsby's horror, the Phantom prodded him forward and walked boldly up to the sentries.
"We are here to see His Highness," he said in ringing tones.
The two guards stirred uneasily; they looked puzzled.
"Visitors to the palace do not enter this gate," said the tallest of the two men.
"Correction!" said the Phantom. "We do!"
His fist caught the biggest guard squarely on the point of the jaw. There was a sickening thud as he flew like a rocket backward, slamming his head against the grillwork of the gate. Before he had reached the ground, the Phantom had his hands around the other's throat, preventing him from calling out. Slingsby, his hesitation forgotten, laid the barrel of his pistol across the man's head. The man slumped in the Phantom's arms.
Slingsby was already opening the gate and they swiftly dragged the two sentries inside. No one had seen the brisk melee; they had been too quick and quiet.
"Well done," said the Phantom as they bound and gagged the two men with strips torn from their robes.
"You're learning fast."
Slingsby grunted.
"One has to around you, sir," he said, "If one wants to survive, that is."
The Phantom grinned. He quickly dragged the sentries across the courtyard and laid them on their backs behind the bushes. His eye had caught a quick flash of white in the distance. Another sentry was hurrying toward them. The Phantom stood up and went to meet him.
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"What's going on?" the sentry called suspiciously.
"Something happened to the guard," the
Phantom said. "Come and see."
The man came on unsuspectingly. Apparently, the Phantom and Slingsby's appearances would pass muster.
The sentry bent over the recumbent figures in the bushes.
He grunted once and then pitched forward on his face.
Slingsby put the pistol back under his robe. It took them just thirty seconds to bind and gag the third man.
The Phantom stood gazing down with satisfaction at Slingsby's handiwork.
"Well," he said at last, "that leaves the Prince with only nine hundred and ninety-seven men. Our relative position is improving, Slingsby."
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CHAPTER 19
HIDDEN TREASURE
Saldan made himself more comfortable on the perfumed cushion and gazed ahead through the haze of tobacco smoke to where the dark-haired beauties gyrated and weaved in their erotic display. His eyes were sparkling from the wine, and the fragrance of his cigar had never pleased him more. Usually he spent the final hours before a sale in the taverns of the city, but tonight was, after all, a very special occasion. So he had consented to be Prince Selim's guest for the last time.
The old man sat at his side now, smiling gravely as he drew on his hookah. Behind the two men three gigantic Nubians waved fans gently over them. The dinner had been excellent. Selim had really outdone himself this evening, the slaver thought. But then why shouldn't he? Saldan had made the Prince an even richer man than he had found him, while Saldan bore all the risks and hardships. Saldan's eyes hardened as he pulled on his cigar, his pupils mirroring his thoughts.
He adjusted his mask casually and concentrated on the wild gyrations of the girls who, with provocative thighs and heaving bellies, finally sank in exhaustion to the ground. He joined in the thin smattering of applause from the Prince and his courtiers. He was aware that Selim had turned toward him. The old man's beard shone under the light of the lamps and he had a sentimental look in his eyes.
