by Lee Falk
At dawn, as the camp went through the surly motion of getting up, one of the night guards from the front gate passed the command tent on the way to his own bunk. He saw the guard sprawled on the ground, and hurried to wake him up before he was discovered asleep on duty. And at such a post—the general's tent! Bababu had executed men for less. But the guard wouldn't wake up. He wasn't asleep or drunk. He was knocked out, with a mark on his jaw. The gate guard stared. He himself had seen the general drive out during the night. He heard a weak cry from inside the tent, and peered in. Colonel Mokata was sprawled on his cot, up on one elbow, his fingers touching his aching throat. His neck was black and blue. He had awakened a few moments before and found a memo in his hand—an order from the general:
Do nothing until you hear from me.
It was in the familiar childish block letters. He had looked for his jacket and hat, to put them on before entering the general's tent. They were gone. He staggered into the big tent. Bababu was gone. He returned to his cot and collapsed in complete confusion, where the night guard from the gate had found him.
It took awhile to put the pieces together. Bababu was gone. Three of his guards were also gone. It took several hours to revive the remaining one. That mark on his jaw. Mokata saw it. A few others saw it. Where had Bababu gone? As his chief executive officer and aide, Mokata should know. He didn't. What had happened to his neck, to his jacket, to his hat? When the guard revived, he questioned him. The man remembered nothing. He was amazed to see the mark on his jaw, and as a man of Oogaan, he knew what it was. To avoid panic, Mokata ordered the man kept out of sight in the clinic. But word spread, whispering began. Where was Bababu? And the other guards?
About noon, Mokata received word about the limousine. Two boys hunting rabbits had found it and told their elders. Everyone knew Bababu's car. It was the only one like it in Mawitaan. Mokata himself raced to the spot with a convoy of motorcycles and armored cars. They found the three guards beginning to revive, mumbling, and moved their arms and legs like exhausted swimmers in deep water. And on their jaws, all three jaws, the mark. The convoy returned to camp with the limousine. Mokata questioned the three. One had a hard time talking with his broken jaw. One remembered the tapping sound near the car. The other remembered seeing the first one sitting by the rear tire. That was all they remembered. All were shocked by the skull marks on their jaws. All knew what they meant. Mokata had them isolated, with strict orders that they not be seen or talked to by anyone. But they had been seen and the word spread. The Phantom.
Now Mokata sat at the table in the command tent. He stared at the empty brandy bottle and the glass. Everything was in order. He read and reread that order a dozen times: Do nothing until you hear from me. Somehow, that didn't sound like Bababu. He would have written do nothing; the rest was not necessary. Mokata had the feeling, impossible to verify, that an alien hand had written that, and as the icy fingers of fear brushed his brain and his heart, he knew the terror that Bababu had lived through that night as skulls danced and swam in the air about him. Where was Bababu? The Phantom knew.
Bababu awoke feeling hot, aware that the sun was shining in his face. He was sweating and his head and face ached. Flies buzzed around him. He shook his head and tried to lift his hand to chase the flies away. The hand wouldn't lift. He opened his bleary eyes and stared blankly for a few moments. Where was he? In the palace—in the camp? In the grip of an enormous hangover, he was having trouble waking up. More sleep needed. He tried to roll over, and couldn't. Now little alarm bells began to ring in his dulled body. Something was wrong. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, then opened his eyes wide. What he saw sent a tremor through him. He was not in his palace bed, nor in the command tent. He was in the woods. Sitting on the ground, against a tree. He couldn't move his hands, or legs either, because they were tied. He was tied to a tree. Suddenly, the nightmare of the night came back. That masked figure. A bad dream? He looked around. A big white horse was grazing a short distance away. Another animal approached him slowly. A dog? No, bigger, shaggy with pale-blue eyes, long white teeth. A wolf? He sat still, not daring to move. The wolf came within a foot of him and looked into his face. There were no wolves where Bababu had grown up. But he had heard about the wolves eastward in the mountains. As deadly as big cats. This animal wore a metal-studded collar. Tame? That gave him a moment of hope. Then relief, as the animal turned away, as though sensing something. The "something" was at the side, just beyond his line of vision. He turned his neck, straining to see, scratching his head on the rough tree bark. Then the "something" stepped into his line of vision. Bababu's tough heart missed a beat, his mouth fell open, and his eyes almost popped. It was the masked man of his nightmare. The figure loomed over him.
"You're awake," he said.
Bababu breathed deeply. It was all real. A man. Somehow, he could contend with that.
"Who are you?" he said.
"You know," said the masked man. His right hand was near Bababu's eyes. The hand moved slightly. A ring on the fourth finger glinted. A skull ring. Then the hand moved to the boot of one leg, and pulled up a foot-long blade that was carried there. The sharp knife glistened in the sunshine. Bababu recoiled violently against the tree trunk, as though trying to push through it.
"No!" he cried hoarsely.
"No, what?" said the masked man.
"Don't kill me!" cried Bababu, plainly .terrified as he twisted and jerked on the bonds that held hiiti.
"You've killed so many with your own hands. Didn't you think your turn would come?"
"I can give you anything. I can make you rich," said Bababu desperately.
"He who lives by the sword dies by the sword. Weren't you ever told that, Bababu?"
"What?" said Bababu, his chest pounding, spittle dripping from his lips.
"I have no intention of killing you," said the masked man. "That will be the duty of others."
And he bent down with the knife and sliced the bonds around Bababu's chest that lashed him to the tree. Another slice freed his legs.
"Get up."
His hands still tied, Bababu struggled to his feet. The masked man returned the knife to his boot and walked to the white horse, then swung up into the saddle in one easy motion. Horse and rider approached Bababu. The wolf stood nearby.
"I do not wish to kill you, Bababu," said the masked rider. "You will be judged by your peers, if that is possible. The word peer means equal. I doubt if we can find any jury low enough to be your equal," he continued.
He was not smiling as he said this. The eyes could not be seen behind the mask. The face was grim. There
was no anger in his voice, but his tone was cold and hard. (The voice of the angry Phantom can freeze the heart of an evil man—old jungle saying.)
Bababu looked wildly from side to side. His legs were free. If he could run .. . run and find a place to hide. Impossible now. The man and horse could ride him down. And there was the wolf, its pale-blue eyes watching him, its gleaming white fangs exposed as it panted in the jungle heat.
"Don't try to run, or Devil will have to bring you back," said the rider, seeming to read his thoughts. Bababu knew without being told who Devil was. That wolf. "He's not a very good retriever. He might damage you. So don't try," continued the masked man. He pointed to a small path.
"Start walking that way."
Bababu took a deep breath and tried to control the quaver in his voice. There was something he had to know.
"Are you—the Phantom?" he said, having trouble getting out the last word.
"Yes," said the rider. "Walk."
But Bababu's legs refused to work. He stood stock- still, as if in shock, staring at the man on the horse. It was as if a child had been raised on tales of a bogeyman, stopped believing the tales, then years later was suddenly confronted with him. The masked man sat quietly watching him, voting for the moment to pass. Bababu raised his tied wrists to his chest and his lips trembled. What he was thinking, what he tried to put into words
was—please go away—please let me go—• please take me home.
"Please, please," was all he said. The Phantom shook his head and pointed.
"Walk," he said.
Bababu nodded heavily, then walked to the path. The wolf and horse and rider followed. The Phantom knew that the first shock of this meeting would pass. Bababu was a tough, wily man, the brutal survivor of a hundred brawls. He had strangled helpless victims with his own hands, and caused the deaths of countless others. As his fear faded, his brutal toughness would return. On this journey through the jungle, he would need constant watching
After a short walk, the Phantom rode alongside Bababu, knife in hand.
"Hold up your hands," he ordered.
Bababu obeyed. The sharp blade sliced the bonds and his hands were free. His confidence began to return with each step after that, and his eyes darted from side to side, watching and waiting for his chance to escape. They stopped by a stream and satisfied their thirst. The Phantom pointed to a nearby bush that was thick with edible berries. Bababu was free to help himself. He did. They moved on. And whether riding, or walking, or sitting, the Phantom always stayed a short distance away from his captive. The woods were darkening; Bababu watched the fading light with narrow feyes. Maybe his chance was coming with the night. Then he almost jumped out of his skin as a gun roared behind him. The Phantom had shot a hare that leaped across the path near them. Now they stopped in a clearing. The Phantom motioned to Bababu to sit by a tree. He did. The Phantom dismounted and, kneeling on one knee, made a small fire. Using his long knife, he rapidly skinned the hare, cleaned it, and put it on a spit over the flames. Bababu watched this activity closely, waiting for his chance. This wasn't it. The wolf was watching; the masked man was facing him as he worked. Later, he told himself.
When the hare was cooked, the Phantom cut it in half and handed a portion to Bababu. Bababu ate it voraciously. He would need his strength to get back out of this jungle. Now the sun had set and the night was dark. The only light was the campfire, throwing large shadows. The wolf's eyes glowed in the dark. Bababu noticed they were always looking at him. The Phantom was among the bushes, slashing with his knife. He approached Bababu holding long sections of vine in his hands, and, without a word, passed a length around his middle and tied him to the tree trunk. Another length bound his arms. A third length held his legs. "Don't try to get away tonight," he said. "You might get hurt." Bababu said nothing. He would wait his chance. The
Phantom was standing between him and the dying campfire as he looked up into a large tree.
"An old gorilla nest up there. I'll sleep there," he said. And he climbed up. Bababu shook himself, trying the vines. They were tough and held. Gorilla nest? Were there gorillas in the area? The fire died down, then out. Jungle sounds grew louder in the night. A chattering monkey, a chirping bird, crackling insects. Then a cat, perhaps a leopard, coughed, far away. Bababu stiffened, suddenly frightened by his helplessness.
"You, up there," he called.
"Yes?"
"What if animals come? Leopards, lions, hyenas?"
"Well?"
"What can I do?" asked Bababu into the darkness.
"Nothing," replied the voice.
"Nothing?" said Bababu, appalled. "That isn't right." The next sound from above was a chuckle, brief but unmistakable.
"What do you know about right?"
Bababu writhed and twisted. The vines held. "What if I'm attacked," he shouted.
"Save me a lot of trouble. Now, be quiet."
Bababu stayed awake half the night, staring into the darkness, aware of every sound. He finally sagged against his bonds, exhausted and fell asleep.
At dawn, a hand on his shoulder woke him up. And the big knife sliced the-vines, freeing him. After a breakfast of spring water and berries, they were on their way, the Phantom riding, Bababu walking. About midday they stopped in a clearing. To the right, in the distance, were sounds of people—voices, laughter, shouts, a village. The Phantom directed Bababu to sit against a stump.
"You will wait here," he said, then directed his attention to the wolf.
"Sit and hold, Devil," he said.
The big wolf sat a few yards from Bababu, facing him.
"For your own sake, do not try to run away. Devil will not let you. He's been taught many things, but he is not an ideal retriever. A good retriever, a birddog for example, brings back the game undamaged. Devil never learned to do that."
And the Phantom rode off, disappearing into the high bushes. Bababu stared at the wolf. Devil stared steadily at the man. Bababu couldn't believe his luck. Somehow, this was his chance. He looked about quickly for a weapon—a stone or heavy stick. There was no heavy stick, but he did see a large stone the size of a melon. That would do. It was beyond reach, ten feet away. He would wait until something distracted the animal, then grab it. But Devil remained motionless, his pale eyes fixed on the man. Bababu didn't know how much time he had. Better move, take his chance. He made a sudden move for the rock. Devil growled and started forward, long fangs gleaming. Bababu sat back quickly. That growl was deadly. He was sweating heavily, not just from the jungle heat. He wiped his forehead. Devil didn't move. Good. He rubbed his leg. No reaction. He stretched, yawned, and slowly, ever so casually, got to his knees. Devil started a growl, then stopped as Bababu rested on his knees. Good. He thought rapidly. He would get to the stone and smash the wolf if it leaped at him. He gauged the distance. He could reach it in two steps. Its base was concealed by leaves. Was it partially buried in the ground? Might take a moment to get it up. If worse came to worst, he'd have to use his bare hands. He looked about and began to whistle, hoping to lull the wolf, then suddenly sprang toward the rock.
He got his hand on it, it was lying loose on the surface, but as he grasped it the wolf sprang like an arrow shot from a bow. Two hundred pounds of muscle and bone hit him. He went down as though hit by a speeding car. The long teeth were at his throat. He felt them sinking into his flesh and screamed in terror. He didn't hear the whistle, but Devil did. Suddenly, the animal was off him. He was lying on the ground whimpering, his hand at his throat. The wolf stood a few feet away, his pale eyes fixed on him. Bababu was afraid to move. He heard the familiar voice from somewhere.
"I thought you might try that. I waited."
The Phantom was on his white horse in the bushes.
Bababu slowly sat up and looked at his hand. It was lightly smeared with red blood. He touched his throat—only scratches. The horse and rider came close, to his side.
"I warned you. You are not hurt, but another moment would have been too late. Devil is not an ideal retriever. Now, get back to that stump and wait for me."
Whimpering, Bababu went back to the stump and sat there. He touched his throat and looked at the wolf, then at the rider.
"Would he have killed me?" said Bababu hesitantly.
"Possibly. He is trained to hunt big cats. Such battles are to the death. He once killed a male lion three times his own weight. Don't test him again. Devil, sit and hold."
And the Phantom rode into the bushes, out of sight. Bababu relaxed against the stump. His captors were a deadly pair. But he'd been in tight spots before. A good chance would come. He had no idea where he was being taken. Something about a jury of his peers. Whatever that meant. He wondered what village it was, not too far away. If he knew, he could orientate himself. He strained his ears. He could hear the voices and the sounds, but he couldn't identify them. Too far.
The Phantom was gone about an hour. Before he returned, the drums began. Bababu searched back in his memory—the talking drums. What were they saying? Something about Council of Chiefs come to .. . but he couldn't make out the rest. The sound of two drums became the sound of four, then eight, then many. Big drums, little drums, high tones, deep tones. Council of Chiefs, come to . . . whatever it meant, it wasn't his affair. He had other things on his mind. Escape. Revenge. Revenge on this masked man, and his damnable wolf with the pale-blue eyes tha
t were fixed upon him now. Someone had once mentioned "boiling in oil" to Bababu. He'd never tried it, but he could visualize it. That's what he would do. Bababu was not an overly imaginative man. When he meant to do something, he meant it literally. When his time came, he would boil them in oil together. That pleasant thought made the time pass as he sat against the stump, watched by the immovable Devil, listening to the talking drums. Council of Chiefs, come to the . . . not his affair? Bababu was wrong. He way the affair.
