Killer's Town

by Lee Falk

"The place is in the custody of the Jungle Patrol. Go to Colonel Weeks's office tomorrow to sign the papers. He is expecting you."

  The meeting was over. The big white stallion wheeled about to go.

  "I read about that place. Did they get all those men?" asked Dr. Axel.

  "All except two. A black and a white. Killers. Their pictures are posted. If any of your people see them, report to the Patrol at once."

  The Phantom looked back over his shoulder. His white teeth gleamed in the pale light as he smiled.

  "By the way, Dr. Axel. I feel fine."

  "Another swamp!"

  "The last one, Pretty. We're almost out."

  "Out where? Where you taking us, you jungle bunny?"

  Moogar grinned as they sloshed on through the muck, not knowing he was being insulted.

  "We've been going in a big circle. The law saw us head- in* north on the coast. Now we've moved south, then east."

  "Sounds okay," Pretty grunted. They sloshed on. The muck was calf-deep, knee-deep in some places. There was always danger of quicksand. It was hard going. Both men were heavily armed, a rifle, two pistols, and ammunition they'd taken from Killer's Town. The swamp was hot, fetid, filled with mosquitoes and worrisome gnats. An occasional big snake coiled on a branch, startling city-boy Pretty. He shot the first one he saw, a fifteen-foot boa as thick as his thigh. Moogar shouted at him for that.

  "You fool," he shouted. "That noise goes for miles. You want the Patrol to find us?"

  Pretty grumbled. He made no reply, knowing Moogar was right. But he was ashamed to admit that wild life, especially a big snake, scared him.

  Finally, they walked on dry grass and sank down beside a tree, covered with sticky mud to their knees. Both were exhausted.

  "That was rough. But we made it. No more swamps," said Moogar.

  Pretty nodded. He grumbled for a few minutes about the lost treasures in Koy's safe—as he did every few hours. Then they both fell asleep. They were awakened a few hours after dawn by a pounding sound.

  "What's that?" mumbled Pretty. "Some damn animal?"

  "Shh," said Moogar quickly, sitting up and listening alertly.

  "Yes, some damn animal. A man," he chuckled. He had his own sense of humor.

  Both men checked their rifles, then moved toward the pounding noise. Moogar grasped Pretty's arm, motioning him to the ground. They crawled on hands and knees to a thick clump of bushes and cautiously peered over them.

  There was a clearing ahead, a dirt road. On it, the well- known small open vehicle with large letters painted on the side: Jungle Patrol. Near the car, a uniformed patrolman was nailing a placard on a big tree.

  "Is that a cop?" said Pretty, looking at the pith helmet and shorts.

  "More like ten cops," whispered Moogar. "Patrol. Tough."

  Pretty nodded, grinned, and, before Moogar realized it, raised his rifle and fired. But in the split second before firing, Moogar grabbed Pretty's arm, jolting him. The patrolman fell with a surprised cry, shot in the back. Pretty turned to Moogar, his eyes blazing.

  "You bastard," he swore. "Almost made me miss."

  Moogar glared back at him. "You crazy, shooting a jungle patrolman? Those guys are murder."

  They watched for a moment. The fallen man did not move. There was no one else there. They walked into the clearing. The man lay quietly, a red blotch showing through his shirt. It wasn't apparent whether he was breathing or not. They looked at the sign on the tree. Moogar gasped. Pretty laughed. The placard was about them. It had prison photos of both of them full face and profile, height, weight, coloring, distinguishing marks, with the remarks: "Known to be armed. Both are killers. Reward."

  "How about that? Only a ten-grand reward for each of us? Are they kidding? Cheapskates," said Pretty, laughing.

  Moogar pulled the placard from the tree and tore it into pieces. He had the jungleman's superstitious fear of photographs of himself. There was a loud buzzing from the car. They rushed over to it.

  "It's the radio," said Pretty, grinning as he lifted the radio-telephone from the hook on the dashboard. A voice came out of the loudspeaker.

  "Calling JP 604. Calling JP 604. Come in—" The voice dissolved into static. Pretty pointed to the hood. The number 604 was marked there. Pretty grinned and uttered a string of obscenities into the receiver not knowing if his words were being transmitted, but enjoying the gesture. Then Moogar looked at the sky in alarm. His jungle-trained ears had heard something.

  "What?" asked Pretty.

  Moogar pointed to a cloud. At that moment, a craft, like some gigantic mosquito, sailed out of the clouds—a helicopter. The two men stared up at it.

  In the helicopter, five hundred feet up, the radio patrol-

  man repeated his call. "Calling JP 604. Calling JP 604. No answer yet. 604 should be in this area. We're over the Phantom Trail now." He looked down through powerful binoculars.

  "Hey, I think I see the car. Yes, there it is. Lower." The helicopter dropped a hundred feet. Through the binoculars, he could see the car clearly now. There was a figure lying on the road, a man. Two men standing near, looking up.

  "Hey, I think that's Sandy down there."

  On the ground, Moogar grabbed Pretty's arm.

  "They see us."

  They both moved off the road into the bushes at the side.

  "That guy's still breathing," said Pretty, aiming his rifle at the prone patrolman. This time Moogar grabbed Pretty's, arm and pulled him violently into the bushes.

  "In the jungle we kill when we have to," he said angrily. Pretty pulled his arm away, and glared at Moogar. The black's muscles bulged. He had the build of a welterweight. A tough jungle man. He was facing up to Pretty, unafraid. At that moment, a blast hit only a few yards from them. Machine-gun fire from the helicopter. They'd been spotted.

  "Ill take care of you .later," muttered Pretty under his breath as the two dashed into the woods.

  The craft hovered over the clearing like a giant insect, then landed lightly and delicately, the wind from its whirling props waving the grass and ferns and raising the dust of the road. Concealed in the bushes, Pretty and Moogar watched the landing. Pretty raised his rifle, showing his teeth in his wolflike grin.

  "I can get those guys from here," he said. "Blow up that thing." Again Moogar stopped him.

  "You crazy? They got a machine gun," he whispered tensely. Pretty shrugged and lowered his rifle. They crouched and watched and waited.

  The two patrolmen, guns in hand, leaped from the helicopter, looked about quickly, then ran to the fallen patrolman.

  "It's Sandy. Shot in the back. Still breathing."

  The pilot ran back to the craft, and pulled out an emergency stretcher, part of their standard equipment. Meanwhile, the other man, Sergeant Tamos, cut off the shirt and applied first aid to the wound.

  "He's lucky. Looks like it just missed his heart and lungs."

  Sandy, half-conscious now, heard that as they lifted him carefully on the stretcher.

  "Always lucky," he said thickly. "Like the time I broke a leg instead of my back." "Quiet, save your strength," said Tamos. But Sandy chattered on, his words fuzzy because of the morphine they'd given him.

  "Shot in the back, putting up the sign." "Did you see them, Sandy?" "No, shot in the back." They lifted him carefully into the plane. "Guess we know who did it," said Tamos, holding up the torn pieces of the placard.

  "Should we have a look around?" "No. Got to get him back to the hospital." Pretty and Moogar watched the craft lift off and disappear beyond the treetops. Then they ran to the car. "How about that! They left the key," said Pretty. "They figure nobody's dumb enough to steal a Patrol car," said Moogar. Pretty grinned at him as he climbed in the driver's seat, his animosity toward the black man forgotten in this stroke of luck.

  "Nobody but me. Where's this road go?" he asked as they bumped along the dirt trail. 'To Obano. Little town." "That's for us."

  "Man, we got to hide. They probably got our pictures a
ll over."

  "They got stores in this town?"

  "One store. Pretty, we got to hide out. The Patrol'll be hot after us.

  "Hide out. Sure," said Pretty, getting irritable. "But first we need supplies. Food, ammo. Got it?"

  Moogar nodded, realizing Pretty was determined. Jungle-bred, Moogar could live on what the jungle offered. But if things got tough, perhaps Pretty couldn't handle a diet of grubs and roots. He grinned at the thought.

  They drove into Obano, a jungle town of a few hundred people that served as a marketplace and caravan stop. There was one general store, a trading post, where jungle folk bartered garden crops, animal skins, and handicraft objects for such things as cloth, salt, matches, axes eyeglasses (without prescriptions), and other products of civilization. The town consisted of a main street with several dozen wooden shacks with roofs of palm fronds. The dirt street was wide and dusty, and at this midday hour, hot and almost deserted. A few naked children played in the dust Their elders were asleep inside. It was siesta time. Moogar Rasped and pointed as they drove slowly along this street. The "wanted" placard bearing their photographs was posted on a tree. The Patrol had already been there, perhaps the same patrolman Pretty had shot in the woods.

  "So what," said Pretty. But he drove with one hand, holding a gun in the other. "Where's that store?"

  Moogar pointed to one shack larger than the rest. Instead of a palm-frond roof, it had tarpaper. "Pretty, we got no money," he said, as they stopped in front of the store.

  "Who needs money?" said Pretty, grinning. "Come on, I need you to talk this jerky jungle talk."

  As they walked into the store, the little naked children ran toward them, attracted by the unusual sight of the car and a white man.

  The proprietor, a middle-aged bald black man, was dozing in an old battered canvas steamer chair set amidst bins of vegetables. He wore trousers, an apron, and was barefoot A little radio on the floor near him was playing soft recorded music from the Mawitaan station. Pretty, grinning, started to pull out the rear support so that the steamer chair would flatten out dumping the sleeping man on the floor. But Moogar restrained him and shook the man's shoulder. He awoke with a start at the sight of the two strangers.

  'Tell him we're Jungle Patrol," said Pretty.

  Moogar translated, pointing to the vehicle outside, and told him what they wanted. Food, ammunition, tobacco, oil, gasoline. The man rubbed his eyes and got up wearily, looking at them and at the car that bore the large letters: JUNGLE PATROL. A car like that had been in the village recently. Patrolmen weren't seen here often. The town was actually beyond their jurisdiction. But when they did come, they didn't look like these two. They wore crisp uniforms and helmets, and were clean-shaven and clean. These two were neither. They were caked with dried swamp mud, both had several days' growth of beard and, it was obvious to his sensitive nose, neither had bathed in a long time. Somehow, they looked familiar. Whoever they were, he was sure they weren't Jungle Patrol. What did it matter? A customer was a customer.

  He began filling the order, loading two crates. As he reached for soap and salt, he noticed the placard that had recently been posted on the wall by a patrolman. His heart skipped a beat

  With the heavy crate in his arms, he turned slowly to face the two men. The black looked troubled. The white was grinning.

  "This will cost forty," he said, his voice trembling. The black translated to the white. The white said something in his incomprehensible tongue. The black translated.

  "Carry it to the car."

  "First my money."

  The black translated. The white took a gun from his belt and pointed it at the man. There was no need for translation. Sweating, the man started for the car. Music from the radio stopped abruptly. A voice came on with an announcement in the Bangalla tongue.

  . . two escaped killers, armed and dangerous, last seen on the Phantom Trail near Obano. Names are Pretty and Moogar, a white American and black from the tribe of Oogaan. If you see them, report to Jungle Patrol at once." Then music.

  Pretty watched suspiciously, noting the tension of both blacks during the announcement. The storekeeper's eyes rolled with fear and he began to breathe hard. Moogar translated quickly for Pretty.

  Outside the store, the man stopped, the crate in his arms. The little naked children stood near, their eyes wide at the sight of the strangers.

  "I want my money," he said.

  Moogar translated for Pretty. Pretty waved the gun at the man, indicating to him to put the box in the car. He did, then turned defiantly to Moogar.

  "You're the ones they're looking for," he shouted, Moogar translating.

  "Ain't he the bright one?" said Pretty.

  "I'm a poor man. You are robbing me. You can't get away with this. I will report you," he shouted, shaking his fist a foot from Pretty's nose, and in his rage ignoring the gun. Pretty's grin remained as he fired straight into the man's chest The storekeeper clutched himself, then dropped to the ground. At the sound of the shot, the children screamed and began running.

  "You fool!" shouted Moogar. "You didn't have to do that!"

  Pretty's smile was gone. The wild light danced in his eyes.

  "Get the other box. Move!" he said. "And bring that radio."

  Moogar hesitated. His own gun was in his belt. Then he

  turned quickly, picked up the other loaded crate and radio and placed them in the back seat with the first crate. Pretty had started the car, and it was moving. Moogar had to run to jump in. Some of the men and women in the shacks, hearing the shot and the children's cries appeared in doorways and peered from windows. Their voices began to rise as the car roared through the short street and disappeared around a bend on the Phantom Trail into the jungle.

  The car raced over the rough trail for a time, jolting over roots and bumps, then, satisfied they weren't being followed, continued at a slower speed. They drove on in silence for a while.

  "That was a stupid thing to do," said Moogar. "Now you'll have the Jungle Patrol after us."

  "Are you kiddin'? They're already after us."

  "Now they know where we are. You didn't have to shoot that man. He was not armed. Why did you do it?"

  "Because I wanted to," said Pretty quietly, his eyes on the road. He seemed satisfied like a man after a full meal.

  Moogar sat quietly, thinking about those words "because I wanted to." He had had his share of violence. He had drifted into crime as a youth, and remained stuck in it. Fights, assaults, jail cells. But his people, the small peaceful tribe of Oogaan, believed in the sanctity of human life and in their ancestor worship regarded the immortal human soul as sacred. An Oogaan did not kill, except in a fit of passion or in self-defense. What kind of man was this white, this Pretty? he wondered. He would learn shortly, if he hadn't already learned enough.

  "Where does this road go?" asked Pretty after a few miles of twisting and bouncing.

  "Another few miles. Then it ends, at The Canyon of The Ghost Who Walks."

  "That's the name of a canyon?"

  "It is."

  "What a lousy name. This road, what did you call it?"

  "Phantom Trail."

  "Is that the same as the spook you kept talking about?"

  Moogar nodded. He resented the use of that word "spook." It sounded like a put-down. Though neither he nor anyone he knew had ever seen the Phantom, he respected the legendary figure as did all his people. Pretty grinned.

  "Phantom—Ghost Who Walks. What a bunch of weirdos."

  The trail ended in an abrupt roadblock made of big boul-

  ders. Beyond, there was a steep cliff bordering a canyon, five-hundred feet deep at this point, filled with crags, towers, battlements, brown, red, purple—carved through the centuries by the silver stream that wound among the trees and rocks far below. A smaller version of the Grand Canyon in the United States.

  The two men unloaded the supplies then, at Pretty's direction, rolled the car to the edge of the cliff. Moogar was puzzled.
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  "Why are we doing that?"

  Pretty did not answer. He was busy pouring a can of gasoline over the car. Then he turned on the ignition and let the motor idle.

  "What are you doing, Pretty?" demanded Moogar.

  "Don't ask so many questions, stupid. Just push," he said. Together the two shoved the car. It rolled over the edge and dropped into the depths. Pretty quickly fired a shot at the gas tank. There was a small explosion, then flames leaped about the car. In another moment, the car hit bottom with a crash and a big explosion. It was hidden in flames. Moogar stared. "Pretty, why did you ?" he began.

  "Don't you get it? When the Jungle Patrol comes lookin' for us, like you keep sayin' they will, they'll think we're down there, dead. Get it, stupid?"