Killer's Town

by Lee Falk

  Old Ed was mostly white. He had always claimed one Eskimo grandmother, an exotic race that had never been seen in this jungle, which was probably why he had chosen it. He had no fear of jungle animals, always having been a good hunter and accurate shot. Besides, he knew that most jungle animals, including the big cats, preferred to flee rather than fight unless cornered. He'd had one or two narrow escapes with cats that didn't flee, and he bore his many scars proudly. He had an endless stream of yarns and anecdotes, and could joke in a dozen languages. In any time or place, Ed would be considered a rare character. And though surrounded by many kinds of possible dangers throughout his career, he'd led a charmed life ... up to this day.

  The Mawitaan radio broadcast the news bulletin: "The Jungle Patrol announced today they'd abandoned the search for the two fugitives from Killers Town, believed to be in deep jungle somewhere east of Obano. No reason was given for the decision." The daily Mawitaan Times carried the same story. Newsmen and indignant citizens besieged Colonel Weeks with questions. Why? His only answer was, "A policy decision." To inquiries from the Citizens Council,

  he told one truth: the area was outside Jungle Patrol jurisdiction. The Patrol was never eager to advertise the limits of its authority. It might give lawbreakers too many ideas about where they could find a refuge outside the law.

  Two lawbreakers were aware of that. As they stopped in a clearing for coffee and cigarettes, Pretty and Moogar turned on their little radio, stolen from the storekeeper of Obano. They were jubilant when they heard the announcement.

  "Abandoned the search for us?" said Moogar.

  "That means they quit, gave up," said Pretty smugly.

  "I know what it means," snapped Moogar. "They don't come this far anyhow. Everybody in the jungle knows that."

  "We're outside the law. Right? All law," said Pretty.

  "More or less."

  "What do you mean, more or less?"

  "We stopped here because I saw something I want to show you," said Moogar.

  Pretty looked around the clearing at the bushes and trees. "Saw what?"

  "On that big tree," said Moogar, pointing to it.

  "What about it?"

  Moogar got up and walked to it, then motioned to Pretty to join him. "This," he said, pointing to a mark on the tree.

  A circle about a foot in diameter had been cut, about an inch deep into the wood. In the circle, a symbol was clearly carved. It looked like crossed sabers, or perhaps crossed P's.

  "So what is it?" said Pretty.

  "Good mark of Phantom. It means this part of the jungle is under Phantom peace," explained Moogar defiantly, trying to ignore Pretty's sarcastic expression.

  "Phantom again. Yeah, I thought it'd be more hocus-pocus about your spook," said Pretty.

  "Phantom peace means there is no war, no fighting, no crime, no killing in this area. It is agreed among tribes," continued Moogar doggedly, trying to convince Pretty.

  "No crime? No killing among all you jungle crazies? I'll bet."

  "It is true," said Moogar. 'Tor it is written, in the land of the Phantom peace, a beautiful woman may walk alone at midnight wearing precious jewels and not be molested."

  Pretty laughed out loud at that. "Just show her to me. I'll molest her!"

  Moogar pointed to the mark. "It is not a thing to laugh about. This mark means he will avenge any crime done

  here."

  "I see. You're trying to tell me we're still not outside the law? That your spook is the law?"

  "He is not the law. The people make the Phantom peace. He is a friend of the people," said Moogar, struggling to explain the difficult concept of the Phantom. He'd grown up with it, but had never tried to explain it before.

  Pretty laughed. He ground his lighted cigarette into the circle, then stepped back, fired a bullet into the mark.

  "That's what I think of your spook, Moogar," he said.

  Moogar was startled.

  "That was bad to do. That means bad luck!" 5

  Like most outlaws or other men who live constantly on the edge of danger, Pretty was superstitious. Luck was a real thing to him. You needed luck to get through the day, and more especially, the night. Bad luck? A slight tremor of fear went through him. He overcame it with swagger.

  "I've heard enough of your yapping about that spook. Phantom this, Phantom that. I don't want to hear any more. Hear?"

  "I hear," said Moogar, walking away. He was pleased. He had seen the flicker in Pretty's eyes at the words "bad luck." He turned back. "You keep firing that gun, somebody's going to hear, and come looking."

  "There's nobody in this damn jungle but us and the bugs," said Pretty.

  A short distance away, beyond a line of trees, Trader Ed was leading Cuddles, his loaded donkey. He paused, surprised at the sound. He had heard the shot. Close by, a real surprise. He didn't know there were any guns in these woods, outside of his. Who was shooting? He moved quietly and peered through the bushes. Two men, walking back to a little campfire, drinking coffee, lighting cigarettes. One white, one black. A memory clicked in Ed's mind. He pulled a placard out of his pack. He'd torn it off a tree far back near Obano. He looked at the photos, then at the two. They were the men. Dangerous armed killers. No place for old Ed. He started to move off quietly with Cuddles. That is hard to do with a donkey. It is difficult to get them to walk on tiptoes, and not to hee-haw. Cuddles hadn't hee-hawed all day. He chose to do it now. Ed groaned and began to move faster. "Shh, Cuddles," he whispered.

  "Hey, you," called a voice from the clearing. "What's your hurry?"

  Oh, oh, though Trader Ed. This might be tough.

  It would be.

  The Phantom raced through the jungle on his great white stallion, Hero, with the mountain wolf, Devil, at his heels. He chose hidden paths known only to jungle hunters, and avoided the tribal villages. A few hunters in the woods far from home heard the thundering hooves and knew the sound. There was none other like it in the jungle. And fewer, perhaps three or four, had a glimpse of the big mount and his rider as they sped by on the shadowy paths. Though this might have been their first view of him in their entire lives, all knew who he was. This was a sight they could tell their children and grandchildren about. And in each retelling, the image of rider and horse would become bigger, and their pace would become faster until they were flying above the treetops, faster than the wind. And even if the listeners only half-believed, for they were not foolish but wise, yet it was the kind of tale they loved to hear about their beloved Keeper of the Peace.

  He reached the roadblock at the end of the Phantom Trail. He peered into the depths of the canyon of the Ghost Who Walks and saw the blackened wreck far below. Then on foot, followed by Devil who held the ends of Hero's reins in his teeth and so led the white stallion, the Phantom trailed the two fugitives. Their trail was easy to find. They had cut a clear path, leaving trampled grass and broken branches. And a dead antelope. He examined the partly devoured carcass. A hyena and vultures had already been at work. The animal had been killed by a single shot through the head. Why? he wondered. Clearly the work of the fugitives. It seemed pointless. Antelope meat was highly prized, a delicacy. If you shot it, you butchered it and ate it, taking the surplus with you. Meat was not easy to come by. In the jungle, it was not wasted like this.

  He continued to follow the trail. Cigarette butts, a few cans and other trash. Then more dead animals, killed by rifle fire. The scattered remains of a parrot. A house cat, obviously someone's pet. A little brown monkey. Further on, a wild pig, more birds, another monkey. Two things were clear. The fugitives were carrying supplies and had no need to hunt food, or they would have eaten some of the game. The other fact that seemed clear was that this was the work of a wanton killer.

  In the jungle, only the leopard is known to kill for the pleasure of killing. All other animals, and jungle folk, kill for food or for survival. What had poor Matthew Crumb said? "That one called Pretty. He's the worst of the lot."

  The Obano s
torekeeper had pointed to Pretty's photo as the one who shot him. And some testimony of the Killer's Town captives, corroborating Crumb's story of the death of Killer Koy, had quoted the late ganglord's description of Pretty—"a mad dog killer."

  Koy's description of Pretty was like the pot calling the kettle black, thought the Phantom. It takes one to know one. Koy was gone, but the "mad dog" was ahead somewhere. Also, his companion, Moogar. Was he a killer too? Doubtful, since he was of Oogaan. Now the Phantom moved at a fast pace, Hero and Devil following closely. Then, far ahead, there was a faint sound alien to the jungle. It was like a distant clap of hands or a tap. Devil's, and Hero's ears stood up alertly. It was gunshot, miles away. Another bird or animal? Or a man this time? The Phantom mounted Hero, and the stallion moved fast, alternating between a walk, trot, and canter, threading his way through the thick underbrush as only a jungle-bred horse could.

  Ed stood with Cuddles as the two men approached him. He held the placard behind his back, and cursed himself for not having thrown it away. It was too late now.

  "Who's that old crock," said Pretty.

  "Old Ed, a trader. Works the villages. Now, Pretty, he's no trouble."

  Ed's free hand was resting on the butt of his pistol that was in a holster at his hip. But Pretty's gun was pointing at him.

  "Don't go reaching for that, or this one's liable to go off," said Pretty. "What are you doing here?"

  "Mindin' my own business," said Ed, his jaws moving on a chaw of tobacco.

  "What are you hidin' there?"

  "That's my business," said Ed calmly, his sharp eyes searching Pretty's face. He recognized the type. A wild kid. The other one, the black, looked worried. He seemed like a decent sort.

  "Don't talk smart with me," said Pretty. "Show it to me." Old Ed knew he was trapped. These two, hiding from the law, weren't likely to waste much time with him. His only chance was to shoot that gun out of the kid's hand, hit him in the hand or arm.

  "Well," he said slowly, launching a squirt of tobacco

  juice to the side, "I might just " And he drew his gun as fast as he could. Not fast enough. Pretty's gun exploded. The impact of the bullet felt like Cuddles had kicked him in the stomach. He tottered, then fell to the ground.

  "Damn you, Pretty," he heard the black shout, as if from a distance. "Do you have to kill everything?"

  He ain't going' to kill me. I ain't goin' to die, thought Ed to himself, keeping his eyes closed.

  "What you expect me to do? Let the old crock shoot me? Look at this." Pretty picked up the placard. "Knew who we are. Probably going for the reward."

  "Now that's a lie. I'm no cop. Never turned in a man in my life," said Ed, suddenly indignant, his eyes open.

  "How about that? The old coot's still kickin'," said Pretty. He aimed his gun at the old man's head, but Moogar stopped him angrily.

  "That's enough," he said. "Let him be."

  The two glared at each other. Pretty's gun was in his hand. Moogar's was in his holster. Once more the hostility between the two flared into the open. But Ed's husky voice broke the tension.

  "I was slow, slow," he moaned. "Twenty years ago I was the fastest gun on the coast."

  "Sure you were, pop," said Pretty, laughing.

  "Twenty years ago, I woulda put a bullet between your eyes before you knew what hit you."

  "Sure you would, pop," said Pretty, returning his gun to his holster. "Let's see what he's got here."

  They went through the pack and saddlebags on Cuddles's back, dumping everything on the ground. The costume jewelry and the knives and scissors sparkled in the sun.

  "Bunch of trash," said Pretty scornfully. "Leave it."

  "No. Good stuff," said Moogar, knowing the value of these things for jungle trading. He stuffed some back into the saddlebags, knives, scissors, costume jewelry, the radios. Also, some food and ammunition. Pretty went through the old man's pockets. Ed watched him silently, unable to resist. Pretty rolled him on his side, as if he were a cadaver, and pulled out a wallet. It contained a pad of money, the equivalent of about a hundred dollars.

  "How about this?" said Pretty. "Been cheatin' the jungle bunnies, have you, you old coot?" he said, putting the money in his pocket. Then he removed Ed's gunbelt with the pistol, and threw it over his shoulder.

  "We can use that donkey to haul our stuff too," he said. They tied their packs onto Cuddles, then started to move off.

  "Don't leave me," Ed called faintly. "Vultures . . . hyenas."

  Moogar explained about the scavengers that would arrive shortly. Pretty stood over the old man, looking down at him.

  "They got to live too, old man. I'd like to stay and watch that."

  "Come on," said Moogar, barely concealing his hatred. "We got to move." Soon as I can, he thought, I got to get away from this crazy man.

  "Okay," said Pretty. "Sorry we can't stay, old man." I'll watch the vultures and hyenas take care of Moogar, he thought. Moogar took the reins to lead the donkey. But Cuddles stood stubbornly, looking back at his master on the grass.

  "Come, move," said Moogar, pulling the reins. Cuddles stood firm. Pretty kicked the animal hard with his heavy boot

  "Move, you 1" he shouted.

  One more kick, and Cuddles began to move, looking back at Ed as she walked. They passed the tree bearing the good mark of the Phantom, pierced with bullet holes.

  "I thought you said that was bad luck," said Pretty. "Call this bad luck? More supplies, and a donkey to carry our stuff?"

  Moogar nodded without answering. Bad luck would come to this man. But he would be far away by that time.

  The men and Cuddles were out of sight now. Ed tried to get up, but his wound hurt too much, and he was too weak. Maybe he could crawl. He tried that moved a few feet then collapsed. Now what? Couldn't just stay here. Maybe if he rested, he would gain some strength back, enough to reach the closest village. That would be the old folks' town, about a day's walk away. Not too far normally. But now? A few trails were closer. Hunters occasionally passed along them. If he could reach a trail, someone might find him in time. Rest now, he told himself. He was on his back, his hands shielding his eyes from the sun. A shadow passed over him, then another and another. He looked up in terror at the large silent wings that glided above him. Vultures.

  Terrified, Ed began to crawl. If he could get under some bushes . . . but his strength failed. He collapsed once more, but as his hands clutched the grass he touched a stick. He grabbed it. A strong stick about five feet long. He knew the habits of vultures. As long as there was some life, some movement in him, they probably wouldn't attack. They preferred carrion. But on occasion, he'd seen them tear at fallen animals that were not yet dead.

  A vulture flew low over him, its sharp claws almost touching his chest. A scout. Ed swung wildly at the bird. It landed a few feet away and watched. Three more vultures landed near the first. They were big birds, about four feet high, with long snakelike bare necks, beady yellow eyes, and long sharply curved beaks. They cackled and hissed, then began to moved toward him. He swung his stick again, lying on his side now.

  "Get away from me, you varmints. You're not havin' lunch on me." The birds retreated a few feet. They knew wounded prey. It would struggle and resist for a time, growing weaker and weaker. Then, when movement became feeble, they would move in to tear the still living flesh with their cruel beaks. They would work fast, before their earthbound competition, the hyenas, moved in on the feast and chased them away. They advanced a step or two. Shielding his eyes from the bright sun with one hand so he could see them, he swung again. The birds stopped, but did not move back this time.

  "This . . . is no way to go," he said aloud to the watching birds. "I've got a million friends . . . anyone would be glad ... to help me . . . vamoose you varmints." He swung again, almost hitting the birds, they were that close. "Go away, you blasted . . ." he tried to shout, but his voice was barely above a whisper. He thrashed the stick in the air. It fell from his weak hand. He tried to
wave his arms over his face as the birds closed in on all sides. One hovered a few feet above him, ready to land on his chest. The sharp talons brushed his shirt. He could see the great beak so near above him. He trembled with fear, and closed his eyes, helpless. This was it. He waited.

  Then he heard a strange mixture of sounds, growling, hissing, cackling, a shot, the flapping of wings, then a deep soft voice.

  "Ed, can you hear me?"

  He opened his eyes and looked into the masked face of a stranger.

  As the Phantom on Hero had neared this clearing, Devil suddenly stopped, ears alert.