Killer's Town (18 page)

"That's terrible, said Caroline. "You mean, nobody can go after those two who shot Sandy and that old man?"

Weeks's staff at the Jungle Patrol had the same reaction.

"What if it is beyond our legal jurisdiction?" said Captain Smyth. "No one—but no one—will object if we send a posse after them."

The others agreed. Weeks shook his head.

"Our charter is precise and definite about our area," he said.

"Okay. Suppose we go on our own? A private hunting party," said Smyth.

Weeks considered that. Like his men, he was loath to give up the search for the desperadoes. At that moment, a call came on his desk phone.

"The X band," said the excited voice of the radio operator.

"Excuse me, men," said Weeks. The men filed out. They'd heard the magic words "X band." All knew what that meant. The Commander. Somehow, when things became crucial, he was always in touch. How did he always know?

The same thought went through Weeks's head as he answered the phone.

"Weeks here," he said.

"What did they find in the wreck out there, Colonel?" said the familiar deep voice, wasting no time on small talk.

Weeks told him.

"You believe the men are alive?"

"Sergeant Tamos does and he was on the spot. He believes they faked the accident. My men are anxious to go after them. As you know, it's beyond our jurisdiction."

"True, Colonel."

"What'll we do?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Sir, my men have a plan to go out as a private hunting party, off-duty so to speak."

"Interesting idea. But no, Colonel. The original plans for the Patrol control area were drawn up to protect the deep jungle people from all outside interference. That includes the Patrol," said the voice with an amused laugh.

"I understand. What are our orders?"

"Do no more in this case. I will take over. Understood?"

"You will take over. Er—sir?"

"Yes, Colonel."

"These are bad ones. Particularly that Pretty—a coldblooded killer."

"I know. He shot old Matthew Crumb. Anything else, Colonel?"

"No sir."

The connection clicked off. Somewhere, a phone receiver had been hung up. Matthew Crumb? How did the Commander know that? How did he know everything? Where was he? What was he? Who was he? Blast!

Trader Ed was one of the last of a vanishing breed of wandering merchants who carried their entire stock of merchandise on the back of a donkey. No one, including Ed, knew exactly how old he was. Some said sixty. Some said eighty. He had walked the jungle trails for decades, bartering his goods—costume jewelry, medicines, everyday hardware like needles, pins, scissors and knives, a few utensils, recently a few small battery radios. It was Ed's boast that he could go anywhere in the jungle and be welcomed, even by the savage Tirangi (headhunters, off and on) and the Massagni (cannibals, now and then). Only the shadowy land of the pygmy Bandar, the Deep Woods, was out of bounds for him. He was known and liked by all jungle folk, because he was a fair trader, a friendly man, and spoke most of the jungle dialects.

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 storekeeper 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.