Killer's Town (19 page)

"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.

"What is it, Devil?"

The wolf looked at his master, then raced through the bushes. The Phantom and Hero followed. In the clearing, they saw and heard a flock of vultures moving about and partially concealing the object of their attention. Devil raced at the flock, a growling roar coming from his open jaws. The awkward big birds ran flapping their wings, moving as fast as they could to escape from this attacker. Two didn't get away. Devil leaped, catching one by its snaky throat. The other one was settling on Ed's chest when the Phantom drew and fired. The big bird flapped its wings frantically once, then fell to the ground. The Phantom dismounted and rushed to the man. Though Ed had never seen him, the Phantom recognized the old trader, having seen him many times on the jungle trails.

The Phantom examined him quickly. He was wounded, but still alive. The cruel vulture beaks hadn't touched him. They'd come just in time. Devil finished the scavenger he'd attacked with one snap of his powerful jaws, then trotted over to his master to be rewarded with a pat. Hero, the mighty white stallion, stood like a marble statue, testing the air with his ears and nostrils. The Phantom opened Ed's shirt, and examined the bullet wound in the old man's abdomen. Ed's eyes were open. He tried to guess who the masked man was. He sighed.

"Thanks, stranger," he said finally, giving up. "Varmints were gettin' ready to have me for lunch. Will I be all right?"

"Bullet wound, close range. Doesn't look good. Who did it?"

"Pretty," said Ed. His voice was so low and weak the Phantom had to bend close to his lips to hear him. "Told those varmints, wouldn't like me. Too tough. Too sour." His voice sank to a mumble. He fainted.

Kneeling beside the unconscious man, the Phantom came to a quick decision. From his wide experience in treating the wounded, including himself, he knew Ed's wound was a bad one and that he shouldn't be moved with the bullet in him. For the Phantom to decide was to act. He quickly built a small fire, sterilized the sharp point of his hunting knife in the flames, wiped it with antiseptic from the kit in his saddle and cleansed the area around the wound. Then as Devil and Hero watched, he delicately and carefully probed for the bullet, found it, and removed it. He staunched the bleeding with antiseptic-soaked cotton, then bandaged it. He placed a mound of grass under Ed's head and covered him with Hero's saddle blanket. He built a small shelter of leaves to shelter Ed's face from the sun. Then as the white stallion grazed in the thick grass the man and wolf sat and watched their patient.

At twilight, Ed opened his eyes. He started to move. The Phantom's hand restrained him.

"Easy, Ed," he said. "You had a little operation."

"Water," croaked Ed.

The Phantom gave him a sip of sweet mountain water from his canteen.

"Operation?"

"Took out the bullet, Ed," said the Phantom. He held up the lead slug so Ed could see it. Ed grinned, then fell asleep for another hour. When he awoke, fireflies were flickering in the tall grass.

"Took the bullet out of me?" he asked softly.

"It had to come out, so I could move you."

"You saved my life."

"It still needs more saving. I want to get you to Obano. They'll take you to Dr. Axel's hospital where you can get proper treatment."

"That Pretty shot me. He's a mean one. Then he robbed me. Took my wallet out of my pocket and took Cuddles."

"Cuddles?"

"My donkey."

The Phantom smiled in the firelight.

"Any idea where Pretty went? He and the other man?"

"The old folks' town. I heard them talkin'!"

I'll have to move you now. It may hurt, Ed."

"Move away."

The Phantom picked up the old man and lifted him onto Hero's back. Ed leaned forward and put his arms around the stallion's neck. The Phantom tied his hands together so he wouldn't lose his hold. Then as the Phantom went over to stamp out the fire, Ed noticed the good mark on the tree. He smiled.

"I know who you are now," he said. "I've been in these parts a long time. I shoulda guessed right away."

"Save your breath, Ed. You've got a long ride back."

"I can take it," said Ed. "I'm as tough as an old rooster."

A full moon was shining through the trees as they moved out of the clearing. The old folks' town, thought the Phantom. Ill have to hurry to protect those helpless old people from that human shark, Pretty, and the other one, Moogar. They had chosen well—a remote place, rarely visited by outsiders, unarmed, unable to resist such predators as those two. It was unfortunate he couldn't follow them now from here. They weren't too far ahead. But he couldn't leave Ed.

The old man needed medical attention. There was nothing else he could do, but take him back to Obano then return to the pursuit. Now, at least, he knew where to find them. But they might wreak terrible damage among the old folks before he could reach them.

"I've been in these parts more years than I remember," said Ed, mumbling through Hero's mane. "But I never thought I'd see you, much less have you save my life."

"Save your breath, Ed. You'll need it."

A few miles to the east, Pretty and Moogar were stretched out on the grassy bank of a little stream. As was their arrangement, one slept while the other sat watch. It was Moogar's turn at watch. He sat against a tree trunk, his rifle over his knees, and looked at Pretty lying with his back to him. It would be easy to put a bullet in that back. But Moogar of Oogaan couldn't do that and Pretty of Brooklyn knew it They were only a few hours walk from the old folks' town now, and would reach there the next morning.

Ever since they'd left Killer's Town, he'd thought and planned how he would break off with this "mad dog" killer, and get away on his own. Now that they were in deep jun- ble, he no longer feared either police or Jungle Patrol. He could survive here. This was his home. His own tribe might even take him back. As for Pretty, he spoke none of the local languages, he had a total ignorance of the jungle, and despite his bullets would not last long. If he was ever going to make the break, Moogar told himself, now was the time. If he could get twenty yards away in this thick underbrush, Pretty could never find him. He listened to Pretty's breathing. He couldn't see the white face, but Pretty was motionless. Moogar got to his feet quietly and reached for a knapsack containing a few supplies, slipping it over his shoulder. One more glance at the recumbent Pretty, then he turned and, with rifle in hand, began to creep away.