Killer's Town (20 page)

"Going somewhere?" said the familiar voice.

Moogar whirled around, raising his rifle. But Pretty was pointing his gun at him.

"Drop it."

Moogar dropped his rifle. "What's the matter with you, you crazy?" he said, trying to bluff. "I was going "

"Going to relieve yourself?" said Pretty, mocking Moogar's delicate Oogaan expression and also seeming to read his mind, for this was exactly what Moogar was trying to say.

"I—er " stammered Moogar.

"Bull!" said Pretty, getting up, his gun still in his hand. "You were trying to take off."

Moogar was ready to explode angrily, to admit he was

leaving, to say he was a free man and that both should go their own way from here on. But he knew Pretty's temper. That gun in his hand could explode at any moment. He had seen too many die in front of Pretty—Koy, Matthew Crumb, Trader Ed. Die just like this, facing Pretty's wild smile and the barrel of his gun.

"You're not going anyplace," said Pretty. "I need you to get me out of this damn place."

Then they both knew that Pretty didn't want to shoot Moogar. At least, not yet. He needed him. But both also knew that if worse came to worst, he could shoot and would.

"Moogar," said Pretty in a mollifying tone of voice, "you been my pal. Know what I'm goin' to do for you? Do you, huh?"

Moogar shrugged.

"Those diamonds I brought—Koy only stashed some of them in his safe. I got the rest, most of them, buried outside that town. When the heat's off, we can go back and dig them up. Half for you. How about that?"

"Great," said Moogar.

Maybe Pretty thought Moogar believed the story. Moogar was sure it was a lie. No matter. If Pretty thought he believed him, then Pretty would be off guard and a second chance would come to get away. Pretty was holding Moo- gar's rifle.

"Ill keep this," he said flatly, offering no explanation. There was nothing Moogar could do about it. Maybe later. .. .

"Okay," said Moogar. He returned to his tree and started to sit down. "Now I sleep. You watch."

"No," said Pretty. "We're movin' now. Going to the old folks' place."

"Now? Travel at night?" Moogar was genuinely taken aback. No one in the jungle traveled at night.

"Why not? It's cooler at night. You know the way."

"But you can't see as well at night. There are insects, snakes, holes."

"We got flashlights from the old geezer. We go," said Pretty firmly. His gun was still in his hand. He was taking no chances on being left alone in this crazy jungle. At the old folks' place, at least there were people. Maybe he could talk to some of them and wouldn't need Moogar any more. As Pretty held the gun, Moogar loaded Cuddles and they moved on, Pretty following the man and donkey taking no more chances.

The old folks' town was unique in the jungle. Unlike modern "civilized" races, the jungle folk had always respected the aged. As long as there was enough food, the young happily supported and cared for their elders. But
in
times of famine, a curious thing happened. The helpless among the aged were left in the jungle far from village walls to die of starvation or by the claw and fang of the jungle. But the unique factor is that the young did not force their aged into the jungles. The old people went of their own accord, following their ancient traditions whose origins were lost in antiquity. It was a simple, realistic decision. When there was not enough food to go around, the younger generations had the first right to survival. The aged had lived their lives; the young must be given their opportunity. This decision was made not by the young but by the Council of Elders in each jungle tribe. Often, the decision was made over the tearful protest of their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Once made, the decision was irrevocable. When the sad day arrived, the aged would move out through the gates for the last time, walking with canes or improvised crutches. Those too ill to walk would be carried on litters by the sturdier among them. This tragic exodus would be watched by the entire village from the walls. There would be weeping and wailing from the young as the aged proudly made their sacrifice for their children and walked to their deaths. This could occur anywhere along the tangled paths of the deep jungle. These events were remembered in songs, poetry, and stories that were handed down from generation to generation.

Such was the custom before the Phantom founded the old folks' town. (It had actually been the father of the present Phantom. But to the jungle, the Phantom was the Phantom.) When the old folks could no longer function or produce their share, they went of their own accord to the town. The tribes kept the town supplied with food and necessities. High walls protected them from animals. There was no need for protection against men. No one in the jungle would dream of molesting the town. It would be considered a sacrilege. In the town, the old folks lived a peaceful, secure life. They were happy with their peers and enjoyed this rest after a long, hard jungle life. This is the idyllic place that Pretty and Moogar reached shortly after dawn. There was a mark on the gatepost. Neither noticed it at the time.

The high gates were closed to keep animals out. There was no lock, and it was a simple matter to open the latch.

They entered a small village with huts and larger communal buildings lining an immaculate street. A few old people were strolling at this early hour. Both men and women wore flowers in their hair, or in garlands about their necks, freshly plucked from the bushes that grew in profusion on all sides. They looked at the two men and the donkey and smiled gently. Travelers were rare here, but they passed by occasionally and, as in all deep jungle villages, received a night's hospitality. Pretty and Moogar walked on. In a courtyard, a dozen old people were seated at a long table having their breakfast. All turned and smiled. To Pretty, these wrinkled old blacks looked grotesque and alien. To Moogar, they appeared gentle and loving. Into this haven comes the killer, thought Moogar with a shudder. Memories of his brief days at missionary school returned. Were he and Pretty like two serpents entering the Garden of Eden? An old man approached them, Smiling. Pretty watched him sharply, his hand on the butt of his gun.

"Welcome, young strangers," he said. "The hospitality of our village is yours. What are your needs?"

"What did he say?" demanded Pretty quickly. Moogar translated.

"Can't any of them talk English?"

Moogar snorted. "Are you kiddin'?" he said, using an expression he'd often heard Pretty use.

"We want hot water, soap. We want food, booze, and some clean beds," said Pretty to the old man. The old man looked at him inquiringly, then at Moogar. Pretty was suspicious. Maybe Moogar was holding out. It seemed impossible this old man couldn't understand a few simple words.

"Hot water . . . soap, food ... booze . . . beds," he said loudly. Like many faced with someone who doesn't speak their language, he felt that if he shouted loudly enough, the man would understand. But the old man did not understand. He shook his head and waved his hands in confusion, looking appealingly at Moogar. This infuriated Pretty.

"We want a bath, food, booze you !" he shouted, his

face red. The old folks at the table and in the street stared.

"Pretty, he doesn't understand you," said Moogar, grinning.

This angered Pretty even more. "Tell him then," he shouted. Moogar translated. The old man nodded, looking in fright at Pretty. Pretty slapped him hard, so that the old man staggered.

"And make it snappy!" he shouted. 'Tell that to the dummy!" he shouted. Moogar translated.

Soon they were seated alone at the long table. The old people hurriedly piled it with food: fruit, nuts and berries from the woods, wild and domestic fowl, baked fish. A feast. Again Pretty asked loudly for "booze." Moogar told him there were no alcoholic drinks in the place. He had to be satisfied with spring water or fruit juice. Pretty was satisfied. The heaps of food, the rapid service, and the obvious fear he inspired in all these old people pleased him.

"What a place," he said, stuffing breast of wild hen into his mouth. "A bunch of old crocks with nothing to do but wait on me. Bring me anything I want. I can live like a king here."

Good-humored for the moment, he nodded to Moogar who was also eating, and reached over to slap him on the back.

"I mean, we can live like kings. Right?"

After the feast, they walked around the village. Pretty looked into every hut. Word had spread about this violent young stranger. The old people looked at him with fright, their peaceful way of life shattered. Pretty was delighted with all he saw. So many old people, all potential servants, slaves to wait on him. As he made the tour, he formed a picture of the place. There was no opposition to him besides Moogar. And that would be solved soon. He could actually rule this place, live here like a king. It was a heady thought. All of his past life, all the misery—the hard experiences had prepared him, had toughened him so that he could take over here. He felt euphoric, like the time he'd loaded up on champagne with that fat blonde. Moogar had never seen him so happy and easy, though Pretty still carried the guns, his own and Moogar's. Then they passed the gatepost and saw the circular carving. It contained the good mark of the Phantom.

"That damn thing again. I didn't see that before. Did you put that there?"

Moogar snorted. "When would I have had time to do that?"

Pretty drew his pistol and fired at the mark. "Bad luck?" he said. "Brought us good luck before. How about that, you jungle bunnies," he said, looking at the crowd of old folks who were watching from a safe distance. They all reacted in fright at the gunshots. Deface the Phantom's mark? A terrible thing to do. What an evil man this one was, they whispered to each other.

"What are they yappin' about?" said Pretty.

Moogar shrugged. "They don't like the gun. They are afraid."

"They'll be more afraid before I'm through with them," he shouted, walking toward the small crowd. They parted quickly to let him pass. The people looked helplessly at Moogar.

"Do what he says. He is like the leopard. He kills for pleasure."

"Can you help us, Moogar of Oogaan?" asked the old spokeman.

"He took my guns. He is like a mad dog."

"He is not of this world [meaning the jungle]. How did he come here?"

Moogar had been afraid of this question. He answered, ashamed. "I brought him here. I am sorry for that, There is nothing I can do now. But the time will come."

"When he sleeps?" asked the old man wisely.

Moogar was confused. As an Oogaan, he could not kill in cold blood. Besides, his only hope was to get away from Pretty precisely when he was asleep. He glanced at the gatepost.

"He
will come.
He
will help you," he said.

"Do you know his ways? How do you know he will help?"

"Because he always has," said an old woman, listening at the side. All smiled, relieved. Yes, he always had. There was hope in that. Their smiles faded as Pretty pounded the table and yelled.

"Moogar, what's going on over there?"

"They wanted to know how long we're stayin'. I told them I didn't know."

Pretty got his hot bath, a wooden tub of water heated over a campfire. He bathed alone in a hut with his guns within reach. He came out, refreshed, fed, bored. Nothing to drink. Nothing to do. The old people were gathered in little groups along the street, whispering. Should they send someone to the Llongo or Wambesi to get young warriors to help them? That meant a long trip through the dangerous jungle. None felt able to do this. Pretty sat at the long table watching them moodily, biting into a small fruit that looked like a plum but was sour. He threw it to the ground.

"Moogar, what are they jawin' about?"

"Nothing special," said Moogar.

Pretty was as impatient as a child and as easily bored. As he played with his gun on the table, he looked with disgust at the strange people and strange scene around him. How did he ever wind up here? All those old crocks watching, whispering. He had an idea. He grinned.

"Moogar, line up those old crocks. Have a race. A quarter mile race."

"You're crazy. That'd kill them."

"Don't use the word to me."

"Kill?"

"No. Crazy," snapped Pretty, memories of the mental hospital coming back to him. "Tell them."

"Tell them yourself," said Moogar.

Pretty pointed his gun at Moogar. "You know I can't talk their talk. Do it."

Moogar walked to the groups and waved them together.

"He is trying to make you race. Go to your huts and stay there," he said. The old people understood. With scared glances toward Pretty they separated and started for their huts. "What are they doin'!" yelled Pretty.

"They don't want to race. Maybe you can talk them into! it," said Moogar flatly. Pretty's temper flared. He raised his gun, but controlled himself. He needed Moogar in this strange world, needed him to talk to them. He looked about, saw something that pleased him, then barked at Moogar.