The Slave Market of Mucar Page 9

  Twice the warden had to warn him not to take the turns too fast and the big chief officer had the sweat of fear on him as his offside wheels spun toward a ravine.

  It was nearing sunset again. Saldan had decided to delay his departure for a number of strategic reasons.

  First, he had secret preparations to make which could not be hurried. Second, tired as he was by the events and strain of the previous night, even he needed a few hours' sleep. And third, and most important, he was anxious that his departure should not be noted. Daylight was too risky. Darkness cut down the chances of being followed.

  His precautions had been wisely taken. Unnoticed by both men as they concentrated on the crazy, hairpin bends before them, a tiny tableau was silhouetted against the sunset. Or at least the group was tiny because of the colossal scale of its surroundings. Far above them easily keeping pace by cutting across country and skipping gigantic bends that followed miles of swooping gorge, the Phantom on the tireless white stallion was eating up the miles. Behind him bounded Devil, apparently tireless also and with his pink tongue lolling from between his jaws as he leaped from hillock to hillock, Saldan would not have been quite so complacent could he have seen the sharply etched silhouettes far above. But he was sunk in his own thoughts, his heavy face resting on one large-knuckled hand as he sat sprawled against the leather upholstery while Larsen continued to fight the limousine round the hairpins.

  The dying sun thrust bars of blood-red shadow across the windshield and the heat was still stifling. Choking dust drifted across the road, so that they had to keep the windows almost closed, despite the heat.

  Larsen broke the silence at last, as they were nearing their destination.

  "How about Patrolman Slingsby, Warden?"

  It was a question that had been plaguing his mind for hours. The warden lifted his chin from his hand and cleared his throat with a rasping growl.

  "I'll take care of him when we get back," he said shortly.

  But Larsen's remark had evidently released some thoughts in his own mind for he went on after a few minutes, glancing morosely at the cruel, moonlike rocks they were passing.

  "I'll put that Jungle Patrol through a wringer before I'm finished, Larsen!"

  Larsen grinned briefly. This was more like the old chief he had known for so long.

  Saldan spread his big hands out on each side of him, warming to his fantasy.

  "When I'm finished with them, they'll be washed up!" he said. "Nobody will trust them!"

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  "That's right, sir," said Larsen, nodding in agreement, his arms aching with his constant struggle to keep the big car out of the ruts.

  "How long are you likely to be away, sir?"

  Saldan frowned.

  "I don't rightly know, Larsen," he said ponderously. "As long as it takes. But don't worry-I'll keep you informed."

  Neither man noticed the faint shadow that had just slipped away into a rocky draw on their right. The Phantom had left the crossing a little late. He had been worried that Hero might strain a muscle in the treacherous shale underfoot. In any event, horse, man, and wolf had crossed the road safely just before the car approached in a cloud of dust. The Phantom let Hero make his own speed up the opposite draw. He knew the terrain particularly well here and the limousine would take a long loop, giving him ample time to cross over once more and so keep pace with it, He was a little puzzled at Saldan's destination.

  Byelo, the nearest port of any size from Masara, was over two hundred miles away and it would take the warden more than two days, particularly as the "first-class road" on which they were now traveling got progressively worse. The Phantom's strong face shifted into a puzzled knot of concentration. Perhaps Saldan intended to meet the escaped prisoners who might be landing at Byelo from the sea. Well, time would tell, and the Phantom was prepared to follow the treacherous pair day and night until they yielded up their secrets. He had enough provisions in his saddlebags to last him and Devil several days.

  As the Phantom passed over the hill in the dying light, the limousine suddenly turned off the big road and went slowly down a secondary route that debouched and wound through the foothills toward the sea. In about half an hour the car drove on to the small commercial airport of Masara. There was a military airport in the town itself, but the authorities found it more convenient to situate the civil airport here, where a customs office could handle boats as well as planes. The customs men liked it, too, as it centralized the bribery. And in addition the taxi drivers, usually officials' relatives, had a percentage agreement on the exorbitant rates charged to travelers unfortunate enough to need conveyance to Masara Town.

  All this was of no interest to Saldan today, however. The big limousine rocked through the wire gate onto the uneven surface of the stony field and Larsen cut the motor. The air was cooler now and, free of the dust, Larsen had opened the electrically operated roof. In front of them were the tin-roofed buildings of the airport: a gaunt customs shed and a modern concrete control tower, which looked incongruous against the background of barren rocks and bleak escarpment. A twin-engined executive aircraft, painted in scarlet and black and bearing no identification markings, sat in front of the main building warmed up and ready to go.

  Farther off, two mining-company light aircraft were parked. Saldan slid out of the car with a grunt, wiping sweat and dust from his forehead with a red-and-white handkerchief. He had a brown-leather valise with him and looked like any other businessman with his lightweight gray suit and neat blue bowtie. He carried a brown homburg hat in his left hand.

  His teeth parted ferociously as he barked a parting shot at Larsen.

  "Keep things under control until I get back! And don't initiate any moves once I'm gone! Your job is to preserve the status quo!"

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  Larsen looked quite a smart military figure as he straightened up and gave the warden one of his best salutes.

  "Right, sir!" he said crisply, as though Saldan had never had occasion to question his efficiency. He mumbled to himself as he got back behind the wheel of the car. He sat watching his chief stride away toward the plane.

  Saldan didn't bother about customs formalities. He had his own arrangements with the airport authorities and a discreet call from Larsen earlier that day had set up the plans. There were no other flights or landings around sunset at this airport. The surrounding terrain was considered too risky for large-scale commercial flights at dusk- which was why there were no passengers or curious bystanders to see Saldan's departure.

  Only the people in the tower would know and a few of the staff who remained at the airfield after dark.

  The taxi drivers and other commercial employees had all left for Masara Town over an hour earlier. A light winked from the tower as Saldan approached the plane, his coat blowing in the wind raised from the slipstream. A pretty blonde girl in a dark blue stewardess uniform took Saldan's grip as he came up. The warden turned once more and gave Larsen a jocular wave. He got in the plane and the door slammed behind him. The engine roared as the light machine shuddered and started to taxi down the field to turn into the wind.

  On the far hills, The Phantom heard the noise of the motor and stopped Hero in his tracks. He glanced back; the dust made by the big limousine had been visible for miles. Now it had disappeared. He frowned.

  "Looks like we've been short-circuited, Devil," he said laconically.

  The big wolf cocked his ears and fell in behind again as the Phantom turned Hero's head and set the stallion galloping in a new direction. The big man knew that normally the airfield didn't operate flights at this hour. If he didn't act quickly he would lose Saldan altogether.

  The plane soared up beyond a ridge as he reached the head of a valley of harsh volcanic rock. The wings of the plane waggled twice as the pilot signaled the airfield controller and then it turned west. A few seconds later it had passed beyond a distant shoulder of hill and disappeared. The Phantom's hands tightened on Hero's bridle in exasperation and t
he big horse reared.

  Then the Phantom leaned forward and patted the stallion's neck, soothing him. He continued galloping toward the road along which he knew Larsen must eventually re-pass on his way back to Masara Town with the limousine.

  "So Saldan got away," the Phantom mused to himself. The horse's hooves made a rapid accompaniment to the equally rapid beat of his thoughts. He had no doubt in his mind that Saldan had been aboard the light aircraft. That the cunning Warden would use an aircraft on his trip had been the last thing in the Phantom's mind.

  He tightened his jaw. He could not really blame Colonel Weeks and the men of the Jungle Patrol for finding Saldan a hard nut to crack. He was a tough and determined opponent, full of unexpected twists and turns.

  The Phantom's lips curved again in a grim smile. This was an opponent worthy of some thought. He urged Hero into a gallop.

  "We've got to find out where Saldan's going," he told Devil.

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  The Phantom found the location he was searching for a few moments later. He tied Hero to a sapling and ordered Devil to stay where he was. A thin cloud of blue dust started rising in the distance. The sun was nearly gone now, but there would be enough light on the road for his purpose. He scrambled down the hillside at breakneck speed to a steep ledge, about fifteen feet above the road. He waited, poised on the balls of his feet, measuring the distance carefully. Larsen was not driving quickly, could not over such terrain. The car appeared below him. It was going slowly, but it still looked fast from this height. Larsen was bent over the wheel, concentrating on the road. The Phantom sucked in his breath, made a rapid calculation, and hurtled dizzily through the air.

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  CHAPTER 11

  THE BREAKING OF LARSEN

  Chief Officer Larsen was passing the bluff when he saw a shadow pass across the dying sun. A great form swooped over the ground. He instinctively ducked, and his face was smashed with stunning force into the steering column. It was the whole weight of his heavy body which had caught the big chief across the nape of his neck. The brakes squealed as Larsen's reflexes went into action; the big car swerved sickeningly and started toward the side of the road. Larsen appeared unconscious by then, blood running out of his nostrils. The Phantom rolled over into the passenger seat and reached for the handbrake.

  Larsen came alive again, flicking the wheel with the last of his ebbing strength. The big limousine was dangerously near the edge of the gorge. The hood suddenly dipped as the Phantom hauled with every ounce of strength on the brake. Then the world was cart wheeling crazily around them as the rear wheels went over and the entire chassis of the automobile was clear of the ground. -

  Larsen was awake again now, screaming with fear.

  "You're crazy!" he shouted at the Phantom, blinking his eyes. "You'll kill us both."

  The hood of the car hit the loose rock with a hard lurch, rocketing the two men in together.

  "Not just yet!" said the Phantom calmly, seizing Larsen by the shirt. He hurled the big guard over the side of the auto like a rag doll and dived after him as the machine started to turn over. The Phantom and the guard hit the ground in a cloud of choking dust. They rolled over, Larsen underneath, as the car went bouncing and quivering down the slope. Then the wheels met air and it fell out of sight, turning over and over. It continued for perhaps two hundred feet. There was an eerie silence. The engine had stopped now.

  The Phantom listened, his hand on Larsen's throat, recovering his breath. He felt the guard's blood run down his knuckles.

  Then a red flame burst out of the darkness of the gorge below them; the dull roar of an explosion followed a second later, slapping back at the walls of the canyon. Then all was quiet.

  Larsen was shuddering and retching with fear as the Phantom got up. He adjusted his mask and brushed himself. Apart from a few scratches, he was uninjured.

  "I would have been killed in that car," said Larsen shakily.

  "You're speaking the truth for once," said the Phantom with a tight smile.

  His eyes never left Larsen's face as the guard got to his feet. He could hardly stand and had to support himself against a rock.

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  He had lost his cap somewhere in the mad dive down the hillside and the whole right side of his face and jaw was a raw mass of caked blood. His uniform was torn and he was covered by dust from head to foot.

  There was little trace of the immaculate figure which had driven the big car out of Masara Civil Airport only a quarter of an hour before. Even his revolver had gone; the belt had been torn off when they rolled over the rocks. Larsen felt sick; he tasted blood in his mouth and he passed a feeble hand across his forehead.

  But he still retained some degree of awareness. He had mistaken the significance of the Phantom's mask.

  "You sure do a holdup the hard way, you fool!" he said when he could find his voice. "I happen to be the chief of the guards at Masara Prison."

  He got up at last and scowled at the big man with a look that was meant to inspire fear.

  To his astonishment, the enormous figure in the mask laughed a hard laugh that went echoing round the lonely peaks. Larsen shivered. This man before him was more like a god or a spirit of the place than a normal human being. He felt a sudden stab of fear. He passed a tongue over dry lips.

  "Do you think I don't know who you are?" said the Phantom mockingly. "When I have myself chosen you!"

  He laughed again, more shortly and less humorously this time. He came closer to Larsen and looked into his eyes. Larsen flinched despite himself.

  "You are the man I want!" said the Phantom quietly.

  The big guard found himself sweating.

  "I don't understand," he stammered. "You jumped me- knowing who I am?"

  He stared, recovering something of his old manner. His eyes hardened with suspicion. Perhaps this man's outfit was some strange robber's disguise.

  "Are you an ex-con?" he asked suddenly. "What is this? Revenge?"

  The Phantom stood tall and menacing before him. Larsen was a big man, but the Phantom towered over him.

  "No, you have never seen me," he said in the same quiet voice.

  Larsen's nerve suddenly hardened. He whipped round, his hand shaking to where his revolver holster should have been.

  "I'm going to shoot you like a dog!" he said in a choking voice.

  The Phantom's voice cracked like a whiplash. "It isn't there, Larsen," he said. "You lost it on the way down."

  Fear showed in Larsen's eyes again as his hand clawed air. Then he screamed as the implacable figure before him suddenly leaped forward. Before he could move, his body was enclosed in a grip like steel, his head turned back at an angle.

  His neck muscles creaked, as the Phantom increased the pressure.

  "I want a few straight answers from you, chief guard of Masara," his tormentor said.

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  Larsen screamed again. Then he twisted in his adversary's grasp and lashed out with one meaty fist. His knuckles struck a chest like rock. He howled with pain again as the Phantom twisted his hand behind his back in an agonizing lock.

  Sweat ran down his face as he struggled impotently. Then he gave a moaning cry and relaxed.

  "Where did Warden Saldan go?" the Phantom asked.

  The pressure on Larsen's neck suddenly increased again. Larsen gritted his teeth: sweat ran down into his eyes and blinded him. He saw with another stab of fear a curious ring on the Phantoms finger-the finger on the hand which was doing such merciless things to his windpipe.

  "I shall lose my patience in a moment," the calm voice went on. "Where did Saldan go?"

  Larsen tried to tear himself free and with a convulsive effort, found he could speak. A flash of realization came to him.

  "Did you leave that mark on our killer dogs?" he asked, fear blurring the edges of his voice. "Did you win that fight with your teeth?"

  The Phantom merely tightened his grip again. He held the struggling guard effortlessly.


  "Stop chattering," said the Phantom. "I've asked you the same question several times. Where did Warden Saldan go?"

  Larsen sobbed with impotent rage.

  "I don't know!" he shouted.

  He screamed for the third time, like an animal in pain as his neck was wrenched round.

  "Please don't! Don't break my neck!"

  "I won't ask you again," said the Phantom ominously.

  He increased the pressure once more, his muscles flexing beneath his jerkin.

  "You're a crook hiding behind your uniform and authority:" he told Larsen. "You framed that patrolman!"

  "How did you know about him?" gasped Larsen, almost unconscious by this time.

  He tried to twist round to look at his captor, but failed.

  "Who are you?"

  There came no reply, merely another question.

  "You let those prisoners escape," said the Phantom. "Where are they now?"

  And then again, the question the big guard dreaded most of all.

  "Where did Warden Saldan go?"

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  The distant ring of hills and beyond them the first flickerings of the tropical stars whirled and began to blur as Larsen's consciousness started to leave him. They trembled like an Arab lamp in the wind, an apt simile and a sight he had seen many times.

  The quiet voice pierced the mist that surrounded his brain.

  "You do not have much longer to tell the truth."

  Larsen made a supreme effort. He sagged forward, feigning unconsciousness. The pressure slackened for a second.

  "Warden Saldan flew off on a vacation . .." Larsen gasped. "I don't know where."

  "That's your last lie," said the Phantom grimly.