surface. He was half-conscious and gasped for air. The bandits at the railing strained their eyes. What was going on at the bottom? Had the crocodiles reached their feast? One had, almost. His cold snout grazed Julie's leg, and the huge jaws gaped wide. Julie instantly released her brother, and grasping her knife, dived under the twelve-foot saurian. The twins had hunted crocodile before, for the pygmies considered their meat a delicacy, and Julie knew what to do. She attacked the soft underbelly and drove her knife into its heart. The crocodile threshed and slapped the water, churning and foaming, and the bandits at the railing grinned. The crocs were tasting the ghost.
Julie dragged her brother ashore into the reeds, then onto the bank, and using mouth-to-mouth resuscitation as their father had taught her to do, brought air into his lungs. He was almost gone. It had been a close thing. There was a bullet wound in his back, and his body was bruised and torn from the kicks and trampling. Julie was weeping and shaking with fury as she bent over her beloved brother. He was still unconscious but his heart sounded strong. She tore off most of her wet sarong to bind his back. She glanced back at the houseboat on the lake. Shouts of laughter and revelry sounded across the dark water, and, in the feeble lamplight, she could just make out the faint figure of the young missionary slumping in his ropes, still tied to the post.
Then she slowly pulled her brother through the grass back among the trees where their horses were tethered. Julie was wiry and strong, but her brother was a big powerful young man, like all of his breed. It took all her strength to lift him up upon his horse so that he lay across the saddle. Then, mounting her mare, she slowly led him back to the Deep Woods.
The pygmies received them in silence. A Phantom returning in this fashion was a tradition among them. Some came back alive, some dead. There would be another Phantom. But this time, there were only the twins. They carried the brother into the cave and examined his wound. The bullet had missed his spine, had not touched his heart, or lungs. He would live, he would be all right. But recovery would take time, a long time.
A long time? Julie thought of the young missionary. Who could help him now? Not her brother. Not the Jungle Patrol. She made a quick decision. She could ride and shoot as well as her brother. They thought her brother dead. She would go back as the Phantom. She hurriedly prepared a costume out of a bolt of material in the closet. She took her brother's guns and his mask, and, fully attired, stepped 40
out of the cave. The pygmies were amazed, for they had known Julie since she was a baby. They tried to dissuade her from going, but she was firm. They wanted to accompany her, but she was in a hurry and their dogtrot was too slow. But they could do something for her: start the tom-toms going and send a message to the patrol to come to the lake shore.
And as she rode off, through the waterfall into the jungle, the tom-toms started, carrying the message across valley and hill, picked up and relayed from tribe to tribe. Patrol-come to Black Lake.
Julie reached the lake. Two days and a night had passed. Was she too late? No, the houseboat was still there, the bandits still carrying on their drinking and feasting. The patrol had not yet arrived.
They might never arrive. She wouldn't wait to see. She was afraid, but the memory of her brother's treatment filled her with such anger that she did not hesitate, but dived into the dark water. There were no encounters with crocodiles this time and she reached the boat safely. As she climbed over the deck rail, near the missionary, a bandit was there and offering a drink of wine to the exhausted captive. The missionary was refusing it, and the bandit hurled the wine into his face. At that moment, he turned to see the masked figure leap upon the deck. His eyes popped. Instead of reaching for his
Julie dragged her brother ashore into the reeds, then onto the bank, and using mouth-to-mouth resuscitation as their father had taught her to do, brought air into his lungs. He was almost gone. It had been a close thing. There was a bullet wound in his back, and his body was bruised and torn from the kicks and trampling. Julie was weeping and shaking with fury as she bent over her beloved brother. He was still unconscious but his heart sounded strong. She tore off most of her wet sarong to bind his back. She glanced back at the houseboat on the lake. Shouts of laughter and revelry sounded across the dark water, and, in the feeble lamplight, she could just make out the faint figure of the young missionary slumping in his ropes, still tied to the post.
Then she slowly pulled her brother through the grass back among the trees where their horses were tethered. Julie was wiry and strong, but her brother was a big powerful young man, like all of his breed. It took all her strength to lift him up upon his horse so that he lay across the saddle. Then, mounting her mare, she slowly led him back to the Deep Woods.
The pygmies received them in silence. A Phantom returning in this fashion was a tradition among them. Some came back alive, some dead. There would be another Phantom. But this time, there were only the twins. They carried the brother into the cave and examined his wound. The bullet had missed his spine, had not touched his heart, or lungs. He would live, he would be all right. But recovery would take time, a long time.
A long time? Julie thought of the young missionary. Who could help him now? Not her brother. Not the Jungle Patrol. She made a quick decision. She could ride and shoot as well as her brother. They thought her brother dead. She would go back as the Phantom. She hurriedly prepared a costume out of a bolt of material in the closet. She took her brother's guns and his mask, and, fully attired, stepped 40
out of the cave. The pygmies were amazed, for they had known Julie since she was a baby. They tried to dissuade her from going, but she was firm. They wanted to accompany her, but she was in a hurry and their dogtrot was too slow. But they could do something for her: start the tom-toms going and send a message to the patrol to come to the lake shore.
And as she rode off, through the waterfall into the jungle, the tom-toms started, carrying the message across valley and hill, picked up and relayed from tribe to tribe. Patrol-come to Black Lake.
Julie reached the lake. Two days and a night had passed. Was she too late? No, the houseboat was still there, the bandits still carrying on their drinking and feasting. The patrol had not yet arrived.
They might never arrive. She wouldn't wait to see. She was afraid, but the memory of her brother's treatment filled her with such anger that she did not hesitate, but dived into the dark water. There were no encounters with crocodiles this time and she reached the boat safely. As she climbed over the deck rail, near the missionary, a bandit was there and offering a drink of wine to the exhausted captive. The missionary was refusing it, and the bandit hurled the wine into his face. At that moment, he turned to see the masked figure leap upon the deck. His eyes popped. Instead of reaching for his
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