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about it sometime.”
    “He didn’t look very dead to me.” Morgan glanced back uneasily, making sure the purple rider wasn’t gaining on them.
    Quill mulled over his last encounter with the Phantom. He’d bled like anyone else, and he’d died. No doubt about it.
    “You may have thought you killed him,” Morgan said, interrupting the silence, “but you must’ve only wounded him, Quill.”
    “I killed him. Period.”
    “Well, guess what—he’s back!”
    “He’s behind us, don’t worry about it.”
    The Phantom crouched low on the branch as the truck approached and waited until the last moment. He timed his leap perfectly and landed on the truck’s hood with a loud thump. He looked straight through the cracked windshield at the two men.
    “Hey, Quill!” Panama Hat shouted. “He’s right in front of us!”
    The cigar dropped from Quill’s mouth. “Holy . . . Shoot him, Morgan! Hurry! Shoot him!”
    Morgan pulled out his gun and fired. The windshield shattered and the Phantom tumbled off the right side of the hood.
    Morgan knocked the jagged slivers of glass from the windshield with the handle of his gun. “Did I get him? You see him anywhere?”
    “I don’t see him. You musta hit him. Unless he fell off. He’s done for, anyhow.”
    “Maybe we should go back and be sure. We’ll finish him off if he’s still breathing.”
    Quill thought about it, but not for long. “Forget it. Let’s just get out of here.”
    The Phantom squatted on the passenger-side fender. Then, staying low, he sidled onto the running board. Suddenly, he sprang up and slammed his fist through the glass, striking Morgan in the side of the face and knocking him senseless.
    In a single swift, fluid motion, the Phantom opened the door, grabbed Morgan’s limp body, and hurled him into the jungle. Then he took Morgan’s place in the passenger seat.
    “Sorry about the window,” the Phantom said. “It couldn’t be helped.” He jerked his thumb toward the smashed side window.
    Surprised but unfazed, Quill swung his shoulder pouch at the Phantom. It struck him against the face. Whatever was inside was hard and heavy. The Phantom shook off the blow and grabbed the satchel by its strap. He jerked on it; Quill jerked back. A brief tug-of-war ensued, and that was when the Phantom spotted a spider-web tattoo on Quill’s forearm.
    Quill twisted and pulled on the pouch, trying to steer the truck at the same time. As he did so, the silver skull rolled out and across the seat.
    The Phantom, already stunned by the sight of the tattoo, was briefly distracted by the skull. In the instant that the Phantom lost his concentration, Quill’s hand slipped into the pouch. He pulled a knife and slashed at the Phantom, stabbing him in the side.
    The pain was sharp, bright, excruciating. The Phantom grabbed the wound and Quill slammed his elbow into the Phantom’s jaw. He was flung backward through the open passenger door and nearly tumbled out. Just in time, he grabbed the door frame, pulling himself part way back into the truck.
    “See ya, pal,” Quill said. “Keep the truck. It’s all yours.” With that, he scooped up the skull and bailed out the door.
    The Phantom glanced up; the truck careened onto the rope bridge, out of control. It would never make it across the bridge. But if he leaped out, he’d plummet into the deep gorge to the rocks below, to an instant death.

SEVEN
    T he front wheels of the truck slipped off the wood planks and the Phantom was pitched out of the cab. But he grabbed the open door again and clung to it as the truck shuddered, stalled, and stopped in the middle of the bridge.
    The bridge’s ropes creaked as it swung above a deep gorge. An endless gorge. If he believed the native lore, then nothing could hurt him, even a plunge from this bridge. But the Phantom knew better. Carefully he shifted his weight and the door swung inward.
    He pulled himself back inside the truck. But the shift of his weight caused it to