10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 49: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

a Fines en = = — » culiar breed of men in the mountains Robberts slid the .45 into his hand and waited. Only a fool would charge that hid- den rifle with only a revolver. And Robberts was no fool. There were plenty of men in this remote section of the Adirondacks—men who had lived alone until their minds had slightly eracked—who would shoot ‘down an officer if they feared arrest for some petty poaching offense. Stealthily, foot by foot, the trooper wormed his way from the shelter of the pine. Taking advantage of every available bit of cover, ears keenly alert, eyes striving to pierce the gath- ering gloom, Robberts began a tortu- ous circle that should bring him to the rear of the spot which he had marked as the origin of the ambush- er’s shot. Suddenly, he stood erect with a muttered exela- mation of disgust. A trampled spot in the snow behind the bole of a huge spruce marked the ambush- er’s waiting place. Robberts picked a spent cartridge from the ground. But that meant nothing, for the cartridge was a .32-40, which would fit a third of the woodsmen’s rifles. For a moment he stared at the webbed tracks of snowshoes that led off into the gloom, debating. Them he shrugged; no use to swing out on the trail tonight for in ten minutes pitch darkness would envelop the mountains. But he could camp nearby, and in the morning trail down the maker of those criss- crossed tracks. Fer fifteen minutes the trooper slogged on through the snow and in- ereasing cold. Suddenly he halted, staring at a steady gleam of light that flickered from the darkness a few hundred yards ahead of him. Ten minutes later Rebberts was standing before a rude cabin from which light streamed through dingy window panes. He paused for a mo- ment, striking a match and examining a pair of snowshoes hanging from a peg in the outside wall. But these were not the webs worn by that would-be killer back in the timber. Robberts knocked, then pushed open the door. BULKY man, faee covered with a heavy growth of beard, arose and peered at the trooper through thick-lensed spectacles. “Howdy, officer,” the man said pleasantly, glancing at Robberts’ black-striped breeches protruding from beneath -the sheepskin coat. “Cold, ain’t it?” “Plenty,” agreed Robberts, throw- - ing eap and coat upon the bunk. “I’m looking fora place to hole up for the night.” | “You’ve hit it,” the bearded man returned cordially. “My name’s Fred Dorgan. Been trapping some here, tryin’ to make out the winter.” “Any . luck?” berts idly. Dorgan pointed with pride to several rows of furs hang- ing across the walls of the cabin. “Not bad. Average eatch, I'd say. Take it easy while I rustle up a little grub. What takes you out this weather, if it isn’t an official secret ?” “No secret,” the trooper said easi- ly, “in fact, you may be able to help me. I’m Corporal Robberts, state trooper, from the Malone barracks. A bunch of us have been busy the past week searching for that big transport plane that crashed somewhere in the mountains. I happened to be assigned this territory. Haven’t heard or seen anything of a crash around here, have you?” Dorgan shook his head as he sliced bacon into a frying pan. “Nope, but that don’t mean that the plane couldn’t have eracked up not far away. Here in the cabin, with the wind howling outside, sounds don’t carry from very far. Any passengers in the plane?” Robberts shook his head. “No, just the pilot and co-pilot. The shiv was asked Rob- Eomicbooks.c¢