All-Story Detective, October 1949 — page 94: what you’re looking at

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

Gripping Suspense Novelette By ROBERT P. TOOMBS CHAPTER ONE Pitchfork Kill ILT CLARK dragged one sleeve over his wet forehead, tossed the pliers among the scattered array of tools in a corner of the garage and rolled a cigarette. “Guess I’m as dumb as that vulture up there,” he said to the kid, Johnny. The gangling seventeen-year-old in faded jeans shook his head. ‘“‘We’uns call °em buzzards. An’ they ain’t dumb. Some- thin’s dead down back of Slater’s, I reck- on.” It was almost sundown. Cyprus Creek sweltered in breathless warmth. The small, Florida town with it’s single main street seemed unusually deserted—waiting in sinister expectancy, “Listen, Milt, just ‘cause you’re fron: some big city up No’th an’ never had no steady job, or trade or nothin’, you’re doin’ swell. Got a place to board, up at Abbot’s, and folks are beginning to cotton to yuh.” “They what?” Milt said. “They’re beginning to like you. You ain’t gonna leave are yuh?” There was a quality of perpetual rest- lessness about him. He looked at the He scooped up the gun and whirled. Garage-mechanic Milt Clark wouldn't swallow the story of the homicidal ape, until they came face to face.