All-Story Detective, October 1949 — page 96: what you’re looking at

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

96 All-Story Detective swamp’s dim outline through’ the open rear of the garage; live-oaks with their moss plumes stirring in the evening breeze, the rustling palmetto. “T dunno,” he said slowly. He un- buttoned his greasy coveralls and stripped them off. “If it wasn’t for you, Johnny, old Pringle would fire me. I just don’t have the knack. You do all the work.” Johnny frowned. “Shucks. I don’t either. If we had any money, you an’ me could open a garage of our own.” Milt picked up a sack of groceries. “I got these for Ma Abbot. Now I’m broke again. This ain’t no job, kid. Old Pringle doles out my pay like it was for charity.” ‘Maybe you could get a job as deputy fer Sheriff Blane? He and some of the men are still huntin’ that ape-man that got away from Haleck’s circus.” Milt shook his head. He was remem- bering how Blane had accused him of en- couraging Joe Abbot to drink. It wasn’t true. He told Blane off that day and got cuffed around plenty. “Vou know how I feel about Blane,” he said shortly. “He thinks he’s tough— when he’s got a gun on his hip.” It burned him up all the more as he thought of what a good friend Joe Abbot really was. Bleary Joe, who brought him home to be a star boarder even when he couldn’t pay a dime some weeks to Ma, who took in washing and waited for the day Joe would stop drinking. ... “Hey!” Johnny interrupted his thoughts. “Somethin’s wrong. Listen.” The sound carried sharply on the warm air—a woman’s scream. He and Johnny stared at each other. Johnny’s mouth hung open. “Maybe that ape-man circled in from the swamp.” He ran out back, peering. ‘“C’mon, Milt.” His voice was high-pitched, trembling. “They’s a crowd gathering back of Slater’s at the edge of the woods— C’mon.” Milt hung onto his package of groceries and followed the kid’s flying heels. A hill,. slanting downward .beyond Slater’s two- storied house, lent momentum to pound- ing feet. Beyond a rickety shed in a small, open glade, a growing cluster of people stared silently. They drew close and saw the body hanging on a pitchfork; the four tines emerged through the back, embedded in a large pine tree. “Moss Gearhardt,” Johnny breathed, his face white. “He wasn’t too bad a guy, even if he did get Joe Abbot drunk all the time. You knew him, Milt.” | Women in the growing crowd shud- dered and averted their faces; some gathered enough courage to peek through their fingers. Reverend Bouth laid hold of the pitchfork, tugging and pulling with no effect. He stepped back, lifted his eyes to the sky where the vulture wheeled. “Dear Lord,” he said, “No man dwellin’ in Cyprus Creek could be guilty of such a sin as this. “That ape-man, you mean.” A tall. gaunt farmér shouted. “It’s strong enough to do that. Probably seen men handling pitchforks all its life in a circus.” “Aren't you going to say a word for Moss there?” An old woman quavered. Reverend Bouth looked over the top of his glasses at this intrusion. “T was comin’ to that,” he replied severely. He glanced at the tree, lifted his eves again and com- plied with a short prayer. 66)\TOW you got to ring the bell.” Mrs. Parker insisted, tugging at his arm. “My man’s out helping search the swamp. I won’t stay alone in the house tonight neither. You ring the church bell and get ‘em in here, Reverend Bouth.” An excited murmur rose. from other women in the group. = The reverend waved his thin hands. “The sheriff has to be notified. We'll post a guard.” He frowned, hooked over the few men present. GOMmIGIoOO S (©