Avon Fantasy Reader No. 11 — page 11: what you’re looking at

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

‘Crumpacker strode through the rubble littering the yard and beat upon the weather-blasted door with his gun-butt. The rotting panels sagged and shivered at the impact, and a hollow, vibrant booming echoed through the empty shack. Otherwise there was no answer. “By Gad, I'll stand here hammeiin’ till the old crone comes, or knock her devilish door in!’ Crumpacker declared, but Harrigan broke ia with a relieved laugh, . ‘No use, Judge; can’t you see the door’s closed with a hasp and padlock, and the lock’s been fastened on the outside? Whoever lives here has gone out and locked the door behind—good Lord!” Around the rusted, tangled wire of the hen-coop had come a great dog, almost large as a mastiff, but heavy-furred, like a collie or shepherd. Obvi- ously, half a dozen breeds or more combined to make its lineage; just as obviously it combined the worst features of each. Mange had eaten at its pelt until it showed bald patches of blue hide between the matted, flea- infested hair; its tail was stubby as a tertier’s; its paws were disproportion- ately large and armed with long, cruel, curving claws which might almost have been a bear’s; its eyes were small and deeply pitted in its wide face, theumy with distemper, and its mouth combined the wideness of the bull- dog’s with the heavy-toothed long jaw of the Alaskan husky. It made no sound, but stood there snarling silently, black lips curled back in a ferocious gtin, long, yellowed fangs exposed, and a look of absolutely devilish malev- olence in its sunken eyes. “Ha?” Crumpacker turned at Harrigan’s ejaculation. ‘Hers, of course. Like mistress like dog, eh what ?”’ He brought his gun up slowly, cradling the barrels in the crook of his left arm as he snapped back the hammers with his right thumb. '‘Maybe she loves the lousy beast. ] hope so. Let's see how she'll like seein’ it dead ” The brute glared at him balefully, and showed no sign of fear as he raised the gun to take deliberate aim, but Harrigan jumped forward. ‘‘No, Judge, no!” he shouted. “Your quarrel is with her, not with this poor brute. It hadn't anything to do with Xerxes’ deat Crumpacker’s jaw set truculently. For the first time Harrigan saw all the latent, vengeful cruelty which the usually jovial ruddy countenance con- cealed. These were the features of a “hanging judge,” a man who found a prim pleasure in sentencing other men to die. “Her quarrel was with me, not my dog,” he answered harshly. “I’m goin’ to blow that ugly beast to hell. Stand aside, sir.” The roar of both barrels discharged in quick succession was like the bel- low of a field gun, and Harrigan fell stumbling back, shocked, blinded, all! but deafened by the blaze of fire and detonation of the discharge, but in the instant Judge Crumpacker fired he had thrust his hand out, driving up the shotgun muzzle and sending the charge through the overhanging branch- es of a sassafras tree. As the shot went whistling and crashing through the brilliant red and green leaves, the big dog turned and trotted around the corner of the house, moving, for all its size, with cat-like quietness. Crumpacker glared at Harrigan. Bitter, rageful hatred smoldered in his Comicbooks.com