Avon Fantasy Reader No. 12 — page 88: what you’re looking at

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

crouched with lashing tail, ready to spring, took a crawling step for- ward and sniffed the white powder. Instead of leaping, it began to lick the dust. Omar dribbled a line of white powder to the cage and the beast lapped and purred, rolling as it went along licking the pow- der to a few grains on the floor of the cage. The cage door was jammed shut, with a contented, purring tiger inside. With a malignant smirk Omar turned to the two white men. “My lord knows his master,” he said, “Will you sell me some of that powder?” asked Dineen. “No, Tuan, it is my great secret,” said Omar, drawing up the pouch string. An instant later Rourke’s hand darted, snatched the pouch, and with his gun covering Omar’s breast he nudged Dineen to go and backed out of the place with the curses and threats of Omar Sung Loo shrieked after them. “Curses don’t worry me none,” said Rourke. “But he’s said ’em of a nature to blast my body now an’ my soul hereafter.” No native showed a face to them in that otherwise friendly village as they plodded the hot road back to Socrabaya after a fruitless search for birds and with trouble hot on their heels for the theft of the tiger dust. “Tl go get ye some birds,” said Rourke. “It'd be as well fer me to pet inland anyway. Omar is lower than a cobra, but he’s clever an’ e's in with the worst fiends of undiluted Asiatic hellishness this side 0° Sheol. Dineen, some o’ his Chink surgeons joined them two cobras, sure as I live! I’ve heard o’ graftin’ fins on fish, but that monkey busi- ness makes a man sick inside. He's got smart surgeons on his staff, an’ no laws o’ God or man, heaven or hell to keep him in bounds. I'll give that tiger dust to my wife, who believes tigers have souls. She even says humans can change into tigers, an’-——” Rourke launched into stories of were-tigers that lasted until they were back at the hotel, bathed and sipping cool drinks. Next day Rourke departed for the interior after Paradise birds, and Dineen waited. No word came for months and he grew worried and decided to call on Rourke’s native wife in a village of the interior. He came after the heat of the day to a pretty bungalow covered with wine-colored bougainvillea, and coming up the path heard the soft notes of a native bell-gong and the croon of a love song which ceased as he drew near. Rourke’s wife came to the porch clad in a silk sarong, her dark hair in a coil over one ear, a red flower over the other. She was dainty and pretty, but her dark eyes held the enigmatic look of coquetry arrested in full flush by tragedy. He had brought her a string of small] seed pearls as a wedding gift, but dropping them into her hand made him feel as awkward as if he gave red lecled slippers to a nun. She spoke port English and he asked if she had heard om Rourke. 86 , comichbooks.com