A. Merritt's Fantasy Magazine, February 1950 — page 99: what you’re looking at

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

THE SMOKING LAND could move forward bit by bit; or we could camp where we had first halted. What I suggested was that we do that, and that I go out and scout. Plainly, if we had hit an island, it was a big one. We had marched for three days along the shore, and still we had not turned from the northern rim of the land. My idea was that, perhaps, we might be very close to the Point, after all. If I found it, scouting, then a dog team could be sent out to pick up Sylvia and Darrell and bring them in comfortably. Darrell agreed; and in half an hour I was on my way. I took Murder with me, loaded him with a small, heavy pack, and my revolver. The rifle I left behind for Darrell and Sylvia. I had determined that I would make three long marches along the shore until I found nothing; then I would turn and go straight back. I did not like to leave Sylvia for longer than a six-day stretch. But on the second march, when I was . _about ready to camp, Murder suddenly disappeared, running ahead, and though I shouted, he would not come back. I re- membered my experience with him in the cave in the Smoking Land, and my heart sank. OWEVER, I went on after him, | shouting out, and roaring angrily. And then I saw them. I though they were ON THE NEWSSTANDS MORNING STAR the sheer sparks of my own nager, dancing before my eyes, but now—presently I made out more and more—lights ! I won't say that I was happy. Happi- ness is too small a term and too light a word. T’ll only say that I began to run through the gloom with my hand stretched out—and then the lights spread out to either side, and in a few moments, I knew that I had actually come upon what Dar- rell, wiser than I, had expected. When I got to the trader’s, I went in the kitchen way. The cook thought I was a tramp, and swore, but I only. grinned at him and pushed open the door to the din- ing room, a little. There was Scanderov sitting as big as life with Leroy and Half- breed Charlie and Chief Gunther. Outside there was a weird howl. Scan- derov started violently. “You know what that sounds like?” he asked. “Tt sounds like a lost soul. Maybe it’s a were-wolf?’’ said Chief Gunther. “It reminds me of that poor cheechako who came up here and got the white dog from the half-breed,” said Scanderov. “T remember him,” said Charlie. Being a half-breed himself, his memory for that race was very keen. “I never could make out that man or that dog!” said Charlie. “Pretty far away they came from.” “Well,” said Scanderov, “there’s one more dead man in the north sea.” “Whore” asked Gunther. By H. Rider Haggard Bravely she awaited her hour of triumph—or doom. For Neter Tua, deathless daughter of the ages, had staked her throne on a soothsayer’s promise of magic aid from beyond the stars against the wrath of Egypt and all its terrible gods! Don’t miss this tremendous novel of historic grandeur and delightful fantasy, by an author who has been acclaimed again and again as a master among the storytellers of all time! The February Issue Is On the Newsstands Now. | RETO RI OE I OI TIRE at ELE ECG i No RIES 99° NOG Colm S (© inn