Black Mask (Vol. 33, No. 3 — September 1949)

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Sneering at the warnings of bottle-happy Irma, Harry Wenzel pitted his cunning against the animal that hated his guts — and the man who loved his wife.

The whole thing is crazy, sure, and a lot of people around here say it couldn’t have happened that way. But you’d have to know Harry Wenzel and the dog, Satan. And you’d have had to be there to believe it... It isn’t much of a place, Loon Lodge. A huge, rambling, rustic inn and roadhouse on a tar road, miles from anyplace. It has a sweep-around verandah and nestles in a grove of pines, mirrored from behind by a lovely lake.

The big, semi-circular bar was empty. There were never many people in the place, except during fishing season, when the lake was well worked.

Harry Wenzel, the owner, was behind the bar. We gabbed awhile and he told me about the dog somebody had just given him. He said I had to see it.

He’d built a big, chicken wire pen and the animal was pacing up and down the narrow confines, when we got there. He stopped still, when he saw us and I felt my skin go cold. I like dogs. But I didn’t like this one.

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