Werewolf of the Sahara

By G.G. Pendarves and John Betancourt

A tremendous tale, depicted against the background of the great desert, about the evil Arab sheykh El Shabur, and dreadful occult forces that were unleashed in a desperate struggle for the soul of a beautiful young woman.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Jun 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781479479290

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COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

INTRODUCTION

WEREWOLF OF THE SAHARA, by G. G. Pendarves

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Originally published in Weird Tales, August-September 1936.

Published by Wildside Press LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

INTRODUCTION

G.G. Pendarves was the pseudonym of Gladys Gordon Trenery, a British author who probably lived from 1885 to 1938. Information on her life is spotty and at times contradictory. As with most early fantasy writers for the pulp magaziness, there was little organized attempt to chronicle their lives and personal histories except for those few who later became famous, such as Robert E. Howard, H.P. Lovecraft, and Clark Ashton Smith. Though highly talented, she did not fall into this category.

She was almost certainly British. Records indicate that a Gladys Gordon Trenery was born on in January 1885—either in Cornwall, West Derby, or Stonycroft England, according to which record is actually hers. She has at times been confused with the British actress Gladys Gordon, who died in 1961; however, they are decidedly not the same person. The Wikipedia entry for Gladys Gordon confuses the two.

She published in only a handful of markets—primarily Weird Tales and its sister publication, Oriental Stories (plus its later incarnation The Magic Carpet), but also in Argosy All-Story Weekly and The Horn Book.

For more information on her, I recommend you visit the Tellers of Weird Tales web site. They have a lengthy entry on her. See: tellersofweirdtales.blogspot.com.

—John Betancourt

Cabin John, Maryland

WEREWOLF OF THE SAHARA,

by G. G. Pendarves

The three of them were unusually silent that night over their after-dinner coffee. They were camping outside the little town of Sollum on the Libyan coast of North Africa. For three weeks they had been delayed here en route for the Siwa oasis. Two men and a girl.

So we really start tomorrow. Merle Anthony blew a cloud of smoke toward the glittering night sky. I’m almost sorry. Sollum’s been fun. And I’ve done two of the best pictures I ever made here.

Was that why you burned them up yesterday? her cousin, Dale Fleming, inquired in his comfortable pleasant voice.

The girl’s clear pallor slowly crimsoned. Dale! What a—

It’s all right, Merle, Gunnar Sven interrupted her. Dale’s quite right. Why pretend this delay has done you any good? And it’s altogether my fault. I found that out today in the market. Overheard some Arabs discussing our expedition to Siwa.

Your fault! Merle’s beautiful face, and eyes gray as a gull’s wing, turned to him. Why, you’ve simply slaved to get the caravan ready.

Gunnar got to his feet and walked out to the verge of the headland on which they were camped. Tall, straight as a pine he stood.

The cousins watched him; the girl with trouble and perplexity, the man more searchingly. His eyes, under straight upper lids, flatly contradicted the rest of his appearance. He was very fat, with fair hair and smooth unlined face despite his forty years. A sort of Pickwickian good humor radiated from him. Dale Fleming’s really great intellectual power showed only in those three-cornered heavily-lidded eyes of his.

Why did you give me away? Merle demanded.

His round moon face beamed on her.

Why bluff? he responded.

Snooping about as usual. Why don’t you go and be a real detective? she retorted crossly.

He gave a comfortable chuckle, but his eyes were sad. It was devilishly hard to watch her falling for