Adventure Magazine Cover — page 172: what you’re looking at

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

Ta Kallacy of 66 Faro A Western Story by a Westerner “y Walter J. Coburn VEN after twenty years had dimmed men’s memories, Chi- nook, Montana, still pointed out “Faro” Furnell as the man who had killed Jack Manton. Lest the significance of this long-stand- ing memory be lost, let it be explained that killers and killings were commonplace and ordinarily soon forgotten. Eighty-five per cent. of the men buried inside the whitewashed picket fence that marked the cow-town’s boot-hill had died with their boots on and a smoking gun in their hand. Yet their names and the names of the men who killed them had long since been for- gotten. Only the killing of Jack Manton stood forth in any semblance of clarity. Faro Furnell still remained in the minds of men as “the man who killed Jack Manton.” By the same token, Jack Manton would be recalled as the only man who ever suc- cessfully rode the Circle C Dun. This ina country where outlaw horses were as nu- nerous as owls in a prairie-dog town and bronc riders were many and skillful. Where the fame of bad horse or top rider was short- lived, eclipsed by the performance of his successors. Where they sang a little song: Never was a outlaw that never got rode, Never was a cowboy that never got throwed. Yet Jack Manton’s famous ride became cow-country legend. The twenty-year-old echoes of Faro Furnell’s gun still rang in the ears of old-timers. And now, after twenty years of rain and snow and wind and heat had whitened the rudely carved slab above Jack Manton’s grave, the gray-haired loungers squatting in the shade in front of the Last Chance Sa- loon, squinting from under wide hat-brims into the last yellowing rays of a setting sun, saw a ghost. The ghost of Jack Manton! Cigarets grew cold. One or two of the loungers quit whittling on soft pine sticks and pocketed their horn-handled_stock- knives. No man spoke as the straight- backed, dust-covered rider came down the street, his rangy, sweat-streaked dun-col- ored horse traveling toward the feed barn at a running walk. In passing, the smooth-shaven leather- tanned youth who rode the dun gave them an impersonal glance. If he was aware of any unusual scrutiny on their part, he gave no sign. They saw him disappear into the cool shadow of the feed barn. Then, as if bidden by some voice, they straggled into the Last Chance for a drink. “‘The spittin’ image,” said the first man who broke a heavy silence. ‘“The spittin’ image uh Jack Manton.” ‘‘An’ he was forkin’ a dun-colored hoss.”’ “‘Who’s payin’ fer this round of drinks, anyhow?” inquired a rheumatic saloon man who had once been a trail boss. The clump 170 cComicaoolks CO