Adventure Magazine Cover — page 175: what you’re looking at

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

THE FALLACY OF FARO laid down his bar towel, and before the un- broken movement was completed, his hand held a Colt .45. That second, and during the seconds that followed, the man who was the “‘spittin’ image” of Jack Manton stood on the brink of the valley of death, though he was unaware of it, for Tolliver’s gun was below the level of the bar. Pity for Faro Furnell held them all speechless as they watched, scarce breath- ing. Then Furnell’s voice, hoarse as a crow’s, rasped in the dead silence of the bar-room. “You’re — a — Manton?” “My name,” said the man at the bar, “is Jack Manton.” : “I’m Furnell. Faro Furnell. The man that killed a Jack Manton.” Turkey Track Tolliver’s fingers tightened about his gun butt. Furnell, swaying slightly as if he were overcome with dizziness, stood there, wait- ing. His lips, trying to smile, trembled. Yet there was no trace of fear in the dere- lict’s bleared eyes as he waited for the bul- let whose crash would end his life. Rather, it was the expectancy of a sick man who awaits a medicine whose swift bitterness will bring relief to a tortured body. But the man with the yellow eyes did not shoot. He studied the man who waited, studied him with a cold appraisal that made the other men want to wipe the twisted smile from his lips with a bullet. Then, without a word to Furnell, he turned his back on the shambling old drunkard and, ignoring the others, faced the bartender. “Another whisky. I come a long ways and I’m dry.” There was a look of mock- ery in his yellow eyes as he saw Turkey Track Tolliver’s right hand come up empty from under the bar. Manton drank alone and paid for his drink while Furnell, without moving from his tracks, watched. He did not even seem to catch the inference of the turned back. He was still waiting. “I’m goin’ to be in town for quite a spell,’”’ Manton told Tolliver. ‘‘Where’s a good place to stop?” ‘“‘There’s the jail,’ suggested Turkey Track Tolliver grimly, “er the boot-hill. You'll find fit company either place.” With his left hand, the grizzled barten- der took Manton’s empty glass and tossed it to the floor, his eyes holding the yellow gaze of the other man as the glass shattered to bits. 173 In certain parts of the country where negro trade is not desired, a colored cus- tomer in a saloon is treated thus. A barely perceptible narrowing of Man ton’s yellow eyes was the only visible sign that he had noticed the insult. It was then that Faro Furnell walked slowly to the bar and stood alongside Jack Manton. His eyes seemed less bleary as he smiled at Tolliver. “T’m obliged, Turkey Track,” he said huskily, “fer takin’ up my quarrel. But don’t do it no more.” Tolliver nodded, inwardly sick with pity for this broken man who was making a ter- rific effort to get a grip on shattered nerves and sluggish body that he might appear a man before this stranger. “T’m the man that killed Jack Manton,” he repeated, facing the yellow-eyed man. “Yeah?” The younger man’s tone was coldly indifferent. ‘What of it?” ‘““Ain’t you Manton’s son?” “T may be Jack Manton’s son, mister, but I’m not —— fool enough to take a pot- shot at an old barroom bum like you. Men get hung for things like that. I bet you don’t even pack a gun.” ‘“‘Not since the day I downed Jack Man- ton, I ain’t had one in my hand.” A slight tremor came into Faro Furnell’s voice. He had been drunk the night before and his emotions were as sensitive as a raw wound. Tolliver shoved a glass and bottle toward him but he shook his head in firm denial. ‘‘Juries is hard on folks that shoots a man that ain’t heeled,’ Manton went on. ‘“‘What’s the use, anyhow, in killin’ off a man that’s li’ble to die any night uh jim- jams? My old man musta had both hands tied when he let a thing like you kill him.” And in the silence that followed that re- mark, the man with the yellow eyes swag- gered outside and crossed to the China- man’s place for food. ‘Fer Gawd’s sake, pard,’”’ muttered Tolli- ver, pouring out a tall glass full of raw whis- ky and shoving it into Furnell’s shaking hand. ‘Git outside uh this. Yuh need it.” But Faro Furnell shook his head, smiling shakily at the man behind the bar. “Y’m through drinkin’, Turkey Track,” he said. ‘Through drinkin’ fer a spell.”’ Without another word of explanation, Faro Furnell shambled off to a little back room where Tolliver kept his mops and buckets and brooms. Here also was an old Gomicsoo S CO