Adventure Magazine Cover — page 176: what you’re looking at

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

174 cot, mended with wire and strips of raw- hide, covered by a straw tick and a few lumpy “‘sougan”’ quilts. A cracked mirror, a tin basin set on an empty beer keg, and a wobbly old kitchen chair completed the fur- nishings of the tiny room that served as a storeroom for mops and living quarters for Faro Furnell who now eked out a lquor- sodden existence as swamper for Turkey Track Tolliver. For a long time, Faro Furnell’s cloudy eyes gazed thoughtfully at his reflection in the cracked mirror. Finally, by the light of a smoky lantern that weakly defied the darkening shadows of twilight, Furnell scraped at his stubble of beard with a dull razor. His hands shook for want of liquor to steady his tortured nerves. The dull blade pulled his skin and bluntly nicked his jaw in several places, but he wiped away the trickling blood and went doggedly on. From under the straw tick mattress, he dragged a blue flannel shirt, faded by many scrubbings, a pair of clean overalls, and clean underwear and socks. He even bathed, af- ter a fashion, with a bit of sponge and a bar of yellow laundry soap, the tin basin his only tub. Lastly, when he was garbed in fresh clothing, he parted his white hair with an aged, broken-toothed comb. Again he gazed for a long time at his re- flection in the cracked mirror. Tiny mus- cles in his body twitched spasmodically. When he attempted the construction of a cigaret, the paper split between his shaking fingers. Behind his blurred blue eyes burned a feverish glow that made them seem less dull. His lips moved in an inaudible monologue as he knelt beside the cot and shoved a hand far under the mattress. When it came forth, it held a long-barreled Colt. Under the hammer of the gun was an empty shell. The inside of the barrel was pitted with tiny specks. For the gun had not been cleaned since that day, twenty years ago, when the bullet from that empty shell had taken the life of Jack Manton. He shoved the gun into the waistband of his overalls and, blowing out the lantern, shuffled along a dark passageway to the lighted barroom. A few loungers leaned against the bar listening to Turkey Track Tolliver, who was talking in a low tone. He ceased speaking when he saw Faro Furnell slump into a chair at an empty card table. WALTER J. COBURN “Hey, there!” called Turkey Track heart- ily. “‘What’s the idee in gittin’ all duded up thataway, Faro, then goin’ off in a corner, high-toned as a buck Injun in a plug hat? Belly up to the bar an’ h’ist one. Here’s two boys from the Bear Paw Pool outfit, squanderin’ coin. Live ’uns, feller! Rattle yore dewclaws.”’ “T ain’t drinkin’, Turkey Track,” said Furnell huskily. ‘“‘Now looky here, pardner,”’ growled the saloon man, “‘don’t go actin’ the fool. A man that’s drunk the licker you’ve bin drinkin’ can’t break off thataway without gittin’ snakes er pink elephants er some such ailment. Ain’t I tried it, myse’f? Lope up here an’ swaller one.” “T ain’t drinkin’ no licker,’ Furnell stubbornly. ‘Then I’m gonna fix yuh up what I calls a ‘Gila Monster.’ You kin gargle it er rub it on yore briskit. It’s guaranteed tuh take the hide off any place she lights. A leetle mixture uh tobasco sauce, strychnine, rat- tlesnake pizen, an’ mange cure. When she hits yore innards, yuh rear up an’ fall over backward, then buck yore own hat off. Keerful yuh don’t spill any on yore boots, fer she’ll eat plumb through cowhide.”’ From various mysterious bottles, Turkey Track Tolliver mixed his Gila Monster. It filled a water tumbler. “Now, one uh you boys fetch that bucket full uh water tuh put out the fire,” grinned Tolliver as he rounded the end of the bar and made his way to Furnell’s table. “I’m gonna git this soothin’ syrup down ol’ Faro if I have tuh hog-tie him.” “T tell yuh,” persisted Furnell feebly, ‘I don’t want no drink.”’ “Tt ain’t what yuh want,” grinned Tolli- ver. “It’s what yo’re gonna git. Now swaller.’”’ And he shoved the edge of the glass between Furnell’s teeth. The victim coughed, choked, and swallowed. The stuff burned his throat as he gulped it down, shaking hands pulling in feeble protest against Tolliver’s stout grip on the glass. Tears welled to the drinker’s eyes as the hot stuff warmed his stomach. His face reddened, but not until the glass was empty did Tolliver take it from Furnell’s ips. As an artist steps back to view a master- piece, so did Turkey Track Tolliver view the sputtering man in the chair. “Tf there’s ary spotted giraffes, purple ? came from COMICLOOO S CO