Adventure Magazine Cover — page 177: what you’re looking at

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

THE FALLACY OF FARO snakes, er green monkeys left alive in yore system,” he chuckled, “I’ll quit tendin’ bar an’ go sheep-herdin’. Yuh may die, Faro, but it won’t be from D.Ts.”’ Whatever the terrible concotion con- tained, it had its effect. Faro Furnell’s hands quit shaking and a’warm glow spread through his body, bringing a faint flush to his cheeks. Turkey Track did not urge him to join the men at the bar, nor did he betray the fact that he had noticed the gun in Faro Furnell’s waistband. Save for an occasional covert look toward the derelict at the table, he paid him no further heed. Furnell sat slumped in his chair, his eyes on the door, awaiting the return of Jack Manton’s son. A huge wall clock ticked off lengthy min- utes. Half an hour passed. Then Turkey Track Tolliver again stepped from behind the bar and went over to the lone watcher’s table. But Furnell did not move. He was sleeping soundly. Again the saloon man stepped back a pace, surveying the man in the chair. “Them Gila Monsters,” he grinned at the Bear Paw cowpunchers, “is shore a great invention. One uh you boys take his feet an’ we’ll tote him off tuh bed.”’ Then, looking toward the darkness be- yond the swinging doors, Tolliver raised his voice. “Vou kin come on in now, boys. Faro’s passed out fer a night’s sleep. Did yuh see ary sign uh the yaller-eyed Injun?” “‘Nary sign,” came the reply, mingling with chiming spur rowels as three cow- punchers entered the room. ‘“‘He’p yoreselves to refreshments,” Tol- liver told them. “It’s on the house.” He gently took the sleeping man’s gun and his voice softened as he looked down into the face of its owner. ‘“‘He was all cleaned up, boys, an’ heeled. Packin’ a gun that’s so danged rusty it takes both hands tuh cock ’er.”’ “How the - did he expect tuh git a man with a gat like that?” asked a young cowpuncher. “Faro was aimin’,” said Tolliver slowly, “that Jack Manton’s yaller-eyed son should do all the killin’. Figgered, I reckon, that it’d make up fer what he done twenty years ago. I’m hopin’ he'll feel differ’nt about it 2 IF when he wakes up in the mornin’. 175 “That there Gila Monster drink,” an- nounced a man who had been eye-witness to its potency, “‘is shore a daisy.” ‘“‘Ain’t she, though?” Turkey Track fairly beamed. “T learnt it off a bartender in Helena. Hecalled it the Tin-Horn’s Hole Card, and mixed ’er without the hot stuff. I kin see where it’d be right handy in case some gent books hisse’f a big poker winnin’ an’ lights out fer bed, winners. Stoppin’ at the bar fer a night-cap, the barkeep fixes him up with one uh these Tin-Horn’s Hole Cards an’ he passes out afore he gits his second boot off. All mister gambler has tuh do is roll him fer his winnin’s. This barkeep ‘lowed it was more e-lite than usin’ a gun. Claimed that since he’d in- vented this here drink, the percentage uh killin’s had bin cut down somethin’ scan’- lous. Now jest git holt uh ol’ Faro’s feet an’ we puts him tuh bed, pronto.” of Faro Furnell to open up the Last Chance at six o’clock in the morning. When he awoke, sober-eyed and without his usual feeling of nausea and headache from the indiscretions of a previous night, he lay staring at the bare walls of his little room, piecing together bits of scattered thought, fashioning them into a complete picture. A picture that became the likeness of Jack Manton. He recalled shaving and putting on fresh clothing. He remembered Turkey Track’s Gila Monster. Presently he crawled from his bunk and put on the clothes that Turkey Track had taken off him nearly twelve hours before. He noticed that his hands were steadier than usual. He even held one hand out in front of his eyes for quite a long time, studying it. Then he washed in cold water and, armed with a mop and bucket, walked thought- fully into the barroom. His being craved for its customary ‘“‘mornin’s mornin’”’ and it took every shred of will-power left in him to combat that desire for whisky. Several times during his task of mopping up the place he paused, short of breath, his eyes fastening on the bottles that lined the back bar. But always he went back to his labors without taking the drink he so badly needed. He worked feverishly, head bent over his task, until his body was bathed in perspiration, although it was not yet sun- rise and the air held the chill of night in it. Fa many months it had been the habit COMMICLO© S CO