Adventure Magazine Cover — page 178: what you’re looking at

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

176 Presently he looked up, attracted by some slight sound near the doorway. There, standing with his long legs wide spread, thumbs hooked in the waistband of his overalls, stood Jack Manton. Faro Furnell lay aside his bucket and mop, straightening to an upright position. “Some gent taken my gun off me last night,” he told Manton. “I wa’n’t able tuh locate it this mornin’. Tolliver musta took the house gun home with him last night. Can’t locate no weepon of any kind. Directly I’ve got me a shootin’ iron, I’ll be ra’rin’ to accomodate yuh.”’ “Yeah?” Manton was eying him coldly. Into his yellow eyes there crept a look of cruel calculation. A quick glance about him assured him that the two were alone. A lew quick strides and he was at Furnell’s side. Without warning, he slapped the older man in the face. Not hard enough to floor him, but with enough force to rock the white head and leave a red mark on the swamper’s cheek. Again and again he slapped open-handed at the man who made no move to defend himself. And all the while he smiled. “Now, you old bum, trot behind that bar and buy a drink,” he sneered. There was not even the compliment of anger in his tone. Merely contempt for a man who would not fight back. Still smil- ing twistedly, he watched Furnell obey meekly. Jack Manton was “‘all Injun” just then. Bad Injun at that. His was the arro- gance of the red warrior who, in breech- clout and feathers, taunts a white man who shows fear of him. He was too drunk with cruelty to read what was written in the eyes of Faro Furnell. The white man’s body was as shambling as ever, the shoulders sagged with a hope- less, prideless droop. His hands shook as they set out a glass and bottle of whisky. But some inner fire had cut the film that clouded his blue eyes and they shone like twin blue stars. “Vesterday,”’ said Jack Manton, leering across the bar into Furnell’s face that was blotched red from his blows, “the skunk that runs this joint busted my glass like I was a buck nigger.” He tossed off his drink and shoved the empty glass across the bar. “Y’m wonderin’ if you foller the rules of WALTER J. COBURN his house. I’m waitin’, you white-livered bum, to see if you bust my glass.” ‘“Supposin’ I do?” faltered Furnell, his hand creeping toward the glass. Manton, smiling faintly, his yellow eyes taunting the other man, gave no reply. With a quick movement, Faro Furnell swept the little glass from the bar to the floor where it shattered with a musical tinkle. Manton’s long arm shot across the bar, lean fingers fastening to the old cowpunch- er’s open shirt collar. His other arm swung a hard fist full into Furnell’s face with such force that it tore the shirt and let the old fellow’s limp body slide to the floor. He had to stand on the bar-rail and lean far over to see the extent of damage done by the blow. He saw the face of the older man, white save for the red blotches, a thin trickle of blood threading from a corner of the mouth and dripping on to the floor. “Git up,” he snapped. Furnell obeyed dazedly. ‘‘Now set out another glass.”’ Again the old cowpuncher obeyed, moving painfully, for the fall had jarred him. Once more Jack Manton drank alone, then shoved the glass toward the white- lipped Furnell. “Still feel lucky?” he sneered. “Lucky?” Furnell’s voice shook with emotion as his fingers closed over the glass. “Lucky?” With a quick move he hurled the glass squarely into Manton’s face. Like a man in a trance he saw blood spurt from Manton’s gashed lip, saw the dark face twist with hate, and then he went down in a heap, the tinkle of shattered glass dimly echoing as he lost consciousness. Manton’s blow had come so swiftly that he had not even seen it. The splash of cold water in his face brought him back to consciousness. He opened his eyes to look into the set face of Turkey Track Tolliver. “Easy, ol’ hoss, take ’er easy,’’ came Turkey Track’s voice, its customary drawl shaken by some emotion. ‘‘Don’t try tuh git on yore laigs till yuh feel snuffy enough tuh paw dirt in that jasper’s yaller eyes. Yuh’ll feel better, directly.” Faro Furnell shook off Turkey Track’s restraining hand and got slowly to his feet, pulling a shirt sleeve across his bruised mouth. cCOmiclbool CO