Adventure Magazine Cover — page 181: what you’re looking at

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

THE FALLACY OF FARO once been. Now they came across the sunny hills to him once more. Oh, Faro was a top hand, As all you cowboys know And Manton was a low-down skunk To treat the Dun hoss so. “Now fill yore hand!” cried Faro, Whose game is on the square, And Manton’s soul. went yonderly To the Big Range Over There. Faro Furnell rode on toward the camp under the cottonwoods, leaving the young cowboy and his song behind. The feel of the horse under him, the warmth of a kindly sun, the familiar sights and sounds of the round-up, were doing for him what whisky could never do. He read the brands on the cattle he passed. Old brands. Irons that carried history and tradition. Men had starved and faced blizzards and fought big odds to carry the honor of those irons. For forty a month and grub, men had risked their lives to save the cattle belonging to their outfit. It had taken men, real men, to hold a job during the early days in the Montana cow country. Men who were made of rawhide and barbed wire. And he, Faro Furnell, had once captained a crew of such cowhands. By hard work and fear- less judgment, he had risen from the ranks. Then he had broken like a rope with a rotten strand hidden somewhere in its rawhide length. “Faro was atop hand.”— “His game was on the square.”’— Bits of the song threaded Perhaps it was the sun that made hiseyessmart. Mancan’t stand too much sun when he ain’t used toit. No, ’twasn’t the sun, neither. Just that chicken heart inside that weakens. of a way to beactin’. Blubberin’ likeakid. Chick- en-hearted, that was what. Gittin’ worse, too. Feelin’ sorry fer hiss’f. Him a growed- up man, to boot. He felt of his bruised mouth where Jack Manton’s yellow-eyed son had struck him. Then he remembered why he had ridden out of town. He pulled a shirt sleeve across his eyes with an abrupt movement and his teeth snapped shut. “Strike me stone blind an’ sew my eyewinkers shut if it ain’t ol’ Faro Furnell!”’ Thus a grizzled veteran of Dutch ovens and sourdough bread greeted him. For the first time in many months, Faro grinned. into his musings. 179 “Turn yore cayuse loose, yuh dad- gummed ol’ moss horn. The jingler’ll pick him up an’ turn him into the remuda. Yo’re a sight fer weak eyes, Faro. Light, feller, light. Directly this son-of-a-gun-in- the-sack gits done, an’ this roast gits a mite browner, we'll git the wrinkles outa yore belly. How’s ol’ Turkey Track?” The cook’s gaze strayed to a bit of brown glass that bulged from a hole in the yellow slicker behind Faro’s saddle. Faro jerked the saddle from his horse, pulled off the bridle, and with a friendly slap across the sweaty rump, gave Sorrel Jimmy his free- dom. Then he untied the slicker. “Turkey Track sent out a dram fer you boys,” announced Faro. “Hit ’er light, fer I only brung one quart. A drink apiece fer all hands.”’ With due solemnity the cook drew the cork, passed a floury palm across the mouth of the bottle, and handed it toward Faro. But Faro shook his head. “Off the stuff fer a spell,’ he explained, “Drink hearty.” “Ammmmmmmm.” The cook swallowed some jocular remark as he looked into Faro’s blue eyes. “Hmmmmmmm. Well, feller, here’s how!” And when he had corked the bottle and given it a position of honor and prominence on the rawhide-covered mess table, he waved his guest to a seat on his bedroll. “Lingerin’ a spell, Faro?” ‘No-0-0-0-0-0-0. Make town this evenin’, I reckon.” “The ol’ man cud use a good beef man.” News had gotten to the Bear Paw Pool wagon regarding the appearance of a man who claimed to be the son of Jack Manton. Only that morning, over tin cups of hot coffee, the punchers had discussed this new Jack Manton. In the chill hour of dawn the cook heard them describe the man with the yellow eyes, and the working of Turkey Track Tolliver’s Gila Monster. Range gossip is scarce, and it had been a choice morsel that the boys brought back from town. Now, as Faro poured himself a cup of black coffee, the old cook wondered if Jack Manton’s son had driven old Faro out of town. Perhaps Furnell guessed what went on in the mind of the round-up cook for he smiled oddly as he blew the steaming coffee into faint ripples, furthering the process of its cooling. 9 ’er back tuh Gomichdook CO