Adventure Magazine Cover — page 183: what you’re looking at

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

THE FALLACY OF FARO taking advantage of the opportunity to “hooraw”’ their boss who gave them as good as they sent. It worked. Faro, before the noonday meal was over, slipped back into his old environment and found himself part of the outfit. The one drink apiece from his bottle had helped limber the barely notice- able restraint they all felt in the presence of this man whose tragic story had become an oft-repeated camp-fire yarn. After the brief noonday rest, Tom pinched out the coal of his after-dinner smoke and rose. “Ketch out ol’ Cotton Eye, Faro, an’ come on out with us,” came Tom’s careless invitation. “TI kin shore use a extra hand. Got a mess uh calves tuh brand.” “Don’t care if I do,’ Faro accepted. “Don’ aim tuh start back fer town till evenin’ noway. Yuh still got Cotton Eye in yore string?”’ “T’}l tella man! Twenty-three years old an’ the best rope hoss in the outfit. Hog fat, too.” “Twenty-three years old,” repeated Faro. “Time shore passes, as the feller says, an’ yuh can’t git away from it. Cotton Eye was a jughead bronc, Tom, when I quit punchin’ cows.” There was but few years’ difference in the ages of the two men, yet Tom looked twenty years younger than Faro Furnell. ‘“We’re gittin’ rings aroun’ our horns, shore enough,” grinned Tom. ‘About the first snow, when the rheumatism creeps into a man’s bones an’ he wonders where he’s spent his summer wages, I shore feel ancient. That’s what a man gits fer stayin’ in a country where she’s nine months win- ter and three months late in the fall. Pick- in’ up falls in badger holes, leavin’ yore slicker in the bed wagon of a rainy day, forkin’ mean hosses, an’ gittin’ knocked down an’ tromped on by ornery cows. You was wise tuh draw outa the game when yuh did, Faro. I bin thinkin’ uh takin’ a win- ter’s job in town myse’f.”’ He did not give Faro a chance to reply, but led the way to the rope corral that was full of milling horses. Nobody apparently saw Faro miss three throws before he managed to drop his rope on Cotton Eye. Time had been when Faro Furnell was the best corral roper and calf heeler in the country. Cotton Eye, fat and feeling many years 181 younger than his actual age, humped and grunted as Faro jerked the latigo tight. When Faro swung stiffly into the saddle, the old cow pony crow-hopped a few times out of sheer exuberance. Tom and his men pretended that they did not see Faro “‘pull leather.”” In a loosly bunched crowd they loped over the hills toward the hold-up of cows and calves. “T’d be proud tuh have yuh do the loop- in’,” spoke the wagon-boss. Tom had, in thus inviting Faro to rope out the calves, paid homage to the skill of his guest. It is no trivial honor to be asked to rope calves when you are the guest at a round-up. Tom did his utmost to make his tone sin- cere. Faro, glancing at him sharply, flushed. But Tom ignored the other man’s embarrassment. He knew Faro would not accept the offer, yet he went on as if he were taking acceptance for granted. As if he were talking to the Faro Furnell of twenty years ago. “Better ketch out jest the Pool stuff an’ let me ’tend to the strays. I bin lettin’ the reps from the Square an’ Circle Diamond an’ Circle C do their own ropin’. There’s two-three more stray-men workin’ with us, too. Tuh save janglin’, I let ’em snare their own stuff. Takes longer but makes 7em feel better about it. There’s a white face Bar R cow in there with her left horn sawed. Watch fer her calf. Want tuh save it fer a bull. It’s one uh them thorough- breds that was shipped from Helena. Keep yore eye peeled fer a spotted cow with a 76 barred out. One uh the boys “lowed she was in their drive this mornin’, an’ got cut into the hold-up. She goes into the day herd, directly we’ve—”’ “Hold on, yuh gosh darned magpie.” Faro was no longer flushing and an easy grin widened his mouth. “I ain’t gonna make a fool outa myse’f tryin’ tuh heel calves. I’m rusty an’ you know it. Dll ’tend fire er tally er hold up the herd, but I ain’t ropin’ no calves. You boys seen me grab fer hand holts when ol’ Cotton Eye hogged off a jump er two. Yuh made out not tuh see. Yuh know —— well that I couldn’t make a hand nowhere except on day herd, Tom McDonald! Yuh ain’t asked me what I was doin’ out here ner why I quit town when Jack Manton’s young ’un showed up. Yuh ain’t done noth- in’ but act like a white man, Tom, an’ I’m thankin’ yuh fer it. God’s give me some Gomicsoo S CO