Adventure Magazine Cover — page 184: what you’re looking at

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

182 mighty good friends. I’m aimin’ now tuh play the game out like a man orter.” Unconsciously, he passed his hand across his bruised mouth. “Shore thing,’”’ mumbled Tom embar- rassedly. ‘yes. Yo’re danged tootin’. Yeah, you bet. Uh-huh. Gimme the loan of a match, Faro, then lope over to where that long-geared jasper on the white pony is augerin’ with that speckled-faced Long X rep. Tell ’em I said the reps’d brand out their stuff first. Then come back an’ do the brandin’. Reckon you kin still stamp a hot iron on a critter, yuh hide-hound, high- headed ol’ renegade.”’ And he rode off singing ‘‘The Circle C Dun” just to show Faro Furnell that he would not further wound him with pity. IT by bit, like a prospector picking up scattered nuggets of gold that have been strewn by him in some moment of delirium, Faro Furnell gathered the par- ticles of an old life. Trickles of sweat slipped from under his hat brim and made crooked rivulets in the dust that powdered his face. Cattle bawled, singed hair from fresh brands stung his nos- trils, calf ‘‘rasslers’”’ flung bantering talk to and fro. Ropers dragged calves to the fire from the herd, followed by the cow who, alarmed by the startled bawling of its young, forgot its fear of men to protect its offspring. Faro and Tom did the branding, another man marked ears into crops and swallow- forks and underbits and jinglebobs. Horses stood about, range-tied by the mere formal- ity of trailing bridle reins. One bronc was snubbed by its hackamore rope to the sad- dle horn of a gentle horse who grazed uncon- cernedly. Chaps and spurs, discarded by the men who ‘“‘flanked”’ the calves, hung from the empty saddles. Trip after trip between the cow-chip fire and innumerable calves held by weary “rasslers,” and still Faro was showing no outward sign of fatigue. Now and then, during a lull, he drank from the water bucket and mopped his flushed face. “Better lay off awhile,” suggested Tom. ‘‘Sun’s mighty hot on a man that ain’t used to it.” “Hired out fer a tough hand,” grinned Faro, “and I’m playin’ my string out.” Those unused muscles were aching from unaccustomed work, his heart pounded WALTER J. COBURN under his ribs like a trip-hammer, but Faro was happy. Not even Tom guessed the ex- tent of relief that came with the branding of the last calf. As the cowpunchers drifted across the ridge in the wake of the herd, Tom and Faro rode toward camp, dragging cooling branding irons at the end of their ropes. The shadows of sundown were already creep- ing into the coulees. Beyond the riders, a coyote stood skylighted, then loped away, hidden in the sagebrush. “Tt’s bin a shore fine day, Tom,” Faro broke the silence. “Dunno when I’ve felt so good.” “Bet yo’re tuckered out.” “Not by a sight,” lied Faro. “T’m good fer a fifty mile ride right now.’: ‘“‘A few weeks ’ud harden yuh onct more, Faro. Better stay on with us. I’m short- handed an’ kin shore use yuh.” ‘“‘Wisht I could take yuh up on that, Tom. I need tuh git the licker outa my system. But I got a deal on in town.” “Don’t play the —— fool, feller. Lettin’ that Injun kill yuh ain’t goin’ tuh he’p none.”’ Tom was coming to the point now without quibbling. “You bin a fool fer twenty years, pardner. There has bin times when yuh shore bent men’s friend- ships to the bustin’ point. Yuh ain’t bin square with us boys that’s stuck by yuh. Turkey Track an’ the rest of us that’s kept our mouths shet an’ let yuh go tuh like yuh’ve done. Now here comes this new Jack Manton. From what the boys says he’s as ornery as the other ’un. I hear yuh was fixin’ to let that ’breed shoot yuh. Mebbe the boys had it wrong?” “No,” admitted Faro. “They was right. It was like seein’ a ghost come back to gather in my scalp, Tom. It got to me, some way. Had me spooky. But this mornin’ suthin’ happened to kinda change my way uh thinkin’. I seen jest how much of a snake this gent is. The same kind uh snake Jack Manton was the mornin’ I shot him, twenty years ago. I learnt, this morn- in’, that the man I killed was jest a rattler that needed killin’. I rid out here to kinda think ’er all out an’ git a tail holt on my- se’f. I taken twenty years outa my life an’ drug it as low as a man kin. I bin lower’n a —— sheep-herdin’ greaser, Tom. Yo’re right. I’ve shore rid rough-shod on you boys. I’m goin’ back to town this evenin’ an’ call this Manton jasper’s bluff. He may Gomicsoo S CO