Adventure Magazine Cover — page 185: what you’re looking at

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

THE FALLACY OF FARO git me but I’m gittin’ a mouthful while he gits his meal.” “Now,” grinned Tom, “‘yo’re actin’ like ol’ Faro Furnell. Got a gun?” “IT ain’t. Ner I don’t need a gun. I killed one man an’ that’s a-plenty. I’m givin’ this Manton snake his odds, savvy?” ‘An’ he’ll gut-shoot yuh,” growled Tom. “Quit actin’ like a danged Sunday-school perfesser. That gent has it on yuh fer build, age, an’ speed. If ever a man was in bad need of a equalizer, it’s you.” Tom pulled a Colt from his chaps pocket and held it out butt first. | ‘“She’s a honest gun, pardner. Take it. If yore two-bit conscience is gallin’ yore withers, shoot low at him. Bust both laigs an’ arms, say. Er knock his ears off. Then tell him what’s on yore mind. You gotta work that feller down to yore size, hombre, before you kin win ary fight. Then carve yore brand on his briskit, cut yore hoggin’ string, an’ turn him loose.”’ He shoved the gun into Faro’s hand. Faro nodded and dropped the weapon into the pocket of his chaps. They found a visitor at camp. A big, grim-lipped man with a sheriff’s badge pinned to his unbuttoned vest. “Jest waitin’ for you, Tom,” he said. “My horse went lame. How’s chances to borrow a stout road horse?”’ “Plumb good, Sheriff.”’ Tom did not ask the sheriff’s business. That would be an impertinent breach of etiquette. Moreover, there were times when a sheriff hunted some man who had friends in a cow outfit. To save some cow- puncher the embarrassment of a lie, a peace officer would remain silent regarding the man he hunted. “The wrangler’s comin’ in with the re- muda now,” said Tom. ‘You know ol’ Faro, here, don’t yuh?” “T bin in his jail a few times,” said Faro quickly, a trifle red under the cold scrutiny of the sheriff, whose manner toward him was one of cold contempt. “Yeah, I know Furnell. What you doin’ out here, anyhow?” “Gittin’ a whiff uh fresh air. Goin’ back to town quick as I change hosses.”’ “Yeah? Well, it’s safe enough for you now, in Chinook.”’ ““Meanin’ jest what, Sheriff?” asked Faro. “Meaning, Furnell, that Jack Manton 183 has high-tailed it. Too bad it wasn’t you he murdered afore he went.” “What in you drivin’ at, Sheriff?” snapped Tom McDonald. ‘What’s the idee in rawhidin’ Faro, anyhow?” “Don’t, Tom,” said Faro. ‘TI don’t need nobody to take my part.” “Noe” The sheriff’s tone was heavy with sarcasm. ‘You shore stepped out from under the big load this mornin’, my friend. This Manton ’breed throwed a scare into you and you left Turkey Track Tolliver to take up yore scrap. Which he did. He put the fear in the ’breed all right. Then Man- ton slipped in by the back door and shot Turkey Track in the back.” “God! Yo’re—is that the truth, Sheriff?” rasped Faro. “T ain’t in the habit of lyin’. I’m after Manton right now.” “Turkey Track is dead?”’ “Dyin’ when I pulled out.”’ The sheriff turned his back on Faro and walked toward the corral. = , Faro,” said Tom, as Faro, white- lipped and dull-eyed, stood like one in a trance. ‘Don’t take it like—” Faro shook off Tom’s hand. “Don’t, Tom. Fer Gawd’s sake, don’t. The sheriff’s right. I shoulda knowed ol’ Turkey Track ’ud jump Manton. He’s right. I’m a —— yaller quitter. A weaklin’.”’ He swung to face the Pool boss. “Tom, I want a hoss. One that’ll out- travel the one the sheriff forks. I seen a rider not more’n two hours ago, ridin’ hard. Thought then it was a Pool man. But I’m layin’ a bet it was Manton. Tom, I know yuh think I’m a coward, but gimme this one chanct, won’t yuh?” “Will IP Will I, yuh darned ol’ badger? [’ll do better’n that. I'll give mister sheriff a hoss that’ll go lame on him afore he’s gone ten mile. Faro, ol’-timer, it’s you an’ this Jack Manton for it. Remember now, do yore shootin’ first an’ yore augerin’ later on.” “It’s white uh you tuh—”’ “Dry up, yuh dang tadpole. Git into that tent an’ fill up on grub an’ coffee. T’ll have yore hoss ketched an’ saddled afore that slow motion sheriff kin build a loop in his ketch rope. All I ask is the scalp uh this Manton wolf tuh hang on the Pool tent- pole. Shake yore hoofs, yuh blaze-faced son of a t’rant’lar. You was braggin’ about COMICLO© S CO