Adventure Magazine Cover — page 188: what you’re looking at

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

186 And he shoved a thermometer into Tur- key Track’s mouth. That was some time during the morning. it was past noon when Chinook stood in wide-eyed wonderment while two men rode slowly down the main street. Faro Fur- nell had brought in Jack Manton. When the loungers in front of the Last Chance and the feed barn had recovered from the first shock of surprize, they moved with sinister swiftness. Moved in one body toward the spot where Faro had halted his prisoner in front of the little jail. Most of them were armed. Half a dozen hard- twist grass lariats were grimly in evidence. “It looks from here,”’ Faro told his pris- oner, “like the boys was aimin’ tuh pull off a necktie party. Sheriff’s outa town, too.” Manton wet his dry lips, red specks of fear lighting his shifting eyes. Abject, cringing fear that made him strain at the ropes that bound his wrists to the saddle- horn. “My God, Furnell!” he begged hoarsely. “Turn me loose! Don’t let ’em murder me, man! I was crazy drunk when I shot Tolli- ver! Make ’em gimme a fair trial! I never meant to kill him! I didn’t come here to get you for killin’ my father! He was a no- good snake that quit my mother when I was a kid. Why should I want to kill you? I told yuh why I come here. Save me, Furnell!”’ As the crowd came slowly toward them, kicking up puffs of yellow dust that lay ankle deep in the street, Manton’s voice broke into husky sobs. Faro Furnell was weary to the point of utter exhaustion. His face, drawn and white, was bitten by deep lines. He sat his horse with an effort, his hands busy with to- bacco and a brown paper, forcing a grin that showed like a ghastly grimace. He fin- ished the construction of the cigaret, pulled a match across his saddle cantle, and lifted the cupped flame in hands that shook as if with ague. “Save me, Furnell!’ croaked Manton. “Tt’ll square yuh for my dad’s killin’!’’ “Shut up,” said Faro in a tired voice. “TI brung yuh in fer hangin’, didn’t I? Trials is a waste uh time an’ money. Quit blub- berin’ an’ die like a man if yuh kin.” Lips bared in a mirthless grin, Faro faced the crowd that halted a few feet away. Curiosity had halted them. They looked up at the dust-powdered, tired-looking man WALTER J. COBURN who had brought in Manton. Their con- tempt gave way to decent respect for the man who had been Tolliver’s swamper and the town drunkard. Most of that crowd had labeled him a rank coward who had run off. Now as their eyes searched his face, they looked for some miraculous change in Faro Furnell. They saw the same white hair, the same second-hand clothing, the same face that bore signs of the years of hard drink. Had theirs been a sympathetic probing they would have found their miracle in the old cowpuncher’s blue eyes. Those eyes had lost their look of hopeless suffering, their whisky bleariness. Bloodshot from heat and dust and lack of rest, but clear in their blue depths with new-born hope and determination. A man with a rope in his hand stepped forward. Faro’s eyes hardened as he recog- nized the man as one who had, in the pass- ing years, treated him with cold contempt. “We'll take that gent off yore hands,” announced the man. “You the boss uh this necktie party?” asked Faro. “Sorter, I reckon. The doc says Turkey Track’ll be well in a week er two but this *breed needs hangin’ anyhow.” “Turkey Track ain’t dead?” “Nope.” The crowd, orderly enough but firmly determined in their purpose, edged forward. “‘Keep yore shirts on, boys,” called Faro. “T taken a heap uh trouble tuh fetch this Manton skunk back. I figger that if there’s gonna be any kind uh doin’s, I’m entitled to a hand in it. You claim this gent needs hangin’ an’ I plumb agree with yuh. But it’s my doin’s an’ Turkey Track Tolliver’s doin’s. If Turkey Track says ‘hang,’ he hangs. If he says ‘no hangin’, it'll take some trouble tuh git him from me. I’m goin’ over tuh auger some with ol’ Turkey Track. I’m takin’ Manton along.” Ignoring the scowling faces, the drawn guns, and the muttered threats of the men who barred his path, Faro Furnell rode through them, leading Manton’s horse, down the street to Tolliver’s house. “Howdy!” boomed Tolliver’s voice from an open window. ‘‘Howdy, you ol’ hellion. I see yuh brung in the coyote.” “T told yuh not to take chips in the game,” Faro replied. “What made yuh do it, pardner?”’ cCOmiclbool CO