Argosy All-Story Weekly, December 4, 1926 — page 33: what you’re looking at

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

SILENT of boom towns expect just such a ruler; perhaps they are too busy in their fever- ish search for wealth to pay any attention to any conditions beyond their own per- sonal ones. Whatever the cause, no man ques- tioned the right of Pig Grabow to lay down the law, no man for many days during that first rush into Quartz City raised his voice against the abused power of the proprietor of the Quartz City Ritz. Grabow fairly expanded with power. His huge, toadlike, bilious-eyed figure seemed everywhere. Checking up: on his tolls was Grabow, maintaining his prestige by never allowing any one to doubt it. As Quartz City grew like a mushroom, as hun- dreds of men—good and bad, rich and poor —piled into it, Grabow realized he needed _assistants to support his régime. He sent for the Vari gang, sure of their strength and power; he elevated Monk Day from his humble position as bartender to chief aid; he appointed each of the original miners of Quartz City on his offi- cial staff. With such a nucleus behind him, his power constantly grew, and as his power grew his respect for right diminished. Short shrift he made of enemies, but he was wise enough to reward his friends richly. Quartz City, one day a straggling little mountain settlement looking out over the desert from the modesty of a single street and less than a score of dwellings, the next week a buzzing bee hive of a thousand people; one day tough, the next week tougher; one day quiet, deadly, sullen, the next week noisy, blatant, frantically alive— such were the results of the tungsten strike. Tents. occupied every piece of level ground. Scattered hit-or-miss, they were. Rude shacks sprang up, constructed from roughly hewn lumber taken from the mountainside above. A freight-trainlike— addition extended southward from the Ritz; beyond it rapidly rose a dozen single- room houses. These were for the girls over whom Kettle Kate was to govern. Yes, Pig Gra- bow had seen all the possibilities of profit, and taken advantage of them. Each night now he retired to his own room in the 343 hotel and received the reports of his many lieutenants; a huge spider watching his web. He was in his second-floor room the night of the day following the arrival of the Vari gang, receiving the report of Monk Day. ‘The ex-bartender was the last to check in, but his report was always the most interesting. 53 Grabow’s puffy figure lounged slouchily in a chair which had once been upholstered with velvet, but which now showed only brown nap. On a table beside him between two tumblers and a whisky bottle rested a Luger automatic, after all an even more reliable assistant than his lieutenants. He had removed his shoes, and his bare toes continually curled on the frayed carpet with nervous energy. Red as his face had always been, it had become redder during these last few days, an unhealthy red shad- ing into purple. Apoplexy would claim Pig Grabow some day if a bullet didn’t get him first. Mean- while he was enjoying to its fullest the in- toxication of absolute power. “ What’s the news, Monk?” He turned his yellow-tinged eyes from the tumbler of whisky and contemplated his chief aid. Sometimes he doubted Monk: at times the man seemed to be soft-hearted, ready to take the side of the under dog. Yet he was useful. All day long he lounged near the bar, maintaining some semblance of order, guarding the faro game —and, most important, picking up infor- mation with his quick ears, sizing up new- comers with his experienced eyes, the offi- cial secret service of Czar Grabow’s au- tocracy. . “You knew the Varis were here, of course, Squint Pete, and the two boys?” Monk asked. He remained standing, as all good soldiers do when reporting official business to their captains. “Sure. They’re out now, organizing the Vigilantes, getting together the men who have a grievance against me. They promise to run me out of town.” ‘“ What?” demanded the ex-barkeeper. Perturbation flashed across his thin, blue- black face, but, there seemed a hint of pleasure in his bleary eyes. Pig Grabow grinned. “Don’t be so JERRY. 500 (<) Com! > m, a PR ee