Argosy All-Story Weekly, November 12, 1927 — page 9: what you’re looking at

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

SOMEWHERE crude, hurriedly erected dance halls and more or less under-cover gambling places, a clothing store, an assay and registry office, a newspaper plant which while wait- ing for the lumber for its housing was being conducted in the open, the ever present Greek restaurant, and a sprinkling of hot- dog stands, shooting galleries and similar catch-penny establishments. The only really interesting part of the spectacle was the crowd. It filled the en- tire roadway, and jammed in and out of the various places of entertainment under the flaring gasoline lights. It shouted and gesticulated and whooped in a sort of hila- rious delirium. Gold! Gold! Gold! It was all they talked, and all they thought of. Everybody felt rich. The bridle was off. And the whole population was out to celebrate. Every type of humanity was represented, and almost every nationality. “ Gee!” Mickey stared at the milling throngs, which were constantly being aug- mented by the never ceasing influx of new gold seekers. “ If there’s only seven-tenths of a person to the square mile in Nevada, as the statistics say, each one must have picked up his other three-tenths somewhere, and all be here.” Yet, strangely enough, considering that there was as yet no community government at Quoonah, lawlessness or even misbe- havior was practically absent. The reason was not far to find. All offi- cial control for the time being was centered in the sole person of Saul Daggett, the county sheriff. But that was enough. Hard boiled, lank, leather-faced, with a six-gallon white hat on his head, a silver star on his breast, and two guns strapped about his waist, he paraded up and down through the crowd; and such was his repu- tation that a word from him—usually only a glance from his steely gray eye—was all that was required to nip any incipient out- break. An autocrat, not only there, but through- out his bailiwick—and come to think of it, a Nevada county is larger than many a European principality—he brooked no question of his authority. But he was a tolerant despot in a way—“ liberal ” is the word generally used. He did not go about NEVADA. 483 with his ear cocked for the rattle of chips, or his nose sniffing for spirituous odors. In fact, he was not averse to sitting in a friendly game of draw himself, it was said, nor to occasionally wetting his whistle with something stronger than ginger ale. Following him into the largest of the dance halls, a place known as the Broad- way Night Club, Mickey and Slim saw him pause beside the leng counter above which hung a sign, “ Soft Drinks Of All Kinds,” and jerk his head significantly toward the shirt-sleeved servitor. A bottle labeled ‘“ Strawberry Pop,” but which in color more resembled corn whisky, was immediately placed before him; and tilting it carefully, he poured a stiff four- fingers of it into a glass, and tossed it off. Then, resting his elbow on the bar, he swept his stony gaze over the assemblage as if looking for somebody. His eyes lingered for a moment on Mickey, with a glint of question in them. Men of his sort are apt to be intuitive; and some subtle sixth sense in him may have registered a warning that he and the dark young stranger were due to clash. But the impression, if it existed, was not strong enough to hold his attention, for after a brief interval his cold stare moved on. Mickey had noted that momentary scru- tiny bestowed on him, but was indifferent to it. The sheriff meant nothing in his young existence. As a matter of fact, he was becoming bored and sleepy. IN The night life of Quoonah to one who ~ knew his “ Roaring Forties” seemed a pretty tame business; and what little ani- . mation or spontaneity had been shown in the revels was snuffed out by the appear- ance of Daggett. A few couples were fox-trotting solemnly to the discords of a low-spirited jazz band. A waddling, asthmatic hostess was per- functorily wheezing, “Mix it up, boys! Mix it up!” A half dozen henna-tressed dance girls—genuine antiques—were daw- dling about among the tables. But no one displayed any real inclination to cut loose. “T’ve been to church socials that had more pep than this,” growled Mickey, taking no trouble to conceal his yawns. COPMICLOOOKS (E@)