The Argosy, Vol. 76, No. 3 — page 25: what you’re looking at

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

GOLD GRABBERS. Mariquita Mine were a poor lot. .La- borers of the better class would not work there, for the taking off of Griggsby had given the property a hard name. King’s presence was a necessity. He was the accredited agent of a Denver company that owned cyaniding rights, and King saw to it that royalties were paid from every clean-up. Big Steve was not the worst of the Americans when sober, but he was far and away the worst of them when “tuned.” And from the others King could expect no aid. He was thrown wholly upon his own resources; and these, as already observed, were weak and scattering. Thursday morning Big Steve car- ried his pleasantries a little further. Breaking down the door of the chuck shanty, he drove forth the luckless Wun Sing and chased him out of camp. So, along with the mine, the mill, the blacksmith-shop, and the cyanid “plant,” the chuck shanty went out of business. King lived on sardines and crackers. How the other Americans lived he did not know, nor care. He had himself to worry about. His naked eye could not reach far enough. From the laboratory he was now scanning the trail with binoculars. That was Thursday morning, and why did not the new superintedent comé? The sun passed the meridian and slowly descended upon a stricken camp. King’s despair grew as the day faded and no one arrived to take over his responsibilities. Reason told him.to flee under cover of that Thursday night and while there was yet time. Duty warned him to remain, in spite of Big Steve and what Big Steve might do. Yes, he would stay; he must stay. But he wished he had something to shoot with. The cyanid expert did not close his eyes between sunset and dawn. At eight in the morning he crept cautious- ly toward the end of the pipe-line to renew his water supply. ' Then Big Steve, rushing from the ‘495 chuck-shanty and brandishing a blade which Wun Sing used for peeling po- tatoes, drove the unhappy expert pell- mell in the direction of the headquar- ters adobe. The office-door was locked. King himself had secured it, and at that mo- ment the key was in the laboratory. White and shaking, the expert turned and flattened out against the adobe wall. “Yah!” taunted Big Steve, pausing a dozen feet away and leering with his bloodshot eyes. ‘‘ What’re you good for, say?” His voice was thick, but he kept his feet steadily. His whole bearing was one of terrible menace. “Clear out, you big brute!” an- swered King, shaking the tin water- bucket. ‘‘ Don’t you dare come nearer me with that knife! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. By George, I'll report you for this!” It was a gallant effort to hold his own. What it cost the little cyanid worker a man of more Spartan fiber could never know. “'Y’ain’t got no more sand than a chipmunk!” howled Big Steve. “Y’ain’t even an apology for a real man! I’m plumb annoyed at having you around. King, you little wart, here’s where you cash in.” A line of heads rimmed the edge of the distant dry wash. <A_ swarthy, ragged, palpitating group watched pro- ceedings from the Mexican quarter. All knew that Big Steve had reached the climax of deviltry, that the grand finale was about to be staged, and that immediately following it his reign of terror would be overwhelmed by a pe- riod of sleep and helplessness. But would he kill the little man with the water-bucket? Not one of those who looked on from a distance would have given a copper cent for King’s chances. King, ‘probably, would not have given much more himself. Slowly, deliberately, Big Steve ad- vanced upon his intended victim. The millman’s face was puffy and splotched COMicdoo S CO@