by Lois Lenski
No one acted as if it were Sunday. A woman was washing clothes in a wooden tub. Another was hanging bedding out to air. Strange children were playing about. Orvie wondered if he would ever get to know them, and which name belonged to which—Cassady, Armstrong, Decker …
Pounding and sawing were going on everywhere. A new house was going up—twelve feet wide, eight feet high and sixteen feet long. The walls were made of one thickness of boards, with window frames protruding on the outside. A two by twelve plank rested on its narrow edge, reaching from front to back of the building. A man was laying roof boards on, curving them over to give enough slope to shed water.
“This your house?” inquired Orvie.
“Gonna be,” said the man. “We’re fixin’ to move in tomorrow. Laid the first timber this morning.”
“Awful funny roof,” remarked Orvie.
“Box-car roof,” answered the man. “We call it a box-car house. Quick to build and good enough to live in. We always have ’em in the oil fields. I’m Ed Soaper, roustabout.”
The man’s wife and children came and stared at Orvie.
“Gonna plaster inside?” asked Orvie. “You’ll freeze to death in the wintertime with only thin boards for walls.”
“No, bub,” laughed the man. “Not when we git gas piped in.”
“We’ll git free gas and we’ll roast ourselves to death,” said the woman, laughing.
“My name’s Charley,” said the nine-year-old boy. “Charley Soaper. That’s a nice dog you got. You live up there where we get water, don’t you?”
Orvie nodded.
Ed Soaper glanced up the road. “Here comes somebody in too big a rush to build him a house. He’s movin’ one in.”
Orvie hurried up to watch. Several teams of horses were pulling a one-room house with rollers under it. Two men followed behind, picked up the rollers and ran to the front to put them under again. The house made slow progress.
“Want a ride?” called the driver, when they came to the corner.
“Sure,” said Orvie. He looked at the sign in big letters above the front door. OSAGE TORPEDO HOUSE it said. He wondered what it meant, as he stepped inside and rode along.
The house was moved around the corner onto the side road. Here were more of the hastily-built shacks along the edge of Grandpa’s wheat field. The house was set at the end of the line, near the alfalfa field.
“Who’s going to live here?” asked Orvie.
“Them folks,” said the driver. He pointed to a truck loaded with people and furniture, which had driven up. A girl climbed down and sat on a box to watch the unloading. She was pretty and wore a flowered white dress and a straw hat. Orvie went over to talk to her.
“Are you going to live here?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the girl.
“Your father …” began Orvie.
“He’s a shooter,” explained the girl.
“Oh!” said Orvie. He did not know what a shooter was. He looked at the sign over the door of the building. “What’s that?” he asked.
“For dynamite,” said the girl.
“Oh!” said Orvie again.
“It used to be for storage,” the girl went on, “but now we’re going to live in it. We couldn’t find any other place.”
“Oh!” said Orvie. “My name’s Orville Robinson. What’s yours?”
“Bonnie Jean Barnes,” said the girl.
“I … I had a ride in your house,” said Orvie.
But the woman called and the girl went into the Osage Torpedo House. Orvie wondered how it would feel to live there.
He cut into the field and wandered slowly across the prairie. Shep scampered along happily. It was quiet out in the field. He was away from the noise of the oil wells and the noise of many people. The earth seemed to have flattened out and the sky was a blue dome overhead. The sun was hot on his back and a good stiff wind was blowing. It was just the kind of day that he liked.
Suddenly he saw Shep chasing a jackrabbit in the pasture ahead. A jackrabbit was larger than a cottontail, with very long ears and much larger, stronger hind legs. The rabbit was wise—it acted as if it were crippled and let the dog come close. Then suddenly it ran off and hid behind a bush. Shep came up sniffing. The rabbit kicked the dirt up in his face and was off again. Orvie laughed as he saw the long-legged creature go flying up the slope, its ears laid back, making jumps twenty feet in length. What chance did poor Shep have?
Orvie decided it was time to go for the cows, so he went to the barn and climbed on Star’s back. Dusk was gathering as he headed for Cottonwood creek. In warm weather the cows sought the thickest brush to get relief from flies and ticks. It was hard to hunt them out, one by one, from the dense plum and blackberry bushes, overgrown with wild grapevines.
Orvie wondered where they were tonight. So much had happened, he had not been to the creek lately. Bert had been bringing the cows in. To his surprise he saw lights flickering among the bushes. He slapped Star’s back and trotted over. Shep came running behind.
The creek was greatly changed. He hardly knew it.
In among the shady trees and bushes, homeless campers lived in tents or makeshift huts. They were “hangers-on”—people who followed the oil booms, hoping to get jobs or money by fair or unfair means. Some of them were ragged, others wore few clothes. It had been a very hot day and the air had not yet cooled off. Orvie could see beds inside the tents and people lolling on them. He saw smoky campfires and women trying to cook. Ragged, barefoot children were breaking branches off the trees and throwing them on the fires. Others were sliding down the dirt banks of the deep gully or wading in the creek.
Orvie slid off Star’s back and let her stand. Shep came close.
“Where you folks from?” Orvie demanded, approaching a blowsy, fat woman, who held a greasy skillet over a fire. “This is my Grandpa’s farm. Did he say you could camp here?”
The woman laughed a loud, coarse laugh, which made Shep growl. Orvie pulled the dog back. The woman called to a group of men sitting on the ground behind a tent, playing a game. They had bottles in their hands.
The men called back to the woman in words that Orvie did not understand. They tipped their bottles and drank. They threw the empty bottles in Orvie’s direction.
“Git along home to your rich old Grandpa!” cried the woman. They were all looking at him now.
The ragged children dashed forward and threw stones at Orvie and the dog. As he turned away, Orvie noticed that the grass was strewn with empty bottles. He stumbled and fell. The next minute an overgrown boy was on his back, pounding him hard. But Shep set up a wild barking, then began to nip the boy’s heels. The boy jumped off and backed away, afraid.
Orvie ran across the pasture to catch Star, who had started to run. Then he had to stop and sit down for a while. He felt so sick he was afraid he might lose his dinner. Shep came up and lay down beside him, panting. He patted the dog on the back.
Orvie felt sick in another way, too. The creek, where he had had such happy times wading and fishing, was spoiled. It was spoiled for him forever. He must keep Addie away. She must not see the creek the way it was now. Addie was too little to understand such things.
Orvie rode the pony slowly back across the fields to the farmhouse. The farmhouse too had changed so he hardly knew it. It did not seem like home any more.
Before he reached the barn lot, before he could hear the noise and vibration of the two oil wells, he stopped suddenly for a strange sound struck his ear. It was music—loud, noisy music, the kind of music that kept on getting louder and louder as if it would never stop. Then it stopped for a minute, quieted down, but soon began all over again.
Orvie listened to see which direction it was coming from. All at once he knew. It was coming from the Pickerings’ farmhouse down the road. He remembered Mrs. Pickering’s visit on the day of the hailstorm. Old Pickering had done just what she said he would do. He had started a filling station across from Moore’s store and he and his wife
were living upstairs. The old farmhouse, one of the first built after the Run, had been turned into a dance hall. That was where the music was coming from.
Orvie put Star in the barn and started for the house. He must tell Bert to go after the cows.
He walked over to the oil well at the side of, the house. Just then its lights came on. The derricks were lighted up with electric lights from bottom to top at night, so the night tour could continue the drilling.
Orvie felt sick again.
Even night was changed to day.
CHAPTER VI
Boom Town
“Here’s a nickel for you to spend, Addie,” said Papa. “And a nickel for you, Orvie.”
“Thank you, Papa.” Orvie took a good look at the coin before he put it in his pocket. He thought of things he might buy with it.
After a rainy week, it was threatening rain again, but the family decided to go to Tonkawa anyway. It was several weeks since they had been there and various things were needed.
“I must get a new teakettle,” said Mama. “My old one has sprung a leak.”
“Can I get me a new summer hat?” asked Della.
“That bay team needs new harness,” said Papa.
“I want to look at tractors,” said Bert.
“All I want is a couple o’ plugs of chewing tobacco,” said Grandpa.
A trip to town on Saturday was always a great event, the high spot of the whole week. Everybody hurried to get ready. Mama and the girls put on fresh clothes, and the boys wore coats and caps.
The road was soft from the rains and the ruts were deep. Papa drove the Ford slowly and carefully. The family talked sociably as they rode along. Orvie took his nickel out of his pocket now and then to look at it.
Mama stared at the row of little houses’ that lined Grandpa’s farm.
“I never knew there were so many,” she said. “And what’s that? A circus right here at the crossroads? What’s that big tent for?”
“It says BUNKS on the front,” said Papa. “Must be a place for men to sleep.”
“We’re gittin’ a town right out here in the country—a boom town!” chuckled Grandpa. “It reminds me of Perry, on the night of the Cherokee Run, way back in 1893. Perry grew into a town overnight—a tent town.”
“Gosh almighty, just look!” exclaimed Papa. “Last week these stores weren’t here. Now look at ’em, there’s a café, a shoe shop, machine and blacksmith shops …”
“A barber shop,” said Bert.
“And a drug store,” added Della.
“Bet that’s Old Pickering’s filling station,” said Orvie, pointing.
“And all those shack-houses in between,” said Mama. “Why, there must be hundreds of people come to live here now. I had no idea … Look at the oil wells drillin’ right close behind all the stores and makin’ all that racket.”
Orvie had been reading signs stuck up on buildings or telephone poles: TOM’S SHOE SHOP, BUCKING HORSE CAFE, Ambulance phone 473, O. K. FEED STORE, LONG HORN MEATS, Doc McGuire call 95, POOR BOYS CAFE, Ironing Done 2 doors South, THE GUSHER drinks & everything, SUNFLOWER DRY GOODS, I Do Sewing, Hot Cakes & Donuts …
“Don’t know if we’ll ever get to Tonkawa,” mumbled Papa. He was having a hard time keeping in the road, there were so many cars and wagons churning up the mud. The big wagon in front of the Robinson Ford slowed up. The line of vehicles ahead of it had stopped. Those going south were straddling deep ruts, or slipping down into the soft ditch. A horse pulling a mud-boat was carrying people across to the other side.
“We should have stayed at home when the road’s as slick as this,” said Mama. “We’ll stick sure.”
The Ford stopped with a jerk. Papa got out and walked ahead to see what the trouble was.
A boy on the board sidewalk called out, “Where you goin’, Orvie?” He came up to the car, and they all saw that he had red hair and freckles.
“To Tonkawa, if we can ever get there,” answered Orvie.
“Who is this boy?” asked Mama.
“Freckles, we call him. He’s a new boy in my class at school, Mama,” Orvie explained. “His father, Ed Hart, runs that place there—the Bucking Horse Café. Don’t he, Freckles?”
“Yes,” said Freckles proudly. “See that bucking horse on the front window—a cowboy painted it. It brings in lots of customers.”
Papa came back. “They say Birds Nest Creek is bank full and so is Salt Fork River. The water’s over the road, so we can’t get through to Tonkawa. And up front, by that filling station, there’s a chug hole big enough to drownd a horse in. A feller will pull you through with a tractor for five dollars. Guess who it is.”
“I haven’t an idea,” said Mama.
“Old Pickering!” sputtered Papa. “Ain’t that just like him?”
Freckles spoke up. “He’s pulled a hundred and forty-seven cars through already. Do you know what he does every night? Digs the hole out deeper and hauls water in a barrel on a sled and dumps it in. I saw him!”
“Low-down skunk!” growled Grandpa. “Trust him to make even a mud-hole profitable. Always some people makin’ profit out of others’ misfortunes.”
“Did you hear about that mule that dropped plumb out of sight yesterday?” asked Freckles.
“No, where?” inquired Orvie.
“Down in the mud, of course!” laughed Freckles. “I been doin’ a good business sellin’ drinkin’ water, five cents a glass.”
“You have?” said Orvie, astonished.
“Peg-Leg’s pump is the only well water in town,” the boy went on, “and people get thirsty, don’t they? There’s my stand.” He pointed.
Grandpa frowned. “Young man, you takin’ lessons from Old Pickering?” But Freckles did not answer. He hurried off down the sidewalk.
“You folks get out now and go in the stores here,” said Papa. “I’ll see if I can get turned around somehow.”
Papa lifted Addie and Della out and carried them one at a time across the muddy road to the opposite side. He found some loose boards and put them down for Orvie, Mama and Grandpa to walk on.
“My land!” exclaimed Mama. “Where did all these people come from? Last week when I came to Peg-Leg’s to do my trading, there was no town here at all.”
“It’s an over-night oil field,” said Grandpa. “This is what you call a ‘boom town.’ Some of ’em gets built in three days, but our’n took a week.”
The board sidewalk was crowded with people, operators, lease dealers, promoters, gamblers, oil workers, strangers of every kind. Real-estate men stood on boxes and shouted bargains. Hawkers peddled little bottles of oil for souvenirs, others sold maps. Men had desks on the boardwalk and were doing various kinds of business.
The Robinsons hardly recognized Moore’s Store when they came to it, for other buildings hugged it now on both sides. The oil well behind it was hammering noisily and shaking the building with its vibration. Inside, the store was very crowded. Peg-Leg was beaming from ear to ear and running his wooden leg off, trying to wait on customers.
“I hear you folks are millionaires!” he called out to Grandpa.
“Not yet, but soon!” answered the old man gaily.
Orvie went up to the counter with Mama. Addie pressed her nose against the glass of the candy counter, and after parting with her nickel, began to chew on a mouthful of gumdrops. Orvie studied the sticks of black licorice. He didn’t like the taste much, but it made saliva good and black, and when he spat it out, it looked like real tobacco juice.
Then he saw White Cloud, the old Otoe Indian, come in, as stolid-faced and mournful as ever.
“White Cloud, have you buried that baby yet?” Peg-Leg called out.
“What baby?” asked the Indian.
“The one you had to have money for the funeral for.”
“Baby not dead yet,” said White Cloud. “Got well plenty quick.”
The people standing around laughed heartily. Mama and Della went to buy groceries in the back part of the stor
e. Freckles Hart came in.
“See those men out there?” He pointed to a group of men, dressed in leather coats, leather-faced breeches, wearing high-laced, big-hole boots and carrying briefcases. “They’re oil men—they always dress in leather.”
He pointed again. “See that man there in front of my Pa’s place?”
Orvie looked out and saw a man wearing a light cream-colored cowboy hat and cowboy boots with high heels.
“That’s Two-Gun Jimmy,” said Freckles. “He’s deputy-sheriff. He shoots with two guns at the same time and never misses his mark. He eats at our place.”
“Oh!” said Orvie, open-mouthed.
“There! He’s gone in now to get his dinner.”
The man disappeared inside the Café.
“See that man walkin’ along there across the street?” Freckles went on. “That’s Hooky Blair. He got his right hand blowed off in an explosion and he wears a hook.”
“A hook?” exclaimed Orvie, staring at the man.
“Yes, an iron hook,” said Freckles earnestly. “You can’t see it, he’s got it stuffed in his pocket. He eats with it and everything.”
“Why don’t he eat with his left hand?” asked Orvie.
“He uses his hook, I’ve seen him,” said Freckles. “Hooky Blair and Two-Gun Jimmy are the two meanest men in town. They used to be outlaws and Hooky’s been in the Pen, but they’re law enforcement officers now. They arrest the oil field workers when they drink too much. There’s a driller called the Chief. Hooky beat him up once. Then he ordered him out of town and told him if he ever came back he would kill him. You better not be hangin’ around when them two gets to shootin’.”
“No,” said Orvie nervously. “I wouldn’t want to be around.”
“But I will,” bragged Freckles, “and I’ll tell you what happens. I’ve lived in oil fields all my life. Bet I’ve seen more men killed than you have.”
Freckles went out and Orvie stared after him.
The crowd in the store got thicker and everybody was talking and laughing. There seemed to be unusual excitement. Then all at once, there was Peg-Leg calling to the people to listen. He mounted a chair, then stood on the counter and shouted:
