Boom Town Boy

by Lois Lenski

  Orvie patted Star and rode on. He didn’t want to go to Cottonwood creek where the campers lived. But Harry Big Bear had told him that there were no campers on the creek in the Indian Reservation, and frog-hunting was good.

  He rode on up toward the high part of the pasture. Up on the rise was a prairie-dog town. He could hear the little dogs barking. Sometimes when he rode past, fifty dogs about the size of squirrels would be sitting up straight, each at the hole of his burrow, barking.

  Star came up over the brow of the hill so swiftly she stepped into a burrow and fell. Over her head went Orvie, down into the dust.

  “Golly!” he cried. “Didn’t know we were so close.”

  He picked himself up and ran to see if Star was hurt. Her leg and foot seemed to be all right. Good thing she had not broken her leg. Orvie turned to look at the dog-town. There were hundreds of holes, covered with mounds of gravel and red clay, but there was not a prairie-dog to be seen.

  “I know you’re in there!” cried the boy. He ran and got a pigweed stalk and began poking it into a burrow. “You got rattlesnakes, owls and weasels down in there too. You’re all eatin’ each other up. I’ll get you out. You can’t hide from me down there.”

  He could not get them out, so he threw the stick down. He stood for a minute on the hill and looked around.

  The rushing wind made a sound that told of loneliness and far places. Where was it coming from and where was it going? He remembered his short ride in the airplane, when he had soared high above the earth. Now, standing on the wind-swept hill, with the wide open prairie on all sides, he felt the same ecstasy. He knew the wonder of the world where men and birds soared in the sky; where the bounty of the earth furnished food for man and beast alike and where even the depths yielded treasures for man’s use—precious stones, coal—and now oil.

  Suddenly the bigness of the world frightened him and made him feel very small. He felt lonesome and afraid and hungry. He jumped on his pony’s back and urged her on. He turned once and looked back.

  All the prairie-dogs were out again barking at him. It was so funny he had to laugh.

  He urged Star on. She crossed the Blackwell road, followed a path along Cottonwood creek and entered the Indian Reservation. The creek was overgrown and shadier here. It was cooler, and there were no people. He could see the roof of White Cloud’s house through the trees. He tied Star to a tree in the shade. Large bull-frogs sat on lily pads in the creek, croaking.

  “Harry! Harry!” Orvie called as loud as he could.

  Soon he heard a scuffle in the brush and Lily Wild Berry appeared.

  “Where’s Harry? Go tell him I want to catch frogs,” said Orvie.

  “I go get him.” Lily darted off again.

  She brought Harry, and Harry brought fish-poles and lines with hooks on the end. Orvie waded in the water until he was about fifteen feet away from a big bull-frog, sitting on a lily pad. He jiggled the hook till he got it under the frog’s chin, then jerked the pole. Lily brought a tow sack and held it open while Orvie took the frog off the hook.

  Harry was more expert than Orvie at catching frogs. He talked and laughed, telling how he trapped skunks and possums in the wintertime. It seemed like old times once again. Orvie was happier than he had been since oil was struck in the neighborhood.

  A large cottonwood tree had been blown down and now lay across the creek, reaching from one high bank to the other. The earth had been washed away from its roots by the rain, and the trunk made a natural bridge over the creek. Orvie looked up at it.

  “Dare you to walk that log!” he called out to Harry. “I dare you, I double-dare you …”

  “Huh!” said Harry. “That ain’t nothing.” He did not move.

  “I dare you, Lily,” Orvie went on. “Double-dare you.”

  Lily looked up and shrugged her shoulders. She had brought a sharp knife and was busily cleaning the frogs already caught.

  “Harry …” Orvie began, then he stopped suddenly, for he heard voices. “Golly! People comin’ to spoil our fun. Bet it’s some of those awful campers.”

  He ran up the dirt bank and to his surprise, saw not campers but a little girl. It was Bonnie Jean Barnes and a man following behind her who must be her father, Bill Barnes the shooter.

  They said they wanted to go frog-hunting too, so Harry and Orvie turned over their poles and lines. When Bonnie Jean caught a frog, she squealed and danced. Then she sat down to watch Lily take it off the hook.

  “I always did like frogs’ legs to eat,” cried Bonnie Jean.

  “You eat plenty,” said Lily. “You take ’em all home.”

  “My Daddy will catch enough for us,” said Bonnie Jean. “Daddy and I just love to go frog-hunting, but Mama won’t cook ’em at home.”

  “You can cook them,” said Orvie. “I know, how, I’ll show you.”

  Bonnie Jean opened her eyes up wide. “You know how—a boy?”

  “Sure,” boasted Orvie. “I know lots of things.”

  Bonnie Jean and her father stayed and stayed because they enjoyed it so much. Bill Barnes told the boys he had been “a shooter” for twenty years and he knew his business, but he liked a vacation from it now and then. He liked to go off swimming or fishing—or frog-hunting.

  “Why do you ‘shoot’ wells, anyhow?” asked Orvie.

  “Tell us,” begged Harry.

  “Well, boys, sometimes there is oil down in the well,” said Bill Barnes, “but it’s lodged tight in the oil rock and they can’t get it out. We have to make an artificial earthquake down there to start the flow of oil. This is called ‘shooting the well.’ We fill the well with three or four hundred feet of water, and let the torpedoes down to the water and unhook them to flow in the rest of the way. Then we drop a go-devil down to explode it. This busts the oil rock up into pieces. Then the oil flows through the cracks into the well.”

  “Golly!” said Orvie. “So that’s how they do it.”

  “That’s how I do it,” said Bill Barnes. “We have a fancy name for the dynamite we use—nitro-glycerin. It looks like common glycerin, and we put twenty-five to one hundred quarts of it into long narrow metal buckets called shells, which are lowered by a cable. It’s ticklish stuff to handle. When you haul it, if you give it the least little bump, it will explode and go off. That means goodbye for you.”

  The boys’ faces grew sober.

  “Gee!” said Orvie, after a pause. “It must be wonderful to be a shooter.”

  “As long as you’re careful,” added the man. “We’re always careful, ain’t we, Bonnie Jean? The accident always happens to the other fellow, don’t it?”

  The little girl ran and threw her arms around her father, and Orvie could see a cloud of worry like a shadow on her face. He knew now that she lived always in the fear of danger—in the fear of death.

  “I dare you to cross that log—I dare you!” Harry came beside him, yelling.

  Orvie ran up the bank, jumped on the fallen tree and holding his arms out to balance himself, walked slowly over. Half-way across he began to shake—the water looked dark and scary so far below. He kept on.

  “Double-dare you to come back again,” yelled Harry Big Bear.

  A dare always had to be met, so he walked slowly back over the log.

  Bill Barnes and Bonnie Jean were getting ready to go. “Come, walk home with us,” begged Bonnie Jean.

  “I got my pony,” said Orvie. “You can ride Star, Bonnie Jean, and I’ll lead her.”

  “Come and have supper at our house,” said Bill Barnes.

  “We’ll let you cook the frogs’ legs,” added Bonnie Jean.

  Lily Wild Berry insisted they take the whole bagful. Barnes threw it over his shoulder and they started off.

  “Yippy—yip—pee! Yippy—yip—pee!” came Harry’s voice behind them.

  Bonnie Jean climbed up on Star’s back and the trio looked back. They saw the two Indian children, completely fearless, go flying across the log on a dead run.

  “Y
ip—pee! Yip—pee!” called Orvie in reply.

  When they reached the Osage Torpedo house, Mrs. Barnes repeated the invitation to supper. Bill Barnes spread the frogs’ legs on the table, while Bonnie Jean and Orvie washed their hands and faces in the basin.

  “Frog-hunting again,” laughed Mrs. Barnes. “You know I can’t cook them. They kick in the skillet and I can’t stand it to watch them.”

  The others laughed.

  Bonnie Jean tied an apron around Orvie’s waist.

  “Mama soaks ’em in salt water first,” said Orvie, “to take out some of the kick. Then you put them in the skillet quick, cover it with a flat lid, and put a flatiron on top to keep them down. If they kick, you’ll never see it. They can’t kick hard enough to kick the lid off!”

  Bonnie Jean and her father and mother laughed and laughed. Orvie stayed for supper and everybody enjoyed the frogs’ legs except Mrs. Barnes, who ate scrambled eggs.

  CHAPTER X

  Whizzbang

  “Where’d that jackrabbit go to?” asked Orvie. “Did we run over him?”

  “Didn’t hear a bump,” said Bert. “He ran under the car, didn’t he?”

  Orvie and Bert were in the Ford, on their way to town. Orvie looked back. “Can’t see him. We didn’t run over him, and I can’t see him in either of the ditches. Wonder where he disappeared to.”

  They laughed and thought nothing more of it just then.

  It was a hot day in August, and the road which in April had been a sea of mud was now deep in dust. All the grass in the pastures was brown and dry, and the wheat stubble had been plowed under. The fields were sprinkled with oil derricks, and these were surrounded by oil-laden ponds and ditches. There had been no rain for a long time, and there was little evidence of green growth.

  The Ford rattled into Whizzbang and Bert parked in front of Peg-Leg Moore’s store.

  When Orvie got out of the car the first thing he saw was Slim Rogers sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch of Biddy Bascom’s boarding house across the street.

  “Hi, Slim!” called Orvie. “Golly, Slim! You all well again?”

  “I’m fine, Orvie,” answered Slim. “Got back from the hospital yesterday. Got a new hide on my back and legs. Nothing wrong except …”

  “What is it, Slim? Anything I can do for you?” Orvie hurried over.

  “I’m just hungry, boy, for some good home cooking,” confessed Slim. “Terrible stuff they fed me in that hospital. And here—Biddy is all right, but she don’t go to much trouble—just throws food together, and it don’t taste right.”

  “Mama’s cooking’s awful good, Slim,” said Orvie. “So’s Della’s.”

  Slim laughed. “I bet Della makes good rabbit gravy!”

  “She sure does,” said Orvie.

  Orvie took the bottles of milk and a basket of eggs into Biddy Bascom’s kitchen. When he came out, Slim stopped him.

  “Got me a pair of new driller boots,” he said, “with steel cap safety toes.” Orvie gazed at the boots in admiration. “For protection against falling objects, so I won’t get my toes mashed. Say, Orvie, will you take a message to your sister?”

  “Sure will,” said Orvie.

  “Tell her she’s gonna have company for dinner tomorrow,” said Slim. “Don’t tell her who’s comin’, but she better have rabbit gravy.”

  “Sure—rabbit gravy, I’ll tell her.” Orvie laughed. “So long, Slim.”

  He crossed over the street.

  “Got to do Mama’s tradin’,” he called to Bert. He bent over to put the egg basket on the back seat of the car, and there, sitting on the running board, he saw a strange sight.

  “Here’s that crazy jackrabbit, Bert!” yelled Orvie. “He had a ride into town with us. What d’you know about that? Looky! There he goes!”

  The jackrabbit took a flying leap across the board sidewalk and disappeared in the open door of Peg-Leg Moore’s store. The next minute Orvie followed, and Freckles Hart followed Orvie. Other people followed Freckles, and a rabbit hunt was on.

  Peg-Leg’s business had doubled, so the store had twice as many groceries, and there were twice as many customers as usual. Violent commotion ensued.

  Women screamed as the long-legged rabbit dashed down the main aisle, circled, and hurdled a showcase of candy and baked goods. The next minute he knocked over a pyramid of tomato cans on the counter and leaped over a rack of hoes and shovels. Women and children dodged, shrieking, and Peg-Leg ducked under the counter.

  Suddenly the jackrabbit halted, hunched over on the floor as if breathless and exhausted. Orvie approached cautiously, Freckles behind him. Orvie reached out, grabbed a bunch of hair but did not get the rabbit. Crash, smash, bang! Bunny made a leap through the glass in the front show window.

  “Gone!” shouted Peg-Leg. “Gone!” echoed the customers. “He’s off for the big wide prairie.”

  “Biggest jackrabbit I ever saw in my life!” cried Orvie, when he stopped laughing.

  “He had to run sideways to keep from flyin’!” added Freckles.

  “I’ll sue that long-legged rabbit for damages!” laughed Peg-Leg, hurrying to get a broom to sweep up the broken glass.

  Orvie took out of his pocket a piece of paper with a long list of groceries written on it. “Mama wants these,” he said to the storekeeper.

  Peg-Leg read the list over. “Looks like she’s feedin’ an army.”

  “Pretty near,” said Orvie. “Two sittings every meal and nothing much left over for us kids. I got eggs and chickens in the Ford to trade.” He went out to bring them in.

  When he reached the board sidewalk, he stopped dead in his tracks. There sat Bert in the front seat of the Ford, roaring with laughter, holding up a jackrabbit by its hind legs.

  “Golly!” exclaimed Orvie. “Is that him?”

  “Killed hisself buttin’ his head through the window!” laughed Bert. “Landed smack in my lap!”

  “Haw, haw, haw!” Slim Rogers, who had been watching the excitement from his reserved seat on the front porch across the street, called out: “Take him home with you, Orvie, and remember I ordered gravy!”

  “Sure thing, Slim!” shouted Orvie.

  He took the eggs and chickens back in the store where Peg-Leg was piling up Mama’s groceries.

  “Bunny never made the wide open spaces that time,” laughed the storekeeper.

  “No, he made Mama’s frying pan!” laughed Orvie.

  “See my new wooden leg?” asked the storekeeper. “Just come yesterday from the factory.”

  “Gee, it sure looks fine,” said Orvie, peering over the counter. “All that varnish and everything. Bet it cost a lot. How does it make you feel?”

  “Frisky as that jackrabbit!” laughed Peg-Leg. “Makes me want to take to the prairie too, but I think I’ll go through the door instead of the window.”

  “So will I,” said Orvie, carrying the groceries out to the Ford. Freckles helped by bringing a twenty-five pound bag of flour.

  “I’ll get your milk now, Freckles,” said Orvie, “and take it to the Café. You just wait a minute.”

  The Bucking Horse was right next door. Freckles waited obligingly.

  “Don’t stay all day,” growled Bert.

  Freckles opened the restaurant door and the two boys found it cool and quiet inside. A man sat at the counter, while several others lounged at tables. Some sat with their heads on their folded arms, where they had been sleeping all night.

  “What? No shootin’ today?” asked Orvie.

  “Well, there’s the Chief,” said Freckles. “He’s the driller that Hooky Blair and Two-Gun Jimmy got it in for. They ordered him out of town and he’s still here. Hang around a while—he might start something.”

  “He better do it quick,” said Orvie. “I gotta get back before Bert skins me alive.”

  They stared, but the man was sitting quietly, eating his dinner. Orvie took the milk to the kitchen and came back.

  “Aw, stay around a while. Something’s al
ways happening here, honest,” promised Freckles.

  “I’ll stay till Bert comes after me,” said Orvie.

  The place was so quiet and still, it seemed unlikely anything could happen. But just then, two men entered the restaurant. One wore high-heeled cowboy boots and the other had a hook for a hand. The Chief looked up and saw them. He rose slowly from his stool, took money from his pocket and paid the cashier for his meal. The cashier turned white and looked scared. An atmosphere of tension came over the room. The men at the tables looked up, but no one moved.

  As the Chief approached the two men, they backed quickly out the door. Like a flash, he followed.

  “That was Hooky and Two-Gun!” cried Freckles. “Let’s see what the Chief’s up to.” The boys made a bee-line for the door.

  A sudden shot rang out. One of the two men fell on the boardwalk outside, the other ran away. The Chief ran after the second man and fired several times. The two men kept on running and others joined in the chase.

  In front of the Bucking Horse Café, a crowd quickly gathered around the fallen man.

  “What did I tell you?” asked Freckles proudly.

  “Did somebody kill somebody?” asked Orvie.

  Freckles ducked into the circle of people and came back.

  “It’s Hooky Blair,” he announced. “The Chief shot him.”

  “Is he dead?” asked Orvie.

  “Looks dead enough to me,” said Freckles. “Now you’ve seen a man get killed.”

  “I ain’t even had a look at him yet,” said Orvie.

  “Better hurry, they’re gonna load him in that wagon,” said Freckles.

  Somebody grabbed Orvie by the arm. He looked up and saw that it was Bert.

  “Orvie, you come right back to the car,” ordered Bert. “We got to get out of here quick.”

  “Just a minute, Bert,” said Orvie. “I want to see something.”

  “Mama said you’re not to be hangin’ around these here tough places,” scolded Bert. “I saw them fellers shootin’ and I’m goin’ home right away.”

  Orvie felt he could not go just yet. He had to satisfy his curiosity. He jerked loose from Bert, came up to the edge of the crowd and forced his way in. The crowd parted and he could see plainly. He saw Hooky Blair lying dead on the ground. He saw his outstretched arm with the hook on it. He saw the man’s white face and his open mouth. He saw spots of blood on his neck and shirt. It was enough. He didn’t want to see anything more.