Land Grab: Jim Hatfield takes a hand in a range war! (Prologue Western)

by Jackson cole

  “The county seat?” Hatfield repeated. “That’s just fine. Saddle up your horse, Doc, and come along as a witness.”

  He cast an amused glance at the blushing Verna, and at Rance Cranley, who was shifting from one foot to the other and nervously twisting his hat to pieces.

  “Everybody agreeable?” he queried.

  Verna Flint smiled, although her lips trembled and her blue eyes were misty.

  “I am,” she replied, “but as for him — he hasn’t even asked me.”

  “I’m askin’ you right now!” bawled Rance Cranley, “and I’m here to tell everybody, Jim Hatfield’s got more sense than all the rest of Texas put together!”

  Late that afternoon, as they neared Vega again, riding in the wake of Rance Cranley and the new Mrs. Rance Cranley, old Doc wagged an apprehensive head.

  “Hatfield,” he predicted, “Clyde Cranley and Justin Flint are goin’ straight up into the air like balloons when they hear about this.”

  “Let ‘em go!” Hatfield replied cheerfully. “They’ll come down again, and when they’re down, they’ll be just like balloons that come down — with most of the hot air let out.”

  CHAPTER X

  THE MONTUOSO VALLEY cowboys had a wild weekend and were back on the job Monday morning, busted, headachey, and happy. Hatfield assigned chores to his men, and then consulted with Clyde Cranley. The pair were seated in Cranley’s office when they heard a clatter of hoofs outside. A moment later a young puncher hurried into the room, gasping for breath, his eyes staring wildly.

  “Aldrich! … the watchman at the drillin’ derrick …” he gulped.

  Old Clyde glowered at him over his spectacles.

  “Well, what about Aldrich?” he demanded. “Is he drunk or somethin’?”

  The cowboy gulped again.

  “He’s — he’s dead!” he gasped.

  “Dead!”

  “Uh-huh, shot — shot in the back of the head. We found him when we rode up there to start the drill.”

  Cranley leaped to his feet and swore a bitter oath.

  “That’s what we get for helpin’ them buzzards!” he rasped.

  “While we’re up on that mountain workin our damn fool brains out for ‘em, they snuck down here and murdered one of my hands! Come on, Hatfield, let’s ride.”

  The rig was hanging idle when they arrived at the site of the drilling. Men stood about in groups, talking in low tones. Inside the little shelter that had been built to accommodate the watchman lay his body covered with a blanket.

  “Poor devil never even had a chance to turn around,” an informant told Cranley. “Shot in the back of the head and left layin’ beside the shanty.”

  “This settles it,” growled the old rancher, glowering toward the distant mouth of the valley. “Don’t you think so, Hatfield?”

  “Yes,” the Ranger replied quietly.

  He too looked toward the valley mouth and then toward Vega, his mouth set with definite purpose.

  Cranley was examining the drilling apparatus. He shook his head in a puzzled manner.

  “They didn’t touch a thing, so far as I can see,” he announced. “Didn’t do a bit of damage. You would’ve figured they would’ve wrecked it, or burned it, like they did the last time.”

  “Reckon somethin’ must’ve scared them off before they had time,” a cowboy hazarded.

  “I reckon so,” Cranley agreed. “Well, s’pose we might as well start drillin’. See you’ve got a fire under the boiler.”

  “And plenty of steam,” observed the cowboy Hatfield had trained to act as engineer. He reached for the throttle and eased it open.

  One end of the ponderous walking beam rose, reached the apex of its arc and dropped. The taut rope slackened, sending the churning bit into the earth hundreds of feet below.

  From far below the surface came a muffled boom. The rope shot out of the bore, coiled over the walking beam and hung limp, the slack dragging on the grass. The ground rocked and shuddered.

  “What in the hell!” yelped Cranley.

  Jim Hatfield instantly deduced what had happened.

  “Dynamite!” he exclaimed. “The hellions drew the bit and lowered a charge of dynamite, then replaced the bit. They knew we’d set it off when we started the rig, and cave in the whole bore. They — ”

  Abruptly he stopped talking. From the depths beneath their feet they heard a loud and awesome rumbling — a rumbling that grew to a rushing roar mixed with a tremendous hissing, like the sound of a million angry snakes. The solid ground rocked and shuddered tenfold worse than before.

  “Run!” Hatfield yelled. “Run for your lives! Trail! Goldy! Trail!”

  Everyone raced madly away from the rocking derrick. The frightened horses plunged frantically across the prairie.

  Behind them they heard a thunderous crash. Looking back over their shoulders, the fleeing men saw a black column shoot upward from the bore like a driven rod of steel. Under its terrific impact, the derrick went to pieces like matchwood under a triphammer. The air was filled with flying timbers and shattered iron work.

  High above the head of the wrecked derrick shot the black column, reflecting all the colors of the rainbow as the sunlight struck it. It spread into a feathery plume, bent, and rushed downward. Mingled with the sounds of falling timber and scrap iron was a pattering like that of a heavy thundershower.

  “What in blazes!” howled old Cranley. “Did it bust the lid of hell-kittle?”

  “The dynamite charge split the cap rock!” Hatfield shouted back at him, his voice ringing with exultation. “They did the very thing they were trying to keep us from doing. The first well of Montuoso Valley has come in! And she’s a gusher or I never saw one!”

  “What in hell are you talkin’ about?” bawled Cranley.

  The tumult had subsided somewhat and Hatfield was able to make himself understood above the continuing rumble and patter.

  “Oil!” he told the rancher. “You’ve struck oil! That’s why I wanted you to keep on drilling. Not for water. You wouldn’t strike water in a thousand years. Why? Because there isn’t any water in this valley anymore.”

  Cranley gawked and goggled, staring bulge-eyed at his foreman.

  “No water!” he exclaimed. “What in blazes became of it? There use to be plenty.”

  Hatfield gestured toward the vast burned and blackened slope of the mountain across the hollow.

  “All your water runs down that mountain,” he replied. “Cutting the timber off is to blame. Formerly the trees held the water from the rains and the melting snows. It seeped slowly through the thick blanket of needles and humus and reached the valley by way of crevices in the limestone. The hard cap rock beneath the limestone provided a perfect watershed into the valley. The floor of the hollow is a lot higher than the valley floor, you’ll recollect. It’s just about level with the bench up there. The water flowed across the cap rock and filtered under the cliffs to come to the surface again by way of the springs at the edge of the slope.”

  He paused a moment, staring at the gushing oil well.

  “This valley, Cranley,” he resumed, “as she stands at present is doomed — that is, as far as stock-raising. All the springs will gradually dry up, and there isn’t enough rainfall in this section to provide surface water. But it doesn’t really matter to you fellers any more. Every spread owner in this valley is due to be a rich man. And if you feel like hangin’ on to the land for cattle, all you got to do is cut your irrigated canal down from Sinking Creek to the north. You’ll have plenty of money to pay for anything you like. You won’t lose your home, after all, Cranley.”

  The old rancher wet his lips with his tongue. There was a new, happy gleam in his eyes.

  “Hatfield,” he asked slowly, “how in blazes did you know there was oil here?”

  The Ranger chuckled. His strangely-colored eyes lit up.

  “Didn’t know it,” he said, “but sort of suspected it. Geological features hereabouts point to oil. Those low hil
ls are salt domes, one of the most promising indications. That bench is composed of oil bearing shale; the limestone cliffs are, almost without exception, black limestone, which means that they are impregnated with bituminous and organic matter, another sign of an oil-producing terrain. When you hit salt water in the well, I was mighty nigh sure of it. Then there was something else to be considered. I’ll tell you about that later.”

  His face hardened as he spoke, his eyes grew cold.

  “What you want to do now, first off,” he directed, “is to send one of the boys skalleyhootin’ to round up every man you can lay hands on and start digging reservoirs to take care of the oil flow. She’s a gusher for fair. Look at her spout! That big hollow will hold a lot, but it’s filling up fast. You don’t want any more waste than necessary before you get the well capped. Hightail to Vega and telegraph for material and machinery and skilled oil workers. And more drilling rigs. Get word to the other spread owners to start drilling. You’re in for a busy time, Cranley.”

  “What you goin’ to do?” Cranley asked, after he had dispatched a cowboy to attend to the chore of rounding up the hands. Hatfield had whistled for Goldy and was tightening his cinches.

  “I’m riding to town with you,” Hatfield replied. “I got a chore to do also.”

  Together they rode westward over the Vega trail. Cranley turned in the saddle to speak to his companion, but the words died on his lips.

  He was looking into the face of a man he had never seen: a face set in lines bleak as chiselled granite and marked by two terrible cold eyes, the color of winter ice dusted with wind-frozen snow.

  Clyde Cranley didn’t know it, but he was looking into the face of the Lone Wolf!

  In the Anytime Saloon in Vega, Sunset Bowles, the owner of the Anytime, stood at the far end of the bar and exchanged remarks with Nelson Haynes and his logging superintendent, Mort Quimby, who were seated at a nearby table. Quimby looked more than ordinarily bad-tempered, but Haynes was his usual debonair self, save that his glittering eyes burned like blue jewels, and he replied to Sunset’s sallies in the manner of a man whose thoughts are elsewhere.

  There was a stir at the swinging doors across the room. Haynes glanced up casually, and then stiffened in his chair.

  Jim Hatfield, was standing there, his face grim, his eyes icy and alert. His slender hands were hooked over his double cartridge belts. On his broad breast gleamed a silver star set on a silver circle.

  In the midst of a dead silence, Hatfield walked slowly across the room, pausing a dozen or so paces from the table occupied by Haynes and Quimby. He gazed steadily at the pair, his glance seeming to center on Haynes’ quiescent right hand, which lay supine on the table top.

  His voice rang out, vibrant with authority, edged with steel:

  “In the name of the State of Texas, I arrest Nelson Haynes and Mort Quimby for murder! Anything you say may be used against you!”

  A gasp ran over the room. Men stared with bulging eyes. Mort Quimby recoiled momentarily, his eyes glazed and glaring. Nelson Haynes did not move a muscle, only the light in his eyes intensified. He seemed to hesitate, then shrugged his shoulders in a resigned manner and slowly got to his feet. Then with the speed of a striking snake’s head, his right hand shot out. But even as the stubby double-barrelled derringer fell from his sleeve and into his palm, Jim Hatfield had drawn his six-shooter.

  There was a crashing double report, two swirling wisps of smoke. Hatfield’s hat jumped crazily on his head, but he stood firm and erect, peering through the smoke of his gun.

  Nelson Haynes also stood motionless, horror spreading across his ashen face. Then he leaped convulsively into the air and crashed face downward across the table.

  Hatfield’s voice cut through the smoke:

  “Steady, Quimby. One move and you get the same thing. Stand up! Loosen your gun belt — slow — and let it fall to the floor. Okay. Now sit down again.”

  The room, which had been so deathly silent a moment before, was filled with voices. Men were coming from behind posts, from under tables. Sunset Bowles, his face the color of spoiled cream, his handlebar mustache drooping as dejectedly as a whipped puppy’s tail, crawled from under the bar, peered cautiously over it, and stood up.

  “Here comes Clyde Cranley and the sheriff!” somebody yelled.

  Sheriff Tays shouldered his way across the room. He glanced at Hatfield’s Ranger star with little surprise.

  “Might’ve knowed it first off,” he grunted. “Had ought to have figured McDowell would send you up here sooner or later. The Lone Wolf, eh?”

  Again the room hushed to silence, all eyes turned on the tall Ranger.

  Hatfield broke the sudden stillness.

  “Take charge of Quimby, Sheriff,” he directed. “He’ll talk to save his own hide, and tell you who the rest of the hellions in the outfit are. You’ll find ‘em up at Haynes’ logging camp, including a ‘Patchy breed or two, I expect, and Sam Pack and Tom Dennis. Round ‘em up, Sheriff, it won’t be much of a chore, and maybe you’ll have a mite of peace and quiet in this section for a while. That is,” he added with a brief grin, “until Cranley’s oil drillers get to goin’ good. Those jiggers make loggers look like unweaned calfs!”

  Sheriff Tays gave a disgusted snort and reached for Quimby’s shoulder.

  • • •

  The following afternoon, Hatfield and Sheriff Tays rode up to Justin Flint’s house on the hilltop above the logging camp. Flint was there with Clyde Cranley, young Rance and Verna.

  “How’d you first come to suspect Haynes, Hatfield?” Clyde Cranley asked after pipes, cigars, and cigarettes were going good.

  “Pants pocket,” the Ranger replied gravely.

  Cranley stared.

  “What you mean, pants pocket?” he asked.

  “Pants pockets are interesting things,” Hatfield replied. “You can learn lots of things from them, if you keep your eyes open. For instance, they’ll tell you lots of times where a feller has been hanging out of late. You see, dust gets into pants pockets now and then, but not many take the trouble to clean the seams carefully. The dust packs into the seams and stays there. Sometimes it’s alkali dust, sometime’s it’s sand, sometimes it’s salt.”

  He paused to roll another cigarette.

  “Rec’lect the ‘Pachy breed who tried to drygulch us down in the valley, Cranley?” he asked.

  “I ain’t like to forget him,” old Clyde grunted. “I can still hear that lead whistle.”

  “Well,” Hatfield resumed, “that jigger’s pants pockets were plumb interesting. So much so that when you were off in the thicket hunting for his horse, I tore one loose and kept it.”

  He produced the article in question as he spoke, held it upside down and shook it over the table top. A number of yellow particles dusted out onto the smooth surface.

  The others examined them. Justin Flint poked with a tentative forefinger.

  “Why,” he exclaimed, “it’s sawdust!”

  Hatfield nodded.

  “Exactly. The seams of his pockets were packed with it. Now about the only place I could figure a feller to pick up sawdust like that would be in a sawmill. I learned that Flint didn’t have a sawmill, and that Haynes did. That was interesting.

  “Of course, there wasn’t anything conclusive there. Nothing to really tie Haynes up with the breed. The breed might have been acting on his own accord, because of a grudge or something. And he might have been acting for somebody other than Haynes.”

  “That’s logical,” observed the sheriff.

  “But if he wasn’t acting for Haynes, in whose mill he evidently hung out, who was he acting for?” Hatfield continued. “That was what I had to find out. What I had to consider mostly was who would have a reason for kicking up a row between Flint and the cowmen. That’s an old owlhoot trick, you know, set two factions gunning for each other. Let them exhaust themselves and finally get tangled up with the law, then horn in at the right time.

  “Of course, I wasn’t
plumb sure at first that there wasn’t a real row between Flint and the cowmen, but after looking the situation over, it just didn’t make sense. Even admitting that both outfits were sort of on the prod against each other, what did either have to gain by going to such lengths as murder, and without the hope of accomplishing anything definitely. Flint and his settlers, not being plumb damn fools, would know they couldn’t hope to run the cattlemen out by such tactics, and the same held good for the ranchers. Somebody had a definite object in view and was striving to attain it.”

  “Flint sort of wanted more land in the valley,” Cranley pointed out with a glance at the lumberman, who nodded agreement.

  “Yes,” Hatfield admitted, “but unless he knew the valley held a valuable oil deposit, he couldn’t possibly want it bad enough to kick up any such row to get it, even if he was capable of such action which I didn’t figure he was.”

  “That’s reasonable enough,” Cranley nodded.

  “For that matter, Haynes appeared to want the timber lands Flint bought,” Hatfield added. “But he couldn’t hope to get them by making trouble for Flint’s settlers down in the valley. Even if the settlers were driven out, Flint would still have the timber and would still keep on cutting. The only logical conclusion was that Haynes wanted Montuoso Valley, but why?

  “As I said, I had already become curious about the geological features of the valley. I recognized those hills as salt domes first off, but of course that wasn’t any positive guarantee there was oil under the valley. Only a careful examination by an expert engineer, supplemented perhaps by drilling, could prove that. Well, it didn’t take long for me to find out that Flint was no engineer, and that Haynes was.”

  “How did you learn that?” Flint asked.

  “I got a mite suspicious when they tried to kill you and me with that falling tree,” Hatfield replied. “As I told you at the time, that contraption they used to pull the tree down with was a Spanish windlass. To understand the power such an instrument could exert, and to know how to make and apply it reasoned a certain amount of engineering knowledge. But when I saw Haynes’ logging road, that he designed himself, I knew who the engineer was. It was a fine bit of work, the kind of construction job only a highly competent engineer could achieve. Things were beginning to tie up.”