Opal Fires

by Lynda Trent

  Ryan was coming out of the geologist’s trailer as she drove up, and came to meet her. “I see you’ve already heard the news.” The expression on her face was unmistakable.

  “Yes! Isn’t it marvelous?”

  “You bet it is! I went down this morning to get the first hand. It sounds like the biggest strike I ever heard of.”

  “When will we hit oil here?” she demanded, her eyes sparkling eagerly.

  “Whoa, slow down,” Ryan said. “Those wells make things look good, but oil deposits are funny. The farmers between those two sites an most likely sitting on a gold mine, but we don’t know for sure that it runs up this far. If my theory is right, we’re on the northern edge. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  This was uncomfortably close to the words Clare had said to Marla, and she frowned. ”You mean we may miss the oil?”

  “All I’m saying is that we don’t know for sure. One of the men I talked to this morning told me that his company had drilled to eighteen thousand feet a couple of miles north of here and found nothing. I wasn’t even aware of that well.”

  Keen disappointment knifed through Clare. “We may be too far north?” All the sparkle had left her eyes. “When will we know?”

  Ryan put his arm around her shoulder. “It won’t be much longer. A month, maybe two.” Anyone would want to strike oil, he told himself. But if we don’t, she’ll have a great tax write off. He tried to ignore the avariciousness in her voice and the hanuted look on her face.

  “Please hurry, Ryan,” she said simply. “Find my oil for me. It has to be there.”

  “Why, Clare?” he asked. “What’s all the hurry? If the oil is there, we’ll find it. Those two wells can’t possibly suck it dry before we get to it.”

  “Just hurry,” Clare said, more sharply than she had intended. “It’s terribly important to me.” She turned and walked away to avoid having to confide her very real need to the man she was beginning to love. Unbidden, Regina’s words came back to her, and she hurried to her car, leaving Ryan staring after her.

  “I won’t love him!” she told herself. “I won’t!” But she watched with longing as he strode across the pasture to the rig.

  News of the oil strike spread over the country and the world; and oil companies, both great and small, flocked to the area. Soon all the available housing in the five-town area was gone, and the roughnecks began moving trailer homes, campers and even tents into what once had been open grazing land.

  Due to the stringent restrictions on well spacing, the derricks could not be erected with their legs overlapping as had been done in the earlier boom; but a steel forest was growing as densely as the law allowed. Fast food drive-ins and liquor stores seemed to blossom overnight. Enterprising citizens put out signs of rooms for rent in the morning and were able to bring them down again before dark. Old movie theaters were resurrected and businesses of all kinds expanded. A new, more boldly dressed breed of women could be seen on the streets both by day and night. Preachers railed against these “moralless” women, but their businesses also flourished.

  Struggling in the midst of such frenzied plenty, Clare considered taking in boarders but rejected the idea. The roughnecks were known for their rowdy behavior and rarely had their familes in tow. She had no intention of turning her home into a low class hotel or of giving over her privacy to the whims of the changing shifts.

  So she watched Kilgore and the surrounding towns prosper, and wished the boom would increase the sale of her paintings. For her sales went down as the economy went up; and her major income, other than her art classes, which were thriving, was the small tourists pictures from New Orleans.

  Armed with sketch pad and charcoal pencils, Clare went to the oil fields. Her sketches formed the basis of a new line of work, some pen and ink, and some watercolor, of the active lives of the drillers and roughnecks at work. She took slides of the best of these and mailed them to various cities to increase her lower to middle sales outlets. While the elite of the art world moved like turgid oil toward her work. Clare took her paintings to the average person.

  Soon letters of acceptance began coming in from various dealers, shopping centers and art clubs around the state. Clare packaged up her less expensive works and shipped them out to all the stores that were interested.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The day was cool and clear with the excitement of spring in the March air. People were tempted to put aside their coats and venture outside in only shirt sleeves despite the continued crispness of the nights. Tentative buds appeared on the trees and bushes, then burst open in a symphony of greens. As the leaves unfolded, the flowers joined the race to express life, and thousands of early blossoms spangled yards and fields.

  Joe Talmidge had worked the day shift and was about to leave and go home. His wife, Eula, was tired of their temporary quarters and lately had been complaining that she wanted to return to their real home. The Clare Marshall Number One was taking much longer than anyone had foreseen, but he felt Eula was being testy. The big companies could and did bring in wells much faster than Ryan’s shoestring outfit could, but that was neither here nor there, he felt. In order to preserve his peace of mind, Joe often tended to prolong his ride home.

  Joe was leaving at the same time as Sebe Youngblood. Of all the crew, Joe knew and trusted Sebe the least. Joe had had reservations about hiring an alcoholic, but at the time, Sebe. had been all he could find. True, he’d only had to be dragged out of bars only three times in order to sober him up for work, but for a teetotaler like Joe, that was three times too many.

  With these thoughts on his mind, Joe followed Sebe, not so much as a conscious effort but as a thing to do. He was curious as to where the loner went after work; Sebe had no family or friends. Eula had said that was a sad thing, even as she’d sniffed at the tales of his drunkenness.

  Yet there was a quality about Sebe that Joe distrusted. He was always going around with a hang-dog expression on his face, very seldom showing any real emotion. But on a few occasions, Joe had seen him watching Ryan with a look of contempt, maybe even of hate. And the pipe had been lost in the hole on Sebe’s shift. Things always tended to break or be misplaced when he was around.

  Sebe was driving down the main street of town, his rusted truck jerking spasmodically. Beginning to feel a bit foolish about his suspicions, Joe was about to go home, when Sebe slowed almost to a stop as if he were looking for something. Then, he turned into the alleyway which led to the back of the Farmers’ Bank and Trust.

  Joe knit his brows in puzzlement. Only the people who worked in the bank parked back there. The alley wasn’t a shortcut to another street. Joe pulled over to the side of the road and waited.

  Fifteen minutes went by, then twenty. Still Sebe didn’t return. More perplexed than ever, Joe started his car engine and went home.

  Throughout supper, Joe was quieter than usual, and Eula finally gave up trying to carry on a conversation. He was still wondering why Youngblood had gone down a blind alley and not come back out. It didn’t make any sense.

  Joe had worked in the oil field since he was fourteen; it was in his blood. The rig he was working on became his mistress and he knew her every mood. The crew became his family and he made it his business to learn each man’s strengths and weaknesses. Something was wrong. It was only a hunch; he had nothing to prove it by, but there were too many mistakes being made on the Marshall well. Too many unfortunate coincidences. Too many problems.

  Joe stood up and put his jacket on.

  “Where are you going.” Eula asked in surprise. “You just got home.” She looked at him steadily while her knitting needles flew through the stiches as if they were thinking creatures.

  “I know, but something’s wrong at the site. I can feel it.” He zipped up the jacket and kissed his wife on the cheek. “I’m going back out there. I won’t be late.”

  Eula tightened her lips in disapproval but nodded.

  The night was clear and a full moon hung like a beac
on in the depthless sky, a mist of stars softening the blackness further. Joe appreciated the sight. Pollution and city lights made the Milky Way invisible far too often. He drove along the dark country road that led to the Marshall farm. Even the air was still, as if it were listening to spring unfold. As he pulled up to the drilling site, the quietness was broken by the drone of human activity.

  The strings of electric lights defining the sides of the derrick splashed brightness on the wooden platform where the night shift was working. Joe could see one of the men who made up part of his permanent crew giving directions to a local roughneck. Everything looked normal. Joe parked outside the ring of light and thought as he watched the activity going on.

  “Maybe I’m getting old,” he muttered. “Maybe I’m like the old maid that checks under the bed for burglars every night.” He was about to start the car to leave, when a battered truck drove up and also parked in the dark.

  A man got out and, picking his way carefully in the blackness, circled outside the ring of light. With a frown, Joe eased silently out of his car and followed. If it were only a crewman who was coming in late, why didn’t he merely walk over to the others?

  The shadowy figure avoided the far end of the slush pit drain off and slunk toward the patch of trees beyond. More intrigued than alarmed, Joe did the same.

  In the gloom, Joe saw the vague outlines of the shack that had-been erected by the crew. It was made of cast off lumber and tin and was kept locked at all times. Inside were the drilling explosives. Because of the potential danger, the shed was always built far beyond the well. Few people even knew it existed. Joe walked faster. Even with a locked door, he didn’t want anyone prowling around it.

  Before he could decide whether or not to call out, the other man stopped at the shed, looked around and took a key from his pocket. He had only glanced briefly in Joe’s direction, but Joe had had time to recognize the features of Sebe Youngblood.

  The door swung open and Sebe disappeared inside for a matter of seconds. Then he was back outside and relocking the door with one hand. In the other he held two small bottles of nitroglycerin.

  “Hey!” Joe shouted, at last aware of the man’s intentions. “Hey, you! Sebe!”

  Startled, Youngblood halted for an instant, then turned and ran toward the well site.

  Joe could hear him ahead, thrashing through the dry branches of the post oak trees. “Stop, you fool! That’s nitro!” he yelled.

  Sebe broke out of the brush and ran into the pasture. The well was only a hundred feet away. Joe knew he could never reach the man in time, and no one at the rig could hear him above the clamor of the machinery.

  “Stop!” Joe yelled again, his voice straining desperately.

  For a moment, Sebe looked over his shoulder to see who was chasing him. Then his toe caught in an armadillo hole. Sebe Youngblood was silhouetted against the glare of the lights as in seeming slow motion, he half turned, tried to regain his balance and failed. The light glinted off the bottles as he hugged them to his chest. Then he hit the ground.

  The blast was enormous, the shock waves knocking Joe off his feet. The ground trembled under him as he scrambled to stand up.

  On the rig, everyone froze, then began racing in separate directions. No one knew what had happened or where the explosion had come from.

  The driller Joe had seen earlier ran toward the shed, carrying a lantern. By the time he reached the shallow gouge in the earth, Joe was already there.

  “Who was it?’ he asked, fighting back nausea at the sight of what had once been a human form.

  “Youngblood,” Joe managed to reply through his chattering teeth. “Sebe Youngblood.” He stumbled away and was violently ill.

  The next day, Clare and Ryan met Joe in the geologist ‘s trailer at the site.

  “At least he didn’t ruin the well,” Joe said. “If he’d been much closer, the whole thing could’ve been destroyed. We might have lost more lives than one and we would’ve had to start over again from scratch.”

  Ryan shook his head. “What I can’t understand is why! Clare, did Sebe Youngblood have anything against you?”

  “No, I didn’t even know him.” She tiredly rubbed her forehead. There had been no sleep for any of them all night.

  “What gets me is that I knew something was wrong and couldn’t stop it!” Joe said.

  “You did all you could,” Ryan comforted him. “By the way, why were you here last night?”

  “I had a funny feeling. You know. Like you just get sometimes. After work yesterday, I followed Sebe and saw him turn into that little alley behind the bank. Now that struck me as being a funny thing to do, but I still can’t make heads nor tails of it. Then, after supper, I got to feeling restless, like something was going to happen.” He put his empty coffee mug into the stainless-steel sink. “I sure wish I could have stopped him. What a godawful way to die.” He felt bile rising again in his throat and tried to calm his stomach.

  “You say Sebe went to the back of the bank?” Clare asked. “That’s odd. They keep that door locked.” A terrifying idea suddenly began to dawn on her.

  “Clare? Are you all right?” Ryan asked. “You look pale.”

  She wrapped a cloak of composure around her. “Of course. I’m only tired, that’s all.”

  Ryan looked unconvinced but turned back to Joe. “I’m going to go talk to the sheriff. Maybe he can tell me why Sebe would do this.” He held the door open for Clare. “I’ll drop you off at your house on the way. You get some rest.”

  “No, I’m coming with you,” she said stubbornly.

  “Why?”

  “It’s my well. I want to hear what the sheriff has to say.”

  As they drove toward town, Ryan was unusually silent.

  Before they reached the highway, he pulled off the road and stopped under a large tree.

  “Why are you stopping here?”

  “We”re going to talk. First of all, I want you to tell me what you know about this that I don’t.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Clare gazed obstinately ahead.

  “Yes, you do. I can wait here all day if it’s necessary.”

  Clare sighed and grimaced. Obviously, Ryan was prepared to do just that. She selected a portion of the truth and replied, “Neal Thorndyke’s the president of that bank. A few months ago the night before I met you, in fact he came to my house. He knew I was alone and he… tried to force himself on me.” Even the memory of that dreadful night made her tremble.

  Ryan was silent, but his knuckles were white in his effort to control himself.

  You said he tried to… to rape you. Did he succeed?”

  “No,” she said softly.

  Ryan’s muscles were taut under the fabric of his shirt, and his voice was low and measured. “If he hurt you, I’m going to kill him,” he said quietly.

  Clare looked at him in amazement. He clearly meant every word. “He didn’t… that is, he didn’t hurt me. I had a gun and I drove him away. That’s why I had that. in my hand the day we met. I was afraid he’d come back.”

  Silently, Ryan pulled her to him and buried his face in the fragrance of her hair. She could feel his body trembling and knew he was torn between anger at Thorndyke and fear for her safety in her large, lonely house.

  “Why did he do that, Clare?” he asked at last. “Had you been seeing him?”

  “No. Never. Only on business at the bank.” Careful, she cautioned herself. Don’t slip up.

  “Has he bothered you since then?”

  She shook her head. “No, but I have reason to think he holds it against me.”

  “Holds it against you? For not letting him rape you?” Ryan ground the words out angrily.

  “For not giving in. Not many people have ever told him ‘no’”

  “If he ever even looks at you again, I’ll break him in half.” Ryan hugged her protectively and kissed her forehead.

  “No one has ever treated me the way you do,” she said, aft
er a short silence. “You make me feel so safe. Yet, at the same time, I feel like a whole person when you’re around. I don’t think anyone has ever… cared about me before.”

  “Not even your husband?” he asked glumly.

  “Especially not him,” she said as a shadow of sadness darkened the gray depths of her eyes.

  “He must have been a damned fool. If you were my wife”

  “Hush,” she whispered quickly. “We’d better find the sheriff. And Ryan, please don’t say anything about Neal Thorndyke. I’d be too embarrassed if that got around town.”

  “All right,” he agreed grudgingly. “But if Thorndyke makes another move toward you, you’re to tell me.”

  “I will,” she promised. “And Ryan, thank you.”

  When he bent his head and kissed her, Clare thought of Regina and what she had said about Ryan taking her out to the play. At the garden club, Regina had said she had seen him several times since. Although Clare couldn’t prevent herself from returning Ryan’s kiss, nor from the surge of excitement she felt, she tried to keep herself in check. Whether he cared for her as well as Regina wasn’t important. Clare wanted no part of a man she would have to share. Especially with Regina. Clare pulled away from the embrace first.

  Clare crossed the lobby of the Farmers’ Bank and Trust and rapped firmly on the president’s door. At his growled summons, she stalked in and walked up to his massive desk. Leaning on it, she glared into his startled eyes.

  “I came to tell you my well is still in good condition… despite an accident there last night.” She reached into her purse and slapped a sheaf of bills onto the desk in front of him. “Here’s my monthly payment.”

  “As I’ve told you before, Clare,” Thorndyke said, his green eyes turning cold, “you can give this to one of the tellers.”

  “No, this is between you and me. Besides, I knew you’d want to know that the well wasn’t damaged and the work is still going on. In a month, I’ll have enough money to pay you off in full.”