Boomer

by Clifton Adams

  Valois whistled softly. “The Mullers don't pay their roustabouts that well, do they?”

  “No,” Grant said tightly. “But Farley may. It would have been a cheap price if Jagger had succeeded in burning the derrick.”

  Valois shook his head. “Too bad he can't talk. If I'd only known...”

  Grant smiled with bitter humor. “When I yelled to stop him, there wasn't much time to explain.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  DAGGET ARRIVED AT the Muller lease the next morning, bringing a buckboard to take Jagger's body back to Sabo. He studied the fire-blackened legs of the derrick and the charred derrick floor, and then like a hound on the scent of a wolf he picked up Jagger's tracks and followed them all the way to the creek. Then he picked up Grant's trail in the crusted snow, and finally Valois', and only then did he accept the story as he heard it.

  “All right,” he said to Grant. “It looks like a case of self-defense. But you have a habit I don't like, Grant, you have a habit of getting into trouble too serious and too often.”

  “I'm hired to protect this lease. That's what they pay me for.”

  “So I've heard, but did you have to kill this man? Is that the only way you know to settle an argument?”

  “I killed him, Marshal,” Turk Valois said. The three of them were hunkered down on the sheltered side of the belt house.

  “I know,” Dagget said thoughtfully, studying Grant from under his bushy brows. “But he told you to. He says so himself.”

  There was nothing Grant could say to that. Legally he was not in any trouble, but the suspicions that stirred in Dagget's mind could be more dangerous than if he had pulled the trigger himself.

  The marshal stood up, still gazing thoughtfully at Grant. Then Rhea Muller came out of the dugout and his gaze shifted from Rhea to Grant to Turk Valois. Grant could almost see his mind adding up the facts as he saw them like some beautifully polished machine—and he did not like the answer the machine was giving him.

  “There's one thing I haven't got straight yet,” he said to Valois. “How did you come to happen up at such a handy time?”

  “I told you I saw the fire and guessed the trouble. I thought maybe I could give a hand.”

  “I thought you ran a business. How did you happen to see the fire?”

  The runner laughed. “I went out of business the minute I stepped into that fight in the Wheel House, Marshal.”

  “You don't like Farley much, do you?”

  “I hate his guts.”

  Dagget sighed and turned away. He paused for just a moment before heading for the buckboard, and turned to Grant. “Don't forget what I said, Grant. I don't like men who get into this much trouble.”

  There was warning in Dagget's voice as well as his words, but Grant chose to ignore them for the moment. He looked at Valois and saw high color mount in the runner's face as he stared at Rhea Muller. He started to turn away, but Rhea called:

  “Wait a minute, Turk!” Even in her men's clothing she moved as gracefully as a young lioness. She glanced first at Grant and then at Valois. “I heard what you said to Dagget,” she told the runner. “Is it true what you said about your business?”

  “I haven't got a business,” Valois said tightly, “if that's what you mean. I'm as broke as I was in Bartlesville, when you broke off our engagement.”

  A faint spot of color appeared high on Rhea's cheeks, but she did not look away. “Are you looking for a job?” she asked.

  Valois frowned. “You might say that.”

  She did not smile, but she looked as if she might. “You're on Farley's black list now, you'll never get a job in Kiefer or Sabo—unless it's on this lease. I could use another man like Mr. Grant, a man with nerve. Nobody ever accused you of lacking nerve, Turk.” She turned to go back to the dugout. “If you want to work here, tell my brother I said to put you on.”

  After Rhea had gone, Grant and Valois stood for several uncomfortable moments in silence. Then the runner abruptly turned and walked away, and Grant saw him heading toward the bunkhouse where Bud Muller was.

  So this, Grant thought, is the way it ends. And there was a heaviness within him as he shrugged and followed Rhea to the dugout. He knocked on the door and waited for a moment, then Rhea opened it, her eyes widening in faint surprise.

  “What is it, Mr. Grant?”

  “I don't like the way things are shaping up,” Grant said. “I thought you ought to know.”

  For a moment she did nothing, then she opened the door and motioned for him to come in.

  “Because I hired Turk Valois?”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “I guess that's it. I like Valois, he's sober and honest, just the kind of man I take to, but within a week I'll be hating his guts if both of us try working here.”

  “Why do you think I hired Valois?”

  “Because he's a fair hand with a gun, because he's got guts, and has no love for Ben Farley.”

  This seemed to surprise her. “Those are exactly the reasons for my hiring him. Is there anything wrong with them?”

  “Just one thing,” Grant said tightly, and only now did he realize that an icy anger lay behind every word. “He's in love with you—and you don't care if he lives or dies. He's taking the job because he thinks you want him—and you're hiring him because he might help you out of a tight spot.”

  That strained expression of almost smiling touched her face again. “And how does this affect you, Mr. Grant?”

  “Because I guess I'm fool enough to love you, too.” The words came out before he could stop them. And when he realized what he had said, he felt that he must go on. “If I'd had any sense I never would have come to Kiefer with you. I wouldn't have risked my neck to save your money in Vinita.”

  Her faint smugness had deserted her now, and her eyes were completely serious. In her woman's mind she realized that her own future was being threatened, and she prepared to fight in her own way. With an impatient gesture she ripped off her bulky windbreaker and threw it into the corner of the room, and she stood before Grant with the knowledge that she was attractive, even beautiful. Not even the man's shirt and corduroy breeches and heavy boots could mask the fact that she was beautiful and desirable, and with these, her own peculiar weapons at hand, she prepared to fight.

  “You're behaving like a child,” she said. “I need you and I need Turk; I need both of you if I'm to fight Ben Farley.” She moved closer, until Grant could almost feel the warmth of her, and she looked at him steadily with that faint half-smile. “What do you want, Joe? Is it money? There'll be plenty for everybody when the well comes in—I'll make you part owner. I'll put it in writing.”

  But it wasn't money he wanted, and Rhea Muller knew it. “Forget Turk Valois, Joe, he means nothing to me.”

  “He did once.”

  Nothing changed in her face. If she experienced any regret, or any emotion at all, she did not let it show. “That was long ago,” she said quietly. “Not long in the way years are measured, but long just the same. I was young and wanted something very much, respectability and security. And I wanted all the nice things that women like. I thought for a little while that Turk Valois could give me those things and I would be satisfied, but I soon learned that that was not enough.”

  “What you mean,” Grant said stiffly, “is that you lost interest in Valois as soon as he lost his money.”

  This time she did smile, but it was a strangely sad expression. “I suppose Turk believes that. He's a proud man.”

  They stood there for one long moment, and Grant found himself believing that maybe she was telling the truth. She was right about Valois being a proud man—perhaps the fact that Rhea could not love him for himself was more than his pride could accept, so he had convinced himself that she had quit him because of the money.

  He would not look directly at Rhea, although she was standing so close to him that he could have touched her by slightly moving his hand. She said, “Don't leave, Joe. I need you.”

  He had
n't had much experience with women, especially women like Rhea Muller. He hadn't known that the strongest determination could melt and the simplest plan go to pieces by just having a woman look at you in a certain way. He had meant to state his intentions simply, then leave, but it wasn't working out that way at all.

  “Don't leave,” she said again, and this time he could not avoid looking at her.

  “What about Valois?” he managed. “Does he go?”

  “I need him. To fight Ben Farley, I need all the strong men I can get. Have you heard that Farley has a gunman on his pay roll?”

  If he had meant to quit the lease, he should have left at once. He never should have come to the dugout to explain, for now it was too late. He tried to keep his mind clear, but he kept remembering that first day on the lease when he and Rhea had been standing here just as they were now, and he had held her for a moment in his arms and nothing else had seemed to matter.

  It was a dangerous thing to remember at a time like that. He should have been remembering that bank in Joplin, and Marshal Joe Dagget with the suspicious mind, and the hired killer that Farley had taken on his pay roll, but all he could think of was that one particular moment when he had held Rhea hard against him. He should have remembered Turk Valois' experiences in Bartlesville, and Zack Muller in his lonely grave outside of Tulsa, but it was no use.

  Suddenly he reached out with both hands and held her by her shoulders. He felt a small shudder go through her but she did not try to back away. She did not look away nor did she make a sound when he pulled her to him; not even when he put his arms around her, held her roughly, forced her face back, and forced his mouth down on hers did she make any move to escape. She did nothing at all.

  Grant felt the anger and brief violence go out of him. Guilt gnawed at him as he let her go, and he mumbled, “I'm sorry. I guess there was no call for that.”

  “I learned long ago,” she said flatly, “that everything must be paid for in one way or another. I need your help—if this is your price, then I'll have to pay it.”

  “I set no price!” Grant said harshly. “I said I'm sorry.”

  “We all have a price.” And her voice was matter of fact and controlled. “My father is dead—I'll do whatever is necessary to see that Farley pays for that! But I need a man who's not afraid.”

  “I hold no claim to bravery.”

  But she seemed not to hear him. “Name your price,” she said, almost roughly. Then coolly, deliberately, she put her arms about his neck and drew him to her.

  Abruptly, faintly sickened by his own thoughts, Grant broke her hold about his neck and shoved her roughly against the wall. For one long moment he stood glaring and angry, searching his conscience for some motive to justify his own actions. But there was only one motive, and Rhea knew it. He was in love with her, he wanted her—it was as simple as that. Without putting it into words, he had named his price and she had been ready to meet it.

  Not until that moment did he realize what her father's death had meant to her. Shame lay cold in his belly and he shrank a little within himself as he jammed his hat down on his forehead and blundered up the steps of the dugout.

  He went to the bunkhouse, glad to find it empty, and he sat for a long time on the edge of his folding cot cursing the day he had decided to try his hand at fanning. If it hadn't been for the farm and the trouble with the bank none of this would have happened; he would still be working on some fenced ranch in the Cherokee Nation, getting drunk every Saturday with nothing to worry about but a hangover the next morning. But there was no solution here to his present trouble and his shame. He had tried his hand at farming; he had wanted to amount to something more than a dollar-a-day line rider, and this was where it had got him.

  He tried to think about the farm, but he could not dredge up even a vague vision of it in his mind. All he could see was Rhea's face, and he heard Rhea's voice saying, If this is your price...

  His nerves were raw; he got up suddenly and paced to one of the bunkhouse's narrow windows and stared flatly out at the snow-patched wilderness of derricks and mud. It was a hell of a place for a woman, and maybe he couldn't blame her too much for wanting to get out of it.

  He saw Bud Muller coming toward the bunkhouse from the rig, and Grant turned away from the windows and pretended that he was looking for something in his roll.

  “Got a job for you, Grant,” Bud said, stamping the mud from his feet on a mat of gunny sacks.

  Grant looked up, glad that Bud wasn't one to ask questions. He was also glad that young Muller took it for granted that he was still working on the lease—it was almost as though he had been waiting for someone like Rhea's brother to come in and settle his doubts.

  “What kind of job?”

  Bud's thin grin was almost a warning. “We need new derrick timbers to repair the damage the fire did last night. There's a shipment waiting for us at Kiefer, but getting it to the lease won't be easy.”

  Grant sat on the cot, not liking what he saw in Bud's face.

  The boy shrugged and spread his hands. “We're broke. We've got just enough on hand to pay the workers; a rig fire wasn't in our plans. We need five hundred dollars that we don't have, but Kurt Battle, the supplier, might give us credit if we can get the timbers out of town without Farley seeing us.”

  Grant got to his feet again and went to the window, knowing that there was little chance of getting credit from Battle. Still, Turk Valois had been willing to take a chance against Farley at the risk of his own business; maybe Battle would be willing, too. But these were not the kind of odds he liked to play against.

  “What happens if Battle doesn't give the credit?”

  Bud made no attempt to grin now; he was worried and showed it. “We've got to have the timbers. We can't spud in with a damaged derrick; we can't even raise the crown block.”

  There was no use to say any more. Farley knew who was holding the high hand and he had the supplier under his thumb. There would be a fight if they tried to take the timbers out of Kiefer, maybe the last fight Farley would have to put up.

  Now, his instincts warned him, was the time to cut himself away. But it was little more than a passing thought. If he was going to quit, he would have done it long ago, he never would have taken the train to Kiefer in the first place. He looked at Bud and grinned with faint bitterness. Rhea had known all along that he would see it out with them.

  He had his price—and she had known that, too. It was herself.

  Grant picked up his hat and started for the door, but Bud stopped him as he reached for the latch. “There's one more thing, Grant: Valois is working for us now.”

  Grant nodded. “I know.”

  Rhea's brother was not pleased with what he heard in Grant's voice, and he frowned hard, rubbing his hand over his mouth thoughtfully. But he only said, “Turk is meeting us in Kiefer. Well, if you're ready...”

  CHAPTER TEN

  AS THEY INTENDED to come back with the derrick timbers, there was no need for taking horses with them. Grant and young Muller hiked across Slush Creek and caught a ride to Kiefer on a returning freighter. The day was bleak and cold but there was no sign of snow, and they rode most of the way in silence, each man busy with his own thoughts.

  Once Bud said, “I wasn't sure you'd stay with us after you heard about Valois.”

  Grant lifted his gaze just enough to indicate that he had heard but he said nothing.

  They dropped off the freighter in front of the Wheel House where Valois was waiting. “You got here at a good time,” the runner said. “Farley's out on location, and his gun shark's with him.” He looked at Bud. “Maybe it would be better if Grant and I stayed behind and let you talk to Battle alone.”

  “Or maybe,” Grant said, “it would be better to let Battle know we mean business.”

  And Bud Muller nodded. “Grant's right. It would be too easy to put me off if I went there alone; he's not going to be eager to take a cut at Farley the minute he turns his back.”

 
; Ducking their heads into the wind, the three of them headed up the shaky plank walk toward the depot where Kurt Battle's warehouse was. Now that they were away from the lease, away from Rhea, Grant discovered that he was not so sorry to have Valois along. If there was to be a fight, it would be a tough one. Even if they got credit from Battle, they would be a long time getting the timbers back to the lease, and Farley had too many men on his pay roll not to hear about it.

  Valois grinned faintly when he saw that Grant was studying him from beneath the down-tilted brim of his hat. “It's too bad, isn't it?” he said quietly.

  Grant frowned. “What's too bad?”

  “I think we could have been friends if we had met at another time and place.”

  There was no use saying any more; they understood each other perfectly. They were proud men, both of them, and much alike in many ways. But Rhea stood between them and that made them enemies. They must fight their own small war inside a larger one; strange enemies fighting on the same side, without hatred.

  Grant darted a quick glance at Bud Muller, but the boy had heard nothing; his mind was full of wells and derrick timbers. He could see what was happening between these men and his sister but he did not have the experience to understand all of it. He did not let it bother him more than was necessary—he had the bitter memory of his father and his anger to warm him.

  They reached the end of the plank walk and waded the icy slush toward the boxcar depot. To the west of the depot there was a large flapping tent that might have been a circus or revival tent except for the black painted sign in front: Battle Gtl Field Supply Company.

  Bud Muller shot suspicious glances up and down Kiefer's crowded street, and the three men ducked under a canvas flap and stepped inside. The tent was lighted only by the cold yellow light that seeped through the canvas; huge shapes of tarp-covered machinery stood in orderly rows, mountains of pipe rose up against the canvas walls, and there were drill bits of all shapes and sizes. Leather belting and hemp cables and drilling line covered every inch of floor space and overflowed into a sheet-iron shack behind the tent.