by Lou Cameron
CHAPTER TWO
The small lobby of the Osage Inn was naturally empty at this hour. The threadbare rug and potted rubber plants looked clean enough, despite the eye-watering smell. As he paid the clerk behind the counter an outrageous dollar for the hire of one tiny room, Stringer asked suspiciously if they’d been spraying for bugs.
The sleepy-eyed clerk replied stiffly, “We don’t allow bugs, or even Creeks to stay in this establishment, Mister, ah, MacKail. That reek is coming in from outside. The whole damned town has got to stinking like a cheesebox-still since they drilled all them oil wells in ever’ direction. I can see by your slicker you was out in the deluge when Blackjack Sinclair sunk that last one just up the street.”
Stringer nodded and said, “They’ve capped it, whatever that means. What do you boys do about such crud on your hats, between oil storms?”
The clerk handed over the room key as he replied, “Dunking ’em in white naptha helps. But it’s best to have two hats in Tulsa these days. They hardly ever bring in a gusher on Sunday, when you need to get presenticated for Church. The rest of the time we just pretend a greasy hat is the lastest fashion. I used to have a bellhop around here. I reckon the fool kid ran up the street to watch ’em cap that last strike. You’d think he’d have gotten used to that by now. But you know how kids are.”
Stringer said he’d been a kid one time and that he could tote one bag if he really put his mind to it. He went up the stairwell to the third floor room that matched the number on his key tag and saw the hallway was dimly illuminated by forty watt Edison bulbs. He was glad. He’d already decided to give up smoking until the natural gas in the air all about him cleared away or blew up the whole town.
The corner room he’d hired seemed clean enough but smelled like the inside of an oil lamp. He put his slicker and gladstone in the well-greased closet and switched off the lamp by the brass bedstead before he raised the blinds and threw open the windows for some cross ventilation. It didn’t help much. But from up here he had his first clear view across the lower rooftops all around.
Gas flares, birthday-caked all over town, outlined the black open timberwork of five-story drilling derricks closer in. One just up the street loomed a lot closer and its coat of inky oil shone like fresh stove blacking. He knew he owed that derrick the polka dots all over his poor hat, and likely his life as well. He told himself it was way past bedtime and that a man with a lick of sense called it a day while he was still ahead, but he was too keyed-up to consider counting sheep, and he knew that hired guns tended to work in bunches or solo. Had the late Jack Holt come at him as part of a bunch, it hardly seemed likely he’d be having this fool conversation with himself. So the dimly lit streets of Tulsa were likely as safe right now as they were apt to be at any future time and, Hell, he was as curious about late night fire engines, wasn’t he?
Stringer stepped out in the hall and locked the door. Then he pocketed the key and moved quietly down the stairs. As he’d hoped, there was a fire exit at the foot of the stairs that opened into a side alley. So he left the Osage Inn by that route lest he disturb the room clerk or attract the notice of anyone more ferocious.
He moved up toward the new well trying to keep to the shadows. There were lots of them with all the shops closed and shuttered for the night, and the sullen red sky-glow blocked by many plank awnings. As he made out the crowd around the base of the new derrick he saw that it rose like a steeple from a bitty frame house that might have been most any color before its recent coat of still-wet crude. The drilling platform of the dripping derrick spread from the front steps of the little house out to the street and then some. As Stringer drifted quietly into the clumps of roughnecks and rubber-neckers clustered around the base of the derrick nobody seemed to notice him. He reached absently for the Bull Durham tag dangling from his shirt pocket, decided that smoking right then could be injurious to his health, and studied the confused clutter between the four massive legs of the derrick as he tried to fathom the mysterious rites of the new industry.
Roping a stray in chaparral seemed less complicated. But it was easy enough to see why they called the confusion of pipes and valves now rising from the center of the platform a Christmas tree. It almost resembled a bare-branched pine of pipe with brass valve wheels and dials decorating every branch. A thick black firehose of rubber or tar-coated canvas ran from a stub at the base of the contraption to snake over the edge of the platform and vanish around one corner of the oil-soaked little house. He’d just assured himself that was where the oil that had showered him earlier had to be going, and that the business wasn’t all that mysterious, after all, when one of the derrick hands spoiled it all by asking another, “Don’t you think we should bleed some gas, Tiger? The pressure gauge is in the red and that hose ain’t as young as it used to be.”
The one who figured to be the straw boss, a husky giant in oil-coated overalls and an oilcloth fisherman’s hat, told his worried assistant to let him do the worrying and added, “The hose will split afore the cap will go. There’s already too much gas in the air here for a man to breathe right.”
The smaller roughneck sighed and said, “I noticed. A lot more gas figures to spew out anywhere the damned hose splits and it stretches half a mile through all sorts of back yards, Tiger.”
But Tiger, as he no doubt enjoyed being called, just shrugged and said, “Better them than us. It’d be cheaper to replace a shack full of trash Indians than it would be to replace this rig or my poor white ass. Crack the wet-valve a quarter turn, and see if that don’t ease the pressure a mite. Touch the gas bleeder and if the gas don’t kill you, I will.”
The lesser mortal climbed back up to fool with the Christmas tree. Stringer stared at the block and tackle dangling loose above the workman and the valves he was working on, trying to figure out why all that wire cable was just dangling. Before he could spot anyone in the crowd who looked both amiable and up on the subject, the front door of the oil-soaked house popped open and a tall thin gent dressed dapper above the knees and wearing oily rubber boots from there down came out packing a briefcase and an expression of extreme disgust as he approached the one called Tiger, saying, “Well, the signatures I just got might stand up in court. Then, again, they might not. Whatever could have possessed you to drill without a proper permit from the owner of the property, damn it?”
Tiger shrugged and said, “Hell, the old lady inside told us it was jake with her, as soon as the boss told her how rich a lady with an oil well in her front yard was likely to wind up. You know the boss holds it to be a scientifical fact that blackjack oak grows mostly over oil domes and there was a blackjack sapling growing in her garden afore we cut it down to lay out our platform. What was we supposed to do, let Standard Oil make her a better offer whilst you lawyers was dotting every I and crossing every T?”
The lawyer held his briefcase higher, like a trophy, and snapped, “That’s exactly what I expect you to do, next time. Oral permission or even written permission from the likes of that old squaw is worthless. Lucky for Sinclair Oil, her son-in-law is a breed, living off the B.I.A. Rolls and thus, not a ward of the government, as Indian as he may look. I just got him to sign the lease for the family, at two cents a barrel more than I might have had to if he hadn’t been white enough to see he had us by the nuts, with the well already proven, and not so much as an X in crayon on paper!”
Tiger shrugged his massive shoulders and said, “I just drill for the stuff, Mister Lacey. Take it up with Mister Sinclair if you don’t cotton to my style.”
The lawyer said stiffly, “I just told you I’d covered your mistake. Nobody said anything about firing you, damn it.”
Tiger smiled smugly and replied, “I don’t much care if you do. I ain’t one for bragging, but we both know how many other outfits are drilling out there, right now, and that I’m the best damned driller in the game.”
The lawyer smiled thinly and said, “Well, you’re about as fast a driller as we’ve ever had. But try to keep
it in mind that this is a business, not a gopher race. A well tied up in federal court can be less profitable than one on fire! At least we can insure a rig against fire. These damned conflicting Indian claims mean we really have to dot every I and cross every T before we even cut down a tree. So don’t do that again and we’ll say no more about it.”
Then the lawyer was looking Stringer’s way, not too pleasantly. Stringer looked somewhere else and faded casually back from the crowd. He’d heard as much or more about the local situation than the prissy Lawyer Lacey was likely to tell him, and Stringer just wasn’t up to stating his own name and business to strangers again. He suspected he might already be known in Tulsa by more than enough mean-eyed gents.
It had to be pushing two A.M. by now, and that big brass bedstead had cost him a whole silver dollar, so he wandered back to his hotel. He entered by the same side door, having wedged it open when he’d left, and the stairs did seem a mite steeper now, as he went back up to his room.
He’s just shut the door behind him when someone commenced to tap it softly from the other side. Stringer doubted it could be a raven softly rapping on his chamber door, so he drew his S&W as he cracked it open. Then he blinked in pleased surprise and asked the perky little blonde in the red kimono, “What on earth are you doing in Tulsa, Bubbles?”
W.R. Hackman, as she bylined the features she wrote for the Los Angeles Examiner, told Stringer that was what she wanted to ask him as she pushed her way in and shut the hall door behind her little round rump. Stringer saw no need to nick the light switch on. He could see her curves pretty well by the ruby glow through the windows and he could picture any details he might be missing from memory, thanks to the all-too-short, but mighty sweet time they’d shacked up in Tombstone. He put his gun back in its holster and reeled in the pretty little newspaper gal for a not at all brotherly kiss. She kissed back just as warmly, with a French accent. Then she pulled halfway free of his embrace to demand, “Aren’t we taking a lot for granted, Mister MacKail?”
He shrugged and replied, “If you say so. I didn’t know this was a purely business call, Ma’am. My paper sent me to do a piece on this Oklahoma oil boom. I’m hardly stupid enough to ask if the Examiner sent you to write about wild Indians.”
She dimpled up at him and said, “As a matter of fact, they did. It’s the first time anyone’s struck oil under an Indian reservation. Do you think they’re going to get cheated out of this otherwise worthless land, now that it’s worth something?”
He said, “I just heard a lawyer discussing that subject. Just what are we discussing, W.R.? Shared coverage, like that time in Tombstone?”
She wrinkled her pert nose as she answered, “As I recall, you kept kicking the covers off, and it gets cold at night in Arizona. Do you suppose it might be remotely possible this time, to keep our shared news angles on a more professional basis? I told you when we parted, that last cold gray dawn, that I just wasn’t up to feeling loved and left.”
Stringer smiled down at her wistfully and told her, “Cold gray dawns are uncomfortable for me, too. You may be right. It may be best if, this time, we work separate. You know how weak-natured I am when it comes to, ah, comparing notes with such a nice-looking member of the Fourth Estate and, to tell the truth, I don’t know beans about oil wells.”
She asked, “What about Indians?” to which he could only answer, “The Trail Of Tears was before my time, and it’s my understanding the Civilized Tribes were living white before Andrew Jackson drove ’em out here. The Cherokee, Chickashas, Choctaws, Creeks and Seminole were eastern woodland nations who’d taken to raising cash crops and acting about like everyone else before Old Hickory decided their farms and businesses were too good for anyone but whites who voted for him regular. The Osage were Sioux-speaking plainsmen who took up civilization as soon as they saw how well the Cherokee and Creek were doing, living white. The Indians in this particular neck of the woods are Creek, Osage and Cherokee. Most of ’em are part white, this late in the game, and a mess of white Sooners have moved in since the old Indian Nation was made the Oklahoma Territory and opened to homesteading wherever Indians weren’t already settled. Can we talk about it in the morning? It’s late as hell and I’m just not up to giving history lectures at this infernal hour.”
She started to say something. Then she sighed and moved over to the bedstead. As she slipped out of her kimono to recline crossways on the bed covers, Stringer smiled crookedly and asked her, “Is that your notion of a strictly business relationship, Bubbles?”
To which she replied, demurely, “If you offer to pay me I’ll snatch you bald-headed. You might have put up more of an argument, you brute!”
But all seemed forgiven by the time Stringer had shucked his own duds to the floor, hung his hat and gun-rig over a bed post, and joined her atop the covers to get nice and warm.
He’d forgotten just how warm old W.R. could get, for like the memories of pain, the memories of pleasure tended to blur as soon as one got over them. But it began to feel like old times in the Promised Land as they went gloriously insane together for a spell. But, when they had to pause for their second wind and Stringer decided the air had cleared enough now to risk lighting a smoke, he saw by the flickering matchlight that she had tears running down both cheeks from her big blue eyes. He shook out the match and cuddled her closer with his free arm, soothing, “You should have told me if I was hurting you, honey.”
She sobbed, “Oh, shut up. You know I came ahead of you, and damn it, the magic has started again and I made up my mind the last time, that a girl with a, well, adventurous streak had no call to take a tumbleweed man like you so seriously. Why can’t I just enjoy it, as good dirty fun, the way you do?”
He patted her bare shoulder to comfort her as he suggested, “Maybe it’s because you’re not as big and mean as me. I wasn’t having dirty thoughts about you just now, Bubbles. If anything, I was all too aware I was violating Teddy Roosevelt’s new pure food acts, you pretty little slice of angel’s food cake.”
She snuggled closer but got tears all over his bare chest as she protested, “I was trying to enjoy it as just fun. I’m sorry I moaned all those love words at you as I was coming. You must think I’m an awful sissy, right?”
He kissed the part of her unbound hair and assured her, “Hell, gals have a right to sound sissy, even when they ain’t coming. If you’ll promise not to print it in your paper, I’ll confess I was sure I was in love with you, too, when you bit down so sweet with your innards at the last.”
She brightened and asked, “Want to see me do it again?” So he put out the cigarette he’d just lit and although he felt a lot more than he could see, she sure could crunch down on an exploding erection with her already tight little organ grinder. She did it even better on top, and the ruby light gleaming on her parts that had inspired him to name her Bubbles inspired him to finish right, with her on the bottom, her ankles locked lovingly around the nape of his neck.
It seemed to calm her down instead of making her cry that time. Stringer was having enough trouble with his breathing without a smoke. So they just lay cuddled like old pards for a spell. Then she said she was getting goose bumps from the cold night air and they got under the covers together, lined up with the bed springs, with their heads on the pillows, and that inspired them to squeak the springs some more with one of the pillows under her already well-padded derriere. She said she found it a new and novel position. She’d told him that time in Tombstone that she’d never been married to a missionary. He’d never asked and still didn’t want to know who’d taught her all those other novel positions and when they’d finished this time, she said she was really tired and asked if he hadn’t had enough for now.
He kissed her, laughed, and replied, “It depends on what parts of me you’re asking. I’ll allow my back is tired of you for the moment. I had a long day on a hardwood train seat and the night wasn’t all that restful, either. Before I met up with you again, I mean.”
She stif
fened slightly to ask, “Oh? Just who might you have met that thrilled you so, before I heard you were staying at the same hotel, you sex fiend?”
He chuckled fondly and said, “If you think I could do what I just done to two women in one night, you really must admire me. My previous excitement was with a hired gun named Jack Holt. I’ve found such encounters almost as exciting as sex, even when I win. Who told you I was staying here at the Osage Inn, speaking of exciting encounters?”
She said, “I’m not deaf and the depot’s only a city block from here. But even a newswoman has to slip something on before she covers a shoot-out and you’d left by the time I was on the scene. One of the lawmen scraping up the mess you’d left told me the winner had been a young cowboy named MacKail. So after I wrote the item up and wired it in, I came back here to coyly inquire whether anyone by that name might have checked into the only decent hotel for blocks. By the time I could make myself, ah, presentable, you’d left again, you fidgety thing. I was just about to fall asleep when I heard familiar footsteps in the hall. Why do you always wear spurs, darling?”
He said, “I don’t have ’em on right now. The rest of the time it’s too big a bother to get ’em on and off right, and a man just never knows when he may want to ride, a horse, I mean.”
She said, “I’ve only seen a few cowboys, or Indians dressed like cowboys, since I got here around noon. But I’m glad you clunked by my door in those spurred boots of yours. I’m sort of weak-natured, too.”
He said, “I noticed how you make yourself presentable to tell a man not to trifle with you. I don’t think we have to worry about waking up in any cold gray dawn, at the rate we’re going. But we’re going to have to study some on just how close we want to stick when we wake up at, oh, say, noon.”
