If Wishes Were Kisses: Six Beloved Americana Romances, a Collection (Small Town Swains)

by Pamela Morsi

  "This one is looking for a job," he said, indicating Tom. "It's his first, no second, day in the oil fields."

  The man couldn't resist a chuckle, and the rest of his cohorts joined in.

  Tom ignored them and offered his handshake.

  "Are you the boss here at the P. Calhoun Number One?" he asked.

  The old man nodded. "We just call her the 'P,'" he said.

  "I need a job," Tom told him. "And I'd like to work here on this rig."

  Cedarleg looked at Tom assessingly.

  "You look to have a strong back at least," the tool pusher said finally. "My name's Pease, but they call me Cedarleg. I don't suspect you know nothing about nothing."

  "I'm a quick study," Tom assured him. "I've worked all over Texas and the territories. I know cattle, horses, farming."

  "You know anything about machinery?"

  Tom hesitated. He wasn't above lying, but there was no sense in making up something that would easily be found out to be untrue.

  "No, sir," he said firmly. "I've never had much acquaintance with machines. I can shoot straight, ride well, and tend animals. But I'm hoping to learn something new."

  Cedarleg continued to look at him thoughtfully. "That's a real good attitude, son," he said finally. "But I just ain't got the time to teach you nothing. This is a drilling rig. It's a dangerous place for anybody. It can be deadly for those who don't know their way around."

  Tom opened his mouth to plead his case further when the consistent thud . . . chik . . . thud suddenly developed a strange, almost whirring sound.

  Cedarleg obviously heard it, too, and turned, hurrying on his gimp leg toward the rig, calling out, "Slack in the line!"

  Tom rushed forward with him, taking in the scene. One man knelt on the derrick floor, frantically jerking at the stove up drill stem.

  "Turn it off!" he screamed. "Turn it off!"

  The other man stood, pale and wide-eyed, frozen in place.

  "Pull the brake!" Cedarleg called out to him as he raced forward, in eminent danger of falling over in his haste. "Pull the brake."

  Clearly Tom saw that the frozen man could do nothing. He knew that look. He'd seen it in Cuba. A man too frightened to move was an easy target and the men around him usually suffered.

  The heavy cable began pouring off the spool onto the kneeling man. It was going to kill him, Tom realized. Either the weight of it would crush him, or if he managed to pull loose the stuck drill stem he would be caught up in the line and ripped apart before their eyes.

  The frozen man was not moving to save him and the crippled man was not going to have time. Tom leapt onto the derrick floor. He gave one glance at the driller contemplating his death and unerringly followed the direction of his eyes to the brake lever.

  Tom pulled it downward with all his strength.

  Silence.

  Total silence.

  Then Cedarleg was beside him, securing the chain that held the brake lever down.

  All the men in the vicinity of the rig had rushed to the derrick floor. The tank builders were there first and dragged the driller out of the tangle of cable.

  "He's all right!" one of them called out. "He's all right."

  "Thank God."

  Tom heard Cedarleg whisper under his breath only a moment before he turned toward the other fellow, the tool dresser, still frozen a few feet away.

  "Git!" Cedarleg hollered at him.

  The man stuttered, attempting some sort of reply.

  "Git!" Cedarleg screamed more viciously. "Git away from this rig! Git off this hill! Git out of my sight!"

  Cedarleg was walking toward the man threateningly. He picked up a greasy rag and threw it at the man.

  "Git!" he hollered once more.

  The fellow hurriedly backed off the rig, but it wasn't fast enough to suit Cedarleg. He followed. Stooping to grab a handful of dirt, he threw that at the man.

  The fellow was killing mad. The tool dresser began hurrying away in earnest. And when a rock Cedarleg threw at him caught him square between the shoulder blades, he began running.

  "Git outta here!" Cedarleg continued screaming and followed at as fast a pace as he could manage, throwing stones as he went.

  Tom was right behind him. He grabbed the older fellow from behind, pinning his arms to his sides in a confining embrace.

  "Let me go!" Cedarleg ordered.

  "Let him go," Tom said quietly. "It's over. It's all over."

  "I lost my leg 'cause of a sonuvabitch like him."

  "It's over," Tom repeated calmly. "The driller is fine. Your leg is gone. And that fellow is, too."

  After a long moment, Tom felt the tension go out of the old man.

  "You can let me go now, son," Cedarleg said. "I'm all right now.

  Tom released him and the two stood together silently as Cedarleg continued to look toward where the tool dresser had disappeared.

  "I was driller on a rig up in Pennsylvania twelve years ago," he told Tom. "I lost my leg in a slack line accident a lot like this one."

  The man turned to face Tom, his expression pensive, thoughtful.

  "My dang leg got tangled in the line and when the drill bit popped through it ripped it off at the knee as easy as pulling a drumstick off a Sunday dinner chicken."

  "I'm sorry," Tom told him.

  Cedarleg nodded in response. "I always said that I was just grateful to be alive." He chuckled without humor. "I suspect sometimes I'm not as grateful as I pretend to be."

  They turned and began walking back toward the rig.

  "You're a dang hero, son," Cedarleg told him.

  Tom scoffed. "If there's anything I learned in Cuba," he said, "it's that the only real heroes are dead ones. I intend to live a very long time."

  Cedarleg laughed. "That's a good attitude. Surviving is a good motivator for working in the oil fields. What's your name, son?"

  "My name?"

  "All men with jobs have a name, I suspect."

  Tom's brow furrowed. "I don't have a job."

  Cedarleg raised an eyebrow. "I'm in dire need of a new tool dresser. I just run my last one off. If you want the position, it's yours."

  Tom looked at him a moment and then gestured toward the rig. "I don't know anything about oil wells," he said.

  Cedarleg shrugged. "You know where the brake is. That's a good start."

  He held out his hand. "My name's Walker, Tom Walker," he said.

  Chapter Five

  He worked the rest of the shift beside Cedarleg. It was tough, hard work and somewhat confusing, but Tom kept at it.

  The driller, who introduced himself as Bob Earlie, kept at it, too. After taking a few moments to collect himself after his near brush with death, Earlie started the rig up once more.

  Over the constant pounding noise of the rig, Tom began learning the names of the clamps and sockets and joints, and which tools might be called on for what repairs. By midafternoon the July sun beat down upon them with such intensity that it slowed their movements to the rhythm of the rig and their bodies glistened with the sweat of honest work.

  The constant drumming against solid rock dulled and warped the bits. Frequently they were removed and beaten back into shape. It was the tool dresser's job to keep the hot forge burning and to pound the heated bits upon the anvil into their proper dimensions.

  The worst of the sun was just over when the evening tour, which Tom learned was pronounced "tower," arrived at six. There was some quick welcome, much talk of the accident, and nods of acceptance toward Tom. Each man had a few words with his night-shift counterpart. The evening tool dresser was a serious, sober fellow who accepted Tom's lack of knowledge or experience without any comment or change of expression.

  Finally, the day crew began tramping back down the hill and along the riverside road to the ferry crossing.

  Tom was exhausted. All he wanted was to get back to his narrow bunk at the CLEAN CHEAP BEDS and sleep until dawn.

  "Walker!" he heard called out behind him.


  He stopped and turned to see Cedarleg hurrying along after him in his awkward, unsightly gait.

  "You trying to catch a train, boy?" he asked Tom. "I'm practically at what counts for me as a dead-out run to catch you."

  Tom shook his head and shrugged. "I'm just so blamed tired," he admitted. "I guess I thought if I slowed down I might fall asleep at the side of the road."

  The older fellow chuckled. "I hear ye," he said. "It's just a matter of getting used to it. The first day without so much as a bush to get under. That sun just saps it out of ye."

  Tom nodded. "My bunk isn't much better than the side of this road," he said. "But it is sure looking pretty good to me now."

  "That's what I wanted to ask you," Cedarleg said. "Where exactly are you bunking?"

  When Tom told him, he shook his head and tutted with disapproval.

  "You cain't bunk there, that's a roustabout place."

  "Huh?"

  "In the oil fields," Cedarleg explained, "we're kindy clannish. Each group of workers stays among their own kind. We eat together, sleep together, socialize together. We don't mix with others."

  Tom raised an eyebrow in surprise.

  "Now, it ain't what you're thinking," Cedarleg told him quickly. "It ain't like tank builders think they are better than rig builders or roughnecks think they are better than roustabouts, though they probably do. It's not even like where folks is from, though most of the rig builders hail from the mountains of Tennessee and Kentucky and the tool pushers usually got factory experience up north somewhere. What it is mostly, is that the way you get to be a good tool dresser is by listening to and talking with tool dressers that got more experience than you."

  "That seems reasonable."

  "You see how we work," he said. "The driller and I both dressed tools in our time, but the rigs and the way they're run changes ever' day. If you're really going to learn about it, you got to be around the men that's doing it."

  "So I need to find a bunk among the tool dressers," Tom said.

  Cedarleg nodded. "It's the best way. You can get your own tent in the tool dresser's part of the camp. You'll be one of them and they'll share what they know with ye."

  Tom nodded thoughtfully. "How much does a tent in the tool dresser's part of the camp cost?"

  Cedarleg didn't answer immediately. "I don't suspect that you got much money for stepping up in the world," he said.

  The statement required no reply.

  "I know what you can do," Cedarleg said. "You can stay with my woman and me for a week or so 'til ye get on your feet."

  "I couldn't do that."

  "Sure ye can," he assured him. "The pushers' camp ain't far from the dressers and I can take you around, introduce you to some fellers."

  "I couldn't impose on you and your wife."

  "You wouldn't be. Ma and me, we got us a nice, tight little place and she'll love you to death. We got a boy about your age working down in Baytown. His wife is going to make me a grandpa in the fall. Ain't that something?"

  Tom laughed along with him.

  It was impossible, he discovered, to refuse Cedarleg's invitation.

  "Much appreciate it," Tom told him finally.

  The older man clapped him on the back as if delighted. And he continued a steady stream of oil field explanation as they walked down the road.

  The ferry across the Arkansas was obviously doing a steady business. The railroad crossing was fine for trains and men on foot, but there was no wagon bridge across the river. The area near the ferry docking was crowded with vehicles of all types, the drivers patiently awaiting their turn on the twenty-foot flat boat that was pulled across the river by ropes. The day tour workers made their way past a butcher's cart, around a lumber dray, and in front of a canvas-cooled milk truck. The ferrymen were just completing the loading of a heavy tanker. Already tied down in front was a brightly painted peddler's wagon. Tom stepped on board aside Cedarleg, hesitating only briefly to hold the head of a nervous horse as the ropes for the second vehicle were secured. As soon as they pushed off into the water, the two moved out of range of the tanker's disagreeable scent.

  Leaning against the side rails, he drew in a deep breath of fresh air. Cedarleg had struck up a conversation with one of the boatmen and Tom was alone with his thoughts for a long moment.

  He knew this river. He knew it well and today it was deceptively quiet, wide, and slow-moving. He had seen it wild and dangerous. It had tempted him to escape. Not far downstream was where Shemmy Creek flowed into it. And up that creek, six long

  miles, was the Methodist Indian Home. He remembered reading Tom Sawyer and dreaming of rafting down Shemmy Creek, making his way to the Arkansas and freedom forever. He'd even gone so far as trying to piece a raft together.

  When Reverend McAfee had caught him, he'd blistered his backside. Years earlier three boys from the home had gone riding on logs down the flood-risen stream. All three had drowned.

  "You'll be grown and heading downstream soon enough," he'd told Tom with great seriousness. "And I fear you will discover that it is far easier to begin the journey than to maneuver in the stream."

  He pushed the memory away and turned from the river to admire the fashionable scene painted in an oval upon the side of the yellow-and-blue peddler's wagon. With the men on the rigs working twelve- hour shifts six days a week, most had little time to visit the stores and vendors in town. So the peddlers brought the merchandise to them.

  Tom read the name above it and had only an instant to note the significance of NAFEE EMPORIUM before a familiar figure stepped out from behind the wagon. The two men recognized each other immediately.

  "Mr. Crane! Ah, what surprise to meet soon again."

  Tom stared, near dumbstruck at the sight of the strange foreign fiancé of Princess Calhoun's friend. He glanced quickly toward Cedarleg to see if he'd heard Tom addressed by another name. Gratefully he had not.

  "Uh . . . uh . . . Mister uh . . ."

  "Bashara," the fellow supplied. "Maloof Bashara, but you please call only Maloof, yes?"

  He offered his hand. Tom took it mutely, his thoughts swirling with faster fury than a June tornado. He was caught, well and for sure caught. Here was a man who knew him as Gerald, but now met him dressed as Tom. He was grease-stained, dirty, and sweaty. It was obvious that he'd just put in a day's work on a rig. He had been introduced to the peddler as a gentleman, but now he stood before him clearly as a worker.

  Tom was dumbstruck and uncertain. Should he offer some explanation? What sort of explanation could it be? How close was this man’s acquaintance to Cessy? Would he mention the chance meeting to her? Certainly he might speak of it to his young lady. Would she tell Miss Calhoun that he was seen heading back from the oil fields in worn, dirty overalls and work boots?

  "It's . . . it's good to see you again ... ah, Maloof," he managed to get out finally.

  The foreign fellow pumped his hand with enthusiasm.

  "You name Jarrett? Jarrod? Jerat?" Maloof struggled to remember correctly.

  Tom ignored the implied question.

  "What fun the party, yes?" Maloof said, chuckling. "We laugh, we dance, and then today . . ." He sighed dramatically. "We work again as if life is no pleasure."

  Tom relaxed slightly. Apparently the foreigner didn't comprehend the disparity between Gerald Crane of last night and the man who stood before him now.

  They had had fun at the party. The peddler had a keen sense of humor and the two young women were full of easy laughter. It had been a pleasant evening, but it had been Gerald's evening, not Tom's.

  "Good to see you again, Maloof," he said assuming the cultured voice of Mr. Crane. "I didn't realize that you worked for Mr. Nafee." He gestured toward the wagon.

  Maloof grinned, it was an expression that seemed to come easy to his nature. "Yes, I peddle the wares of the father of my future bride. I think I am to prove myself worthy."

  "Does he wonder if you are worthy of her?" Tom asked.

>   Maloof's eyes widened with mischief. "Oh no, he thinks I am fine for her. He wonders if I am worthy of his business."

  The foreign fellow had a great laugh at that. Tom raised an eyebrow and chuckled with him.

  "Who's yer friend, Tom?" the words came from Cedarleg who'd stepped up beside him.

  With a lightning decision, Tom introduced Cedarleg to the peddler using Gerald's voice.

  The tool pusher gave him a curious look but made no comment as he politely shook Maloof's hand.

  "I am not friend," Bashara explained in his unusual way to the older man. "But not enemy for sure. We share ladies."

  "You share ladies?" Cedarleg's question was incredulous.

  Maloof laughed and shook his head. "No, no, I speak English no good. We do not share. We each have our own."

  "Tom, you didn't tell me you had a lady," Cedarleg teased, with a well-aimed elbow poke to his ribs.

  "Well, I . . . uh . . ."

  "Our ladies are like sisters."

  "Sisters?"

  "Miss Muna and I are to be married," Maloof continued. "But just last night he met Miss Prin."

  Cedarleg whistled with appreciation. "Just in town one day and already met you a gal."

  "She's a very nice young lady," Tom said. "And I am of age."

  "Of age to be courting for certain," Cedarleg agreed. "And I'm a great believer in it. Been married twenty-three years myself. I'm as happy about it this evening as I was on the first day. A feller gets himself the right woman, he cain't do no better in life."

  Tom smiled in tacit agreement, but wanted a change in subject. He glanced at the wagon and figured he could kill two birds with one stone.

  "I need a suit, Maloof," he said. "If a man is going courting, he's got to have a suit."

  The peddler's eyes alighted with pleasure. "For you, the best I've got."

  Tom gave a nervous glance toward Cedarleg. "Not the best you've got. Something . . . something fine, but thrifty."

  Maloof grabbed Tom by the shoulders as if measuring their width and gave a little huff of approval.

  "I have perfect, perfect. For you, fine big man, perfect suit."

  Maloof hurried to the back of the wagon and began sorting his merchandise.