Gunsight Pass: How Oil Came to the Cattle Country and Brought a New West

by William MacLeod Raine

  CHAPTER XXI

  THE HOLD-UP

  To Sanders, working on afternoon tower at Jackpot Number Three, the lean,tanned driller in charge of operations was wise with an uncanny knowledgethe newcomer could not fathom. For eight hours at a stretch he stood onthe platform and watched a greasy cable go slipping into the earth. Everyquiver of it, every motion of the big walking-beam, every kick of theengine, told him what was taking place down that narrow pipe two thousandfeet below the surface. He knew when the tools were in clay and hadbecome gummed up. He could tell just when the drill had cut into hardrock at an acute angle and was running out of the perpendicular to followthe softer stratum. His judgment appeared infallible as to whether heought to send down a reamer to straighten the kink. All Dave knew wasthat a string of tools far underground was jerking up and downmonotonously.

  This spelt romance to Jed Burns, superintendent of operations, though hewould never have admitted it. He was a bachelor; always would be one.Hard-working, hard-drinking, at odd times a plunging gambler, he livedfor nothing but oil and the atmosphere of oil fields. From one boomto another he drifted, as inevitably as the gamblers, grafters, andorganizers of "fake" companies. Several times he had made fortunes, butit was impossible for him to stay rich. He was always ready to back adrilling proposition that looked promising, and no independent speculatorcan continue to wildcat without going broke.

  He was sifting sand through his fingers when Dave came on towerthe day after the flood. To Bob Hart, present as Crawford's personalrepresentative, he expressed an opinion.

  "Right soon now or never. Sand tastes, feels, looks, and smells like oil.But you can't ever be sure. An oil prospect is like a woman. She will orshe won't, you never can tell which. Then, if she does, she's liable tochange her mind."

  Dave sniffed the pleasing, pungent odor of the crude oil sands. Hisfriend had told him that Crawford's fate hung in the balance. Unless oilflowed very soon in paying quantities he was a ruined man. The control ofthe Jackpot properties would probably pass into the hands of Steelman.The cattleman would even lose the ranches which had been the substantialbasis of his earlier prosperity.

  Everybody working on the Jackpot felt the excitement as the drill beganto sink into the oil-bearing sands. Most of the men owned stock in thecompany. Moreover, they were getting a bonus for their services and hadbeen promised an extra one if Number Three struck oil in payingquantities before Steelman's crew did. Even to an outsider there is afascination in an oil well. It is as absorbing to the drillers as agirl's mind is to her hopeful lover. Dave found it impossible to escapethe contagion of this. Moreover, he had ten thousand shares in theJackpot, stock turned over to him out of the treasury supply by the boardof directors in recognition of services which they did not care tospecify in the resolution which authorized the transfer. At first he hadrefused to accept this, but Bob Hart had put the matter to him in such alight that he changed his mind.

  "The oil business pays big for expert advice, no matter whether it'slegal or technical. What you did was worth fifty times what the boardvoted you. If we make a big strike you've saved the company. If we don'tthe stock's not worth a plugged nickel anyhow. You've earned what wevoted you. Hang on to it, Dave."

  Dave had thanked the board and put the stock in his pocket. Now he felthimself drawn into the drama represented by the thumping engine whichcontinued day and night.

  After his shift was over, he rode to town with Bob behind his team ofwild broncos.

  "Got to look for an engineer for the night tower," Hart explained as hedrew up in front of the Gusher Saloon. "Come in with me. It's somegambling-hell, if you ask me."

  The place hummed with the turbulent life that drifts to every wildfrontier on the boom. Faro dealers from the Klondike, poker dealers fromNome, roulette croupiers from Leadville, were all here to reap the richharvest to be made from investors, field workers, and operators. Smoothgrafters with stock in worthless companies for sale circulated in and outwith blue-prints and whispered inside information. The men who wereranged in front of the bar, behind which half a dozen attendants in whiteaprons busily waited on their wants, usually talked oil and nothing butoil. To-day they had another theme. The same subject engrossed the groupsscattered here and there throughout the large hall.

  In the rear of the room were the faro layouts, the roulette wheels, andthe poker players. Around each of these the shifting crowd surged.Mexicans, Chinese, and even Indians brushed shoulders with white men ofmany sorts and conditions. The white-faced professional gambler was inevidence, winning the money of big brown men in miner's boots andcorduroys. The betting was wild and extravagant, for the spirit of thespeculator had carried away the cool judgment of most of these men. Theyhad seen a barber become a millionaire in a day because the company inwhich he had plunged had struck a gusher. They had seen the same manborrow five dollars three months later to carry him over until he got ajob. Riches were pouring out of the ground for the gambler who would takea chance. Thrift was a much-discredited virtue in Malapi. The oneunforgivable vice was to be "a piker."

  Bob found his man at a faro table. While the cards were being shuffled,he engaged him to come out next evening to the Jackpot properties. Assoon as the dealer began to slide the cards out of the case the attentionof the engineer went back to his bets.

  While Dave was standing close to the wall, ready to leave as soon as Bobreturned to him, he caught sight of an old acquaintance. Steve Russellwas playing stud poker at a table a few feet from him. The cowpuncherlooked up and waved his hand.

  "See you in a minute, Dave," he called, and as soon as the pot had beenwon he said to the man shuffling the cards, "Deal me out this hand."

  He rose, stepped across to Sanders, and shook hands with a strong grip."You darned old son-of-a-gun! I'm sure glad to see you. Heard you wasback. Say, you've ce'tainly been goin' some. Suits me. I never did likeeither Dug or Miller a whole lot. Dug's one sure-enough bad man andMiller's a tinhorn would-be. What you did to both of 'em was a-plenty.But keep yore eye peeled, old-timer. Miller's where he belongs again,but Dug's still on the range, and you can bet he's seein' red thesedays. He'll gun you if he gets half a chance."

  "Yes," said Dave evenly.

  "You don't figure to let yoreself get caught again without asix-shooter." Steve put the statement with the rising inflection.

  "No."

  "Tha's right. Don't let him get the drop on you. He's sudden death witha gun."

  Bob joined them. After a moment's conversation Russell drew them to acorner of the room that for the moment was almost deserted.

  "Say, you heard the news, Bob?"

  "I can tell you that better after I know what it is," returned Hart witha grin.

  "The stage was held up at Cottonwood Bend and robbed of seventeenthousand dollars. The driver was killed."

  "When?"

  "This mo'nin'. They tried to keep it quiet, but it leaked out."

  "Whose money was it?"

  "Brad Steelman's pay roll and a shipment of gold for the bank."

  "Any idea who did it?"

  Steve showed embarrassment. "Why, no, _I_ ain't, if that's what youmean."

  "Well, anybody else?"

  "Tha's what I wanta tell you. Two men were in the job. They're whisperin'that Em Crawford was one."

  "Crawford! Some of Steelman's fine work in that rumor, I'll bet. He'scrazy if he thinks he can get away with that. Tha's plumb foolish talk.What evidence does he claim?" demanded Hart.

  "Em deposited ten thousand with the First National to pay off a note heowed the bank. Rode into town right straight to the bank two hours afterthe stage got in. Then, too, seems one of the hold-ups called the otherone Crawford."

  "A plant," said Dave promptly.

  "Looks like." Bob's voice was rich with sarcasm. "I don't reckon theother one rose up on his hind laigs and said, 'I'm Bob Hart,' did he?"

  "They claim the second man was Dave here."

  "Hmp! What time d'you say this hold-up took place?"


  "Must 'a' been about eleven."

  "Lets Dave out. He was fifteen miles away, and we can prove it by atleast six witnesses."

  "Good. I reckon Em can put in an alibi too."

  "I'll bet he can." Hart promised this with conviction.

  "Trouble is they say they've got witnesses to show Em was travelin'toward the Bend half an hour before the hold-up. Art Johnson and ClemPurdy met him while they was on their way to town."

  "Was Crawford alone?"

  "He was then. Yep."

  "Any one might'a' been there. You might. I might. That don't prove athing."

  "Hell, I know Em Crawford's not mixed up in any hold-up, let alone adamned cowardly murder. You don't need to tell _me_ that. Point is thatevidence is pilin' up. Where did Em get the ten thousand to pay the bank?Two days ago he was tryin' to increase the loan the First National hadmade him."

  Dave spoke. "I don't know where he got it, but unless he's a bornfool--and nobody ever claimed that of Crawford--he wouldn't take themoney straight to the bank after he had held up the stage and killedthe driver. That's a strong point in his favor."

  "If he can show where he got the ten thousand," amended Russell. "And ofcourse he can."

  "And where he spent that two hours after the hold-up before he came totown. That'll have to be explained too," said Bob.

  "Oh, Em he'll be able to explain that all right," decided Stevecheerfully.

  "Where is Crawford now?" asked Dave. "He hasn't been arrested, has he?"

  "Not yet. But he's bein' watched. Soon as he showed up at the bank thesheriff asked to look at his six-shooter. Two cartridges had been fired.One of the passengers on the stage told me two shots was fired from asix-gun by the boss hold-up. The second one killed old Tim Harrigan."

  "Did they accuse Crawford of the killing?"

  "Not directly. He was asked to explain. I ain't heard what his storywas."

  "We'd better go to his house and talk with him," suggested Hart. "Maybehe can give as good an alibi as you, Dave."

  "You and I will go straight there," decided Sanders. "Steve, get threesaddle horses. We'll ride out to the Bend and see what we can learn onthe ground."

  "I'll cash my chips, get the broncs, and meet you lads at Crawford's,"said Russell promptly.