“Yeah,” Vic picked up where Blackie left off, “’cept those damn things’re meaner’n shit. I remember one got mad at him and charged through his fence like it wasn’t there. Barbed wire was snappin’, posts were flyin’, they’re supposed to be better for ya than regular beef but I doubt anybody could raise’m. They can get it in their head that they want the grass that’s over yonder and they’re on their way.”
Blackie handed Zak a beer.
Vic thought he had a lead on a Westburn rig down around the south entrance of the park that might need hands but there was a catch.
“The boys down on that Westburn rig are either gonna be happy as hell to see us or some kinda pissed off,” Vic thought out loud.
“How so?” Blackie asked.
“Well, I’m not sure if they’ve been pullin’ a lot of doubles or if there’s a madman on that brake handle the toolpusher’s tryin’ to run off.”
“An entire crew driftin’ is a bit unusual, but not unheard of,” Blackie gave Zak a quick translation. “But if he wants to run that crew off, well, this’ll be that toolpusher’s lucky day.”
Danny meanwhile had pushed open the sliding glass panel between front and back and was leaning into the cab listening. He was a North Dakota farm boy who occasionally dropped down into the patch to earn some extra cash and raise some hell. He was ready. He jammed his hard hat down onto his head and roared, “Get it! Get it! Get it!” The other three just grinned and shook their heads.
When Zak and the boys arrived at Westburn 54, Vic drove directly up to that toolpusher’s shack. Vic knocked once and entered, leaving the rest standing in the doorway, and said, “I’m Vic Earlman, I can drill, and I’ve got a crew here ready to go to work right now if you need us.”
It turned out that the pusher could have used a couple of fellas but that wasn’t the deal Vic was looking for, so he thanked him very much and they headed back for the bars in Watford. “False alarm,” Vic muttered as he climbed back into the cab. Zak figured that if Vic or Blackie had thought it wise they would have offered his services, but they didn’t, so he kept quiet.
After a few drinks, Vic gave Zak a ride back out to the Theodore Roosevelt National Park. He felt sure Zak would land a job in a day or two. One way or another. Vic was a dark-haired sensible-looking quiet type cut from that increasingly rare North Dakota stock blessed with a liberal dose of common sense and decent humanity backed by the force of his convictions. The type of man who wins the respect of his fellows first, their admiration then coming quite naturally. Another farm boy turned roughneck just a shade older than he looked and he looked about thirty-seven. He was still in his prime. Experienced enough to know all the ropes but not weather-beaten like Blackie. Young enough to still have some high hopes for the future but not lost or bewildered like Danny seemed to be.
“We might work together, Zak, we might not,” Vic said. “The thing you’ve got to do is find yourself an experienced driller. You don’t want to just go workin’ for anybody. Especially when you’re breakin’ out. You’re liable to get hurt. You see, there’s an awful lot of fellas out there with no experience, and a lot more who just plain don’t belong. It’s not like the old days when my daddy was in the patch, for example. Or when Blackie started out, for that matter. Back then a roughneckin’ job was hard to come by. Just about the only thing in this part of the country that paid worth a shit. Today there’s a hundred and fifty rigs here in the Williston Basin, maybe more, and they’ll hire just about anybody as long as they can get a decent day’s work out of’m. So you’ll find a whole lot of fellas out there nowadays with an ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude toward their fellow crew members. I’ll tell you, Zak, you can lose an arm, a leg, or get your ass killed that way. Happens every day. More often than you might think. There’s a lot of tricks to this business, and though nobody’s gonna babysit you, you can still find someone who’ll teach you what they’ve learned along the way.”
WHEN VIC DROPPED HIM OFF, Zak climbed into his outfit and made a couple more sandwiches. His conversation with Vic had been reassuring but had left him with a sharp tinge of dread. “Without experience,” and “don’t belong,” kept bouncing off the walls of his brain and he thought long on the two categories. As the sun went down, he concluded that he wasn’t there to take advantage, that if conscientiousness was going to be a factor he would certainly be able to make the grade. But the questions remained. They rose to the surface of his thoughts and all other considerations paled in comparison, his unease returning to lift him entirely into a state of suspended animation. Perhaps it was at the park where he was able to deal with them most directly, in privacy, where he could drop all pretensions and ask himself honestly, Am I strong enough? Am I ready?
II
Andrew’s counterpart at the City Bar was Eileen. She had an indifferent smile for strangers and for her regulars she had knowing eyes that sparkled as if seeking the jest in every potential encounter. A lot of shenanigans had passed for sport there at the City Bar during her reign of humor, though she understood as well as anyone that the deadly serious aspects of life in the patch must be dealt with straight on. She was in her late twenties, a big heavy woman by anyone’s standards, but carried the extra weight with a light, airborne charm and performed her job with alacrity and dispatch. Half the older men in town were in love with her. “A sweet lady,” they said behind her back. Her brother Terry was a roustabout down in Texas. On those special days when a postcard would arrive from Big Lake or Orzona, she would keep it close by and show it to each and every roughneck regular who dropped in. During those periods when Terry was out of touch, they would ask about him with concern. When things at the City Bar were slow she would bury her nose in a gothic romance, and when they weren’t she would immerse herself in one of the many little dramas that unfolded there at the bar, four days a week, seven a.m. till three o’clock in the afternoon. If ever she could help in some small way she would.
This morning she was all smiles. For once, Sid had stocked the coolers before closing, so she didn’t have that little catfight to look forward to when he came in, hopefully on time, that afternoon. She hummed a tune, improvising a melody as she glided down the bar picking up bits of debris—cigarette wrappers, a crumpled napkin, an ashtray to be emptied. This morning, part of making sure that her store was in order meant keeping an eye open for Zachary Harper.
Neither Blackie nor Vic had been at the Sagebrush that morning. When Zak entered the City Bar, his face fell. They weren’t there either. Nevertheless, he had a good word for Eileen who waited for him to reach for his coffee before tossing in a shot of rye. “Don’t worry, this one’s on me.” Her eyes were twinkling, her shoulders danced, and her huge rippling bosom came to rest for just a second as she leaned over the bar toward him. “There was a fella in here last night and he was shorthanded,” she said excitedly, and her eyes grew wider still as Zak snapped to attention. It was a hot tip and they both knew it. Her look of caution and her walls-have-ears glances to the right and left brought him back to earth quickly. She picked up his coffee cup and beckoned him to follow her to the pay phone at the end of the bar where one could sit at the last stool and place a call. With a wink she reached between her breasts, making a grand gesture, thumb and forefinger pinched together, fat little pinky extended, and handed him a waitress check with a name and number. She flipped him a quarter. He dialed the number. No answer. “Jesse’s been in the business for many a year. They say he’s a hell of a driller. He’s got to show up somewhere sometime ’cause he’s home on days off.” She refilled Zak’s cup with coffee while she talked and paced behind the bar like a nervous stage mom. Eventually she counseled that he take a walk up to the Sagebrush and “keep tryin’ that number!”
The Sagebrush was as dead as it had been earlier, and Andrew was glad for a little company. He grabbed a handful of nuts and tipped an ounce or two into a clean glass.
“So, you know Jesse
Lancaster too?”
“No, I’ve never met him, but I hear he’s shorthanded.” Zak wondered if it was wise to be spreading it around that a driller had work but he couldn’t contain himself and figured what the hell, he wanted to know something about the man.
“He’s one of Eileen’s regulars, but he’s in here now and then. He’s been around long enough, I can tell you that much. If I’m not mistaken he goes back to the old days down in Gillette.”
They talked for a while longer, but Zak was anxious to get back to a phone and anyway, there was little Andrew could add. Zak left the Sagebrush and tried the phone at the City Park. Nothing. He had found a driller who was shorthanded and, what’s more, there were two reliable sources saying he was experienced: Zak’s only prerequisite. As he hung up the phone, Zak began to fear that the man would hire someone else before he could find him. He spent a frustrating day roaming between the City Bar and the Sagebrush and a restless night on the floor of the City Park.
First stop next morning was the Sagebrush, and Blackie was already half tight. Once aware of Zak’s mission they set off in sleuthlike fashion for the City Bar. There at a table by himself in the back of the bar was Jesse Lancaster. Stone drunk. He was not at all what Zak had imagined. He was small, with a dark complexion and a growling, sinister, menacing scowl upon his face. His left cheek was bruised and swollen. When the two men sat down, he barely acknowledged them. He was fading in and out, one minute all business, the next distant and mechanical. When Blackie mentioned that they had heard he was shorthanded, he came around a bit and belted down another shot of whiskey. They slowly got it out of him that he had been on a drunk for two days and it was obvious that he was drinking to kill pain, not time, so they were careful with their words.
Astonishingly, the man put things back in focus. He was heading back out to location the following day and he had to find a hand by then. He asked Zak if he had any experience and Zak was right up front and said no. He then asked Zak what he had been doing up until now and Zak replied that he was from South Dakota and had been working on a farm all his life. He also wanted to know how Zak and Blackie came to know one another. The fact that Blackie had worked with Zak’s cousin was important to him. At last there was a moment of silence and uncertainty and Zak, groping to state his case, said simply, “All I can really promise you is that I won’t cause you any trouble. I’ve got a real strong back. I’m willing to give you a hundred and fifty percent and I need the money in a real bad way.”
Jesse Lancaster turned his full attention on Zachary Harper. He studied Zak with cold, blank eyes, examined him like he was checking out a piece of equipment he might be in need of. He looked at Zak’s hands, his shoulders, his boots. And for a long uncomfortable moment, he looked Zachary Harper in the eye. He then returned to that strange distance he had been staring into when the men sat down. At last, he leaned forward on his elbows and took another hit of whiskey.
“I’ll break you out,” he said. “You’ll be breaking out on Bomac 34. It’s good iron. No major steps. The pumps are fair. It’s one hundred and fifty miles west of here in Montana outside of a small town called Scobey. Fourteen miles south of the Saskatchewan border. It’s a son of a bitch to get back into. When you get to Scobey you drive down Main Street, pass the grain elevators on the left, over the railroad tracks, take your first left. Head out maybe five miles till you come to four buttes. They’ll be on your right. When you hit those four buttes take a left. That’ll be gravel road. Now there’ll be some points where the road will curve around and split, but don’t get confused. Just stay on that main part of the road for a good twenty miles. You’ll come up over this hill and there in the distance you’ll see the rig. It’s a hundred and fifty feet of iron standing straight up and staring you in the face. We’re workin’ evening towers now so be there by three p.m. If you need a ride I’ll be headin’ out in the mornin’. I’ve got a small camper on location that I’m willin’ to share until you get fixed.”
Zak was slowly going into shock. He had finally done it. In a little over twenty-four hours, he was going to be standing on the floor of an oil rig, ready or not, to go to work, and this drunken, brooding character was going to be in charge. He wanted to leave that day while Lancaster’s sketchy directions were still fresh in his mind. If there were going to be any problems, he wanted time to think his way out of them. He didn’t say yes or no to the offer of hospitality, but thanked him sincerely for the job and promised not to let him down. Blackie stopped to chat with Eileen as they were leaving and, while they visited, Zak noticed that Jesse, all alone at the back of the bar, had drained his glass and was just staring vacantly.
The bone in the brown paper bag Eileen had given Blackie was for Duke, Blackie’s dog. Duke lived in the backyard at Blackie’s house, fastened to the earth by a chain that weighed the poor creature down so that his head hovered off the ground at about a third his natural height. Zak loosened the chain, then unhooked it altogether. As it clanged to the ground, Duke stuck out his tongue in a happy pant.
“Sure, go ahead,” Blackie laughed, “he ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Inside the house they had one last drink together. The bottle of Lord Calvert was nearly empty. A fresh one waited on the kitchen counter. Blackie estimated it would be a week or more before he’d feel like goin’ drillin’ again. When Zak turned to say goodbye, he was trembling. Blackie cut him short with a wave of his hand, “You’ll be back.” And momentarily stunned, it occurred to Zak that the possibility of returning had simply not occurred to him.
Outside, ol’ Duke walked around to the side of the house and was sitting erect with his nose pointed into a gentle breeze that played with his big floppy ears. He took a keen interest in the passing stranger who paused briefly to pat him on the nose. Duke could smell the familiar odors of whiskey, sweat, and cigarettes but there was a new and intriguing aroma—peanut butter. Duke licked his chops. Zak climbed into his Jeep and fired ’er up. Carbon monoxide stung Duke’s tender eyes and nose. His sensitive ears twitched at the loud whuw, whuw, whuw of the engine, and for some minutes after the Jeep had backed out of the driveway and disappeared from view, Duke continued to listen until the rumble of the Jeep slowly faded away.
ZAK DROVE OUT TO THE Theodore Roosevelt National Park for one last visit. He made lunch and watched the afternoon roll by, soaking up the last grains of energy this ancient place could give him. In one direction, the prairie stretched as far as the eye could see. In the other, the Little Missouri had carved an enormous chasm miles across that stretched into the far distances revealing the fragile nature of the terrain beneath the endless rolling grassland. The slump rock and rugged pillars of subcontinental collapse contained for him now an element of mockery. As the sun began to crest the horizon, he made ready to head west for Scobey, Montana, and Bomac 34.
III
Zak’s Jeep thundered down the empty highway. Streams of tar, where the road had been patched, streaked diagonally across his path like thick black snakes. To his right and left, the landscape churned under wild brush that hugged the earth like buffalo fur. Sometimes the land would level a bit and for as far as the eye could see in the fading golden twilight, tall lush grass rippled like the ocean in long, undulant, luxurious waves.
At Williston, he turned west onto Highway 2, and the night came on fast and the wind picked up from the northwest blowing harder and harder across the treeless sloping plains. At Culberston he turned north again following the rolling and fractious Highway 16 into a wind now becoming fierce that beat against the canvas walls of the Jeep and drowned out everything but Zak’s thoughts which were timorous and wandering. Instead of the veteran master hand, the confident and wise old campaigner, Jesse Lancaster had seemed seedy, broken, and decrepit. An angry shadow. Moribund, perditious, and used up. Yet he came highly recommended by the folks back in Watford. On the other hand, they had never claimed he was any kind of hero or champion. Only that he had been
at it for a long time. That had to count for something. Anyway. Turning down work at this stage of the game was simply out of the question.
Between Medicine Lake and Plentiwood the wind became ferocious; it heaved against the sides of the Jeep and ripped the canvas top partially away from its fastenings along the rim of the windshield, slashing Zak’s face, cutting his ear, and knocking off his glasses. The Jeep swerved and bounded off the road. Zak bounced violently in his seat as he fought to regain control of the vehicle with one hand, holding the canvas away from his face with the other. He slowed to a stop, got out, and wrestled with the wind, scraping the knuckles on his right hand and tearing a hunk of flesh from the left, until the canvas was securely fastened to the windshield once again. Back in the Jeep he lingered for a few moments, long enough to smoke a cigarette and calm down. He dabbed his minor wounds with an old dirty T-shirt. He smoked another cigarette and waited long enough to watch the burning horizon cool and fade to blackness. And in a moment of fathomless grief, he realized that at this point in his journey, he couldn’t turn back even if he wanted to. So he shoved on.
When he reached Plentiwood, he turned west once more onto Highway 5 and after passing Redwood and Flaxville finally peaked the eastern slope that overlooks Scobey, Montana. He rolled into town, coming to a stop at what looked like the town’s only intersection at Highway 5 and Main Street. On his right was a hardware store. The sign said “Closed.” Across from that and directly in front of him was a newspaper building. A drugstore stood on the far left corner and across the street from that was the Ponderosa Bar and Café.
“There’s got to be a park in this town someplace,” he thought aloud while looking to his right and left. He considered heading back down the highway to find some old dirt road to pull off of for the night but hesitated. He didn’t want to wake up staring at a shotgun. He turned north up Main Street. As the loud low rumble of the Jeep bounced off the storefront facades and echoed down the concrete boulevard, he suddenly felt conspicuous in the extreme.
Roughnecks Page 4