Roughnecks

by James J. Patterson

  Zachary Harper burst from the sleeping bag, flinging away the covering with a desperate burst of energy to free his arms and legs. The cool night air whisked gently over him and he gulped for air in the blackness not knowing where he was. His heart was pounding like it would explode on the very next beat. He shuddered all over. It was Freddy’s hideously pain-contorted face on the head of that beast. With a mouth all huge and crying and biting. The very image was nauseating.

  Zak heard something. Was the dream not over?

  A creepy feeling like something unfinished permeated his earth bound senses as though they had picked up a dream remnant that didn’t fit this reality. The audio portion of his senses began to clear and differentiate.

  Gurgling, snorting, huffing, breathing. Coyotes!

  Sniffing, sniffing, sniffing with their long noses close to the ground at the base of his tent. Their flanks brushing the canvas ever so slightly as they moved. How many? Half a dozen? Surely they could smell him.

  Can animals really smell fear?

  Zak took several deep breaths and attempted to think his way clear of any panicky notions. What state had he left the bread bag in? Had he thrown a crust or two into the fire that morning? If they found a few morsels they would surely root around for more.

  A coyote was sniffing around the flap of the tent. Had he zipped it up before turning in? He didn’t think so. He reached up his pant leg and noiselessly withdrew the Ruana knife from its scabbard. Then he remembered the gun that Freddy had lent him. With his free hand, he felt through the pile of dirty clothes next to his sleeping bag and found the chamois. When he unrolled it, he could smell the scent of gun oil. Funny, he hadn’t noticed that before. Just then all commotion outside the tent ceased. Zak took half a breath in the total silence. Would they attack? If he made a sudden loud and startling noise would they run off or stand and fight? In the blackness he abandoned trying to see with his eyes and let his ears and nose take over, pushing past the perimeter of the tent wall ready to detect the slightest changes. After three minutes, he decided, quite by instinct, to move. The gun in one hand, the blade in the other, he coiled the muscles in his legs and in one quick hop he popped through the flap into the moonlight. He turned in all directions as he moved to be clear of the tent so he could have room should they set upon him all at once. His eyes adjusted quickly. Nothing. He scouted around the entire tent. Nothing.

  He stood up straight, holding the gun loosely at his side and looked around in every direction. “Where did you go?” The sound of his voice reverberated through the chill night air which iced his bones, sent a wrinkle up his back, and left him feeling untenanted, hollow, unknown. The coyotes were long gone and he had to ask himself if they had ever been there.

  He put the knife away, rummaged through the tent, found his cigarettes, and, still hanging onto the gun, walked over to the creek. He was shaking from more than bad images and animals creeping in the night. While he smoked he held the gun in his hand. He leaned back against the rock and took in the night for what it was; beautiful, stark, embracing all he could see and all he couldn’t, nearly accommodating his loneliness.

  NEXT DAY, THE ROAR OF the engines as they sprang to life on the newly assembled floor ripped the peaceful air of a Montana afternoon. The burning number one diesel fuel spewing from the big Cats perfumed the air heavily and made the lungs work a little harder. The clarion scream of those engines joined with a clangorous screeching, creaking yawn as the tower was hauled up on its A-legs, ending with a long deep metallic groan as it settled into place overlooking this vast scene and the men who presumed to be masters of it.

  Once that derrick was in place, they had a ninety-foot block and tackle at their disposal for hoisting up the rotary table, unloading the heavy stuff from the semis, and any other mammoth job that could be saved until that point.

  The next couple of days involved tying all the loose pieces together. Wiring up the light plant. Tying up the big chain drive that ran through the Cats, through the drawworks to the rotary table. This chain was then housed in its own metal casing three feet off the floor, twenty-four inches across. For entertainment, and a few wows, the boys could watch Marty and Samson trying to outdo each other up in the derrick. Marty, into his small ape act, was swinging from beam to beam, putting in new light bulbs, while Samson looked a bit more like Kong scaling the Empire State as he went about stringing up cable. The boys down below shook their heads. Some just grinned.

  AT THE END OF TOWER that third afternoon the schedule for the hole was posted. They were due to spud-in that evening. Jesse’s crew was on morning towers, eleven p.m. to seven a.m., relieved by Rory and his boys, seven a.m. to three p.m., followed by the Parker Brothers in the evening. The Cowboy Crew was down as relief. The past couple of nights, Zak had stayed in town at the hotel, and now, as the boys adjourned for a little shut-eye before returning that evening, he decided to stop at Sam’s for a beer and a little quiet consideration of his next move.

  The bar smelled of cinnamon and warm cider. The place was pretty dead but for a few locals who were scattered around the large room. Corey Nightingale was crouched over a box of tools inside the front window repairing the panes that Samson had cracked the night before. When Zak entered he gave Corey a fond hello, to which Corey responded with a curious face and then went back to work as though he’d never laid eyes on Zachary Harper in all his life.

  Sam wasn’t busy and she welcomed Zak with a warm smile and lifted brow as though she was genuinely delighted to see him, personally. She wore heavy-looking brass earrings that caught the light as it flickered through the ventilation fans overhead. Her billowy white crenelated dress seemed to spill all over her. Her long black hair was pulled loosely into a bun at the back of her head. Some of it tumbled down her neck. Her face was lightly powdered, her lips bright red and smiling. She sipped wine.

  “That was some entrance Samson made last night,” Zak said to Sam as he sat down, at the bar keeping one eye on Corey.

  “Samson is all right,” Sam said most forgivingly.

  Zak pointed at the Miller tap; as he scootched to get comfortable on the barstool and she shook her head no and reached into the cooler for a cold bottle. Apparently the keg was dry.

  “Well, he sure got everyone’s attention.”

  “That was the point,” she smiled as she plucked the top off the bottle with an opener that hung on a leather cord around her neck buried, when not in use, among bosom and beads. She thought for a second, and then decided to go ahead with a little more wine. The big green jug made a deep popping sound as she pulled the cork. “Actually, I was much more concerned about a couple of others who were in here last night. Samson’s big entrance was more than likely for their benefit. Frankly, I was glad to see him.”

  Something like this hadn’t occurred to Zak. “Well, he sure cut an impressive figure there in that doorway. I was reminded of learning in grade school about the barbarian invasions of Europe.”

  “Ah, Old Europe. Kurgans,” she mused thoughtfully.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Another word for barbarians. Yes. I can see them very clearly now. Just like you say.” She toyed thoughtfully with the big cumbersome rings on her long milk-white fingers. “A whole army of guys like Samson,” she laughed and as she did so her smile lines deepened playfully and her face was transformed from looking tired and puffy to youthful and seductive. “On horseback, drunk, raping, pillaging, going wherever they want. Doing and taking whatever they want. Hmmm,” she leaned on her side of the bar and one large breast came to rest on her braceleted arm. “And, of course, the stronger women they captured would come along with them to cook, and take care of them and tend to their wounds.” They both watched Corey delicately remove a broken plane of glass.

  Zak mentioned that Corey had given him the lowdown on the shack on Stitch Cronan’s property, all of which was old news to Sam. She was much more interested i
n Zachary Harper. It was very flattering to have her full attention. She charmed and prodded him to talk about himself, without ever offering a slice from her own autobiography. You could tell her as much as you liked or you could tell her nothing. Most told her too much.

  As he usually did when it was time to talk about himself, he mentioned Wall, South Dakota, and the names of famous people he had seen pass through there when he was a kid. Back when America had set out to discover its new Interstate Highway System. But he wasn’t paying any more attention to it than she was. Her dark brown eyes searched his back and forth, dancing as they spoke. Remarkably, he was not self-conscious, though he was a little afraid of getting dizzy. She was assessing the way he talked, his colloquialisms, the changing hue in the color of his cheeks. What was she comparing him to? What events from her own life did she recall that, for a fleeting second, stirred a warm romantic mist into her eyes and a peculiar smile that vanished just as quickly as it came? Zak couldn’t tear his gaze from hers, her dark eyes, her hefty form, and dumpling-like complexion. No wonder she gave Freddy the creeps. He asked himself what sights those knowing eyes had seen. How many places, how many lovers, how many dreams and delights had offered themselves up for her consumption and amusement? He wondered what kind of man it took to please her, or if any one man was enough. That’s a lot of woman. He felt out of his league but, as in all things, eager to learn.

  She withdrew, perhaps as a reaction to the undisguised glint of masculine curiosity that must have sparkled for a second in his bright blue eyes. She was too cool a customer to be given over to flights of fancy or to reveal herself without the proper solicitation. Somehow he got the feeling that a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity had just come and gone. To change the subject, she reached for a candle and lit it, pushing it away far enough so it wouldn’t be distracting.

  He mentioned that he hadn’t actually seen Stitch Cronan’s bunkhouse yet and when she understood that they were back to business, she turned her back on him and walked to the end of the bar, gracefully commanding every movable part of her body as she did so. How does a woman that big move so lightly on her feet? After a brief word with the man seated there, she beckoned Zak to walk over and join them.

  “Zak, this is Bill Turner. He used to work over at Cronan’s place.” They shook hands and she discreetly left them alone to talk, but Zak followed her with the corner of his eye. Turner knew that Zak was a roughneck and Zak knew that he had once worked for Stitch; she had started them out even.

  “That the same rig that was over there at Coster’s?” Turner asked with a sly touch of cynicism, as though it was common knowledge that no oil had been found at Coster’s and that the competence of the rig and its crews were somehow at fault, like there was some sort of conspiracy to keep them all from getting rich. Then again, there had probably been a lot of talk going on around town behind closed doors, in the bars and pickup trucks, as everyone watched and waited to see if Coster would strike it big and start the avalanche of profits that would come with a big oil boom. Or had their wishful thinking been inspired by out-of-town investors who were simply looking for a tax writeoff? It had happened before. Zak felt like it was one step short of saying, And on top of it all, us decent folk have apparently been putting up with you assholes for no good reason.

  Zak decided not to ignore the implication, perhaps even to give the man some info he could then take back for the rest of them to chew on.

  “That’s exactly right, yeah, I’m workin’ on that Bomac rig,” he said, then added thoughtfully, “You know, it isn‘t my job to find oil. I just work on the rig that punches the hole. But we went down over six thousand feet at Coster’s place.”

  Bill Turner responded to this with an appreciative grunt as he sipped his beer, acknowledging that it was a long way indeed. But he wasn’t too impressed. “It’s funny though,” Harper shook his head sympathetically, “two rigs side by side can drill, one find oil and the other come up dry.”

  “I do believe there’s luck involved,” Turner’s hidden smile surfaced for just a second.

  “I was talking to Corey over here about maybe finding a place to stay out on our next hole and he told me about Stitch Cronan’s bunkhouse. Would you be familiar with that?”

  “Yeah,” Turner replied between long sips of beer. He tried to throw a meaningful look in Sam’s direction but she was purposefully occupied at the other end of the bar and not paying them any attention. “Well, Corey ought to know,” he said.

  “I plan to find this Mr. Cronan and get his permission of course,” Zak added.

  “You’re the same fella that was stayin’ in a tent over at Coster’s, right?”

  “One and the same.”

  Turner looked Zachary Harper right in the eye for only the second time. Then he slapped some money down on the bar, bought a six-pack, and with a wink at Sam, he said to Zak, “Well, mister, I think the thing to do would be to head out there right now and see what kind of shape the old place is in.”

  When they hit the street, Bill saw Zak’s Jeep and recommended Zak drive, muttering something about learning better how to find a spot if one is at the wheel, but Zak had the feeling this whole exercise was to satisfy curiosity rather than a gesture of kindness. There was little in the way of neighborly talk on the ride down. Zak was trying to construct in his mind the conversation Turner would have with his buddies the next time the subject of the oil rig down at Cronan’s ranch came up. But what the hell, he appreciated the tour.

  About three-quarters of the way to the new location, they turned, at Bill’s direction, down a long straight dirt road. A mile or two later they turned again, left over a cattle barrier, and found themselves in a unique little gully that supported an abundance of life. To the right there was a high bluff of hills, to the left, a long thicket that led down a quarter of a mile to a gray shack that was flanked by half-dozen tall trees planted there many years before to serve as a wind break. Beyond that thicket was a field of growing wheat. At the rumbling sound of the Jeep, four horses looked up from where they had been grazing and lazily strolled off, swishing their tails behind them, stopping every few steps to nuzzle the ground with their soft fine noses. A little farther down a small cluster of cattle stood stock still. Pheasant lifted skyward from the tall grass, their sudden commotion drowned out by the low drone of the Jeep. A jackrabbit dashed heroically out in front of the Jeep, ran a short ways ahead, and then dashed back into the brush just as another darted out to take his place like in some relay race of hares. A tumbleweed rolled, and as they neared the house they startled a deer that bounded into a ravine at the back of the house showing the white underside of its tail. Zak took a deep breath as he shut ’er down, tasting the thick aromas that clung on the breeze as they drifted through this enchanting little pocket of life-enriched terrain.

  Zak stepped down from the Jeep full of enthusiasm. “Y’know? Nature is so amazing. To think that Just this simple combination, a few hills, some trees, and a creek, and look how busy this little place is!”

  “Yeah, one man and a gun could do all right back in here.”

  The shack was small and serviceable, if rundown to beat hell. One of the windowpanes was busted out at the front of the house. Through the broken window, Zak could see splotched and rotting linoleum floors and paint chipping off the walls. The front door was open and in the second that Zachary Harper hesitated, Turner pushed past him, stepping heavily into the front room. Zak was relieved that Turner had entered first; that Zak hadn’t broken what he considered the unseen barrier of property. He realized that, had he been alone, he would have peeped in the window and then driven away to ask Cronan’s permission to enter.

  To the right through the empty front room, there was a living room with an old broken couch and an easy chair with the stuffing coming out of it. In the bedroom was a single bed with the springs busting through the right side, making the bed tilt uncomfortably. Zak remembered seein
g a pair of heavy-duty cutters on location; with a snip here and there, he could cut the bad springs out so that he might at least lie evenly. Back through the front room was the kitchen. Bill Turner flicked a switch, and the lights came on.

  “Well, you’ve got power,” he chuckled, his voice sounded unnaturally loud as it bounced off the close-in walls. There was a 1950s-era kitchen set with a Formica table top and two chairs, one of which was missing a seat. A counter ran along two walls from the sink to a back door. The counter and sink were completely covered with an awful mung that had hardened into an evil-looking crust. Bill, noticing the question marks floating over Zak’s head, explained, “Looks like ol’ Stitch has been mixing his hot shots down here.”

  “What’s in a hot shot?”

  “A hot shot? I don’t remember exactly what’s in’m but it’s generally speaking a bunch of magic potions you mix up and give to cattle when they need fixin’.”

  The fridge was filled with outdated chemicals that Bill advised he throw away at once. There was no bathroom in the place but the water was running, which meant that someone had dug a well at some point.

  “You should do all right in here,” Bill said with more genuine sincerity than Zak had yet heard from the man. “The only thing missing is Coster’s outhouse!”

  “I’ll be just fine. It doesn’t look like the roof leaks and this is about as close to location as I can get without moving in with Cronan himself.”