Red Helmet

by Homer Hickam

  Song rolled her eyes. “Does the constable think I’m a snotty little witch, pure or otherwise?”

  “The constable tends to make up his own mind about people and things.”

  “Then, yes. I would like to meet him.”

  Doctor K led her to the constable. “Constable Petrie, this is Song, Cable’s fresh wife.”

  The constable scrutinized her, then shook Song’s hand and said, “Hidy, little lady. Welcome to Highcoal. How do you like our fair city so far?”

  “It’s been an illuminating experience,” Song replied.

  A warm smile creased the constable’s wide, intelligent face. “Illuminating. Haw. That’s for sure.”

  “What’s the situation?” Doctor K asked.

  The constable shrugged. “The situation is that Squirrel Harper might have the moral right to chase the drillers out of his yard, but the law’s not on his side, and he definitely didn’t have the right to shoot at them. The state’s on their way. Most likely, knowing Squirrel, there’s going to be a shoot-out. That’s why I called you.”

  “Why do they want to drill here anyway?” Song asked.

  The constable clucked his tongue. “Atlas owns the mineral rights for just about the whole county and, legally, they can drill wherever they want. See that fellow over there, the one looking this way with the smirk? That would be Bashful. He owns this drill rig and called the state po-lice. They called me.”

  “Have you tried talking to Squirrel?” Song asked.

  The constable lifted a bullhorn off the roof of his car and showed it to her. “Until this thing about melted down. No result. Squirrel’s pretty stubborn.”

  Song gave that some thought. “Negotiating with stubborn males is part of my job. I’m good at it.”

  “Well, I’m not averse to being helped, little lady. Hypothetically, how would you negotiate in this case?”

  “Can I talk to the boss of the drillers before I answer?”

  “Sure. Why not?” The constable aimed the bullhorn at the ditch. “Bashful, get your tailbone over here, boy. Need to talk to you and I mean right now!”

  Upon arrival, Bashful proved to be a ferret-faced man with a thin moustache. He studied Song appreciatively, then pushed his yellow helmet back on his head while flashing a toothy grin.

  “My! Cable done good for himself, ain’t he? You are one hot chick! You get tired of that old coal miner, just remember, well diggers do it deeper’n anybody and straight down too. Ain’t that right, boys?” His men crouching in the ditch stared at him, then looked away.

  Song ignored his comments and demanded, “Who do you work for?”

  Bashful’s grin cracked. “What’s it to you?”

  “Answer her, Bashful,” the constable ordered.

  After a moment of hesitation, Bashful shrugged and said, “Atlas Energy. Like everybody else around here.”

  “Then Cable is your boss?”

  “No way, lady. I’m a contractor. I answer to Atlas headquarters, not your husband.”

  “Did Atlas headquarters tell you to drill in this man’s front yard?”

  Bashful shook his head. “Naw. If Atlas owns the mineral rights, I have the right to drill where I think there’s gas. And Atlas owns the mineral rights on this whole mountain.”

  “It’s a big mountain,” Song pointed out. “Why not go a few hundred yards down the road and drill there?”

  “Because I chose to set up here.”

  Song put everything together, Bashful’s comments, his body language, and the natural expression of villainy that played across his face. “Here’s what I think, Mr. Bashful,” she said. “I think you’ve come here entirely for the purpose of causing trouble for Mr. Harper. What I want to know is—why?”

  Bashful’s face closed down. “That’s none of your business.”

  “There’s always been bad blood between the Harpers and Bashful’s family,” the constable said.

  “The Harpers are a low bunch,” Bashful growled. “And one of his boys, that varmit no good for nothing lowlife Ford, did my sister wrong. They were engaged, then he and Chevrolet up and joined the army. Sarah Sue still ain’t over it.”

  “Last I heard,” the constable said, “Sarah Sue was seeing some man over in Fox Run. Owner of the Dairy Queen, as I recall.”

  “She is, but she cried a river over that Harper scamp,” Bashful retorted. “But that’s got nothing to do with this. I’m just here after the gas. That’s all.”

  Song thought a bit, then turned to the constable. “Is there a law about serving notice on private property before drilling?”

  The constable nodded. “Law says the owner has to be notified by letter,” he said.

  “I done better than that,” Bashful interjected. “I nailed a notice on their door.”

  “When?” Song asked.

  “Last week. No, two weeks ago.”

  Song turned back to the constable. “Is there anything in the law about the number of days notice has to be given before drilling?”

  The constable smiled. “Why, now that you mention it, yes it does! Ninety days. Bashful, my boy, she has you there. You’re here illegally by about two and a half months!”

  “Nobody pays any attention to that stupid law,” Bashful retorted.

  “We’re paying attention to it today,” Song said. “Aren’t we, Constable?”

  “Yes, ma’am, we are. Bashful, consider yourself under arrest unless you move your rig forthwith.”

  “You can’t arrest me,” Bashful spat. “You’re not a real policeman, just a hired hand.”

  The constable roughly turned Bashful around and twisted his arms behind him. “I’m real enough until the state gets here.” He got out a pair of handcuffs and started to slap them on Bashful’s wrists.

  “Wait, Constable,” Song said. “I think he understands the situation better now. Isn’t that right, Mr. Bashful?”

  The constable let the driller go, and grimacing, Bashful rubbed his arms. “I guess I do,” he sniffed. “But I can’t move my truck. Squirrel will shoot me if I try.”

  “I think perhaps it’s time to talk to Mr. Squirrel again, Constable,” Song said. “We now have a negotiating point.”

  The constable nodded appreciatively to Song, then aimed his bullhorn at the house. “Squirrel!” he called. “Turns out Bashful and these old boys have broken the law. They’re going to move. So don’t shoot them. Come on out on the porch, old son, or give me a sign you hear me and agree not to shoot.”

  There was no response. All was quiet in the little house. “He could be asleep,” the constable said, just as the first wails of sirens could be heard in the distance. “Here comes the state SWAT team. Helmets, flak vests, M-16s, the works. They won’t even slow down. They’ll kick in the doors and go in shooting.”

  Song gave that some thought, then said, “All right. We have no choice. Let’s go knock on his door.”

  The constable frowned. “We?”

  “I don’t see anybody else who’s going to do it.”

  He smiled at her, then shook his head. “You got some guts, lady.”

  “You saw what happened on 9/11. Give us a challenge, and we New Yorkers do what has to be done.”

  The constable lifted the bullhorn again “Squirrel? I got Cable’s new wife here. She’d like to say hello. Promise not to shoot, and we’ll come on the porch.”

  There was a protracted silence, then, through a broken window, a hoarse voice yelled, “Bring her on, then. I’d like a look at her, sure enough.”

  “Try not to get me shot, okay?” Song asked, her bravado melting a little. “My father spent a fortune straightening my teeth. I’d hate for him to lose his investment.”

  “Squirrel probably won’t shoot if he says he’s not going to.”

  “Probably?”

  “Life in these hills, ma’am, is a series of probabilities,” the constable said.

  Song nodded, then walked beside the constable across the muddy yard. When they stepped up on the p
orch, the front door swung open and a man in bib overalls stepped out. He had a round, pink face, a white beard, and a big tub belly. He also had crisp blue eyes narrowed with suspicion, and a shotgun with his finger on the trigger.

  “Squirrel,” the constable said, “this is Cable’s wife. She’s from New York City.”

  Squirrel looked her over, pulled the door shut behind him, then said, “They sure make ’em pretty in the city of New York, don’t they?”

  “Thank you,” Song said.

  “Not atall. Why, if I was thirty years younger, I’d give old Cable a run for his money.” He chuckled. “What can I do for you today, ma’am?”

  “You can let those drillers remove their truck and leave.”

  Squirrel cocked his ear at the approaching sirens. “What about the state?”

  “I’ll explain it’s all been a misunderstanding,” the constable said. “Anyhoo, the law’s on your side today.”

  Squirrel scratched his ear with the barrel of his shotgun. “I’d like to oblige, I really would. But I think I need to shoot Bashful while I got the chance. He’s not only trespassed on my land, but he makes a habit of trespassing on other people’s land too. Shooting him is about the only way to make him stop.”

  Song pretended she hadn’t heard the threat, a negotiating technique her father had taught her. “He won’t come into your yard again. That’s my promise. I’ll talk to Cable and make certain of it.”

  “Who is it, Daddy?” came a sleepy voice from inside the house. The thin face of a young man appeared in one of the broken windows. He was wearing desert camouflage fatigues and holding a rifle.

  “Go back to sleep, Chevrolet,” Squirrel said. “It’s all right. The drillers are leaving. We ain’t gonna shoot nobody today. Tell Ford too.”

  “Okay, Daddy,” Chevrolet said, then moved out of sight.

  “I didn’t know your boys were back,” the constable said.

  “Came in yesterday. When I saw that hateful drill rig in my yard this morning, I thought to myself, here my boys are heroes back from the war and first thing ol’ Bashful does is plunk his rig in our front yard. Made me so mad, I had to do something.”

  “How did your sons get their names?” Song asked.

  I liked Chevies; their maw liked Fords. You know how it is.”

  Song nodded, though she feared for her sanity if she really knew how it was.

  Squirrel lowered the shotgun. “If that truck leaves in the next five minutes,” he said to the constable, “I promise I won’t shoot Bashful, at least not today.”

  “That’s a deal,” the constable said quickly.

  “Thank you, Mr. Harper,” Song added.

  Squirrel beamed. “Ol’ Wire—that would be Cable’s daddy, ma’am—surely would be proud to see his son did so good in the woman department. I just hope my boys find somebody like you, sweet lady, and there’s the truth of it.” He glared at Bashful, who was peeking over the roof of the constable’s car. “I sure am glad Ford got away from that Sarah Sue. She’s sorry as a drunk possum. That feller owns the Dairy Queen over at Fox Run is welcome to her.”

  Squirrel kicked the door with his heel. “Open up, boys!” The door opened behind him, and Squirrel backed inside, then the door slowly closed.

  “You done good, Mrs. Jordan,” the constable said as they walked past the drilling rig.

  “You didn’t do too bad yourself, Constable.”

  “We’re a good team. Want a job? I could use an assistant.”

  Song laughed. “Don’t tempt me. This was fun.”

  Doctor K came out from behind the constable’s car and gave Song a hug. “I think you just made yourself a lot of friends in Highcoal, young lady.”

  This brought Song crashing back to earth. There was only one friend she wanted in Highcoal and that was her husband, the exalted Cable who had enjoyed the pleasures of the governor of the state but somehow neglected to mention it. She needed to either punish him for that, or love him so much he’d forget all about West Virginia’s chief executive forever. At that moment, Song was uncertain which one she was going to do. But she was going to do something.

  Nine

  Cable hurried up the wooden steps of the brick building that housed his office. Mole made a hand gesture like a hangman’s noose as Cable passed his office. He found the MSHA inspector at his desk, writing in a notebook.

  “Cable,” he said, closing the notebook with a snap, “I’ve been waiting for you.” He had an edge in his voice that sounded threatening, but then Einstein always sounded threatening.

  “Einstein, I’m glad you waited,” Cable lied as he hung his helmet on the hat rack by the door. “I wanted to get your advice on mine operations.”

  Einstein was a prissy man but tough, the Napoleon of inspectors. He smirked. “That’ll be the day when a mine superintendent asks an MSHA inspector for advice about mine operations.” He got up and walked over to the big map of the Highcoal mine pinned to the wall and put his hands behind his back. “Tell me about Six West, Cable. It evokes my curiosity.”

  “Opened three months ago. Been running some good coal out of it. What else do you want to know?”

  “How’s the roof?”

  “Silty shale. Not the best, but I have a roof bolt plan I’m confident should support it.”

  “The seam?”

  “Six to seven feet of soft, friable coal, much of it of high metallurgical quality.”

  “Heard Navy Jones got his arm broke on that section yesterday. A pillar let go. I’m looking forward to your report so I can write my criticism of it.”

  Cable nodded toward the stack of paper in his in-box. “The pillar didn’t completely let go, just a corner of it. You can see my backlog. I’ll file a report as soon as I can.”

  “Addressing safety violations always comes first,” Einstein lectured. “Now, either your boys cut that pillar too close or there’s some other reason why it collapsed, even if it was only partially.”

  Cable ran a hand over his grimy face. “I’m looking into it.”

  Einstein consulted his notebook. “You have a new foreman, and all the operators on that section are new too. Are they trained adequately?”

  “Yes, of course they are,” Cable grumbled. He didn’t like being interrogated as if he had committed a crime.

  Einstein rocked in his boots for a while. “Vietnam Petroski is a good man, and your operators seem competent enough from the little I’ve observed. So I think there’s another reason that pillar crumbled. The old works just north of Six West. Much of them are flooded, are they not?”

  “So I’m told.”

  “You ever heard of Quecreek in Pennsylvania?”

  Cable knew where Einstein was headed, and it was nothing but trouble. “I saw it on television,” he allowed.

  “What happened there? Refresh my memory.”

  Cable sighed. “As you well know, since you went up there with the MSHA team, they mined into old works filled with water. It flooded the mine, nearly drowned the miners. But they all got out safely.”

  Einstein nodded. “They were lucky. For one thing, their mine wasn’t very deep, so rescue came quickly. Six West is eight hundred and fifty feet deep. If it flooded, you’d have a crew of dead miners.”

  “There’s no reason for it to flood,” Cable argued. “It’s a long way from those old works.” He pointed out the area on the map. “I had a couple of boreholes put in here and here. I found water to the north, and that’s why I changed the direction of the face to head west.”

  “I know about those boreholes and I know the results. I approve of your action there. Still, I worry that you just lied to me. I asked you about the water and you said you’d been told it was there when, in reality, you were concerned enough to drill to find out. And now I learn you’ve changed the direction of the face.”

  When Cable didn’t say anything, Einstein continued. “That’s what I thought. You’re as worried about it as I am. And anytime you start working near an old area,
there’s more than water to worry about. What about methane? You know it has to be accumulating. How are those old sections isolated from the working mine?”

  “They’re sealed off,” Cable answered. “Concrete block construction.”

  “What if there’s an ignition and the seals don’t hold?”

  Cable shook his head. “Hell, Einstein, what if the sun doesn’t come up in the morning?”

  Einstein was not impressed with Cable’s argument, or lack of one. “I want you to close down Six West, Cable. I believe it to be dangerous.”

  “If I did that, I would be so far behind on my orders for high-grade metallurgical, I’d never catch up.”

  Einstein looked disappointed. “The audacity of you mine superintendents never ceases to amaze me. Production means more to you than the safety of your own men. Scandalous.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “I don’t care if it’s fair or not,” Einstein retorted. “My job is to keep you on your toes and your mine safe. Now, let me tell you why that pillar collapsed. I think water is leaking in from the old area.”

  “There’s no proof of that.”

  “My theory is as likely as any. And what if I’m right? Eventually, the entire section could come down.”

  “Look, I’ll put down some more boreholes to see if you’re right. Just let me keep working the section until I get the results back. Even if it’s happening, you know it’s a slow process. I’ll put some pumps in there too.”

  Though Einstein looked dubious, he said, “All right. You can keep the section open for now. But I want to see the test results as soon as you get them. By the way, your man at the manlift gate didn’t pat me down. You will be fined.”

  Cable knew it was best to let it go, but he couldn’t help arguing a little. “Everyone knows who you are. You’re MSHA. You’re not going to carry anything inside you’re not supposed to.”

  “For that opinion, you will pay one thousand dollars,” Einstein said, and walked out.

  Sighing at the unfairness of it all, Cable sat down on the edge of his desk and worried over his mine map. He knew Einstein was right about everything, but especially right about Six West. It was dangerous to mine so close to those old works. If it wasn’t for that big order from India, Cable would have never gone after that coal. But he was also confident in his ability to keep his men safe. He would do what needed to be done, including those new boreholes.