Gunsight Pass

by Raine, William MacLeod

  "We have. Ain't either of us worryin' about that." With a quizzical smile Crawford raised a point that was in his mind. "Say, son, you talk a heap more like a book than you used to. You didn't slip one over on us and go to college, did you?"

  "I went to school in the penitentiary," Dave said.

  He had been immured in a place of furtive, obscene whisperings, but he had found there not only vice. There was the chance of an education. He had accepted it at first because he dared not let himself be idle in his spare time. That way lay degeneration and the loss of his manhood. He had studied under competent instructors English, mathematics, the Spanish grammar, and mechanical drawing, as well as surveying and stationary engineering. He had read some of the world's best literature. He had waded through a good many histories. If his education in books was lopsided, it was in some respects more thorough than that of many a college boy.

  Dave did not explain all this. He let his simple statement of fact stand without enlarging on it. His life of late years had tended to make him reticent.

  "Heard from Burns yet about that fishin' job on Jackpot Number Three?"

  Bob asked Crawford.

  "Only that he thinks he hooked the tools and lost 'em again. Wisht you'd run out in the mo'nin', son, and see what's doin'. I got to go out to the ranch."

  "I'll drive out to-night and take Dave with me if he feels up to it. Then we'll know the foreman keeps humpin'."

  "Fine and dandy." The cattleman turned to Sanders. "But I reckon you better stay right here and rest up. Time enough for you to go to work when yore shoulder's all right."

  "Won't hurt me a bit to drive out with Bob. This thing's going to keep me awake anyhow. I'd rather be outdoors."

  They drove out in the buckboard behind the half-broken colts. The young broncos went out of town to a flying start. They raced across the plain as hard as they could tear, the light rig swaying behind them as the wheels hit the high spots. Not till they had worn out their first wild energy was conversation possible.

  Bob told of his change of occupation.

  "Started dressin' tools on a wildcat test for Crawford two years ago when he first begun to plunge in oil. Built derricks for a while. Ran a drill. Dug sump holes. Shot a coupla wells. Went in with a fellow on a star rig as pardner. Went busted and took Crawford's offer to be handy man for him. Tha's about all, except that I own stock in two-three dead ones and some that ain't come to life yet."

  The road was full of chuck holes and very dusty, both faults due to the heavy travel that went over it day and night. They were in the oil field now and gaunt derricks tapered to the sky to right and left of them. Occasionally Dave could hear the kick of an engine or could see a big beam pumping.

  "I suppose most of the D Bar Lazy R boys have got into oil some," suggested Sanders.

  "Every man, woman, and kid around is in oil neck deep," Bob answered. "Malapi's gone oil crazy. Folks are tradin' and speculatin' in stock and royalty rights that never could amount to a hill o' beans. Slick promoters are gettin' rich. I've known photographers to fake gushers in their dark-rooms. The country's full of abandoned wells of busted companies. Oil is a big man's game. It takes capital to operate. I'll bet it ain't onct in a dozen times an investor gets a square run for his white alley, at that."

  "There are crooks in every game."

  "Sure, but oil's so darned temptin' to a crook. All the suckers are shovin' money at a promoter. They don't ask his capitalization or investigate his field. Lots o' promoters would hate like Sam Hill to strike oil. If they did they'd have to take care of it. That's a lot of trouble. They can make more organizin' a new company and rakin' in money from new investors."

  Bob swung the team from the main road and put it at a long rise.

  "There ain't nothin' easier than to drop money into a hole in the ground and call it an oil well," he went on. "Even if the proposition is absolutely on the level, the chances are all against the investor. It's a fifty-to-one shot. Tools are lost, the casin' collapses, the cable breaks, money gives out, shootin' is badly done, water filters in, or oil ain't there in payin' quantities. In a coupla years you can buy a deskful of no-good stock for a dollar Mex."

  "Then why is everybody in it?"

  "We've all been bit by this get-rich-quick bug. If you hit it right in oil you can wear all the diamonds you've a mind to. That's part of it, but it ain't all. The West always did like to take a chance, I reckon. Well, this is gamblin' on a big scale and it gets into a fellow's blood. We're all crazy, but we'd hate to be cured."

  The driver stopped at the location of Jackpot Number Three and invited his friend to get out.

  "Make yoreself to home, Dave. I reckon you ain't sorry that fool team has quit joltin' yore shoulder."

  Sanders was not, but he did not say so. He could stand the pain of his wound easily enough, but there was enough of it to remind him pretty constantly that he had been in a fight.

  The fishing for the string of lost tools was going on by lamplight. With a good deal of interest Dave examined the big hooks that had been sent down in an unsuccessful attempt to draw out the drill. It was a slow business and a not very interesting one. The tools seemed as hard to hook as a wily old trout. Presently Sanders wandered to the bunkhouse and sat down on the front step. He thought perhaps he had not been wise to come out with Hart. His shoulder throbbed a good deal.

  After a time Bob joined him. Faintly there came to them the sound of an engine thumping.

  "Steelman's outfit," said Hart gloomily. "His li'l' old engine goes right on kickin' all the darned time. If he gets to oil first we lose. Man who makes first discovery on a claim wins out in this country."

  "How's that? Didn't you locate properly?"

  "Had no time to do the assessment work after we located. Dug a sump hole, maybe. Brad jumps in when the field here began to look up. Company that shows oil first will sure win out."

  "How deep has he drilled?"

  "We're a li'l' deeper—not much. Both must be close to the sands. We were showin' driller's smut when we lost our string." Bob reached into his hip pocket and drew out "the makings." He rolled his cigarette and lit it. "I reckon Steelman's a millionaire now—on paper, anyhow. He was about busted when he got busy in oil. He was lucky right off, and he's crooked as a dawg's hind laig—don't care how he gets his, so he gets it. He sure trimmed the suckers a-plenty."

  "He and Crawford are still unfriendly," Dave suggested, the inflection of his voice making the statement a question.

  "Onfriendly!" drawled Bob, leaning back against the step and letting a smoke ring curl up. "Well, tha's a good, nice parlor word. Yes, I reckon you could call them onfriendly." Presently he went on, in explanation: "Brad's goin' to put Crawford down and out if it can be done by hook or crook. He's a big man in the country now. We haven't been lucky, like he has. Besides, the ol' man's company's on the square. This business ain't like cows. It takes big money to swing. You make or break mighty sudden."

  "Yes."

  "And Steelman won't stick at a thing. Wouldn't trust him or any one of his crowd any further than I could sling a bull by the tail. He'd blow Crawford and me sky high if he thought he could get away with it."

  Sanders nodded agreement. He hadn't a doubt of it.

  With a thumb jerk toward the beating engine, Bob took up again his story. "Got a bunch of thugs over there right now ready for business if necessary. Imported plug-uglies and genuwine blown-in-the-bottle home talent. Shorty's still one of the gang, and our old friend Dug Doble is boss of the rodeo. I'm lookin' for trouble if we win out and get to oil first."

  "You think they'll attack."

  A gay light of cool recklessness danced in the eyes of the young oilman. "I've a kinda notion they'll drap over and pay us a visit one o' these nights, say in the dark of the moon. If they do—well, we certainly aim to welcome them proper."

  CHAPTER XVIII

  DOBLE PAYS A VISIT

  "Hello, the Jackpot!"

  Out of the night the call ca
me to the men at the bunkhouse.

  Bob looked at his companion and grinned. "Seems to me I recognize that melojious voice."

  A man stepped from the gloom with masterful, arrogant strides.

  "'Lo, Hart," he said. "Can you lend me a reamer?"

  Bob knew he had come to spy out the land and not to borrow tools.

  "Don't seem to me we've hardly got any reamers to spare, Dug," drawled the young man sitting on the porch floor. "What's the trouble? Got a kink in yore casin'?"

  "Not so you could notice it, but you never can tell when you're goin' to run into bad luck, can you?" He sat down on the porch and took a cigar from his vest pocket. "What with losin' tools and one thing an' 'nother, this oil game sure is hell. By the way, how's yore fishin' job comin' on?"

  "Fine, Dug. We ain't hooked our big fish yet, but we're hopeful."

  Dave was sitting in the shadow. Doble nodded carelessly to him without recognition. It was characteristic of his audacity that Dug had walked over impudently to spy out the camp of the enemy. Bob knew why he had come, and he knew that Bob knew. Yet both ignored the fact that he was not welcome.

  "I've known fellows angle a right long time for a trout and not catch him," said Doble, stretching his long legs comfortably.

  "Yes," agreed Bob. "Wish I could hire you to throw a monkey wrench in that engine over there. Its chuggin' keeps me awake."

  "I'll bet it does. Well, young fellow, you can't hire me or anybody else to stop it," retorted Doble, an edge to his voice.

  "Well, I just mentioned it," murmured Hart. "I don't aim to rile yore feelin's. We'll talk of somethin' else…. Hope you enjoyed that reunion this week with yore old friend, absent far, but dear to memory ever."

  "Referrin' to?" demanded Doble with sharp hostility.

  "Why, Ad Miller, Dug."

  "Is he a friend of mine?"

  "Ain't he?"

  "Not that I ever heard tell of."

  "Glad of that. You won't miss him now he's lit out."

  "Oh, he's lit out, has he?"

  "A li'l bird whispered to me he had."

  "When?"

  "This evenin', I understand."

  "Where'd he go?"

  "He didn't leave any address. Called away on sudden business."

  "Did he mention the business?"

  "Not to me." Bob turned to his friend. "Did he say anything to you about that, Dave?"

  In the silence one might have heard a watch tick, Doble leaned forward, his body rigid, danger written large in his burning eyes and clenched fist.

  "So you're back," he said at last in a low, harsh voice.

  "I'm back."

  "It would 'a' pleased me if they had put a rope round yore neck, Mr.

  Convict."

  Dave made no comment. Nobody could have guessed from his stillness how fierce was the blood pressure at his temples.

  "It's a difference of opinion makes horse-races, Dug," said Bob lightly.

  The big ex-foreman rose snarling. "For half a cent I'd gun you here and now like you did George."

  Sanders looked at him steadily, his hands hanging loosely by his sides.

  "I wouldn't try that, Dug," warned Hart. "Dave ain't armed, but I am. My hand's on my six-shooter right this minute. Don't make a mistake."

  The ex-foreman glared at him. Doble was a strong, reckless devil of a fellow who feared neither God nor man. A primeval savagery burned in his blood, but like most "bad" men he had that vein of caution in his make-up which seeks to find its victim at disadvantage. He knew Hart too well to doubt his word. One cannot ride the range with a man year in, year out, without knowing whether the iron is in his arteries.

  "Declarin' yoreself in on this, are you?" he demanded ominously, showing his teeth.

  "I've always been in on it, Dug. Took a hand at the first deal, the day of the race. If you're lookin' for trouble with Dave, you'll find it goes double."

  "Not able to play his own hand, eh?"

  "Not when you've got a six-shooter and he hasn't. Not after he has just been wounded by another gunman he cleaned up with his bare hands. You and yore friends are lookin' for things too easy."

  "Easy, hell! I'll fight you and him both, with or without guns. Any time.

  Any place."

  Doble backed away till his figure grew vague in the darkness. Came the crack of a revolver. A bullet tore a splinter from the wall of the shack in front of which Dave was standing. A jeering laugh floated to the two men, carried on the light night breeze.

  Bob whipped out his revolver, but he did not fire. He and his friend slipped quietly to the far end of the house and found shelter round the corner.

  "Ain't that like Dug, the damned double-crosser?" whispered Bob. "I reckon he didn't try awful hard to hit you. Just sent his compliments kinda casual to show good-will."

  "I reckon he didn't try very hard to miss me either," said Dave dryly.

  "The bullet came within a foot of my head."

  "He's one bad citizen, if you ask me," admitted Hart, without reluctance. "Know how he came to break with the old man? He had the nerve to start beauin' Miss Joyce. She wouldn't have it a minute. He stayed right with it—tried to ride over her. Crawford took a hand and kicked him out. Since then Dug has been one bitter enemy of the old man."

  "Then Crawford had better look out. If Doble isn't a killer, I've never met one."

  "I've got a fool notion that he ain't aimin' to kill him; that maybe he wants to help Steelman bust him so as he can turn the screws on him and get Miss Joyce. Dug must 'a' been makin' money fast in Brad's company. He's on the inside."

  Dave made no comment.

  "I expect you was some surprised when I told Dug who was roostin' on the step so clost to him," Hart went on. "Well, I had a reason. He was due to find it out anyhow in about a minute, so I thought I'd let him know we wasn't tryin' to keep him from knowin' who his neighbor was; also that I was good and ready for him if he got red-haided like Miller done."

  "I understood, Bob," said his friend quietly.

  CHAPTER XIX

  AN INVOLUNTARY BATH

  Jackpot Number Three hooked its tools the second day after Sanders's visit to that location. A few hours later its engine was thumping merrily and the cable rising and falling monotonously in the casing. On the afternoon of the third day Bob Hart rode up to the wildcat well where Dave was building a sump hole with a gang of Mexicans.

  He drew Sanders to one side. "Trouble to-night, Dave, looks like. At Jackpot Number Three. We're in a layer of soft shale just above the oil-bearin' sand. Soon we'll know where we're at. Word has reached me that Doble means to rush the night tower and wreck the engine."

  "You'll stand his crowd off?"

  "You're whistlin'."

  "Sure your information is right?"

  "It's c'rect." Bob added, after a momentary hesitation: "We got a spy in his camp."

  Sanders did not ask whether the affair was to be a pitched battle. He waited, sure that Bob would tell him when he was ready. That young man came to the subject indirectly.

  "How's yore shoulder, Dave?"

  "Doesn't trouble me any unless something is slammed against it."

  "Interfere with you usin' a six-shooter?"

  "No."

  "Like to take a ride with me over to the Jackpot?"

  "Yes."

  "Good enough. I want you to look the ground over with me. Looks now as if it would come to fireworks. But we don't want any Fourth-of-July stuff if we can help it. Can we? That's the point."

  At the Jackpot the friends walked over the ground together. Back of the location and to the west of it an arroyo ran from a cañon above.

  "Follow it down and it'll take you right into the location where Steelman is drillin'," explained Bob. "Dug's gonna lead his gang up the arroyo to the mesquite here, sneak down on us, and take our camp with a rush. At least, that's what he aims to do. You can't always tell, as the fellow says."

  "What's up above?"

  "A dam. Steelman own
s the ground up there. He's got several acres of water backed up there for irrigation purposes."

  "Let's go up and look it over."

  Bob showed a mild surprise. "Why, yes, if you want to take some exercise.

  This is my busy day, but—"

  Sanders ignored the hint. He led the way up a stiff trail that took them to the mouth of the cañon. Across the face of this a dam stretched. They climbed to the top of it. The water rose to within about six feet from the rim of the curved wall.

  "Some view," commented Bob with a grin, looking across the plains that spread fanlike from the mouth of the gorge. "But I ain't much interested in scenery to-day somehow."

  "When were you expectin' to shoot the well, Bob?"

  "Some time to-morrow. Don't know just when. Why?"

  "Got the nitro here yet?"

  "Brought it up this mo'nin' myself."

  "How much?"

  "Twelve quarts."

  "Any dynamite in camp?"

  "Yes. A dozen sticks, maybe."

  "And three gallons of nitro, you say."

  "Yep."

  "That's enough to do the job," Sanders said, as though talking aloud to himself.

  "Yep. Tha's what we usually use."

  "I'm speaking of another job. Let's get down from here. We might be seen."

  "They couldn't hit us from the Steelman location. Too far," said Bob.

  "And I don't reckon any one would try to do that."

  "No, but they might get to wondering what we're doing up here."

  "I'm wonderin' that myself," drawled Hart. "Most generally when I take a pasear it's on the back of a bronc. I ain't one of them that believes the good Lord made human laigs to be walked on, not so long as any broomtails are left to straddle."

  Screened by the heavy mesquite below, Sanders unfolded his proposed plan of operations. Bob listened, and as Dave talked there came into Hart's eyes dancing imps of deviltry. He gave a subdued whoop of delight, slapped his dusty white hat on his thigh, and vented his enthusiasm in murmurs of admiring profanity.

  "It may not work out," suggested his friend. "But if your information is correct and they come up the arroyo—"