“See what the old man meant when he was telling you about the grass down here?” he remarked.
Slade saw. The lush growth was changing to a crisped straggle utterly dead and drying up. Farther on the ground looked almost bare.
“This way nearly clean across our holdings which run east for better than fifteen miles,” said Nevins. “More than six thousand acres of prime pasture gone to the devil. The spread to the east, the Bradded R, ain’t affected much but the crik is spoiled all the way, a black scum all over it. Cows won’t touch the water. And our waterholes even farther north than this are spoiled. Cows drank that water but it killed ‘em. We had to fence every hole along here, which spoils more range.”
Slade stared at the parched grass, a perplexed expression on his face.
“It just doesn’t seem to make sense that overflow or seepage through the grass would reach this far,” he protested.
“Maybe not, but there she is,” Nevins returned.
“Yes,” Slade agreed soberly, “there she is.” For a third time he turned in his saddle to study the encroaching hills, his black brows drawing together till the concentration furrow was deep between them, a sign El Halcon was doing some hard thinking.
Passing across the arid region, they splashed through the waters of the stream, the surface of which reflected the sunlight in a rainbow bloom of color and was singularly smooth and glassy. Slade agreed that without doubt it was heavily coated with oil. After leaving the stream, the trail wound up a long and fairly steep slope to the crest of the mesa and they got a full view of the town surrounded by a forest of derricks.
“We’ll drop in at the Black Gold,” suggested Nevins. “That’s the biggest and best rumhole in town. A purty nice feller named Wade Ballard runs it. Everybody likes Wade. Even the old man couldn’t help but think purty well of him when he met him once up in Proctor. Asked him why the devil he had to set up business in such a stinkin’ hole. Ballard told him he’d had saloons in various oil strike towns and always found they paid. Said all he knows is the likker business, was brought up in it by his dad. Said he worked in his dad’s place in Dallas when he was only fourteen. Never got to go to school and learn anything else and that he has to set up where the money is.”
“Not an illogical viewpoint,” Slade admitted.
“Reckon you went to school plenty, son, judging from the way you talk,” Nevins chuckled. “How the devil did you get to punchin’ cows?”
“Well, reckon my case rather parallels Ballard’s,” Slade smiled reply. “My dad was a cowman and sort of brought me up in the business. Reckon when you’ve got horse hair and rope in your blood it’s hard to get it out.”
Nevins chuckled his understanding. A few minutes later they were threading their way along Weirton’s main street which was straight and wide, differing from the usual winding continuation of a trail that formed the principal thoroughfare of the average cowtown. Slade noticed quite a few cow ponies tethered at the racks.
“Yep, the boys come here,” Nevins explained. “Some friction between them and the town folks but their money is welcome and they find things livelier and more fun here than at Proctor where the old-timers run things and it’s a bit on the stodgy side.”
Slade nodded his understanding. Nevins pulled up in front of a rough building boasting an ornate false-front and much plate glass.
“They sure put her up in a hurry, but didn’t do such a bad job of it,” Nevins remarked to Slade. “Inside she’s quite a joint; the mirror back of the bar came clean from Dallas.”
The big room was indeed a scene of contrasts. The woodwork was raw and unpainted, the long bar of rough planks, but the back bar mirror was real French plate. The chairs and tables were new and shiny. There was a roulette wheel elaborate with carvings and decorations and the lunch counter over to one side gleamed with copper and glass.
Bottles of every shape and color pyramided the back bar. The three bartenders wore white coats and shirts and black string ties. The dealers at the card tables were garbed in somber black. A lookout on a high stool wore fancy stitched boots and had a sawed-off shotgun cradled across his knees.
Early as it was, there was a sizable crowd in the place. Most of these, Slade noted, were undoubtedly oil workers in greasy clothes and laced boots. There was a sprinkling of cowhands. Also, several gentlemen who looked like cowhands but whom, Slade quickly decided, had not for some time been on familiar terms with rope or branding iron. Soberly dressed shopkeepers and other substantial citizens completed the gathering.
Standing at the far end of the bar was a small, neatly dressed man with surprisingly broad shoulders for his height and abnormally long arms. His features were shapely and regular as is often the case in small men and his face seemed to wear a perpetual smile. His eyes were a clear blue and had a keen look about them. His hair was tawny and inclined to curl. He waved a slender hand to Nevins and nodded in a friendly fashion.
“That’s Wade Ballard who owns the place, the feller I was telling you about,” Nevins said to Slade, as they found places at the bar and ordered drinks.
While they were sipping their glasses, a tall, powerfully built and rather uncouth looking man with a blocky, bad-tempered face entered. He rumbled a greeting to Nevins and passed on to the far end of the bar.
“That’s Blaine Richardson, a sort of salty hombre but a mighty good oil man, from what everybody says,” remarked Nevins. “Guess there’s nothing about the business he don’t know. I understand he brought in a couple of good wells in Oklahoma and some up at Beaumont. He’s brought one in here, down toward the desert. He says the natural slope of the land is toward the desert and that there should be some good drilling out there on the sands and is thinking of having a try of it. Fact is he says the real strike will be made down there where the deeper part of the pool must be.”
Slade glanced quickly at his companion and then shot a glance at Richardson who, glass in hand, was talking to Wade Ballard.
“An experienced oil man you say?” he remarked. “Not just a driller?”
“Oh, I reckon he came up from a driller,” Nevins replied. “Rough sort of a jigger.”
Slade nodded, his eyes thoughtful.
Suddenly a heavy explosion quivered the air. The glasses jumped on the bar, the bottles rattled. “What in blazes?” demanded Nevins.
“They’re trying to blow that burning well and put out the fire,” the bartender explained. “Reckon they’re not having much luck with it. I heard the pressure is mighty low and the fire spreads out so they can’t get close enough to chuck the dynamite in the bore. All they’ve been doing is blow holes in the ground. Liable to have to wait till she burns down a lot. Plenty of money going up in that smoke.”
“What you say we ride down and take a look at it?” Nevins suggested.
Slade offered no objection and a few minutes later found them riding across the prairie toward the great cloud of smoke that marked the burning well. More dynamite was set off before they arrived at the scene but the pall of smoke, shot through with tongues of flame, continued to foul the clear air.
They pulled up as near the well as was practical and watched with interest the activities of the workers who were engaged in an effort to extinguish the blaze.
Standing nearby was a pleasant-looking young man and an older one with grizzled hair and a worried face.
“Hi-yuh, Bob,” Nevins called as the younger man glanced their way. “Come on over, I want you to meet Walt Slade, a right hombre if there ever was one. Slade, this young squirt is Bob Kent who started all this down here.”
“And this is Arch Caldwell who owns that danged burning well,” Kent said, nodding to his companions as they shook hands.
Slade also shook hands with the elderly Caldwell. He liked the looks of both men.
“We ain’t doing any good,” Caldwell replied to a question from Nevins. “Can’t get close enough to place the dynamite right, and if a good wind springs up it’s liable to spread to the other
wells.”
Slade dropped his gaze to the operator’s face. “Mr. Caldwell,” he said, “I’ve a notion I can get that fire out for you.”
“What’s that?” exclaimed Caldwell, staring at the ranger.
“A little trick I saw worked once,” Slade elaborated, not deeming it necessary to explain that it was he who had worked the trick. “I believe I can work it here if you’ll give me the chance and get together the stuff I’ll need.”
Caldwell hesitated, stroking his chin and still staring at Slade.
“Better let him have a try at it, Arch,” urged Bob Kent. “I’ve a notion Slade’s the sort of feller who gets things done.”
“And you can say that over and double it,” remarked Curly Nevins.
The stocky Caldwell shrugged his shoulders. “Okay,” he consented. “You can’t make things any worse, that’s sure for certain. What do you want to work with?”
Slade dismounted with lithe grace, towering over the old operator. “First off,” he said, “I’ll need a fairly flexible steel rod about a half or three-quarters of an inch in diameter and six feet long. Then a file and a coil of fine but strong wire. The wire must be strong or something is liable to happen if it breaks at the wrong time.”
“I can get all that,” Caldwell said. “What else?”
Slade glanced around, nodded with satisfaction. “Kent,” he said, “see that thicket over there? Looks like some young hickories are growing from a stump. There should be plenty of good straight shoots coming out of that stump. Cut me three or four and bring them here.”
The young oil man hastened to obey. Caldwell had already departed in quest of the needed materials; he was back soon with all Slade had requested. A group gathered around the ranger and watched his preparations with interest.
Slade took the file and notched the steel rod at both ends. He secured the wire to one end, bent the springy rod into an arc and secured the other end of the wire. Kent meanwhile had returned with an armload of strong, straight hickory shoots. Slade cut several to four-foot lengths and carefully notched the smaller end of each.
“A bow and arrows!” chuckled Kent. “What you figure to do, feller — shoot holes in the fire?”
“Something like that,” Slade replied with a smile. “Now I want dynamite, one stick at a time. I don’t want a box lying around here if something should go wrong. Bring caps and fuse, too.”
A workman procured one of the fat, greasy cylinders. Slade proceeded to bind it to the un-notched end of the arrow, using a length of wire to secure it firmly in place.
“Good Lord!” exploded Kent, understanding at last. “You mean to say you’re going to try and shoot that thing into the well? If the wire breaks or the arrow slides sideways there won’t be enough left of you to grease a gun barrel with!”
“Reckon everything will work out okay,” Slade replied cheerfully as he capped the stick and secured a very short length of fuse to the cap. He drew matches from his pocket.
“Going to light the fuse?” exclaimed Kent. “Tarnation! Why not just shoot it into the fire and let the flames light the fuse? Would be a heck of a sight safer.”
“Yes, but the chances are it wouldn’t work,” Slade replied. “There is some pressure coming out of the well and the flames are several feet above the ground. The fuse would hardly light as it whizzed through them.”
“But wouldn’t the jar when the dynamite landed set it off?” Kent suggested.
Again Slade shook his head. “You’ll notice there’s a considerable oil pool under the fire,” he pointed out. “That would cushion the fall and tend to minimize the shock, unless we had the luck to drop it right in the bore, which isn’t likely, and even then the rising column of oil would be very apt to toss it back before it exploded. No, the only way is to shoot it in lighted. Now all you fellows get back in the clear, just in case.”
The workmen hurriedly retreated. Kent and Nevins hesitated, then also took their departure, taking the horses with them. Old Arch Caldwell stayed right where he was. Slade glanced at him questioningly.
“You think I’m going to stand back safe while another man risks his life to save my property?” the well owner growled belligerently. “I’m staying right here with you.”
Slade smiled down at him approvingly and did not protest.
“Okay,” he said, “you can light the fuse after I’ve got the arrow on the string. That will make it easier and less chance of something going wrong.”
He fitted the notched end of the arrow to the wire string as he spoke and raised the bow.
“Powder!” he said briefly.
Caldwell struck a match and applied it to the dangling end of the fuse. There was a hiss, a rain of sparks. Slade drew the death-laden arrow back its full length. Caldwell saw great muscles leap out on arm and shoulder to swell the ranger’s shirt sleeve to the bursting point, for the bow was a stiff one and not easy to bend.
The bowstring twanged with a rich, deep hum. The arrow, trailing a spurtle of sparks, soared through the air and vanished in the smoke cloud over the well. Almost instantly there was a booming explosion. Smoke and flame flew in every direction, with clods of earth spurting through the fog.
“By gosh!” whooped Caldwell, “you’re doing it! Look, the fire is just about half as big as it was. You’ve darn near got her plugged.”
“Figure one more should do it,” Slade replied. “Another stick of powder, somebody.”
Soon he had the second charge ready. Caldwell applied the match and Slade drew back the arrow. With a click the wire slipped from the upper notch and slid down the rod. Caldwell gave a yell of consternation as the arrow twitched from Slade’s fingers and the dynamite cartridge with its sputtering fuse thudded to the ground a little ways off.
Slade dived for the hissing death, seized the cartridge and hurled it toward the well with all his strength. The charge exploded in mid-air, tumbling the smoke cloud in every direction and knocking Slade and Caldwell off their feet.
“The devil with the danged thing!” gasped Caldwell as he picked himself up. “Don’t take another chance, feller.”
“Reckon it won’t happen again,” Slade replied cheerfully. “Get me another stick.”
Caldwell wiped the drops from his brow with his sleeve and called for more powder. The watching group which had been augmented by new arrivals streaming out of town, stood silent and rigid as Slade prepared still another charge.
The match was applied to the fuse. Caldwell held his breath as Slade slowly and carefully drew the arrow to the head. The bow twanged, the sputtering dynamite whizzed through the air and entered the smoke cloud.
Straight and true it sped, curving downward at just the right instant.
“Got the range now,” Slade observed.
The explosion followed his words. Again the smoke cloud swirled and eddied. Then it slowly drifted away, revealing a tumbled mass of earth and stone where the well mouth had been. The well was effectually capped, the fire extinguished.
A thunderous cheer arose from the watchers. Bob Kent rushed over and grabbed Slade’s hand and shook it vigorously.
“Never saw anything like that before, did you, Arch?” he whooped.
“No,” Arch Caldwell replied, “and I never want to see it again.”
Slade passed the bow to the well owner. “Save it so you’ll have it in case you need it again,” he said.
“Uh-huh,” Caldwell replied grimly, “but where’ll I get somebody with the muscle and guts to use it?”
Others hurried forward to congratulate Slade on the success of his expedient. Among them was Wade Ballard, the owner of the Black Gold saloon.
“Where in blazes did you learn that trick, feller?” he asked wonderingly.
“Didn’t learn it,” Slade replied. “Just figured it out once. You know the Indians used to fire buildings with arrows in much the same way.”
Ballard’s keen eyes grew thoughtful. He raised a hand to smooth his tawny hair.
“I s
ee,” he said, “and the corollary is that the fire could be extinguished with an arrow.”
Slade looked a little blank. “Sort of that way, if I get what you mean,” he agreed.
Ballard nodded, smiled slightly and walked away. Slade heard another voice at his elbow, a growling rumbling sort of voice.
“Feller, that was smart, dang smart!” Blaine Richardson declared. “Yes, sir, a regular whizzer.” He turned and shook his fist toward the north and very nearly repeated old Tom Mawson’s words when he accused the oil men of shooting young Clate.
“There ain’t nothin’ those cattlemen won’t do when they’ve got it in for you!”
“Do you figure the cattlemen fired the well?” Slade asked.
“Who the devil else?” growled Richardson and stalked off to join Wade Ballard. Slade followed him with a thoughtful glance.
SIX
SLADE AND NEVINS got their horses and prepared to ride back to town. Old Arch Caldwell drew a bulky wallet from his pocket, met Slade’s dancing eyes and thrust it back again.
“Much obliged,” he said, extending his hand, “and if you should happen to be in the notion of taking a good job sort of helping me look after things around the wells, it’s waiting for you.”
“Thanks for the offer, sir,” Slade replied. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Offer stands,” Caldwell said tersely.
“That old feller is considerable of a jigger, I’d say,” Curly Nevins remarked as they rode back to town.
“Yes,” Slade agreed soberly. “Representative of a class that is making Texas great and will make it greater. The same breed as Tom Mawson and his kind who came into a wilderness and turned it into a garden.”
Old Curly shot Slade a quizzical glance. “Got a feeling Tom Mawson wouldn’t be exactly flattered if he heard you say that,” he chuckled, then, his eyes suddenly thoughtful, “but again, maybe he would be.”
Slade smiled and did not comment.
A moment later Bob Kent rode up behind them. “Figured to drop in at the Black Gold for a bite to eat.” he remarked. “Won’t you gents join me?”
Gunsmoke over Texas Page 4