When they reached the rear of the tent they saw more equipment standing in the open: crown block pulleys and bull wheels and big wooden band wheels, and engine boilers that looked like miniature locomotives stripped of wheels and cabs. They passed on through to the sheet-iron shack. This was Kurt Battle's office, and the owner of the Battle Oil Field Supply Company was sitting at his plank desk when they came in.
The supplier did not like what he saw. He glanced sharply at Bud Muller, then at Grant and Valois, and noted the revolver bulges beneath their windbreakers and liked that even less. But he smiled, in a pained sort of way, and stood up quickly to shake Bud's hand.
“I'm sorry,” he said with sincerity, the smile vanishing. “Your pa was a good wildcatter, son, they don't make them like him any more.”
“My father always spoke well of you,” Bud said. And then, after a brief hesitation, “I've come to ask a favor, Mr. Battle.”
There was a coal-oil stove in the center of the shack but it was not enough to fight back the chill of those sheet-iron walls. The shack was frigid, and Battle's breathing emitted little puffs of white frost on the air, but at the same time a beading of sweat appeared on his forehead. He was a small man with a smooth-shaven face and the pot belly of an overfed kitten; he did not look like the kind of man to say “no” to Ben Farley.
Battle shifted in his cane-bottomed chair and cleared his throat. “A favor, Bud?”
“We had a fire on the lease last night. The derrick was damaged and we need some new timbers to repair it. We need some credit, Mr. Battle, about five hundred dollars' worth.”
Battle had known from the first what they wanted, but the words seemed to shock him.
“Well, Bud, I sure would like to help, but you know how short supplies are in a boom field...”
“We saw the timbers in your yard. All we need is the credit.”
Battle swallowed. He glanced quickly at Grant and Valois, but did not look at Bud. “I'm sorry,” he said huskily. “Your pa was my friend and I'd like to help, but I can't. I just can't.”
Grant shot a glance at Valois, and the runner shrugged. This was the thing they had expected, and they had no weapon to fight it with. After a moment Grant stepped up to the plank desk directly in front of the supplier. “Getting those timbers is important, Battle. The Muller well can't spud in without them.”
He shook his head. “I'm sorry...”
“Is it Farley?” Grant broke in. “Did he warn you not to give the Mullers credit?”
Battle didn't have to answer, the answer was in his face. He blinked quickly, then stood up abruptly and blundered to the one small window in the shack and stood staring out at nothing. “I don't want any trouble.” He almost whined. “I worked hard to build up my business; I don't want to see it wiped out overnight.”
“Did Farley threaten you?”
“He said he'd take away his business. He said he'd stop all his friends from tradin' with me if I gave the Mullers credit.”
At that moment the giant shadow of Zack Muller was in the shack and all of them could feel it. Grant hadn't known (he old man long, but he had liked him. Farley had killed him. Farley had burned the derrick. Farley was now cutting off their credit. How much more was Farley going to get away with?
A new kind of anger, a positive anger not complicated by indecision, began to rise up in Grant's throat. And he could see the same kind rising savagely behind Bud Muller's pale eyes, the same danger signal that had been there the day of Zack Muller's funeral.
Grant acted quickly, on instinct. He took one of Battle's arms and spun him roughly away from the window before the maddened boy could get to him. “Listen to me, Battle!” he said harshly. “You know the boy's name is good for the money, you're not afraid of not being paid. Let us take the limbers and you can tell Farley we stole them; tell him anything you like, but we've got to have the material to repair the derrick!”
Battle's eyes were startled; they began to water and he blinked rapidly. “Let me go!” he whimpered. “I've got a right to look after my own business!”
“All right!” Grant spat, and he hardly recognized the icy words as his own. “You can look after your business, Battle, but let me tell you something. Farley's not the only man in Kiefer you've got to be scared of. What about the next oil field you move to? Maybe Farley won't be there. Maybe Zack Midler's friends will start remembering how you took Farley's side against one of their own, and then where will your business be? Who will use your equipment then, Battle?”
Grant tightened his grip on Battle's arm and the supplier's mouth came open in pain. “I tell you I can't help it! I've got to do like Farley says or I'm ruined!”
“You'll be ruined anyway, Battle, because I'll make it my business to pass the word to every independent driller, every wildcatter in the Territory! It may take me longer than Farley, but I can ruin you just as completely as he can! You'd better think that over before you make your final decision.”
The words went home with more effect than Grant had expected. Faint lines of worry appeared on Battle's baby-smooth face, and it was evident that he had been thinking about this same thing for a long time. He was trying to play both ends from the middle, both Farley and the independents, and he was smart enough to know that it was a losing game.
Grant let go of the supplier and spoke again, almost gently. “It's something to think about, isn't it, Battle? Farley won't always be around to look out for you—you need friends among j the wildcatters.”
Battle was weakening, but he was still afraid. “It's more than the business,” he said thinly. “Farley would kill me if he thought I gave you credit!”
“He doesn't have to know. Get the timbers loaded tonight. Leave the wagon over by the railroad to make it look like a shipment that has just come in, and we'll take care of the rest of it. We'll leave Kiefer in darkness and Farley will never see j us. If he should see us, you can tell him we stole it.”
It was not the way Grant wanted it. Farley was sure to catch them on the road, and when that happened, a fight was certain. Then there would be a charge of theft against them, and Jim Dagget wouldn't let a thing like that pass unnoticed. Still, they had to have the timbers and they were in no position to make their own conditions.
Bud Muller said, “What about it, Battle?”
“I... I don't know. That gun shark on Farley's pay roll...”
“The gun shark's our worry,” Grant said. “Do we get the timbers or do I start passing the word around that you're siding with Farley against the Mullers? Sure they're afraid of Farley, but they're pretty worked up about Zack Muller, too, and men can do strange things when they're worked up.”
Bud Muller's voice was cold and bitter. “I've heard of business houses burning down, Battle. It wouldn't take much to set off this tent of yours.”
This was taking a turn that Grant didn't like, but it was effective. Battle wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Well...”
And they knew that the wagon would be loaded when darkness came. “Sign here,” the supplier said weakly, pushing some papers at Bud.
When Grant, Bud Muller, and Valois came out of the Wheel House and headed toward the depot in the biting wind it was shortly after seven o'clock. The wagon was waiting, fully loaded, the six-horse hitch stamping restlessly on the frozen ground.
Valois grinned. “I've got to hand it to you, Grant. I didn't think Battle would do it.”
But Grant was in no mood for congratulations. Fighting weakness with threats was not a pleasant way to do things, but a man could not always choose his own weapons.
They walked from the main part of Kiefer and moved cautiously toward the boxcar depot. “I wonder where Farley is?” Valois said thoughtfully. And Grant was thinking the same thing. That they should move the wagon all the way to the lease, unmolested, was almost too much to hope for.
There were several horses and hacks tied up at a long rack beside the boxcar, and the three men swung wide around them, keeping in
the darker shadows as much as possible. The night was crystal clear, as brittle as ice, and their boots crunched noisily on patches of frozen snow as they made their way toward the freighter.
Bud Muller glanced up at the great spread of sky and the frosted moon that was beginning to rise in the east. “I'd be just as happy,” Valois said, “if we had a few clouds. When that moon comes up Farley can spot us halfway to Sabo.”
“We'll worry about that,” Grant said, “when the time comes.”
But the time was sooner than any of them thought. Bud Muller untied the lines, climbed up on the front wheel, and looped the loose ends around the brake lever. Valois climbed up next, taking his place on the driver's seat, and as Grant placed one foot on the wheel spoke, a sense of warning made him let go immediately.
A long shadow fell across the ground and a horseman rode casually from behind the boxcar. From the corner of his eye Grant could see the A & P ticket agent dozing over his telegraph key, but the conscious part of his brain was focused on the rider. Squat and bullish, almost shapeless in the loose folds of a plaid mackinaw, Ben Farley said:
“You aiming to steal those derrick timbers, Muller?”
Three more riders rode immediately behind Farley. One of them Grant recognized as one of the roustabouts that had given him the beating in the Wheel House, another was Kurt Battle, and the third was a lank, scarecrow figure of a man who had about him an aura of danger that was unmistakable, and Grant knew immediately that this was Kirk Lloyd, the gunman.
Farley spoke to Kurt Battle, smiling faintly. “I guess maybe you ought to go after the law, Kurt. We've caught them red-handed trying to steal your wagon and equipment.”
Lloyd was gaunt and humorless, forever watchful. Battle seemed to be skating the thin edge of panic; his eyes blinked rapidly, a nervous little twitch tugged spasmodically at the corner of his soft mouth. The roustabout grinned stupidly as though he alone saw some enormous joke in the situation.
Hardly a second had passed, the four horsemen were still riding toward them, but Grant knew instinctively what happened. They had underrated Farley. They had thought that they could get out of town and do their fighting in the open, if fight they must, but the oilman had played it differently. He was playing to bring the law in on his side!
Farley had got hold of Battle and him, and the rest of it had been easy.
For one brief moment Grant stared at the oilman almost in admiration. He was dangerous and deadly and smart, and being smart was the worst of all, because now he would have the law working for him.
At that moment Grant had almost forgotten Valois and young Muller up on the wagon. He felt sick with defeat, for Jim Dagget would lock them up for theft, and then, sooner or later, he would find the money belt about Grant's waist and remember the bank robbery in Joplin. And that would be the end.
Even as he thought it, he heard Bud Muller snarl like some cornered animal, and the instant of silence was completely shattered by the blast of a revolver.
Now was no time for thinking, or swearing in anger because a hotheaded kid had made a bad situation even worse. Grant leaped to one side, clawing in his windbreaker for his pistol. And he saw Lloyd, Farley's gunman, reacting unhurriedly and coolly, reaching swiftly for his shoulder holster inside his loose-fitting windbreaker.
Farley himself judged the situation instantly and calmly withdrew. Lloyd and the roustabout were paid to do his fighting, and the oilman reined his animal quickly to one side as calmly as if he were getting up to leave a poker game. Battle's face was sheer panic; his startled animal reared suddenly and he fell solidly to the frozen ground and did not get up. The roustabout lost his idiotic grin; he looked bewildered and faintly shocked as he fumbled inexpertly for his revolver.
Only Kirk Lloyd seemed unruffled and cool. He worked smoothly, as only a professional can, and his quick eyes picked out the point of most immediate danger and ignored all the others. The dull steel of a .45 seemed to glow in his right hand, and he fired twice without a change of expression, without a flicker of an eyelash, directly at Bud Muller.
The boy's mouth flew open as if in amazement. He grabbed his side and slipped slowly, gracefully, to the bottom of the driver's seat. Lloyd's horse had shied suddenly at the sound of shooting, and for an instant the gunman seemed to wonder if his shot had been spoiled and whether he should fire again. But when he saw the boy begin to fall he forgot about Bud Muller and turned his mind to the other points of attack.
The roar of Lloyd's second shot was still ballooning in the air when he turned from Bud Muller. He saw Turk Valois was still struggling to open his windbreaker and forgot the runner as one unworthy of his attention. With a practiced movement that seemed almost lazy because of its perfection, the gunman turned his .45 on Grant.
Here he showed his first flicker of emotion. A faint shadow of surprise crossed his eyes when he saw that Grant's pistol was in his hand. Lloyd was not worried, merely surprised that this man had drawn as fast as he had. Probably it had never occurred to the gunman that, by shooting first at the boy, the odds had grown against him. He was cool and completely confident as he turned to flick his trigger finger at Grant.
Not even when Grant's pistol barked first did any expression come over that lean, stone-hard face. Not even when the bullet tore through him did he show dismay. He was a professional; killing was his business, and he could not imagine that this big wild-eyed man standing before him might beat him at his own business. But the impact of the bullet tore him from his saddle, and he fell to the ground with one foot caught in the stirrup, and the nervous animal whirled in a tight little circle until it had thrown off the dead weight.
Immediately on top of Grant's shot came two more shocking muzzle blasts that jarred the night. And Grant glanced up to see Turk Valois standing crouched on the wagon seat with a revolver in his hand. The roustabout dumped forward from his saddle without ever getting his windbreaker open.
A bare second of silence struck the night as sharply as had the crashing of guns. For one scant instant Kiefer seemed to hold its breath. Then suddenly some distant voice was raised in excitement and the figures of men crowded doorways and spilled into the biting night, and the darkness became cluttered with the sound of running men.
Battle was still lying on the ground, paralyzed with fear, and Farley had vanished somewhere into the darker shadows near the makeshift depot. Drained of all feeling, Grant shoved his pistol back into his waistband and looked up at Valois. “How's the boy?”
“Still breathing. That's about all I can tell.”
Grant climbed over the wagon wheel and, with Valois' help, they lifted the boy out of the freighter and put him on the ground. Apparently, one of Lloyd's shots had missed; the other had caught Bud Muller in the right side, about an inch above the thrust of the hipbone. If the boy lived he could thank Lloyd's rearing horse for throwing off the gunman's aim.
In an uneasy gesture the runner wiped his hand across his mouth. “He doesn't look too good to me. Maybe we ought to take him to a doctor.”
Grant smiled weakly. “We'll have plenty of help in just a minute.”
And they listened to the pounding of heavy boots on the snow-crusted ground. It seemed that every door in Kiefer was standing open; streams of orange lamplight formed bright patterns in the street and on the faces of the running men.
Then one voice sounded out above all the others. “Marshall Over this way!” It was Ben Farley's voice and it was high-pitched, almost hysterical with rage. Grant and Valois looked at each other, then at the approaching mob with Jim Dagget in the van.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MARSHAL JIM DAGGET was an angry man. He glanced at Kirk Lloyd sprawled face down on the ground, and then at the roustabout's motionless form, and finally he knelt beside Bud Muller and felt the boy's throat for a pulse. All the time he kept his own .45 trained on some indefinite point between Valois and Grant, ready to fire instantly at either of them.
“Back up against the wagon,” he said
, almost snarled, “and unbutton your windbreakers.”
In his rage, he would have killed both of them at the slightest wrong move. Grant and the runner, backed against the freighter, gingerly unbuttoned their coats.
“Drop your weapons on the ground.”
The two men drew their revolvers carefully and dropped them. Grant said, “The boy's hurt bad. He needs a doctor.”
“You should have thought of that before you brought him gunning for Farley!” said the marshal. But he jerked his head at one of the men standing behind him. “See if you can find Doc Lewellen; probably he'll be at the Wheel House bar.”
Then there was a stir in the crowd and Ben Farley came shoving his way through to face the marshal. His dark, hard eyes flashed with anger. “This is my fight, Dagget. Me and my boys will take care of it our own way.”
The marshal's own anger turned cold. “Stay out of this, Farley!”
“I want justice done!” the oilman roared. “Those two men are murderers! They've got to hang!”
“Maybe, but it'll be on the order of a federal judge if they do, not yours, Farley.” He jerked his head at Grant and Valois. “March!” he said coldly.
But Farley stepped in again before they could move. “You can't get away with it, Dagget. There's no jail in Kiefer, and you can't let two murderers run loose.”
“There's a jail at Muskogee that'll hold them until they can be brought to trial,” the marshal said flatly. Then he turned to the crowd and shouted, “Go back to town, all of you! The excitement's over.”
“I don't think so,” Farley said. And he glanced around the crowd, his gaze falling briefly on the faces of men he knew, and at last he turned back to the marshal, smiling thinly. “I don't think so, Dagget.”
He turned away abruptly, glanced coldly at Kurt Battle who was trying to crawl away in the crowd. He strode stiffly to the still form of Kirk Lloyd and suddenly spat in disgust. “I paid him to protect me!” he said hoarsely. “And he let a stinkin' plowhand outdraw him!”
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