No Ordinary Princess

by Pamela Morsi

  "That's what I'm telling you, Prin," Muna insisted. "That was girlish fantasy. Women don't marry fanta­sies, they marry men. And they choose with their heads, not their hearts."

  "Oh, I'm so angry at him," Princess told her.

  "Who?"

  "Why, at him, that Maloof," she answered. "A man who marries to better himself in the world. It's . . . it's despicable."

  "Despicable?" Muna shook her head. "Oh Prin, he's only being sensible and smart. Those are quali­ties a woman wants in a husband. He's not at all despicable. Actually he is really rather nice."

  "How can you say that?"

  "Well, it's true. He is nice."

  "He is about to marry you because it is a tremen­dous business opportunity," Princess said. "If that's not despicable, I don't know what is."

  "Prin, don't call him names. He's going to be my husband."

  Princess gave her friend a long look before nod­ding. "If you are going to marry him, Muna, then I'll never say a word against him. And I am going to marry . . . yes, I'm going to marry Gerald Crane. So don't you ever say another word against him."

  The two gave each other a long look before simul­taneously flying into each other's arms.

  "I swear I will find some way to like your Mr. Bashara. I swear it as your best friend."

  "And I'll give your Mr. Crane a chance," Muna whispered as she hugged her. "We are closer than sisters."

  "Closer than sisters forever," Princess agreed.

  The two pulled apart from their embrace and locked little fingers together in a secret handshake left over from childhood days. Then they both laughed at the silliness of it.

  Then slowly their laughter faded to serious con­cern.

  "Be careful, Prin," Muna told her. "I don't want you to get hurt."

  Princess nodded agreement.

  "Muna, make it a long engagement," she said. "And if you find that you can't love him, don't marry."

  "Agreed."

  "Agreed."

  The P. Calhoun Number One stood at the top of a high bluff in a bend in the Arkansas River just south of the ferry crossing. Tom was certain that from its crown block a man could probably see Burford Cor­ners and perhaps beyond. It was at least a hundred feet tall, but it was neither lonely nor alone. The wide hill, sloping gradually upward on the west and south, sported a forest of derricks rising tall in" the sky, the noise of which certainly discouraged any type of conversation. The constant thud . . . chik . . . thud . . . that had kept him awake the previous night, was, upon closer examination, less an annoyance and more probably a cause of deafness.

  The hill was sparsely greened by a thin covering of bluestem and sandburs. Deep, rutted walking paths were worn into the ground and Tom found that strolling beyond them was treacherous, as the thin shale beneath the grass tended to break off and shift.

  Tom had been concerned that his presence at the drilling site might be noticed. But as he glanced around, he realized that it was very unlikely. There were men of every stripe moving in every direction. One more, dressed just like most, blended in without effort. Several were huddled upon the derrick floor in deep discussion about some sort of problem.

  Beside the derrick itself, there were several other busy working areas around the site. He watched a group putting together a small building. They cut boards and hammered nails, but they were not like any carpenters Tom had ever seen. No measures, no levels, no square was being utilized. Every piece of lumber was eye-sighted and cut to fit. An obvious preference for fast buildings over sturdy ones.

  Lengths of pipe in several diameters were being unloaded and stacked near the north side of the rig. Tom tried to imagine the tremendous depth of drill­ing that the piping, laid end to end, would represent.

  Tom wandered around with his eyes watchful. If he did decide to woo Cessy Calhoun, this huge contrap­tion of raw lumber and unattractive machinery might well be his very soon. He wanted to make absolutely certain that the prize was going to be worth the price.

  "Is there really oil under there?" he wanted to ask someone, anyone. "How much oil will it be? Will the sale of it keep me in fine shoes and dress coats for the rest of my days? Is it worth enough to take on a wife to get it?"

  He couldn't ask those questions. At least he couldn't ask them directly. Tom would have to watch and listen and learn. He'd take his time. He'd have to be quite certain. And when he knew the answer, when he knew for sure, he'd be down on one knee with a posy and a proposal for Miss Cessy Calhoun.

  The thought of the plain little blusher had him shaking his head thoughtfully. He wondered what she was up to this morning. Had she lain awake all night dreaming of his kiss? Had she whispered his name into her pillow? Or rather, had she whispered Gerald's name? He hoped so. He didn't have a lot of greenbacks to spend on candy and gifts. He'd have to win her with long looks and soulful sighs. And a few more of those stolen kisses.

  Tom had been, he admitted to himself, more than a little surprised by her reaction to him. She'd held her mouth pursed like a ten-year-old. He had known before she told him that she was far from experienced in courting ways. It had been her first kiss. And he had meant it to be very romantic and chaste. But she had not reacted with shock, fear, or embarrassment. Cessy Calhoun had been, well, she had been really quite passionate. She had pressed her body against him without hesitation. Aggressive in her basic na­ture, she had been unrestrained in her openness to him.

  Too easy. That could be its. own danger, Tom reminded himself. If last night was any indication, she'd probably be ordering him to marry her within a week! He needed to keep his head. He was to do the seduction here, at the right time and the right place. And in secret, if at all possible. The last thing he wanted was King Calhoun running him out of town with a shotgun.

  As if conjured up from Tom's thoughts, King Calhoun came up over the rise in his Packard. The well-worn and much abused automobile was blessed with a wide body and high clearance that somehow allowed it to traverse the slippery hill like a mountain goat.

  Tom watched as Calhoun and two others emerged from the vehicle. They hailed the men at the derrick. One of them, an older fellow with a decided limp, moved forward to greet the portly, well-heeled owner and his three-man entourage.

  With some stealth, Tom made his way back behind them. He wanted to hear what they were saying. But he sure didn't want to get close enough to catch the eye of Calhoun or his men. With great care, following a crisscrossing path, he managed to come up behind them on the far side of the car. A tall stand of blooming pink dogbane offered relative privacy with­in earshot of Calhoun and the others. The noise from the well had them conversing in shouts. Tom turned away from them so that anyone glancing in his direction would think his only interest was in reliev­ing himself.

  "I'm off to Saint Louis, Cedarleg," Calhoun said loudly, addressing his remarks to the crippled fellow. "I'm going to catch the Limited about seven. I'll be in the Palmer House by morning."

  "How long you going to be gone this time?"

  "At least three days, but no more than a week," he answered.

  "You taking Miss Princess with you?"

  "Nah, it's a business trip," he said. "Got to see one of them numb-nut bankers. Lord, I hate those sorry scum-suckers, but a man's got to do business where business is being done. Ivel will have Friday's payroll out here on time. And I'll be back before the next."

  Tom felt a moment of pure elation. He almost laughed aloud. With her father out of the way for at least three days, Cessy would be easy prey. As soon as he could beg or borrow a decent suit of clothes, he could call on her at the Calhoun Mansion. Without her father at home there would be no need for stealth at all. Servants were notoriously bad chaperones. A few evenings of spooning on the porch swing and she'd be as malleable as territory clay. If Calhoun stayed away a whole week, he might even have time to get her to the "I do!"

  "I'll keep the boys at it," the lame-legged fellow assured Calhoun. "We got some kind of back push this morning. Don't
know yet if it's a gas pocket or more of that danged salt water."

  There was a long moment in which, to Tom's surprise, Calhoun and Cedarleg moved away from the other three and in his direction. As he made a big production of doing up his fly, Tom could hear the hesitation in Calhoun's voice as he replied.

  "It's down there, isn't it Cedarleg?" he asked.

  The crippled man hooted with laughter. "You ain't thinking this could be a duster? It's there. I ain't saying it's going to be easy, the dome is old and the caprock goes way deep, but the oil is under this hill. I'd risk everything I have on that."

  Calhoun snorted and then laughed out loud. "We've brought them in on a shoestring before, Lord knows."

  He slapped the crippled man on the back heartily. "You'd best get back to your drilling crew, Cedarleg. No telling what those boys will be up to without you looking over their shoulders."

  As Cedarleg headed for the derrick floor and Calhoun and his cohorts returned to the Packard, Tom made himself scarce.

  There was oil down there. Those men knew it. And now Tom knew it too. If he married Cessy Calhoun it would all be his. Every beautiful, black, expensive drop of it.

  Following a circuitous route once more, Tom made his way back toward the area around the derrick. He stopped next to a small group of men digging what appeared to be a large earthen pond.

  "Any work to be had here?" Tom asked.

  One of them raised his head, leaned momentarily upon his shovel, and gave Tom a long perusal. "We got a full crew of tank builders," he said. "The other gangs might need a hand. Ask the tool pusher."

  "The tool pusher?"

  The man glanced at his cohorts and gave a wide-eyed expression of disbelief. "Is this your first day in the oil fields?" he asked.

  "My second," Tom answered. "I got into Topknot yesterday, but this is the first oil well I've seen up close."

  "The tool pusher is the boss man on the derrick floor," he told Tom with a long-suffering look that indicated he was only barely tolerating Tom's igno­rance. He pointed to the three men up on the rig. "The fellow on his right, he's the driller. He actually puts the tools, the bit and stem and cables to the hole. The other man is called the tool dresser. He keeps things ready, the bits honed and handy, and backs up the driller.

  Tom nodded, deliberately committing the man's words to his memory.

  "It only takes three men to drill an oil well?"

  "Three at a time to drill the hole," the tank builder answered. "But there's better than two dozen that make up the whole crew."

  "So they might need someone willing to learn?" Tom asked.

  The man shrugged.

  "Cedarleg!" he called out.

  The crippled man at the rig looked up in his direction. The tank builder waved him over.

  Tom raised his chin and put his thoughts in order. He needed a job. He'd have to spend the ten dollars he'd earned on courting clothes. If he could get work on the rig, he could learn about how it operated. If he was about to be an oil baron, it'd be a good thing to know which end of a well was up.

  When the crippled man came within hearing dis­tance, the tank builder spoke up once more.

  "This one is looking for a job," he said, indicating Tom. "It's his first, no second, day in the oil fields."

  The man couldn't resist a chuckle, and the rest of his cohorts joined in.

  Tom ignored them and offered his handshake.

  "Are you the boss here at the P. Calhoun Number One?" he asked.

  The old man nodded. "We just call her the T,'" he said.

  "I need a job," Tom told him. "And I'd like to work here on this rig."

  Cedarleg looked at Tom assessingly.

  "You look to have a strong back at least," the tool pusher said finally. "My name's Pease, but they call me Cedarleg. I don't suspect you know nothing about nothing."

  "I'm a quick study," Tom assured him. "I've worked all over Texas and the territories. I know cattle, horses, farming."

  "You know anything about machinery?"

  Tom hesitated. He wasn't above lying, but there was no sense in making up something that would easily be found out to be untrue.

  "No, sir," he said firmly. "I've never had much acquaintance with machines. I can shoot straight, ride well, and tend animals. But I'm hoping to learn something new."

  Cedarleg continued to look at him thoughtfully. "That's a real good attitude, son," he said finally. "But I just ain't got the time to teach you nothing. This is a drilling rig. It's a dangerous place for anybody. It can be deadly for those who don't know their way around."

  Tom opened his mouth to plead his case further when the consistent thud . . . chik . . . thud sud­denly developed a strange, almost whirring sound.

  Cedarleg obviously heard it, too, and turned, hur­rying on his gimp leg toward the rig, calling out, "Slack in the line!"

  Tom rushed forward with him, taking in the scene. One man knelt on the derrick floor, frantically jerking at the stove up drill stem.

  "Turn it off!" he screamed. "Turn it off!"

  The other man stood, pale and wide-eyed, frozen in place.

  "Pull the brake!" Cedarleg called out to him as he raced forward, in eminent danger of falling over in his haste. "Pull the brake."

  Clearly Tom saw that the frozen man could do nothing. He knew that look. He'd seen it in Cuba. A man too frightened to move was an easy target and the men around him usually suffered.

  The heavy cable began pouring off the spool onto the kneeling man. It was going to kill him, Tom realized. Either the weight of it would crush him, or if he managed to pull loose the stuck drill stem he would be caught up in the line and ripped apart before their eyes.

  The frozen man was not moving to save him and the crippled man was not going to have time. Tom leapt onto the derrick floor. He gave one glance at the driller contemplating his death and unerringly fol­lowed the direction of his eyes to the brake lever.

  Tom pulled it downward with all his strength.

  Silence.

  Total silence.

  Then Cedarleg was beside him, securing the chain that held the brake lever down.

  All the men in the vicinity of the rig had rushed to the derrick floor. The tank builders were there first and dragged the driller out of the tangle of cable.

  "He's all right!" one of them called out. "He's all right."

  "Thank God."

  Tom heard Cedarleg whisper under his breath only a moment before he turned toward the other fellow, the tool dresser, still frozen a few feet away.

  "Git!" Cedarleg hollered at him.

  The man stuttered, attempting some sort of reply.

  "Git!" Cedarleg screamed more viciously. "Git away from this rig! Git off this hill! Git out of my sight!"

  Cedarleg was walking toward the man threaten­ingly. He picked up a greasy rag and threw it at the man.

  "Git!" he hollered once more.

  The fellow hurriedly backed off the rig, but it wasn't fast enough to suit Cedarleg. He followed. Stooping to grab a handful of dirt, he threw that at the man.

  The fellow was killing mad. The tool dresser began hurrying away in earnest. And when a rock Cedarleg threw at him caught him square between the shoul­der blades, he began running.

  "Git outta here!" Cedarleg continued screaming and followed at as fast a pace as he could manage, throwing stones as he went.

  Tom was right behind him. He grabbed the older fellow from behind, pinning his arms to his sides in a confining embrace.

  "Let me go!" Cedarleg ordered.

  "Let him go," Tom said quietly. "It's over. It's all over."

  "I lost my leg 'cause of a sonuvabitch like him."

  "It's over," Tom repeated calmly. "The driller is fine. Your leg is gone. And that fellow is, too."

  After a long moment, Tom felt the tension go out of the old man.

  "You can let me go now, son," Cedarleg said. "I'm all right now.

  Tom released him and the two stood together silentl
y as Cedarleg continued to look toward where the tool dresser had disappeared.

  "I was driller on a rig up in Pennsylvania twelve years ago,” he told Tom. "I lost my leg in a slack line accident a lot like this one."

  The man turned to face Tom, his expression pen­sive, thoughtful.

  "My dang leg got tangled in the line and when the drill bit popped through it ripped it off at the knee as easy as pulling a drumstick off a Sunday dinner chicken."

  "I'm sorry," Tom told him.

  Cedarleg nodded in response. "I always said that I was just grateful to be alive." He chuckled without humor. "I suspect sometimes I'm not as grateful as I pretend to be."

  They turned and began walking back toward the rig.

  "You're a dang hero, son," Cedarleg told him.

  Tom scoffed. "If there's anything I learned in Cuba," he said, "it's that the only real heroes are dead ones. I intend to live a very long time."

  Cedarleg laughed. "That's a good attitude. Surviv­ing is a good motivator for working in the oil fields. What's your name, son?"

  "My name?"

  "All men with jobs have a name, I suspect."

  Tom's brow furrowed. "I don't have a job."

  Cedarleg raised an eyebrow. "I'm in dire need of a new tool dresser. I just run my last one off. If you want the position, it's yours."

  Tom looked at him a moment and then gestured toward the rig. "I don't know anything about oil wells," he said.

  Cedarleg shrugged. "You know where the brake is. That's a good start."

  He held out his hand. "My name's Walker, Tom Walker," he said.

  Chapter 5

  He worked the rest of the shift beside Cedarleg. It was tough, hard work and somewhat confusing, but Tom kept at it.

  The driller, who introduced himself as Bob Earlie, kept at it, too. After taking a few moments to collect himself after his near brush with death, Earlie started the rig up once more.

  Over the constant pounding noise of the rig, Tom began learning the names of the clamps and sockets and joints, and which tools might be called on for what repairs. By midafternoon the July sun beat down upon them with such intensity that it slowed their movements to the rhythm of the rig and their bodies glistened with the sweat of honest work.