What the hell are you doing?
Turning back to the bar, PJ glanced at the old man, again riveted to the ball game on television. The bartender set down PJ’s drink.
“Passing through?”
“Yeah. On my way to Montana. Heard about a job up there.”
The bartender returned to the stack of boxes, giving PJ a tired look before lifting the paper in front of his face.
“I was workin’ the rigs down in Texas the last six months,” PJ went on, taking his glass. “But…got laid off last week.”
PJ took a swallow of beer and set the glass back on the bar, pursing his lips as he glanced at the old man. The bartender flipped through the pages of his paper and then folded it, tossing it on the boxes with a yawn. He walked to the sink at the old man’s end of the bar, his gaze drifting to the windows.
“You hitchin’?” he asked.
Caught in mid-swallow, PJ lowered his glass with a gulp, nearly choking. He nodded, stalling as the cough rising in his throat calmed.
“Yeah,” he croaked. “Got about a month before I need to be up north. Got a ride here from Cheyenne. Good thing, too. It’s brutal out there.”
The bartender, working his way down the bar with a rag, paused and gave PJ a cold stare. PJ turned back to his beer, conscious of the heat beginning to radiate from his brow. The bartender resumed his work.
“What’d you stop here for? This ain’t no tourist trap.”
PJ looked out the window off the end of the bar.
“I like it. It’s nice country.”
Dismissing PJ with a shake of his head, the bartender tossed the rag on the back of the sink and cleared the old man’s empty glass. The man waved off another round.
“Besides, I wanted to see about a job at Bighorn. You know if they need any help?”
Both men gave PJ a troubled stare. The old man glanced at the bartender, and then back to PJ.
“The sun must be bakin’ your brain, kid,” he said. “You said you had a job.”
Nodding, PJ took a long drink and wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Not for a month. I’m fuckin’ broke now, you know? So…any idea?”
The bartender went back to the stack of empty boxes, tipping his head back towards the old man.
“Hank would know better’n me.”
Hank dropped a crumpled bill onto the bar and moved to the stool next to PJ.
“I’d say they need lots of help. Goddamn place is a zoo. Lot of guys workin’ double shifts.”
PJ extended his hand.
“Paul.” Surprised by the strength in the old man’s grip, PJ tightened his own. “How long you been at Bighorn?”
Folding his hands on the bar, Hank’s attention returned to the television as the bartender carried the stack of boxes to the back room.
“Thirteen years. You’d want to talk to Digger. Probably be in later tonight.”
“Thanks.”
Hank turned briefly from the game to look PJ over with a careful eye, grunting as he shifted on his stool.
“You work the rigs down there in Houston?”
“Yeah. If Bighorn’s lookin’ for a hard worker, I’ll—”
Raising his hand, Hank cut him short.
“Save it. Digger eats that shit up.”
PJ turned to the television, nodding.
“Buy you another beer?”
Hank watched the game summary, and as it went to commercial, he turned to PJ.
“I thought you were broke.”
“I got enough to buy a workin’ man an honest drink.”
Returning from the back, the bartender eyed PJ with a suspicious air.
“Cash up front,” he said.
With a laugh that progressed to a rasping cough, Hank rolled his hand over on the bar, checking his watch. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth and nose.
“I guess Mother can wait through another round.”
PJ sorted the bills in his wallet, holding its contents out of view. He dropped several worn singles on the bar.
“Two more.”
As the bartender pulled their drinks from the tap, PJ and Hank turned to the television and the start of a new inning, PJ’s leg bouncing as he gave Hank and then the bartender a furtive glance. Their beers arrived and PJ held up his glass.
“To the workin’ man.”
Hank touched PJ’s glass with the rim of his own and they drank. PJ looked down the bar to the window as the bartender set down his change.
“How big is the site, Hank?”
Setting his glass on the bar, Hank sighed.
“She’s plenty big. Oregon Basin’s bigger, but not much.” He turned to direct PJ’s attention out the front windows. “Western border follows Sixteen here, three miles north and a mile south. It’s about a mile deep up over them hills.”
“The Shoshones live up there?”
Hank’s brow furrowed.
“Who?”
PJ took another drink.
“My ride told me there was an Indian reservation around here someplace.”
“Yeah, we got our share of injuns,” Hank said, turning back to the game. “I see ‘em once in a while down in Cheyenne. Don’t know why they’d want to live out here. Nothin’ but rocks and antelope shit.”
PJ ducked his head to see under the top of the window, squinting up at the derrick looming over the horizon.
“They sittin’ on any oil, you think?”
“Doubt it. We’d be drilling there for sure.” Hank glanced at PJ and drained his beer, setting his empty glass on the bar. “If Digger takes you on, I’d keep that kind of talk to yourself. We got enough work without givin’ the suits any more ideas.”
PJ nodded.
“So, what kind of job is Digger lookin’ to fill?”
“You name it. I ain’t never seen it this busy before. Got two drills up already that need tendin’, or you could be settin’ up the third somewhere. Parts just came in. Could be you’re workin’ one of the gas pumpers too.”
PJ glanced at Hank’s empty glass and downed several gulps of his beer, grimacing at the resulting throb in is head.
“Gas for what?”
“They got us pushin’ some kind of gas down the old wells. Supposed to get more oil out of ‘em that way. I ain’t seen shit difference, but what the hell do I know? I’m just an old shop hand.”
Hank leaned back in his stool with a sigh.
“Nobody tells me nothin’.”
PJ studied the old man’s oil-streaked face and then turned away, staring at his glass, swirling the last few swallows inside as Hank went on.
“Rumor is, the suits in Houston have some quota we gotta meet. That they’re itchin’ to shut us and Chicago down. Put all their chips on Texas and gulf oil.”
“Can you meet it?”
Hank glanced at PJ, as if weighing the question. He turned away, pushing his glass towards the bartender, who was now returning from the back with a case of whiskey.
“Probably not. Cheyenne’s drying up. All them pumps out there? We didn’t need but half that many a year ago.”
PJ shook his head, shifting his gaze from Hank to the surface of the bar. The laminate was peeling along one of the seams, and he picked at it, listening to Hank curse under his breath. The plastic began to give way, and PJ pressed it back down, shifting his hands back to his beer. He shivered as he emptied the glass. Following Hank’s lead, he turned back to the game.
“Guess I gotta be a Rockies fan if I want the job.”
“Probably the first thing Digger’ll ask ya.”
The bartender, stacking bottles on the shelf behind the bar, nodded to their empty glasses.
“You guys want another?”
PJ straightened in his stool, yawning as he watched Hank for a cue. The old man checked his watch.
“Better not, Phil. Mother’s got lunch waitin’.”
PJ stood and lifted his pack onto the adjacent stool.
“I’m gonna pass
too. Been up since two this morning. Could use a little shuteye.”
Hank looked at PJ’s pack.
“You got a bed in there?”
“Yeah. I saw a nice piece of shade in the wash across the road. I’ll crash there.”
Phil turned to PJ, jerking his head to the back of the bar.
“Got a cot in back if you want.”
PJ gave it some thought as he hoisted his pack.
“I’ll be fine. Thanks.”
Phil turned back to the shelves, shaking his head.
“You’re some piece of work.”
Hank groaned as a batter for Houston jerked a fast ball into the left field stands, ending the game. He checked his watch again and ordered another beer. PJ walked to the door, tossing a wave over his shoulder.
“I’ll steer clear of the antelope shit.”
Hank turned and nodded PJ out.
***
PJ dozed through much of the afternoon heat in the shade of a boulder on the rocky knoll, occasionally rousing to test the air like a desert fox impatient for the evening hunt. Unable to remain idle any longer, he braced his camera on the boulder and watched through the windows of Bighorn’s office trailer. Empty. He left the camera in place and rose into a stretch, watching the pumpjacks grind in the sun, their hypnotic nods drawing a wide yawn.
A reflection from the drilling derrick caught his eye and he picked up the camera, resting his elbows on the boulder to steady the focus. Set against a hazy backdrop of distant outcroppings, the derrick was at the limit of his lens and PJ struggled to keep it in frame as the image shook under the high zoom. A man was working on the top platform, his frustration evident as he worked on the hoist engine, frequently smacking it with the wrench. PJ chuckled, shaking the image. Another reflection came over the stub wall on the platform’s edge, and PJ refocused.
A second man, crouched behind the wall, was bracing a pair of binoculars on the top rail, his face hidden behind the enormous objectives, watching him.
“Shit.”
PJ ducked behind the boulder, his camera scraping against the rock as he fell to his stomach in the dirt. With sweat dripping from his nose, he crawled to the edge of the boulder, aiming the lens around the side. The roughneck was still at work on the hoist, but his companion at the wall was gone. PJ waited, his camera immobilized against the boulder, his body shaking. After several minutes of the roughneck’s animated prodding, the hoist engine came to life in a column of diesel exhaust and the man rose from his stoop, mopping his brow as the stalled pipe section came into view over the outcropping.
PJ watched the platform, waiting for signs of the second man that never came. He panned down the derrick, forcing his eyes open through the sting of sweat and dirt, the camera slippery in his hands. The ladder was empty. He rose to his knees and slung the camera over his shoulder.
“Calm down, for chrissake. You’re tired.”
PJ rolled up his sleeping pad and crept around the side of the hill, stopping short of its sunny, exposed face to catch his breath, his chest pounding. With a muffled crunch of gravel underfoot, a shadow lengthened on the ground from the near side of the hill and PJ dropped into a crouch, sliding his hand into his sock. Jim’s knife had fallen deep inside and PJ wedged his fingers between his sock and boot, trying to lift it out—his hand slippery with sweat. The shadow pulled back as a voice called out.
“Sheriff’s department. Come on out.”
Shit.
Dropping his pad, PJ unslung his camera and tucked it into a crevice in the rocks, his face running with sweat. He snatched up the pad and raised it over his head as he walked around the side of the hill, squinting against the sun. A patrol car was pulled up behind PJ’s rental and with one hand on his holstered sidearm, a uniformed deputy motioned over PJ’s head with the other.
“What is that, sir?”
PJ swallowed.
“It’s…my sleeping pad.”
“Could you set it down for me, please?”
“Yeah, okay.”
PJ set the pad on the ground and kicked it, rolling it out to its full length as he lifted his hands back into the air.
“Okay, sir, now I need you to turn and put your hands against that boulder, please.”
The deputy patted him down, briefly removing the duct tape from his back pocket. PJ closed his eyes as the officer searched his pants legs and cuffs, the blast rash on his chest and neck throbbing.
“Okay, sir. Pick up your mat and come with me, please.” PJ dragged his pad on the ground as the deputy led him to the car. “This is your car then?”
“Yeah. It’s—I mean—it’s a rental.”
“Are you aware it’s parked on private property?”
“No. I didn’t. Sorry.”
“Can I ask what you’re doing up here, sir?”
“I was getting some sleep. I was driving all night and I couldn’t go any further.” PJ drew the deputy’s attention back around the hill. “I found some shade over there.”
“All right,” the officer said, directing PJ to stand against his car. “We’ve had several reports of trespassing in this area recently, so we’re stepping up our patrols out here. Can I see your license, please?”
PJ took it from his wallet and handed it over, sweat building on his brow. On the way to his car, the deputy stopped short.
“You’re from Wisconsin, sir?”
PJ nodded.
“Uh-huh.”
“Your rental car has Washington plates.”
Another nod. The deputy stared at PJ, his silence demanding an explanation. PJ fumbled with his reply.
“I went out—flew out to see a friend in Washington. Washington State. Decided to take the scenic route home.”
With a tentative nod, the deputy opened the door and got in his car. As he turned his attention to the onboard computer, PJ looked away, craning his neck, trying to see around the side of the hill. With a sigh, he turned back. The deputy was watching him. As PJ gave him a sheepish nod, the computer caught the deputy’s eye, and he looked away. PJ checked the highway. Empty and baking in the sun.
“Come on…”
The officer got out of his car, comparing PJ to the license photo as he approached.
“Mind if I take a look in your car, Mr. Marshall?”
PJ met him at the back of the car, digging the keys from his pocket.
“Uh, no. What for?”
The deputy handed PJ his license.
“Like I said, we’ve had some problems recently. I want to make sure you don’t have anything that would concern me as to why you’re here.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Any weapons or explosives, anything of that nature in the vehicle?”
“No sir.”
As his backpack was dissected, PJ searched his memory, analyzing its hastily assembled contents. The deputy slid the map case from the top pocket. PJ could feel the sweat running down his chest and back as the officer inspected its contents through the clear plastic. Leaving the case unopened, he slipped it back into the pack.
“Actually,” PJ said, “I do have a Swiss Army Knife in there somewhere. Sorry, I forgot.”
The deputy responded with an amused grunt as he zipped the pack’s side pocket.
“I’d be surprised if you didn’t. You have a camera in the car, sir?”
“No.”
After checking under the pack, the deputy nodded.
“Okay,” he said, pointing to PJ’s pad on the ground. “You can put that in the trunk if you want. Mind if I check up front?”
“No. That’s fine.”
As the rest of his car was searched, PJ stuffed his pad into the trunk and closed the lid. He ran his sleeve over his forehead and turned back to the highway. A pickup truck had emerged from the site and was idling outside the new gate. The deputy slammed the car door, making PJ flinch.
“Okay, Mr. Marshall. Here’s the situation.”
PJ turned, his shirt clinging to the sweat on his back.
“You are, in fact, parked on private property, which is marked very clearly on the gate down below. Given the problems we’ve had here, I’m suspicious of anyone trespassing on this site. However, I’m going to take you at your word, since there’s nothing to convince me otherwise. I’m not going to cite you for trespassing, but consider this a warning. If you need, there are plenty of hotels in Cheyenne, or you can park at any of the rest stops along the interstate.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“All right. And thank you for getting off the road when you did. More people should do the same.”
“Yeah. I—yeah.”
“You okay to drive?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
“Have a nice day, Mr. Marshall.”
PJ got into his car and made a dusty u-turn and rolled down the gravel to the highway. He watched as the pickup turned northbound, leaving a cloud of dust and blue smoke. A chain hung from its open tailgate, ringing against the pavement as it faded into the heat, holding PJ’s gaze until the deputy honked him off the gravel. His tires squeaked as they engaged the blacktop, and PJ aimed his car south to Cheyenne.
***
PJ trolled the Roughneck’s parking lot—poorly lit by the single flickering street lamp—searching for a spot, the phone pressed to his ear.
“I don’t see it,” he said. “I’ll check again before I go in.”
“Okay.”
At the far corner of the lot, he parked beside an enormous pickup truck, the tops of its dual rear tires level with the roof of PJ’s car.
“Hang on a second, Anna.”
He got out of his car and ran in a crouch to the rear corner of the bar, searching the lot from the shadows. Muffled chatter filtered through the Roughneck’s paper-thin walls.
“I can’t tell. This place is crawling with pickups.”
“Are you sure you want to do this, PJ?”
“No. I don’t want to do this at all. What I want is for my dad to call and tell me he’s okay. Then I want to go back to Cheyenne and get a hotel room and watch movies on cable.”
Silence, and then muted cheering from inside the bar. Anna sighed.
“That sounds…perfect.”
PJ rose on his toes for a final check of the lot.
The Ascent of PJ Marshall Page 21