The Bold Frontier

by John Jakes

  Red Bear was not only polite but respectful. After asking Charles to describe again the white man he sought, he said, “Yes, we have seen that man, with a boy. At the whiskey ranch of Glyn the trader, on Vermilion Creek. Glyn is gone and they are staying there. I will tell you the way.”

  He pointed south. Charles was so dizzy with relief, his eyes watered.

  Silently, the People formed a long lane through which the three trotted out. Looking back, believing their luck would break any moment, Charles heard Gray Owl laugh deep in his chest. A single figure remained by the campfire, apart from the others. Charles saw Whistling Snake raise his golden feather fan and disdainfully walk away.

  They put miles and all of the rest of the night behind them before Charles permitted a stop. Spent men and spent horses rested on the prairie in the cool dawn. Charles knelt beside his black friend.

  “All right, I know you don’t tell your secrets, but this is one time you will. How did you do it?”

  Magee chuckled and produced the hand-carved wooden box. He removed one of the round gray balls and displayed it sportively, just out of Charles’s reach. “An old traveling magician taught me the trick back in Chicago. Always wanted to do it for an audience, but till this winter I couldn’t afford the right pistol. Saved my pay for it. First thing I did was to short the powder. You never saw it because everybody looked down for a few seconds when I pretended a bug bit me. A little misdirection. But that’s only half of it. The trick won’t work without this.”

  “That’s a solid ball of lead.”

  Magee dug his thumbnail with its great cream-colored half-moon into the pistol ball. The nail easily cracked the surface of the ball. “No, it isn’t solid, it’s melted lead brushed all over something else.”

  He caught the ball between his palms and rubbed them hard back and forth. He showed the crushed remains, tawny dust. “The rest is just good Kansas mud. Hard enough to build a house, but not hardly hard enough to kill a man.”

  He blew on his palm. The dust scattered against the sun and pattered on the ground. He laughed.

  “What d’you say we ride and find your boy?”

  Death Rides Here!

  WHEN THE WAGON BLEW, Jeff Croydon had no time for thinking. His dozen high-sided wagons were pulling up, one after another, to the boxcars on the siding in the town of Sooner. Number four wagon had just pulled away, the skinner bawling lusty obscenities at the mules, and number five was swinging in toward the car. Jeff Croydon stood near the wagons, the hot dust clouding around him, sweat dripping down his plain, serious face. Several of the handlers, stripped to the waist and shining with perspiration, stood in the open door of the freight car in which the barrels of crude were transported east, adequately if not safely.

  The skinner pulled number five wagon up beside the door. Someone in the crowd of town loungers standing by the freight train whistled shrilly. Croydon’s head whipped around as he heard the nervous bray of the mules and the curses of the skinner trying to frighten them into line once more.

  Croydon saw no one in the crowd whom he recognized. At the moment the thing had the quality of an idle prank, but Croydon knew and respected the hellish power lying dormant in the gummy crude. As he turned back to the wagon, something bright flickered in a downward arc across his line of vision. A short stick, with a flaming rag attached to the end. With a curse he turned instinctively back to the crowd. They were brawling now, slugging senselessly at each other, their voices a roaring babel. He still couldn’t spot a familiar face, nor a guilty one. Right then his thinking processes stopped.

  From down the line he heard the wild shout of Dune Limerty, the oldster who helped run his freight line. “Holy God, get that stick outa…” The wagon exploded. The skinner howled and jumped to the ground. The sweating workers backed into the car, shouting like everyone else. Croydon saw flames licking at the flimsy boxcar walls. Then heat fanned his cheeks like the air from hell’s own ovens. The deadly fire so frightening to men here in the oil fields danced out like whirling human figures, extending sudden gouting arms into the car door. Another minute and the whole train might blow. …

  Croydon had no thought of heroism. He thought only of the flames as a danger. He shoved the frightened skinner out of the way, yelling at the spooked mules as he vaulted onto the wagon seat. In the seconds following the explosion, the mules had begun to move, so the flaming wagon was actually rolling when Croydon hit the seat and gathered up the reins. Banners of flame streaming behind him, he swung the wagon over rows of tracks, cut down a side street and headed past a few last shacks into open country. The rush of wind kept the flames away from him, but the great heat flayed his back. Croydon held his balance, standing wide-legged. He spotted a patch of arid ground ahead. He used all his strength to halt the frantic mules, swing them to the left and brake the wagon.

  The mules brayed and threw themselves back and forth in the traces. Croydon dropped to the ground, jerked the pin and let them break free. Then he backed off and watched the wagon burn itself out. He stood there, empty-eyed, counting the loss. Each barrel of crude delivered to eastern oil companies was paid for with monies transferred directly to the well owner, who then paid Croydon a percentage based similarly on barrels delivered to the railroad.

  Croydon stared bleakly at the forest of derricks thrusting up all across the face of the land. He freighted crude for none of the big outfits, like that of the wealthy midwesterner, Senator Lucas Bryant. He handled only the shoestring outfits, and barely kept his nose out of debt. This calamity, the first in his three years of management of the small outfit, had come at a time when success had seemed forthcoming at last. Now, he didn’t know.

  A wagon rattled toward him, and he came back to reality. He squinted against the sun and saw Dune Limerty driving. Dune’s weary eyes took in the charred ruin of the wagon as he braked. He scratched his beard and shook his head. “T’warn’t no accident, Jeff.”

  “I know,” Croydon said, climbing up beside him. “Let’s get back to Sooner.”

  Limerty swung the mules, and they jogged along back toward the boomtown. The older man reported that the rest of the shipment had been safely loaded on the train. Croydon said, “That still doesn’t cancel the loss. Dune, somebody tossed that burning stick from the crowd. It wasn’t just some fool’s idea of a prank. Somebody’s out to get us.”

  Limerty grunted agreement. The clapboards of Sooner rose ahead of them. The freight train was chugging slowly away from the yards. “Think it’s Hunter?” Limerty asked.

  “If it is, I sure as hell don’t see why,” Croydon answered. Tom Hunter ran the big freighting outfit in Sooner, handling shipments for the larger wells including Senator Bryant’s holdings, largest of all in this field. Hunter was the established business man, Croydon the johnny-come-lately trying to compete. Croydon pointed out that Hunter was making as much money as any man would want.

  “And besides, Hunter’s not that stupid. He’s got all he needs. I don’t think he’d risk putting us out of business when we don’t even make a dent in his contracts.”

  “Well,” Limerty declared, “you o’ course may be right. But I saw an hombre named Flinch in the crowd. Flinch did the whistlin’ that spooked the mules, and though I didn’t see him toss the stick, he sure as hell got out of there right after the fire started.”

  “I don’t know this Flinch,” Croydon told his partner. “Skinner?”

  Limerty spat contemptuously over the wagon side. “Naw. Six-gun artist. Dirty work boy. But he works for Tom Hunter.”

  “Still,” Croydon said, “I can’t figure Hunter to make a play like that. It just isn’t like him.”

  No more was said of the matter until they had unhitched the wagons in the freight yard and Croydon lay on his belly on the cot in the cubby-hole office while Limerty slapped liniment onto his back. Driving the flaming wagon had scorched his shirt. “Things can change fast in the oil fields, Jeff,” Limerty observed. “I’d sure ask around and see if you can figure o
ut what’s going on. You can’t get the law to investigate when it looks like Hunter had no reason for jinxing us, even if I did see Flinch. Somebody else would swear he was in the Sooner House having a beer.”

  Croydon nodded. He pulled on his rough shirt, feeling it prickle against his singed hide. He strapped on his six-gun, more for appearances than anything else, since he was a business man and not inclined to settle matters with lead.

  He started on a tour of saloons. He drank beer with drillers, listened to their woes, their laments, their sudden dreams of glory waiting under a new patch of earth, bubbling and black and worth a fortune in the country of quick gains and quicker losses. Slowly he pieced a story together, a story that had come out in the two days he had been out in the field getting this shipment together. When he joined Limerty for dinner at the Sooner House, his mind seethed with anger.

  “Wal,” Limerty drawled, brushing away foam flecks from his beard, “what did you do, carouse all afternoon? I thought you’d never show.”

  Croydon ordered a steak and beer. “Hunter’s got a damned good reason for wanting us out of the way, Dune. Senator Lucas Bryant died over a month ago, and nobody knew it until yesterday.”

  “I can’t understand why,” Limerty said dryly. “Men forget they’s got a Christian name when they smell oil. Nobody in town’s interested in anything that can’t be put in barrels and sold.” He frowned. “But what’s the connection?”

  “Senator Bryant’s widow is arriving here tonight on the train. They say she’s a hell of an independent woman. Smart. She’s going to look over Bryant’s holdings, and the word is she’s tossing the freighting contract up for grabs.”

  “Hell’s bells,” Limerty exclaimed. He set down his schooner. “That means we can underbid Hunter and cut ourselves in on the Bryant holdings.”

  Croydon nodded. “Tom Hunter had that contract when I started up here. Now he could stand to lose it. That’s reason enough.”

  Limerty indicated Croydon’s six-gun. “You better practice up with that thing, and get real good. You may need it.”

  He and Dune Limerty went down to the depot to watch the evening train come in. Croydon felt like a ragged urchin in his grimy clothes. He spotted Tom Hunter sitting in his buggy, heavy-faced, confident, a cheroot tilted in the corner of his mouth. Hunter’s clothes were Eastern, expensively tailored.

  The funnel-stacked locomotive chuffed its way through the twilight, sparks flying up like red insects. In the smoky glow of the passenger coach lanterns, Croydon saw a woman standing on the platform, obviously impatient to get off. She wore a brown traveling dress, a feathered hat tilted gaily on her head. Her eyes were dark like her hair, and … my Lord … she was young.

  Briskly the woman ordered two older women following her to bring her bags. She stepped quickly down the steps when the train halted, and Tom Hunter moved forward, sweeping his hat off and taking her hand. The woman smiled.

  “They ain’t strangers,” Limerty muttered sourly. “He’s probably been slickin’ his way in by mail …”

  Croydon watched Hunter help the woman into the carriage. The maids followed with the baggage, and, amid the awed stares of the depot loungers, the carriage clattered away through the dusk toward the Sooner House. Croydon felt an angry wrath building again. He caught the woman’s name. Elizabeth Bryant.

  “Come on,” he said somberly. “Let’s get a drink.”

  He drank a good deal that evening. Next day he turned up before Mrs. Bryant had awakened, dressed in his best clothes. The maid ushered him into the parlor of the suite at the Sooner House and left the room. He fidgeted, taking in the expensive lamps, the thick, rich carpet, the Eastern furniture. He rolled himself a smoke to calm his nerves.

  The bedroom door opened and Elizabeth Bryant swept into the room, skirts belling behind her. She was a damned pretty woman, Croydon reflected. And the way she held her head indicated a strong will and perhaps a temper.

  “Well, Mr. Croydon,” she said briskly, seating herself, “what can I do for you? I take it this isn’t a social call.”

  “No, it isn’t. I run a freighting line, Mrs. Bryant.” He hesitated, then decided to show her his hand all at once. “I can haul your crude from the wells to the railroad here in town for one dollar per barrel less than Tom Hunter charges. I came because I heard the contract was open for bid.”

  “You heard correctly.” She gazed at him. Her eyes were dark, almost black. “Do you have a cigarette, Mr. Croydon?”

  Astounded, he rolled one for her. Here was a woman of a kind he’d never known before; a frank, bold woman from the East. He handed her the cigarette. She smiled her thanks. She inhaled slowly. The smoke drifted through the bars of sunlight streaming in the windows.

  “Mr. Croydon, Tom Hunter has the contract for two more weeks. At that time I’ll decide whether to keep him on, or hire another company.”

  “Hunter and I are the only freighters in the territory.”

  “I know that.” Her coolness amazed him. “I base my decision upon a tally that’s to be made for me. Men from my wells will check the total number of barrels of crude delivered here in Sooner during the next two weeks. The man who delivers the most oil gets the contract.”

  Croydon felt a surge of triumph. He could cancel off yesterday’s loss now; he felt sure he could beat Hunter.

  He’d hire more skinners, rent wagons … it would be two weeks of hellishly hard work, but he could do it.

  “I feel I must tell you one thing,” Elizabeth Bryant added. “Safety factors also enter into my consideration. Any accidents such as that which occurred yesterday will influence my choice.”

  Croydon’s eyes blazed. “Who told you about that? Tom Hunter?”

  “Mr. Hunter. …” she began.

  “One of Mr. Hunter’s men caused the explosion.”

  “That’s a rather strong accusation.”

  “I can back it up if I have to.”

  Elizabeth Bryant came to her feet. Anger shone in her eyes too. “Mr. Croydon, I have no personal quarrel with you. You have no reason to shout at me, and I won’t stand for it. You’ve heard my terms. Now please leave.”

  Croydon stood there dumbfounded. On one hand the Senator’s widow was a lovely, desirable woman. On the other, she was willful and he decided to press the matter no further. He would fight for the contract by delivering the most oil to Sooner.

  He put on his hat and said a curt, “Good day, Mrs. Bryant.” He slammed the door loudly behind him.

  Going down the stairs he met Tom Hunter. The big man started to brush by him, but Croydon caught his sleeve. Hunter whirled, his gray eyes narrowed. “If you’re going to see Mrs. Bryant,” Croydon said, “you can tell her how your boy Flinch caused the explosion yesterday. One of my men saw him.”

  Hunter laughed, but it was mirthless. “Croydon, you’re a liar. What’s more, you’re annoying. Stay out of my way.”

  “You’re going to lose that contract,” Croydon said.

  Hunter dropped his gaze to Croydon’s hand on his arm. “Let go of my arm, Croydon.”

  Croydon hesitated. Hunter wore a gun, and knew how to use it. What’s more, winning the contract was the most important thing in the world at this moment. He let go.

  Hunter grinned. “My boy Flinch, as you call him, will blow a hole in your stomach if you keep on telling stories about him. Remember that, Croydon.”

  Hunter disappeared up the stairs.

  Dune Limerty was shouting hoarse orders when Croydon returned to the yard. “Hey, Dune,” he called, “what’s the matter?”

  Limerty scowled. “Guess you didn’t notice when you left.” Limerty pointed. “Some polecat got in here last night and sawed through every axle on every wagon we got.”

  Croydon took in the damage with a bitter gaze. Already the skinners were at work dismantling the wheels. “That’s just fine,” Croydon said. He described his interview with Elizabeth Bryant.

  “She sounds like a real fire-eater,” Limerty said w
hen he had finished. “But that don’t help the fact that we’re due out at noon for the next trip, and we’ll never make it. If we don’t get our licks in first, we’ll fall so far behind we never will catch up with Hunter.”

  “You don’t need to tell me that,” Croydon said. “Let’s get to work.” He tore off his shirt and tossed it on the office steps.

  The sun boiled down as the morning wore on, sending salty sweat coursing down his back to make his scorched skin sting even more hellishly. He and Limerty and the others worked tirelessly, repairing axles and cutting and mounting new ones.

  Toward the middle of the morning Elizabeth Bryant appeared. She was driving Hunter’s carriage, but she was alone. Croydon put down a hammer and walked out toward her. She kept moving, slowly. He grabbed the horse’s headstall. The woman glared at him.

  She was dressed differently, he noticed. Rough shirt and denim trousers. A damned desirable female. But on her hip rested a holstered pistol.

  “What do you want, Mr. Croydon?”

  “I just thought you might like to know somebody sawed through the axles on our wagons last night. I thought you might have a fair idea of who did it.” He couldn’t resist a note of bitterness.

  “Release the horse,” Elizabeth Bryant said.

  He stood his ground, staring her down.

  Suddenly she had the pistol in her hand, aimed between his eyes. “Move out of the way, Mr. Croydon.”

  Still he did not move. Her lower lip trembled. She shifted the pistol to her left hand with a lightning movement and pulled the long buggy whip from its socket. She lashed the whip across Croydon’s face. The horses reared, throwing him to the ground. The carriage rattled away up the street.

  Croydon got up, wiping blood off his cheek. No one looked at him when he came back into the yard. Looks like she’s setting her mind against me, he thought. The only way to do it is to beat Hunter’s record, with no accidents. She won’t be able to refuse the contract then.