The Bold Frontier

by John Jakes

  Work went on. Limerty cursed the men endlessly, spurring them on. Croydon dressed after his noon meal and went to the bank. When he returned, he had rented a dozen more wagons and hired additional skinners. They rolled out of Sooner at dusk, toward the oil fields, half a day late. Hunter’s outfit had left that morning. Every cent Jeff Croydon had had in the bank was gone now, sunk desperately into the extra gear.

  2

  The Stolen Tally

  The days of the following week blended imperceptibly into one another. Croydon’s outfit worked day and night. In a haze of weariness, Croydon drove himself and his men, grabbing a wink of sleep when he could, a cup of coffee or a plate of beans. In their first two days they covered the Big Blow Wells, numbers one through five, and the Oh, Nellie! rig, one through four. They wheeled the mules back toward Sooner, rolling through the darkness, and Croydon imagined that his world would forever be one of darkness and eerie fire on the horizon, thundering wheels and braying mules, rattling barrels and loud curses.

  They rolled into Sooner at dawn of the third day. Hunter’s outfit had gone out again the night before. But Croydon consulted the begrimed tally sheet in the hands of Matheson, a Bryant man, and noticed with pleasure that they were fifteen barrels ahead of Hunter’s freighters. The men had one hour off in which to grab breakfast, a shave, or a few jolts of whiskey, and then Croydon had them moving again, popping the buckskin over the heads of the animals as they clattered out of town under a lowering sky.

  They covered the Oklahoma Enterprise wells that day, the Golden Garter wells the day after that, and finished with the Illinois Settlement wells at the end of the fifth day. The twenty-three wagons were jammed with tied-down barrels, tier upon tier, until the wagon beds fairly sagged. Limerty begged for a rest, for the other skinners as much as for himself. Croydon listened to the ominous rumbling, his eyes on the black sky beyond the forest of derricks.

  “Storm’s been brewing for two days, Dune,” he said. “This load has got to go back to Sooner tonight. We’ve got enough men, and they’ve been taking turns sleeping and driving all this week. They can keep it up one more night.”

  Limerty sighed. “But they won’t keep it up much longer. We ain’t paying them enough …” But despite much grumbling, the freight wagons rolled within the hour.

  The storm broke about midnight, filling the world with a black roar of rain. The wheels bogged down, the mules spooked easily, and one of the wagon straps broke, toppling a tier of barrels into the mud.

  Lanterns made eerie splotches of light in the gloom as Croydon labored, getting the barrels reloaded. The men grumbled louder now. He yelled at them, every angry word an outward sign of his own inward fear that they’d lose the race.

  The storm abated before morning, and dawn found them again in Sooner. This time, the tally showed them twenty-five barrels behind Hunter. Croydon was not pleased. On top of that, the extra skinners and even a couple of the regulars confronted him and said that they didn’t like his kind of hard work. Too hard, too little pay.

  When Croydon returned from the bank this time, a heavy mortgage lay on his outfit. He doled out salaries, plus a bonus to each man, and promised them a double bonus if they lasted until the end of the two weeks. All of them said they’d stay.

  Once more they rolled out, splitting up now, working the smaller outfits, two and three wagons at a time. They returned to Sooner on the evening of the seventh day, around meal time. As they swung past Hunter’s yard, Croydon saw that the wagons stood idle. When they had unloaded he told the men that they had the night off. A few feeble cheers greeted his words. Croydon smiled grimly at the tally Matheson had made. Two barrels ahead of Tom Hunter. …

  He and Limerty decided to eat in the Sooner House dining room. As soon as they entered, Croydon regretted it. For there at a secluded table, Elizabeth Bryant sat with Tom Hunter. The big man wouldn’t trouble himself to go into the field. He had enough skinners to do the work. He stayed in town and kept Mrs. Bryant busy.

  “Ain’t that something,” Limerty muttered, jabbing his fork into his fried potatoes. Croydon paid no attention. He watched the woman, the high tilt of her chin, the lush sweep of breast under the severe gown. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, perhaps from the bottle of wine Tom Hunter had furnished. She laughed a great deal.

  Slowly the dining room cleared, until Croydon, Limerty, Mrs. Bryant and Hunter were the only ones left, separated by half a dozen tables. Hunter was leaning forward speaking to Mrs. Bryant when suddenly his head snapped around and he fixed Croydon with his gaze. Elizabeth Bryant turned too, smiling frostily.

  Croydon nodded in a pleasant way, blowing smoke from his cigar and noting Hunter’s obvious displeasure in being watched. It was only a matter of moments then before Hunter piloted Mrs. Bryant out the door, hand on her arm, brow knotted in a frown of irritation.

  Croydon laughed. “Hunter’s getting rattled. But I swear that Bryant woman is beyond me.”

  Despite the fact that he didn’t understand her, he still felt an attraction. It was almost with surprise that he found himself knocking on her hotel room door at half past nine that same evening.

  The maid ushered him in with protests that Mrs. Bryant had retired. But Mrs. Bryant greeted him, a quilted robe wrapped around her and her dark hair falling across her shoulders, lustrous in the glow of the lamps. Croydon realized that she was truly beautiful.

  The maid bustled around for a few minutes, straightening things uselessly, until Elizabeth Bryant dismissed her.

  “Well, Mr. Croydon. What is it this time?” Her tone was faintly defensive. She stood close to him, and he caught the fresh-scrubbed smell of her skin, mingling with the scent of her hair. Her features seemed softer in the lamplight.

  He juggled his hat in his hands. “I just wanted to inquire if you’d paid heed to the tally. We’re keeping up with Hunter.”

  She laughed. “That’s a very lame excuse for calling on me at this hour.”

  “I know.” Their eyes met, held. Croydon’s hat dropped from his hands. He seized her shoulders, kissed her hard. She responded for a long moment. And then pulled backwards hastily, anger rekindled in her eyes. “Damn you,” she breathed. “Damn you, Croydon, get out and don’t come back.”

  And then he understood. Senator Lucas Bryant had been a much older man. How she’d married such a man, God alone knew. Family pressure, perhaps. Stranger things happened. But here was no woman born for a cold, passionless marriage. Here was a woman warm and alive and filled with a wild kind of desire. She saw that he knew her secret. Hence the anger.

  “You didn’t come out here just because of the Senator’s wells, did you?” He said it without malice, but she didn’t take it that way. Her hand swung up, smacking loudly on his flesh. He wanted to be angry, but he couldn’t find it in him.

  Croydon turned to go. He didn’t look at her. And as he made his way back to the cot in the office, he realized that he might have ruined any chance of ever winning her over. Her pride would have been severely wounded. You’re a fool, he told himself. He fell into a troubled sleep that night, rolling restlessly on the cot, but knowing he would double his efforts to win the contract now. He had a second stake. The chance it would bring him to be near Elizabeth Bryant.

  They headed out early next morning. Before the sun had crawled up the sky to high noon, the raiders struck.

  They came pounding down a rise, a dozen of them, dust rolling in gritty clouds behind them, their guns making strangely small flat popping noises in the vast land. Croydon, handling the first wagon, reined the mules, and seized the rifle on the seat beside him. He flung it to his shoulder and fired, jacking it a moment later for another, equally ineffective shot. Croydon had never been a marksman.

  The raiders pulled half way between a low hill and the wagons. They all wore stained bandannas across their faces. Croydon leaped down and started forward in a crouch. All along the line of wagons, the skinners were doing the same thing. Dune Limerty bawled orders. Croydon�
�s stomach tightened as he flattened himself in the dirt, pumping a shot. If another wagon blew, they’d fall far, far behind. Perhaps they’d never catch up at all.

  But fortunately the raiding party was a weak one. Croydon had nearly thirty men, and they were stretched out along the wagon line so that their fire could cut into the owlhoots from many points. Croydon let go a shot and saw one of the raiders spin out of his saddle and collide with the rider next to him. The attackers stayed less than two minutes. One of them, a man in a loud purple shirt, raised his arm and yelled something Croydon couldn’t hear. They turned and spurred back up the rise. Limerty came racing toward Croydon.

  “Shall we go after them, Jeff?”

  Croydon shook his head. “But let’s take a look at that dead one.”

  He and Limerty went over and knelt beside the fallen owlhoot. They pulled down his soiled bandanna. Croydon didn’t recognize him, and neither did Limerty. But the breed was familiar enough. He had the vulturish look of a professional killer, even in death.

  Croydon, stood up slowly. “Dune,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “this is getting pretty tight. These men couldn’t have come from anybody but Tom Hunter.”

  “Hell, I recognized Flinch, in the purple shirt,” Limerty exclaimed.

  “Then if it’s killing he wants, it’s killing he’ll get. Tell every one of the men to stay ready. Hunter’s getting scared.”

  The men were nervous and obviously displeased about having to fight as a part of their job. Most of them had no personal acquaintance with Croydon, no loyalty other than the fact that he paid them. And none of them had a particular inclination to get a bellyful of lead in his behalf.

  The next two days brought a number of serious foulups. Men reacted slowly to orders, surly glints in their eyes. One of the skinners scared his mules so badly that they snapped the traces and ran off. Another time, a man let a barrel tip out of his wagon out of pure carelessness. Croydon watched the crude bubble thickly into the earth. He spoke sharply to the man, who faced him with dull enraged eyes. Croydon saw that it would not take much to provoke a fight, so he let him off with a tongue lashing. It was a bad situation, and Croydon knew it couldn’t last much longer. He was fighting uphill, and slipping down two inches for every one he gained. Each day reduced the efficiency of the outfit. The breaking point came on the tenth day.

  They arrived in Sooner at noon, with full wagons, and proceeded to unload on the waiting boxcars. The tally showed they were thirty-six barrels behind Hunter.

  Reluctantly Croydon gave the men the afternoon off. If he didn’t, they would quit, and he would lose out then and there.

  He was in the office in the middle of the afternoon when Tom Hunter stormed in, followed by portly Sheriff Hink Peters. Hink knew Croydon, and the freighter liked the law’s representative in Sooner. But Peters was scowling. Croydon knew Peters wasn’t linked up with Hunter, so this was something bad.

  “Afternoon, Hink,” he said, affably ignoring Hunter. “Have a seat.”

  “No time to sit down, Jeff. Miz Bryant’s man Matheson just turned up in an alley with his skull bashed in. The tally sheet is gone. Plumb disappeared.”

  “Why would anyone grab the tally?” Croydon asked.

  “Maybe you can answer that one, Croydon,” Hunter said.

  “Now wait a minute …”

  “Hold off, Jeff.” Peters put up one hand, palm outward. “I got to check up on everything. Somebody might want to alter them tallies so’s to swing the contract. It’s no secret you’re fighting for Miz Bryant’s business.”

  “Hunter here is fighting just as hard.”

  But he saw his own position. In the minds of the citizens of Sooner, he was the johnny-come-lately. He, and not Hunter, would be the obvious and likely one to make such a back-to-the-wall play.

  “Just where were you about an hour ago, Jeff?” Peters asked.

  “I was sitting right here. I’ve got a mortgage on the outfit, sheriff, and I was just sitting here stewing about how I could pay it off.”

  Hunter laughed. “Sheriff, there’s one more motive for you. Croydon’s whipped, and he’ll pull any kind of stupid trick to save himself.”

  “Just try to slap me in jail on the strength of that, Hunter. It can’t be done.”

  “I know it can’t,” Peters parried. He headed for the door, sad disappointment in his eyes. “Guess I’ll have to do some checking anyways, Jeff. I’ll get in touch with you.” Hunter followed him out and slammed the door loudly.

  Croydon stared silently after the two departing men. Any fool could see it was Hunter’s trick. Any fool, that is, who didn’t have the town’s perspective. Everybody would automatically swing over, comparatively speaking, to Tom Hunter’s point of view because he had seniority in the matter of reputation. Hunter was tightening the noose around Croydon’s neck. And there was not a great deal he could do about it.

  The freight yard lay deserted. A hot wind stirred powdery dust. The sun slanting in prickled Croydon’s back and he couldn’t concentrate. The gun on his hip weighed against his flesh. His palms tingled. He wanted to kill Tom Hunter. But that would only nail the coffin shut completely.

  Dune Limerty returned around five, in high spirits, heavily fortified with alcohol. Croydon explained the situation over dinner, and the older man’s eyes darkened.

  “Lord,” Limerty said sourly, “they was even dumb enough to do it in an alley. Nothin’ smart about that Hunter. I’m beginning to think he must be going off his head.”

  “He’s in the position all of Sooner thinks I’m in,” Croydon said. “But I can’t prove that Hunter’s the kind of man who’d pull such a stunt, while I sit by under my halo, ready to go down in honest but pure defeat.” Deep cynicism edged his words.

  “Look out, my friend.” Limerty’s voice became a hoarse whisper. “Peters just came in, along with Hunter and that Flinch.”

  Croydon turned toward the three men. Flinch, bringing up the rear, was a short toad-like man with sunken eyes and sagging cheeks. A witless smile hung on his pendulous lips.

  Peters put his arm on Croydon’s shoulder. “Jeff, I got some bad news for you.” Croydon’s eyes flashed to Hunter. The big man’s hard gaze was self-satisfied. “Rip Flinch here went nosing around your office a few minutes ago and found these.” Peters extended a sheaf of papers. The tally, smudged with ink and grime.

  Croydon rocketed to his feet. “Did you happen to ask Hunter whether he had Flinch plant those things in my office? My God, sheriff, don’t be a fool …”

  Peters shook his head. “I know there’s always that possibility. Thing is, I’ve got to lock you up until I can do some more investigating. Right now you’re guilty. Later on …” It was hellishly clear. In the delay, Hunter would be assured of the Bryant contract. Whether they ever really found him guilty or not didn’t matter.

  Croydon didn’t wait. He rammed a fist into the sheriff’s gut, then shoved Flinch out of the way. Flinch grunted and a bright flash of metal crossed Croydon’s line of vision. He tried to dodge out of the way, but Hunter’s pistol barrel slammed into his temple. Then Hunter struck him again. He went down and out with frightening suddenness. Next thing he knew, he was lying on his back, staring up at a clay ceiling. He rolled his aching head to the right. Cell bars. Beyond them a deputy lounged, playing solitaire in the glow of a lamp.

  Croydon’s mind whirled. He was beaten for sure. But something within him wouldn’t let him stay beaten. This thing had been business, but now it had taken on a new aspect. Personal between him and Tom Hunter. Elizabeth Bryant’s face danced in his mind. Then he forgot about her as the jail door opened. Dune Limerty made his way past the deputy to the cell. Croydon got up to meet him.

  “What’s wrong?” Croydon asked.

  “Hell, Jeff …” He scratched his beard. “It looks like we’re through for sure. You know our skinners got pretty stirred up over working so hard these past few days. After Hink Peters locked you up here, well …” The oldster sho
ok his grizzled head, unwilling to go on.

  “Let’s have it, Dune,” Croydon said softly.

  Limerty’s gaze settled on the floor. “Hunter moved fast. He sent Flinch around with a promise of triple the bonus we paid. I tried to stop them, but they wouldn’t listen. Most of ’em said they wanted on the winning side.”

  “They quit?”

  “That’s about it, Jeff. We’ve got three men left, and God knows why they stayed. We’ve got all them wagons, and nobody to drive them. It wouldn’t do us no good even if you was to get out of jail. I hate to say it, but it looks like we’re licked in this game.”

  Croydon stared through the bars, gripping them, white-knuckled.

  3

  The Thirteenth Day

  Croydon languished in jail on the eleventh and twelfth days. In his mind he saw Tom Hunter, slowed down in his pace now, yet still hauling enough crude into Sooner to give him an unbeatable margin, and the contract.

  Almost from the moment that Croydon had heard Limerty’s announcement of their defeat, he had made up his mind as to the course he had to follow. Escape, that was the only way. And since he could no longer win the contest on the basis of barrels delivered, he had to do it another way. Expose Hunter, thereby putting him out of the running and leaving Elizabeth’s only choice his own outfit, which he could rebuild quickly on the strength of her contract.

  But for two maddening days no opportunity for escape presented itself. The only escape route was the cell door. That was opened three times a day when the two deputies brought him a tray of food. One deputy held a six-gun on Croydon while the other ducked and set the tray inside. They always made Croydon retreat to the far wall and stand. Hink Peters was a thoughtful, methodical man who allowed no carelessness.

  When noon of the thirteenth day arrived, Croydon decided he had to make a desperate try. So far as he knew, Peters had unearthed no evidence either to clear him or to point conclusively to his guilt. He had to get out … do something to fight the sense of defeat rising within him.