by Rex Beach
CHAPTER IX
No industry can boast a history more dramatic, more exciting, than thatof oil. From the discovery of petroleum, on through the development ofits usefulness and the vast expansion of its production, the story isone of intense human interest, and not even the story of mining haschapters more stirring or more spectacular.
The average man has never stopped to consider how close he is to theoil business or how dependent he is upon it; from babyhood, when hisnose is greased with vaseline, to the occasion when a motor hearsecarries him on his last journey, there is not often a day when he failsto make use of mineral oil or some of its by-products. Ocean liners andfarmers' plows are driven by it; it takes the rich man to his officeand it cleans the shopgirl's gloves; it gives us dominion over the airand beneath the waters of the sea. We live in a mechanical age, andwithout oil our bearings would run hot and civilization, as we know it,would stop. It is the very blood of the earth.
Oil production is a highly specialized industry, and it has developed atype of man with a type of mind quite as characteristic as the type ofmachinery employed in the drilling of wells. The latter, for instance,appears at first glance to be crude and awkward, but as a matter offact it is amazingly ingenious and extremely efficient, and youroil-field operator is pretty much the same. Nor is there any businessin which practical experience is more valuable. As a result, most ofthe big oil men, especially those engaged in production, are graduatesof the school of hard knocks; they are big-fisted, harsh-handed fellowswho are as thoroughly at home on the "thribble board" of a derrick asat a desk or a directors' table, and they are quite as colorful as theoil fields themselves. Their lives are full and vigorous.
Of all the oil excitements, that which occurred in North Texas wasperhaps the most remarkable; at any rate, the world has never witnessedsuch scenes as were enacted there. The California gold rush, the greatAlaskan stampede, the diamond frenzies of South Africa and ofAustralia, all were epic in their way, but none bred a wilder insanitythan did the discovery of oil in the Red River district.
For one thing, the time was ripe and conditions were propitious for thestaging of an unprecedented drama. The enormous wastage of a world'swar, resulting in a cry for more production, a new level of high pricesfor crude, rumors of an alarming shortage of supply, the success ofindependent producers, large and small--all these, and other reasons,too, caused many people hitherto uninterested to turn their seriousattention to petroleum. The country was prosperous, banks were bulgingwith money, pockets were stuffed with profits; poor men had the meanswith which to gamble and rich men were looking for quicker gains.Inasmuch as the world had lived for four years upon a steady diet ofexcitement, it was indeed the psychological moment for a spectacularboom.
The strike at Ranger lit the fuse, the explosion came with the firstgush of inflammable liquid from the Fowler farm at Burkburnett. Then,indeed, a conflagration occurred, the comprehensive story of which cannever be written, owing to the fact that no human mind could follow theswift events of the next few tumultuous months, no brain could recordit. Chaos came. Life in the oil fields became a phantasmagoria ofceaseless action and excitement--a fantastic stereopticon that changedhourly.
"Burk" was a sleepy little town, dozing amid parched wheat fields. Thepaint was off it; nothing much more exciting than a crop failure everhappened there. The main topic of conversation was the weather and, asMark Twain said, everybody talked about it, but nothing was done.Within sixty days this soporific village became a roaring bedlam; everytown lot was leased, derricks rose out of chicken runs, boilers pantedin front yards, mobs of strangers surged through the streets and theair grew shrill with their bickerings. From a distance, the sky line ofthe town looked like a thick nest of lattice battle masts, and at nightit blazed like Coney Island.
The black-lime territory farther south had proven too expensive forindividual operators and small companies to handle, but here the oilwas closer to the surface and the ground was easily drilled, hence itquickly became known as a poor man's pool. Then, too, experienced oilmen and the large companies who had seen town-site booms in otherstates, kept away, surrendering the place to tenderfeet and topromoters. Of these, thousands came, and never was there a harvest soripe for their gleaning.
Naturally a little country town like this could not hold the newcomers,therefore Wichita Falls became their headquarters. Here there were atleast a few hotels and some sort of office quarters--sheds beneathwhich the shearing could take place--and there the herd assembled.
Of course, the cougars followed, and, oh, the easy pickings for them! Afresh kill daily. Warm meat with every meal. Such hunting they hadnever known, hence they gorged themselves openly, seldom quarrelingamong themselves nor even bothering to conceal the carcasses of theirprey. It was easier to pull down a new victim than to return to the oneof the day before.
Rooming houses slept their guests in relays, canvas dormitories sprangup on vacant lots, the lobbies of the hotels were packed withshouldering maniacs until they resembled wheat pits, the streets wereclogged with motor cars, and the sidewalks were jammed like subwayplatforms. Store fronts were knocked out and the floor space was railedoff into rows of tiny bull-pen brokers' offices, and in these companiesby the hundred were promoted. Stock in them was sold on the sidewalksby bally-hoo men with megaphone voices. It seldom required more than afew hours to dispose of an entire issue, for this was a credulous andan elated mob, and its daily fare was exaggeration. Stock exchangeswere opened up where, amid frenzied shoutings, went on a feverishcommerce in wildcat securities; shopgirls, matrons, housemaids gambledin shares quite as wildly as did the unkempt disreputables from the oilfields or the newcomers spilled out of every train. People traffickednot in oil, but in stocks and in leases, the values of which wereentirely chimerical.
But this speculative frenzy was by no means local. Burkburnett became aname to conjure with and there was no lack of conjurers. These latterspread to the four points of the compass, and the printing presses ranhot to meet their demands. A flood of money flowed into their pockets.While this boom was at its height a new pool, vaster and richer, waspenetrated and the world heard of the Northwest Extension of theBurkburnett field, a veritable lake--an ocean--of oil. Then a wildermadness reigned. Daily came reports of new wells in the Extension witha flush production running up into the thousands of barrels. Thereappeared to be no limit to the size of this deposit, and now theold-line operators who had shunned the town-site boom bid feverishlyagainst the promoters and the tenderfeet for acreage. Farms and ranchespreviously all but worthless were cut up into small tracts and drillingsites, and these were sold for unheard-of prices. Up leaped anotherforest of skeleton towers some ten miles long and half as wide.
But this was the open range with nothing except the sky for shelter, sotowns were knocked together--queer, greasy, ramshackle settlements offlimsy shacks--and so quickly were they built that they outran the law,which is ever deliberate. The camps of the black-lime district, whichhad been considered hell holes, were in reality models of ordercompared with these mushroom cities of raw boards, tar paper, and tin.Gambling joints, dance halls, and dens more vicious flourished openly,and around them gathered the scum and the flotsam that crests a risingtide.
Winter brought the rains, and existence in the new fields became anugly and a troublesome thing. Roads there were none, and suppliesbecame difficult to secure. The surface of the land melted and spinningwheels churned it; traffic halted, vehicles sank, horses drowned.Between rains the sun dried the mud, the wind whirled it intosuffocating clouds. Sandstorms swept over the miserable inhabitants;tornadoes, thick with a burden of cutting particles, harried them untilthey cursed the fate that had brought them thither.
But in Wichita Falls, where there was shelter overhead and pavementsunderfoot, the sheep shearing proceeded gayly.
Of the men engaged in this shearing business, none, perhaps, hadgathered more wool in the same length of time than the two members ofthe firm of McWade & Stoner. Mr. Billy M
cWade, junior partner, was aman of wide experience and some accomplishments, but until his arrivalat Wichita Falls he had never made a conspicuous success of anybusiness enterprise. The unforeseen invariably had intervened toprevent a killing. Either a pal had squealed, or the postal authoritieshad investigated, or a horse had fallen--anyhow, whenever victory hadperched upon his banner something always had happened to frighten thebird before its wings were fairly folded.
Mr. McWade had finally determined to wipe off the slate and commenceall over. Accordingly, he had selected a new field, and, in order tomake it a real standing start, he had likewise chosen a new name. Hehad arrived at Wichita Falls with one suit of clothes and nothing more,except an assortment of contusions ranging in color from angry red toblack-and-blue, these same being the direct result of repeatedaltercations with roughshod members of a train crew. These collisionsMcWade had not sought. On the contrary, when, for instance, outside theyards at Fort Worth his unobtrusive presence on the blind baggage hadbeen discovered, he had done his best to avoid trouble. He hadexplained earnestly that he simply must leave the city by thatparticular train. The circumstances were such that no other train woulddo at all, so he declared. When he had been booted off he swung underand rode the trucks to the next stop. There a man with a lantern hadsearched him out, much as a nigger shines the eyes of a possum, and haddragged him forth. He was dragged forth at the second stop, and againat the third. Finally, the train was halted far out on a lonely prairieand a large brakeman with gold teeth and corns on his palms held a kneeupon Mr. McWade's chest until the train started. Ignoring the hoarsewarning breathed into his dusty countenance, along with the odor ofyoung onions, the traveler argued volubly, but with no heat, that itwas vitally necessary to his affairs that he continue this journeywithout interruption; then, when the brakeman rose and raced after thedeparting train, he sprang to his feet and outran him. McWade was litheand nervous and fleet; he managed to swing under the last Pullman atthe same instant his captor reached its rear platform.
It is probable that a blithe determination even such as this would haveeventually succumbed to repeated discouragements, but at the next stop,a watering tank, aid came from an unexpected quarter. From the roof ofthe car another knight of the road signaled, and thither McWadeclambered, kicking off the clutching hand of his former enemy.
The second traveler was a robust man, deliberate but sure of movement,and his pockets were filled with nuts and bolts. This ammunition hedivided with his companion, and such was their unerring aim that theymaintained their sanctuary for the remainder of the journey.
On the way in to Wichita Falls the stranger introduced himself as BrickStoner. He was a practical oil man, a driller and a sort of promoter,too. It was his last promotion, he confided, that had made it necessaryfor him to travel in this fashion. He had many practical ideas, had Mr.Stoner, as, for instance, the use to be made of a stick with a crook init or a lath with a nail in the end. Armed thus, he declared, it waspossible for a man on the roof of a sleeping car to pick up acompletely new wardrobe in the course of a night's ride, provided theupper berths were occupied and the ventilators were open. Mr. Stonerdeeply regretted the lack of such a simple aid, but agreed that it wasbetter to leave well enough alone.
McWade warmed to his traveling companion, and they talked of manythings, such as money and finance, sudden riches, and ways and means.This led them back naturally to a discussion of Stoner's latestpromotion; he called it the Lost Bull well, and the circumstancesconnected therewith he related with a subtlety of humor rare in a manof his sorts. The nature of the story appealed keenly to McWade, and itran like this: Stoner had been working in the Louisiana gas fields nearthe scene of a railroad accident--three bulls had strayed upon theright of way with results disastrous to a freight train and fatal tothemselves. After the wreckage had been cleared away, the claim agentsettled with the owner of the bulls and the carcasses were buried in anadjoining field. This had occurred some time prior to Stoner's arrival;in fact, it was only by chance that he heard of it.
One day in passing the spot Stoner noticed a slight depression in theground, filled with water through which occasional bubbles of gas rose.Being of an inquisitive turn of mind, he had amused himself with someexperiments and found that the gas was inflammable. Moreover, it gaveoff an odor not unlike that of natural gas. It was a phenomenon ofdecomposition new to the driller, and it gave him a great idea. He wentto town and very cautiously told of his discovery--a gas seepage, withtraces of oil. His story caused a sensation, and he led several of thewealthiest citizens to the spot, then watched them in all gravity whilethey ignited the gas, smelled it, tasted the soil. They were convinced.They appointed Stoner their agent to buy the farm, under cover, whichhe did at a nice profit--to himself. This profit he spent in riotousliving while a rig was being moved upon the ground. Not until thederrick was up and the crew, in the presence of the excitedstockholders, came to "spud in," was the true source of that gasdiscovered--then the enterprise assumed such a bad odor that bystandersfled and Mr. Stoner was forced to leave the state without his baggage.
This had been the nature of McWade's and Stoner's meeting; on the roofof that swaying Pullman they laid the corner stone of their partnership.
Arrived at Wichita Falls, Stoner went into the field and McWadeobtained employment in a restaurant. It was a position of trust, forupon him developed the entire responsibility of removing the traces offood from the used dishes, and drying them without a too greatpercentage of breakage. It kept McWade upon his feet, but, anyhow, hecould not sit with comfort, and it enabled him, in the course of aweek, to purchase a change of linen and to have his suit sponged andpressed. This done, he resigned and went to the leading bank, where heopened an account by depositing a check drawn upon a Chicagoinstitution for fifty thousand dollars. McWade made it a practicealways to have a few blank checks on hand. Airily, but in allearnestness, he invited the Texas bank to verify the check at itsconvenience.
So many were the strangers in Wichita Falls, so great the rush of newcustomers, that the banks had no means of investigating their accountsexcept by wiring at their own expense. This was Saturday afternoon,which gave McWade two days of grace, so he pocketed his new pass andcheck books, then mingled with the crowd at the Westland Hotel. Hebought leases and drilling sites, issuing local checks in paymentthereof--nobody could question the validity of those checks with theevidence of fifty thousand dollars deposited that very day--and onSunday he sold them. By the time the Wichita Falls bank opened itsdoors on Monday morning he had turned his last lease and had made tenthousand dollars.
A few days later he and Stoner incorporated their first company. Thiswas at the height of the town-site boom, and within a few hours McWadehad sold the stock. Thereafter prosperity dogged the pair, and beforelong they had made reputations for themselves as the only sure-firewildcat promoters in town. McWade possessed the gift of sidewalkoratory; Stoner posed as the practical field man whose word uponprospects was final. He it was who did the investigating, the"experting"; his partner was the bally-hoo.
But competition grew steadily keener, other promoters followed theirlead, and it became necessary to introduce new and original methods ofgathering an audience. Mere vocal persuasiveness did not serve toarrest the flow of pedestrians, and so McWade's ingenuity was taxed.But he was equal to the task; seldom did he fail of ideas, and, once hehad the attention of a crowd, the rest was easy.
One morning he and his partner provided themselves with some dice andseveral hundred dollars in gold coin. With these they began shootingcraps on the sidewalk in front of their office. Now gambling was taboo,hence the spectacle of two expensively dressed, eminently prosperousmen squatting upon their heels with a stack of double eagles beforethem caused a sensation, and people halted to witness their impendingarrest. Soon traffic was blocked.
The gamblers remained engrossed in their pastime, as well they could,having thoughtfully arranged the matter with the policeman on duty;gravely they breathed upon the cubes
; earnestly they called upon"Little Joe," "Long Liz," "Ada," and the rest; silently they exchangedtheir stacks of gold pieces as they won or lost.
Calvin Gray, but just arrived from Dallas, looked on at the game withsome curiosity, not divining its purpose, until McWade pocketed thedice, then mounted a box at the curb and began, loudly:
"Now, gentlemen, that is one way of making money, but it is a foolishand a hazardous way. There is a much saner, safer method, and I'm goingto tell you about it. Don't pass on until you hear me, for I have amost incredible story to relate, and you'll be sorry you missed it."
There was a ripple of appreciative laughter, but the crowd pressedcloser as the orator continued:
"You've all heard about these 'doodlebugs' who go around locating oilwith a divining rod, haven't you? And you don't believe in them. Ofcourse you don't. Neither do I. I can't put any trust in willow twigs,but--we'll all admit that there are forces of nature that we don'tunderstand. Who can explain the principle of magnetic attraction, forinstance? What causes the glowing splendor of the Aurora Borealis? Whatforce holds the compass needle to the north? What makes a carpet tackjump onto a magnet like"--the speaker paused and stared hard at amember of his audience who had passed a humorous remark at hisexpense--"just like I'll jump you, stranger, if you don't keep yourtrap closed. I say who can read those secrets, who can harness thoseforces? The man who can has got the world by the tail and a downhillpull. Now then, for the plot of my story, and it will pay you to do aweek of listening in the next five minutes. Awhile ago an eminentscientist, unknown to me or to my partner, Mr. Stoner, came into ouroffice, which is at your backs, one flight up, second door to theright, and showed us an electrical device he has been working on forthe last eight years. He claimed he had it perfected and that it wouldindicate the presence of oil on the same principle that one mineralattracts another. 'Oil is a mineral,' said he, 'and I think I've gotits magnetic complement. I believe my invention will work.'
"'I'll bet a thousand dollars it won't,' I told him. But what do youthink that pilgrim did? He took me up. Then he bet Stoner anotherthousand that I'd made a bad bet." McWade grinned in sympathy with thegeneral amusement. "We arranged a thorough test. We took him,blindfolded, through the field, and, believe me or not, he called theturn on forty-three wells straight and never missed it once. Call it amiracle if you choose, but it cost Brick and me two thousand iron men,and I've got ten thousand more that says he can do the trick for you.I'll let a committee of responsible citizens take a dozen five-galloncans and fill one with oil and the rest with water and set them in arow behind a brick wall. My ten, or any part of it, says his electricwiggle stick will point to the one with the oil. What do you say tothat? Here's a chance for a quick clean-up. Who cares to take me on?"
From the edge of the crowd Gray watched the effect of this offer.Divining rods, he well knew, were as old as the oil industry, but hewas surprised to see that fully half of this audience appeared to putfaith in the claim, and the other half were not entirely skeptical. Aman at his side began reciting an experience of his own.
McWade now introduced the miracle worker himself, and Gray rose ontiptoe to see him. A moment, then he smiled widely, for the eminentscientist was none other than Mr. Mallow--Mallow, a bit pallid andpasty, as if from confinement, and with eyes hidden behind darkgoggles. With a show of some embarrassment, the inventor displayed histester, a sufficiently impressive device with rubber handles and aresistance coil attached to a dry battery, which he carried in hispocket.
Gray looked on as the comedy was played out. It transpired thatProfessor Mallow had tested, among other properties, the newestMcWade-Stoner lease, a company to drill which had just been formedunder the title of "The Desert Scorpion," and he really judged from thebehavior of his machine that a remarkable pool underlaid the tract. Hewas willing to risk his reputation upon the guaranty that the firstwell would produce not less than three thousand barrels a day. He wasinterested in the out-come only from a scientific standpoint; he ownednot one single share of stock. Then McWade resumed his sway over thecrowd, and soon shares in "The Desert Scorpion" were selling rapidly.
Shortly after lunch, Mallow and the two partners were seated in theoffice upstairs, their work done for the day. Another successfulpromotion had gone to the credit of McWade and Stoner; all three werein a triumphal mood. Mallow was recounting a story that had just cometo his ears.
"Remember that old silver tip that took a stand in front of the OwlDrug Store a few days back? He called his company 'The Star of Hope.'"
Stoner nodded. "He had a good piece of ground, right adjoining the MoonPetroleum tract--three wells down to the sand. I wondered how he evergot hold of it."
"He didn't. That's the big laugh. He didn't own that land at all. Hejust had himself a map drawn, with the numbers changed. His ground wasa mile away. He sold his stock in two days, thirty-five thousandshares, then he blew. Some Coal-oil John, who had plunged for aboutthree shares, got to studying his own map, found there was somethingwrong and let up a squawk. But Silver Tip had faded like the mists ofearly morn--thirty-five stronger than he was. Snappy work, eh?"
McWade frowned his disapproval. "Something ought to be done to stopthose crooks or they'll kill us legitimate promoters. You can't sting acrowd too often in the same spot."
There came a knock at the door, and in answer to an invitation to enterit opened. The next instant both McWade and Stoner sat erect in theirchairs, with eyes alert and questioning, for at sight of the strangerMallow had leaped to his feet with a smothered exclamation, and nowstood with his back to the desk and with his head outthrust in apeculiar attitude of strained intensity.