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  She used his first name again, deliberately, and he could not forget that moment of excitement when he had held her hard against him. He looked away. “I could give Calloway and Morphy a hand.”

  But she shook her head. “We need a dozen hands—carpenters, rig builders, roustabouts.”

  “Somewhere in Sabo or Kiefer there must be that many men who aren't afraid of Farley.”

  “Maybe. But that isn't the whole problem. Labor is always at a premium in a new field; some of the promoters are even shanghaiing cowhands from the Cherokee country and turning them into tool dressers and carpenters. Even if we could find men willing to work for a Muller, we'd have to pay them a bonus, and we can't afford it. Still...”

  She drew the word out, looking up at Grant. “When Bud and my father get back from Tulsa we've got to have everything ready to start building. Somewhere in Sabo or Kiefer there's a man named Turk Valois; he's a 'runner.' Do you know what a runner is?”

  Grant nodded. “At end-of-track towns, when the railroad was hard up for labor, a runner acted as go-between for the railroad and the workers.”

  “It's the same in an oil field; it's Turk Valois' business to round up labor for the lease owners, collecting a commission for each man that's hired. I want you to find Valois and talk to him. We've got to have workers and he's the only man who can get them for us.”

  There was something in her voice that made Grant frown. “Do you know this Valois very well?”

  After a moment she nodded.

  “Maybe it would be better if you talked to him. I could drive you over to Sabo...”

  “No!” Grant was startled at the sudden viciousness. She stood ramrod straight, staring straight ahead. “I don't like Turk Valois, and he doesn't like me. But he's not tied to Farley, either, and he might be willing to help us if you talk to him.”

  There were other questions that Grant wanted to ask but he knew that he would get no answers. A coolness veiled her eyes as she turned toward him. “You'd better get started,” she said brittlely. “I'll be all right on the lease with Calloway and Morphy.” She wheeled and disappeared into the dugout.

  Puzzled, Grant stood for a moment in front of the dugout. The name of Valois had thrown up a barrier of ice between them. Now, stronger than ever, he felt his instincts warning him of trouble ahead—and at the same time his notion of clearing out was getting weaker. When the idea occurred to him he remembered the day before when Rhea had been soft and willing in his arms. It was a thing he could not forget. At one time or another in every man's life he toys with the thought of love—and Joe Grant guessed that was what he was doing now.

  The Muller saddle horse was a claybank stallion that they kept in the dry grass along the banks of Slush Creek. Grant brought the animal up to the bunk tent, dragged his rig from under his cot and cinched it down on the claybank's back. The puzzle of Turk Valois still bothered him as he swung up to the saddle.

  It was midmorning when Grant rode into the noise, mud, and confusion of Sabo. More tents and cardboard huts had sprung up overnight and the traffic of heavy freighters was heavier than ever. Grant swung over to the side of the road and called to a teamster. “I'm looking for a man named Valois, a runner. You know him?”

  “Mister, everybody knows Turk Valois, but you won't find him in Sabo. You better try the Wheel House in Kiefer.”

  Grant lifted a hand in a vague salute and swung to the west on the main road to Kiefer. He rode along the edge of the congested road watching the endless chain of wagons headed for the Glenn ranch, and he began to notice how the men and even the horses looked alike in their urgency and greed. No one looked in his direction; they were too preoccupied to bother with strangers.

  He had wanted to run for Texas, but now he knew that right here in the Creek Nation was the safest place he could possibly be. As he entered Kiefer, he observed the crowds working like ants along the stilted sidewalks. This man could be a killer, that one a thief—nobody cared.

  He felt relief wash over him and suddenly had the impulse to laugh out loud. Nobody cared!

  He rode the length of Kiefer's mile-long Main Street of shanties and shacks, stores and dance halls, illegal saloons and cribs, all wide open and brazen and noisy. They would never find him here!

  For the first time in many hours he felt completely free and unhunted. He could let himself be caught up in this new kind of excitement and forget that he had ever known a man named Ortway or had robbed a bank in Joplin.

  The Wheel House was part hotel, part gambling house and saloon. Grant tied up in the street and stepped up to the raised sidewalk; he shoved through the flow of humanity and into the interior of the Wheel House. The lobby was a mill of oilmen, strange men speaking strange languages, men clad in dirty corduroys and high-laced boots. The hotel desk was against the back wall; off to one side there was a long counter where cooks ladled steaming stew from an iron kettle; on the other side there were tables for gambling and drinking. The building was heated by several big oil-drum stoves against the walls and the air was rank and steamy.

  Grant stood for a moment in the doorway thinking that this was Dodge all over again, except nowadays men wore their guns under their arms or in their waistbands instead of on their hips. He noticed the expressionless faces at the card tables—they were the same. And the easy-going drifters with the quick eyes. Everything was the same except for the dress and hidden guns, but it was on a larger scale than Dodge had ever known.

  Grant moved inside and made his way back to the hotel desk where a blunt-faced man said, “No vacancy, mister,” without bothering to look at him.

  “I'm looking for Turk Valois.”

  “He ain't here. You hirin' or lookin' for work?” It was a fair question; lease owners and roustabouts dressed alike in Kiefer.

  “Hiring,” Grant said, and nodded at a table. “I'll be over there.”

  He took the table and a waiter brought rotgut in a crock mug. Liquor was illegal in the Indian country, but that didn't bother the Kiefer businessmen; they served it from granite pots and called it coffee. It was a perfect example of boom-town law, and Grant smiled to himself.

  But the smile froze. At first he didn't know what it was, he was only aware of a sudden uneasiness. He sat for a moment, wondering, then he shoved back in his chair and looked around. And there he was—the marshal.

  The deputy marshal that had searched the train.

  The marshal that Rhea had lied to.

  And he was looking straight at Grant.

  A squat, stone-faced man with a crooked nose and glazed blue eyes, the marshal shouldered through the crowd of oilmen and walked toward Grant's table. “I was trying to peg you,” the lawman said bluntly. “I knew I'd seen you somewhere but I couldn't set the time or place.”

  Grant made himself grin, but words grew solid in his throat.

  “I've got you now,” the marshal said soberly. “You were on the train, the one we searched yesterday in the Cherokee Nation. You were asleep with your hat over your face, but I spotted that hair right off. You've got a peculiar-colored head of hair, mister, did anybody ever tell you that?”

  Grant felt his belly fall and shrink. “Well...”

  “You were with a girl. Her name was Malloy, wasn't it?”

  Was this a trick? Was the marshal merely amusing himself before arresting him? Grant swallowed. “Muller,” he said. “I work for her father.”

  “That's right; she told me. And your name's Grant.”

  Grant felt the rapid pumping of his heart. His hands were cold but there was sweat on his forehead. “That's right, Marshal, Joe Grant. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  There was just a chance that this scare was for nothing. There was a chance that this was all coincidence and the best thing to do was to bluff it out.

  The marshal smiled, but even then his face looked sour and the expression never reached his eyes. “I guess not... unless you happen to know a man named Fennway, Morry Fennway.”

  Stay c
alm! Grant told himself. Bluff it out, he might not know a thing. “Morry Fennway?”

  “A farmer up Joplin way. Before that he was a cowhand, a drover.” He leaned heavily on the table, gazing bleakly into the liquor-filled mug. “A big fellow—about your size, I'd say, only this Fennway had light hair.”

  Grant had an almost irresistible urge to pull his hat down over his ears to hide his hair. But he sat quietly and was surprised to hear his voice come out calm and unruffled. “Well, Marshal, if I happen to see such a man I'll let you know.”

  The corners of the lawman's smooth mouth turned up but the expression was as unreal as a smiling mask. “You do that. The name's Dagget; likely you'll be able to find me here in Kiefer.” He nodded and turned away.

  Slowly—very slowly—Grant felt his breathing come back to normal, but an iciness gripped him. The impulse to run was almost irresistible. “He doesn't know a thing!” Grant tried to tell himself. “He's just guessing!”

  But the guessing was too close for comfort. Dagget was suspicious of all big men who fit Morry Fennway's general description, and suspicious men were dangerous. I've got to get away from here, he thought. Out of the Indian Nations, out of the whole Territory!

  But thoughts of running were born in panic. He took control of his instincts and looked at his situation coolly, as an outsider would look at it. As Dagget would look at it.

  Running, he knew, would be the worst mistake he could make. A show of panic would bring the marshal down on him so fast he wouldn't know what hit him. His big mistake had been the day before when he'd let Rhea Muller talk him into coming to Kiefer—but it was too late to change that now.

  He was here. He'd have to make the best of it.

  All right, he thought, as the chill began to leave. I'll bluff it out. After all, what did the marshal really know? Grant had been on the train, and now a coincidence had brought him and the marshal together again in Kiefer and that had started the wheels to turning in Dagget's steel-trap brain. But what did he actually know?

  Nothing.

  This knowledge made Grant feel better—he felt almost good as he downed part of the rotgut from his coffee cup. Probably Dagget had a dozen men lined up that would fit Fennway's general description; it didn't mean a thing. The lawman was groping in the dark, grabbing at anything he could find....

  Still, Grant hadn't expected the marshal's office to work quite so fast on a Missouri bank robbery. It was something to think about.

  From the comer of his eye he saw Dagget leave the Wheel House, and Grant sat quietly for another hour before another man shoved through the crowd toward the table.

  “I'm Turk Valois. The clerk said you want to talk.”

  He was a big man but most of his weight was in his shoulders and chest; his face was weathered and clean-shaven; he wore a gaudy mackinaw and the usual laced boots. “You want workers?” he said, kicking out a chair and sitting across the table from Grant. “Well, I'm the man to come to. You got your outfit spudded in?”

  “No, we need rig builders.”

  Valois whistled softly. “Rig men are hard to come by these days. What lease you working for?”

  “The Mullers,” Grant said carefully.

  For a moment Valois said nothing, showed nothing. It seemed almost that blinds had been drawn behind his eyes to shut out what he was thinking. “The Mullers,” he said thoughtfully. “Well, the old man's a fine old Dutchman and a pretty good wildcatter. The boy's all right, too. But Rhea...” He grinned thinly, showing a row of amazingly white teeth. “I'm sorry...”

  “Grant. Joe Grant.”

  “I'm sorry, Grant, I'm afraid I can't help you.” He started to get up and Grant reached out a hand and stopped him.

  “Look, Valois, the Mullers need those rig builders pretty bad. Rhea says you're the only man that can help us—I want to know why you won't do it.”

  Small circles of color appeared high on the runner's cheeks. “It's none of your business, Grant.”

  “I'm making it my business.”

  Latent violence lay over the table like an electrical storm. Grant felt the rippling of thick muscles as he held Valois' forearm above the wrist, and he knew instinctively that the runner was not the kind to run from a fight. Strangely, he found himself liking the big man, even as he prepared to block the blow that he could see coming.

  But in an instant something subtle happened, the electricity disappeared, and with calm deliberateness Valois took Grant's hand in his and removed it from his arm. “Maybe I was wrong,” the runner said. “Maybe it is your business.”

  He settled back in his chair, his shaded eyes flicking about at Grant's face. “All right, I'll tell you why I won't help you. The Mullers are poison in Kiefer; Ben Farley's got his mind set to take the Muller lease, and that's the way it's going to be. If I tried to help, my business would be ruined overnight. Anyway, the word is out that Muller's on Farley's black list-do you think rig builders are going to take a job that'll pay off in cracked skulls? You might as well forget it, Grant; you can't fight Farley on his home grounds.”

  “I've heard all that,” Grant said. “It's funny, you didn't strike me as the kind of man to take bullying.”

  But in some quiet way they had come to understand each other, and Valois refused to be ruffled. “Call me a businessman. Going against Farley is bad business.”

  “I think it's more than that,” Grant said gently. “I think it has something to do with Rhea Muller.”

  They looked at each other, quietly meshing their thoughts, judging each other's potential. At last Valois shook his head. “I'm sorry for you, Grant. I'm sorry for any man unlucky enough to fall in love with Rhea—I did it once myself.”

  Grant made a small sound of surprise and came erect in his chair.

  “That was in Bartlesville,” Valois went on calmly, “not so long ago. I was a land man then with a string of leases. Everybody thought I was going to be a millionaire, and Rhea was sweeter than clover honey—until all my wells came in dusters.” He laughed, and the sound was not pleasant. “We were going to be married. We were going to move to Oklahoma City, and when statehood came we'd be one of the first families in Oklahoma.” He pulled his hat down on his forehead. “But a few dry holes changed all that.”

  Grant did not move. He wanted to be angry but he could see that Turk Valois was telling the truth. The truth as he knew it.

  “What does she want from you, Grant? Money? You don't look like you have enough money for Rhea, so it must be something else.”

  Mentally, Grant closed his ears, for he didn't want to hear any more. But he could not forget the day before when Rhea had come so willingly into his arms. What had she wanted? His protection? The use of his strength and his gun? Was that the way she got the things she wanted?

  He got up and walked out of the Wheel House.

  Hunching his shoulders into the bite of that December wind, he tramped numbly up the crowded boardwalk, past the noisy gambling houses and dance halls, past the shacks where the painted 49er girls lived and plied their calling, past clusters of tents and sheet-iron shanties. He cursed himself, and thanked Valois for showing him the truth.

  He had known the truth all along, of course, but because of a pretty face and a softly rounded feminine form he had chosen to ignore it. He could ignore it no longer. He was an outlaw. What would a girl like Rhea Muller want from an outlaw?

  Abruptly he stopped his pacing, turned, and headed in the opposite direction. He left the sidewalk and tramped through the mud toward the shunted boxcar that served as a depot. “When's the next train to Vinita?” he called up to the ticket agent.

  The agent pointed to a chalked schedule on the side of the boxcar. “Nine o'clock tomorrow mornin'.”

  Tomorrow morning. Well, he could wait. Let Dagget think what he would about his leaving—there were worse things than jail, and being made a fool of was one of them.

  It was Dagget who shook him awake that night, or early morning. Grant, sleeping at one of th
e Wheel House's corner tables, felt the hard hands on his shoulders shaking him steadily. He heard the toneless voice chanting as monotonously as a machine:

  “Come out of it, Grant. Come out of it.”

  Grant opened his eyes and slowly unfolded himself from his cramped position. The lobby was as bright as day with gasoline lanterns, and somewhere in the town a voice yelled and a piano sounded harshly against the noisy background of the Kiefer night. The glare of the lanterns made him blink.

  “Who is it?”

  “Jim Dagget. Come out of it, I say.”

  It was the marshal. Vaguely, Grant wondered if he had somehow learned the truth and had come with gun and handcuffs to take him back to Joplin.

  “You want some black coffee?” the marshal asked.

  “I'm not drunk, I was just sleeping.”

  Dagget fixed a steady gaze on his face. “Seems to me you ought to be back at the Muller lease, if that's where you're workin'.”

  Grant started to tell him that he wasn't working for the Mullers any more, but then decided there was no sense making things worse. He licked his dry lips, wondering how much longer he had to wait till nine o'clock. How much longer before he could put Kiefer and its brief memories behind him. Providing, of course, that Dagget didn't take him away first.

  “What is it?” he asked, staring up at the marshal's expressionless face.

  “You work for Zack Muller. Is that right?”

  Frowning, Grant nodded.

  “The old man's dead,” Dagget said bluntly. “He was killed tonight while bringing some drilling equipment back from Tulsa.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  GRANT WOULD NOT soon forget the day they buried old Zack Muller in the lonely hillside plot to the north of “Tulsy Town,” as some still called it. There was the bite of steel in the wind and flurries of sleet slashed intermittently at the small group of mourners. The Methodist preacher was a small, thin man, thin-blooded and blue-lipped, and Grant could hear the chattering of his teeth as he rushed headlong through the final graveside service.