Boomer Page 6

  The sky that day was as dark as oil smoke, boiling in the north, and the ground was as hard as iron. All morning long Grant and Morphy and Calloway had hacked and gouged at the frozen ground, building Zack Muller's final resting place in a hard land. Now it was almost over. The wind howled along the hillside, whipping the tall grasses, snatching the words from the preacher's mouth.

  Grant, hat in hand, ducked his head a little deeper into the collar of his windbreaker and let his gaze sweep over the hard blue faces that surrounded the grave. Morphy and Calloway had been Muller's friends, and their loss showed starkly in their eyes. There were several men whose names were unknown to Grant; they were strong, square-built men in ill-fitting blue serge suits and sheep-lined coats with the smell of black oil and wild gas about them. They were foreign men, the wildcatters; they were men of Zack Muller's own creed.

  These were the wanderers, the restless ones, the gamblers and the dreamers. Muller had been one of them, had faced the same dangers, had wandered with them from Pennsylvania to Ohio to Indian Territory, had tasted with them oil scum from many unnamed creeks and ponds, had followed the doodle bugger's bewitched hickory switch from one strange place to the other. And now...

  Grant set his jaw and gazed hard at the boiling sky. The old man was dead. Grant hadn't known Muller long, but he could feel the loss.

  The preacher closed his book. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.” And like two huge, awkward puppets, Morphy and Calloway took up their shovels and began filling the grave. So, Grant thought bitterly, this is where Zack Muller's wandering ends. With a bullet in his back he died. In foreign ground he is buried....

  Carefully—very carefully—Grant had guided his thoughts around Ben Farley. He warned himself that he must be sensible and stay out of it. No matter what he had thought of Zack Muller, this fight was between the Mullers and Farley.

  He would go back to Kiefer with them. He would see that the drilling equipment got to the lease, but there his obligation ended. With Dagget watching, he couldn't afford to stay in Indian Territory any longer than he had to.

  But when he looked at Rhea Muller all his sensible resolutions grew soft and spineless. She stood there at the graveside, her eyes as bleak as the day itself, as cold and passionless as some beautiful piece of ice statuary. And, as Grant looked at her, he forgot all the things that Turk Valois had said, and he wished only that there was something that he could do or say that might erase some of the chiseled bitterness from her face.

  Grant watched as Bud Muller took his sister's arm and led her away toward the spring buggy that would take them back to Kiefer. Her expressionless face did not change. She shed no tear.

  The rest of the small congregation began to break up. Grant turned stiffly and started toward the bottom of the hill when he saw a thick, squat figure coming toward him. It was the marshal.

  “I want to talk to you, Grant.”

  That familiar sensation of uneasiness sank heavily in Joe Grant's belly. Was Dagget following him? Why else would the marshal make a trip to Tulsa on a day like this?

  Dagget rubbed his hands vigorously and then plunged them into the pockets of his canvas windbreaker. “You going back to the Muller lease?” he asked.

  Self-consciously, Grant pulled his hat down on his forehead and nodded.

  “Keep an eye on young Muller. Don't let him do anything crazy.”

  “What makes you think he'll do something crazy?”

  Dagget was studying him carefully without appearing to do so. He pulled up his collar and ducked his head into the wind. “I've seen it happen before,” he said shortly, “after the shock wears off.”

  Then Grant saw Pat Morphy getting in the buggy with Rhea, and Bud was climbing the hill again heading in their direction. He stopped in front of the marshal and said bluntly, “Have you arrested Farley?”

  Dagget narrowed his eyes, then shook his head.

  “Are you going to?” There was something in the boy's eyes that Grant didn't like: a wildness straining to be unleashed.

  “That depends on how the evidence turns up against him,” the marshal said carefully. “Farley claims he was on one of his leases when the killing took place, and he's got witnesses to back him up.”

  “Witnesses can lie,” Bud Muller said flatly. “Or Farley could have hired somebody to do it. It was Farley, all right, one way or the other.”

  “If it was, I'll get him.”

  The wind howled around them, and a scattering of snow appeared in the flurry of sleet. “You'd better get him, Marshal,” Bud Muller said tightly, almost hissed, “before I do!”

  It was near noon when Grant, Lon Calloway, and Bud Muller pulled out of Tulsa with a new team and a hired freighter. The town—a scattering of frame buildings and houses spread out along the banks of the Arkansas—fell behind them. They traveled in hard, bitter silence as the minutes and miles stretched out behind them, and at last Lon Calloway made an abrupt sound as they came in sight of an overturned freighter.

  The big wagon was over on its side and heavy derrick timbers and machinery were strewn over the ground. This, Grant thought, was where it happened. This was where Zack Muller died.

  Another big freighter loaded with boiler, donkey engine, and drill pipe stood unharmed in some timber. This was the wagon that Bud had been in.

  In his mind Grant pictured the action as Bud had related it. The night had been black, and the two wagons had just begun to enter the stand of timber. From the high ground a voice had called out—a rifle spoke. The team of the lead wagon had bolted in panic; the freighter crashed into the deep ruts and overturned. Zack Muller, leaping away from the wagon, grabbed his shotgun and tried to fight the shapeless figures that milled in the darkness. The rifle spoke again.

  That's all there was to it, the way Bud Muller told it. There had been four horsemen planted there to block them and destroy the equipment, but probably they hadn't expected a fight. And probably their instructions hadn't called for murder.

  But the old man was dead. The fight went out of the attackers; they vanished in the darkness without bothering the other wagon. And that was the way Bud Muller had found his father, with a length of drill pipe across his chest, a bullet in his back.

  Joe Grant could see it clearly in his mind's eye as they drew nearer to the overturned freighter. The vague shape of a nightmare snapped into focus and became reality, and he felt for himself some of the grief and rage that stared out of Bud Muller's pale blue eyes.

  Three oilmen from Kiefer—friends of Muller—huddled around a small fire, guarding the scattered equipment. They got up and walked stiffly to the rutted road when they saw the wagon coming. Shotguns cradled in their arms, they stood for a moment looking at Bud, but they did not ask about their friend or the funeral which they knew was over. Lon Calloway climbed down from the freighter and stamped some feeling into his feet.

  “Well, I guess we might as well get this stuff loaded.”

  When they reached Kiefer the next day, they were stiff, red-eyed from want of sleep and half-frozen. Bud Muller pulled the lead wagon up in front of the Wheel House and motioned the other one on toward Sabo.

  For several hours Grant had wondered about the bulge of a revolver under the boy's windbreaker, and now he looked at the cold savagery in Bud Midler's eyes and understood why the marshal had issued his warning.

  “Since we're this close to the lease,” Grant said, “don't you think we might as well keep going?”

  “You can take the wagon if you want to.”

  Bud rose stiffly from the wagon seat and climbed over the wheel, leaving the lines in Grant's hands. There was trouble in the air, in the cutting wind; it had the taste of iron. Grant felt his brain numb with fatigue. Where Bud went, trouble was sure to follow. This much Grant knew instinctively, and he was afraid of it. The harder a man tried to steer clear of trouble, the harder it seemed to hound him.

  With a weary shrug of defeat, Grant whipped the line
s around the brake lever and climbed down to the frozen mud. He caught Bud Muller at the Wheel House door.

  “This is my fight, Grant,” young Muller said tightly. “Let me handle it myself.”

  Grant had the discomforting feeling that all his future was crumbling under his feet, but he was too exhausted and numb to care. “It may be more fight than one man can handle. Have you thought of that?”

  Bud looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “All right, suit yourself.”

  They stepped into the hot, steamy interior of the Wheel House lobby and a kind of uneasy silence fell over the crowd of oilmen. Grant raked the room with a cautious glance and noticed Turk Valois sitting against the wall studying the scene thoughtfully. Then one of the oilmen, an old-timer with a full beard and a worried face, shouldered his way up to young Muller.

  “We know how you feel, Bud. All of us were friends of your pa, but it won't help to go lookin' for trouble.”

  “I'm looking for justice,” Bud Muller said shortly. “Where's Farley?”

  The old man's eyes grew cautious. “What do you want with Ben Farley?”

  “Is he here?”

  Then, as if they had acted with one mind, all eyes turned toward the back of the lobby where a flight of plank stairs led up to the hotel half of the Wheel House. A man stood on the first landing gazing blandly down at the crowd, and somehow Grant knew that this was Ben Farley.

  Bud Muller stiffened like a hunting dog catching its first scent of prey. Grant moved a bit to one side and tried to make himself inconspicuous as he loosened his windbreaker. Eyes darted from Bud to the man on the stairs, but for one brief moment there was almost complete silence. Gamblers forgot their cards. Drinkers paused with cups halfway to their mouths.

  A strange calm settled over Grant and thoughts of his own safety slipped from his mind as he studied Ben Farley.

  Farley was not a man to be liked on first sight, if ever. There was an air of cold superiority about him that Grant found easy to hate; he smiled only with his mouth, his eyes never seemed to focus completely on any single point. For some reason Grant had expected a big man; Farley was short, compact, and bullish. With a show of polished arrogance he selected a thin cigar from his vest pocket and rolled it between his full lips.

  “Did I hear someone mention my name?” he asked quietly.

  Now something else happened that Grant didn't like. Two oil-field roustabouts began moving casually toward the back of the lobby and took their places near the foot of the stairs. These were Farley's men—there was no mistake about it.

  Grant moved closer to Bud and said quietly, “This is the wrong time and wrong place. If you've got to have it out with Farley, choose your own ground.”

  Bud Muller didn't even hear him. He began moving forward, his gaze of rage never leaving Farley's face. He said hoarsely:

  “I'm going to kill you, Farley!”

  The oilman's expression didn't change, he didn't even blink. He bit the end of his cigar between amazingly white teeth and casually puffed until it was burning evenly. Then he sauntered down the stairs and stood between his two roustabouts. “Get out of Kiefer, son,” he said lightly, “before you find more trouble than you can handle.”

  A slow, ragged sound like a wolf's snarl escaped from young Muller's throat and he sprang at Farley before Grant could stop him. Strangely, Grant was not dismayed. Without his knowing it, a violence had been building up inside him, and his mouth stretched in a thin, bitter grin as the boy grabbed at Farley's throat.

  Almost instantly the crowd parted, pressing back against the walls. Farley stepped back quickly and knocked Bud to one side with a violent chopping of his right hand. One of the roustabouts grabbed the boy and sent him sprawling at Grant's feet.

  The oilman looked at Grant. “I've got nothing against you, stranger. Take your young friend and get out of Kiefer.”

  Possibly it was the brazen arrogance in Farley's voice that struck the spark. Even as Grant lunged forward, he knew that it was a fool thing to do. He and Bud had no chance against Farley and his two roustabouts—besides, there was no way of knowing how many more of Farley's men were in the lobby. But in the back of his consciousness he stood once again on that windy, snow-swept hill outside of Tulsa. He saw Rhea Muller's face as they lowered her father into the rock-hard grave. Suddenly—for the first time—he actually connected the face before him with the man who had killed Zack Muller.

  The anger that had lain cold inside him suddenly burst into violence. He lunged to Farley's left, driving his fist into the man's middle. He experienced a savage satisfaction on hearing the oilman's breath whistle between his teeth—but the satisfaction was short-lived. One of the roustabouts stepped in quickly and clubbed Grant to one side with a hamlike fist. The other roustabout spun him around and hammered him to the floor.

  Grant fell, dazed, his violence gone. There was a ringing of a thousand iron bells in his head. The lobby roared. A blunt, steel-capped boot slammed in his ribs as he attempted to gain his feet, and he went sprawling again.

  He lay breathless for an instant wondering if Farley and his two roustabouts were armed.

  It didn't matter. Farley and his men didn't need guns; they were equipped to do their job to perfection with fists and heavy oil-field boots. Now Bud Muller was on his feet again, snarling like a cougar, a small river of blood flowing from his nose and mouth. Grant rolled quickly, escaping another slashing kick of a steel-capped boot. He got to his feet, swaying, and met the roustabout head-on.

  But the odds against them were too great. Farley himself, calm and unruffled, stepped in to furnish the quick, finishing blows to Bud Muller while the two roustabouts lunged for Grant.

  For a moment a bright, futile savagery took hold of him and he felt the strength of two men flow through him. He jerked his knee hard into the groin of the nearest roustabout, then, turning, he whirled to meet the attack on the other side. For that instant, in his anger, he felt that he could whip the world—but the instant was soon over. Something hard, solid, crashed into the back of his head and he fell forward into blackness.

  The blackness was lighted with bright pain that shot this time through his side and he knew that the roustabouts were again at work with their steel-capped boots. He tried to roll away, but the boots followed him. He tried to block the kicks with his arm and felt a blunt numbness spread over his shoulder.

  He saw that Bud was down again, fighting for the revolver in his waistband. Unhurriedly, Ben Farley stepped up and kicked it out of the boy's hand.

  Farley himself was holding a blunt double-action .38—and Grant knew instantly what had struck him from behind. Instinctively, he started to grab for his own revolver, then realized that the oilman was waiting for him to do just that. Farley smiled and leveled the muzzle at Grant's head, waiting quietly for some slight excuse to pull the trigger.

  It would not be called murder. Farley had not asked for this fight—it was a clear case of self-defense and he was waiting for Grant to make the wrong move.

  Then something happened—something so surprising that Farley blinked and lost his smile. A voice said:

  “That's enough!”

  It was a harsh, edgy voice that cut through the uproar. The roustabouts stopped their methodical kicking, Farley turned his head slightly, a shade of anger falling over his eyes. Then Turk Valois stepped to the center of the lobby, holding a single-action .45 on Farley and the two roustabouts.

  “Stay out of this, Valois!” Farley said shortly.

  “I'm already in it,” the runner said, advancing. Then, quickly, “And don't get the idea you can outshoot me, Farley. You can't.”

  Evidently the oilman believed him. After a brief hesitation, he shrugged, then casually slipped the .38 into a holster under his left arm. Only the tightness of his mouth and his shaded eyes betrayed his rage.

  “You're making a bad mistake, Valois,” he said quietly.

  “I've made them before.” He motioned for the roustabouts to get back.
“Get out, both of you.”

  They looked to Farley for orders, but the oilman said nothing. After a moment they turned and shoved their way toward the door. The corners of Farley's mouth twitched as he regained his expressionless smile. He looked for a long while at the runner, then at Grant and the boy. “Well all be meeting again,” he said quietly, “one way or another.”

  Ramrod-straight, proud as Beauregard, he turned and walked out of the Wheel House lobby.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  VALOIS KNEELED BESIDE Grant. “How do you feel?”

  “All right. You'd better look after the boy.”

  An uneasy hum, a buzz of trouble, hung over the Wheel House lobby as the runner turned to Bud Muller and helped him sit up. “You're all right.” Valois grinned. “You'll have to be careful how you sleep, and maybe eat out of the side of your face, but that's all.” He looked at Grant. “I've got a room upstairs. You and the kid can come up there and wash up.

  They made a sorry sight limping across the Wheel House lobby. Grant grasped a banister, staring up at the second-floor landing, and the top of those stairs seemed higher than the Rockies. Trouble! he thought wryly. Well, he was in it now, up to his neck!

  His ribs ached from the kicking they had taken from the roustabouts' boots. His shoulder was still numb, and he tried to rub some feeling into it as they dragged up the rickety stairs.

  Valois' room was a bleak, naked box of raw pine planking with a folding cot and an unpainted washstand as its only furniture. But in Kiefer, where an eight-hour rental of a flophouse cot cost five dollars or more, this bare room amounted to a royal suite. The runner poured water from a pitcher into a chipped granite washpan and gave them a dirty shirt to dry on.

  Grant and Bud Muller took their turns at the washpan, and the shock of cold water was a help; it made the world a little more real and a little less nightmarish than it had been before. Valois leaned against a plank wall, vaguely amused.

  “That was a fool thing to do,” he said, “jumping Farley here in the Wheel House.”