THE HOLD-UP
To Sanders, working on afternoon tower at Jackpot Number Three, the lean,
tanned driller in charge of operations was wise with an uncanny knowledge
the newcomer could not fathom. For eight hours at a stretch he stood on
the platform and watched a greasy cable go slipping into the earth. Every
quiver of it, every motion of the big walking-beam, every kick of the
engine, told him what was taking place down that narrow pipe two thousand
feet below the surface. He knew when the tools were in clay and had
become gummed up. He could tell just when the drill had cut into hard
rock at an acute angle and was running out of the perpendicular to follow
the softer stratum. His judgment appeared infallible as to whether he
ought to send down a reamer to straighten the kink. All Dave knew was
that a string of tools far underground was jerking up and down
monotonously.
This spelt romance to Jed Burns, superintendent of operations, though he
would never have admitted it. He was a bachelor; always would be one.
Hard-working, hard-drinking, at odd times a plunging gambler, he lived
for nothing but oil and the atmosphere of oil fields. From one boom
to another he drifted, as inevitably as the gamblers, grafters, and
organizers of "fake" companies. Several times he had made fortunes, but
it was impossible for him to stay rich. He was always ready to back a
drilling proposition that looked promising, and no independent speculator
can continue to wildcat without going broke.
He was sifting sand through his fingers when Dave came on tower
the day after the flood. To Bob Hart, present as Crawford's personal
representative, he expressed an opinion.
"Right soon now or never. Sand tastes, feels, looks, and smells like oil.
But you can't ever be sure. An oil prospect is like a woman. She will or
she won't, you never can tell which. Then, if she does, she's liable to
change her mind."
Dave sniffed the pleasing, pungent odor of the crude oil sands. His
friend had told him that Crawford's fate hung in the balance. Unless oil
flowed very soon in paying quantities he was a ruined man. The control of
the Jackpot properties would probably pass into the hands of Steelman.
The cattleman would even lose the ranches which had been the substantial
basis of his earlier prosperity.
Everybody working on the Jackpot felt the excitement as the drill began
to sink into the oil-bearing sands. Most of the men owned stock in the
company. Moreover, they were getting a bonus for their services and had
been promised an extra one if Number Three struck oil in paying
quantities before Steelman's crew did. Even to an outsider there is a
fascination in an oil well. It is as absorbing to the drillers as a
girl's mind is to her hopeful lover. Dave found it impossible to escape
the contagion of this. Moreover, he had ten thousand shares in the
Jackpot, stock turned over to him out of the treasury supply by the board
of directors in recognition of services which they did not care to
specify in the resolution which authorized the transfer. At first he had
refused to accept this, but Bob Hart had put the matter to him in such a
light that he changed his mind.
"The oil business pays big for expert advice, no matter whether it's
legal or technical. What you did was worth fifty times what the board
voted you. If we make a big strike you've saved the company. If we don't
the stock's not worth a plugged nickel anyhow. You've earned what we
voted you. Hang on to it, Dave."
Dave had thanked the board and put the stock in his pocket. Now he felt
himself drawn into the drama represented by the thumping engine which
continued day and night.
After his shift was over, he rode to town with Bob behind his team of
wild broncos.
"Got to look for an engineer for the night tower," Hart explained as he
drew up in front of the Gusher Saloon. "Come in with me. It's some
gambling-hell, if you ask me."
The place hummed with the turbulent life that drifts to every wild
frontier on the boom. Faro dealers from the Klondike, poker dealers from
Nome, roulette croupiers from Leadville, were all here to reap the rich
harvest to be made from investors, field workers, and operators. Smooth
grafters with stock in worthless companies for sale circulated in and out
with blue-prints and whispered inside information. The men who were
ranged in front of the bar, behind which half a dozen attendants in white
aprons busily waited on their wants, usually talked oil and nothing but
oil. To-day they had another theme. The same subject engrossed the groups
scattered here and there throughout the large hall.
In the rear of the room were the faro layouts, the roulette wheels, and
the poker players. Around each of these the shifting crowd surged.
Mexicans, Chinese, and even Indians brushed shoulders with white men of
many sorts and conditions. The white-faced professional gambler was in
evidence, winning the money of big brown men in miner's boots and
corduroys. The betting was wild and extravagant, for the spirit of the
speculator had carried away the cool judgment of most of these men. They
had seen a barber become a millionaire in a day because the company in
which he had plunged had struck a gusher. They had seen the same man
borrow five dollars three months later to carry him over until he got a
job. Riches were pouring out of the ground for the gambler who would take
a chance. Thrift was a much-discredited virtue in Malapi. The one
unforgivable vice was to be "a piker."
Bob found his man at a faro table. While the cards were being shuffled,
he engaged him to come out next evening to the Jackpot properties. As
soon as the dealer began to slide the cards out of the case the attention
of the engineer went back to his bets.
While Dave was standing close to the wall, ready to leave as soon as Bob
returned to him, he caught sight of an old acquaintance. Steve Russell
was playing stud poker at a table a few feet from him. The cowpuncher
looked up and waved his hand.
"See you in a minute, Dave," he called, and as soon as the pot had been
won he said to the man shuffling the cards, "Deal me out this hand."
He rose, stepped across to Sanders, and shook hands with a strong grip.
"You darned old son-of-a-gun! I'm sure glad to see you. Heard you was
back. Say, you've ce'tainly been goin' some. Suits me. I never did like
either Dug or Miller a whole lot. Dug's one sure-enough bad man and
Miller's a tinhorn would-be. What you did to both of 'em was a-plenty.
But keep yore eye peeled, old-timer. Miller's where he belongs again,
but Dug's still on the range, and you can bet he's seein' red these
days. He'll gun you if he gets half a chance."
"Yes," said Dave evenly.
"You don't figure to let yoreself get caught again without a
six-shooter." Steve put the statement with the rising inflection.
"No."
"Tha's right. Don't let him get the drop on you. He's sudden death with
a gun."
Bob joined them. After a moment's conversation Russell drew them to a
corner of the room that for the moment was almost deserted.
"Say, you heard the news, Bob?"
"I can tell you that better after I know what it is," returned Hart with
a grin.
"The stage was held up at Cottonwood Bend and robbed of seventeen
thousand dollars. The driver was killed."
"When?"
"This mo'nin'. They tried to keep it quiet, but it leaked out."
"Whose money was it?"
"Brad Steelman's pay roll and a shipment of gold for the bank."
"Any idea who did it?"
Steve showed embarrassment. "Why, no, _I_ ain't, if that's what you
mean."
"Well, anybody else?"
"Tha's what I wanta tell you. Two men were in the job. They're whisperin'
that Em Crawford was one."
"Crawford! Some of Steelman's fine work in that rumor, I'll bet. He's
crazy if he thinks he can get away with that. Tha's plumb foolish talk.
What evidence does he claim?" demanded Hart.
"Em deposited ten thousand with the First National to pay off a note he
owed the bank. Rode into town right straight to the bank two hours after
the stage got in. Then, too, seems one of the hold-ups called the other
one Crawford."
"A plant," said Dave promptly.
"Looks like." Bob's voice was rich with sarcasm. "I don't reckon the
other one rose up on his hind laigs and said, 'I'm Bob Hart,' did he?"
"They claim the second man was Dave here."
"Hmp! What time d'you say this hold-up took place?"
"Must 'a' been about eleven."
"Lets Dave out. He was fifteen miles away, and we can prove it by at
least six witnesses."
"Good. I reckon Em can put in an alibi too."
"I'll bet he can." Hart promised this with conviction.
"Trouble is they say they've got witnesses to show Em was travelin'
toward the Bend half an hour before the hold-up. Art Johnson and Clem
Purdy met him while they was on their way to town."
"Was Crawford alone?"
"He was then. Yep."
"Any one might'a' been there. You might. I might. That don't prove a
thing."
"Hell, I know Em Crawford's not mixed up in any hold-up, let alone a
damned cowardly murder. You don't need to tell _me_ that. Point is that
evidence is pilin' up. Where did Em get the ten thousand to pay the bank?
Two days ago he was tryin' to increase the loan the First National had
made him."
Dave spoke. "I don't know where he got it, but unless he's a born
fool--and nobody ever claimed that of Crawford--he wouldn't take the
money straight to the bank after he had held up the stage and killed
the driver. That's a strong point in his favor."
"If he can show where he got the ten thousand," amended Russell. "And of
course he can."
"And where he spent that two hours after the hold-up before he came to
town. That'll have to be explained too," said Bob.
"Oh, Em he'll be able to explain that all right," decided Steve
cheerfully.
"Where is Crawford now?" asked Dave. "He hasn't been arrested, has he?"
"Not yet. But he's bein' watched. Soon as he showed up at the bank the
sheriff asked to look at his six-shooter. Two cartridges had been fired.
One of the passengers on the stage told me two shots was fired from a
six-gun by the boss hold-up. The second one killed old Tim Harrigan."
"Did they accuse Crawford of the killing?"
"Not directly. He was asked to explain. I ain't heard what his story
was."
"We'd better go to his house and talk with him," suggested Hart. "Maybe
he can give as good an alibi as you, Dave."
"You and I will go straight there," decided Sanders. "Steve, get three
saddle horses. We'll ride out to the Bend and see what we can learn on
the ground."
"I'll cash my chips, get the broncs, and meet you lads at Crawford's,"
said Russell promptly.