NUMBER THREE COMES IN
Joyce opened the door to the knock of the young men. At sight of them her
face lit.
"Oh, I'm so glad you've come!" she cried, tears in her voice. She caught
her hands together in a convulsive little gesture. "Isn't it dreadful?
I've been afraid all the time that something awful would happen--and
now it has."
"Don't you worry, Miss Joyce," Bob told her cheerfully. "We ain't gonna
let anything happen to yore paw. We aim to get busy right away and run
this thing down. Looks like a frame-up. If it is, you betcha we'll get
at the truth."
"Will you? Can you?" She turned to Dave in appeal, eyes starlike in a
face that was a white and shining oval in the semi-darkness.
"We'll try," he said simply.
Something in the way he said it, in the quiet reticence of his promise,
sent courage flowing to her heart. She had called on him once before, and
he had answered splendidly and recklessly.
"Where's Mr. Crawford?" asked Bob.
"He's in the sitting-room. Come right in."
Her father was sitting in a big chair, one leg thrown carelessly over the
arm. He was smoking a cigar composedly.
"Come in, boys," he called. "Reckon you've heard that I'm a stage rustler
and a murderer."
Joyce cried out at this, the wide, mobile mouth trembling.
"Just now. At the Gusher," said Bob. "They didn't arrest you?"
"Not yet. They're watchin' the house. Sit down, and I'll tell it to you."
He had gone out to see a homesteader about doing some work for him. On
the way he had met Johnson and Purdy near the Bend, just before he had
turned up a draw leading to the place in the hills owned by the man whom
he wanted to see. Two hours had been spent riding to the little valley
where the nester had built his corrals and his log house, and when
Crawford arrived neither he nor his wife was at home. He returned to the
road, without having met a soul since he had left it, and from there
jogged on back to town. On the way he had fired twice at a rattlesnake.
"You never reached the Bend, then, at all," said Dave.
"No, but I cayn't prove I didn't." The old cattleman looked at the end of
his cigar thoughtfully. "Nor I cayn't prove I went out to Dick Grein's
place in that three-four hours not accounted for."
"Anyhow, you can show where you got the ten thousand dollars you paid the
bank," said Bob hopefully.
A moment of silence; then Crawford spoke. "No, son, I cayn't tell that
either."
Faint and breathless with suspense, Joyce looked at her father with
dilated eyes. "Why not?"
"Because the money was loaned me on those conditions."
"But--but--don't you see, Dad?--if you don't tell that--"
"They'll think I'm guilty. Well, I reckon they'll have to think it, Joy."
The steady gray eyes looked straight into the brown ones of the girl.
"I've been in this county boy and man for 'most fifty years. Any one
that's willin' to think me a cold-blooded murderer at this date, why,
he's welcome to hold any opinion he pleases. I don't give a damn what he
thinks."
"But we've got to prove--"
"No, we haven't. They've got to do the proving. The law holds me innocent
till I'm found guilty."
"But you don't aim to keep still and let a lot of miscreants blacken yore
good name!" suggested Hart.
"You bet I don't, Bob. But I reckon I'll not break my word to a friend
either, especially under the circumstances this money was loaned."
"He'll release you when he understands," cried Joyce.
"Don't bank on that, honey," Crawford said slowly.
"You ain't to mention this. I'm tellin' you three private. He cayn't come
out and tell that he let me have the money. Understand? You don't any of
you know a thing about how I come by that ten thousand. I've refused to
answer questions about that money. That's my business."
"Oh, but, Dad, you can't do that. You'll have to give an explanation.
You'll have to--"
"The best explanation I can give, Joy, is to find out who held up the
stage and killed Tim Harrigan. It's the only one that will satisfy me.
It's the only one that will satisfy my friends."
"That's true," said Sanders.
"Steve Russell is bringin' hawsses," said Bob. "We'll ride out to the
Bend to-night and be ready for business there at the first streak of
light. Must be some trail left by the hold-ups."
Crawford shook his head. "Probably not. Applegate had a posse out there
right away. You know Applegate. He'd blunder if he had a chance. His boys
have milled all over the place and destroyed any trail that was left."
"We'll go out anyhow--Dave and Steve and I. Won't do any harm. We're
liable to discover something, don't you reckon?"
"Maybeso. Who's that knockin' on the door, Joy?"
Some one was rapping on the front door imperatively. The girl opened it,
to let into the hall a man in greasy overalls.
"Where's Mr. Crawford?" he demanded excitedly.
"Here. In the sitting-room. What's wrong?"
"Wrong! Not a thing!" He talked as he followed Joyce to the door of the
room. "Except that Number Three's come in the biggest gusher ever I see.
She's knocked the whole superstructure galley-west an' she's rip-r'arin'
to beat the Dutch."
Emerson Crawford leaped to his feet, for once visibly excited. "What?" he
demanded. "Wha's that?"
"Jus' like I say. The oil's a-spoutin' up a hundred feet like a fan.
Before mornin' the sump holes will be full and she'll be runnin' all over
the prairie."
"Burns sent you?"
"Yep. Says for you to get men and teams and scrapers and gunnysacks and
heavy timbers out there right away. Many as you can send."
Crawford turned to Bob, his face aglow. "Yore job, Bob. Spread the news.
Rustle up everybody you can get. Arrange with the railroad grade
contractor to let us have all his men, teams, and scrapers till we get
her hogtied and harnessed. Big wages and we'll feed the whole outfit
free. Hire anybody you can find. Buy a coupla hundred shovels and send
'em out to Number Three. Get Robinson to move his tent-restaurant out
there."
Hart nodded. "What about this job at the Bend?" he asked in a low voice.
"Dave and I'll attend to that. You hump on the Jackpot job. Sons, we're
rich, all three of us. Point is to keep from losin' that crude on the
prairie. Keep three shifts goin' till she's under control."
"We can't do anything at the Bend till morning," said Dave. "We'd better
put the night in helping Bob."
"Sure. We've got to get all Malapi busy. A dozen business men have got to
come down and open up their stores so's we can get supplies," agreed
Emerson.
Joyce, her face flushed and eager, broke in. "Ring the fire bell. That's
the quickest way."
"Sure enough. You got a haid on yore shoulders. Dave, you attend to that.
Bob, hit the dust for the big saloons and gather men. I'll see O'Connor
about the railroad outfit; then I'll come down to the fire-house and talk
to the crowd. We'll wake this old town up to-night, sons."
"What about me?" asked the messenger.
"You go back and tell Jed to hold the fort till Hart and his material
arrives."
Outside, they met Russell riding down the road, two saddled horses
following. With a word of explanation they helped themselves to his
mounts while he stared after them in surprise.
"I'll be dawggoned if they-all ain't three gents in a hurry," he murmured
to the breezes of the night. "Well, seein' as I been held up, I reckon
I'll have to walk back while the hawss-thieves ride."
Five minutes later the fire-bell clanged out its call to Malapi. From
roadside tent and gambling-hall, from houses and camp-fires, men and
women poured into the streets. For Malapi was a shell-town, tightly
packed and inflammable, likely to go up in smoke whenever a fire should
get beyond control of the volunteer company. Almost in less time than it
takes to tell it, the square was packed with hundreds of lightly clad
people and other hundreds just emerging from the night life of the place.
The clangor of the bell died away, but the firemen did not run out the
hose and bucket cart. The man tugging the rope had told them why he was
summoning the citizens.
"Some one's got to go out and explain to the crowd," said the fire chief
to Dave. "If you know about this strike you'll have to tell the boys."
"Crawford said he'd talk," answered Sanders.
"He ain't here. It's up to you. Go ahead. Just tell 'em why you rang the
bell."
Dave found himself pushed forward to the steps of the court-house a few
yards away. He had never before attempted to speak in public, and he had
a queer, dry tightening of the throat. But as soon as he began to talk
the words he wanted came easily enough.
"Jackpot Number Three has come in a big gusher," he said, lifting his
voice so that it would carry to the edge of the crowd.
Hundreds of men in the crowd owned stock in the Jackpot properties. At
Dave's words a roar went up into the night. Men shouted, danced, or
merely smiled, according to their temperament. Presently the thirst
for news dominated the enthusiasm. Gradually the uproar was stilled.
Again Dave's voice rang out clear as the bell he had been tolling. "The
report is that it's one of the biggest strikes ever known in the State.
The derrick has been knocked to pieces and the oil's shooting into the
air a hundred feet."
A second great shout drowned his words. This was an oil crowd. It dreamed
oil, talked oil, thought oil, prayed for oil. A stranger in the town was
likely to feel at first that the place was oil mad. What else can be said
of a town with derricks built through its front porches and even the
graveyard leased to a drilling company?
"The sump holes are filling," went on Sanders. "Soon the oil will the
running to waste on the prairie. We need men, teams, tools, wagons,
hundreds of slickers, tents, beds, grub. The wages will be one-fifty a
day more than the run of wages in the camp until the emergency has been
met, and Emerson Crawford will board all the volunteers who come out to
dig."
The speaker was lost again, this time in a buzz of voices of excited men.
But out of the hubbub Dave's shout became heard.
"All owners of teams and tools, all dealers in hardware and groceries,
are asked to step to the right-hand side of the crowd for a talk with Mr.
Crawford. Men willing to work till the gusher is under control, please
meet Bob Hart in front of the fire-house. I'll see any cooks and
restaurant-men alive to a chance to make money fast. Right here at the
steps."
"Good medicine, son," boomed Emerson Crawford, slapping him on the
shoulder. "Didn't know you was an orator, but you sure got this crowd
goin'. Bob here yet?"
"Yes. I saw him a minute ago in the crowd. Sorry I had to make promises
for you, but the fire chief wouldn't let me keep the crowd waiting. Some
one had to talk."
"Suits me. I'll run you for Congress one o' these days." Then, "I'll send
the grocery-men over to you. Tell them to get the grub out to-night. If
the restaurant-men don't buy it I'll run my own chuck wagon outfit. See
you later, Dave."
For the next twenty-four hours there was no night in Malapi. Streets were
filled with shoutings, hurried footfalls, the creaking of wagons, and the
thud of galloping horses. Stores were lit up and filled with buyers. For
once the Gusher and the Oil Pool and other resorts held small attraction
for the crowds. The town was moving out to see the big new discovery that
was to revolutionize its fortunes with the opening of a new and
tremendously rich field. Every ancient rig available was pressed into
service to haul men or supplies out to the Jackpot location. Scarcely a
minute passed, after the time that the first team took the road, without
a loaded wagon, packed to the sideboards, moving along the dusty road
into the darkness of the desert.
Three travelers on horseback rode in the opposite direction. Their
destination was Cottonwood Bend. Two of them were Emerson Crawford and
David Sanders. The third was an oil prospector who had been a passenger
on the stage when it was robbed.