AT THE JACKPOT
The day lasted twenty-four hours in Malapi. As Sanders walked along
Junipero Street, on his way to the downtown corral from Crawford's house,
saloons and gambling-houses advertised their attractions candidly and
noisily. They seemed bursting with raw and vehement life. The strains of
fiddles and the sound of shuffling feet were pierced occasionally by the
whoop of a drunken reveler. Once there rang out the high notes of a
woman's hysterical laughter. Cowponies and packed burros drooped
listlessly at the hitching-rack. Even loaded wagons were waiting to take
the road as soon as the drivers could tear themselves away from the
attractions of keno and a last drink.
Junipero Street was not the usual crooked lane that serves as the main
thoroughfare for business in a mining town. For Malapi had been a cowtown
before the discovery of oil. It lay on the wide prairie and not in a
gulch. The street was broad and dusty, flanked by false-front stores,
flat-roofed adobes, and corrugated iron buildings imported hastily since
the first boom.
At the Stag Horn corral Dave hired a horse and saddled for a night ride.
On his way to the Jackpot he passed a dozen outfits headed for the new
strike. They were hauling supplies of food, tools, timbers, and machinery
to the oil camp. Out of the night a mule skinner shouted a profane and
drunken greeting to him. A Mexican with a burro train gave him a
low-voiced "Buenos noches, señor."
A fine mist of oil began to spray him when he was still a mile away from
the well. It grew denser as he came nearer. He found Bob Hart, in
oilskins and rubber boots, bossing a gang of scrapers, giving directions
to a second one building a dam across a draw, and supervising a third
group engaged in siphoning crude oil from one sump to another. From head
to foot Hart and his assistants were wet to the skin with the black crude
oil.
"'Lo, Dave! One sure-enough little spouter!" Bob shouted cheerfully.
"Number Three's sure a-hittin' her up. She's no cougher--stays right
steady on the job. Bet I've wallowed in a million barrels of the stuff
since mo'nin'." He waded through a viscid pool to Dave and asked a
question in a low voice. "What's the good word?"
"We had a little luck," admitted Sanders, then plumped out his budget of
news. "Got the express money back, captured one of the robbers, forced a
confession out of him, and left him with the sheriff."
Bob did an Indian war dance in hip boots. "You're the darndest go-getter
ever I did see. Tell it to me, you ornery ol' scalawag."
His friend told the story of the day so far as it related to the robbery.
"I could 'a' told you Miller would weaken when you had the rope round his
soft neck. Shorty would 'a' gone through and told you-all where to get
off at."
"Yes. Miller's yellow. He didn't quit with the robbery, Bob. Must have
been scared bad, I reckon. He admitted that he killed George Doble--by
accident, he claimed. Says Doble ran in front of him while he was
shooting at me."
"Have you got that down on paper?" demanded Hart.
"Yes."
Bob caught his friend's hand. "I reckon the long lane has turned for you,
old socks. I can't tell you how damn glad I am. Doble needed killin', but
I'd rather you hadn't done it."
The other man made no comment on this phase of the situation. "This
brings Dug Doble out into the open at last. He'll come pretty near going
to the pen for this."
"I can't see Applegate arrestin' him. He'll fight, Dug will. My notion is
he'll take to the hills and throw off all pretense. If he does he'll be
the worst killer ever was known in this part of the country. You an'
Crawford want to look out for him, Dave."
"Crawford says he wants me to be treasurer of the company, Bob. You and I
are to manage it, he says, with Burns doing the drilling."
"Tha's great. He told me he was gonna ask you. Betcha we make the ol'
Jackpot hum."
"D' you ever hear of a man land poor, Bob?"
"Sure have."
"Well, right now we're oil poor. According to what the old man says
there's no cash in the treasury and we've got bills that have to be paid.
You know that ten thousand he paid in to the bank to satisfy the note. He
borrowed it from a friend who took it out of a trust fund to loan it to
him. He didn't tell me who the man is, but he said his friend would get
into trouble a-plenty if it's found out before he replaces the money.
Then we've got to keep our labor bills paid right up. Some of the other
accounts can wait."
"Can't we borrow money on this gusher?"
"We'll have to do that. Trouble is that oil isn't a marketable asset
until it reaches a refinery. We can sell stock, of course, but we don't
want to do much of that unless we're forced to it. Our play is to keep
control and not let any other interest in to oust us. It's going to take
some scratching."
"Looks like," agreed Bob. "Any use tryin' the bank here?"
"I'll try it, but we'll not accept any call loan. They say Steelman owns
the bank. He won't let us have money unless there's some nigger in the
woodpile. I'll probably have to try Denver."
"That'll take time."
"Yes. And time's one thing we haven't got any too much of. Whoever
underwrites this for us will send an expert back with me and will wait
for his report before making a loan. We'll have to talk it over with
Crawford and find out how much treasury stock we'll have to sell locally
to keep the business going till I make a raise."
"You and the old man decide that, Dave. I can't get away from here till
we get Number Three roped and muzzled. I'll vote for whatever you two
say."
An hour later Dave rode back to town.