He tried to think about the farm, but he could not dredge up even a vague vision of it in his mind. All he could see was Rhea's face, and he heard Rhea's voice saying,
His nerves were raw; he got up suddenly and paced to one of the bunkhouse's narrow windows and stared flatly out at the snow-patched wilderness of derricks and mud. It was a hell of a place for a woman, and maybe he couldn't blame her too much for wanting to get out of it.
He saw Bud Muller coming toward the bunkhouse from the rig, and Grant turned away from the windows and pretended that he was looking for something in his roll.
“Got a job for you, Grant,” Bud said, stamping the mud from his feet on a mat of gunny sacks.
Grant looked up, glad that Bud wasn't one to ask questions. He was also glad that young Muller took it for granted that he was still working on the lease—it was almost as though he had been waiting for someone like Rhea's brother to come in and settle his doubts.
“What kind of job?”
Bud's thin grin was almost a warning. “We need new derrick timbers to repair the damage the fire did last night. There's a shipment waiting for us at Kiefer, but getting it to the lease won't be easy.”
Grant sat on the cot, not liking what he saw in Bud's face.
The boy shrugged and spread his hands. “We're broke. We've got just enough on hand to pay the workers; a rig fire wasn't in our plans. We need five hundred dollars that we don't have, but Kurt Battle, the supplier, might give us credit if we can get the timbers out of town without Farley seeing us.”
Grant got to his feet again and went to the window, knowing that there was little chance of getting credit from Battle. Still, Turk Valois had been willing to take a chance against Farley at the risk of his own business; maybe Battle would be willing, too. But these were not the kind of odds he liked to play against.
“What happens if Battle doesn't give the credit?”
Bud made no attempt to grin now; he was worried and showed it. “We've got to have the timbers. We can't spud in with a damaged derrick; we can't even raise the crown block.”
There was no use to say any more. Farley knew who was holding the high hand and he had the supplier under his thumb. There would be a fight if they tried to take the timbers out of Kiefer, maybe the last fight Farley would have to put up.
Now, his instincts warned him, was the time to cut himself away. But it was little more than a passing thought. If he was going to quit, he would have done it long ago, he never would have taken the train to Kiefer in the first place. He looked at Bud and grinned with faint bitterness. Rhea had known all along that he would see it out with them.
He had his price—and she had known that, too. It was herself.
Grant picked up his hat and started for the door, but Bud stopped him as he reached for the latch. “There's one more thing, Grant: Valois is working for us now.”
Grant nodded. “I know.”
Rhea's brother was not pleased with what he heard in Grant's voice, and he frowned hard, rubbing his hand over his mouth thoughtfully. But he only said, “Turk is meeting us in Kiefer. Well, if you're ready...”
CHAPTER TEN
AS THEY INTENDED to come back with the derrick timbers, there was no need for taking horses with them. Grant and young Muller hiked across Slush Creek and caught a ride to Kiefer on a returning freighter. The day was bleak and cold but there was no sign of snow, and they rode most of the way in silence, each man busy with his own thoughts.
Once Bud said, “I wasn't sure you'd stay with us after you heard about Valois.”
Grant lifted his gaze just enough to indicate that he had heard but he said nothing.
They dropped off the freighter in front of the Wheel House where Valois was waiting. “You got here at a good time,” the runner said. “Farley's out on location, and his gun shark's with him.” He looked at Bud. “Maybe it would be better if Grant and I stayed behind and let you talk to Battle alone.”
“Or maybe,” Grant said, “it would be better to let Battle know we mean business.”
And Bud Muller nodded. “Grant's right. It would be too easy to put me off if I went there alone; he's not going to be eager to take a cut at Farley the minute he turns his back.”
Ducking their heads into the wind, the three of them headed up the shaky plank walk toward the depot where Kurt Battle's warehouse was. Now that they were away from the lease, away from Rhea, Grant discovered that he was not so sorry to have Valois along. If there was to be a fight, it would be a tough one. Even if they got credit from Battle, they would be a long time getting the timbers back to the lease, and Farley had too many men on his pay roll not to hear about it.
Valois grinned faintly when he saw that Grant was studying him from beneath the down-tilted brim of his hat. “It's too bad, isn't it?” he said quietly.
Grant frowned. “What's too bad?”
“I think we could have been friends if we had met at another time and place.”
There was no use saying any more; they understood each other perfectly. They were proud men, both of them, and much alike in many ways. But Rhea stood between them and that made them enemies. They must fight their own small war inside a larger one; strange enemies fighting on the same side, without hatred.
Grant darted a quick glance at Bud Muller, but the boy had heard nothing; his mind was full of wells and derrick timbers. He could see what was happening between these men and his sister but he did not have the experience to understand all of it. He did not let it bother him more than was necessary—he had the bitter memory of his father and his anger to warm him.
They reached the end of the plank walk and waded the icy slush toward the boxcar depot. To the west of the depot there was a large flapping tent that might have been a circus or revival tent except for the black painted sign in front: Battle Gtl Field Supply Company.
Bud Muller shot suspicious glances up and down Kiefer's crowded street, and the three men ducked under a canvas flap and stepped inside. The tent was lighted only by the cold yellow light that seeped through the canvas; huge shapes of tarp-covered machinery stood in orderly rows, mountains of pipe rose up against the canvas walls, and there were drill bits of all shapes and sizes. Leather belting and hemp cables and drilling line covered every inch of floor space and overflowed into a sheet-iron shack behind the tent.
When they reached the rear of the tent they saw more equipment standing in the open: crown block pulleys and bull wheels and big wooden band wheels, and engine boilers that looked like miniature locomotives stripped of wheels and cabs. They passed on through to the sheet-iron shack. This was Kurt Battle's office, and the owner of the Battle Oil Field Supply Company was sitting at his plank desk when they came in.
The supplier did not like what he saw. He glanced sharply at Bud Muller, then at Grant and Valois, and noted the revolver bulges beneath their windbreakers and liked that even less. But he smiled, in a pained sort of way, and stood up quickly to shake Bud's hand.
“I'm sorry,” he said with sincerity, the smile vanishing. “Your pa was a good wildcatter, son, they don't make them like him any more.”
“My father always spoke well of you,” Bud said. And then, after a brief hesitation, “I've come to ask a favor, Mr. Battle.”
There was a coal-oil stove in the center of the shack but it was not enough to fight back the chill of those sheet-iron walls. The shack was frigid, and Battle's breathing emitted little puffs of white frost on the air, but at the same time a beading of sweat appeared on his forehead. He was a small man with a smooth-shaven face and the pot belly of an overfed kitten; he did not look like the kind of man to say “no” to Ben Farley.
Battle shifted in his cane-bottomed chair and cleared his throat. “A favor, Bud?”
“We had a fire on the lease last night. The derrick was damaged and we need some new timbers to repair it. We need some credit, Mr. Battle, about five hundred dollars' worth.”
Battle had known from the first what they wanted, but the words seemed to shock him.
“Well, Bud, I sure would like to help, but you know how short supplies are in a boom field...”
“We saw the timbers in your yard. All we need is the credit.”
Battle swallowed. He glanced quickly at Grant and Valois, but did not look at Bud. “I'm sorry,” he said huskily. “Your pa was my friend and I'd like to help, but I can't. I just can't.”
Grant shot a glance at Valois, and the runner shrugged. This was the thing they had expected, and they had
