no weapon to fight it with. After a moment Grant stepped up to the plank desk directly in front of the supplier. “Getting those timbers is important, Battle. The Muller well can't spud in without them.”
He shook his head. “I'm sorry...”
“Is it Farley?” Grant broke in. “Did he warn you not to give the Mullers credit?”
Battle didn't have to answer, the answer was in his face. He blinked quickly, then stood up abruptly and blundered to the one small window in the shack and stood staring out at nothing. “I don't want any trouble.” He almost whined. “I worked hard to build up my business; I don't want to see it wiped out overnight.”
“Did Farley threaten you?”
“He said he'd take away his business. He said he'd stop all his friends from tradin' with me if I gave the Mullers credit.”
At that moment the giant shadow of Zack Muller was in the shack and all of them could feel it. Grant hadn't known (he old man long, but he had liked him. Farley had killed him. Farley had burned the derrick. Farley was now cutting off their credit. How much more was Farley going to get away with?
A new kind of anger, a positive anger not complicated by indecision, began to rise up in Grant's throat. And he could see the same kind rising savagely behind Bud Muller's pale eyes, the same danger signal that had been there the day of Zack Muller's funeral.
Grant acted quickly, on instinct. He took one of Battle's arms and spun him roughly away from the window before the maddened boy could get to him. “Listen to me, Battle!” he said harshly. “You know the boy's name is good for the money, you're not afraid of not being paid. Let us take the limbers and you can tell Farley we stole them; tell him anything you like, but we've got to have the material to repair the derrick!”
Battle's eyes were startled; they began to water and he blinked rapidly. “Let me go!” he whimpered. “I've got a right to look after my own business!”
“All right!” Grant spat, and he hardly recognized the icy words as his own. “You can look after your business, Battle, but let me tell you something. Farley's not the only man in Kiefer you've got to be scared of. What about the next oil field you move to? Maybe Farley won't be there. Maybe Zack Midler's friends will start remembering how you took Farley's side against one of their own, and then where will your business be? Who will use your equipment then, Battle?”
Grant tightened his grip on Battle's arm and the supplier's mouth came open in pain. “I tell you I can't help it! I've got to do like Farley says or I'm ruined!”
“You'll be ruined anyway, Battle, because I'll make it my business to pass the word to every independent driller, every wildcatter in the Territory! It may take me longer than Farley, but I can ruin you just as completely as he can! You'd better think that over before you make your final decision.”
The words went home with more effect than Grant had expected. Faint lines of worry appeared on Battle's baby-smooth face, and it was evident that he had been thinking about this same thing for a long time. He was trying to play both ends from the middle, both Farley and the independents, and he was smart enough to know that it was a losing game.
Grant let go of the supplier and spoke again, almost gently. “It's something to think about, isn't it, Battle? Farley won't always be around to look out for you—you need friends among j the wildcatters.”
Battle was weakening, but he was still afraid. “It's more than the business,” he said thinly. “Farley would kill me if he thought I gave you credit!”
“He doesn't have to know. Get the timbers loaded tonight. Leave the wagon over by the railroad to make it look like a shipment that has just come in, and we'll take care of the rest of it. We'll leave Kiefer in darkness and Farley will never see j us. If he should see us, you can tell him we stole it.”
It was not the way Grant wanted it. Farley was sure to catch them on the road, and when that happened, a fight was certain. Then there would be a charge of theft against them, and Jim Dagget wouldn't let a thing like that pass unnoticed. Still, they had to have the timbers and they were in no position to make their own conditions.
Bud Muller said, “What about it, Battle?”
“I... I don't know. That gun shark on Farley's pay roll...”
“The gun shark's our worry,” Grant said. “Do we get the timbers or do I start passing the word around that you're siding with Farley against the Mullers? Sure they're afraid of Farley, but they're pretty worked up about Zack Muller, too, and men can do strange things when they're worked up.”
Bud Muller's voice was cold and bitter. “I've heard of business houses burning down, Battle. It wouldn't take much to set off this tent of yours.”
This was taking a turn that Grant didn't like, but it was effective. Battle wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Well...”
And they knew that the wagon would be loaded when darkness came. “Sign here,” the supplier said weakly, pushing some papers at Bud.
When Grant, Bud Muller, and Valois came out of the Wheel House and headed toward the depot in the biting wind it was shortly after seven o'clock. The wagon was waiting, fully loaded, the six-horse hitch stamping restlessly on the frozen ground.
Valois grinned. “I've got to hand it to you, Grant. I didn't think Battle would do it.”
But Grant was in no mood for congratulations. Fighting weakness with threats was not a pleasant way to do things, but a man could not always choose his own weapons.
They walked from the main part of Kiefer and moved cautiously toward the boxcar depot. “I wonder where Farley is?” Valois said thoughtfully. And Grant was thinking the same thing. That they should move the wagon all the way to the lease, unmolested, was almost too much to hope for.
There were several horses and hacks tied up at a long rack beside the boxcar, and the three men swung wide around them, keeping in the darker shadows as much as possible. The night was crystal clear, as brittle as ice, and their boots crunched noisily on patches of frozen snow as they made their way toward the freighter.
Bud Muller glanced up at the great spread of sky and the frosted moon that was beginning to rise in the east. “I'd be just as happy,” Valois said, “if we had a few clouds. When that moon comes up Farley can spot us halfway to Sabo.”
“We'll worry about that,” Grant said, “when the time comes.”
But the time was sooner than any of them thought. Bud Muller untied the lines, climbed up on the front wheel, and looped the loose ends around the brake lever. Valois climbed up next, taking his place on the driver's seat, and as Grant placed one foot on the wheel spoke, a sense of warning made him let go immediately.
A long shadow fell across the ground and a horseman rode casually from behind the boxcar. From the corner of his eye Grant could see the A & P ticket agent dozing over his telegraph key, but the conscious part of his brain was focused on the rider. Squat and bullish, almost shapeless in the loose folds of a plaid mackinaw, Ben Farley said:
“You aiming to steal those derrick timbers, Muller?”
Three more riders rode immediately behind Farley. One of them Grant recognized as one of the roustabouts that had given him the beating in the Wheel House, another was Kurt Battle, and the third was a lank, scarecrow figure of a man who had about him an aura of danger that was unmistakable, and Grant knew immediately that this was Kirk Lloyd, the gunman.
Farley spoke to Kurt Battle, smiling faintly. “I guess maybe you ought to go after the law, Kurt. We've caught them red-handed trying to steal your wagon and equipment.”
Lloyd was gaunt and humorless, forever watchful. Battle seemed to be skating the thin edge of panic; his eyes blinked rapidly, a nervous little twitch tugged spasmodically at the corner of his soft mouth. The roustabout grinned stupidly as though he alone saw some enormous joke in the situation.
Hardly a second had passed, the four horsemen were still riding toward them, but Grant knew instinctively what happened. They had underrated Farley. They had thought that they could get out of town and do their fighting in the open, if fight they must, but the oilman had played it differently. He was playing to bring the law in on his side!
Farley had got hold of Battle and him, and the rest of it had been easy.
For one brief moment Grant stared at the oilman almost in admiration. He was dangerous and deadly and smart, and being smart was the worst of all, because now he would have the law working for him.
At that moment Grant had almost forgotten Valois and young Muller up on the wagon. He felt sick with
