The Bold Frontier (16 page)

Briskly the woman ordered two older women following her to bring her bags. She stepped quickly down the steps when the train halted, and Tom Hunter moved forward, sweeping his hat off and taking her hand. The woman smiled.

“They ain’t strangers,” Limerty muttered sourly. “He’s probably been slickin’ his way in by mail …”

Croydon watched Hunter help the woman into the carriage. The maids followed with the baggage, and, amid the awed stares of the depot loungers, the carriage clattered away through the dusk toward the Sooner House. Croydon felt an angry wrath building again. He caught the woman’s name. Elizabeth Bryant.

“Come on,” he said somberly. “Let’s get a drink.”

He drank a good deal that evening. Next day he turned up before Mrs. Bryant had awakened, dressed in his best clothes. The maid ushered him into the parlor of the suite at the Sooner House and left the room. He fidgeted, taking in the expensive lamps, the thick, rich carpet, the Eastern furniture. He rolled himself a smoke to calm his nerves.

The bedroom door opened and Elizabeth Bryant swept into the room, skirts belling behind her. She was a damned pretty woman, Croydon reflected. And the way she held her head indicated a strong will and perhaps a temper.

“Well, Mr. Croydon,” she said briskly, seating herself, “what can I do for you? I take it this isn’t a social call.”

“No, it isn’t. I run a freighting line, Mrs. Bryant.” He hesitated, then decided to show her his hand all at once. “I can haul your crude from the wells to the railroad here in town for one dollar per barrel less than Tom Hunter charges. I came because I heard the contract was open for bid.”

“You heard correctly.” She gazed at him. Her eyes
were
dark, almost black. “Do you have a cigarette, Mr. Croydon?”

Astounded, he rolled one for her. Here was a woman of a kind he’d never known before; a frank, bold woman from the East. He handed her the cigarette. She smiled her thanks. She inhaled slowly. The smoke drifted through the bars of sunlight streaming in the windows.

“Mr. Croydon, Tom Hunter has the contract for two more weeks. At that time I’ll decide whether to keep him on, or hire another company.”

“Hunter and I are the only freighters in the territory.”

“I know that.” Her coolness amazed him. “I base my decision upon a tally that’s to be made for me. Men from my wells will check the total number of barrels of crude delivered here in Sooner during the next two weeks. The man who delivers the most oil gets the contract.”

Croydon felt a surge of triumph. He could cancel off yesterday’s loss now; he felt sure he could beat Hunter.

He’d hire more skinners, rent wagons … it would be two weeks of hellishly hard work, but he could do it.

“I feel I must tell you one thing,” Elizabeth Bryant added. “Safety factors also enter into my consideration. Any accidents such as that which occurred yesterday will influence my choice.”

Croydon’s eyes blazed. “Who told you about that? Tom Hunter?”

“Mr. Hunter. …” she began.

“One of Mr. Hunter’s men caused the explosion.”

“That’s a rather strong accusation.”

“I can back it up if I have to.”

Elizabeth Bryant came to her feet. Anger shone in her eyes too. “Mr. Croydon, I have no personal quarrel with you. You have no reason to shout at me, and I won’t stand for it. You’ve heard my terms. Now please leave.”

Croydon stood there dumbfounded. On one hand the Senator’s widow was a lovely, desirable woman. On the other, she was willful and he decided to press the matter no further. He would fight for the contract by delivering the most oil to Sooner.

He put on his hat and said a curt, “Good day, Mrs. Bryant.” He slammed the door loudly behind him.

Going down the stairs he met Tom Hunter. The big man started to brush by him, but Croydon caught his sleeve. Hunter whirled, his gray eyes narrowed. “If you’re going to see Mrs. Bryant,” Croydon said, “you can tell her how your boy Flinch caused the explosion yesterday. One of my men saw him.”

Hunter laughed, but it was mirthless. “Croydon, you’re a liar. What’s more, you’re annoying. Stay out of my way.”

“You’re going to lose that contract,” Croydon said.

Hunter dropped his gaze to Croydon’s hand on his arm. “Let go of my arm, Croydon.”

Croydon hesitated. Hunter wore a gun, and knew how to use it. What’s more, winning the contract was the most important thing in the world at this moment. He let go.

Hunter grinned. “My boy Flinch, as you call him, will blow a hole in your stomach if you keep on telling stories about him. Remember that, Croydon.”

Hunter disappeared up the stairs.

Dune Limerty was shouting hoarse orders when Croydon returned to the yard. “Hey, Dune,” he called, “what’s the matter?”

Limerty scowled. “Guess you didn’t notice when you left.” Limerty pointed. “Some polecat got in here last night and sawed through every axle on every wagon we got.”

Croydon took in the damage with a bitter gaze. Already the skinners were at work dismantling the wheels. “That’s just fine,” Croydon said. He described his interview with Elizabeth Bryant.

“She sounds like a real fire-eater,” Limerty said when he had finished. “But that don’t help the fact that we’re due out at noon for the next trip, and we’ll never make it. If we don’t get our licks in first, we’ll fall so far behind we never will catch up with Hunter.”

“You don’t need to tell me that,” Croydon said. “Let’s get to work.” He tore off his shirt and tossed it on the office steps.

The sun boiled down as the morning wore on, sending salty sweat coursing down his back to make his scorched skin sting even more hellishly. He and Limerty and the others worked tirelessly, repairing axles and cutting and mounting new ones.

Toward the middle of the morning Elizabeth Bryant appeared. She was driving Hunter’s carriage, but she was alone. Croydon put down a hammer and walked out toward her. She kept moving, slowly. He grabbed the horse’s headstall. The woman glared at him.

She was dressed differently, he noticed. Rough shirt and denim trousers. A damned desirable female. But on her hip rested a holstered pistol.

“What do you want, Mr. Croydon?”

“I just thought you might like to know somebody sawed through the axles on our wagons last night. I thought you might have a fair idea of who did it.” He couldn’t resist a note of bitterness.

“Release the horse,” Elizabeth Bryant said.

He stood his ground, staring her down.

Suddenly she had the pistol in her hand, aimed between his eyes. “Move out of the way, Mr. Croydon.”

Still he did not move. Her lower lip trembled. She shifted the pistol to her left hand with a lightning movement and pulled the long buggy whip from its socket. She lashed the whip across Croydon’s face. The horses reared, throwing him to the ground. The carriage rattled away up the street.

Croydon got up, wiping blood off his cheek. No one looked at him when he came back into the yard.
Looks like she’s setting her mind against me,
he thought.
The only way to do it is to beat Hunter’s record, with no accidents. She won’t be able to refuse the contract then.

Work went on. Limerty cursed the men endlessly, spurring them on. Croydon dressed after his noon meal and went to the bank. When he returned, he had rented a dozen more wagons and hired additional skinners. They rolled out of Sooner at dusk, toward the oil fields, half a day late. Hunter’s outfit had left that morning. Every cent Jeff Croydon had had in the bank was gone now, sunk desperately into the extra gear.

The days of the following week blended imperceptibly into one another. Croydon’s outfit worked day and night. In a haze of weariness, Croydon drove himself and his men, grabbing a wink of sleep when he could, a cup of coffee or a plate of beans. In their first two days they covered the Big Blow Wells, numbers one through five, and the Oh, Nellie! rig, one through four. They wheeled the mules back toward Sooner, rolling through the darkness, and Croydon imagined that his world would forever be one of darkness and eerie fire on the horizon, thundering wheels and braying mules, rattling barrels and loud curses.

They rolled into Sooner at dawn of the third day. Hunter’s outfit had gone out again the night before. But Croydon consulted the begrimed tally sheet in the hands of Matheson, a Bryant man, and noticed with pleasure that they were fifteen barrels ahead of Hunter’s freighters. The men had one hour off in which to grab breakfast, a shave, or a few jolts of whiskey, and then Croydon had them moving again, popping the buckskin over the heads of the animals as they clattered out of town under a lowering sky.

They covered the Oklahoma Enterprise wells that day, the Golden Garter wells the day after that, and finished with the Illinois Settlement wells at the end of the fifth day. The twenty-three wagons were jammed with tied-down barrels, tier upon tier, until the wagon beds fairly sagged. Limerty begged for a rest, for the other skinners as much as for himself. Croydon listened to the ominous rumbling, his eyes on the black sky beyond the forest of derricks.

“Storm’s been brewing for two days, Dune,” he said. “This load has got to go back to Sooner tonight. We’ve got enough men, and they’ve been taking turns sleeping and driving all this week. They can keep it up one more night.”

Limerty sighed. “But they won’t keep it up much longer. We ain’t paying them enough …” But despite much grumbling, the freight wagons rolled within the hour.

The storm broke about midnight, filling the world with a black roar of rain. The wheels bogged down, the mules spooked easily, and one of the wagon straps broke, toppling a tier of barrels into the mud.

Lanterns made eerie splotches of light in the gloom as Croydon labored, getting the barrels reloaded. The men grumbled louder now. He yelled at them, every angry word an outward sign of his own inward fear that they’d lose the race.

The storm abated before morning, and dawn found them again in Sooner. This time, the tally showed them twenty-five barrels behind Hunter. Croydon was not pleased. On top of that, the extra skinners and even a couple of the regulars confronted him and said that they didn’t like his kind of hard work. Too hard, too little pay.

When Croydon returned from the bank this time, a heavy mortgage lay on his outfit. He doled out salaries, plus a bonus to each man, and promised them a double bonus if they lasted until the end of the two weeks. All of them said they’d stay.

Once more they rolled out, splitting up now, working the smaller outfits, two and three wagons at a time. They returned to Sooner on the evening of the seventh day, around meal time. As they swung past Hunter’s yard, Croydon saw that the wagons stood idle. When they had unloaded he told the men that they had the night off. A few feeble cheers greeted his words. Croydon smiled grimly at the tally Matheson had made. Two barrels ahead of Tom Hunter. …

He and Limerty decided to eat in the Sooner House dining room. As soon as they entered, Croydon regretted it. For there at a secluded table, Elizabeth Bryant sat with Tom Hunter. The big man wouldn’t trouble himself to go into the field. He had enough skinners to do the work. He stayed in town and kept Mrs. Bryant busy.

“Ain’t that something,” Limerty muttered, jabbing his fork into his fried potatoes. Croydon paid no attention. He watched the woman, the high tilt of her chin, the lush sweep of breast under the severe gown. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, perhaps from the bottle of wine Tom Hunter had furnished. She laughed a great deal.

Slowly the dining room cleared, until Croydon, Limerty, Mrs. Bryant and Hunter were the only ones left, separated by half a dozen tables. Hunter was leaning forward speaking to Mrs. Bryant when suddenly his head snapped around and he fixed Croydon with his gaze. Elizabeth Bryant turned too, smiling frostily.

Croydon nodded in a pleasant way, blowing smoke from his cigar and noting Hunter’s obvious displeasure in being watched. It was only a matter of moments then before Hunter piloted Mrs. Bryant out the door, hand on her arm, brow knotted in a frown of irritation.

Croydon laughed. “Hunter’s getting rattled. But I swear that Bryant woman is beyond me.”

Despite the fact that he didn’t understand her, he still felt an attraction. It was almost with surprise that he found himself knocking on her hotel room door at half past nine that same evening.

The maid ushered him in with protests that Mrs. Bryant had retired. But Mrs. Bryant greeted him, a quilted robe wrapped around her and her dark hair falling across her shoulders, lustrous in the glow of the lamps. Croydon realized that she was truly beautiful.

The maid bustled around for a few minutes, straightening things uselessly, until Elizabeth Bryant dismissed her.

“Well, Mr. Croydon. What is it this time?” Her tone was faintly defensive. She stood close to him, and he caught the fresh-scrubbed smell of her skin, mingling with the scent of her hair. Her features seemed softer in the lamplight.

He juggled his hat in his hands. “I just wanted to inquire if you’d paid heed to the tally. We’re keeping up with Hunter.”

She laughed. “That’s a very lame excuse for calling on me at this hour.”

“I know.” Their eyes met, held. Croydon’s hat dropped from his hands. He seized her shoulders, kissed her hard. She responded for a long moment. And then pulled backwards hastily, anger rekindled in her eyes. “Damn you,” she breathed. “Damn you, Croydon, get out and don’t come back.”

And then he understood. Senator Lucas Bryant had been a much older man. How she’d married such a man, God alone knew. Family pressure, perhaps. Stranger things happened. But here was no woman born for a cold, passionless marriage. Here was a woman warm and alive and filled with a wild kind of desire. She saw that he knew her secret. Hence the anger.

“You didn’t come out here just because of the Senator’s wells, did you?” He said it without malice, but she didn’t take it that way. Her hand swung up, smacking loudly on his flesh. He wanted to be angry, but he couldn’t find it in him.

Croydon turned to go. He didn’t look at her. And as he made his way back to the cot in the office, he realized that he might have ruined any chance of ever winning her over. Her pride would have been severely wounded. You’re a fool, he told himself. He fell into a troubled sleep that night, rolling restlessly on the cot, but knowing he would double his efforts to win the contract now. He had a second stake. The chance it would bring him to be near Elizabeth Bryant.