Apparently she had forgotten that she had asked him there until he quietly announced himself by clearing his throat. She turned from the dress quickly, as though it had stung her, and vivid color mounted her cheeks for just a moment.
“It's a pretty dress,” Grant offered.
“I didn't ask you here to talk of dresses, Mr. Grant.” It was “Mr. Grant” now, not “Joe.” Quickly, she took the dress from the rack and hung it behind a gingham-screened wardrobe against the far wall.
“Are you working for the Muller lease?” she asked briskly.
He frowned. “That's up to you, I guess.”
“When you didn't come back to the lease the night my... father was killed, I thought you had run away.” She choked for an instant, then quickly looked away. “You were going to run away, weren't you?”
“I can't say the notion didn't enter my mind. But there's no place to run, I guess. If you still want a hand that knows nothing about the oil business, I guess I'm ready to work.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
GRANT'S JOB WAS to ride the boundaries of the lease, armed with carbine and revolver, and see that Ben Farley's men were kept away from the derrick. He built a windbreak of brush and blackjack logs to the north of the derrick site and from this piece of high ground he could watch the lease in the daytime. The nights were more difficult. Two riders had to circle line continuously; this job was divided up between Grant and Bud Muller, Morphy and Calloway.
It was now five days since Zack Muller had been laid away in Tulsa, and a lot had happened. The year 1905 had died a noisy death in Sabo and Kiefer, although the entrance of a new year meant just another workday on the Muller lease. Talk was growing that Indian Territory and the Oklahoma country would soon be admitted as a single state. New gushers came in every day on the Glenn ranch. New derricks were going up so fast that from a distance this shallow basin looked like some strange, outlandish forest. There was great excitement in the air that winter. This was the new Land of Promise, and every day the trains brought in fresh loads of eastern businessmen, drifters, organizers, harlots, politicians, gamblers.
Joe Grant did not like it. Boom towns and fast money attracted outlaws, and outlaws attracted more deputy marshals, and with every extra marshal in the territory his own chances for survival grew slimmer.
Why he stayed, he could not say. He had a strong horse and a good saddle; he would stand a fair chance of escaping to Texas, in spite of Marshal Jim Dagget.
He wondered about this, hunkering down by his small fire in front of the windbreak. He could see the Muller derrick taking shape near the banks of Slush Creek, the intricate structure of girts and sway braces casting lacelike patterns over the barren ground. A long sheet-iron enclosure had been built to house the big band wheel and engine; and where the tent used to be there was now a new bunkhouse also sided with sheet iron. Working with a green, derelict crew was a slow business, but Rhea kept them on the job. Somehow she managed to keep them on the lease and away from the saloons of Sabo.
Grant grinned to himself. By the time they finished one of Rhea's workdays they were too tired to do anything but sleep, himself included.
He added more green wood to his small fire. The wind was razor sharp, steel flavored with snow, and at last he got up and walked in a small circle about his fire, stamping his feet against hard ground. Suddenly he came alert, reaching instinctively for his carbine. Far down the brush-lined banks of Slush Creek he saw a horseman break through the blackjack and head in his direction. It was Turk Valois.
Grant breathed easier and waited for the runner to come within calling distance.
“This is quite a job you've got,” Valois said wryly, dropping stiffly from the saddle.
“It's not so bad with the windbreak. You come from Sabo?”
“Kiefer,” the runner said, holding his hands to the dancing flame. “I heard something in town I thought you might be interested in. You ever hear of a man named Kirk Lloyd?”
Grant shook his head.
“Over in the Oklahoma country,” Valois went on soberly, “Lloyd's got a reputation as a gun shark. Usually he works on the side of the law, special marshal or something like that, when a town's filled up with hard cases and the city fathers decide to fight fire with fire. Usually, like I say, he's on the side of the law, but not always. It depends on which job pays the best.”
The name of Lloyd meant nothing to Grant, but he had seen enough hired gunmen to know that they were full of trouble. “Does this gun shark have anything to do with me?”
“With both of us. I learned this morning that he's on Ben Farley's pay roll.” Valois squatted down by the fire and looked up at Grant. “I own a gun, and I'm not such a bad shot, but I'm not in a class with Kirk Lloyd. Are you?”
“I never hired out my gun, if that's what you mean.” Then his eyes narrowed. “Do you think Lloyd had anything to do with Zack Muller's murder?”
The runner shrugged. “Killing's his business, but he didn't show up in Kiefer till after the murder. I think it's you he's after—and me. Farley wouldn't have needed an expert gunman to bushwhack an old man like Zack Muller.”
Grant smiled without humor. “Well, thanks for the warning.”
They stood together on the windy slope, each man thinking his own thoughts. From below they could hear the hammering and see the derrick form slowly lifting on its four thick legs. Valois shook his head as if in wonder. “I never thought the Muller kid would get that much work out of the hands I brought him.”
Grant said, “Bud's got nothing much to do with it. Rhea's the one who's getting the work out of them.”
The runner did not seem surprised. Then as they stood looking they saw Rhea come out of the dugout and stand for a moment gazing out at the derrick and the land that were hers. Even from the distance of the slope her energy and her ambition could be felt. There was nothing feminine about her from that distance, only a relentless, hurried urgency.
Grant found himself studying the runner's face. Valois was unaware of it, he had eyes only for Rhea Muller. And suddenly Grant had the answers to all his questions—why Valois had stepped into the Wheel House fight, why he had deliberately turned Farley against him, why he had brought them workers....
It was all written in the runner's face at that moment: he was in love with Rhea Muller. Still in love with her. Always would be in love with her.
Grant was faintly surprised to see it written there so plainly, for he still remembered Valois' bitterness when he had spoken of Rhea before. He was a proud man and Rhea had broken him—her ambition and greed had broken him, but they hadn't changed a thing. He still loved her.
An uneasy chill walked over Grant's back. Maybe, he thought, I'm looking at myself a few days or weeks from now. He, too, was proud, but if he let himself fall in love with a girl like Rhea...
He'd rather not think about it, and he looked away and tried to put his mind on other things. But in some dark part of his mind he knew that it was already too late. A dart of jealousy, almost anger, went through him when he saw the runner looking at Rhea the way he was looking at her now. He liked Turk Valois but he did not like the things he saw in his face. With an abrupt movement he pulled up the collar of his windbreaker and said:
“Thanks again for the warning, Valois. I'll try to keep my eyes open.”
“It's more than Kirk Lloyd that you have to worry about,” Valois said quietly. “Well...” The two men shook hands two men much alike, big, strong, and proud. Both with eyes for the same girl.
That night the trouble started.