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 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.