I wouldn’t have minded for myself. If I’d been up there on my own I should have been happy. But my mood reacted inevitably to the mood of the others and all the time I had the uncanny feeling that we were all waiting for something to happen. Our isolation wasn’t natural. Fergus couldn’t ignore us indefinitely. He didn’t dare let us bring in a well. And there was Trevedian. That phrase of Jean’s — about slapping Trevedian in the face — stuck in my mind. The man was biding his time. I felt it. And so did Jean. Sometimes I’d find her standing, alone and solitary, her work forgotten, staring towards the dam.
And then the blow fell. It was on July 4th. Boy had left that morning taking core samples down to Winnick in Calgary. The weather was bad and when I came on watch at midnight it was blowing half a gale with the wind driving a murk of rain before it that was sometimes sleet, sometimes hail and occasionally snow. I was wearing practically everything I could muster, for the wind was from the east and it was bitterly cold. As usual I had Moses with me and the Luger was strapped to my belt.
The team on duty closed down the draw works and the drill clattered to a standstill. The rig stopped shaking and all was suddenly silent except for a queer howling sound made by the wind in the steel struts of the rig. As the big diesel of the draw works stopped the lights snapped off and blackness closed in. Torches flickered and then the boys called out Goodnight and followed along the line of markers that led back to the ranch-house, four hunched figures against the flickering light of their torches. Then a curtain of sleet blotted them out and the dog and I were alone on the empty platform of the rig.
The switch from noisy activity to utter blackness was, I remember, very sudden that night. The lights of the dam were completely blotted out and there was not even the ugly rattle of the mixers to keep me company since they were down-wind. I was alone in the solitude of the mountains.
I made the usual round of the trucks which were drawn up at various points in the vicinity of the rig. It was a routine inspection and my torch did not probe very inquisitively. It was too cold. The dog, I remember, was restless, but whether because he smelt smoking or had a premonition or just because he didn’t like the weather I cannot say. I finished the round as quickly as possible and then climbed to the platform. For a time I paced up and down and at length I sought the comparative warmth of the little crew shelter, a wooden hut at the back of the platform fitted with a bench. I smoked cigarettes, occasionally opening the door and peering out.
Time passed slowly that night. The dog kept moving about. I tried to make him settle, but every time he got himself curled up something made him get to his feet again!
It was about two-thirty and I had just peered out to see it snowing hard. As I closed the door, Moses suddenly cocked his head on one side and gave a low growl. The next moment he leapt for the door. I opened it and he shot through. And at the same instant there was a great roar of flame, a whoof of hot air that seemed to fling back the snow and seared my eyeballs with the hot blast of it. It was followed almost instantly by two more explosions in close succession that shook the rig and sent great gobs of flaming fuel high into the night.
In the lurid glare of one of these liquid torches I saw a figure running, a shapeless unrecognisable bundle of clothing heading for the dam. And behind him came Moses in great bounds. The figure checked, turned and as Moses leapt I saw the quick stab of a gun, though the sound of it was lost in the holocaust of flame that surrounded me. The dog checked in mid leap, twisted and fell.
I had my gun out now and I began firing, emptying the magazine at the fleeing figure. Then suddenly the pool of flame that had illuminated him died out and he vanished into the red curtain of the driving snow.
As suddenly as they had started the flames died down. For a moment I saw the skeletons of the two tankers, black and twisted against the lurid background. And then quite abruptly everything was dark again, except for a few bits of metal that showed a lingering tendency to remain red hot. I hurried down from the platform of the rig and at the bottom I met Moses, dragging himself painfully on three legs. In the light of the torch I saw a bullet had furrowed his shoulder. He was bleeding badly and his right front leg would support no weight. I tried to feel whether the blade of the shoulder had been broken, but he wouldn’t let me touch it.
I made a quick round of the remaining vehicles to check that there was nothing smouldering. Wisps of smoke still came from the burnt-out tankers, but there was no danger of any more fire. They were already sizzling gently and steaming as the snow settled on their twisted metal frames. Then I hurried to the ranch-house with Moses following as best he could.
Every moment I expected to meet the others running to the rig to find out what had happened. It seemed incredible to me that they couldn’t have seen the glare of that blaze. And yet when I reached the house it was in darkness. There was no sound. They were all fast asleep and blissfully ignorant of the disaster. For disaster it was; I knew that by the time I’d covered half the distance to the house. The attack had been made on the one thing that could stop us dead.
Without fuel we could not drill. And like my blowing up of the road it would be a hard thing to prove in a court of law.
The first person I woke was Jean and I gave Moses into her care, avoiding meeting her gaze as I told her briefly what had happened. I was scared of the reproach I knew must be in her eyes. She loved that dog. After that I woke Garry.
I think that was one of the hardest things I ever had to do, to tell Garry that two of his trucks were gone and all his fuel. I knew what he’d think — that I had started the rough stuff, that I had invited this raid. He didn’t say anything when I had finished, but put on his clothes and strode out into the storm. I followed him.
When he’d looked at the damage he said, ‘Well, I hope the insurance company pay up, that’s all.’ We went into the hut then. ‘Cigarette?’ He thrust the packet towards me. As we lit up he said, ‘It might have been worse, I guess. The whole rig could have gone.’ He leaned back and closed his eyes, drawing on his cigarette. ‘We’re down just over four thousand two hundred. Fortunately the rig tank was filled up yesterday. There’s probably two hundred gallons or so in it. That’ll get us down to about four thousand five hundred. With luck we’ll only need another seven hundred gallons — say a thousand.’ He had been talking to himself, but now he opened his eyes and looked across at me. ‘Any idea how we’ll get a thousand gallons of fuel up here?’
‘We’ll have to bring it in by the pony trail,’ I said.
‘Hmmm. Twenty gallons to a pony; that means fifty ponies. Know where you can get fifty ponies? It’ll make the cost about a dollar a gallon. That’s a thousand bucks and I’m broke. Can you raise a thousand bucks?’
There was nothing I could say. His big frame looked crumpled and tired. An hour later the morning shift came on. They stood and stared at the gutted trucks, talking in low, excited whispers. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ Garry shouted at them. ‘Get the rig going.’
He remained with them and I walked slowly back to the ranch-house, hearing the clatter of the drill behind me, very conscious that they could go on drilling for just over a week and then we’d have to close down.
Jean was still up as I staggered wearily in. ‘How’s Moses?’ I asked as I pulled off my wet clothes.
‘He’ll be all right,’ she said and went through into the kitchen. She came back with a mug of tea. ‘Drink that,’ she said.
‘What about Moses?’ I said, taking the mug. ‘Is his shoulder all right?’