Gunsight Pass by William MacLeod Raine

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In the rear of the room were the faro layouts, the roulette wheels, and
the poker players. Around each of these the shifting crowd surged.
Mexicans, Chinese, and even Indians brushed shoulders with white men of
many sorts and conditions. The white-faced professional gambler was in
evidence, winning the money of big brown men in miner's boots and
corduroys. The betting was wild and extravagant, for the spirit of the
speculator had carried away the cool judgment of most of these men. They
had seen a barber become a millionaire in a day because the company in
which he had plunged had struck a gusher. They had seen the same man
borrow five dollars three months later to carry him over until he got a
job. Riches were pouring out of the ground for the gambler who would take
a chance. Thrift was a much-discredited virtue in Malapi. The one
unforgivable vice was to be "a piker."

Bob found his man at a faro table. While the cards were being shuffled,
he engaged him to come out next evening to the Jackpot properties. As
soon as the dealer began to slide the cards out of the case the attention
of the engineer went back to his bets.

While Dave was standing close to the wall, ready to leave as soon as Bob
returned to him, he caught sight of an old acquaintance. Steve Russell
was playing stud poker at a table a few feet from him. The cowpuncher
looked up and waved his hand.

"See you in a minute, Dave," he called, and as soon as the pot had been
won he said to the man shuffling the cards, "Deal me out this hand."

He rose, stepped across to Sanders, and shook hands with a strong grip.
"You darned old son-of-a-gun! I'm sure glad to see you. Heard you was
back. Say, you've ce'tainly been goin' some. Suits me. I never did like
either Dug or Miller a whole lot. Dug's one sure-enough bad man and
Miller's a tinhorn would-be. What you did to both of 'em was a-plenty.
But keep yore eye peeled, old-timer. Miller's where he belongs again,
but Dug's still on the range, and you can bet he's seein' red these
days. He'll gun you if he gets half a chance."

"Yes," said Dave evenly.

"You don't figure to let yoreself get caught again without a
six-shooter." Steve put the statement with the rising inflection.

"No."

"Tha's right. Don't let him get the drop on you. He's sudden death with
a gun."

Bob joined them. After a moment's conversation Russell drew them to a
corner of the room that for the moment was almost deserted.

"Say, you heard the news, Bob?"

"I can tell you that better after I know what it is," returned Hart with
a grin.

"The stage was held up at Cottonwood Bend and robbed of seventeen
thousand dollars. The driver was killed."

"When?"

"This mo'nin'. They tried to keep it quiet, but it leaked out."

"Whose money was it?"

"Brad Steelman's pay roll and a shipment of gold for the bank."

"Any idea who did it?"

Steve showed embarrassment. "Why, no, _I_ ain't, if that's what you
mean."

"Well, anybody else?"

"Tha's what I wanta tell you. Two men were in the job. They're whisperin'
that Em Crawford was one."

"Crawford! Some of Steelman's fine work in that rumor, I'll bet. He's
crazy if he thinks he can get away with that. Tha's plumb foolish talk.
What evidence does he claim?" demanded Hart.

"Em deposited ten thousand with the First National to pay off a note he
owed the bank. Rode into town right straight to the bank two hours after
the stage got in. Then, too, seems one of the hold-ups called the other
one Crawford."

"A plant," said Dave promptly.

"Looks like." Bob's voice was rich with sarcasm. "I don't reckon the
other one rose up on his hind laigs and said, 'I'm Bob Hart,' did he?"

"They claim the second man was Dave here."

"Hmp! What time d'you say this hold-up took place?"

"Must 'a' been about eleven."

"Lets Dave out. He was fifteen miles away, and we can prove it by at
least six witnesses."

"Good. I reckon Em can put in an alibi too."

"I'll bet he can." Hart promised this with conviction.

"Trouble is they say they've got witnesses to show Em was travelin'
toward the Bend half an hour before the hold-up. Art Johnson and Clem
Purdy met him while they was on their way to town."

"Was Crawford alone?"

"He was then. Yep."

"Any one might'a' been there. You might. I might. That don't prove a
thing."

"Hell, I know Em Crawford's not mixed up in any hold-up, let alone a
damned cowardly murder. You don't need to tell _me_ that. Point is that
evidence is pilin' up. Where did Em get the ten thousand to pay the bank?
Two days ago he was tryin' to increase the loan the First National had
made him."

Dave spoke. "I don't know where he got it, but unless he's a born
fool--and nobody ever claimed that of Crawford--he wouldn't take the
money straight to the bank after he had held up the stage and killed
the driver. That's a strong point in his favor."

"If he can show where he got the ten thousand," amended Russell. "And of
course he can."

"And where he spent that two hours after the hold-up before he came to
town. That'll have to be explained too," said Bob.

"Oh, Em he'll be able to explain that all right," decided Steve
cheerfully.

"Where is Crawford now?" asked Dave. "He hasn't been arrested, has he?"

"Not yet. But he's bein' watched. Soon as he showed up at the bank the
sheriff asked to look at his six-shooter. Two cartridges had been fired.
One of the passengers on the stage told me two shots was fired from a
six-gun by the boss hold-up. The second one killed old Tim Harrigan."

"Did they accuse Crawford of the killing?"

"Not directly. He was asked to explain. I ain't heard what his story
was."

"We'd better go to his house and talk with him," suggested Hart. "Maybe
he can give as good an alibi as you, Dave."

"You and I will go straight there," decided Sanders. "Steve, get three
saddle horses. We'll ride out to the Bend and see what we can learn on
the ground."

"I'll cash my chips, get the broncs, and meet you lads at Crawford's,"
said Russell promptly.

CHAPTER XXII

NUMBER THREE COMES IN

Joyce opened the door to the knock of the young men. At sight of them her
face lit.

"Oh, I'm so glad you've come!" she cried, tears in her voice. She caught
her hands together in a convulsive little gesture. "Isn't it dreadful?
I've been afraid all the time that something awful would happen--and
now it has."

"Don't you worry, Miss Joyce," Bob told her cheerfully. "We ain't gonna
let anything happen to yore paw. We aim to get busy right away and run
this thing down. Looks like a frame-up. If it is, you betcha we'll get
at the truth."

"Will you? Can you?" She turned to Dave in appeal, eyes starlike in a
face that was a white and shining oval in the semi-darkness.

"We'll try," he said simply.

Something in the way he said it, in the quiet reticence of his promise,
sent courage flowing to her heart. She had called on him once before, and
he had answered splendidly and recklessly.

"Where's Mr. Crawford?" asked Bob.

"He's in the sitting-room. Come right in."

Her father was sitting in a big chair, one leg thrown carelessly over the
arm. He was smoking a cigar composedly.

"Come in, boys," he called. "Reckon you've heard that I'm a stage rustler
and a murderer."

Joyce cried out at this, the wide, mobile mouth trembling.

"Just now. At the Gusher," said Bob. "They didn't arrest you?"

"Not yet. They're watchin' the house. Sit down, and I'll tell it to you."

He had gone out to see a homesteader about doing some work for him. On
the way he had met Johnson and Purdy near the Bend, just before he had
turned up a draw leading to the place in the hills owned by the man whom
he wanted to see. Two hours had been spent riding to the little valley
where the nester had built his corrals and his log house, and when
Crawford arrived neither he nor his wife was at home. He returned to the
road, without having met a soul since he had left it, and from there
jogged on back to town. On the way he had fired twice at a rattlesnake.

"You never reached the Bend, then, at all," said Dave.

"No, but I cayn't prove I didn't." The old cattleman looked at the end of
his cigar thoughtfully. "Nor I cayn't prove I went out to Dick Grein's
place in that three-four hours not accounted for."

"Anyhow, you can show where you got the ten thousand dollars you paid the
bank," said Bob hopefully.

A moment of silence; then Crawford spoke. "No, son, I cayn't tell that
either."

Faint and breathless with suspense, Joyce looked at her father with
dilated eyes. "Why not?"

"Because the money was loaned me on those conditions."

"But--but--don't you see, Dad?--if you don't tell that--"

"They'll think I'm guilty. Well, I reckon they'll have to think it, Joy."
The steady gray eyes looked straight into the brown ones of the girl.
"I've been in this county boy and man for 'most fifty years. Any one
that's willin' to think me a cold-blooded murderer at this date, why,
he's welcome to hold any opinion he pleases. I don't give a damn what he
thinks."

"But we've got to prove--"

"No, we haven't. They've got to do the proving. The law holds me innocent
till I'm found guilty."

"But you don't aim to keep still and let a lot of miscreants blacken yore
good name!" suggested Hart.

"You bet I don't, Bob. But I reckon I'll not break my word to a friend
either, especially under the circumstances this money was loaned."

"He'll release you when he understands," cried Joyce.

"Don't bank on that, honey," Crawford said slowly.

"You ain't to mention this. I'm tellin' you three private. He cayn't come
out and tell that he let me have the money. Understand? You don't any of
you know a thing about how I come by that ten thousand. I've refused to
answer questions about that money. That's my business."

"Oh, but, Dad, you can't do that. You'll have to give an explanation.
You'll have to--"

"The best explanation I can give, Joy, is to find out who held up the
stage and killed Tim Harrigan. It's the only one that will satisfy me.
It's the only one that will satisfy my friends."

"That's true," said Sanders.

"Steve Russell is bringin' hawsses," said Bob. "We'll ride out to the
Bend to-night and be ready for business there at the first streak of
light. Must be some trail left by the hold-ups."

Crawford shook his head. "Probably not. Applegate had a posse out there
right away. You know Applegate. He'd blunder if he had a chance. His boys
have milled all over the place and destroyed any trail that was left."

"We'll go out anyhow--Dave and Steve and I. Won't do any harm. We're
liable to discover something, don't you reckon?"

"Maybeso. Who's that knockin' on the door, Joy?"

Some one was rapping on the front door imperatively. The girl opened it,
to let into the hall a man in greasy overalls.

"Where's Mr. Crawford?" he demanded excitedly.

"Here. In the sitting-room. What's wrong?"

"Wrong! Not a thing!" He talked as he followed Joyce to the door of the
room. "Except that Number Three's come in the biggest gusher ever I see.
She's knocked the whole superstructure galley-west an' she's rip-r'arin'
to beat the Dutch."

Emerson Crawford leaped to his feet, for once visibly excited. "What?" he
demanded. "Wha's that?"

"Jus' like I say. The oil's a-spoutin' up a hundred feet like a fan.
Before mornin' the sump holes will be full and she'll be runnin' all over
the prairie."

"Burns sent you?"

"Yep. Says for you to get men and teams and scrapers and gunnysacks and
heavy timbers out there right away. Many as you can send."

Crawford turned to Bob, his face aglow. "Yore job, Bob. Spread the news.
Rustle up everybody you can get. Arrange with the railroad grade
contractor to let us have all his men, teams, and scrapers till we get
her hogtied and harnessed. Big wages and we'll feed the whole outfit
free. Hire anybody you can find. Buy a coupla hundred shovels and send
'em out to Number Three. Get Robinson to move his tent-restaurant out
there."

Hart nodded. "What about this job at the Bend?" he asked in a low voice.

"Dave and I'll attend to that. You hump on the Jackpot job. Sons, we're
rich, all three of us. Point is to keep from losin' that crude on the
prairie. Keep three shifts goin' till she's under control."

"We can't do anything at the Bend till morning," said Dave. "We'd better
put the night in helping Bob."

"Sure. We've got to get all Malapi busy. A dozen business men have got to
come down and open up their stores so's we can get supplies," agreed
Emerson.

Joyce, her face flushed and eager, broke in. "Ring the fire bell. That's
the quickest way."

"Sure enough. You got a haid on yore shoulders. Dave, you attend to that.
Bob, hit the dust for the big saloons and gather men. I'll see O'Connor
about the railroad outfit; then I'll come down to the fire-house and talk
to the crowd. We'll wake this old town up to-night, sons."

"What about me?" asked the messenger.

"You go back and tell Jed to hold the fort till Hart and his material
arrives."

Outside, they met Russell riding down the road, two saddled horses
following. With a word of explanation they helped themselves to his
mounts while he stared after them in surprise.

"I'll be dawggoned if they-all ain't three gents in a hurry," he murmured
to the breezes of the night. "Well, seein' as I been held up, I reckon
I'll have to walk back while the hawss-thieves ride."

Five minutes later the fire-bell clanged out its call to Malapi. From
roadside tent and gambling-hall, from houses and camp-fires, men and
women poured into the streets. For Malapi was a shell-town, tightly
packed and inflammable, likely to go up in smoke whenever a fire should
get beyond control of the volunteer company. Almost in less time than it
takes to tell it, the square was packed with hundreds of lightly clad
people and other hundreds just emerging from the night life of the place.

The clangor of the bell died away, but the firemen did not run out the
hose and bucket cart. The man tugging the rope had told them why he was
summoning the citizens.

"Some one's got to go out and explain to the crowd," said the fire chief
to Dave. "If you know about this strike you'll have to tell the boys."

"Crawford said he'd talk," answered Sanders.

"He ain't here. It's up to you. Go ahead. Just tell 'em why you rang the
bell."

Dave found himself pushed forward to the steps of the court-house a few
yards away. He had never before attempted to speak in public, and he had
a queer, dry tightening of the throat. But as soon as he began to talk
the words he wanted came easily enough.

"Jackpot Number Three has come in a big gusher," he said, lifting his
voice so that it would carry to the edge of the crowd.

Hundreds of men in the crowd owned stock in the Jackpot properties. At
Dave's words a roar went up into the night. Men shouted, danced, or
merely smiled, according to their temperament. Presently the thirst
for news dominated the enthusiasm. Gradually the uproar was stilled.

Again Dave's voice rang out clear as the bell he had been tolling. "The
report is that it's one of the biggest strikes ever known in the State.
The derrick has been knocked to pieces and the oil's shooting into the
air a hundred feet."

A second great shout drowned his words. This was an oil crowd. It dreamed
oil, talked oil, thought oil, prayed for oil. A stranger in the town was
likely to feel at first that the place was oil mad. What else can be said
of a town with derricks built through its front porches and even the
graveyard leased to a drilling company?

"The sump holes are filling," went on Sanders. "Soon the oil will the
running to waste on the prairie. We need men, teams, tools, wagons,
hundreds of slickers, tents, beds, grub. The wages will be one-fifty a
day more than the run of wages in the camp until the emergency has been
met, and Emerson Crawford will board all the volunteers who come out to
dig."

The speaker was lost again, this time in a buzz of voices of excited men.
But out of the hubbub Dave's shout became heard.

"All owners of teams and tools, all dealers in hardware and groceries,
are asked to step to the right-hand side of the crowd for a talk with Mr.
Crawford. Men willing to work till the gusher is under control, please
meet Bob Hart in front of the fire-house. I'll see any cooks and
restaurant-men alive to a chance to make money fast. Right here at the
steps."

"Good medicine, son," boomed Emerson Crawford, slapping him on the
shoulder. "Didn't know you was an orator, but you sure got this crowd
goin'. Bob here yet?"

"Yes. I saw him a minute ago in the crowd. Sorry I had to make promises
for you, but the fire chief wouldn't let me keep the crowd waiting. Some
one had to talk."

"Suits me. I'll run you for Congress one o' these days." Then, "I'll send
the grocery-men over to you. Tell them to get the grub out to-night. If
the restaurant-men don't buy it I'll run my own chuck wagon outfit. See
you later, Dave."

For the next twenty-four hours there was no night in Malapi. Streets were
filled with shoutings, hurried footfalls, the creaking of wagons, and the
thud of galloping horses. Stores were lit up and filled with buyers. For
once the Gusher and the Oil Pool and other resorts held small attraction
for the crowds. The town was moving out to see the big new discovery that
was to revolutionize its fortunes with the opening of a new and
tremendously rich field. Every ancient rig available was pressed into
service to haul men or supplies out to the Jackpot location. Scarcely a
minute passed, after the time that the first team took the road, without
a loaded wagon, packed to the sideboards, moving along the dusty road
into the darkness of the desert.

Three travelers on horseback rode in the opposite direction. Their
destination was Cottonwood Bend. Two of them were Emerson Crawford and
David Sanders. The third was an oil prospector who had been a passenger
on the stage when it was robbed.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE GUSHER

Jackpot number three had come in with a roar that shook the earth for
half a mile. Deep below the surface there was a hiss and a crackle, the
shock of rending strata giving way to the pressure of the oil pool. From
long experience as a driller, Jed Burns knew what was coming. He swept
his crew back from the platform, and none too soon to escape disaster.
They were still flying across the prairie when the crown box catapulted
into the sky and the whole drilling superstructure toppled over. Rocks,
clay, and sand were hurled into the air, to come down in a shower that
bombarded everything within a radius of several hundred yards.

The landscape next moment was drenched in black petroleum. The fine
particles of it filled the air, sprayed the cactus and the greasewood.
Rivulets of the viscid stuff began to gather in depressions and to flow
in gathering volume, as tributaries joined the stream, into the sump
holes prepared for it. The pungent odor of crude oil, as well as the
touch and the taste of it, penetrated the atmosphere.

Burns counted noses and discovered that none of his crew had been injured
by falling rocks or beams. He knew that his men could not possibly cope
with this geyser on a spree. It was a big strike, the biggest in the
history of the district, and to control the flow of the gusher would
necessitate tremendous efforts on a wholesale plan.

One of his men he sent in to Malapi on horseback with a hurry-up call to
Emerson Crawford, president of the company, for tools, machinery, men,
and teams. The others he put to salvaging the engine and accessories
and to throwing up an earth dike around the sump hole as a barrier
against the escaping crude. All through the night he fought impotently
against this giant that had burst loose from its prison two thousand feet
below the surface of the earth.

With the first faint streaks of day men came galloping across the desert
to the Jackpot. They came at first on horseback, singly, and later by
twos and threes. A buckboard appeared on the horizon, the driver leaning
forward as he urged on his team.

"Hart," decided the driller, "and comin' hell-for-leather."

Other teams followed, buggies, surreys, light wagons, farm wagons, and
at last heavily laden lumber wagons. Business in Malapi was "shot to
pieces," as one merchant expressed it. Everybody who could possibly get
away was out to see the big gusher.

There was an immediate stampede to make locations in the territory
adjacent. The wildcatter flourished. Companies were formed in ten minutes
and the stock subscribed for in half an hour. From the bootblack at
the hotel to the banker, everybody wanted stock in every company drilling
within a reasonable distance of Jackpot Number Three. Many legitimate
incorporations appeared on the books of the Secretary of State, and along
with these were scores of frauds intended only to gull the small investor
and separate him from his money. Saloons and gambling-houses, which did
business with such childlike candor and stridency, became offices for
the sale and exchange of stock. The boom at Malapi got its second wind.
Workmen, investors, capitalists, and crooks poured in to take advantage
of the inflation brought about by the new strike in a hitherto unknown
field. For the fame of Jackpot Number Three had spread wide. The
production guesses ranged all the way from ten to fifty thousand
barrels a day, most of which was still going to waste on the desert.

For Burns and Hart had not yet gained control over the flow, though an
army of men in overalls and slickers fought the gusher night and day. The
flow never ceased for a moment. The well steadily spouted a stream of
black liquid into the air from the subterranean chamber into which the
underground lake poured.

The attack had two objectives. The first was to check the outrush of oil.
The second was to save the wealth emerging from the mouth of the well and
streaming over the lip of the reservoir to the sandy desert.

A crew of men, divided into three shifts, worked with pick, shovel,
and scraper to dig a second and a third sump hole. The dirt from the
excavation was dumped at the edge of the working to build a dam for the
fluid. Sacks filled with wet sand reinforced this dirt.

Meanwhile the oil boiled up in the lake and flowed over its edges in
streams. As soon as the second reservoir was ready the tarry stuff was
siphoned into it from the original sump hole. By the time this was full a
third pool was finished, and into it the overflow was diverted. But in
spite of the great effort made to save the product of the gusher, the
sands absorbed many thousands of dollars' worth of petroleum.

This end of the work was under the direction of Bob Hart. For ten days he
did not take off his clothes. When he slept it was in cat naps, an hour
snatched now and again from the fight with the rising tide of wealth
that threatened to engulf its owners. He was unshaven, unbathed, his
clothes slimy with tar and grease. He ate on the job--coffee, beans,
bacon, cornbread, whatever the cooks' flunkies brought him--and did not
know what he was eating. Gaunt and dominating, with crisp decision and
yet unfailing good-humor, he bossed the gangs under him and led them
into the fight, holding them at it till flesh and blood revolted with
weariness. Of such stuff is the true outdoor Westerner made. He may drop
in his tracks from exhaustion after the emergency has been met, but so
long as the call for action lasts he will stick to the finish.

At the other end Jed Burns commanded. One after another he tried all the
devices he had known to succeed in capping or checking other gushers. The
flow was so continuous and powerful that none of these were effective.
Some wells flow in jets. They hurl out oil, die down like a geyser, and
presently have another hemorrhage. Jackpot Number Three did not pulse as
a cut artery does. Its output was steady as the flow of water in a pipe.
The heavy timbers with which he tried to stop up the outlet were hurled
aside like straws. He could not check the flow long enough to get
control.

On the evening of the tenth day Burns put in the cork. He made elaborate
preparations in advance and assigned his force to the posts where they
were to work. A string of eight-inch pipe sixty feet long was slid
forward and derricked over the stream. Above this a large number of steel
rails, borrowed from the incoming road, were lashed to the pipe to
prevent it from snapping. The pipe had been fitted with valves of various
sizes. After it had been fastened to the well's casing, these were
gradually reduced to check the flow without causing a blowout in the pipe
line.

Six hours later a metropolitan newspaper carried the headline:

BIG GUSHER HARNESSED;
AFTER WILD RAMPAGE

Jackpot No. 3 at Malapi Tamed
Long Battle Ended

CHAPTER XXIV

SHORTY

It was a surprise to Dave to discover that the horse Steve had got for
him was his own old favorite Chiquito. The pinto knew him. He tested this
by putting him through some of his old tricks. The horse refused to dance
or play dead, but at the word of command his right foreleg came up to
shake hands. He nuzzled his silky nose against the coat of his master
just as in the days of old.

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