Boom Town Boy Page 3

  “Golly, yes!” gasped Orvie. “The Murrays are our nearest neighbors on the west, only half a mile away.”

  “You didn’t know?” asked Peg-Leg.

  “We knew they started drilling before Christmas and the drillers nearly froze to death, but everybody said it would be a dry hole like that wildcat well by the creek. Are the Murrays gonna be rich?”

  “It looks that way,” said Peg-Leg. “Of course they’ve only had a showing of oil. They’re drilling through one sand till they come to the next. Meanwhile, leases and royalties are being bought up in all directions. It looks like good times are coming all right.”

  Orvie could hardly wait till he got home to tell the news. “They said at the store the Murrays are gonna get oil!” he announced.

  “The Murrays!” exclaimed Mama. “I can’t believe it.”

  “I’m glad if they do,” said Papa. “They’ve worked hard, they deserve it.”

  “I wonder if Lena Murray will get her improvements,” said Mama, “running water, a bathroom and electric lights. She sure needs them.”

  On his way home from school the next day, Orvie stopped at the Murray farm to see their oil well. Edna Belle and Nellie Jo came out and watched for a while, but their mother soon called them back in. There was no one else around but the workmen.

  The wooden derrick had a long covered passageway at one side, which sheltered the steam engine. The machinery was pumping away and the men did not seem to be very busy. One of them came up and answered Orvie’s questions. He took him in the “doghouse”—a shelter for the men—and let him watch from there. He explained that the steam engine turned the band wheel, which in turn operated the walking beam. The walking beam, a huge arm on top of the sturdy Sampson post, raised and lowered the long cable tools in the well, with the drill bit on the end. Each stroke meant that the well was getting deeper. The derrick or rig was built to support the drilling machinery, and also the long joints of casing pipe with which the well hole must be lined.

  Orvie hadn’t been there long before Grandpa arrived with Shep. “Thought I’d better keep track of what’s going on over here,” said Grandpa.

  A car drove up and a young man jumped out. Grandpa hurried to meet him with outstretched hand. “Well, if it ain’t my old friend, Slim Rogers.”

  “Gosh almighty!” cried Slim. “If it ain’t Grandpap Robinson and my old dog Shep.” He bent over the dog, who began to bark and wag his tail. “Been feedin’ him, have you?”

  “Orvie has,” said Grandpa. “This is my grandson, Orville, Jr.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Slim smiled down at the boy.

  “You workin’ here with this outfit?” asked Grandpa.

  “No, I’m tyin’ up with the Sooner Oil Company, I think.”

  “I thought you’d gone off to Texas or Louisiana or some other oil field,” said Grandpa. “It does a feller’s eyes good to see you again. Come over to the house and have supper with us some day.”

  “Sure will,” said Slim. “How’s that pretty granddaughter of yours?”

  “Prettier’n a rose in summertime,” laughed Grandpa. “Della says when oil strikes, she’ll get a piano and take music lessons. But her folks are bound and determined there’ll never be no oil on that farm of mine.”

  Slim lowered his voice. “Remember what I told you before I left here? You’ll get oil sure enough. You sold your lease to …”

  Grandpa nodded. “Sure! Months ago. I’m all fixed.”

  Slim smiled.

  “Are they gettin’ oil for the Murrays?” asked Grandpa.

  “They’ll know for sure in a day or two,” said Slim.

  After that, things began to happen fast.

  There was the day when the “rock hounds” wandered over Grandpa’s farm. They stopped at the house and said they were geologists, sent by the oil company to locate oil. They called their instrument a seismograph or earthquake instrument, and explained that they had to bury dynamite to make an underground explosion. By listening to these earthquake waves, they hoped to locate soft rocks which might hold oil.

  “Jerusalem!” exclaimed Grandpa. “Sounds like a lot of trouble. Now Harvey E. Witherspoon had a doodlebug, and another fellow had a witch stick and they both insist that there is oil right under my barn lot.”

  But the geologists did not listen to the doodlebuggers or to Grandpa. They wandered over the fields and roads, tied mysterious red and white rags to wire fences, and talked very little.

  One day they came near the barn lot and set off an explosion which broke all the eggs in the henhouse and two of the kitchen windows. Papa ran to chase the men off. They tried to explain that they might find oil for him.

  “Get out!” shouted Papa. “I’m tired of this oil talk—nothing comes of it.”

  Then the “royalty peddlers” began to pester Grandpa, and he had to go to Slim again for advice. The whole family soon learned that the company that buys the lease is entitled to seven-eighths of the royalty that the sale of the oil brings, while the land owner keeps one-eighth of it. Of this one-eighth royalty, the owner can decide to sell as many acres as he chooses.

  The previous fall, Grandpa Robinson had sold the lease on his farm to the Sooner Oil Company for two thousand dollars cash, which was more money than he had seen in his entire life. He had hitched the team of horses to the wagon and driven to Tonkawa, seven miles north, where he had deposited the check in the bank. But he had told no one.

  The Sunday after they heard the rumor about the Murray well, Aunt Lottie and Uncle Mart came to spend the day. Even Orvie and little Addie noticed the change in Aunt Lottie. She didn’t scold Grandpa once. She went out to his little house, swept it clean and made up his bed with fresh sheets. She brought his kerosene lamp into the kitchen, filled it and shined the chimney.

  “I think it’s a shame, Jennie,” she said, “the way you treat your father-in-law—chasing him outside and making him live in a hen-house.”

  “It was his idea, not mine,” answered Mama. “I told him the neighbors would talk, and he said he wanted to give them something extry good to talk about. You know how stubborn he is—he won’t listen to anybody.”

  “We’ll have to make him move back in,” said Aunt Lottie. “How will it look if he comes into a lot of oil money—him living out there as if he’d quarreled with his son and daughter-in-law?”

  That day, at Sunday dinner and supper, all the talk was of leases and royalties. Bert got tired of it and left the table before the meal was half through. Aunt Lottie and Uncle Mart hinted and hinted, but Grandpa was silent all through the meal. He kept his eyes glued on his plate, ate fast, and when he had finished, pushed a toothpick in his mouth and stalked out of the room.

  “He don’t need to tell us,” snorted Lottie. “We know already.”

  “He got two thousand for that lease,” said Uncle Mart. “The man at the bank told me.”

  “Two thousand!” gasped Mama. “Do you think he’s been selling royalties too?”

  They did not know, but, acting on Slim’s advice, Grandpa had been speculating carefully. The first twenty acres of royalty he had sold in the early spring at five dollars per acre, and had made up his mind to hold all the rest. Later, he had decided that in the event there might be no oil on his place after all, he wanted to be better fixed than he was. So he sold twenty more acres for fifty dollars each. All this money he had deposited in the Tonkawa bank. Lottie and Mart went home that Sunday without finding out this information.

  On Wednesday of the week following, Grandpa asked Slim to come down to the house for dinner. Della heaped Slim’s plate high, and passed the biscuits frequently. After dinner Grandpa and Slim had a talk. That afternoon, Grandpa sold another twenty acres royalty for two hundred dollars an acre, but he told no one.

  The very next day the Murray well struck oil.

  The Robinsons were at the supper table when the well blew in. When they heard the explosion, they jumped from their chairs and ran to the back kitchen door.


  Across the prairie, green with wheat, they could see the Murray farm buildings silhouetted against the sky. Behind the barn stood the oil derrick, clothed now in a white cloud of gas fumes. As they looked, the gas faded away and oil, like a fountain of muddy water, shot up into the sky. The fountain kept on playing into the night.

  The Robinsons looked at each other and they looked at Grandpa, wondering what it meant. They had no idea then how it would change their lives. Only Bert was unconcerned. He had gone out to milk the cows.

  “Is that oil?” cried Orvie. “I never knew it would shoot up like that.” Not till he saw Grandpa streaking off across the wheat field, heading for the Discovery well, did the boy realize what was happening.

  “Golly, OIL!” he exclaimed.

  He ran after Grandpa as fast as he could go.

  CHAPTER III

  No. 1 Pickering

  “Where’s that dog of yours, Orvie?” called Mama.

  It was early morning and she was out in the chicken yard, feeding the chickens.

  “I haven’t seen him, Mama,” said Orvie. “Shep! Shep!”

  “Just look here,” said Mama. “Ten chickens gone, maybe more judgin’ from the feathers. The coyotes came in the night and grabbed the hens right under Shep’s nose and he never barked once.”

  “I heard a pack of ’em yappin’ and yellin’,” said Grandpa.

  “Where’s that dog?” asked Mama. “You go bring him here, Orvie, and give him a good thrashing. He’s got to be trained some time.”

  “Aw, Mama … I don’t want to,” said Orvie.

  “Do as I tell you,” ordered Mama.

  “Shep! Here Shep!” called Orvie. “Shep, Shep, come Shep! He don’t come when I call him, Mama. Shep, here Shep.”

  “He’s run off to the woods with the coyotes,” said Grandpa.

  Shep had escaped a thrashing this time, and Orvie was glad. He looked and saw a wagon stop in front of the house. “There’s Old Pickering, Grandpa.”

  “Bring your gun, Robinson,” shouted Pickering. “I seen a coyote go under the culvert. Let’s go shoot ’em out.” He drove on.

  “We’ll get rid of ’em for you,” said Grandpa to Mama.

  Grandpa got his rifle and walked beside Orvie on the red clay road. The sun was warm and the blue sky was dotted with fleecy clouds. Spring came early in Oklahoma. The pastures would soon be covered with fresh, tender green, and sprinkled with wild flowers.

  “Maybe we can take the little ones home and tame ’em,” said Orvie.

  “Better ketch ’em first,” said Grandpa.

  “Pickering won’t want ’em, will he?”

  “He’ll sure want the old coyote for the hide,” said Grandpa. “Anything with money tied to it, he can smell a mile off.”

  Old Man Pickering was at the crossroads waiting. He took the gun from Grandpa’s hands without delay. He got down in the ditch, took aim and fired under the culvert. Smoke came puffing out as the shot echoed over the prairie.

  “I got her,” he said. “Crawl in there and pull her out, bub.”

  Orvie crawled into the round drainage tile and dragged the dead mother coyote out by the legs. His pants became soaked with water and mud but he did not notice.

  “There’s a whole slew of young ones!” he exclaimed.

  “Bring ’em out,” said Grandpa.

  “Sure, bring ’em out,” said Pickering, lifting the dead animal into his wagon.

  Orvie brought the young ones out two at a time. They were little and helpless and cute. There were seven in all.

  “Can I have …” he began.

  Old Pickering placed two young coyotes in his wagon. “They’re not good for nothing, except to eat chickens. You don’t want ’em,” he replied.

  “Hold on there, Walt,” snapped Grandpa. “Who do these critters belong to, anyhow?”

  “I located ’em and told you they was here,” said Pickering angrily.

  “It was my rifle killed the old one,” said Grandpa.

  “If you was a real neighbor, you’d be willing to lend a gun,” said Pickering, “specially when you know mine’s broke.”

  “Yes, I lend my gun, and you take the hide and get the bounty for it,” said Grandpa. “Now you’re tryin’ to take the whole kit’n’boodle of young ones. You always was the grabbin’ kind, Walt Pickering, ever since I first seen you. You was a Sooner in ’93 and squatted on the land I had picked out for my claim. I took second choice to keep from fightin’ you, and you been tryin’ to get my farm away from me ever since. You lent me money and I couldn’t pay it back, so you took my south eighty. You lent me money on my other eighty, and now you’re fixin’ to foreclose the mortgage and get it all for your own.”

  Grandpa lowered his voice so Orvie could not hear. “But I got a surprise for you. Will you meet me at the Tonkawa bank tomorrow morning at ten o’clock?”

  Pickering looked startled for a minute, then answered, “Sure.” He had placed four of the baby coyotes in his wagon. He reached down and picked up two more.

  “Give them two to Orvie,” said Grandpa in a sharp voice.

  “I was just a-goin’ to,” said Pickering sheepishly. “I was fixin’ to give him all three.” He reached for the last one and put the three animals in Orvie’s hands. Then he climbed in his wagon and drove down the road without looking back. Orvie put two of the coyotes into his coat pockets and carried the third in his hands. When he got home, he put them in a box.

  The next afternoon, he made a wire pen for the coyotes. As he put them in it, he happened to look up at the sky. The next minute he went tearing into the house.

  “Mama, there’s a big black cloud comin’ up in the west,” he shouted. “The wind’s blowin’ like all get out.”

  Mama put her iron back on the stove to heat and hung Della’s freshly-ironed dress on the clothes rack. The wood stove had the words “Solid Comfort” on the oven door, but the kitchen was much too hot for comfort. It felt like a bake oven.

  Mama glanced outdoors. “Maybe a rain will clear the air a little.”

  A sharp gust of wind swept through the kitchen. It rattled windows and banged doors all over the house.

  “Della, shut the windows,” Mama called. “It’s going to rain hard. Orvie, call the men in from the barn. No—you’d better help me get the baby chicks in first. I’ll ring the dinner bell. They’ll hear it and come in.”

  Mama went out and pulled the rope. The sharp clangs of the farm bell rang out over the blustering wind.

  “My white kitty, it’ll get drownded,” wailed Addie.

  “You stay in the house, Addie,” said Mama, “or the wind will blow you away. Here, Orvie, help me.” They lifted the pens of baby chicks and carried them into the kitchen. “Orvie, the brake on the windmill. It’ll get blown to pieces …”

  “Bert’ll do that, Mama,” said Orvie. “I’ll just get my coyotes.” He rushed out the door.

  The sky was getting darker and it began to pour rain:

  “My kitty, my kitty …” screamed Addie.

  “Hush up your bawlin’,” said Mama. “Della! Del-la! Come quick! We better go in the cave. Looks like a bad storm—no tellin’ what this wind might do …”

  The sky was now dark and threatening. The black cloud was moving fast. A sharp streak of lightning cut across the sky. It was followed by a clap of thunder and loud roaring of the wind.

  “Where’s Bert and Papa?” cried Della. “And Orvie?”

  “Where’s Grandpa?” cried Addie.

  Mama stooped to pick the white kitten up from its box under the porch and gave it to Addie. She took Della by one hand and Addie by the other. Bending against the wind, they made a dash for the storm cellar, a heap of masonry covered with a mound of dirt, ten feet away from the back porch. But even in that ten feet, they were drenched to the skin, for the rain was now coming down in torrents. Fortunately the sloping door of the cave was open. The three stumbled down the steps.

  “Orvie! Orvie! why don’t Orv
ie come?” wailed Addie. “And Grandpa? Where’s Grandpa?”

  The storm cellar has not been used for a long time except for storage. They stepped over empty fruit jars and earthen crocks. They splashed into the water that covered the dirt floor.

  “Oh, there’s snakes down here!” cried Della in alarm. “There’s frogs and snakes. They’ll get on us.”

  “You hush! You hush up, a big girl like you,” scolded Mama.

  The next minute Orvie was there, his arms full of coyotes, and Shep following after him.

  “Don’t you bring them wild critters near me,” cried Della. “They’ll bite.”

  “You found that good-for-nothing Shep, I see,” said Mama. “Go up and shut the cellar door, Orvie.”

  “Here, you hold ’em.” The boy dumped the animals into Mama’s apron.

  When the heavy door clanged down it was pitch dark in the cave. The little group could not see the masonry walls nor the arched masonry ceiling. They stood ankle deep in the muddy water and waited in darkness.

  “Wish I’da brung the lantern,” said Orvie.

  “Old Pickering borrowed it,” said Mama, “and forgot to bring it back. Here, take these critters. I don’t want to be bit to pieces.”

  But before Orvie could get hold of them, the three coyotes had slipped out of Mama’s apron and had fallen in the water.

  “Gosh! They’ll get drownded,” said Orvie.

  “They’ll bite my feet,” screamed Addie.

  Suddenly a crash was heard, muffled yet plain. Mama and the children forgot snakes and coyotes, wondering what it was.

  “It’s dark down here,” wailed Addie. “I’m scared, Mama.”

  Mama put her arms around the little girl. “We’ll go up in a minute.”

  Then Papa opened the door, looked down and smiled. “Any family of mine down here? Where you folks been hiding?”

  It was all over when they came up. The ground was white with hailstones and the air was cold. Shep barked and pranced, Addie’s kitten was put safely back in its box, but the three baby coyotes were dead. The house was there—it had not been blown away. The barn and farm buildings were still standing too.