Courting Trouble

  ‘‘And what will you do with the oil in the meantime?’’

  ‘‘Put it in whatever we can find or dig some more sumps. Too bad we can’t find some way to store it in Neblett’s old seed house.’’

  ‘‘Papa, there’s no guarantee you’ll find more oil.’’

  ‘‘True. But let’s assume we do. Think of what it would mean for our town—our entire state.’’

  Essie leaned back in the huge leather chair. ‘‘Oil is useless unless it can be turned into kerosene. All the refineries are up north.’’

  ‘‘I know.’’ He wound the tie around his hand. ‘‘The whole thing appeals to me, is all. Working outside. Getting my hands dirty. Striking that big one.’’

  She propped her arms on the desk. ‘‘But you’re going to be sixty soon. You can’t be taking on something like this at your age.’’

  ‘‘Says who? Noah was five hundred before he went into shipbuilding.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘Besides, I think the discovery on Twelfth Street bears looking into.’’

  They were kindred spirits, the two of them. She understood his desire to take a risk, to challenge the odds, to try something new.

  ‘‘This is a bit more serious than betting a little pocket money on Mr. Mitton’s horses,’’ she said.

  ‘‘A bit.’’

  ‘‘How are you going to do all this and still fulfill your civic duties?’’

  ‘‘Maybe God has something else in mind for us both.’’

  He said nothing further, just held her stare.

  She began to shake her head. ‘‘Oh no. I’m a woman. Working in a mercantile is one thing. Running an oil company is something else altogether. Mother would have a fit.’’

  ‘‘You’re the best man for the job. I’ll handle Mother.’’

  ‘‘And the men in town?’’

  ‘‘I’ll handle them, too.’’ He nodded toward her chin. ‘‘You want to tell me what really happened while you were releasing Colonel?’’

  She touched the scab that had started to form. ‘‘I tried out some wheeled feet that Mr. Baumgartner had in his wagon.’’

  He absorbed that bit of information, and the twinkle that had been absent when he’d entered the office was back in full force. ‘‘You trading in your bicycle?’’

  ‘‘No. Just supplementing.’’

  He chuckled. ‘‘You better not let your mother catch you.’’

  She raised a brow. ‘‘I thought you could handle Mother?’’

  ‘‘I can . . . up to a point.’’ He stood and walked to the door. ‘‘I’ve arranged for a man by the name of Davidson to come down and look the oil field over.’’

  ‘‘Where’s he from?’’

  ‘‘Pennsylvania. He’ll be here within the week.’’

  ————

  If Mr. John Davidson was surprised to see Essie accompanying him and Papa to the fields, he didn’t say so. Nor did he include her in any of the conversation.

  But Essie preferred it that way. Being invisible had its uses. It allowed her to size him up as they walked the one block from the railway station to Twelfth Street, and Papa always appreciated the unguarded impressions she collected due to being ignored.

  The oil scout wore no suit, coat or tie, but simply a cotton shirt and belted trousers. Mud frosted his boots and hat, while a neatly trimmed moustache made him look older than she suspected he truly was.

  ‘‘Will you be doing sample digs or running tests in the ground?’’

  Papa asked.

  ‘‘Neither. I’ll just be looking.’’

  ‘‘For what?’’

  ‘‘Well, there’s no real science to it. I personally use a little geology, a little doodlebugology, and a little common sense.’’

  ‘‘Doodlebugology?’’

  ‘‘That’s a method oil scouts employ by using wiggle sticks, forked limbs, doodlebugs, that sort of thing.’’ He smiled. ‘‘There’s one man by the name of Griffith who puts this platelike thing in his mouth that has coiled springs protruding from it. I can’t tell you much about its workings, but when he stands over oil, there’s a little lever that turns around. And that’s where he recommends his customers drill.’’

  Essie and Papa exchanged a glance.

  ‘‘I mostly look at the surface of the field and the vegetation in the area. You go to any oil field and you’ll see it differs a little bit from the surrounding territory.’’

  A strong, unpleasant odor coming from the oil began to pervade the air about the time they reached the intersection of Dallas and Twelfth. Turning south on Twelfth, they continued down the plank sidewalk, past the Poker Palace and Rosenburg’s Saloon.

  Men wove around them, horses waited patiently at hitching rails, and someone on a piano played ‘‘Do, Do, My Huckleberry, Do.’’ Mr. Riddles came out of a domino parlor, gave her a sidelong glance and tipped his hat. Most decent women wouldn’t be seen east of Beaton Street, but she was with Papa, and folks were used to her coming and going as she pleased.

  The sidewalk ended, and several yards later the field began. Mr. Davidson tramped right across the oil-covered ground. A giant earthen pit on the east side of the field held thousands of gallons of oil, with more trickling in.

  Mr. Davidson walked the perimeter of the field, then picked up a piece of wood the size of a broom handle. He peeled off the bark and started jabbing it into the ground, working it down as far as he could before moving to the next spot.

  The water well at this location had been finished, finally breaking through the oil-bearing strata and into water at around 2,500 feet. Adam and the rest of the crew had moved on to drill the second and third wells on the other side of town.

  Mr. Davidson tossed down his stick and headed toward Essie and Papa.

  ‘‘What do you think?’’ Papa asked.

  The oilman looked out on the field like a mother hen preening over her chicks. ‘‘Well, Judge, if it were mine, I’d be drilling on it before the week was out.’’

  chapter NINE

  ESSIE BUMPED DOWN Beaton Street, pedaling Pegasus— Peg, for short—over the old bois d’arc blocks paving the street. The wooden surface alleviated one problem—dust—and created another— discomfort for every vehicle traveling down the jarring road.

  Turning east onto Jefferson Avenue, she waved at Mr. Mitton as she passed his wagon yard. She longed to pull over and admire the thoroughbreds he boarded in stables so fine the locals referred to them as ‘‘Mitton’s Hotel,’’ but she needed to speak with the artesian well drillers. She continued on past the icehouse, the county jail, and the Anheuser-Busch Beer Depot, the smell of horses from the wagon yard still lingering in the air.

  At the edge of town she spotted two men kicking down a well while Adam watched, wiping the back of his neck with a bandanna. Sweat rolled off the cable-tool boys as they each placed a foot in the stirrups hanging from a fifteen-foot log.

  The rig sat underneath a high tripod of poles and looked like a child’s seesaw made with a tree trunk instead of a flat piece of wood. She noted the fulcrum was way off-center, and one end of the log was fastened to the ground.

  The other end of the log—where the men in the stirrups were— projected up into the air at about a thirty-degree angle and was so far away from the fulcrum that it held a surprising amount of spring. The men grabbed on to the tree and threw their weight into the stirrups, forcing a heavy iron bit, which dangled from a cable between them, into the ground to break up a little of the earth.

  They quickly repeated this motion over and over until one man took a break and Adam replaced him. Moisture stained Adam’s blue shirt beneath his arms and between his shoulder blades. Essie stopped Peg and laid her on the ground. Brushing dust from her calf-length split skirt, she advanced on the men. ‘‘Good afternoon,’’ she called.

  The drilling stopped, and Adam jumped from the stirrup to approach her. ‘‘Miss Essie. Aren’t you as purty as a little red wagon?’’

  She smiled. ‘‘I don’t believ
e I’ve ever been compared to a wagon before, Mr. Currington.’’

  He made no effort to hide his perusal of her, from her redtrimmed Benwood hat all the way down to her bicycle boots. ‘‘You ever seen a little red wagon?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘Of course.’’

  ‘‘Then you know there ain’t nothin’ purtier.’’

  ‘‘I know no such thing,’’ she said, shaking her head and passing him by without pause.

  He hastened his stride to keep up with her. ‘‘You ride that thing all the way from your house?’’ he asked, glancing over his shoulder at her riding machine.

  ‘‘I most certainly did.’’ She stopped a few feet away from the rig. ‘‘How do you do?’’

  The other two men doffed their hats.

  ‘‘Miss Essie, this is Mr. Pugh and Mr. Upchurch. Fellas, this is Miss Spreckelmeyer, the judge’s daughter.’’

  Mr. Upchurch’s whip-thin body surprised Essie. She would have thought drilling required more muscle. Perhaps his legs, hidden in the folds of his waist-overalls, were thicker than the rest of him. The removal of his hat revealed a head shaped like an egg and just as smooth. What hair he lacked on top he made up for with his moustache.

  Mr. Pugh, a stocky and solid man, scowled, bringing his black eyebrows together in such a way that she couldn’t tell where one brow ended and the other began.

  ‘‘Gentlemen,’’ she said, ‘‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to contract you for another job when you are finished with this one.’’

  They glanced at one another.

  ‘‘I would like you to drill a well about two hundred yards south of the one on Twelfth Street. This one would not be for water, however, but for oil.’’

  A beat of silence. Mr. Pugh recovered first. ‘‘We have us another job already scheduled. Over in Waco. Besides, we drill water wells, not oil wells.’’ He crammed his hat back on and began bailing loose rock and dirt out of the boring hole.

  ‘‘How long will you be in Waco?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘Longer than you wanna wait,’’ Pugh answered.

  Mr. Upchurch remained motionless, hat in hand.

  Essie turned to Adam. ‘‘I need two drillers. Do you know where I might find some?’’

  ‘‘Who’s providing the grubstake?’’

  She hesitated. ‘‘The payroll, you mean? My father, but I’ll be running the project.’’

  He rubbed his jaw. ‘‘Don’t you think your pa’s saddle is slippin’ a bit? This is cotton and cattle country. The judge has as much chance of a future in crude as a one-legged man in a kickin’ contest. If it’s oil he’s interested in, he’d be better off in cottonseed oil.’’

  ‘‘We’re not looking for a business partner, Mr. Currington. We’re looking for drillers.’’

  The men exchanged glances.

  ‘‘Never mind,’’ she sighed. ‘‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’’

  Adam grabbed her wrist. ‘‘Whoa there, filly. Not so fast. Rufus?’’ he asked, still holding on to her. ‘‘What if you and Arnold went to Waco without me? Then I could see about rustling up somebody else to help me with Miss Spreckelmeyer’s well. What do you think?’’

  Upchurch rubbed his egg-shaped head with a handkerchief and looked at Pugh.

  ‘‘You saying you’ll work for a woman?’’ Pugh asked.

  Adam scrutinized her again. She tugged her hand free.

  ‘‘Now, Rufus. I wouldn’t be workin’ for just any woman. I’d be workin’ for this here woman. And I have to tell ya, the thought don’t bother me none a’tall.’’

  Mr. Pugh gave a sound of disgust. ‘‘Just what are me and Arnold supposed to do, then?’’

  ‘‘You’ll find somebody. Same as me.’’

  ‘‘What are you gonna drill with?’’

  Adam thought a minute. ‘‘He’s got a point there, Miss Essie. They’ll be taking this rig with ’em. I’d have to build you one of your own.’’

  ‘‘That would be fine, Mr. Currington. Can you come by the house tomorrow to settle on the details?’’

  ‘‘It’d be my pleasure.’’

  ————

  Adam arrived late in the day, standing on Essie’s porch, spit and polished in a crisp white shirt, red neckerchief, and blue denim trousers with brass rivets at the pocket corners.

  He removed his cowboy hat. ‘‘Afternoon, Miss Essie.’’

  ‘‘Mr. Currington. Please, won’t you come in?’’

  She led him to Papa’s office and poured them each a glass of lemonade. ‘‘Thank you for coming.’’

  He guzzled the beverage in one prolonged swig. Head back, eyes closed, Adam’s apple bobbing. Swiping his mouth with his sleeve, he sighed. ‘‘Ah, darlin’, my throat was drier than a tobacco box. Thank ya.’’

  She accepted his glass. ‘‘Would you like some more?’’

  ‘‘Not right now.’’

  ‘‘Well.’’ She took a sip of hers, then set it on the tray. ‘‘I’ve put together a list of materials I’m assuming we’ll need to construct a rig, but I thought you should take a look at it and see if I left anything off.’’

  He set his hat in a chair and perused the list she gave him.

  ‘‘The lumber I’ll purchase from Mr. Whiteselle,’’ she said. ‘‘The cable and drill bit can be made down at Central Blacksmith Shop.’’

  ‘‘And the stirrups?’’

  ‘‘The carriage and harness shop.’’

  He handed the paper back to her. ‘‘You’re gonna need the smithy to make a few more down-hole tools,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Like what?’’ She picked up Papa’s pen and dipped it in an inkwell.

  ‘‘Metal connectors, rope sockets, a sinker bar, jars, and an auger stem.’’

  Still standing, Essie leaned over the massive desk, scribbling furiously on the parchment, forgoing the precise lettering she’d learned at the Corsicana Female College.

  Adam hovered over her shoulder, watching. ‘‘Make sure the lumberyard gives you hemlock, ash, or hickory for the spring pole and something sturdy, like oak, for the fulcrum.’’

  After several moments, she replaced Papa’s pen and blew on the paper. When she straightened, Adam stayed put, his eyes a translucent mosaic of blue and green.

  ‘‘Why do you do that?’’ she asked, baffled.

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Crowd me.’’

  ‘‘Am I crowdin’ you?’’

  ‘‘You know you are.’’

  ‘‘I don’t mean to. It’s just that when I stand right close I can smell them cloves you use in your toilet.’’

  She caught her breath and glanced at the door, open only a crack.

  ‘‘You’re not supposed to notice that kind of thing,’’ she whispered.

  A smile lifted one side of his mouth. ‘‘I notice everything about you, Miss Essie.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’

  Shaking his head, he took a step back, putting a proper distance between them. ‘‘The fellas in this town are either blind or fools.

  Maybe both.’’

  She frowned, searching his expression. ‘‘Your pardon?’’

  He pointed to the list on the desk. ‘‘We’re gonna need a weight to anchor the butt end of the spring pole. If you don’t want to pay the smithy to make you one, I can see about finding a heavy boulder or somethin’.’’

  ‘‘Do you think you could come with me when I place these orders?’’ she asked, glancing at the parchment. ‘‘That way we’ll be sure to get exactly what we need.’’

  ‘‘You tell me when and I’ll be there.’’

  ————

  The clink of iron reached Essie and Adam well before they arrived at Mr. Fowler’s Central Blacksmith Shop. They paused just inside the dark, cavernous building, allowing their eyes to adjust. A blanket of heat and hazy smoke swaddled them, along with the smell of burning coals.

  With his back to them, Mr. Fowler worked the bellows while the tip of his poker turned from
red to white and flames danced. A dirty, once-white apron string wrapped Fowler’s waist like Cleopatra’s asp, dividing his blue shirt from his waist-overalls. Releasing the bellows, he removed the iron from the flame and hammered on the hot metal, sending sparks in all directions. He’d barely managed half a dozen strikes before having to return the poker to the fire.

  ‘‘Howdy, Miss Spreckelmeyer,’’ he said, looking up and moving toward them. He gave Adam the once-over. ‘‘And you’re one of them water-well drillers, ain’t ya?’’

  ‘‘Good morning, Mr. Fowler,’’ Essie said. ‘‘And yes, this is Mr. Currington. He’s going to stay on and build another rig, but this one will be for Papa.’’

  When the men leaned in to shake hands, Essie was surprised at how much taller Adam was. She’d always thought of Mr. Fowler as a huge man. But she realized now the bulk on him was more from tickling the anvil than from height.

  ‘‘Your pa has a hankerin’ for a water well out in his own backyard, then?’’

  ‘‘Not exactly,’’ she said, glancing at Adam. ‘‘He’s going to drill for oil.’’

  Mr. Fowler stared at her a second, then doubled over with laughter. She schooled her face, knowing full well his reaction would have been vastly different had Papa been the one stating their purpose.

  ‘‘Now, Mr. Fowler,’’ she began.

  He silenced her with a raised hand, sobering, his mirth replaced by a mask of professional gravity. She motioned to Adam, who held their lists and diagrams, when out of the corner of her eye she caught Mr. Fowler cracking another smile.

  She arched an eyebrow.

  ‘‘Sorry,’’ he said.

  There were other smithies in town, but J. T. Fowler was among the most capable and enterprising. And once he realized she was serious, he would not only fill her order but he’d do it quickly, expertly, and with respect.

  ‘‘Here’s what we’re gonna need,’’ Adam said. He spread the piece of parchment on a rough wooden counter and began to explain everything. Mr. Fowler nodded and asked a few questions, his amusement vanishing as he became absorbed in the details. When they had finished, he gave Essie a conciliatory smile.

  ‘‘I’ll get started on this right away,’’ he said.