Boom Town Boy

  “We gotta go home,” replied Edna Belle Murray.

  “Before Mama comes after us,” added Nellie Jo.

  “Fraidy cats!” called Orvie.

  “Water bite ’em,” chuckled Harry Big Bear.

  “Let’s put mud on their dresses,” said Lily Wild Berry.

  Harry and Orvie and Lily splashed water and threw balls of mud. Addie stood in the water and watched.

  The Murray girls shrieked and when they saw mud on their dresses and aprons, began to cry. They stumbled off through the thicket of brush and briars.

  “They’ll tell their Mama on you, Orvie,” said Addie.

  “Don’t care if they do,” said Orvie. “They’re such fraidy cats, I always like to scare ’em and make ’em run.”

  “Me too,” chuckled Harry Big Bear.

  “Pretty dresses dirty now,” said Lily, smiling with satisfaction.

  “Let’s go home, Orvie,” said Addie, picking up her shoes and stockings.

  The Indian children took their cans and went off to their home in the Reservation. Orvie and Addie left the shade of the trees and came out on the prairie.

  “Let’s take a short-cut,” said Orvie. They climbed a fence.

  “There’s Grandpa!” cried Addie happily.

  They hurried to catch up with him.

  “Well, well, where you kids been?” Grandpa Robinson’s brown, weathered face crinkled with a warm smile. His lean figure was dressed in his worn everyday overalls. He carried a rifle in one hand, and held a couple of jackrabbits in the other.

  “Where’d you shoot ’em, Grandpa?” demanded Orvie.

  “Ain’t you a sight, Grandpa!” cried Addie. “Mama’ll sure scold you for shootin’ jackrabbits on Sunday.”

  “Your Mama’ll be glad to get the makin’s of a good rabbit stew,” laughed Grandpa.

  “Maybe Aunt Lottie and Uncle Mart will be gone by the time we get home,” said Orvie. “Mama always scolds worse when they’re at our house.”

  “They like to get all the good meals they can,” said Grandpa. “They won’t leave before supper, mark my words.”

  “You haven’t told us where you been, Grandpa,” said Orvie.

  “Over to that wildcat oil well,” replied the old man. “I tried to bring you a dog, Orvie, but he got away. He was wild as a wolf and half-starved. I found a piece of rope and tried to drag him home, but he broke loose and. I couldn’t catch him. A wild dog like that—I could train him to chase jackrabbits.”

  “Wish you’da caught him, Grandpa,” said Orvie.

  They crossed the pasture and entered the barn lot from the rear. Grandpa hung the jackrabbits up on a limb of the cottonwood tree and put his rifle in his house. Suddenly a dog with shaggy hair appeared beside the barn.

  “There he is now,” said Grandpa. “Here Shep, here Shep!” But the dog would not come near.

  “Is his name Shep?” asked Addie.

  “Yes,” said Grandpa. “He belonged to those oil drillers before they abandoned that dry hole. He was just a stray puppy, but they took to feedin’ him and he stayed around the well. Since they went off, he’s got skinny and half-starved, with nobody to feed him.”

  “I’ll get him something to eat,” said Orvie. He ran in the back kitchen door and came out with a pan of milk, and some bones. “The folks are still there,” he said, “all sittin’ on the front porch visitin’. Aunt Lottie’s still talkin’.” He set the food down on the ground.

  “We’d better leave him alone for a few days,” said Grandpa, “till he gets used to us.”

  They went inside Grandpa’s house. He had a bed, a bureau, a table and a chair. All three sat down on the bed. The dog drank the milk and chewed the bones between growls. Then he slunk away. Grandpa came out and began to clean the jackrabbits.

  “Ding, dong! Ding, dong!” rang the farm bell.

  “There’s Della on the back porch, ringing the bell for supper,” said Addie. She poured water from Grandpa’s pitcher, and they all washed in his bowl.

  They went in to supper, and there was Bert, fifteen, Della, seventeen, Papa and Mama, Aunt Lottie and Uncle Mart. They folded their hands while Papa said grace. Sunday night supper was always good, because it was everything left over from Sunday dinner—chicken and mashed potatoes and coleslaw and a big dish of gravy, pie and cakes, preserves, pickles and jelly.

  At first nobody said much because they were so busy passing the food around and helping themselves. Then their mouths were so full they could not talk. The way Aunt Lottie and Mama kept looking at Grandpa’s overalls and saying nothing made Orvie uncomfortable. Grandpa’s daughters-in-law had a hard time making him behave. No wonder he had bought a brooder house and moved his bedroom furniture in, so he could live by himself and be his own boss. Orvie decided he would do the same when he grew up. He wouldn’t have a bunch of women telling him what to do.

  “I sure do miss them oil drillers,” began Grandpa. When he was full of good food, Grandpa loved to talk.

  Mama looked at Aunt Lottie as if to say, “So that’s where he’s been, and on Sunday too.”

  “It was company to set up there nights and listen to that radio that Slim rigged up,” Grandpa went on. “That young feller was smart. First he made a contraption he called a ‘crystal set,’ but them ear phones hurt my ears. He kept tinkerin’ at it, but couldn’t get it to work very well. Then he got an Atwater Kent with a loud speaker …”

  “Yes,” said Mama. “Ear-splittin’ thing—we could hear it a mile away. You and Old Pickering and those other men set up there from six in the evenin’ till one-two in the mornin’—listenin’ and gassin’. I was awful glad when those drillers moved off.”

  “An old man needs to get his proper sleep,” put in Aunt Lottie bitingly, “and at night-time too, not all day long.”

  “Oh, I can sleep any old time,” laughed Grandpa.

  “Guess they’ve given up the idea of striking oil,” said Uncle Mart, trying to be agreeable. He had a round genial face and was short and comfortably stout. “They got tired of payin’ a yearly rental on that lease.”

  “The lease ran out,” said Grandpa. “They’ll come along some day and renew it.”

  “Somebody’s always getting a notion there’s a sea of oil under the state of Oklahoma,” said Papa. “I’m tired of waiting for ’em to find it.”

  “When they do, can I get a piano and take music lessons?” asked Della.

  Everybody laughed. “Don’t count your chickens before they are hatched, Della,” said Uncle Mart.

  Grandpa pushed back his chair, wiped his mouth and thrust a toothpick in. “I’m confident we’ll get oil right here one day before I die,” he said. “The good Lord revealed it to me thirty years ago.”

  The two women raised their eyebrows. “There he goes again!” whispered Lottie to Jennie.

  “I been predictin’ it for thirty years, ever since I took my claim,” Grandpa went on.

  “What makes you think so?” asked Uncle Mart.

  “The lay of the land looks like oil lays under it, to my notion,” said Grandpa.

  Everybody laughed, even Bert and Della.

  “Oh Pa, stop your foolish talk,” said Mama.

  “That driller—Slim Rogers his name was—give me his confidence,” Grandpa went on. “He asked me to store his tools, when they abandoned that well for a dry hole. In the two years they was drillin’, they went down two thousand feet. Some day they’ll go deeper’n that. He told me confidentially never to sell this farm, because there’s oil under it.”

  “You shoulda sold it long ago and bought a better farm where we could at least make a livin’,” began Mama bitterly.

  “No ma’m!” Grandpa sat up with a jerk. “I made the Run in ’93 and I picked out this quarter-section and I’ve hung onto it for thirty years and I won’t never give it up. Even if it’s not so good for farmin’, we might strike oil …”

  “And get rich, Grandpa?” Orvie burst in.

  “Sure, boy, sure!” G
randpa beamed.

  “I believe you, Grandpa, even if nobody else does,” said the boy.

  “So do I, Grandpa,” said Addie.

  “If you expect to keep the farm, why did you give Old Pickering that mortgage?” demanded Aunt Lottie.’

  “Well, I thought I’d invest in oil stock in Texas and get enough to pay him back again and have plenty left over,” said Grandpa in a feeble voice.

  “Instead of which you lost every cent,” said Aunt Lottie accusingly. “Now instead of your son inheriting the farm, Old Pickering’ll foreclose and get it.”

  “No, he won’t!” answered Grandpa sharply. “So far Al and me has met all the payments. Before he forecloses, we’ll strike oil …”

  “When he forecloses, where’s Al and Jennie and their four children gonna live?” asked Aunt Lottie. “They can’t come and sponge on us, nor you neither.”

  Aunt Lottie was a little woman with a thin, sharp face and a high-pitched voice. Mama looked like her, except that she was plumper and kinder. And Mama’s voice was softer, even when she was cross.

  “What’s done’s done and can’t be undone,” said Mama. Even she and Papa got tired of Aunt Lottie’s carping.

  “That drouth in the spring ruined last year’s wheat crop,” said Papa. “Just dried it up to thin straw that wasn’t worth cuttin’.”

  “Those three cows struck by lightning last month didn’t help us much,” said Mama. “I’ll never forget how I found ’em when I went out to the pasture, struck down on their knees right where they were standing. They had to be hauled off and buried. We coulda had a lot of good eating from three cows.”

  “Three cows less to milk,” said Orvie with a grin. “What do we keep so many cows and horses for? I’m sick to death of pumping water for ’em when the wind don’t blow.”

  Bert had been sitting silently, stuffing cake into his mouth. He turned and said crossly: “How can you farm without cows and horses?”

  “Get a tractor!” shouted Orvie. “You don’t have to feed and water a tractor.”

  “Tractors don’t give milk,” said Bert angrily.

  “Tractors cost money,” said Papa.

  They all got up from the supper table. Aunt Lottie and Uncle Mart went into the bedroom to get their hats to go.

  “We’ll get money yet,” said Grandpa, rubbing his hands together. “We’ll get it the easy way—oil, oil, oil!”

  CHAPTER II

  No. 1 Murray

  “Orvie! Orvie!”

  Orvie turned over in bed sleepily. But the voice kept on calling. He raised up, took one look at Bert still asleep beside him, then slid out of bed.

  “Orvie! Orvie!” called Papa’s voice again.

  “I’m comin’.” Pulling his clothes on hastily, the boy ran down the stairs and out into the yard.

  It was early morning and the sun was rising. He hurried to the barn and jumped on the pony, whose name was Star. He rode off over the prairie to round up the work horses that had been grazing all night in the wheat field.

  It was February, still winter, and the air was cold. The darkness of night was breaking away, giving place to the pink glow of dawn. The sky looked so big and vast and open, it gave Orvie a wonderful sense of freedom. The family were still asleep. Even Papa was taking a last-minute doze.

  A boy alone on a pony, alone on the big wide prairie—it was worth being roused out of sound sleep; it was the grandest time in the whole day. It was wonderful just to be alive. Orvie lay down on Star’s back and let her go where she wanted to go. Then he sat up suddenly.

  He imagined he was Buffalo Bill. He saw a movement in the bushes and was certain it was a buffalo. No—it was only a coyote. He wished he had brought Grandpa’s rifle. There weren’t any more buffalo—he knew that. He thought of the great herds that used to graze on the Oklahoma prairies, and of the herds of cattle that used to be driven by cowboys on trails from Texas to Kansas City. He was born too late—he had missed all the fun.

  He saw something on the ground, pulled the pony up and slid off. It was a buffalo skull, bleached white, with jet black horns—mute evidence of a vanished herd. If he scraped the horns and polished them, he wondered if Mama would let him hang it up in the house for a hat rack. He mounted Star, holding the skull in front of him.

  He saw a movement in the bushes again. Now there were two coyotes—they had been out prowling for chickens. He rode fast to race them to their hole. Then he saw a third animal racing with them. It was Shep, who had grown tame and plump after living with the Robinson family all winter. “Shep, Shep! Come here, Shep!” he called. But the dog did not come. Grandpa was right—he was wild as a wolf. Dog and coyotes disappeared in a thicket of blackjack oaks.

  The horses were in the farthest corner of the field as always. Orvie drove them in, put the buffalo skull in the barn and forgot about it. He had seen something else—a strange man in the field not far from the side road. The man had parked his car and climbed over the barbed wire fence. He was walking about in a strange manner.

  Orvie hurried through breakfast and told Grandpa. “There was a man out in the wheat field,” he said. “I couldn’t figure out what he was doin’.”

  “We’ll go investigate,” said Grandpa.

  The man was back of the barn now. He was dressed in city clothes and he acted excited. He introduced himself.

  “My name’s Witherspoon, Harvey E.,” he said briskly. “See what I got?” He dangled a string with a bulging leather sack on the end. “Some folks make fun of me and call this a ‘doodlebug!’ When I hold it just the right way and make certain movements, the sack will go round and round. Others use witch sticks, the same as for water, but my method is my own invention and if there’s oil …”

  “OIL!” gasped Grandpa. “Are you locatin’ OIL?”

  “Sure as shootin’, mister!” The man’s eyes gleamed fiercely.

  “Golly!” exclaimed Orvie. “What you got in that sack?”

  The man glared at Orvie and said, “I can’t tell you.”

  Grandpa cleared his throat. Then he spoke softly: “Do you think there’s oil on this place?”

  “Just wait a minute. Be very still now,” said Harvey E. Witherspoon. He stopped suddenly by a puddle near the pigpen. He stood still, held his sack up by the string and waited, his bright eyes fixed on the sack. He seemed to be saying words to himself. Orvie and Grandpa watched, all eyes fixed on the sack.

  Then it happened. The string began to vibrate and the sack turned round and round. No one said a word until Witherspoon moved.

  “There’s oil right here!” He pointed to the puddle. “Tell them to drill on this exact spot. Get a stake, boy, and pound it in. Does this farm belong to you, mister?”

  “Yes,” said Grandpa solemnly. “My name’s Robinson, Orville J. Sr.” He reached in his pocket and gave all the money he had to the stranger. “When we strike oil, you come back and I’ll give you some more.”

  “Thanks,” said Witherspoon, flushing.

  Although they did not know it, the doodlebugger was the first of many strange visitors to the Robinson farm. As Grandpa and Orvie walked back to the house, Grandpa was visibly trembling. “At last, at last,” he kept saying. They stopped at the edge of the yard.

  “Better not say a word to anybody about the doodlebugger, Orvie,” warned Grandpa. “They might not understand.”

  “I wasn’t going to,” said Orvie. “I got sense enough for that.”

  The next day after school Mama sent Orvie to the country store at Cloverleaf Corners, a mile and a quarter from the Robinson farmhouse. Mama was out of coffee and sugar and wanted them quickly. Orvie walked fast and it did not take him long to get there.

  The store was the only building at the four corners. It had a board sidewalk and a high false front. A narrow door opened between two wide show windows. Inside, a number of people were lounging about, talking. Orvie saw Harry Big Bear. “Hi!” he called.

  Harry was sitting on a small barrel, hunched over, stari
ng at the floor. His grandfather, White Cloud, was talking to the proprietor. Orvie glanced up at the sign on the wall and read it over:

  “Peg-Leg Moore Runs This Store

  Don’t Spit on the Floor—Open the Door.”

  Peg-Leg’s real name was Henry, but nobody used it. Ever since he had been in a railroad wreck and lost his leg, he had been nicknamed Peg-Leg. He had made his wooden leg himself because it was cheaper than a factory one. Peg-Leg was bald and wore glasses. His wooden leg made a brisk tapping on the floor as he pattered about. Now he stood behind the counter, looking at White Cloud over his glasses. “What’s that you say?”

  “Just ten dollars … to bury my baby …” said White Cloud in a mournful voice. The Indian wore overalls, his big black felt hat had a small feather on one side, and braids of black hair hung down at each side of his dark brown face.

  “Not today,” laughed Peg-Leg. “You Otoe Indians will soon be gettin’ rich like the Osages from selling oil leases. Then you can bury all your dead babies and lend us money.”

  The Indian’s expression did not change. “My poor baby …”

  “Your Grandpa got oil?” Orvie hurried over to ask Harry. “You gonna get rich?”

  But Harry Big Bear did not answer as he followed White Cloud out of the store.

  The people in the store were all talking. Orvie heard the word “oil” on every tongue.

  “The Indians may get the money,” laughed Jess Woods, a farmer, “but the white men won’t let them keep it long.”

  “Money ain’t everything, but it helps!” said Hank Newton.

  A cluster of women had gathered in a corner. “She’ll soon be sittin’ pretty,” said one. “She’ll soon be buyin’ new furniture.” “She’s awful close—good at pinchin’ pennies,” said another. “Do you think they’ll move to town?” inquired the third.

  “Who were they talking about?” Orvie asked Peg-Leg, when he began to make his purchases. “Somebody come into money?”

  “Gosh, boy, where you been? Haven’t you heard the news?” replied the storekeeper. “The whole countryside’s talkin’ about it. There’s a rumor they’ve got a showing of oil on the Murray place. That’s right up there by you folks—next quarter-section, ain’t it?”