Десмонд Бэгли - Landslide

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘They’ve been warned off.’ Privately I wasn’t too sure; walking around and prospecting was one thing, and operating a drilling-rig was something very different. ‘Let’s get the gear out.’

The heaviest part was the gasoline engine which drove the monster. Clarry and I manhandled it across the escarpment, staggering and slipping on the slope, and dumped it at the site I had selected, while Mac stayed by the jeep. After that it was pretty easy, though time-consuming, and it was nearly two hours before we were ready to go.

That rig was a perfect bastard, and if Clarry hadn’t been along I doubt if I would ever have got it started. The main trouble was the engine, a cranky old two-stroke which refused to start, but Clarry cozened it, and after the first dozen refusals it burst into a noisy clatter. There was so much piston slap that I half expected the connecting-rod to bust clean out of the side of the engine, but it held together by good luck and some magic emanating from Clarry, so I spudded in and the job got under way.

As I expected, the noise brought someone running. A jeep came tearing up the road and halted just behind mine and my two friends of the first encounter came striding across. Novak yelled above the noise of the engine, ‘What the hell are you doing?’

I cupped my hand round my ear. ‘Can’t hear you.’

He came closer. ‘What are you doing with this thing?’

‘Running a test hole.’

‘Turn the damned thing off,’ he roared.

I shook my head and waved him away downhill and we walked to a place where polite conversation wasn’t so much of a strain on the eardrums. He said forcefully, ‘What do you mean — running a test hole?’

‘Exactly what I say — making a hole in the ground to see what comes up.’

‘You can’t do that here.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because... because...’

‘Because nothing,’ I snapped. ‘I’m legally entitled to drill on Crown land.’

He was undecided. ‘We’ll see about that,’ he said belligerently, and strode away back to his jeep. I watched him go, then went back to the drill to supervise the lifting of the first core.

Drilling through clay is a snap and we weren’t going very deep, anyway. As the cores came up I numbered them in sequence and Mac took them and stowed them away in the jeep. We had finished the first hole before Jimmy Waystrand got round to paying us a visit.

Clarry was regretfully turning off the engine when Mac nudged me. ‘Here comes trouble.’

I stood up to meet Waystrand. I could see he was having his own troubles down at the powerhouse by his appearance; he was plastered with mud to mid-thigh, splashed with mud everywhere else, and appeared to be in a short temper. ‘Do I have to have trouble with you again?’ he demanded.

‘Not if you don’t want it,’ I said. ‘I’m not doing anything here to cause you trouble.’

‘No?’ He pointed to the rig. ‘Does Mr Matterson know about that?’

‘Not unless someone told him,’ I said. ‘I didn’t ask his permission — I don’t have to.’

Waystrand nearly blew his top. ‘You’re sinking test holes between the Matterson dam and the Matterson powerhouse, and you don’t think you need permission? You must be crazy.’

‘It’s still Crown land,’ I said. ‘If Matterson wants to make this his private preserve he’ll have to negotiate a treaty with the Government. I can fill this hillside as full of holes as a Swiss cheese, and he can’t do anything about it. You might get on the telephone and tell him that. You can also tell him he didn’t read my report and he’s in big trouble.’

Waystrand laughed. ‘He’s in trouble?’ he said incredulously.

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘So are you, judging by the mud on your pants. It’s the same trouble — and you tell Howard exactly that.’

‘I’ll tell him,’ said Waystrand. ‘And I can guarantee you won’t drill any more holes.’ He spat on the ground near my foot and walked away.

Mac said, ‘You’re pushing it hard, Bob.’

‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Let’s get on with it. I want two more holes today. One on the far side and another back there by the road.’

We hauled the rig across the hillside again and sank another hole to forty feet, and then laboriously hauled it all the way back to a point near the jeep and sank a third hole. Then we were through for the day and packed the rig in the back of the jeep. I wanted to do a lot more boring and normally I would have left the rig on the site but this was not a normal operation and I knew that if I left the rig it would look even more smashed up by morning.

We drove down the hill again and were stopped at the bottom by a car which skidded to a stop blocking the road. Howard Matterson got out and came close. ‘Boyd, I’ve had all I can stand from you,’ he said tightly.

I shrugged. ‘What have I done now?’

‘Jimmy Waystrand says you’ve been drilling up there. That comes to a stop right now.’

‘It might,’ I agreed. ‘If I’ve found out what I want to know. I wouldn’t have to drill, Howard, if you’d read my report. I told you to watch out for qui—’

‘I’m not interested in your goddam report,’ he butted in. ‘I’m not even interested in your drilling. But what I am interested in is this story I hear about you being the guy who survived the crash in which old Trinavant was killed.’

‘Are people saying that?’ I said innocently.

‘You know goddam well they’re saying it. And I want that stopped, too.’

‘How can I stop it?’ I asked. ‘I’m not responsible for what folks say to each other. They can say what they like — it doesn’t worry me. It seems to worry you, though.’ I grinned at him pleasantly. ‘Now, I wonder why it should.’

Howard flushed darkly. ‘Look, Boyd — or Grant — or whatever else you call yourself — don’t try to nose into things that don’t concern you. This is the last warning you’re going to get. My old man gave you a warning and now it’s coming from me, too. I’m not as soft as my old man — he’s getting foolish in his old age — and I’m telling you to get to hell out of here before you get pushed.’

I pointed at his car. ‘How can I get out with that thing there?’

‘Always the wisecracks,’ said Howard, but he went back and climbed into his car and opened a clear way. I eased forward and stopped alongside him. ‘Howard,’ I said. ‘I don’t push so easily. And another thing — I wouldn’t call your father soft. He might get to hear of it and then you’d find out personally how soft he is.’

‘I’ll give you twenty-four hours,’ said Howard, and took off. His exit was spoiled by the mud on the road; his wheels failed to grip and he skidded sideways and the rear of his auto crunched against a rock. I grinned and waved at him and carried on to Fort Farrell.

Clarry Summerskill said thoughtfully, ‘I did hear something about that yesterday. Is it right, Mr Boyd?’

‘Is what right?’

‘That you’re this guy, Grant, who was smashed up with John Trinavant?’

I looked at him sideways, and said softly, ‘Couldn’t I be anyone else besides Grant?’

Summerskill looked puzzled. ‘If you were in that crash I don’t rightly see who else you could be. What sort of games are you playing, Mr Boyd?’

‘Don’t think about it too much, Clarry,’ advised Mac. ‘You might sprain your brain. Boyd knows what he’s doing. It’s worrying the Mattersons, isn’t it? So why should it worry you, too?’

‘I don’t know that it does,’ said Clarry, brightening a little. ‘It’s just that I don’t understand what’s going on.’

Mac chuckled. ‘Neither does anyone else,’ he said. ‘Neither does anyone else — but we’re getting there slowly.’ Clarry said, ‘You want to watch out for Howard Matterson, Mr Boyd — he’s got a low boiling-point. When he gets going he can be real wild. Sometimes I think he’s a bit nuts.’