Clifton Adams - Boomer

It was a dangerous thing to remember at a time like that. He should have been remembering that bank in Joplin, and Marshal Joe Dagget with the suspicious mind, and the hired killer that Farley had taken on his pay roll, but all he could think of was that one particular moment when he had held Rhea hard against him. He should have remembered Turk Valois' experiences in Bartlesville, and Zack Muller in his lonely grave outside of Tulsa, but it was no use.

Suddenly he reached out with both hands and held her by her shoulders. He felt a small shudder go through her but she did not try to back away. She did not look away nor did she make a sound when he pulled her to him; not even when he put his arms around her, held her roughly, forced her face back, and forced his mouth down on hers did she make any move to escape. She did nothing at all.

Grant felt the anger and brief violence go out of him. Guilt gnawed at him as he let her go, and he mumbled, “I'm sorry. I guess there was no call for that.”

“I learned long ago,” she said flatly, “that everything must be paid for in one way or another. I need your help—if this is your price, then I'll have to pay it.”

“I set no price!” Grant said harshly. “I said I'm sorry.”

“We all have a price.” And her voice was matter of fact and controlled. “My father is dead—I'll do whatever is necessary to see that Farley pays for that! But I need a man who's not afraid.”

“I hold no claim to bravery.”

But she seemed not to hear him. “Name your price,” she said, almost roughly. Then coolly, deliberately, she put her arms about his neck and drew him to her.

Abruptly, faintly sickened by his own thoughts, Grant broke her hold about his neck and shoved her roughly against the wall. For one long moment he stood glaring and angry, searching his conscience for some motive to justify his own actions. But there was only one motive, and Rhea knew it. He was in love with her, he wanted her—it was as simple as that. Without putting it into words, he had named his price and she had been ready to meet it.

Not until that moment did he realize what her father's death had meant to her. Shame lay cold in his belly and he shrank a little within himself as he jammed his hat down on his forehead and blundered up the steps of the dugout.

He went to the bunkhouse, glad to find it empty, and he sat for a long time on the edge of his folding cot cursing the day he had decided to try his hand at fanning. If it hadn't been for the farm and the trouble with the bank none of this would have happened; he would still be working on some fenced ranch in the Cherokee Nation, getting drunk every Saturday with nothing to worry about but a hangover the next morning. But there was no solution here to his present trouble and his shame. He had tried his hand at farming; he had wanted to amount to something more than a dollar-a-day line rider, and this was where it had got him.

He tried to think about the farm, but he could not dredge up even a vague vision of it in his mind. All he could see was Rhea's face, and he heard Rhea's voice saying, If this is your price...

His nerves were raw; he got up suddenly and paced to one of the bunkhouse's narrow windows and stared flatly out at the snow-patched wilderness of derricks and mud. It was a hell of a place for a woman, and maybe he couldn't blame her too much for wanting to get out of it.

He saw Bud Muller coming toward the bunkhouse from the rig, and Grant turned away from the windows and pretended that he was looking for something in his roll.

“Got a job for you, Grant,” Bud said, stamping the mud from his feet on a mat of gunny sacks.

Grant looked up, glad that Bud wasn't one to ask questions. He was also glad that young Muller took it for granted that he was still working on the lease—it was almost as though he had been waiting for someone like Rhea's brother to come in and settle his doubts.

“What kind of job?”

Bud's thin grin was almost a warning. “We need new derrick timbers to repair the damage the fire did last night. There's a shipment waiting for us at Kiefer, but getting it to the lease won't be easy.”

Grant sat on the cot, not liking what he saw in Bud's face.

The boy shrugged and spread his hands. “We're broke. We've got just enough on hand to pay the workers; a rig fire wasn't in our plans. We need five hundred dollars that we don't have, but Kurt Battle, the supplier, might give us credit if we can get the timbers out of town without Farley seeing us.”

Grant got to his feet again and went to the window, knowing that there was little chance of getting credit from Battle. Still, Turk Valois had been willing to take a chance against Farley at the risk of his own business; maybe Battle would be willing, too. But these were not the kind of odds he liked to play against.

“What happens if Battle doesn't give the credit?”

Bud made no attempt to grin now; he was worried and showed it. “We've got to have the timbers. We can't spud in with a damaged derrick; we can't even raise the crown block.”

There was no use to say any more. Farley knew who was holding the high hand and he had the supplier under his thumb. There would be a fight if they tried to take the timbers out of Kiefer, maybe the last fight Farley would have to put up.

Now, his instincts warned him, was the time to cut himself away. But it was little more than a passing thought. If he was going to quit, he would have done it long ago, he never would have taken the train to Kiefer in the first place. He looked at Bud and grinned with faint bitterness. Rhea had known all along that he would see it out with them.

He had his price—and she had known that, too. It was herself.

Grant picked up his hat and started for the door, but Bud stopped him as he reached for the latch. “There's one more thing, Grant: Valois is working for us now.”

Grant nodded. “I know.”

Rhea's brother was not pleased with what he heard in Grant's voice, and he frowned hard, rubbing his hand over his mouth thoughtfully. But he only said, “Turk is meeting us in Kiefer. Well, if you're ready...”

CHAPTER TEN

AS THEY INTENDED to come back with the derrick timbers, there was no need for taking horses with them. Grant and young Muller hiked across Slush Creek and caught a ride to Kiefer on a returning freighter. The day was bleak and cold but there was no sign of snow, and they rode most of the way in silence, each man busy with his own thoughts.

Once Bud said, “I wasn't sure you'd stay with us after you heard about Valois.”

Grant lifted his gaze just enough to indicate that he had heard but he said nothing.

They dropped off the freighter in front of the Wheel House where Valois was waiting. “You got here at a good time,” the runner said. “Farley's out on location, and his gun shark's with him.” He looked at Bud. “Maybe it would be better if Grant and I stayed behind and let you talk to Battle alone.”

“Or maybe,” Grant said, “it would be better to let Battle know we mean business.”

And Bud Muller nodded. “Grant's right. It would be too easy to put me off if I went there alone; he's not going to be eager to take a cut at Farley the minute he turns his back.”

Ducking their heads into the wind, the three of them headed up the shaky plank walk toward the depot where Kurt Battle's warehouse was. Now that they were away from the lease, away from Rhea, Grant discovered that he was not so sorry to have Valois along. If there was to be a fight, it would be a tough one. Even if they got credit from Battle, they would be a long time getting the timbers back to the lease, and Farley had too many men on his pay roll not to hear about it.

Valois grinned faintly when he saw that Grant was studying him from beneath the down-tilted brim of his hat. “It's too bad, isn't it?” he said quietly.