I ever heard tell of.”
“You can’t fire a well by setting a match to it,” Slade observed inconsequentially.
“You’re darn right you can’t,” Kent agreed. “That well was fired by some sort of a flash device triggered to go off at a certain time. Men who were working nearby said there was a sharp explosion and she cut loose with a roar. But of course, Mawson or somebody could have hired an oil worker to do the job.”
Again Slade looked hard at the oil man. “Kent,” he said slowly, “does it seem reasonable that a man of Mawson’s standing and who is undoubtedly a shrewd article would place his liberty, or even his life if somebody had been killed, at the mercy of a man he could hire to do such a chore? To say the least, he’d be putting himself in a beautiful position to be paying blackmail to somebody the rest of his life.”
“It doesn’t seem reasonable,” Kent admitted, “but when men get really mad about something, they sometimes do foolish things.”
“I agree with you there,” Slade replied, “but firing the well would be nothing but a bit of petty spite work on Mawson’s part. If he fired a dozen wells he still couldn’t run you people out of the valley and he knows it. I talked with Mawson and he didn’t impress me as the kind that would go in for petty stuff. That wouldn’t be his way or I’m a lot mistaken in the man. I’ll tell you something, somebody shot his son last night and came close to killing him.”
“What!” exclaimed Kent. “Somebody shot young Clate?”
“That’s right,” Slade said, “and in my opinion if Tom Mawson felt for sure you, for instance, were responsible, his method would be to ride down here and do his best to blow you from under your hat.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you there,” Kent said soberly. “How did Clate come to get shot? I met him once, he’s a nice young feller, more progressive than his dad. How did it happen?”
Slade related what he knew about the shooting, Kent listening with intent interest.
“And now,” said Curly Nevins, who had overheard the latter part of the conversation, “and now I’ll tell you why Clate doesn’t happen to be all set for a burying right at this minute.”
Slade had noted before that Nevins had a gift for narration; the tale lost nothing in the telling. When he had finished, Bob Kent chuckled and shook his head admiringly.
“Well,” he said, “it seems you have a genius for getting in solid with everybody. First you put Tom Mawson eternally in your debt, then you go right ahead and get the oil men under obligation to you. As Arch Caldwell said, all that was needed was for the wind to freshen a bit and that whole section of the field would have very likely gone up in smoke. And you’ll notice,” he added significantly, “the wind is blowing pretty darn hard right now. Must be nice to have everybody thinking well of you.”
“Not everybody, I’m afraid,” Slade smiled. “Right now I’ve a notion whoever fired that well isn’t feeling overly friendly toward me.”
“You’re right there,” Kent conceded. “And it would be a good idea to keep it in mind. Whoever fired that well is a potential killer. In fact, two workers did die when the first one was fired last month.”
“You may have something,” Slade agreed lightly. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
Kent looked at him and shook his head. “I don’t believe you’ve got a nerve in your body,” he grumbled. Slade laughed and changed the subject.
“Oh, by the way,” Kent exclaimed, “the excitement of the fire and everything made me forget it, but the Yardley stage over to the west of the hills was held up last night. The robbers got away with several thousand dollars. I heard Sheriff Nolan and Deputy Hawkins, who’s stationed here, are over there trying to pick up the trail. I’m afraid they won’t have much luck.”
“Did anybody see which way the robbers went?” Slade asked.
“It happened to the west of
“You can’t fire a well by setting a match to it,” Slade observed inconsequentially.
“You’re darn right you can’t,” Kent agreed. “That well was fired by some sort of a flash device triggered to go off at a certain time. Men who were working nearby said there was a sharp explosion and she cut loose with a roar. But of course, Mawson or somebody could have hired an oil worker to do the job.”
Again Slade looked hard at the oil man. “Kent,” he said slowly, “does it seem reasonable that a man of Mawson’s standing and who is undoubtedly a shrewd article would place his liberty, or even his life if somebody had been killed, at the mercy of a man he could hire to do such a chore? To say the least, he’d be putting himself in a beautiful position to be paying blackmail to somebody the rest of his life.”
“It doesn’t seem reasonable,” Kent admitted, “but when men get really mad about something, they sometimes do foolish things.”
“I agree with you there,” Slade replied, “but firing the well would be nothing but a bit of petty spite work on Mawson’s part. If he fired a dozen wells he still couldn’t run you people out of the valley and he knows it. I talked with Mawson and he didn’t impress me as the kind that would go in for petty stuff. That wouldn’t be his way or I’m a lot mistaken in the man. I’ll tell you something, somebody shot his son last night and came close to killing him.”
“What!” exclaimed Kent. “Somebody shot young Clate?”
“That’s right,” Slade said, “and in my opinion if Tom Mawson felt for sure you, for instance, were responsible, his method would be to ride down here and do his best to blow you from under your hat.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you there,” Kent said soberly. “How did Clate come to get shot? I met him once, he’s a nice young feller, more progressive than his dad. How did it happen?”
Slade related what he knew about the shooting, Kent listening with intent interest.
“And now,” said Curly Nevins, who had overheard the latter part of the conversation, “and now I’ll tell you why Clate doesn’t happen to be all set for a burying right at this minute.”
Slade had noted before that Nevins had a gift for narration; the tale lost nothing in the telling. When he had finished, Bob Kent chuckled and shook his head admiringly.
“Well,” he said, “it seems you have a genius for getting in solid with everybody. First you put Tom Mawson eternally in your debt, then you go right ahead and get the oil men under obligation to you. As Arch Caldwell said, all that was needed was for the wind to freshen a bit and that whole section of the field would have very likely gone up in smoke. And you’ll notice,” he added significantly, “the wind is blowing pretty darn hard right now. Must be nice to have everybody thinking well of you.”
“Not everybody, I’m afraid,” Slade smiled. “Right now I’ve a notion whoever fired that well isn’t feeling overly friendly toward me.”
“You’re right there,” Kent conceded. “And it would be a good idea to keep it in mind. Whoever fired that well is a potential killer. In fact, two workers did die when the first one was fired last month.”
“You may have something,” Slade agreed lightly. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
Kent looked at him and shook his head. “I don’t believe you’ve got a nerve in your body,” he grumbled. Slade laughed and changed the subject.
“Oh, by the way,” Kent exclaimed, “the excitement of the fire and everything made me forget it, but the Yardley stage over to the west of the hills was held up last night. The robbers got away with several thousand dollars. I heard Sheriff Nolan and Deputy Hawkins, who’s stationed here, are over there trying to pick up the trail. I’m afraid they won’t have much luck.”
“Did anybody see which way the robbers went?” Slade asked.
“It happened to the west of
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