The Wildcatters (The Making of America, Book 21)
Lee Davis Willoughby
The big man was strong and wily --but his son had the edge in anger
"He wants to fight you, Pa," young Jake Faust warned.
Big John Faust was taking his ease outdoors in the sun with his youthful wife, Bryna, as his two sons arrived, Ernie with fire in his eyes.
"Ernie, this is crazy," Bryna said, green eyes widening. "You can't fight your father. He loves you."
Ernie pointed at Bryna's stomach. "That should have been my child."
John Faust began to unbutton his shirt. "He's been spoiling for this fight for a long time, and we might as well get it over with. Right, Ernie boy?"
"I'm no boy," Ernie Faust said. "I'm a better man than you are ... I don't intercept other people's letters so as to steal their woman."
Big John shook his head. "Never happened. But let's get on with it."
The combatants circled briefly, swapped exploratory punches--and then the first hammer-blow landed. It was to be a battle of hitters, a fight to the finish, until one battered the other into the ground for the last time.
The Making of America Series
The Wilderness Seekers
The Mountain Breed
The Conestoga People
The Forty-Niners
Hearts Divided
The Builders
The Land Rushers
The Wild and the Wayward
The Texans
The Alaskans
The Golden Staters
The River People
The Landgrabbers
The Ranchers
The Homesteaders
The Frontier Healers
The Buffalo People
The Border Breed
The Boomers
The Wildcatters
The Wildcatters Lee Davis Willoughby
A DELL/BRYANS BOOK
Published by
Dell Publishing Co., Inc.
1 Dag Hammarskjold Plaza
New York, New York 10017
Copyright © 1981 by Walter Wager
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
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Dell ® TM 681510, Dell Publishing Co., Inc.
ISBN: 0-440-09830-0
Printed in the United States of America
First printing--October 1981
The naked woman looked at herself in the mirror, and liked what she saw. It was not merely that she had a pretty and patrician face, masses of gleaming ebony hair, and a sleek, shapely body that women a dozen years younger might envy. It was the warmth and anticipation that radiated from her large black eyes that gave her her special beauty. 
Her lover would soon be here. It was time to per fume her ample breasts, to don the dress that he liked so much. Now she stared out the window of the little wooden house at the fields of cotton that always re minded her of her home so far away. But this was not Georgia. It was Texas, and the first day of a new year: 1901 was still fresh and full of promise, a time for hope. She was more than a thousand miles from the man who had caused the pain. She was safe here. 
Even as she remembered, her hands stroked the thighs that had once been his. He had been a wonder ful, passionate lover, an intolerable husband. In the unseeing eyes of the law, she was still his wife . .. his 
chattel. He had never understood that she could not be his property or anyone else's. He had never recognized that she was more than the mistress of his house and bed, the mother of his sons. It was not malice. John Faust was not an evil man, just an impossible one.
That life--their life together--was finished.
She missed the children, but she would never go back.
She couldn't.
Her body still remembered him, but that was growing less each day. She walked to the chest of drawers, opened the tiny silver flask and poured a few drops of the violet scent into the narrow valley between her breasts. Only a little was needed. Body heat would do the rest.
She closed the perfume vial, took her best pair of stockings from the chair and carefully slid one onto her right leg. Then she rolled the other onto her left leg, and started across the simply furnished room for the dress. She smelled the cake that she had baked, and nodded in contentment. Her lover would enjoy it, for it was his favorite. She liked to cook for this good and considerate man.
She donned the ruffled bloomers and camisole that still smelled of the sun and the iron. Then she put on her dress, adjusting the neckline so that it showed some, but not too much, of her bosom. She had been raised as a lady, and a lady did not expose that much so early in the day.
She returned to the chest and opened the top drawer to reach for the twenty-two-carat Florentine gold chain that her father had presented her for her sixteenth birthday. As she did so, she saw, reflected in the mirror, a cloud of dust on the horizon. Her
eyes darted to the chain, and the small derringer beside it. 
Who was coming? 
If it was her lover, she would welcome him warmly. 
If it was John Faust, with fierce thoughts of bringing her back, she would use the pistol to defend herself. Then she realized how foolish she was being, and relaxed with a sigh. It couldn't be John Faust The only thing that would bring him one thousand miles was oil, and--thank God--everyone knew that there was no oil in East Texas. 
Some forty miles south and nine days later, a rangy man named Al Hamill sat sweating in the early morning sun and listened to the monotonous sound of the pump and rotary drill. Hamill and his two brothers had brought the equipment from Louisiana in late November. A foreigner with some kind of thick European accent, who called himself Captain Lucas, had hired them to dig down to one thousand two hundred feet. Lucas thought there was oil here. Almost everyone else except that loyal Mrs. Lucas thought he was a damn fool. 
Once wealthy, the Lucas family was living in a shanty a mile and a half from this rig. The captain had spent all their money on this wild scheme, as well as most of the three hundred thousand dollars he'd talked out of some gullible investors. A lot of the cash had been paid out for the Hamills and their new-fangled rotary drill, a sort of power-driven screw that dug much more efficiently than the old steam hammer equipment used in the Pennsylvania oil fields. 
The rotary had bored day and night for ten weeks, with the stubborn Hamills putting in exhausting 18-hour shifts. All they had to show for their ten weeks of backbreaking labor was a lone pocket of natural gas that had contemptuously spit up mud all over them.
Not a barrel of oil.
It was now or never. This was the last week. If the rotary didn't gouge through to oil by twelve thousand feet, the investors would abandon the project as another dry hole. They were down to one thousand twenty feet. The damn fishtail drilling bit had broken again, Hamill mourned as he listened to the caw of a lost sea bird that had wandered up from the nearby Gulf of Mexico. His brother, Curt, would return from the depot in the buggy at any moment for the final effort. By sunset tomorrow or dawn the next day, they'd be twelve hundred feet below the sandy surface --the outer limit.
At 10:08 a.m., Curt Hamill arrived with the fishtail bit. The brothers hardly spoke during the twenty minutes it took to attach it, and Al Hamill merely shrugged as he started the motor. Looking across the flats towards nearby Beaumont and thirsting for a cold mug of beer, he turned away and began to walk towards the shade provided by a tarpaulin they'd rigged for shelter from sun and rain.
At 10:30, the well exploded.
A huge eruption of mud blotted out the burning sun. Then thousands of pounds of metal pipe--four tons--leaped from the Texas earth, and a deafening roar of natural gas stunned the brothers. As they reeled under the impact, a tremendous blast, like thunder, boomed.
Then the black gold spouted three hundred feet into the air. 
Moments later, hundreds of rocks--some the size of grapefruits--rained down. The ground shook. Men and animals 11 miles away felt it move, and more oil spewed high in an unending stream. It was everything that Lucas had dreamt 
A fantastic gusher! 
Seventy-five thousand barrels a day! 
10:30 a.m. on January 10th, 1901. 
Thanks to the telegraph system, newspaper readers across the country learned of the rich strike the next morning. There was oil--a vast, an incredible amount --in Jefferson County, Texas. 
John Faust could almost smell the oil.
In fact, he could nearly taste it.
There are fierce desires that drive men to desperation, that knot their stomachs and spin their minds out of control like a child's toy top. Some men lust for ripe breasts to kiss or young virgins with cascades of silken yellow hair, while others hunger obsessively for land or gold or fame. Though he was a private man who rarely spoke of his inner appetites, Faust had his secret needs too. They moved him as relentlessly as the coal-burning locomotive that powered this train.
His eyes glowed like those of a sick man burning with fever. The oil was there--just beyond the horizon. It would be his, as the woman had been and always would be. He would smash or destroy anyone who dared to come between them. Listening to the clickety-clack of the rails beneath his feet, the tall man with the wide shoulders of a farmer stared out at the scrub and pine covered flatlands of East Texas.
He saw nothing of the landscape, for his gaze was directed in---not out. 
He would find her, and she would resume her wifely duties. Suddenly he recalled the subtle violet scent that she had favored, so elegant and ladylike. Then he remembered her sighs and moans and heaving animal abandon. Most men would smile in pleasure as they relived that ecstasy, but John Faust's deep blue eyes showed no such emotion. It was brooding bitterness that covered his strong face like the visage on some ancient Aztec mask. She had hurt him deeply when she fled. Now, nineteen months later, the wound to his pride still throbbed, and the scar tissue over his heart was far from healed. 
His eyes shifted to look at his husky sons. They were large muscular lads, each as rugged and stubborn as their father. Ernest was 19, a younger version of his dad with the same light brown hair, blue eyes, and strong chin. It was hardly surprising that he was the apple of his father's eye. It wasn't merely that they looked a lot alike. John Faust was convinced that they even thought alike, for Ernest was as tough and manly as his father. 
There was something a little different about the younger boy. Of course, at 17--only a few months from 18--Jake Faust was hardly a boy. He could do a man's work with his tough young body, and he did. The same thought had occurred to a number of teenage girls, and even hungry married women, the father recalled. But Jacob Faust wasn't the sort to take advantage of every female who wanted him. Though neither weak nor fearful, he would never be the stallion that his father had been. He would never bed down the dozens whom John Faust had won by his age. 
There was something individual . . . hard to define . . . about the younger son. He was not as bold, lusty and outgoing as his older brother, but that wasn't all of it. He didn't look like his father either. He had darker hair, and brown eyes like his mother. In those large brown eyes there was something special. It was an extra dimension--caring and warmth. He, too, obeyed his father, but something in those extraordinary brown eyes remained private.
Though neither son was yet a match for the famed bare-fisted fighter that their father was, each had a solid strength of his own. Ernest was already a rugged young bull, the father noted approvingly. "I can still smash him though," John Faust thought. He unconsciously flexed the calloused hands that had knocked out so many teeth, broken so many jaws, and battered so many adversaries to the earth. Maria had called him a saloon brawler. It was a damned lie. John Faust was not slow to fight, but he was not the aggressive animal that she described. He didn't usually start the fights, Faust reflected with a trace of a smile, but he always finished them.
He had told her that many times, but she refused to believe him. Daughter of an Italian ship's doctor and a high-born Savannah beauty, dark and sensual Maria was the most stubborn of all the Fausts. She would not listen. Why had she tried to make him over into a Georgia gentleman? Faust brooded. Why couldn't she accept him for what he was?
"Think of your family, John," she'd pleaded. "We're entitled to a normal life ... a permanent home . . . some stability. Please forget this obsession, and just try the job my uncle has offered for six months."
"I'd die in an office," he'd answered truthfully. "I'm not a man to be caged. I never was."
And she had wept. Then her hurt had turned to anger. There were more arguments, more appeals, and growing disputes about his "brutal" ways. She fought him in a hundred ways--all the ways that women have. Finally, she lay in their bed as rigid as stone--sad and far away from the frustrated man beside her. Each of them was too strong to bend, too proud to yield. He began to drink more, fight more-- furious that she could not understand who and what he was. 
He was a wildcatter. 
He hunted oil the way other men pursued mountain lions. There was petroleum in his blood. He wasn't ashamed of it. The battle of man against the earth that hoarded the black gold . . . the struggle of man against man to find it first and gouge it free . . . these were the challenges that made his blood quicken and his heart exult. The small, the safe and the predictable were not for John Faust. He was one of the special breed that defied the odds, men who made their own rules and--sometimes--millions. More often they were broke, owning nothing but courage and dreams. 
Wide awake but seeing nothing, John Faust dreamed of the oil under the salt domes of Jefferson County just ahead. It would be a savage fight for survival, though there were no hostile Indians left»in East Texas. This was February of 1901. The Cherokee, the Alabama and the Caddo had been driven west after the Civil War. Even the fierce Apache, Comanche, Tonkawa and the Karankawa had been "pacified" by repeating rifles. No, John Faust would be risking his life in battle with gushers, gas blow outs, raging fires that could char a man to a cinder, and drilling rigs that could shatter and maim or kill a man in fifty different ways. 
The other dangers walked on two legs. They were human--barely. To say that it was dog eat dog in the savage competition for oil was a laughable understatement. The men who would compete with the Fausts for the riches beneath the surface near Beaumont would lie and stab, poison, shoot, or mangle without hesitation. Faust had seen it all--the violence, the crooked gamblers, the whores and swindlers and homicidal thugs--as a very young boy in America's first oil field. His immigrant father had been a hard working laborer at the Titusville "strike" in Pennsylvania, the incredible and legendary start of it all back in 1859.
That was where he'd caught the oil fever.
Fortunes had been made, but not by men such as his naive father, who sweated for others and owned nothing but a three-room house, some ragged chickens and a few stoney acres dotted with stunted apple trees when he died.
The oil barons would not use John Faust that way. He was no placid Westphalian farmer like his father, no docile peasant content to accept what crumbs they gave him. John Faust would fight them as he fought the earth itself, with his muscles and his mind and his total determination. He would beat them with his fists and his boldness, matching every cunning trick and brutal attack--and surpassing them. He would win. He would be rich, and Maria would be his again.
Nothing would stop him.
Nothing could.
"Beaumont! Beaumont!" the beefy conductor bellowed over the rattle and clatter of the aged cars. The Gulf, Colorado and Santa Fe was using almost anything with wheels to cope with the sudden explosion of oil-crazed men rushing to the newly discovered
field. Word of the fantastic gusher that stubborn Anthony Lucas and his crew had gouged from Big Hill just outside the once sleepy town had electrified the nation. The railroad was now running six trains every day to the boom town, bringing in hungry men and hopeful women from as far as Chicago and New York. 
This morning's train, like the others, was filled with them. Every inch of space in every car was crowded, overflowing with a motley mob representing every layer of society. There were men in frock coats, others in overalls and still others in cowboy outfits. Plumbers and preachers, card sharks and roustabouts, lawyers and dance hall girls rubbed shoulders with drillers, pipe fitters, cooks, pickpockets and ex-soldiers still wearing tattered remnants of their uniforms. Many of them had not washed or changed their clothes since they'd boarded the train three days earlier. The stink of sweat, urine and discarded bits of rotting food mingled with the odor of cheap whiskey. 
Most of them looked honest, John Faust judged. 
How long they would stay that way was another question. 
"Beaumont! Beaumont!" the conductor repeated. He'd be glad to unload all this human debris and get a bath himself. No, it wasn't really fair to lump them all together as debris, the railroad man decided. Still, he could not forget the corpse he'd found at the end of a run to Beaumont only a week earlier. The fat man had been dead for two days, but no one had said a word. They had simply stolen his belongings and clothes--even his shoes. They'd left only his greasy undershorts. It had taken three applications of creosote to drive the smell from the old wooden car. 
"Spindletop!" someone shouted. 
A roar went through the entire train. It rippled and swelled as it thundered through the cars. Spindletop was the name of the multi-million dollar well on Big Hill, the spouting black miracle that had brought them all here. A one-armed ex-lumberman named Pattillo Higgins had been laughed at when he told people that there was oil under the salt dome that bulged from Big Hill. "Everyone" knew that it was impossible. Only the ex-Austrian naval captain named Lucas--he'd Americanized it from Luchich--believed the mad idea. He'd bought Higgins' wild idea and claims, brought in proper rotary drills to convert the hunch into rich reality. 
Nobody laughed at Jefferson County's salt domes any more. The idea was no longer mad. It was the people who were. Now there were thousands in Beaumont and more on the way, all oil crazed and possessed with the irrational conviction that this was their great chance--perhaps their last one. For years, the college-educated geologists had smugly assured Texans that there couldn't possibly be oil under salt domes. Now the experts who had derided Pattillo Higgins were being laughed at by men who had never finished elementary school, men who had nothing but the clothes on their backs and raw will. 
Anything was possible here. 
Anyone who worked hard--and had some luck-- could be a millionaire next week. Next month at the latest. 
This was Texas, the wide open economic and social frontier . . . the land of hope and new beginnings . . . the place where dreams came true. There were no barriers, no limits to what a man could do or how high he might rise. The snobbery of money, class and education that slowed men back East meant nothing 
here. Texas was the place of opportunity, challenge and change. Here people made their own destinies.
Nothing stood still for long. Many flags had flown over this vast and fertile land. The Spaniards had come first in 1519, but then the colorful banner of royal France was unfurled in 1682. The Spaniards did not leave, but when Mexico revolted in 1810 a new country emerged to rule. American settlers fought Mexican domination for years, and paid in blood at battles such as the siege of the Alamo where 183 heroes held off six thousand Mexican regulars for almost a fortnight--and at last died. Still the Texans would not yield to the dictator's yoke. They raised new companies of brave men to smash Santa Anna's well-equipped army. The spunky Republic of Texas was born, and its pennant flew for nine years until Texas joined the United States in 1845. From 1861 through 1865, the flag of the Confederacy crackled in the breeze. Back in the Union since 1870, freewheeling Texas still lived by its own principles and its own code of honor and human values.
Men and women could dare here.
That was probably why God and Nature had put the oil in East Texas, for this place was the wildcatters' dream. Now Ernest Faust peered out through the dusty window, saw the jumble of low wood and adobe buildings ahead and pointed silently.
There it was.
The new El Dorado, whose black gold would solve all problems and satisfy all desires.
Ringed by stands of bald cypress and fields of rice, the little inland port of Beaumont nestled in a curve of the winding Neches River. Ernest Faust stared at a forest, wondered whether the lofty trees might be oak --and grinned. They were oil derricks, dozens clustered
at the far edge of the city. Others recognized the rigs, and began to talk and laugh boisterously. It was all real, and almost within reach.
John Faust nodded to his sons as the train began to slow. Men were standing up, adjusting their dirty wrinkled clothes and scratching at itches that plagued their heads and groins and armpits. A wheelmaker fleeing a shrewish wife in Louisville broke into song, and a bearded ex-artillery sergeant from Maine who had not found a decent job since leaving the service at the end of the Spanish-American War joined him.
Fm on my way to Texas That's where I'll make my home I'll strike it rich in Texas From there Til never roam! «
Dozens of voices--some young and strong and others ravaged by age and cheap rum--joined the chorus. Ernest Faust contributed his booming baritone and his younger brother sang softly too. A pretty black cook who hoped that Beaumont wages would top those in Toledo shyly added her voice, not quite certain how much freedom and acceptance she might expect in this ex-Confederate state. The busty blonde dance hall girls from St. Louis were too busy adding fresh layers of rouge to their already gaudy faces to sing, but they smiled mechanically in synthetic enthusiasm and bobbed their heads to the rhythm of the folk song.
John Faust ignored the music. It reminded him of the woman who had deserted him, of the shame and the rejection. Maria was an accomplished pianist trained in fine music, and they had fought many times about her wish that the boys learn to play instruments.
Somehow threatened by what he considered foreign pretensions and refinements, Faust had rejected the very idea as unmanly. He scowled even as he thought of it.
The train stopped. Even before the doors of the cars were opened, eager men were hurling their packs and battered carpetbags out the windows and scrambling down to the plank platform themselves. Time was precious here- Every moment might be the crucial one, for whoever filed or bought that claim to "mineral rights" first could be next week's envied millionaire. Jake Faust watched them hit the ground running, and turned to his father expectantly.
"Where are they going?" he asked.
"Dunno, and they don't either. They're just jackrabbits, boy. Let's move," John Faust ordered, and his sons obeyed. All along the train, men were pulling open the doors. In the car that the Fausts had ridden in, the portly conductor was doing that--but not fast enough. An Alabama iron miner in soiled work clothes and a proper Bostonian who saw more promise in oil than in teaching Latin rudely shoved the ticket taker aside to jerk the door open themselves.
A torrent of humanity poured out onto the platform. Holding firm to his sturdy valise, John Faust bulled his way through the babbling mob, opening a path for his sons. He was nearly at the door, when he glanced out a window. Something caught his eye. It was a tall, lean man with curly hair, wearing a gold watch and looking remarkably neat in this bedraggled crowd of weary travelers. The man saw Faust, acknowledged him with a razor-sharp smile that was more of a leer, and waved a broad greeting that was obviously meant to be an insult. A moment later, the man disappeared
into the turbulent eddies of people flowing towards the small wooden station.
"Who's that man, Pa?" Ernest wondered.
"A dirty dog, and a dangerous one," his father replied harshly. They waited for him to say more, but he was in no mood to explain. He forced his way to the door, detected the hand of a thief in his pocket, and almost nonchalantly knocked the pickpocket reeling. The crack of his backhand slap striking the crook's face was lost in the tumult, and the few passengers close enough to see it couldn't have cared less. In a boom town like this, there were never enough Texas Rangers and a man had to protect his property. It wasn't that long ago that citizens hung horse thieves in Jefferson County.
The chaos of the platform was growing even louder now. Touts and pimps offering advice on the best land deals, surest claims, cleanest boarding houses and liveliest women were already "working" the new arrivals with their tried and true slogans. For those who couldn't wait, the harlots who had called themselves "dance hall girls" on the train were busy whispering invitations and prices. Jake and Ernest Faust, who were friends as well as brothers, eyed each other and shook their heads.
"Come on, boys," their impatient father roared over the noise. Using their suitcases to clear a path, the Fausts bumped and thumped a path down the platform to the freight car at the rear of the train that held their drilling gear. As they reached it, John Faust reached for his watch--and froze.
"You sold it, Pa," young Jake reminded him quietly.
His father's face lit up with a wide grin. John Faust was a big handsome man, too honest and open to
hide his feelings. When he smiled like this, it was easy to see why so many women found him attractive. 
"I sure did. I sold it all," he replied exuberantly. The house, the furniture, the gold watch, and just about everything except the clothes they carried had been converted into cash for their grub stake. Money --cash for drilling equipment and this bold expedition--came first. That was the way he did things. Caution or fear were foreign to this man, who was willing to risk everything he had for the chance of one big score. 
Now he pointed to their boxes in the freight car. 
There was the family's future. 
"Come on, boys. Let's get our tools and find our gusher," he called out confidently. 
He had no doubt that a major oil strike would soon be his. 
It wasn't just that he believed in the Beaumont field. 
He believed in John Faust 
He also believed in paying for what he wanted. He had taught his sons that they would get nothing for nothing. Now he saw the freight handler, and the wildcatter knew what to do. 
"Be mighty obliged if we could get those boxes out right away, friend," Faust announced, and gave the bald railroader a man-to-man wink. At the same time, he deftly passed a tip so generous that some might call it a bribe. The freight handler grinned back, pocketed the money and waved his assent. 
"A whole dollar, Pa?" Jake wondered. 
"You spend money to make money," John Faust explained. He'd learned that lesson as a boy in 
Pennsylvania from a very rich and practical man-- many said he was a scoundrel--named Ben Hogan.
"Never waste time cause time's the only thing you can't replace," was another Hogan saying. That was why John Faust paid for the privilege of unloading his cargo first, and why he left his strapping sons to wrestle out the boxes while he arranged for transportation.
"Try Miller's Stable over on Crockett Road," the freight handler advised, "and tell him Don Pickells sent you."
"Honest man?"
"I know worse," the railroader answered with a chuckle.
Stepping out into the street from the station a. minute later, John Faust immediately saw the impact of the Spindletop oil discovery only a scant seven weeks before. Beaumont would never again be a sleepy rural town basking in the warmth of the nearby Gulf of Mexico. It was no longer a little farming community of Texans, Mexicans, and black descendants of former slaves. All of those people--the entire population until a month-and-a-half ago--were still there, but they were almost inundated by the waves of assorted and colorful arrivals from twenty other states. Mountain men from Colorado, gamblers from Louisiana, construction workers from New York and Chicago mingled with oil field veterans from Pennsylvania, farmers from Missouri, ship-jumping sailors from Florida, and bail-jumping fugitives from at least four states.
Men and women of every color, creed and social status crowded the streets. Stepping back just in time to avoid being run down by one of the many horsedrawn wagons, Faust bumped into a pair of Chinese
carrying a large pane of glass. They said something in Cantonese, but even if he had understood that tongue the words were drowned out by the music of a Mexican mariachi quartet in the dance hall across the rutted street. Three tanned men in the wide Stetsons and chaps of cowboys cantered by, with weary looks in their eyes and Colt six-shooters on their hips. A buxom red-head drove by in a buckboard laden with bags of rice, a sack of beans, and the carcass of half a cow. She was young, vital, beautiful. 
She handled the reins well, Faust judged, and wondered whether she was typical of the women of Texas. Following the freight handler's gesture that signalled he should walk west, he strode on in that direction for several minutes before he decided to ask someone how much further it was to the stable. There --sauntering out of the Beaumont Bank & Trust Co.-- he saw a dignified looking man in the dark clothes of a minister. That graying pillar of the community would surely know. 
"Crockett Street? Down to the corner, and then right. See the barber pole?" 
Faust nodded. 
"That's where you turn. The stable is about two hundred yards from that pole, just a minute or two beyond Mrs. LaRue's ah ... establishment." 
"Establishment?" 
The minister shrugged. 
"Social club," he explained ambiguously, and excused himself before John Faust could ask any more embarrassing questions. Continuing his journey, the wildcatter found himself thinking about Ben Hogan again. Hogan had known a good deal about such "social clubs" and the women of easy virtue who worked in them, and he too had worn the black 
broadcloth of a clergyman when he made his fortune in western Pennsylvania's oil fields. 
Hogan had not found any oil. Indeed, the first to discover oil in the region were the Seneca Indians. Notice might be more accurate, for the Indians saw it oozing from the earth and smeared it on themselves as a medical liniment. Then white settlers tried this "Seneca Oil" to cure arthritis, with modest results. Fortunately, some local merchants got the odd notion that this dirty, smelly liquid might "burn well as lamp fuel--maybe more cleanly and cheaply than whale oil. 
When a Yale chemistry professor's tests suggested that this was likely, the men who had recently set up the Pennsylvania Rock Oil Company at Titusville hired an ex railroad conductor to get the petroleum out of the ground. 
His name was Edwin Drake. In the summer of 1859, he collected a dozen of the poorest local farmers--mostly Irish and German immigrants battling rocky terrain--to dig for an "oil spring" near where the black liquid was seeping from the earth. Among these men was John Faust's father, who had fled the hopelessness of Germany with his wife four years earlier to try a new Me in the land of opportunity.
Aside from his weekly salary of $5 for six days of back-breaking labor, Otto Faust never made a cent from oil. With the help of a steam engine to hammer the drills, Drake's sweaty work gang finally pounded their cast-iron pipe to 71 feet where they hit the black gold. It was a four-hundred-gallon-a-day well. More wells were dug--eight hundred in 19 months. Otto Faust toiled on a dozen--always as a low paid laborer. By the start of the Civil War, Otto Faust 
had $96 in the bank and was the father of three children. The two daughters died of diphtheria. Only his son John survived.
He was six years old when the accident happened. The walking beam that drove the drill at a new well had snapped, toppling the 18-foot derrick onto Otto Faust and crippling one leg permanently. He was lucky, they said. The Dubliner toiling beside him had died of a broken back. The general manager of the oil company gave Otto Faust fifty dollars, and hired a younger and stronger man to replace him.
Fifty dollars!
John Faust never forgot that.
A week after his father was carried home, the six-year-old boy began work to earn something--anything --to help support the family. Many of the good people in the neighborhood gave him their sympathy. It was one of the bad people who gave John Faust a job--running errands. Ben Hogan had a terrible reputation in Pithole, the grimy little city where the oil entered the pipeline. Some pious citizens said he was the worst man in Venango County. Ben Hogan cheerfully described himself as "the wickedest man in the world."
It was more than mere boasting, Faust reflected as he turned right at the candy-striped barber pole. Hogan had a legitimate claim to that title. Though it amused him to dress as a deacon, he'd certainly broken most of the Lord's Ten Commandments, and scores of U.S. and state laws as well. Starting out as a runaway orphan, he stole books from a minister who befriended him. Then he was a prizefighter, and he'd actually spent one day in the Confederate Army before deserting. He escaped north shortly
after shooting two gamblers to death in a Mobile, Alabama card game. 
Hogan surfaced in Pithole in 1865, looking for ways to get his piece of the oil boom profits. Aglow with Irish charm, he impressed a woman known as French Kate and she made him business manager of her brothel. Then he opened a whorehouse of his own, which earned enough capital so that he and Kate-- who loved the rogue dearly--could jointly purchase a steamboat. It was while Hogan was equipping the Floating Palace with harlots and gaming tables that he'd hired John Faust to carry messages between the ship and Hogan's various "social clubs". With his income of an incredible $105,000 a year, the $3 a week he paid the boy meant nothing to Hogan. To the Fausts, it was the difference between eating decently or barely surviving. 
Faust saw the two-storey bordello a few yards ahead. Freshly painted in white, the spacious building's front had the elegant columns of a pre-Civil War Southern mansion. It was one of the more imposing "social clubs" that the wildcatter had seen, much grander than Hogan's oil field harems. There was a small gilt plaque on the gate that said LaRue, and it was only a single drawn curtain of red silk that identified this as a house of ill fame. Obviously well established long before the recent oil strike, this discreet and stylish house served Beaumont's powerful merchants, lawyers, landowners, bankers, and politicians. Those who were not rich, white and well connected would be excluded, John Faust guessed as he looked ahead for the stable. 
There it was--a large weather-beaten barn with a fenced-in corral behind it As John Faust approached, 
he heard the clang of metal striking metal. When he faced the open front door, he saw the source of that sound. There were two men in the barn. One was a chunky Mexican blacksmith whose hammer Faust had heard. The wildcatter guessed that the other might be Miller. He was right. 
"I'm Sam Miller. What can I do for you, Mistuh?" 
Faust decided that he liked the soft accents of Texas. 
"Man named Pickells down at the depot said you might be good enough to sell me a team and wagon," Faust replied politely. 
He had chosen his words carefully. John Faust knew how important manners and first impressions were in a Southern town. He was well aware of the festering hostility that many below the Mason-Dixon line still held towards the Northerners who ruled and abused the ex-Confederate states for years after Lee's surrender. 
"My name is John Faust, Mr. Miller," he continued. "My sons and I just arrived from Savannah." 
"You don't right sound like a man from Georgia, Mr. Faust." 
"I'm from everywhere We're in the oil business, sir. Have been most of my life. My boys were born in Savannah, but we go where the oil flows. Don't get to towns as nice as Beaumont too often." 
Miller nodded noncommittally, and the wildcatter guessed that the stable owner--like a lot of others --had mixed feelings about the hordes of outsiders who now crowded this once peaceful community. In places such as this, strangers were practically foreigners. They were different, and that made them suspect. It was like that in many New England villages too. 
"Passing through?" Miller tested over the clatter of the blacksmith's rhythmic hammering. 
"We hope to settle and enjoy some of your famous Texas hospitality. Be looking for a house as soon as we unload our drilling equipment and other things. If you know of any place--" 
"Can't say as I do," the stable owner replied. "As for the team and wagon, I'm afraid--" 
Miller stopped in mid-sentence. Two men with drawn pistols stood framed in the doorway. The stable owner stared at the long-barrelled Colt "Frontier" weapons, considered what the .44 caliber guns could do and swallowed down the coppery taste of fear. 
"We'd like fresh horses," the heavier of the invaders announced. 
"Now," his partner with the scarred right cheek added. 
Faust surveyed the situation, - and made his decision.
"Just a minute, boys," he appealed. 
"Shut up, or you'll be dead in a lot less'n a minute. And you, Mex. Put down that hammer, slow." 
Both muzzles were pointed at the blacksmith-- for just a moment. That was enough. John Faust stepped forward, smashed the beefy gunman in the jaw, and heard bones snap. Even as that thug reeled, the wildcatter scooped up a steel stirrup and cracked the wrist of the other man's gun hand. The .44 went flying. Before it hit the hard-packed earth, Faust kicked the scar-faced intruder in the stomach. The man doubled up, gasped, and fell writhing in pain. 
Faust picked up his weapon, swung it against the head of the other groggy thief, and watched him 
crumple to his knees. Blood dripped from his mouth, turning some of the soil to dark red mud. 
"Anyone you know?" John Faust asked calmly. 
Miller shook his head. The wildcatter picked up the two guns, handed them to him. 
"You might need these if there are more of these fellows around," he told the stable owner. 
"There are lots more, Mr. Faust. Town is full of saddle bums and riffraff. Why don't you take one?" 
"Don't think I'll need it." 
"I guess not. You're a pretty good bareknuckle fighter. Ever fight for money?" 
Faust smiled and shrugged. 
"Fought for most everything. Be seeing you, Mr. Miller," he replied and turned to depart. 
"Where are you goin'?" 
"To find me a team and wagon." 
"You just did, Mr. Faust," the grateful stable owner announced. Then they heard the sound of a horse. They turned to see a large, dramatic-looking woman --at least five feet seven and 140 pounds--astride a big white mare. The woman, her clothes, saddle and mount all looked expensive. 
"Who did that? she demanded as she gestured towards the battered bandits. 
"Mrs. Wilson, meet Mr. Faust." 
She eyed the burly wildcatter with undisguised admiration. She was appraising him as if he were an animal she might buy for her farm. Faust looked back--directly into her weighing blue eyes. She liked that. 
"Pleasure to meet you," he acknowledged. He had no idea as to who she was, but he knew about such women. He had seen that slow-burning look before. She had an empty bed, and she meant to do some
thing about it. It was written all over her--in her expression, the way she held her head and even the way she sat astride her horse. This woman was a doer, a person who controlled her own life. 
"My pleasure," she replied. He found her soft husky voice intriguing. Tanned by the Texas sun, she wore no wedding ring but a gold band adorned with diamonds adorned her right hand. The halo of blonde curls atop her head went perfectly with the yellow metal. Aware that he was appreciating her, she turned her attention to the stable owner. 
"Is my buggy ready?" 
"Almost." 
"I said I wanted it today," she reminded in the tones of a woman who was accustomed to getting her way. 
"Sure did," Miller agreed cheerfully, "and I told you it would be tomorrow." 
Her eyes flashed in annoyance. 
"If this wasn't the best stable in town I wouldn't be here," she complained. 
"Course you wouldn't, Mrs. Wilson. Fine lady like you deserves nothing but the best." 
She smiled at his deft and defensive flirting. The confrontation was over. The groggy thieves were trying to get up now. Miller gestured to the blacksmith to take charge of them, and promised her that her buggy would be delivered to her door by the next afternoon. 
"Thank you. Mr. ... ah ... Mr. Faust? Mind if I ask you a question?" 
"I'd be honored, ma'am." 
A strapping man who was this handsome, had style and could do that to two obvious thugs might be interesting, she told herself. 
"These men are wearing holsters. Did they have guns?" 
"In their fists," Miller volunteered. She shook her head to brush away his interruption. 
"Well, how could you do ... how did you handle them?" 
"With my fists," he answered and held them out towards her. They were large and bruised, and a bit menacing. She felt a chill--or was it a thrill? Why hadn't she met him before? 
"Mr. Faust got into town this morning," the stable owner announced as if he'd read her mind. 
"Don't know a thing about Beaumont," the wildcatter said. "Got a lot to learn." 
She smiled again. 
"I'm sure you'll learn quickly," she told him and cantered off into the morning heat. 
Miller led Faust out to the corral where they picked out a pair of excellent horses, and then the stable owner guided him to a cluster of wagons in various states of repair. After Faust explained the size and weight of the drilling gear, they were able to find one that seemed right. 
"$480 for the team and wagon seem fair?" 
"I wouldn't argue with a Texan," the wildcatter replied. 
"All right, all right! $440, and that's it. You're a devil, Faust. You know you're a devil?" 
The wildcatter grinned. 
"Good devil or bad devil, Mr. Miller?" 
"Not exactly sure," the stable owner confessed with a man-to-man chuckle. "You can call me Sam. No sense in a man who may have saved my Me saying Mister Miller." 
"Sam as in Sam Houston?" Faust inquired as they started back to the stable.
"First president of the Republic of Texas. I'm a direct descendant of his baby sister," Miller boasted. While he explained his prestigious ancestry, Faust opened his shirt to snake out the money belt and pay the $440 in gold coins. Ten minutes later, he was up on the wagon ready to drive it away.
"Thanks again, Sam."
"Sorry I can't help you with a house, but maybe Mrs. Wilson can offer you shelter. Her husband left her the Crosby, biggest darn hotel in town. Forty-two rooms. Five bathrooms."
A lonely wealthy widow.
It fit.
"Now what makes you think that grand lady would give a hoot about where I stay, Sam?"
"The way she looked you up and down and every which way."
"Like a horse she might buy," Faust recalled.
"Not a horse," Miller corrected wryly. "A bull."
"Why, I hardly know that fine lady," Faust replied in mock protest.
"You will, John. You surely will," the stable owner predicted confidently. Faust waved farewell, and drove his new team out onto Crockett Street. Miller was probably right, he thought a few moments later as he guided the horses towards the railroad depot. They were both alone. The widow was an attractive woman with a healthy appetite for life, and his wife had abandoned him more than a year and a half earlier.
No one--not even the boys--could blame him.
He'd never claimed to be a saint.
John Faust was not a doctor, but within two hours after he and his sons loaded their equipment onto the wagon he knew that Beaumont had gone mad. Adding forty thousand strangers to a city of ten thousand in less than a month did that. The sidewalks, streets, every hotel, rooming house, livery stable, shed, barn, and storage building was jammed. Even the warehouses and loading platforms that used to be heaped with sacks of rice and bales of cotton were now being rented for living quarters. A grocer was getting $500 a week for the weather-beaten hut where he had stacked potatoes, and a clever hotel clerk was charging $60 a night for the right to sleep on a pool table after midnight. 
Oil and money were all that mattered. Few men cared where they slept, for they begrudged those hours of rest as time that could have been spent digging or speculating or bidding for the few acres whose mineral and petroleum rights had not yet been leased. Hundreds slept for six hours on cots in 
the city's auditorium. When they jumped up to rush out to renew the battle for riches, another whole shift of grimy men tumbled into those same cots in utter exhaustion. Several wildcatters slept in crude shelters made of empty molasses barrels. The men stank, but no one minded. The smell of money drowned out any other scent in the boom town.
Beaumont was not a large city. By two in the afternoon, the hungry, thirsty Fausts had crisscrossed almost all of it--in vain. None of them was the least bit discouraged. Faust had described his experiences in the Pennsylvania, Ohio, West Virginia, and Kansas oil fields. He had warned his sons about what to expect, and he had raised them not to give in easily.
"It's just what you said, Pa," Jake admitted.
"Gonna get worse. New oil strike's the closest thing to hell there is--but not that far from heaven. Right, Ernie?" 
The older son shrugged.
"I wasn't planning on dying in Beaumont," he said coolly.
Was it insolence or toughness? The father wasn't sure.
"Not before we get rich," he answered. Then he pointed to the Longhorn Saloon across the street, and licked his parched lips.
"Let's get a drink," he suggested. They climbed down from the wagon, paused to let three men on horseback and a hearse go by, and started to cross.
"Water! Water! Fresh pure water! Cold water-- free!"
They turned to see a woman in her late twenties, standing with a dipper in her hand beside a large cask.
"Free water! Fight the demon rum!"
Ernest Faust read aloud the letters on the barrel. 
"W.C.T.U.--Women's Christian Temperance Union," he reported. 
"Want to be saved, boys?" John Faust laughed. 
"Water might be a good idea, Pa," the younger son reasoned quietly. 
"Free water! Save your money and your soul!" 
John Faust grinned, and nodded towards the wooden sign nailed to the saloon's swinging door. 
"Whiskey 50? I think we can afford that," he joked. 
Before he could say more, they heard the thunder of hooves and turned to see a rider racing towards them. At first they couldn't hear exactly what he was shouting, but in a few seconds it was clear. 
"Fire! Fire! Number Three's on fire at Big Hill!" he bellowed as he galloped by in a moving cloud of dust. 
Fire--the terror of every oil field. 
Fire--the monster that was every wildcatter's worst enemy and the common foe of all of them. 
There was only one thing for any decent oil man to do when that cry sounded, and the Fausts rushed to do their duty. They ran to their wagon, vaulted up, and charged off at top speed towards the pillar of black smoke billowing on the horizon. 
They were not alone. A dozen other wagons and more than thirty horsemen were on the road on the same mission. Scores of men on foot were trotting towards the blaze. Some carried shovels, others nothing but determination. Now the Fausts heard a bell, then another, clanging loudly behind them. Both of Beaumont's hand-powered pumpers--half of the equipment that the little city's fire department owned --were on the way. 
The smoke grew thicker as they neared, whirling 
out from the roaring blaze in thick black fingers. The fumes were acrid, foul, and choking. As the Fausts approached, they saw coughing men stagger back from the incredible pool of fire. Within seconds after John Faust and his sons halted their team to join the fight, they were coughing too. The smoke hurt their eyes. The heat was fierce, and the sight they faced was like a fantasy out of Dante's Inferno. 
"Purgatory," whispered Jacob, the reader in the family. 
It wasn't much of an exaggeration. Within days after the Spindletop gusher, three more wells were started on the large low bulge of the salt dome that was Big Hill, Now all four of these were spitting up an amazing one hundred thousand barrels of petroleum a day each. Separated from each other by no more than five hundred yards, each of these rich wells was worth at least $15,000,000 or more. Each was also a serious threat to the others. The blaze at Number Three, the third to come in big after Spindletop, was a danger to all of them. 
But Jacob Faust wasn't thinking of these money matters as he stared at the flickering lake of fire. Thousands of barrels of petroleum, perhaps six thousand, had leaked from Number Three into a broad shallow "slush pool" where it sat for days. Nobody had paid any attention to it, for there was so much oil around that it didn't matter. Whiskey was five cents a glass and oil was three cents a barrel in Beaumont this month. 
The match from a cigarette had touched it off- Now the entire surface of the "slush pool" was ablaze, and yellow tongues of destruction danced up towards the pump shack and derrick of Number Three. At any second, the drill rig itself could be engulfed. 
It was all fire. Two charred corpses, their faces beyond recognition, lay nearby, smoldering. A fear- crazed horse galloped past dragging a burning wagon, charging directly towards a cluster of workmen. Young Jacob was the first to react. He jumped onto the rear of the wagon, dodged through the flames, and reached the front with his trousers scorched in several places. 
Men were pointing, shouting, gaping in astonishment. Jacob ignored the uproar. He crouched, and hurled himself forward onto the terrified animal. Battling to control the singed horse, he managed to untie the harness and set the desperate creature free. Proud of his son and a bit surprised, John Faust gestured approval and joined those manning the first fire department pumper to arrive. 
It was back-breaking labor. Tough under any conditions, it was even more difficult with the sickening fumes and the intense heat. But John Faust was an exceptionally strong man, powerfully muscled and as close to fearless as one might be without being stupid. He tore off his shirt, and set to work. 
The water trickled out first, then spurted twenty feet onto the edge of the burning slush pond. As an oil field veteran, John Faust knew that a manpowered pumper with a water tank that held only one thousand gallons wasn't likely to cope with such a blaze. It wasn't Beaumont's fault. The city had ordered four more pumpers, much bigger and more powerful, but they would not arrive for months. 
"Faster!" John Faust shouted. 
The five other men straining at the handles managed to pick up the beat. They were gasping for breath and groggy with smoke and heat, but there was something inspirational about John Faust. They wanted to stay with him. They had faith in this big strapping 
stranger. He was obviously a born leader. It was that strange and that simple. 
The water spouted further, and the stream was much larger. Still, the flames did not recede. Ernest and the crew working the other pumper were doing their best too, and so were the dozens who were beating at the edges of the sea of fire with shovels and other tools. One old man slipped, stumbled, and fell forward into the burning oil. 
In a flash, he was ablaze. Flaming oil covered his whole back, and when he tried to twist to strike at the pain droplets of fire spattered his shoulders and hair. He screamed, reeled out of control in pain, and mindlessly lurched further into the inferno. He was doomed. 
Ernie Faust yelled to the two men handling the hose. They turned quickly to soak him with water for five seconds, and then he charged the monster--the horror that was the burning pool. Racing through the flaming oil that sucked at his shoes and burned his clothes, he reached the screaming old man. Deranged by the shock and agony, for nine or ten seconds the hysterical grandfather fought him off. 
Then Ernest Faust knocked him cold with one devastating punch, slung the body over his shoulder and ran out. The hose team soaked both of them this time, and the fire chief tried to congratulate the rescuer. Ernie Faust grunted in minimal acknowledgment as he laid the old man down gently. Then he resumed his place at the pumper. 
The earth that they were shoveling and the water that they were pumping was not containing the fire. It was spreading, and would soon pick up even more speed when the water was exhausted. The pumper tanks were already three-quarters empty. John Faust looked across and saw that the burning oil was only 
seventy yards from a mini-pond of petroleum that had leaked from the adjacent Spindletop. In another ninety seconds, the Spindletop--which alone produced as much oil as all the wells in Europe, Africa and Asia combined--would be ablaze!
He'd seen fires like this spread before.
Faust knew what had to be done--the only thing that might work.
"Backfire! Start a backfire!"
While some eighty men with shovels hurled up earth to build a dirt wall and cover the Spindletop opening with sand, the others tried to start a backfire. Their matches didn't work. Nothing did until John Faust snatched a lit cigar from the mouth of the startled mayor and hurled it like an incendiary grenade.
The little pond ignited, and the backfire moved exactly as John Faust had hoped. Crawling away from Spindletop and towards the burning "slush pond," it consumed the oil in a wide belt and created an effective fire break. The oil-free zone stopped the advancing fire like a stone wall. Spindletop was safe! It might take a day to remove the sand lid, but that was a very small price to pay and everyone knew it.
John Faust wasn't standing around waiting for praise. With the water almost gone, he grabbed up a shovel from a man who'd collapsed in the heat and began hurling earth to seal off the remaining flames. Dozens of men followed his lead. When the pumpers ran dry, his stalwart sons joined this effort. Ten minutes later the fire began to falter. Then it started to go out here and there, and a cheer went up.
Not from the Fausts.
They weren't that kind of people.
They just kept shoveling steadily until the last flickering flame died. Then they looked at each other, and leaned on their shovels, drenched with sweat, half blinded by smoke, and contented. The mayor approached, reached out to pat John Faust's back that glistened with perspiration and grime--and decided to settle for shaking hands. He grabbed the wildcatter's hand, and pumped it energetically. 
"Great work, great work. Smart thinking too," he congratulated. "I can't even be annoyed about that fine cigar you pitched into the oil!" he added with a politician's large laugh. 
"Was it a good one?" Faust asked. 
"Top drawer. Cuban." 
"Wouldn't have another, would you?" 
The mayor smiled at his audacity, and gave him a Havana. 
"You've got a lot of nerve, mister," he said. "My name's Burford. Mayor Burford." 
"Faust. John Faust. Got a match, friend?" 
The mayor grinned again, gave him a small box of matches, and watched him light the dark corona. 
"Top drawer," the wildcatter agreed. "Thanks for the cigar." 
Then he gestured to his sons, and the three started walking to their wagon. The mayor watched them for a moment. 
"They may not be Texans, but they're good men," he approved." 
"None better," a grizzled oil field veteran told him. "The fellow you gave the ceegar is John Faust. Some call him Big John. When it comes to digging out oil, he knows it all and he's done it all. Toughest, fairest man I ever met. Other two are his boys." 
"I'm glad they're here," the mayor said. 
"You should be. Makes it official. Can't hardly be a real oil strike without Big John." 
Having explained this simple fact to the politician, the oil man wiped his sooty hands on his Levis and trudged off to return to his own rig half a mile away. He had no more time to waste talking to "civilians" about such obvious realities. He wasn't interested in educating the mayor anyway. He was a wildcatter, and oil was the only thing that mattered. 
The'"bide back into town was a slow one. Neither John Faust nor his sons spoke, for their hearts were still pounding and the excitement still thrummed in their bloodstreams. When the wagon reached the street where the Longhorn Saloon was, John Faust tugged on the reins and the team halted. 
"We've earned that drink," he announced. 
The temperance woman was still chanting her offer. 
"Free water! Fresh pure water!" 
John Faust shook his head in silent scorn. 
"Won't give up, will she?" he criticized. He had little esteem for any of the anti-liquor crusaders, and even less for assertive women who tried to impose their views on others. His attitudes about free thinking and outspoken females were almost as oldfashioned as those of his immigrant peasant father. 
"She's got a point," Ernest said as he climbed down. 
"What point?" 
"Fellow warned me at the fire. All these extra folks 
in town swamped the water system and sewers. There's dysentery, even typhoid."
"Then we'll stick to whiskey. We can handle it, can't we?" John Faust challenged.
"Sure, but after all that heat and sweating I want water," Ernest answered, and headed for the barrel.
"I'm thirsty too, Pa. We can get the whiskey later," Jacob reasoned.
John Faust shrugged and followed his sons to the woman who'd been watching them. She smiled in welcome, and gave each of them a mug. Then she started ladling out the water.
"Fire's out," John Faust told her, as if to make it clear that he didn't usually drink water. Up close she was a lot prettier than he'd thought; too thin for his taste, but attractive.
"Are you all right?" she asked in a caring voice.
The father gulped down half a mug of the cool liquid before he answered.
"Course we are. We may look sorta messy, but sweaty shirts and some honest dirt never hurt any man."
"I thought . . . your clothes are scorched!" she replied. She was staring at young Jacob, whose shirt was plastered to his broad back, whose hair was touseled, and whose trousers were burned in three places.
"It's nothing, miss," he said gently.
"My son Jake is an animal lover," the wildcatter chuckled as he thrust out his mug for a refill. "Risked his neck to cut a horse loose from a burning wagon."
"That was very brave," she admired. Jacob glanced down modestly.
"Could have got his young head busted," John Faust said gruffly. Then he jerked his head towards
the older son. "Ernie went right into the fire to haul out some old man. Was that brave or foolish, Ernie?" 
"Couldn't let my baby brother show me up, Pa. You did your share too." 
She heard what Ernest said, but her eyes were locked onto Jacob. 
"Everybody did," John Faust declared. "Now we can get back to our own problems. Looks like there isn't a room or roof left in Beaumont. Glad we brought the tent." 
Ernest finished his drink and rubbed the back of his hand across his lips. His knowledgeable father had predicted that they might need the canvas shelter in this crowded boom town. 
"Where'll we pitch it?" he demanded. 
"We'll find a pasture or gully somewhere a mile or two out of town, boy. Got to make do. Hell, we're healthy and it isn't that cold." 
Now Jacob returned the mug with a grateful nod. 
"Appreciate the water, miss. Very kind of you," he said. 
She looked into his warm brown eyes, and realized that she had no choice. It was simply common decency, she told herself. 
"There's room for a tent out back of our house. Near the stable. If the smell of horses won't bother you. . . ." 
She seemed to be twenty-seven or twentyeight. No wedding ring. 
"If you think your parents wouldn't mind," John Faust tested. 
"They're deceased. I live with my sister and Fortuna. She's our housekeeper. You'd be doing us a favor." 
Faust wondered what the neighbors might think, but he didn't raise the issue. She was old enough to make these decisions.
"You'd be protecting us," she continued. "In a town full of roughnecks and strangers--no offense meant."
"None taken," the wildcatter assured. "Nice of you to be so generous, ma'am. We'd pay rent, of course."
That would make it easier for her. A business arrangement--people could accept that. Half the population of Beaumont was making money, big money, housing oil men.
"Would $10 a week be too much?" she asked. She was speaking to the father, but her eyes lingered on Jacob. John Faust managed not to smile.
"We'd help with the chores," the younger son offered.
The boy was like his mother, John Faust thought. She was always thinking about other people too.
"Ten dollars and the chores'll be fine, miss . . . uh" he said.
"Burford. Amanda Burford."
"I'm John Faust. That's Ernie, and he's Jacob. We call him Jake."
Ten dollars a week was a joke. The way she eyed Jake was much more serious. Could she guess that the younger son was still a virgin? Would that knowledge frighten or challenge her? There were women who were aroused by strapping boys, John Faust recalled. He had learned a great deal himself from the pillowy wife of a very busy doctor when he was only 15. But even if she succeeded where other women had failed, how much could Amanda Burford teach Jake? From the look of her, she might be a virgin too.
"Nice to meet you, Jacob," she said. She spoke his
name as if the very word moved her, gently and almost warily.
"Honor to meet you, miss," Jake replied.
"Burford?" John Faust asked. "Fellow who gave me this fine cigar said his name was Burford. Told me he's the mayor."
She nodded as she put the lid on the water barrel.
"He is.'"
In a city of this size, there couldn't be that many Burfords. They had to be related. John Faust controlled his curiosity and politely waited for her to explain the family connection. She didn't. Instead, she pointed down the street.
"It isn't far," she said.
Five minutes later, she told them that it was the third house down on the left--the two-story building with the large porch. John Faust followed her instructions to drive his wagon around to the rear, where they saw a stable and a small corral with three horses and a garden ringed by flowering bushes.
"How about over there?" she suggested.
Taking care not to injure any of the red camellia blossoms, John Faust maneuvered the wagon into a spot beside the south side of the stable. While he unhitched the horses, the sons unloaded the crate containing the tent and pried it open. They took out their bedrolls first, and then began to put up the tent. Amanda Burford watched for a few minutes before she entered the house.
"Madre de dios! Who are these men, Senorita?" Fortuna Gonzalez asked unhappily.
"They're here to protect us. Won't do any harm to have a man or two around."
"Si, but do we need three?' the plump Mexican housekeeper wondered.
Amanda Burford ignored the question. 
"And what will Senorita Sally say?" 
She didn't answer that either. She would explain it to her younger sister. Sally would surely agree. 
"Now pay attention please, Fortuna. These gentlemen are of one family. The older one, on the right there, is the father. He's John Faust. The one driving in the tent pegs is his son, Ernest. The third is another son. His name is Jacob. He saved a horse at the fire at Number Three today," she reported approvingly. 
"They'll be paying rent, and help with the chores," she added. "It's a business arrangement, for mutual profit." 
"Who will protect us from them, Senorita?' 
"We'll have to trust them," Amanda answered, and turned to stare out the window into the back yard again. The look in her eyes and the serene expression on her face made the housekeeper uneasy. She had worked here for 12 years, and she had never seen Amanda like this before 
"Let's prepare some food, Fortuna. They may be hungry." 
The housekeeper shrugged and went to the ice box. These were strong, virile, handsome men. They had come from far away to wrest what they wanted from the earth. Fortuna Gonzalez had seen such bold and determined men. She understood them so much better than Amanda did. They would be hungry all right --for many things. These wildcatters were men of fierce appetites. They were not like the proper rice merchants, cattle dealers, and shopkeepers whom the Burford sisters knew. 
They were dangerous. 
They would take what they needed, and go away. 
After they left, nothing would be the same. 
Everyone in the lobby of the Crosby Hotel seemed to be angry, if not insane. They were all shouting and arguing, waving their arms and making more noise than a boiler factory. Some men were standing on what had once been handsome chairs and tables, while others were asleep on upholstered love seats a few yards away. 
John Faust had thought that the exterior of Beaumont's largest hotel was dignified, solid and attractive. As soon as he entered the lobby, the deafening tumult changed his opinion of the establishment. It was probably best that he'd left the boys to settle in behind that temperance woman's house, for this hysteria might have confused them. Jake and Ernie had helped him drill in the California field three years earlier, but they didn't know the business side of wildcatting. 
"Twenty-one thousand!" 
Twenty-three thousand!" 
"Twenty-six thousand--and that's it!" 
51 
J 
L
52 Lee Davis Willoughby
Another cluster of men shouted larger figures.
"Fifty-three thousand!"
"Sixty!"
"Seventy-two thousand? How about seventy-five?' This was the business side of wildcatting. It wasn't quite the way that the Rockefellers ran their affairs, or the way other Eastern petroleum magnates operated their offices. They were already rich. Even their lawyers and accountants were rich. The loud and passionate men in this lobby hoped to be tomorrow's new millionaires.
Hoping and striving for that one big well, they were bidding for leases. Not leases for land. They weren't farmers. Leases to "develop and exploit the mineral rights" under the earth were what they wanted. Faust watched a man five yards away open a small satchel. The man needed a shave and seemed to have slept in his clothes for three days, but the cash he took from the bag was mighty impressive.
One-thousand-dollar bills.
"Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two," he counted. He was adding more bills to the heap as Faust made his way to the wall covered with official maps. The County Clerk had told him that his supply of these charts had been sold out a week ago, but the Crosby Hotel would have some. After all, it was the working headquarters for those who wanted to buy or sell leases--a kind of rough and tumble stock market for the oil crowd.
More heaps of currency were changing hands, but that meant little to John Faust. If there was a lot of money in this room, there were a lot of men with guns, too. There were thieves, quacks, con men--and women. One in some sort of exotic robes and a colorful bandana was passing her hand over three burning
candles. The scent of incense was strong, and her chanting was intense. 
"Princess Salamba can help you as she has helped others," a swarthy 16-year-old girl told Faust. "She can find oil." 
"Amazing," Faust replied. "How does she do it?" 
The girl glanced around as if to make sure no one was listening. 
"The princess is of royal gipsy blood, sir. She has the gift." 
"Gift?" 
"She can smell oil. Only $200 for a personal consultation."
Faust thanked the girl, accepted a calling card that reeked of the incense, and pushed through the throng to the survey charts that showed the topography of Jefferson County. Though he had ended his formal education at 14, experience had taught him how to read these maps. The lack of schooling didn't bother him. Even the scientifically trained men who taught geology at famous universities were making educated guesses most of the time. Those professors were wrong just as often as semi-literate wildcatters. 
There were things to look for on these charts, contours that might be more promising than others. A veteran wildcatter could use his experience and these curved lines to improve his chances, but no more. The element of luck was still enormous. It might be years before finding oil became a real science. By then John Faust would have his million. He had no doubt of that. 
Now he looked up--into the appraising glance of the buxom widow he'd met at Sam Miller's stable. Mrs. Wilson? That was it. She owned this hotel, and she was inspecting Faust as if she meant to possess 
him, too. She appeared almost queenly up there on the balcony, smiling down on the raucous mob below. She smiled, and Faust returned the greeting. She started down the stairs. 
"I didn't expect to see you again so soon, Mr. Faust." 
"My lucky day," he replied gallantly. 
"How gracious," she approved. 
"I was just doing my homework. As I told you, I've got a lot to learn about this area. I can't smell oil like the princess there, but looking at the terrain might help improve my luck." 
"You believe in luck? I'd say a man like you made his luck," she flirted. 
"Thank you, Mrs. Wilson. Hope I don't seem rude if I leave now, but there's only a couple of hours of daylight left and I need to buy or hire me a horse if I'm going out looking." 
She shook her head. 
"You seem like a man in a hurry. You don't have time for that," she judged, and offered him the use of a roan named Thunder that was tied up behind the hotel. She assured him that he could bring the horse back at nightfall, and invited him to join her in a drink after his dusty ride. 
Faust praised her generosity, thanked her, and promised to return the roan in good condition. Ten minutes later he adjusted the saddle cinch, mounted, and rode off at a slow canter. He headed west. There were some low hills six or seven miles in that direction that felt interesting. Spindletop and its field were east, but speculators with fat bankrolls had surely snapped up those leases already. 
As he rode west, he thought about the sham gipsy princess who claimed to smell oil. He'd met a wide variety of frauds and rogues in the petroleum boom towns over the years. Most of these petty crooks were so obvious that only the most gullible could possibly believe them. Yet every year hundreds of grown men did. Oil was like gold, he reflected as he squinted in the afternoon glare. In fact, it was almost as confusing and irresistible as women. All three made fools of reasonable men.
He thought of Maria. He couldn't help it. How could a woman who was so right for him be so wrong for him? She was so warm and lovely, and at the same time so independent and critical. It hadn't been like that at the beginning. Or had it? Was it possible that he hadn't noticed? He closed his eyes, and suddenly he could see her clearly. Maybe he hadn't let himself notice. He tried to remember for several seconds. Then he tried to forget.
He opened his eyes. She was gone, of course. He forced himself to concentrate on those survey maps. The bidding he'd left behind at the Crosby Hotel was clear warning. The prices for leases of even the smallest and least likely plots were going up fast. With fewer and fewer sections left to bid on, wildcatters with his limited bankroll would be in a lot of trouble.
Soon he was on the edge of town. There were oil derricks less than three hundred yards from the city line. He wasn't the first to suspect that there might be petroleum out in this direction. He studied the rigs thoughtfully as he rode by. So far as he could tell, they were still drilling. No tank or other sign that anyone here had struck oil yet If the wells on Big Hill were any clue, one had to gouge down at least
one thousand feet to find anything. Even if it was soft limestone all the way, that meant eight or ten weeks of sweat and prayer.
Unlike his immigrant parents, John Faust wasn't very devout. Still, he'd pray for the major well--the one hundred thousand barrel a day gusher--that the mysterious Almighty had thus far denied him. There were four such bonanzas over on Big Hill, not five miles away. His was somewhere near, too. He could feel it in his bones. He was going to strike it rich in East Texas! Then Maria would come home.
When he was two miles from the city line, the oil rigs no longer dotted the sides of the road. The message was as plain as if it was painted in huge letters on a barn wall. Of the frantic thousands who had come to find oil in Jefferson County, none believed it could be this far west of Beaumont. Faust didn't care. He was a loner. He made up his own mind and lived by his own hunches and experience. He believed what the widow had said. A real man made his own luck.
That was the code of the wildcatter.
He rode on slowly. He was a man of his word. He had promised that he would not exhaust the roan, and he wouldn't. Only an occasional wagon of horsemen passed. This was farming country, with small houses and sheds at half-mile intervals. A dozen cattle grazed here, a score of pigs there, fields of cotton or rice and a few trees for shade--that was it It wasn't too hot now, but this was February 3rd. By June, temperatures would be in the nineties and the stifling humidity of the Gulf coast would make it even worse. That wouldn't stop the oil crews. They'd be paid three times as much as local wages, maybe more. Men would put up with a lot for that kind of money.
Suddenly Faust stared at a low hill half a mile
ahead. What the hell was it doing here? It was a derrick, miles from the others. Had someone else read the contour lines on the charts the same way? Who could it be?
Faust rode ahead more quickly. He dismounted at the bottom of the hill, saw the crudely lettered sign that said no trespassers, and started up the slope towards the rig anyway.
A shotgun blast stopped him.
He dived to the ground in instant reflex, and rolled behind a small cluster of rocks that didn't really give that much protection. He'd been a damn fool not to accept the six-gun that Sam Miller had offered at the stable. Violence was a common thing at new oil fields. A Colt .44 would come in handy for self defense. Even a man who hated killing as much as Faust did should have remembered that.
He felt naked. Then after a few seconds he felt angry. He inched around the far side of the rocks and peered up the hill. There was nothing up there but the derrick and a primitive lean-to--just a few boards against a boulder. Where was the man with the weapon? Faust cupped his right hand over his eyes against the sun, and looked again.
Now he saw something. It was black and round. What was it? It seemed familiar. It was protruding above a clump of scrubby bushes. He crawled a yard further. The sun was glinting on metal. With his breathing coming in gulps, Faust reasoned that it was the muzzle of the shotgun. The man who held it would have more shells. He was waiting for the wildcatter to expose his head or torso so he could fire again.
Then Faust remembered.
"Derby? Derby Kincaid, is that you?"
58 - Lee Davis Willoughby
There was no answer.
"Derby Kincaid, it's John Faust! Put down that scattergun, you dirt-eatin' ole fool!"
"Jawn?" a voice rich with the sound of Oklahoma asked.
"Come on down, you idiot!"
The round black object rose. It was a battered derby hat, the longtime trademark of the 67-year-old wildcatter who had worn it for three decades. Now the grizzled face of Kincaid was visible. He waved the double-barrelled shotgun and limped down the hill. He was laughing as he came, a scratchy cackle of delight.
"How're you doin', Big Jawn?" he asked.
"Was doing fine until some crazy old coot with a scattergun tried to blow my head off!"
The white-haired wildcatter grinned, showing all nine of his remaining teeth.
"Don't see as good as I used to," he confessed. "Hell, I didn't know it was you till you hollered 'bout the dirt eating. Warn't really dirt, you know. Was grass."
Only a few wildcatters knew about the time Kincaid had been trapped alone at his isolated rig by an accident that had broken his leg. He'd run out of food, and survived on grass and roots for three weeks until John Faust had found him.
"Wouldn't shoot you intentional, Big Jawn. You saved my life," the old man protested. Then he raised the shotgun for Faust to examine. "Nice, ain't she?"
It was obvious that Kincaid had been on this slope for at least two weeks. The smell from his unwashed body and the quarter-inch of white stubble on his face signalled that.
"Fine firearm, Derby. Need it?"
"Sure do. There's two hundred fellers in Beaumont
--well, one hundred for sure--who'd slit my gizzard for this rig. Drilling gear's in short supply. People out stealing it most every night. Three men killed last week." 
Faust decided to buy guns the next day. 
"Claim jumpers?" he asked. 
"Worse'n Oklahoma. Up there they was trickin' and murderin' those pore Indians for their leases. Here.they're doin' everybody--whites, Mexicans, even the few black folks who own farms." 
Faust thought about the vicious abuse of the peaceful and unsophisticated Cherokees and Osage. It was probably still going on up in the turbulent Oklahoma Territory. Folks talked piously about the rights of "the five civilized tribes", but somehow nobody protected them. Odds were the federal government wouldn't do much better when Oklahoma became a state. Faust shrugged and nodded towards the derrick. 
"Nothin' yet," the old man with the leathery face answered, "but I'm only down to 400." 
"This is kind of isolated, Derby," Faust warned. 
"Not working this rig alone," Kincaid assured. "My sister's boy, Luther, he's with me. Went into town to buy supplies this mornin'. You wouldn't have a pint of whiskey, would you, Jawn?" 
"Sorry. I'll bring some if we drill out here." 
Kincaid lifted the hat, scratched his sweaty head and white locks, and put the derby back on again. 
"Not much room to drill on the other side, Jawn. One big outfit came in with a satchel of cash--same crowd who control Big Hill and Spindletop--and bought up leases on 15,000 acres. Fifteen thousand, you hear?" 
"Rockefeller?" 
Kincaid cackled gleefully again. 
"No, they may control Pennsylvania and some other fields, but they lost their chance here. Lucas needed money a year ago, asked them to invest. They could have had 80 percent] They sent in a fellow who surveyed fields for them all over the country, and in Borneo, Russia, and Rumania, too. He looked around, and told them to forget East Texas, hee, hee, heel The money behind those fifteen thousand acres comes from some bankers in Pittsburgh. Fellers called Mellon."
"Never heard of them. How far does your lease go, Derby?" 
The oil man pointed with the shotgun. 
"Far side of that next hill. Uh, tell me, Big Jawn," he asked with sudden craftiness, "where you thinkin' of, uh, lookin' out here?" 
"Maybe a mile or so further. Anybody down there?" 
"Just pigs, hee, hee, hee, and a Mex or two. Other side of the road is a cotton spread, but it's not growin' too good cause the soil's sandy." 
It was that side John Faust was considering. The contours had looked promising, and word of the sand made it even more interesting. The surface at Big Hill had been sandy, too. 
"Cotton's not my business," he said, and shook the old man's hand in friendly farewell. He returned to his horse and cantered on--but not a mile. Half a mile. An oil man never told anyone the truth about where he thought the black treasure might be--not even his best friends. They didn't expect him to. 
Faust dismounted again when he got there, and led the roan behind him as he walked the low rise on foot. Something of this "place reminded him of the spot in Mississippi where Pegleg Brown had brought in a 
good-sized well. Eastern bankers probably owned that too now, the wildcatter reflected as he got back on the steed for the ride into town.
The sun was only a red sliver on the horizon as he entered Beaumont. Faust stopped at the public horse trough near the Longhorn to let the animal slake its thirst and waited patiently until it was content. Thunder had served him well. After the animal had drunk its fill, the wildcatter let it cool off and rest for another ten minutes before he rode back to the hotel.
Mrs. Wilson was waiting in her private suite above the lobby. Her greeting was warm, the champagne was cold, and the promise in her eyes was explicit She was a Texas lady, however. There were proprieties to be observed. It would only happen when Louise Anne Wilson was fully ready. That was not tonight.
She could see that John Faust recognized this, and she was pleased that he respected her rhythms and principles--woman things she would not put into words. They spoke of Beaumont and Savannah, of horses and oil fields, and the warm water of the Gulf. In bits and pieces, anecdotes and casual references, they each told the other something about their tastes and lives.
When the fine walnut grandfather clock chimed seven, he knew that it was time to go. He had to leave now to reach Miller's Stable before it closed, but perhaps she would give him the pleasure of her company at dinner three nights from this evening. He thanked her again for the splendid horse and wine, complimented her gracious hospitality, and apologized that he could not stay.
"That man has wooed Southern ladies before," the wise and yearning widow thought as the door closed behind him. 
The loud and frantic bidding for oil leases was still going full blast as he zigzagged through the crowded lobby. Tomorrow he'd find out from the County Clerk who owned those three plots out beyond Derby Kincaid's rig, and he'd bargain with that person for the right to drill and remove oil. He was planning his schedule and strategy as he stepped out into the street. 
Gunfire! 
Then the sound of galloping horses. 
Two raced swiftly towards him, and if he hadn't leaped back the flying hooves would have pounded him into the earth. He had only a glimpse of the riders before they were gone. Scant moments later, the thunder of more horses sounded, and he sucked in his breath as half a dozen mounted men charged by in plain pursuit. 
He heard shouting as he began walking half a minute later. The words were not distinct, but he knew what was being cried out into the night. He didn't like it. Faust hiked on silently until he reached the stable. Sam Miller looked up as the wildcatter entered. 
"I'll take that six gun, if you can spare it," Faust said. 
Miller nodded, reached into a sack, and pulled out the long-barreled .44. Without asking any questions, the Texan gave it to his new friend. 
"Those two who came here to steal horses .. . they just broke out of jail, Sam. I saw them." 
"The Markel brothers?" 
"I never caught their names," Faust answered. 
"Bob and Nat Markel. Wanted for everything in the book from here to Waco. Sheriff told me bout them when he locked them up." 
"He say anything else?" 
Miller shook his head. 
"No, but they did, John. Said they'd find you," lie reported. He opened a drawer, took out a gun belt and holster, and handed them to Faust. The wildcatter strapped them on. Then he slid in the big Colt and drew it three times in practice. It was obvious that he had handled pistols before. 
"Thanks, Sam," he said, and walked out into the starry night. 
By half-past-ten the next morning, John Faust had found the owner of the cotton farm. County records showed that he'd bought the sandy property four years earlier for $25 an acre. Being a reasonable man, he was now willing to lease the mineral rights for only $3,500 an acre.
"I'm not greedy," he announced with a straight face. He didn't mention that the notion of oil six miles west of Beaumont was ridiculous. He signed the lease for the seven acres at noon, accepted Faust's money, and left with a smug sense of profitable virtue. After all, he wasn't doing anything that half his neighbors hadn't already done.
Neither of the Burford sisters was at home when the wagon creaked out of their back yard shortly after one. That was good, John Faust thought as he turned the team west. Young Jake had begun to look dreamy after half a night of Amanda Burford's delicate playing on the pianoforte, and the expression on her
sister's face was one of open hostility. For both reasons it was time to move out, to get to work.
"That Sally'll sure be glad we're gone," the wildcatter said as they headed for the city line.
"She's not so bad," Ernie answered.
"Full of meanness, that woman."
"Full of fear, Pa," the older son corrected calmly. "Worried some hurt or harm might come to her sister."
"Where'd you learn so much about women, boy?"
"From a lot of women. There's no other place to learn," Ernest replied, and turned to glance at his younger brother. Jacob refused to enter the conversation. He stared at the road ahead, remembering the sweetness of the music and the woman they had just left.
Observing the wistful expression on his younger son's face, John Faust changed the subject immediately. He spoke about the contours of the land they'd leased, and where he meant to sink the first well. Then he told them what the Markel brothers had said.
"They're probably riding hell bent for Mexico, boys, but it wouldn't hurt to keep your eyes open. Derby tells that these parts are crawling with bushwackers and gunslingers," he reminded them.
"Gonna handle them with that one six shooter?" Ernest asked.
"Have to do, unless you've got something better," John Faust answered irritably.
Ernest began to hum.
It was "The Yellow Rose of Texas", a melody that John Faust often sang himself. This afternoon it was annoying.
"You got anything better, Ernie?" the father challenged.
Ernest Faust reached under a tarpaulin to pull out a freshly cleaned and oiled Winchester Repeater, one of the best military rifles in the world. Logically, John Faust should have been pleased by this sign of planning and adult thinking. Somehow he resented it as a threat to his command. 
"Getting kind of big for your britches," he said. 
"They're big britches, Pa." 
He was saying he was no longer a boy. Did that mean his father was getting old? Was that what bothered John Faust? Before the wildcatter had to face these questions, he heard a growling clattering sound ahead. It was one of the new gasoline powered buggies, an Oldsmobile bumping down the country road at an impressive 14 miles an hour. 
"Noisy, isn't it?" Jacob said. 
"That's our future, boys. Those automobiles will make us rich. There's only three thousand of them now, but they're coming." 
"President McKinley's got one," Ernest reported enthusiastically, "and I hear the Army's testing them. Look at that speed!" 
"They make a stink," his brother criticized. 
"And they break down a lot too," the father agreed, 'Taut those things will be fixed. Half a dozen companies are making these machines. New models every year. Getting better all the time. I tell you that in ten years we'll see gas buggies going one hundred fifty miles in one day?' 
"Railroads do more than that burning coal today," Ernest reminded. 
"Oil's going to be cheaper than coal, son. They'll be 
using our oil too. Why are you looking like that, Jake?"
"Just thinking about the horses, Pa. What's to become of them?"
"Don't worry "bout those dumb beasts, boy. Put your mind to progress. Nothing stops progress. Remember what Teddy Roosevelt said. You try to stop progress, and progress will stop you. You're not against progress, are you?"
Jacob shook his head truthfully. He was all in favor of progress and finding oil, and all things natural as well. Someone would surely find ways for the three to coexist, he told himself as his father and older brother began to discuss how to unload the wagon when they reached the acreage they'd leased. 
The first crate touched the sandy soil at half past three. The skies were turning cloudy, and the threat of rain was in the air. Though the temperature was a balmy 72 degrees, it would drop to 55 when night came. They put up the tent. Then they began to break open the other boxes.
Using his years of experience, John Faust had selected the cargo carefully. These crates held more than a rotary oil drilling rig, engine, and spare parts. The wildcatter had anticipated that certain kinds or beams might be in short supply at local lumber yards in an oil boom town. They'd brought those too, as well as pots and frying pans and metal plates and cutlery.
Only half of the gear was out of the crates by sunset. They spent most of the next day and a half putting up the scaffolding and derrick, installing and connecting the rotary drill at the spot John Faust had chosen some two hundred twenty yards from the road. Whether boy or man, Ernest was too smart to challenge
his father's hard-won knowledge and oil sense.
Shortly after 11 on the morning of February 4th, their water barrel was empty. Leaving Ernie and his Winchester Repeater to protect their rig, John and Jacob Faust heaved the cask into the wagon and drove down the road to the small spring the father had noticed days earlier. They were halfway there when a young woman rode by on a nimble palomino. John Faust recognized her fresh beauty and magnificent auburn hair at once. He'd seen her in the street on his way to the stable that first day in Beaumont. She was the sort of dazzling woman that a man remembered. The wildcatter wondered who she was, and what she was doing out here alone.
He had no such problem with the man he saw a few minutes later as they neared the spring. Jake spotted the man first, and pointed. It was the tall, lean dandy who had mocked John Faust as they disembarked from the train. Now he sat on a black stallion, peering through a telescope at their rig.
"His name is Latham. Phil Latham," the wildcatter said.
"You told us he was dangerous."
"He is," John Faust answered and loosened the .44 in its holster. Then they reached the spring and filled the barrel. As they poured the water in, the wildcatter spoke of sly and ruthless Philip Clay Latham. He was a crooked gambler, counterfeiter and reputed poisoner still wanted by the police in his home town of Pittsfield, Mass, and other cities in Pennsylvania, Oklahoma, and Kansas. He'd ravaged the fortune of a half-blind widow, stabbed at least three men with the silver-handled dagger he always carried in his custom-made boot, and sabotaged a Mississippi oil rig in a way that cost two lives.
"Why's he spying on our camp, Pa?" Jacob asked
"I don't know."
On their way back to their rig, they looked up the slope again for Philip Latham. He was nowhere in sight.
At four p.m. that afternoon, John Faust checked the cables that ran over the top of the derrick to support the drill pipe. Then he examined the chain drive that turned the rotary table through which that pipe was lowered, and took a final look at the crucial "kelly"-- the joint of square shaped pipe through which mud would be pumped to lubricate the bit as it gnawed at the earth. Only metal pipe would be sent down in this first phase. The cement casing would follow when they knew that they'd reached oil.
"We're ready," Ernest called out impatiently.
"Not till I say we are," his father answered. He stepped back, scanned the derrick again carefully and finally nodded.
"Start her up!" he boomed.
The motor coughed, sputtered, and finally began to move. The cables lowered the heavy drill slowly but steadily, and then the revolving steel bit started to screw into the soft surface. Within half an hour, it had penetrated a dozen feet into the earth.
"This is the easy part. Don't let it fool you," John Faust advised his sons. "There's probably another fifteen feet of this soft sand, and then it gets tough. Be lucky to do five or six feet an hour after that."
It went just as he had predicted. The drill's descent slowed sharply an hour later when it reached the top layer of limestone. That was a good sign, for the depth was just about the one where limestone had appeared on oil-rich Big Hill. John Faust made an
adjustment on a drive shaft. The drill's work was harder now, and there would be more friction and heat and rocky resistance. An oil man had to protect his drill and bit. Without them he was a helpless baby. 
Now Faust listened, cocking his head and leaning towards the place where the drill entered the sandy earth. He rocked back and forth on his heels, searching for the right sound. When he heard it he'd have no trouble recognizing it There was nothing like it--the rasp and growl of a bit doing its job properly. 
"She's fine," he finally acknowledged as he began to unbutton his shirt. "You boys keep an ear on her, and keep a good watch out for trouble." 
"What kind of trouble?" Ernest tested. 
"Two-legged trouble." 
Then the wildcatter soaked a cloth in water, swabbed his face, armpits and upper torso and dried himself with a faded towel. 
"Goin' calling, pa?" the older son teased. 
John Faust found a clean shirt before he answered. 
"Business meeting in town," he said vaguely. After he'd put on the white shirt, he removed his dust and grease soiled work pants and put on a fresh pair. 
"Visitin' the mayor, pa?" Ernest questioned with a grin. He knew full well that when his father "dressed up" like this he was almost surely en route to an attractive woman. 
"Want you boys to keep a good watch," he said. "You take it till after supper, Ernie. Jake, you'll take over then for a few hours. I'll be back ... uh ... before two o'clock." 
"Sure, Pa," Jacob said. Riding the horses that pulled the wagon was not exactly elegant, but John Faust had neither a choice nor any pretensions. When his 
gusher came in, he'd buy a magnificent stallion, or maybe even a gasolene buggy. Maybe both. He mounted one of the horses, and turned for a final warning.
"Keep a round in the chamber. Repeater's no good if you don't get to shoot it"
Then he rode off. The sun had set, and it was quiet out here on this little traveled road. He could hear the clatter of their rig and drill for almost half a mile. Then there was silence until the familiar noise resumed. That had to be Derby Kincaid's outfit, Faust thought. He peered into the night, saw what had to be a campfire, and recalled that he'd spoken to the old man there. Derby had built his fire in a small gully between the derrick and the road, so his equipment would not be silhouetted. A routine precaution for a veteran wildcatter, Faust judged coolly as the horse trotted through the blackness.
Some forty miles away in the little house outside Silsbee, Maria Faust was a lot less calm. The contents of the ten-day-old Beaumont Enterprise in her hand troubled her deeply.
"This is serious, Paul," she told her lover as he entered the house. The bearded school teacher embraced her, and then kissed her tenderly. For a long moment her body returned his ardor. Then worry and fear tore her from his arms.
"Have you read this?" she demanded.
"What?"
"It's on the front page!"
Paul Harris nodded and smiled to reassure her.
"I know how you hate violence, Maria, but there's nothing in that report to trouble us. Those Mexican bandidos and rebels are attacking towns and trains
all the time. I'll admit that it's unusual for them to cross into Texas as they did two weeks ago, but the border's more than three hundred miles from here." 
"For God's sakes, Paul!" she answered angrily with her breasts heaving in concern, "I'm not talking about those poor Mexicans or their politics. I'm talking about this enormous oil boom only a day's ride from where we stand." 
"Maria," he appealed. 
"I don't want to listen to your geography lessons," she told him passionately. "Don't tell me there's no oil here. This paper says that tens of thousands of wildcatters have poured into Jefferson County in the past month. The article describes that one big well, the first one, the Spindletop, as producing more oil than all the other wells in the world combined!" 
"Does it mention him?" Harris reasoned. 
Why wouldn't he understand? Why were men so dense? 
"No, but he's there. He has to be there! With that kind of oil strike, he'd crawl one hundred miles through fire to get there. Oil's not just a business with him. It's a sickness!" 
"I believe you, dear, but we're safe here." 
She shook her head, swishing her long black hair through the air in rippling waves. 
"An oil boom isn't just where they first strike oil. It spreads out--fast. All the most likely spots to drill are leased in a few weeks, then the wildcatters hurry to the edges of the proven field, and then beyond. They have to." 
"You're saying that these men--" 
"Wildcatters," she specified. "They're not normal, ordinary men. They're desperate." 
"You think it's possible they'd come this far, Maria?" 
"Maybe. Anyway, they do the impossible--all the time. That's the way they live ... the way they have to live, I suppose."
He reached out to caress her face.
"Paul, I ... we've got to go far away" she pleaded. She didn't want to tell him that there was still something within her, some nameless thing pulsing in her womb, that still hungered for John Faust. She couldn't She told herself that she didn't want to hurt her lover's feelings, but that was not all of it. Though she was a strong woman, facing this secret truth about her vulnerability was more than she could bear.
"All right," he agreed. "As soon as the school term ends in June, we'll be on our way."
"June? That's four months!"
"I know, but I can't just walk out on the children."
Suddenly she thought of her sons. She felt a mother's . primeval pang. She missed them so. How did they feel about her? Did they feel bitter and abandoned? She might find out all too soon, for if John was at the Beaumont oil field the odds were that he'd brought the husky boys with him. Paul Harris saw the uncertainty and sadness in her eyes, and he immediately realized how what he'd said had hurt her.
"I'm sorry, dear," he apologized.
"It's all right," she replied. Then they began talking about where they might escape to in June--if John Faust didn't find them before the elementary school in tiny Silsbee closed for the summer.
Though only the main streets of Beaumont were lit by tall lamps burning natural gas, half the town seemed to be outdoors and celebrating. Faust recognized the noisy crowds from earlier oil booms; roistering men with whiskey and money far from home. Perhaps some had no homes, he speculated as he rode up to the Crosby Hotel. 
It was nearly 8:20 p.m., and the lobby still buzzed and bulged with men arguing and bargaining about oil leases. Faust listened for a few seconds, and was hardly surprised to find that the general level of prices had tripled in the few days since he'd left town to drill. They would probably triple again within a week. It was like that during the first sixty days of a new oil discovery. He mentioned that to Mrs. Wilson when she closed the door of her suite behind him a minute later. 
"Money's worth less and less every day, and land is worth more and more. Sky's the limit," he summarized. 
"Is there any limit?" she laughed, and gestured for 
him to sit down. "Yesterday morning, an old nigra woman named Sarah Williams decided to sell the oil rights to two acres of pasture her former master left her in his will. Sarah was a slave till she was 28-years- old, back in '65. She got $5,000 for the drilling rights. The lease has been sold and resold seven times in 34 hours. Last price an hour ago was ... guess, Mr. Faust." 
"Fifty thousand dollars?" 
"Sixty thousand. Would you be kind enough to pour the champagne?" 
They were enjoying their second servings of plump Gulf of Mexico oysters as they finished the champagne. The room service was deft and discreet, and Faust had the impression that the waiter had been given very specific instructions. Another bottle of Moet & Chandon was opened without a word from the widow. Then the grilled shrimp arrived, and they were delicious. 
"You have the air of a man who likes his sirloin medium rare, Mr. Faust." 
"You're a good judge of men, Mrs. Wilson." 
"Men and cattle. My daddy ran the biggest herd in Jefferson County," she announced. She was aware that he was appreciating her lavish breasts that were only half covered in this plunging neckline gown, and she didn't mind. She had chosen the dress quite deliberately. 
"Not that a fine Texas lady would care," Faust joked, "but I'd imagine there's more money in cattle." 
"But men are more interesting. They're more varied and much more ambitious. That makes them challenging--some even dangerous." 
"You don't think I'm dangerous, do you?" 
She licked her lips and smiled. 
"I feel perfectly safe with you," she said confidently. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but there was a warm glow within her. This man would not talk about banks or investments like some, or fumble crudely in his lovemaking like others. He would know how to appreciate and celebrate all of her--mind, body, and soul.
After the excellent steaks and New Orleans pecan pie, the liveried waiter set down coffee and a full bottle of Napoleon brandy with two Baccarat crystal "balloon" glasses. Something in his manner as he left signalled that he would not intrude on their privacy again . . . that he would not be back till midmorning. By now, Faust was also feeling that inner rosy heat.
"Mrs. Wilson, I must tell you how much I'm enjoying our evening. I haven't met such an interesting and attractive woman in a very long time."
"Thank you, Mr. Faust. I hope this remark doesn't mean you're leaving."
He smiled as he leaned forward.
"Not for at least two hours," he promised. He stroked her bare shoulder gently, and then his strong fingers held the back of her neck. Her hot lips tingled as he kissed her, first almost delicately and then with surging power. Now his hands were releasing her full breasts from the decolletage, and when he stroked the nipples it was as if electric currents flickered through every nerve in her straining body. His touch was subtle and splendid. No man had ever lingered so lovingly over her bosom before.
She heard noises. It took half a minute before she recognized her own feverish gasps. There was fire in her loins and her hips were thrusting, and this extraordinary man had not even attempted to remove her dress. He knew a great deal about women's needs and
bodies. The way he touched her was expert and irresistible. 
What was he doing? How long would he keep this up? She was shuddering and shaking, twisting and gasping. Now he kissed her again and again. She opened her lips wide, and he responded. All the while, his fingers were stoking, the fires in her breasts higher and higher. The flames were spreading. He was kissing her face and eyelids as the conflagration grew, as the heat moved down her body. She couldn't take any more of this. Why didn't he carry her into the adjacent bedroom and mount her? 
She was out of control--raw animal. Every place he touched felt like silk under his caress. She shook, yelped and struggled not to make that embarrassing bitch sound again. It was hopeless. A series of mounting spasms swept over her, and a hot wetness flooded her. Her head twisted back and forth four times before she sighed. It was over. 
"Oh, John. John, John." 
He picked her up gently, carried her to the bed, and helped the half-dazed lady remove her clothes. Then he held her close for fifteen minutes, caressing her shoulders, back, and flanks. He was tender, inventive. Her ears, hair, hips all warmed under his kisses. The flames were rising in that buried place again. 
Now he was within her. 
What was he waiting for? Why didn't he move? She'd been waiting so long for such a lover ... so long! 
"Yes, yes, yes," she exulted when he began. He was in no hurry. It was clear that he wanted to appreciate every moment, and to take her with him on the fantastic ride. He did, and twenty-five minutes later they took the magical journey together again. 
She was exhausted and utterly contented. Her satiny fingers caressed his loins as she hovered in a semisleep, and her head burrowed into his shoulder. She felt so relaxed, so luxurious and--yes--almost spoiled. His body was all hard flesh and muscle. No flab or sign of weakness. Whatever his age in years, this man was a powerful, ageless lover. For a few moments she dreamily considered arousing him again, but she found that she was too tired. He had filled and satisfied her fully, and now she wanted to slide off into sleep.
But his fingers were at her breasts again.
"Please, John," she protested weakly with a yawn.
"What's your Christian name?"
"Charlene. Charlene Melissa Wilson. Why?"
"So I can say a proper goodnight. Good night, Charlene Melissa Wilson," he said and kissed her closed eyes playfully a final time before he dressed.
"And thanks for dinner," he added as he prepared to depart.
"Tomorrow?"
"Wish I could. See you Tuesday, Charlene," he promised.
She could barely grunt in reply. John Faust closed the suite's door carefully behind him, descended to the street, and mounted his steed for the ride back through the breezy night. With her arms and legs flung wide and her face flushed with pleasure, Charlene Wilson yielded to the warm creamy sensation that radiated from deep within her. She could still feel his touch in so many places. Her whole body still buzzed with rippling sensations. She sighed as she relived his heavy weight upon her, and then she drifted off into deep sleep.
John Faust reached their camp shortly after one A.M., listened to the sound of the drill, and was relieved that it was functioning properly. There were so many damn things that could go wrong with an oil rig, even these new rotary drill outfits. Even though they were made of strong metal and supported by heavy beam derricks, they could be as unpredictable and delicate as a baby. They might operate perfectly for weeks, or jam or overheat or tear apart the first day.
"We're down to 56 feet, Pa," Jacob reported, and rubbed his weary eyes.
"I'll take over," John Faust replied. The younger son handed him the Winchester, and crawled into the tent to get some sleep. It was all part of the schedule that John had set. Since the drill was to operate 24 hours a day with interruptions only when adjustments or repairs were required, their routine was planned as a 24-hour program also. It was a demanding schedule that required 18 hours a day from each of them. Seven days a week.
On and on ... week after week ... for as long as it might take. This toil was very different from the clean and regular nine-to-six office job Maria had wanted him to take. It was harder and longer and dirtier, but the rewards could come a lot faster. They might be a lot slower in arriving too, John Faust admitted as he unbuttoned his "good" shirt to put it away. There was no way of predicting what their three months of dangerous and demanding work might produce. Would this be a one hundred thousand barrel a day gusher, a much less profitable five hundred barrel a day well, or another dry hole?
It was ironic, the veteran wildcatter brooded as he
scanned the starry night, but the tremendous riches spewing from the four wells on Big Hill had hurt more men than it had helped. The enormous amounts of petroleum now available had driven down the price of oil disastrously, at least for the immediate future. A five hundred barrel a day well would have been an excellent find only three months ago. Now there was more oil in Jefferson County than the whole world could use. They had better get those different kinds of gas buggies--the Pierce Arrows, Cadillacs, Oldsmobiles, Locomobiles and the others--perfected damn soon.
Of course, the big money crowd could wait it out. There would be no problem for the Standard Oil Company that the Rockefellers had built in the past 35 years or for bankers like those Mellons up in Pittsburgh. There were rumors that those shrewd operators were already out trying to get ship owners to convert their fleets to burn oil. That would create a huge new demand for oil, and prices would go up again. It was funny to think that the hard-boiled multimillionaires' attempts to build up their own profits would help far-from-rich wildcatters such as the Fausts and old Derby Kincaid.
Now John Faust thought about Charlene, and the passion they had shared only a few hours earlier. He remembered her taste, her hair, her twisting leaping body, and more. She was a warm and intelligent woman, lovely and lively in so many ways. He was lucky to have found such a person in the chaos of an oil boom. He was already looking forward to Tuesday.
Was it that the days passed quickly, or just that they were all the same? The engine clattered and the drill
chewed into the earth, and the derrick cables slowly lowered the steel bit into the four inch hole as it sank deeper and deeper. When something jammed they stopped the machinery to fix it. The adjustment or repair might take two minutes or a hundred and two, but they did it The coped with searing hot metal that could destroy flesh. They applied grease, tightened bolts, and cursed. John and Ernie swore at the rig frequently and effortlessly, unaware of their foul language. Young Jacob merely shrugged and grunted, for cursing was as foreign to him as it was to his mother. 
Tuesday came. Once again John Faust washed carefully, donned clean clothes, and rode off at sunset for Beaumont. This time she was not wearing the low-cut dress. When she opened the door, she had on only a lace-edged nightgown. The embers in her eyes said that she was impatient. She did not want to wait until after they had dined. Even as the door closed behind him, she tugged loose the belt and stepped forward as the robe fluttered to the floor. He stiffened in desire. 
This time she led, and he did not resist. She guided him to the big brass bed. It was her turn to caress, explore and arouse. Now he was moving under her delicate touch and kiss. A full fifteen minutes passed before she would let him mount. By this time he was a fierce and thrusting animal, and she was too. This was her other side--primitive and proudly unashamed. After their second explosion, she lay beneath his 190 pounds and wrapped her arms and legs around him so he could not rise. There were no yelps, only soft cooing sounds of endearment. 
It was ten o'clock before she would get out of bed to uncover the platter of cold meats and fruit in the 
other room. They ate, talked, drank, and enjoyed each other with their eyes until he dressed to go. 
"I have a present for you, John." 
"You already gave me everything I need," he answered.
She glowed again, and took a box from atop the marble coffee table. 
"Mayor Burford says you appreciate these," she announced, and handed him a box of Havana cigars. 
"I appreciate you, Charlene." 
Then he embraced and kissed the naked woman for what seemed like eternity before he left with the promise to return on Saturday. 
"I'll be in early," he told her. "Have to buy more food for the camp." 
Wednesday and Thursday flew by quickly. It was Friday before he knew it. That afternoon the drill bit shook loose, and it took two frustrating hours to find and replace it. After supper that evening, he leaned against a large rock and smoked one of the coronas she'd given him. He puffed, and blew a perfect smoke ring that hung motionless over the campfire. It was half past eight. Clouds scudding across the sky all but blocked out the tiny sliver of moon, but he didn't mind. Everything was going well 
"405 feet, boys," he said. 
"That's not bad," Ernest judged. 
"Could be worse," John Faust ratified. 
He glanced over at Jacob again. The boy had not been talking much during recent days. He'd done his job well, but he'd hardly spoken ten sentences in 48 hours. Was he still mooning over that temperance woman? 
"What do you say, Jake?" 
"It's fine, Pa." 
That all?"
"He wants to go into town, Pa," Ernest chuckled. "The water's better there."
Jacob did not reply to the affectionate teasing. Maybe it would be a good idea to let him see the Burford woman, the wildcatter thought. They might get together. Time for the lad to get together with a woman. Past time. It was dead wrong for an 18-year- old male to be a virgin. It was unhealthy, John Faust told himself.
Maybe he should have done something about it. It wasn't as if John Faust hadn't tried, or that the boy had had no opportunity. Hell, there were half a dozen women who had tried to bed Jake, and his father had given him money to visit Savannah's best brothel. None of these had appealed to Jake.
"If you can help me buy the supplies tomorrow, son, I'd be obliged," John Faust announced.
"Sure, Pa."
"We'll leave around one."
Faust finished the cigar, inspected the rig again and rechecked the horses' tethers before he walked to the top of the rise. He surveyed the surrounding fields and slopes for ten minutes. It was peaceful, quiet. There were only two glimmers of light to be seen. One was an oil lantern in the hut of the pig herder three hundred yards away. The other was the tiny dot of Derby Kincaid's campfire. Some wildcatters resented the isolation-of these scattered drilling camps, but John Faust was not among them. He enjoyed this rural tranquility just as much as the bustle and entertainment of cities.
He was asleep by 11 o'clock. Tomorrow would be another day of grinding work, and then he'd need his strength for the rendezvous with healthy, hungry
Charlene. The fire burned down- slowly to embers. Ernest watched and adjusted the drilling rig, while Jacob sat with the Winchester thirty yards away-- thinking of Amanda Burford.
Neither son heard the intruders slithering stealthily through the blackness of the night. With clouds masking the one-eighth moon, there wasn't enough light to see them, either. The noise of the drill was almost hypnotic. Jacob began to feel drowsy. Twice he caught himself, and jerked himself back to the alertness that guard duty required.
The attackers moved closer.
There were four of them, all armed with clubs that could crush a skull in a single blow. One also carried a knotted length of rope for use as a garrote. Another, a thin curly haired dandy in dark clothes, had a little derringer in his left hand and a silver-headed dagger in his boot.
He was the leader. His plan was simple and vicious. This modern drilling equipment was in extremely short supply in Beaumont. Impatient men there would pay thousands for the bits and other key parts, and there was the money to be removed from the bodies. He meant to leave no living witness to accuse him, and to even his score with John Faust.
Philip Latham held up his hand, and his hired thugs obediently halted. He inched forward. He waited for three minutes, watching for any sign that Ernest or Jacob might have discovered the invaders. No, it was safe to move closer. The clatter of the donkey-engine would drown out any sounds of their approach.
He gestured for one of his men to crawl towards Ernest, and signalled the other two to advance on the tent where John Faust dreamed. Latham knew better
than to send only one against John Faust, even if he was asleep. He would attack the fellow with the rifle himself, seize the weapon, and finish him off with an expert thrust of the Florentine steel stiletto.
He wriggled forward, raised the knife, and plunged it into Jacob's back. Jacob shouted in pain and twisted aside just in time to avoid a second brutal thrust. Now Ernest seized a long Tyler wrench and charged. He was half way to his brother when a thug stepped from the shadows with club swinging. Ernest dropped into a crouch to let it whistle over his head. A split second later he broke the attacker's knee with the wrench, and as the hoodlum fell forward he struck another blow that shattered his shoulder.
Blood was pouring from his wound, but Jacob did not drop the Winchester. The pain was terrible. His determination was even more intense. He staggered, but refused to topple. Somehow he managed to turn and squeeze off two shots. One singed Latham's left cheek. The assassin fled.
Now John Faust bulled out of the tent. The two men assigned to club him to death had no intention of taking on three alert defenders. The thugs threw their clubs at the wildcatter and ran into the inky night.
Only then would Jacob let himself fall.
"Pa, Pa," he whispered and pitched forward. Ernest was the first to reach him.
"He's hurt bad, Pa. Lots of blood. I think they stabbed him."
John Faust ran to his injured son and stared at the wound.
"They'll pay," he vowed and strode to the writhing thug whom Ernest had downed.
"Oh my God!" the hoodlum moaned in agony.
"Who stabbed my son?"
"It hurts! It hurts! My leg's broke! My shoulder!"
Faust leaned down closer.
"I'll break every bone you've got, one by one, until you tell me who knifed my son."
"It wasn't me!"
"Give me that wrench, Ernie."
The older son obeyed.
"Do the other knee first," he suggested, "so he can crawl on his belly for the rest of his life like the snake he is."
"No, I'll start with his fingers. That way he'll have to hold the tin cup with his teeth."
John Faust raised the wrench.
"I don't know his name! I don't! Talked like he was from Boston. Tall slim man, with fancy clothes."
"And a knife in his boot."
It was a statement, not a question.
"You know him?" the startled thug asked.
Now Jacob groaned. While the older son hitched up the horses, John Faust gently placed his younger son in the rear of the wagon.
"You better take him, too," Ernest said. The wildcatter glanced at the whimpering thug, and hesitated.
"I'd rather leave him for the buzzards," he answered truthfully, but he loaded the intruder into the wagon. There would be doctors in a town of ten thousand, perhaps even a small hospital. Jacob was still losing blood. It would be a race against time. First he would deliver Jacob . . . yes, this injured piece of human garbage too ... to some place where they'd get medical care. Then he'd find Phil Latham.
Wherever he was.
No matter how long it took.
He would hunt him down, and he would make sure that Latham never hurt anyone again. He wouldn't need a knife or a six shooter. He would beat him to a pulp with his bare hands.
There was no hospital in Beaumont yet, although people were talking about the possible need for one if the oil boom didn't peter out. There were two hardworking and able physicians who tended to the community's medical needs. Broken legs, high fevers, infections, stomach problems, or the delivery and care of babies were all part of their day's--and night's--work.
Since Dr. E.J. McInerney was busy on the far side of town delivering a set of twins, John Faust was directed to the office of Dr. Lamar Edgerton, right across the street from the photo studio his brother Maynard ran. The office was on the ground floor of the physician's home, and it was a sleepy doctor who opened the door in response to the wildcatter's pounding.
"My son's been stabbed," Faust told him bluntly.
"Bring him in," Edgerton replied. Gunshot and knife wounds had become a lot more common since the population had tripled. The- new arrivals seemed to be a lot more violent than the peaceful farmers and
shopkeepers who had made up most of the citizenry before the Lucas gusher changed everything.
The doctor lit the gas lamp in his office, helped John Faust put his semi-conscious son on the examining table, and went to work immediately. He cut away the blood soaked shirt, and bent low to examine the wound.
"Nasty," he said. He opened a jar of powerful antiseptic, and deftly swabbed it into the torn flesh. The stinging sensation made Jacob, twitch in pain.
"Proves he's alive," Edgerton said with professional detachment, "but not by much. Two inches to the left, and he'd be dead."
"Will he make it, Doc?"
"Probably. Can't be sure, but I've pulled through worse."
The physician applied more antiseptic before he reached for the bottle of chloroform. He opened it, glanced at Jacob again and saw that he was already unconscious. The doctor closed the jar, and began the delicate job of stopping the bleeding. The flow slowed, but only for a few minutes. Then the red stream of life fluid oozed again.
"Damn, damn, damn! Like to get my hands on whoever made this cut," the doctor said.
"So would I, and I will."
It took ten more minutes before the bleeding was ended. There was crimson on the operating table, on the physician's hands and slippers, and even on the floor. Then Edgerton neatly stitched up the wound and wrapped his unconscious patient in a wide bandage.
"I think your boy will be all right, Mr.--"
"Faust. John Faust. His name is Jacob. Thanks, Doctor."
Edgerton nodded in acknowledgment as he washed the red stains from his hands.
"You're welcome, Mr. Faust. Don't mean to meddle in your affairs," he told the wildcatter, "but I'd take this up with Sheriff Holly."
I'm going to take it up with the dirty dog who did this."
The doctor was not surprised.
These oil men had a code of their own. Beaumont's citizenry had learned that in recent weeks. The wildcatters were generous to those who dealt with them fairly, and ruthless with those who didn't. It wasn't that difficult for Texans to understand, for these were the rules of the frontier until organized and official law enforcement arrived. Men had lived and died by that code when John French had come down from Connecticut only 56 years earlier to found the trading post and tannery that grew into Beaumont, and for decades after that. There were still some like Faust who made their own justice, and who risked prison for daring to do so.
"Your Jacob will need a lot of rest and care," Edgerton warned. 'Til come by to see him every two or three days. In what part of town are you staying?"
"Our camp's six miles west of town."
"You can't move this boy, Mr. Faust. Be crazy to risk putting him in a wagon for that long ride. Better find a place right here."
"There isn't any. We looked. Had to pitch our tent in the Burfords' back yard."
The physician dried his hands and thought hard.
"He can stay here for a day, but I'd suggest you try Mrs. Chappell's boarding house near the station, or Mrs. Warner's place. They're not much, but they're clean."
"Will they take care of him, Doctor?"
"Maybe I can find you a nurse to come in mornings, or someone like Grandma Dunkins. Best we can do, I'm afraid."
The wildcatter shook his head.
It wasn't good enough.
He had an idea as to how he might do a lot better, and he would test it in the morning.
"What do I owe you?" he asked.
"Five dollars should do it."
Faust gave him ten to cover future services, and thanked the doctor again.
"You can bunk on the couch till sun up," Edgerton offered. "No sense in sleeping in your wagon."
"Glad you said that. There's somebody else out in the wagon who ran into a Tyler wrench. Don't quite know if he's for you or the sheriff."
"Friend of the man with the knife?" the physician asked as they walked to the front door.
"Be surprised if he had any friends at all."
The thug whimpered and wept in pain as they carried him into the house. They carefully shifted the sleeping Jacob to the couch, and put the new patient on the examining table. Edgerton looked at the twisted limbs.
"You say a wrench or a train?" he asked.
At 8:20 the next morning, Amanda Burford was at her post in the street doing her duty for the Women's Christian Temperance Union. She saw a wagon approaching.
"Free water! Fresh pure water!"
Then she recognized the wildcatter.
"Good morning, Mr. Faust. Ah, would you like some water?"
She wanted to ask about Jacob, but was too embarrassed.
Faust stopped the team, climbed down, and drank two mugs thirstily. Then he sighed.
"Is everything all right, Mr. Faust?"
"What?"
"Excuse my saying so, but you look, well, exhausted."
He nodded wearily.
"Jacob's been stabbed," he reported.
Her eyes bulged and her mouth opened in horror.
"Oh my God! Is he "
She couldn't ask the question.
"He was hurt bad, but Doc Edgerton says hell live. Lost a lot of blood though. Nasty knife wound."
She wanted to help--exactly as Faust expected.
"Where is he?"
"Still at the Edgerton place, but they can't keep him. I'm on my way to try for a room in some boarding house."
There was no more shock or fear in her face, only indignation.
"Who'll tend him in a boarding house?" she demanded. "Bring him to our house. I ... we'll take care of him."
Faust rubbed his unshaven chin as if he were unsure.
"Could be four or five weeks. Wouldn't want to impose, Miss Amanda."
"I'll expect you within the hour," she answered firmly.
Faust realized that her sister would be extremely angry, but he also knew that this was what would be best for his son. Maybe one Faust wouldn't annoy Sally Burford as much as three, he told himself as he turned the team towards the Edgerton home.
"Can't disappoint that gracious Miss Amanda," he
thought aloud with a smile. By ten minutes after nine, a very groggy Jacob Faust was installed in an upstairs bedroom at the Burford house. Miss Amanda did not seem worried about either his condition or her sister's possible reaction. Amanda Burford looked rosy and pleased. 
John Faust began the hunt for Latham. With his .44 loose in the holster on his right hip, he started by visiting the two best hotels and three most expensive brothels in Beaumont. He spoke to desk clerks and bartenders, maids and madams, waiters and piano players, card sharks, and an impressive assortment of harlots. Women of many nationalities, skin shadings, accents, hair colors, and sizes listened to his description of Philip Latham. Some of these courtesans-- Madame LaRue explained discreetly that whores worked in the cheaper establishments near the harbor --wore evening gowns, others lingerie, and a few nothing but perfume and high-heeled shoes. They all said the same thing. None knew where Latham could be found. 
Then Faust moved on to lesser hotels, saloons and several gambling parlors. He talked to roustabouts and wildcatters, faro dealers and poker players, cowboys and railroad men, ship captains and horse dealers-- and some men who were probably horse thieves. They didn't know where he was, either. The friendly freight agent at the depot thought that he'd seen Latham, with a bandage on his left cheek and a worried air, depart on the train for New Orleans. 
Faust spent the night with the widow, then resumed his hunt. After a day and a half of searching, John Faust reluctantly but realistically reported the incident 
to the police. He gave Sheriff Holly a careful description of Philip Latham, and said that one of the attackers could be found at the Edgerton house. 
"Not any more. Doc had us pick him up yesterday. Been waiting for you to come by," the sheriff explained.
"About this Latham--" 
"We'll keep an eye out, and I'll wire New Orleans too." 
"Appreciate that." 
It wouldn't do much good, but the sheriff felt that it was his duty to say it. 
"You drill the oil wells, Mr. Faust, and we'll take care of Latham, Criminals are our business, you know." 
"Sure," Faust agreed mechanically. 
They both knew that he didn't mean it. John Faust drove by the Crosby Hotel to leave a message of explanation for Charlene Wilson, and then he started back for the camp west of town. Ernest was a rugged young bull, but even he couldn't take round-the-clock duty on the rig indefinitely. He'd get weary, sloppy, careless. The risks of an accident were multiplying every minute. 
It was time for John Faust to go back to work. He loaded the wagon with food and other supplies, stopped by to make sure that his younger son's recovery was continuing, and set off down the road to the land he'd leased. On this trip, he didn't sing at all. 
It was harder with two men instead of three. 
Still the drilling continued day and night with almost no interruptions. John Faust was proud of his son's strength and stubbornness. Ernest never complained. He drove down the road to the pine forest to chop wood that they would burn to power the engine. He worked 12 hour shifts, took his turn cooking, and did his share like a man. When some machinery jammed, he helped his father fix it. He liked to learn and he didn't mind sweat. When they talked he spoke of oil, not money. 
"He's a born wildcatter," John Faust thought. "He's just the way I was at his age." 
Five days after the thugs attacked their camp, a drill bit was torn loose by the vibration. It was down there somewhere below six hundred feet. They had to stop, and it took four hours of delicate and dirty effort to recover the damaged bit. They attached a new one. That shattered 32 hours later. They attached the last bit that they'd brought. How long would this 
one last? As they started up the motor again, John Faust eyed his son. 
"You'd better go into town to buy four . . . make it six ... new bits, son. We could use some fresh meat, too. Getting tired of these rabbits you're shooting." 
"Fine with me. I'm ready for a change--most any kind of change," Ernest replied. "Like to see how Jake's comin' along." 
John Faust gave his son money for the purchases, and then added $10 more. 
"What's that for, pa?" 
"You'll think of something," the wildcatter predicted with a wink. "If you can't, try Madame LaRue's social club over near Crockett Street. I saw a couple of mulatto girls there who'd give a dead man ideas." 
Ernest smiled and shrugged. 
"Do you pay for lovin'?" he asked. 
"No." 
"I don't either. Thanks for the ten dollars though. I'll spend most of it on whiskey. Whiskey's worth buying, but the land of woman you can buy isn't." 
Ernie seemed to be changing, and fast 
A year ago he wouldn't have known that. If he did somehow, he wouldn't have dared to say it to his father. Maybe he needed a lesson. The proper women of Beaumont wouldn't give any man--even a goodlooking young one such as Ernie--their favors that easily. With less than a day to spend in town, John Faust figured, Ernie was just about sure to end up with some bar girl or prostitute. No harm in it so long as he didn't catch some sickness. 
"You can come back tomorrow," the wildcatter offered generously. 
Ernest was on the road twenty minutes later. He'd left the Winchester with his father, and now the Colt 
six-gun hung on his hip to protect the supplies he'd buy. As the horses clip-clopped towards the town, he thought about his brother.
Jake should be coming along well, for he was surely getting plenty of care. He was in good hands at the Burford house. Hell, Ernest reflected, that Amanda probably had her hands all over him.
He coughed a few moments later when a Locomobile chugged by spewing acrid fumes. The shiny brass lamps and leather seats looked good despite the film of East Texas dust, but the smell and the noise were definitely annoying. The clatter of the engine startled and frightened the team pulling the Faust wagon. Ernie had to work to control the animals, to prevent them from bolting.
Maybe his father was right.
Perhaps these gas buggies would be coming in much larger numbers, enough to create a huge new market for oil, and fat fortunes for wildcatters.
But it wouldn't happen until somebody found a way to make these self-propelled vehicles so they wouldn't panic horses or sicken people. When he reached town, he saw another of the odd machines near the railroad depot. Two in a single day! He'd tell his father about that.
Following his instructions, he tethered his team at the hitching post in front of the hardware store on Third Street, right next door to the funeral parlor. Since the Spindletop gusher blew in, this hardware store was stocking small parts for oil rigs, and making twice the profits it had made only six weeks earlier. The store was full of people--local residents and oil boomers--whom Ernie didn't know. The face of the woman who was plainly in charge of the store was familiar.
f
98 Lee Davis Willoughby
She was Amanda's sister, the pretty but fiercely prim Sally. Did she loathe men in general, or simply the Fausts in particular? Was she protecting her sister's virtue, or could it be something else behind that scowl?
The woman whom Sally Burford was serving was definitely more attractive to behold. She was four or five years younger than Sally, no more than twenty. But it wasn't age that made the difference. Some of the most alluring and appealing women Ernie Faust had known were over thirty. And it wasn't her magnificent head of hip-length red hair, splendid as it was. Was she Irish or Scandinavian? Ernie wondered.
She could be a Viking, a descendant of the legendary transatlantic explorer history remembered as Eric the Red. There was something grand and vibrant about her. She had the air of a princess. It wasn't her clothes, for they were simple. She had a vitality that caught men's attention as much as her high-breasted young figure did. The dress did nothing to restrain or conceal the rippling thrust of those firm mounds.
She held her head high, and her large green eyes shone like the costliest emeralds. This woman was a beautiful animal, and Ernie Faust guessed that she knew it. Men would stop to stare, would turn to look at this creature, as John Faust had done already. Ernie did not know that, but it would not have surprised him. His father was a warm-blooded man with a powerful physical interest in lovely females. So was his elder son.
This woman would have her pick of men.
Many would hunger for her, and more than a few would pursue her. Ernie felt a flicker of desire in his loins, and deliberately turned his eyes away. This was neither the time nor the place to indulge in such carnal fantasies.
"That will be $11.30, Miss Torgeson," Sally Burford announced crisply. As the red-headed young beauty counted out the money, the woman behind the counter noticed Ernest, and barely nodded. Torgeson was a Scandinavian name, he judged. He'd been right.
"Good afternoon, Miss Sally," he said.
The voluptuous Viking started to leave, but stopped abruptly only inches from Ernest. He could feel her body heat radiating from that pinkish strawberries-and-cream skin.
"Did you say Wednesday?" she asked in a voice that was as sensual and provocative as the rest of her.
Sally Burford nodded, and the young woman departed.
"Yes, Mr. Faust?"
He told her what he wanted to buy, and she assembled most of his purchases without saying a word. When she put down the drill bits, he noticed that she'd given him only three bits instead of six, and mentioned this politely.
"Can't sell more than three to a customer till the new shipment comes in Wednesday," she snapped. "You must have heard me tell that to Miss Torgeson."
Why was she so damn righteous? How the hell was he supposed to know what her cryptic nod in response to the red-head's question had meant? Lord, somebody must have treated Sally Burford badly along the way. She was as mean as a broken saw blade.
"Three'll be fine," he answered coolly.
There was no way he'd let her get him into an argument. She glared at him for several seconds. She was surprised by his calm response, almost disappointed. Something about this powerfully muscled young man made her uneasy.
"Your brother . . . he's all right," she said as she gave him his change. 
"Good of you to take him in." 
She evaded his thanks. 
"Have you seen him?" she asked. 
"I'll come by after I've bought the rest of our supplies."
He was really rather handsome, she decided, in a crude sort of way. Some women might consider this earthy and semi-educated young man attractive. 
"Thanks, Miss Sally," he said, and strode out swiftly before she could answer. He completed all but his meat purchases an hour later. At a quarter to six he knocked on the door of the Burford house. Two minutes later a glowing Amanda Burford ushered him into the room where his brother lay dozing. 
"He's doing well," she assured softly. "Sleeping a lot and drinking quantities of fruit juices and milk. Jacob is quite a thirsty ... ah ... person, isn't he?" 
"Not especially. Must be the wound." 
"Dr. Edgerton says that it's already started to heal. Isn't that wonderful?" she exclaimed. 
"Great. Hope he's not too much bother." 
"No bother at all. He's a very good person. I mean, an excellent patient. He has a fine appetite." 
"She means I'm eating like a horse," Jacob said, and looked up with a smile. 
"You always did," his brother answered. 
"We thought you were sleeping," she apologized. 
"Half asleep. Reading makes me drowsy, I guess." 
"Jake reads for both of us," Ernest joked. "He's the scholar in our family. Gone through the whole Bible, Dickens, even some plays and poems." 
"Come on, Ernie," the younger brother protested. 
Amused that he had embarrassed Jake, Ernie 
laughed affectionately. Then Amanda went out to fetch glasses of delicious sweethart lemonade, and to give them some time alone. A family was entitled to privacy, and a lady respected that. Ernest Faust had some manners too, she observed. When she returned, he was most complimentary towards her lemonade. He was still praising it when her sister arrived. 
"I'll be going now," he said. "Bye, Miss Amanda ... Miss Sally." 
"Won't you stay for dinner?" Amanda invited. 
"Thanks, but I'll get something at the Crosby. Pa says I can sleep in the lobby there if the boardinghouses are full. See you next week, brother." 
The Fausts exchanged goodbyes--prematurely. Amanda Burford would not hear of Ernest eating or sleeping elsewhere. It would be an insult to Texas hospitality if he tried, she insisted. 
"Perhaps Mr. Faust has other plans," her sister suggested in a voice so chilly it could have been used to ice drinks. 
"Don't be silly," Amanda replied firmly. Before her sister could argue, Amanda left to tell the housekeeper that there would be one more for dinner. The food was a great improvement over what he'd been eating out at the drilling site, but the conversation didn't live up to it. Sally Burford didn't say a word. Avoiding any eye contact with either male, she grimly looked down at her plate and ate. 
Ernie wondered whether her interests lay with women, but only for a moment. He had other things on his mind. When they finished their coffee--good, . strong Mexican coffee that Fortuna served with slices of an excellent bittersweet chocolate cake--the older brother excused himself to "see some poker players down town." 
Now Sally looked at him. Amanda was so innocent, she thought bitterly. It would be bartenders and harlots he'd be "seeing", not card players. Sally didn't say that, however. She maintained her steely silence as her sister told Ernest which room would be his, and after he left she retreated to her own room almost immediately. The way Amanda hovered over the wounded man was more than Sally Burford could stand. 
Ernie Faust found his card game in the backroom of the Longhorn Saloon. He enjoyed the sour mash bourbon whiskey at five cents a glass, and he enjoyed the poker even more. The competition was good, but he was better. Winning $480 was always fine, but it was even more pleasurable when the other players were skilled. The challenge to beat able opponents made the victory sweeter. 
"You play almost as fancy a game as Big John," Pegleg Brown said as Ernest scooped up another sheaf of bills. 
"I take that as a compliment, Pegleg," Ernie told the wildcatter. Brown was no stranger to the Fausts, for they'd met him at two other fields. He was a charter member of the oil brotherhood, and a compulsive one. Men still talked about the time Brown had run out of money drilling, and deliberately shot himself in the foot to collect the insurance funds he needed for a new rig. It had paid off, so far as Brown was concerned. He now had a wooden left foot, but he'd been able to drill down another 370 feet and bring in a well he'd sold for $53,000. A lot of that had soon passed across poker tables such as this. 
"Meant as a compliment," Pegleg said. "My best to Big John, Ernie. Ten him to come in so I can take his money." 
Several of the gamblers laughed. 
The Wildcat-tees 103 
"Well, some of his money," Brown compromised. The others chuckled again. John Faust was one of the best poker players in the whole world of wildcatting, and Pegleg among the worst. 
"I'll tell him," Ernie promised. 
It was close to one in the morning by the time he left. He was tired from the hour and the liquor as he returned to the Burford house, and he yawned as he let himself into the front foyer. The single flickering gas lamp there was the only light in the building. He paused, remembered which room he'd been assigned, and made his way to it as quietly as possible. He'd have to find a woman in Beaumont, he thought as he took off his boots and then undressed. He hadn't been to bed with a woman in weeks, and when he felt desire now it almost hurt. Maybe he'd find some friendly waitress or dancer when he next came to town--not a prostitute but a healthy woman who would enjoy a strong young stallion lover. 
He sighed as he lay down and pulled the sheet and thin blanket over his nakedness. "Get down to the bath house tomorrow," he thought as he closed his eyes. His consciousness suddenly filled with file image of the voluptuous red head he'd seen at the hardware store, the one with the lush body and that Viking name. He'd never been close to another woman that beautiful. What was that line from the book that Jake had read last year? The stuff that dreams are made of. That was her. He fell asleep, and he dreamed of her. He lusted. 
Ten minutes after he slipped into slumber, Sally Burford tiptoed stealthily into his room and closed the door behind her. The moon rays fell upon him like some heavenly spotlight, stark and silvery in the night. 
First her eyes feasted on his handsome face, but then she noticed the bulge of desire in the blanket. He was deep in a sexual dream. The mound was high. She could not ignore it. After a few moments, she licked her lips and drew the curtains to exclude the moonlight. It was inky black in the room. 
She moved close to the bed. With her heart beating fast, she leaned over him. The smell of liquor on his breath was reassuring. He was probably half drunk, most unlikely to awaken after his night of carousing. Who knew what animal things "this burly young bull had been doing? The unanswered question aroused her, and she squeezed her thighs together in unconscious reaction. 
Slowly . . . ever so carefully . . . she started to pull down the blanket. It took more than two minutes, the sheet another sixty seconds. She stopped several times to listen to his breathing, to make certain that he was still floating in his carnal dream. When the blanket was down to just above his knees, she took a deep breath and reached out. First she touched the mat of curly hair that covered his chest, and she shivered. It took an effort not to squeal. 
"I must be crazy," Sally Burford thought, but she did not withdraw her hand. She couldn't. Something beyond her control was drawing her fingers down his chest inexorably, like some massive magnet. There-- that had to be his navel. She let her index finger probe the opening, but then that force pulled her hand further down. 
Another jungle of hair. 
She could hardly breathe, but she couldn't stop. Why was she doing this? How could Sally Burford behave like some common street girl? Her hand shook for several seconds until her palm touched his organ. 
Suddenly she wasn't uncertain or conflicted any more. Taking care not to scratch him, she ran her fingertips down its length and then stroked the sack below tenderly. 
He sighed, but he did not awaken. She could do what she wanted, needed. It was big and hot under her touch. The way it leaped under her caress showed that he needed, too. She tried to encompass it with both her hands, but it was too long. She stroked it again, and again he made that sound of pure physical pleasure. She licked her lips. She was in command. It was her wishes and fantasies, not his, that would be satisfied. 
She could do what she wanted to this man. Anything. She thought of biting him there, but he might not like that. With her heart pounding, she began to stroke his organ more quickly. She could feel the heat and wetness within her, and her breathing grew faster. His hips were moving. He groaned once more, and then the warm salty liquid spurted high. Three, no, four times. There was so much of it. A few drops fell upon her lips. He heaved once more and subsided. 
He was finished. She wasn't. She began to fondle him again, this time more vigorously. Sh«-had to quench the flames in her loins, and she needed that organ big and stiff again. Slowly it rose under her artful massage, and she pulled up her nightgown as she climbed up on the bed to squat on top of him. This time the woman would use the man; she would slake her thirst ruthlessly with no care for his needs. Very slowly and carefully, she rubbed his hardness against her drenched lower lips. 
Then--almost millimeter by millimeter--she lowered herself onto that rigid member. It seemed even bigger and thicker within her. She gasped, and her 
mouth hung open in raw pleasure. She would set the pace. Her rhythms would rule this muscular fool.
Suddenly he groaned.
A moment later he spoke.
"What? Who? Who?" he mumbled groggily.
Sally Burford was much too clever to be thwarted. She reacted shrewdly and immediately, leaning forward to cover his mouth with one hand so he couldn't speak.
"Silencia," she whispered in a heavy Hispanic accent. "Ees me, Fortuna. Enjoy, Senor."
She began to move, to slide up and down on his tool. What man could resist that arousal? The sensations of her well lubricated inner walls would surely fascinate and hypnotize him. If she could get him into the rhythms of her movements, he'd surrender to the experience without opening his eyes. It worked. He began to thrust up to meet her, and she started to smile. But now she was gasping and hissing, twisting as she forced herself down upon his maleness. He was so deep inside her.
Now she'd show him who was in command. She slowed the pace, and teased him for more than a minute before she lost control of herself. She began to heave and shake as muscular contractions within pulsed and pulsed, and she knew that the time had come. It worked out perfectly. They finished in simultaneous spasms.
She felt warm and wonderful inside, moving up and down every twenty or thirty seconds as the ripples slowly subsided. She didn't want to rise, to let the hard man thing slip out of her. He was too groggy to care. Probably too stupid, too, she thought. When she felt totally contented, she lifted herself and fondled his now shrunken sack again. That would keep this
simple oaf bemused until she slipped from the room. Grinning complacently, she made her escape in the darkness. 
Ernest Faust sighed again. 
"Good night, Miss Sally," he said softly. He waited for a minute until his feverish body had cooled. Then he pulled up the sheet, stretched his utterly relaxed body to its fullest, and dropped off into a profound sleep. 
As they unloaded the supplies from the wagon at noon, Ernest Faust gave his father all the news, including the start of construction of five huge storage tanks for oil down at the harbor and the cheery greetings from Pegleg Brown. 
"You seem mighty pleased with yourself," the father observed. 
"Just happy that my baby brother's coming along so nicely." 
John Faust set down the forty pound slab of beef and shook his head. 
"No, you've got a brand-new-woman look," he said. 
"Winning nearly $500 at poker does the same thing, Pa," he fenced. 
"The hell it does. I won't pry though. Let's get to work." 
They concentrated on the drilling for the next five hours, and it really wasn't until they sat down to eat at six that they could talk again. The bit was down nearly eight hundred feet, still chewing through fairly 
soft layers. They should be punching into a pocket of natural gas soon, if the pattern of other successful drilling operations in Jefferson County was to be duplicated.
"So you don't think it's entirely luck, Pa?" .
"Never said it was," John Faust answered between bites of the barbecued beef. "Neither did that one- armed Higgins fellow who first believed there was oil under Big Hill, or Lucas either. All I ever said was the geologists aren't half as smart as they think they are . . . and luck's important. One man can drill three hundred yards from another. First one hits a dry hole, second brings in a gusher."
"Guess nobody ever knows exactly where to drill."
"That's for sure. There's one thing I can feel in my bones, Ernie. That's pretty close to knowing. Not 100 percent the same, but close. I'm telling you that there's a lot of oil damn near where we're squatting. Bet half this county's sitting on a treee-mendous pool of oil. Trick'll be to get it out of the ground, and out of the county."
"Forgot to tell you," Ernie apologized, "but there's talk that they'll be dredging a deeper and wider channel to make it easier for big ships to come up from the Gulf. Some of those ships will be built special --great big floating oil tanks."
"Makes sense," the wildcatter said. "Sure, oil tankers. And those ships will burn oil too. Who knows, time could come when half the ships afloat will run on oil. Oil's going to be real cheap. There's lots of it to be found. Hear they're drilling down in Mexico right now."
Ernest Faust refilled his mug with coffee, leaving half an inch so he could add a big splash of whiskey. The night was cool enough for such a combination.
"Five new wells on Big Hill in the past week," he reported. "Pegleg thinks that's too many."
"He's no fool, Ernie. Oil field's like a big healthy cow. You milk her slow and steady. No rush. You hurry to get it all out fast, you mess the whole thing up. The cow can go dry, son. So can those wells on Big Hill. That's one reason I feel we're smart to be out here. When we punch through, our lease covers a nice patch of land. Won't have a hundred other outfits drilling on our doorstep in a month."
"When do you think we'll strike it, Pa?"
John Faust lit a cigar from the box Charlene Wilson had given to Ernie for him.
"Not till somewhere below one thousand feet. Could be twelve or thirteen thousand. Where we hit the gas will be our clue."
At 905 feet, the gas suddenly spurted into the sky with a fierce and splendid hiss. It smelled awful. Both Fausts were delighted by the noise and the stench, for they promised that the black gold was not far away. John and his elder son worked happily for the next two days.
Then the drill hit the layer of rock. It was hard and dense. The thickness of the barrier was impossible to estimate. After 85 minutes of battle with the rock, the drill had bored only a foot into the barrier. An hour later, the fishtail bit cracked into a dozen pieces. They were stopped cold.
The granite had won the first round. It took half a day to get out the broken pieces and install a new bit. Then the battle was joined again. Now the drill was boring down only five or six inches an hour. Another bit was consumed by heat and friction. The wildcatters cursed, but they were far from defeated. Such
setbacks had to be regarded as temporary, as pauses to regroup. It was their right and their destiny to free this oil trapped in the earth's depths for so many tens of thousands of years.
A fresh bit--the last they owned--was now attached. Big John was in a tense mood as he started up the donkey motor once more. He was down to four cigars, and the promising flow of gas had stopped.
"How much more stone you think there is?" Ernie wondered.
"God only knows--"
"And we'll find out," his son finished. It was a familiar expression that his father and other wildcatters used often, an oil man's litany.
"Can't be much more'n another seven or eight feet, maybe less," John Faust said. "Another day at the worst, unless something goes wrong."
Then he cocked his head to one side to listen to the machinery again. The drill seemed to be working hard but that was to be expected in rock. It was the laboring sounds coming from the motor that made him frown in concern. He'd bought used equipment. It was in good condition, but it wasn't new. One couldn't be sure how many hundreds or thousands of hours of wear this motor and rig had already absorbed. How much more could they take? How much time did they have?
Some four thousand five hundred miles away, other men were concerned about time. In the high ceilinged library of London's elite Atheneum Club, two gentlemen--one by birth and the other by achievement-- stood by the French windows looking out at the flow of hansom cabs. One was Sir Henry Forsythe, Plans Director for the Royal Navy. The other was Viscount Marcus Samuel, wealthy head of the Shell Oil Company Ltd.
"So you wish me to take this matter to Lord Halliburton immediately?" Forsythe asked.
"I fear that there's no time to do anything else. The Imperial German Navy is already moving to convert to oil. I need not spell out the advantage it will have over our fleet if we continue with coal, Sir Henry. The extra mobility, and the weight and space saved in fuel--"
"I understand all that," Forsythe told the businessman. The admiral did not enjoy dealing with merchants, even those as rich and resourceful as Samuel.
The tradesman was patriotic and that was commendable, but he still seemed a bit pushy.
"He'll require an absolute guarantee of a steady supply," Forsythe warned.
"We're not counting on getting this fuel from those Russian fields in Baku. No, there's an immense quantity of petrol available in the new American field in Texas. At least fifty times as much as the wells in Baku now produce, some say one hundred fifty times. It's very cheap too; less than half the price of coal."
"How much can the Yanks deliver?"
"At this very moment, my nephew is in Pittsburgh negotiating for a minimum of one hundred thousand tons a year. My firm is prepared to build our own vessels to bring this oil from a Texas port directly here."
There'd probably be a tidy profit in it for Shell, Forsythe thought cynically, but still, the benefit to the Royal Navy would be substantial. The threat from the Kaiser's armadas was real enough. Intelligence agents confirmed that the German navy was growing and modernizing at an alarming rate--one that signalled preparations for war.
"This matter must be kept confidential, of course," Samuel urged.
The cheek of the merchant! The confounded insolence of this self-made Hebrew tradesman who dared to counsel an admiral on security was appalling. He meant well, but Forsythe's patience was exhausted. It was time to end this discussion.
"We know how to keep secrets at the Admiralty," Forsythe assured icily. "I'll take this up with Lord Halliburton tomorrow afternoon."
He did. The spy's report on their conversation reached the Naval Attache at the Imperial German
Embassy 30 hours later. It was coded and relayed to Fleet Intelligence Headquarters in Kiel. Nine days after that, three demolition experts sailed from Hamburg on a transatlantic liner bound for New York. 
On the same day that the ship left Hamburg, the steam valve on the Fausts' donkey engine collapsed. That cut off the power that operated the drilling rig. It was maddening. They had finally gouged through the rock only a dozen hours earlier, and now this breakdown stopped their progress completely. 
John Faust took one of the horses to ride into Beaumont to find a replacement part. He'd see his son and Charlene as well, and be back in time for dinner. The wildcatter was about to leave when Ernie suggested that Jacob might be well enough to come back, so the father went to town with the team and wagon instead. 
The road was clogged with cattle. Two cowboys were guiding a herd of more than one hundred head of beef out to the grazing pasture half a mile beyond the Faust rig, a large fenced field where at least another one hundred fifty steers already munched placidly. Food for the hordes of oil men who'd quadrupled Beaumont's population, John Faust guessed correctly. When they were gone, he resumed his journey and reached the bustling boom town at midday. 
The Burford hardware store did not have the valve. Neither did Preston's or Joel's or Gewirtz's plumbing supply establishments. None of them stocked parts for such an old engine. Disgusted but not discouraged, Faust decided to get a drink and some food at the Longhorn before he resumed his search. The first 
person he saw as he walked into the saloon was Pegleg Brown. 
"Come in for a poker lesson, John?" the older man challenged. 
"Whiskey." 
After he'd downed three ounces of raw bourbon that would water most men's eyes, Faust ordered a bowl of chili and turned to Brown. 
"Don't have time to take your money, Pegleg. Don't have the interest either," he said and gestured to the porky bartender for a refill. 
"You was always a fine judge of good whiskey," Brown recalled affably. Faust laughed, and finished the second drink. 
"This is 'bout the worst I ever tasted, Pegleg. Hell, I've got other things to fret on. Damn donkey engine's out. Steam valve's gone, and I can't find a store in town that stocks the damn thing." 
"Big John's just joking 'bout yore whiskey," Brown told the 270 pound man behind the pine plank counter. The fat bartender shrugged. 
"Doubt it," he said. "It's terrible whiskey, but It's all we got. Another?" 
Faust nodded, and they exchanged grins. The Chinese cook put down Faust's bowl of chili a few moments later. It was excellent 
"What kind of engine you got?" Brown asked. 
"One of the old Stanleys. That's the damn problem," Faust explained between spoonfuls of the tasty dish. 
"Didn't think anybody but me still had one of those rust buckets," Brown cackled. Faust stopped eating. 
"You runty weasel! You saying you've got a Stanley? You mean you've got a spare valve?" 
"Might have one for a low down old wildcatter like 
you, John. What's it worth?" Brown tested craftily.
"You call it, Pegleg."
Brown considered the question carefully.
"Bottle of this turruble whiskey?"
John Faust's luck was holding. That's what this was. It was a good sign. He needed that kind of encouragement after the way the natural gas flow had stopped days earlier. Faust shook his old friend's hand, added more chopped onion to the fiery chili and finished the bowl with the help of a chunk of brown bread he used to sop up every last drop.
After he collected the valve, he drove over to the Burford house. It was only as he neared it that he realized he hadn't seen Amanda with her water barrel outside the saloon. As he stopped the horses, he heard the delicate music tinkling from inside the house. She was home. He recognized her touch on the pianoforte. When he entered, he found her seated at the instrument in the living room. Jacob was on the bench beside her. He looked more than well. He was happy.
"Why Mr. Faust, what a lovely surprise!"
"Don't let me interrupt your playing. It's very, uh, pretty."
She smiled, and Jacob squirmed.
"That was your clever son, Mr. Faust. I've been teaching him, and he's amazingly quick. He has a natural gift, you know."
Like his mother.
The thought raced through John Faust's mind like a runaway locomotive.
"Does it run in the family?" she asked innocently. Jacob saw the hurt in his father's eyes, and opened his mouth to say something to help him. John Faust spoke first.
"My wife... she loves music."
"So does Jacob. And doesn't he look well?" 
Now something dark swept over the wildcatter-- something bitter. This was no place for his son. 
"Looks well enough to come back with me right now," the wildcatter replied. 
Her pretty face paled in surprise, then winced in dread. 
"Oh, no!" 
"Bleeding's stopped, isn't it? Wound closed?" he demanded. 
"Yes, but he's not nearly ready to travel." 
She didn't want to let him go. In another week or two, he might not want to leave. John Faust could see it all in his son's expression. This woman was weaving her spell, doing her female things. Gentle and sweet, delicate and warm, she meant to keep him here. Perhaps forever. 
"We need you at the rig, Jake." 
She looked as if she were about to cry. Jake Faust struggled for several moments, torn by his caring for both of them. Then he sighed. If his family needed him, he'd have to do his duty. He reached over and patted her hand. She knew that she'd lost--for now. She wasn't quite as frail as Big John Faust imagined. She'd waited a long time for someone like Jake, and she wasn't going to give up now. Whether his rough and tumble father liked it or not, they were exactly right for each other. 
"Be back to see you in a week or two, if I may," Jake said as he rose. 
"Of course you may," she replied with more cheerfulness than she felt. She wasn't going to let his father see her pain, or her determination either. John Faust might be a master at wrenching oil from the earth, but he had much to learn about Texas women. This 
thought helped her maintain her air of lighthearted charm to the very moment that their wagon rolled away.
Ernest welcomed his brother warmly, and urged him to sit down and rest while they installed the valve. He could see the traces of fatigue still left in his brother, and he recognized there was something else, too. Jake would talk about it if and when he was ready. The Faust brothers had that kind of unspoken trusting-loving-respecting relationship. They didn't crowd each other, and their father treated them the same way.
The donkey engine started up again, and the drilling resumed. John and Ernie focussed on the drilling machinery and cables, watching and listening and hoping. They paid no attention to the engine as it chugged away slowly. It was Jake who saw the dial on the pressure gauge moving towards the red line. Now it was past that mark--into the danger zone.
In another 20 seconds the boiler would burst. The new valve was jammed. There was no time to call out for his father or brother to fix it. They were too far away. Now the whole engine began to shake. In five seconds it would explode, hurling chunks of hot metal and a wave of scalding steam in a murderous arc!
Jake forced himself to his feet, hurried to the engine and hit the valve with his clenched fist. A spout of steam rose. John Faust turned as it happened, and realized how close they'd all been to death. Jacob had saved their lives.
"Burn your hand?" the wildcatter asked.
"Just a bit. You'd better take another look at that valve, Pa."
John Faust nodded. Then he walked over to examine
the red flesh where the hot metal had seared Jacob's hand. The burn wasn't that serious, for Jacob had only touched the valve for a split second. Relieved, John Faust looked up into his younger son's wide brown eyes. 
"Welcome back, son," he said warmly. 
Then he rejoined Ernie at the drilling rig, and cocked his head again. The sounds were right. Everything was back to normal. 
Some eight miles away, things were not going nearly as well for another family. The father was furious. He did not like the ways of this country. Standing beside the wooden hut that he had built with his own calloused hands, husky Brom Torgeson spoke bluntly to his red-headed daughter.
"That is not the way a Norwegian girl dresses," he said angrily.
"We're in America," she answered.
"We are Norwegians, simple God-fearing folk. No decent girl in Stavanger would wear a thing like that. It shows--it flaunts your body like some waterfront slut."
"Please, Bryna is a good girl," his wife pleaded. Anna Torgeson shook her flaxen tresses as she spoke to her husband, hoping that he'd try to understand but not really expecting him to accept this new world. After 24 years of marriage to this inflexible man, she knew in her heart that he would not bend.
"Stay out of this," he ordered. He was used to
giving commands. He had been the captain of a fishing boat for seven years, the monarch of his floating kingdom.
"This is not Norway, Papa," Bryna told her father in a voice as firm as those jutting young breasts that bothered him. "Norway is a colder place. People dress for that climate. We are here in the American South, not far from Mexico. It is much hotter here, so people don't bundle up or cover up as much." "My daughter will cover up," he insisted. She pointed at the sun up over the line of oil derricks less than a mile away.
"This is not northern Europe, Papa. It is a different place, a new country where there are many kinds of people wearing all kinds of clothing." Torgeson scowled in total disagreement. "She's a young woman now, Brom," Anna Torgeson said. "Young women in Texas and other places all over the world are full of life. They're proud of their beauty. Our daughter is beautiful, Brom. Look at her." "I've seen how other men look at her. It is not with respect. It is with hunger. I am no idiot I recognize the sin that shines in their eyes. She provokes this with her half-nakedness. If our minister at home saw this, he would not let her in the church on Sundays," the ex-fisherman answered bitterly.
"But America is our home now," his wife reasoned. "Only till we get enough money. Have you forgotten why we came all this way? Why we live and work in this foreign place with all these strange people?"
"We came because America is the land of opportunity. You said so yourself on the ship," Bryna Torgeson reminded him.
"I never said we'd stay," he answered fiercely. "We axe strangers here. It is not our motherland. These
are not our people. What kind of country is this? Irish, Germans, Italians, Russians, Englishmen, Poles, red Indians, blacks from Africa, Mexicans, Hollanders, heathen Chinese, and who knows what else? They speak in a dozen tongues, maybe more. Some are not even proper Christians, not our kind anyway. No, once I've made enough money to buy my own fishing boat back home we'll return to Stavanger."
The young red-head could not restrain herself,
"Are you afraid of America?" she challenged.
Brom Torgeson raised his fist as if to hit her, but she did not flinch.
"I'm afraid of nothing," he said loudly.
"That's the way you raised me, Papa."
He lowered his fist.
"No, I taught you to fear God, as my father taught me. Something has happened to you, Bryna. This Texas has changed you. You don't live each day with fear of God anymore."
She nodded in agreement.
"You're right, Papa. I don't fear God. America is not a place to live in fear. Here I love God, and nothing threatens me. If ways or people are different, if they talk in other languages or worship differently or look at women with open admiration instead of secret lusts, that's not sin."
"So you hate your homeland?" he taunted.
"I don't hate any place, or anyone. Why must you, Papa? Why can't you be patient and open to America? The Americans have taken you in to let you share in their many opportunities. Should that kindness make them sinners?"
Torgeson turned to his wife.
"I must go back to my work at the derrick, Anna.
It is hard work, but I do it gladly. It is work for my family. I am counting on you to do your work, woman."
He pointed at their daughter.
"She is your work. A man's job is to earn the money for his family and to defend it," he declared. "It is a woman's duty to feed and educate the children, to wash and clean and darn the clothes and make the home nice. I cannot be here all the time to watch either of you. I thought that I could trust you to guide her. You have not done your job."
Bryna saw the tears brimming in her mother's eyes.
"I do not wish to be ashamed of my daughter," he said slowly, "and I will not be."
"You have nothing to be ashamed of," Anna Torgeson told him softly. He would not listen.
"If you can't control her, Anna, I will--and not with words either."
It was a direct threat.
He would beat her. His righteous father had used force on Brom and his sisters, and Brom Torgeson would not hesitate to treat his children the same way. He was a righteous puritan, convinced that sex and sin were the Devil's work and that those who were less than utterly pure would burn in Hell forever.
"Do you understand?" he demanded.
She nodded silently, and he left without saying another word. Bryna stared at her mother for several seconds. Then Anna Torgeson dried her eyes and stood up.
"Come help me with the dinner," she said. Was she trying to pretend that this confrontation had never happened?
"Mama, we have to talk about this."
"Your father is a good man. He thinks only of your honor and your welfare."
"No, his honor," Bryna disagreed heatedly. The not-quite-masked breasts that troubled her father rose and moved again.
"He is not a cruel man, Bryna. He is 51 years old. He spent almost half a century in the Old Country, and that's how he thinks."
"But this is a new country, a new world. The first explorers who came across the ocean to find this America, they called it the New World from the beginning."
Anna Torgeson smoothed her apron and sighed.
"He is the head of our family. You must, we must respect his authority."
"Is there to be no respect for us? Are women mere cattle?"
Her mother averted her glance to look out at the oil derricks that always reminded her of the trees outside Stavanger.
"Do you want to leave this country, mama?" Bryna demanded.
Anna Torgeson hesitated. She wished to stay in this Texas where there was so much sun, so much land, so much room for a family. She missed her native country and she yearned for the sounds of its language, which had survived hundreds of years of Swedish domination, but she did not want to leave this new place. She would not say that aloud. She could only hope that time and Texas would change the man, stubborn as he was.
"We must prepare the food," Anna Torgeson said again and the two women entered the hut to do their duty. There would be more trouble, the mother thought. There had to be, for Bryna had inherited
many of her inflexible father's ways, especially his stubbornness. 
Yes, there would be a lot of trouble. 
Soon. 
"One thousand feet," Big John Faust said. 
It was 5:20 on the grey afternoon of March 23rd. 
Both of his sons nodded in acknowledgment, and went right on with their work. Jake was fully recovered now, so he was stoking the donkey engine with chunks of pine after having been limited to the cooking and other less strenuous chores for weeks. It was Ernie who was skinning two fat jack rabbits that he'd dropped with the Winchester at dawn. 
One thousand feet didn't really mean anything. 
They hadn't expected to strike oil at this depth. The veteran wildcatter had warned both of his offspring that they'd almost surely have to drill several hundred feet further down. If all went well, they should--well, could--hope to hit a significant pocket of gas somewhere near one thousand one hundred or one thousand two hundred feet. If that came to pass, then there would be a strong chance that the drill bit would punch into a pool of oil one hundred or one hundred seventy-five feet below. 
One thousand feet was simply a road marker on their journey. It helped to break the steady flow of hours and days of sweaty toil. These measures of time blurred into each other, and anything that offered some change was warmly welcomed. At least once each week, John Faust found some reason to go into Beaumont. Sometimes it was to buy food. On other occasions it was to purchase a spare part for the rig, or to check at the U.S. Post Office for mail. He was still hoping for some word of--perhaps even from-- his missing wife.
That didn't prevent him from seeking the social and sexual company of the generous widow. Charlene Wilson welcomed him with sultry smiles and openmouthed kisses, and then led him to a large marble tub filled with rose-scented hot water. It delighted her to bathe him as if he were a child, to soap every inch of him lingeringly until he grunted in desire. Then he rose and she toweled him dry before they made their way, hand in hand, to the satin sheets of her double bed.
On Sundays, as regular as clockwork, Amanda Burford happened to ride by the Fausts' camp sometime between noon and one o'clock. She'd been to church earlier, and was out on her grey mare for a picnic in the country. Somehow or other, she always had too much food for one person. There was an extra roast chicken and more ham than she could possibly eat, and what could have possessed her to bring two- thirds of a home-baked apple and walnut pie? After they'd all eaten, she'd wander off for a walk with Jacob into the pine woods on the next hill.
"I don't like it," John Faust grumbled the first time it happened.
"At least she didn't bring her pie-an-oh, Pa," Ernest
laughed. "She'd be givin' him music lessons right now." 
John Faust puffed on his cigar, and wondered whether she might be giving his son another kind of education out there in the pines. 
"She's not a bad sort," he admitted. "Not like that bitter sister of hers." 
"Lord works in mysterious ways," Ernest replied in oddly sober tones. "There's good in all his creatures, even poor Miss Sally." 
John Faust had a strong suspicion that his son was silently laughing at him and at some very private joke, but he decided to ignore that possibility. 
"She's not so poor," the wildcatter answered. "Owns that hardware store. Half of it anyway. Amanda's got half too. May not be as rich as their uncle, but those girls ain't exactly hurtin'." 
"Uncle?" 
"That mayor fellah who gave me the ceegar. I hear that's almost all he's ever given, except fancy speeches. Tight as a drum and cheap as a tin whistle, they say." 
Ernie rubbed the pie crumbs from his lips, and remembered Sally Burford's carnal raid in the night. It was as if she had wanted to rape him--a crazy idea. This Burford family was an odd lot. 
"Who says. Pa?" 
"Mrs. Wilson. Knows the town from top to bottom. Says he talks about helping the people, but he's mostly working for himself and a couple of the big money boys. In close with the bankers and large landowners 364 days a year, and friend of the common man the night they count the votes." 
"Sounds like a lot of other politicians, right, Pa?" 
Big John Faust nodded. 
"Funny Amanda never talks about her uncle, Pa. 
You'd think she'd mention him being the mayor. Mrs. Wilson say anything?"
"No, she didn't," the father interrupted, "and I didn't pry. Go take a look at that cable, boy. Sounds like it might be strainin' a bit."
If his father wanted to change the subject, Ernest Faust didn't mind. He was still in a good mood, still relaxed after his own visit to Beaumont two days earlier. He had won at the card game again. This time most of the $305 had come from the pockets of a middle-aged timber dealer who played poker almost as poorly as he handled his liquor. Since Ernie had to leave at midnight to start back for the rig, the other avid gamblers had persuaded him to bring the sodden businessman to his nearby house.
Then the timber dealer's 34-year-old wife persuaded Ernie to stay for an hour and a half. She didn't want to be unfaithful, she explained, but the unfortunate man had been impotent for some seventeen months. That was why he drank so much.
"That won't help either of you," Ernie judged.
"We can talk about it later," she answered. Then she rubbed against Ernest Faust, and he responded. When they were in bed, she called out her husband's name several times and began to sob. She was not weeping when Ernest left, but she was sad because she sensed that he would not return.
"Well, I'm alive again," she whispered. "I don't feel trapped or angry or betrayed any more. I don't feel I've betrayed him either. Did I?"
She kissed him hard before he could reply, and pushed him out into the night. He was halfway back to the rig when he realized that he didn't know her name. He began to wonder about what it must be like for a woman in her situation ... in a Texas town
where a man's virility meant so much. How much did a woman's normal needs mean here? Would they accept what she'd done, or would they despise her? Whatever her name was, the woman was in a bitter dilemma. 
What did those Texans say? 
Yes, she was between a rock and a hard place. 
She couldn't even speak to anyone here about it, for in a place like Beaumont--indeed, in a lot of cities much bigger too--nobody wanted to hear. Neither the men nor the women wanted to share her secret. It was almost as if she had committed some crime--which she hadn't--and they wouldn't let her confess. Maybe her husband's potency would return, somehow, some time. What land of life would she lead until then? 
Ernest was surprised to find himself feeling sorry for a woman he barely knew. He hadn't thought a great deal about women's feelings. They hadn't seemed important till now, or at least not really his business. He laughed in the darkness. It was not to deprecate women's feelings, but because he didn't know anyone to whom he could speak about them either. This certainly wasn't anything he could expect his father to discuss. 
Maybe that was one of the reasons his mother had fled. 
Where could she be? 
Would they never see her again? 
Ernie reached the camp at four A.M., and was back at work a few hours later. The drilling continued inexorably. 
On April 3rd they reached 1,200 feet. There was no hard rock to fight their drill anymore, but no promising gas either. On the morning of the 8th, John Faust 
called his sons to his side shortly before 11 o'clock.
"We're down below one thousand eight hundred," he said, "and we should have tapped oil three hundred or four hundred feet above that. Doesn't look good."
"How much more pipe we got?" Jacob asked.
"Maybe two hundred feet.
He paused to let them have their say. John Faust was going to decide, as he always did, but he was training his sons to think for themselves. This was part of that process.
"I say we go for it," the younger son urged firmly. John Faust was surprised that Jacob had spoken first, and pleased too. Maybe that Burford woman wasn't turning him into a weakling after all.
"Ernie?"
"I'm with Jake. No time to hold back now."
They resumed the drilling. It took another six hours to bore down that final two hundred feet. They were down as far as they could drill, and there was no sign of oil. They had gambled, and lost. Big John Faust's luck and experience and practical savvy had failed. He strode to the rig, and turned off the drilling device.
"Dry hole," he said flatly.
His sons looked at each other, tired but far from defeated.
"That damn racket was getting on my nerves," Ernie said.
"Gave me an awful headache," Jacob agreed. "Never appreciated peace and quiet till we got out here."
"Could we leave it off for a couple of hours, Pa?" Ernie asked. John Faust understood. They were telling him that this was only a temporary setback, that they were with him all the way.
"It'll take almost three days to move the rig and set it up over there. That long enough?" 
They stared at where he'd pointed, a spot further up the ridge and some three hundred fifty or four hundred yards away. It was almost at the edge of the land they'd leased. 
"Three days'll be fine, Pa," Ernie assured cheerfully. 
At half past one on the afternoon of April 12th, John Faust and his sons began drilling their second well in Jefferson County, Texas. 
At a quarter to three on the afternoon of the 13th, five men rode into the little town of Bandera in south- central Texas. It was a community of two thousand seven hundred, hub of the cattle-growing ranches that spread across the county and the semi-arid Edwards Plateau. The men were dressed in the cowboy garb that was so common here. They did not enter Bandera together. First a very pale man with very blonde white hair rode in, and five minutes later two others arrived. The other pair followed a minute later. 
They took up positions near the Lone Star Bank, one across the street in the shade of an awning that shielded the window of Maltin's Meat Market, and the other smoking on the hitching rail in front of the bank itself. The first three who entered town walked into the bank separately. It was about two minutes to closing time. 
They looked around, saw a dozen customers, and one aged guard wearing a large six shooter and an 
even bigger belly. The three men' drew their revolvers simultaneously. 
"It's a hold-up." one announced. 
A woman yelped and a man fainted, and almost everyone else raised his or her hands. The portly guard, who was being paid $15 a week and had a lot of pride, reached for his six-shooter. The pale bandit with the wispy white hair shot him twice in the stomach. When the guard lay pouring blood out onto the floor, the same bandit shot him again in the head. 
"That's enough, Whitey," one of the others said. Then two of them went behind the counter, struck a teller several times with the muzzles of their guns, and when a woman screamed they shot her in the chest. They pistol-whipped the terrified manager until he opened the safe. They escaped a few minutes later with $31,108 in cash. 
According to the witnesses questioned by the sheriff, the five bandits' appearances matched those of a group of thieves who had robbed two other banks in the previous seven weeks. One was Whitey Murdock, who was considered unstable and homicidal and was wanted for several killings. The two men who had watched outside to protect the thieves from being surprised by police were thought to be Dude Chandler, who had broken out of a penitentiary in December, and Shorty Gannett, whose criminal record went back to his 14th birthday. 
The other two who had handled the actual robbery inside the bank seemed to be in command as the bandits fled, butcher Maltin told the sheriff and the editor of the Bandera Bulletin. On the basis of descriptions provided by both Maltin and a respected local veterinary named Cooke, these leaders were Bob and Nat Markel, brutal brothers from San Antonio. 
When last seen, the gang was heading east, in the general direction of the Gulf. 
While the Fausts toiled under the Texas sun (warmer each day as summer approached), the oil already being drained from Spindletop and nearby wells was moving out of Texas in a flood that was literally changing the course of life and history. Oil "drummers", silver-tongued salesmen for the companies that later carried such names as Gulf, Humble, Sun Oil and Texaco, were on the road preaching the gospel of cheap oil. The American Brewing Company of Houston and Galveston's Star Flour mills were among the first to accept the new fuel, and the Gulf, Colorado and Santa Fe announced plans to test an oil-burning locomotive in the first week of June. 
The man who ran the Shell Oil Company Ltd. in London wasn't waiting for tests. Marcus Samuel was cabling his representative in Pittsburgh every 72 hours, pressing his envoy to complete the deal for European rights to Spindletop and other nearby wells on the fifteen thousand acres controlled by the powerful and cautious Mellon bank. Six hours after the contract was signed, Viscount Samuel reported his success to the wary and conservative heads of the Admiralty. 
"Can we really trust these people?" Sir Henry Forsythe fretted uncomfortably the next day. "They're not much better than peddlers. Only twenty-five years ago, they were selling curios and boxes decorated with sea shells at a grubby shop near the Tower, my lord. That's how the firm got its name, you know." 
Lord Halliburton pointed at the large map of the world that dominated one wall of his spacious office. 
"The name of their company is much less interesting 
than the fact that the Kaiser's fleet is already changing to oil, Henry. Would you let the Germans seize this advantage over Britain's ships?"
"But these Samuels are half German in origin themselves," Forsythe protested. "Came from Bavaria, not so very long ago. Could they be trying to trick us?"
Halliburton took a folded piece of paper from his desk drawer and handed it to Forsythe.
"I see," Sir Henry acknowledged a few seconds later. "Our intelligence chaps signal that the French are planning to convert to petrol too. Do you really think there'll be enough for all these fleets, sir?"
"There is in Texas, and we've got to claim our share first. Sign the purchasing agreement with Shell, and do it immediately."
"As you say, my lord."
"And get our engineers cracking on designs for changing our vessels to petrol. It's a race now, Henry. It's a bloody race!"
Three weeks after that, at noon on the 4th of June, hundreds of men and women crowded the Beaumont railroad depot and the streets around it. The first oil- burning locomotive in history was on its way. Mayor Burford and other prominent citizens waited in their best clothes, preening importantly. But these dignitaries were not the first to spot the black plume of smoke. It was sharp-eyed Guillermo Villicana, 12-year-old son of the blacksmith at Miller's stables. Perched on the water tower eighty yards from the station, he pointed and shouted down the exciting news.
"It's coming! It's coming!"
The crowd roared. It didn't yet know that the train
had covered four hundred fifty miles on only 42 barrels of oil instead of a dozen tons of coal. The shouting mob wasn't interested in science or business, but in the thrill of the historic event. New oil wells were practically an everyday event in booming Beaumont now, but a locomotive that ran on this unusual fuel was something to celebrate. 
The approaching train was now in sight, and the engineer pulled the rope that made the whistle sound his sense of pride. The hundreds gathered around the depot stamped, shouted and applauded loudly in enthusiastic reply. Their happy noise swept over much of the downtown area. Among those who heard it was Bryna Torgeson. 
About to enter the Crosby Hotel, she lifted her skirts a few inches as she stepped up from the street, and paused. The locomotive tooted again. She smiled in approval, but hurried inside for her appointment with Mrs. Wilson. This was an important meeting. It could be a key step in her march towards independence, and she didn't want to be late. It wouldn't do to start with Mrs. Wilson disliking her for tardiness. 
They spoke for ten minutes before. Mrs. Wilson decided. 
"Can you start tomorrow?" she asked abruptly. 
"What?" 
"The job is yours," the hotel owner told the startled red-head. "Fact is, you're perfect for it. You're pretty enough to stop a four-horse team, or a wildcatter who's had a few glasses too many. Don't worry, though. I don't expect you to handle drunks, Bryna. You'll attract lots of sober gents to our dining room, and that'll be good for business. My business." 
The voluptuous Norwegian looked puzzled. 
"My business is food and drink. I want that to be your only business too. I'm hiring a hostess, and that means you don't go out with my customers." 
"I'm not a tart," Bryna protested indignantly. 
"With a face and body like that, you'll get a lot of offers in this hotel." 
Bryna shrugged. 
"I've had lots before I ever walked in your door, Mrs. Wilson. I'm not for sale." 
"I thought as much, but I wanted to be fair and spell out the house rules for you. Be charming, be on time and be discreet. Don't ask personal questions or listen to guests' conversations. Never comment on who he's with, or the lady he brought in last night." 
"That's just common sense." 
"Wish it were a lot more common, Bryna. The job pays 25 dollars a week and meals. That ought to be enough so you won't have to steal." 
"I don't steal," the younger woman replied indignantly.
"Didn't think you did. Norwegians are a very honest people, salt of the earth and full of that wonderful old-fashioned morality." 
Bryna Torgeson was pleased to hear this compliment. For a moment she felt guilty about her secret plans to become an American. Would she be letting her native land down? How could she do it without letting her father know? She was 20, she thought, and wouldn't even be a free adult for another year. There were so many things quivering within her. Some were woman things, yearnings that she could barely control. Perhaps she'd be able to speak about these urges and changes with Mrs. Wilson in a while. For the moment, it would be much safer to concentrate on the job. 
"What do I do, Mrs. Wilson? Where do I work?"
Til show you."
The widow led her downstairs into the dining room. There were forty tables, a dozen potted plants, and a group of diners who appeared to be better dressed than most of the people she saw in the streets of Beaumont. Mrs. Wilson showed her the cashier's booth, and then introduced her to both the bespectacled cashier and a courtly black waiter.
"Mr. Benjamin is our senior waiter, Bryna. Been with the house for 16 years."
"And four months. Delighted you'll be joining us, Miss Bryna."
"Tomorrow," Mrs. Wilson said and Bryna Torgeson nodded in ratification. Then the blonde hotel owner guided her to the kitchen, to meet the two cooks. One was Chinese, and extremely skilled with a knife. His chopping was a wonder to behold. He had the air of a first-class chef. The other cook was fair-skinned, with hair almost as red as her own.
"Would you be from Donegal?" he asked with the thickest Irish brogue Bryna Torgeson had ever heard. There was a twinkle, not a leer, in this middleaged man's dancing eyes.
"Miss Torgeson is from Norway, O'Rourke, and her father stands six feet three and carries an axe."
"Just being sociable, Ma'am," he replied, and scurried to the ice box at the far end of the room. Mrs. Wilson winked knowingly at her newest employee before leading her to meet the head bartender. It was as those introductions were completed that the widow turned to greet three men who were entering the bar.
"Hope you're enjoying your stay," she told them courteously. "All is very fine, thank you," the oldest of the trio
replied. Then he said something softly to the others in a voice that was almost inaudible.
"Fine," they chorused in agreement. They smiled politely before they excused themselves and made their way to the bar.
"Never hurts to be nice to the guests," Mrs. Wilson said. "My late husband, Stanley, taught me that. Notice their talk?"
Bryna nodded.
"They're Swedes. Came all the way from Stockholm to sell blasting caps to our oil people. Would you like a glass of wine, or a beer?"
Bryna Torgeson declined both offers, and left with the promise to start work at eight the next morning. The prospect was thrilling. It was so exciting that she was three blocks from the hotel before she wondered whether she should have told Mrs. Wilson that the three men were lying. She had recognized their accents, and the tongue in which they had whispered.
They weren't Swedes at all.
They were Germans.
"And how's it going at the rig?" Charlene Wilson asked as she watched John Faust put on his shirt. He was a handsome man, with or without his clothes.
"Moving along. We're down to 1250. No more rock, thank God. Got a good spout of gas this morning just before I left. That's encouraging," he said, and buttoned his cuffs.
She turned to the mirror for a moment. She liked what she saw; the rosy flush of a woman who had just spent seventy minutes in bed with a skilled and ardent lover was always attractive, she thought.
"Way I figure it," he continued, "we ought to punch through in another two or three days, on the 27th or
28th. Not expecting anything spectacular like Spindletop. I'm not greedy. A nice.little twenty thousand barrels a day will do just fine."
She laughed.
"Not greedy?" she challenged.
"Hell, that's nothing big in this field. Be terrific in Pennsylvania or Mississippi or California, but it's just ordinary here."
He eyed her admiringly.
"You're a fine-looking woman, Charlene."
She glowed, and for several seconds she was 30 again. This evening they were eating in the dining room. She wanted to be seen with this attractive man. She had ordered a rack of lamb, the grilled shrimp he enjoyed and bottles of the best Poullly Fuisse and majestic Pomerol. It was as they entered the large chamber that he saw her.
It was the dazzling young beauty with the long red hair. The shock of recognition showed in his face, and Charlene Wilson noticed it.
"What is it, John?"
"Just surprised to see that girl here."
"She works here. This is her second week. Do you know her?"
Faust shook his head.
"No. Seen her around."
The widow waited for her lover to ask for her employee's name, but he was either too tactful or too clever to make that move. Perhaps he didn't care, Charlene Wilson told herself. After all, not all men would inevitably respond to the younger woman's magnetism. Besides, John Faust was much more mature than most and he already had a highly superior woman. She had no reason to be jealous of Bryna Torgeson. She could be happy with this man.
« « « 
Only forty miles away, Maria Faust was beginning to pack. 
Tomorrow was the last day of school. 
After that, there would be nothing to keep her and Paul Harris from leaving Texas. 
They had already bought their railroad tickets for the long journey to Denver, where they would spend a week with Paul's uncle before going on to the town of Colorado Springs. It was a small community off the beaten path, and there was no oil field within hundreds of miles. The school there needed a teacher, and there was little chance that John Faust would find them. 
They could build a home in Colorado Springs. She'd been only 17 when she wed John Faust. Perhaps in a year or two he'd calm down or find another woman, and maybe he'd give her a legal release from their marriage. Paul wanted children, and she would give them to him. This time there could be a girl. She loved her sons, but the thought of a little daughter fathered by decent and gentle Paul Harris made her smile in anticipation. 
Her lover arrived at seven, and he kissed her many times by the light of the kerosene lantern. She felt warm and safe in this man's arms. He did not crush her as John Faust had done. He did not overwhelm her, physically or emotionally. Once she had wanted both, but the price had been too high. 
Paul was just as good a man as fierce John Faust anytime, she thought. Now his hands were caressing her flanks, and she decided that they should go to bed. It was what she needed to reassure and soothe her, to reinforce her bond to this wonderful teacher who cared for her so much. 
She knew his body well. It was not difficult for her to arouse him. Within a few minutes, she lay nude with her eyes closed as he covered her with dozens of tender kisses. He wasn't an animal like. John Faust. In a little while, she reached out to guide him into the wet place between her thighs. 
"Maria! Maria!" he whispered. 
Then he began to move, and so did she. Resting on his knees and elbows to avoid crushing her, he churned slowly . . . slowly . . . now more quickly. She hissed in pleasure, twisted and twisted again and finally uttered a long long sigh. It was over. He lay with his head on her shoulder, and her eyes were open as she thought about Colorado Springs and the new life ahead. 
The orders they had received at Naval Intelligence headquarters in Kiel had been quite specific. The saboteurs were to proceed to New York by the first available trans-Atlantic passenger steamer, and there they would be briefed by an agent attached to the Imperial German Consulate. He would also supply explosives and timing devices, which they were to conceal in their baggage before taking a train to Beaumont.
The object of the attack was not mere destruction, Kapitan Morelius had explained. The purpose was to demonstrate to the naval authorities in London that conditions in the Jefferson County field were uncertain and dangerous, that it would be unwise, if not impossible, to count upon these Texas wells for a regular supply of fuel. If the Admiralty could be persuaded of this, Britain would not rush to convert its mighty battle fleet from coal to the more efficient new liquid fuel.
The outside date for the assault would be July 4th, the national holiday of those simple Amerikaner. If it could be accomplished before then, that would be even better. Now it was June 28th, and the saboteurs were ready. It was ironic that they should be preparing their blasts for today, since even now Gulf Oil's new oil-burning tanker named Strombus was dropping anchor in Port Arthur just a few miles down the Neches River from Beaumont. With a little luck and the right wind, the British tanker captain could report the sound of the explosions he had himself heard. 
Passing across the lobby to get change for a diner's $50 bill, Bryna Torgeson saw the three fake Swedes carrying their valises towards the street. They bobbed their heads to her with correct European politeness, and as they left the hotel she wondered why they were checking out at five in the afternoon. Where could they be going? The last train in either direction had pulled out of the Beaumont depot twenty minutes earlier. She guessed that they had horses or a team and wagon. She was right. 
Some seven miles from the hotel, Big John Faust and his sons were listening and sweating and adjusting their drilling gear like mother hens protecting baby chicks. It was extremely hot and humid, 96 degrees with humidity of 74 percent. The day before had been just as bad. Jefferson County and the Texas coast on the Gulf of Mexico has lots of flowers and many other charms. The so-thick-you-can-cut-it-with-a-knife weather in late June was not one of them. 
"Be dark in a while," Ernest said as the water poured off his body. 
"Won't help much," his father predicted accurately. They were still uncomfortable in the muggy miasma when the darkness came, but the prospect of hitting oil within the next fifteen- to twenty hours made it much more bearable for John Faust. 
He was confident that they'd bring in a gusher. Jake and Ernie were much less certain, but neither would say anything to deflate their father. Maybe he was correct. They'd all know soon enough. 
"What if he's wrong?" the younger son asked when their father was out of earshot. 
"Then we drill another well. That's wildcatting, Jake," his brother reminded. 
"You think there's oil out here, Ernie?" 
"Somewhere in this neighborhood. Maybe here, maybe the next hill, maybe under that pig pasture up the road or in the woods where you walk your lady every Sunday." 
Then Big John returned with a canteen of water and his sons changed the subject. A minor repair delayed their dinner until after eight. It was nine by the time they were finishing their mugs of coffee. It was still miserably humid, with temperatures of at least eighty offering little relief. 
"Don't grouse, boys," John Faust counseled. "Least there's no black flies or chiggers. I've been at wells where those tiny devils bit the hell out of men and drove horses half crazy." 
"No alligators either," Ernest teased. They all laughed. The father was in a cheery mood. He had recognized the odor that came up the pipe as one often found at productive wells. It could be another dry hole, but that wasn't likely. His gut said there was plenty of oil close to where he stood. 
Thousands of barrels. Tens of thousands! 
Thrilled by this prospect, he could not possibly sleep. He urged his sons to go to bed, and explained that he'd awaken one to take the watch duty at three or four in the morning. They entered the tent, leaving John Faust listening to the mechanical melody of the donkey engine and the drill and staring up at the magic of the star-studded heavens. 
Guffey Number Four, one of the dozen producing wells owned by the firm that the Mellons controlled, later renamed Gulf Oil, stood seven and a half miles away from the Faust camp. Not far from Number Four was a massive wooden tank that held some three hundred thousand barrels of oil, one of nine such installations built in the previous two months. At five after ten, the saboteurs crawled past the drowsy night watchman to place then timed charges beneath Guffey Number Four. Six minutes later they returned to their horses, and cantered off slowly to avoid making too much noise. 
The noise came twenty minutes later. 
The sound of the blasts were audible for four or five miles, and when the main charge went off and the huge tank burst, the noise boomed like a cannon for more than fifteen miles. Flames spewed from the wreckage, and another explosion echoed and the very ground shook. 
Half a mile beyond the Faust rig, panic swept the beef cattle slumbering in the pasture as the earth beneath them trembled. The terrified animals were deranged with fear. They stampeded. Charging ahead blindly like some juggernaut, they swept across the field and smashed through the barbed wire fence as if it were string. 
The explosions and the mounting thunder of the hooves jerked John Faust to his feet. He rushed to the tent to awaken his sons, then ran to the brow of the hill to see what was happening. There they were-- hundreds and hundreds of fear-crazed animals running as fast as their legs could carry them. He could see their horns in the moonlight. The mass of beasts was awesome. Nothing could stop them. 
Many men would have cracked in the face of this danger, but John Faust didn't. He shouted warnings to his sons, gesturing urgently for them to get out of the way of this advancing juggernaut. 
"What? What is it?" they called in response. 
They couldn't hear him. The noise was too great. It drowned out everything. Now the thundering herd was less than one hundred yards away. He was safe up on the brow of the hill, but he couldn't abandon his sons. It was a deliberate decision--an easy one for John Faust. With the earth shaking beneath his feet, he raced down to do what a father had to do, whatever the risk. 
"Stampede! Stampede! Run! Up there! Run!" he shouted when he was a scant ten yards away. 
And they ran. He paused for one final look at the rig. They were so close to success now. It couldn't be more than another sixty or eighty feet to the oil. Maybe the cattle would part as they reached the derrick; would open ranks to avoid crashing head on into the structure. There was no more time to hope. The noise was deafening. John Faust raced up the slope after his sons. 
He slipped. 
His foot slid on some rocky surface, and he fell. He was up in an instant, but it was too late. The longhorns were upon him. Jake saw it happen. 
"Pa! Pa!"
The first steer that hit John Faust sent him reeling. It was the second beast whose lowered horn ripped his flesh, and the pain was awful. Then another butted him, and still another crashed into him with the impact of a battering ram. It was the edge of the maddened herd that pounded and gashed, kicked and trampled him to the ground. Somehow their forward thrust bounced and tossed him as if he were a child's ball. The dust cloud enveloped everything.
Neither Ernie nor Jake could see him. They both knew that it was almost impossible for any living creature to survive that rolling horror. The ground was shaking beneath them as they cried out his name hopelessly, compulsively. They had no father anymore. He must be a bloody pulp. What a horrible way to die!
For a few seconds they saw the top of the derrick above the dust, and then it was gone. The animal avalanche ground on over their rig, reducing their work and their dream to splinters. The beasts did not open ranks. They ran right over the rig and the donkey engine and the whole camp as if it were a doll house. Some twenty-five or thirty abreast, the herd charged on, heading right for Derby Kincaid and his nephew half a mile away.
Nothing would stop them.
Nothing could.
They would run and they would destroy until they dropped in their tracks, some exhausted, others dead. All the work, all the property that represented the lifetime savings of John Faust had been obliterated. There was nothing left. It had all been pulverized and pounded into the ground by tons of frantic longhorns.. 
"I guess we're orphans," Ernie said as they started slowly down the slope to where their camp had been.
"Ma's not dead," Jake replied.
"How do we know? Haven't heard from her in more than a year and a half. Don't you think we would have if she was alive?" the older brother asked.
Jacob Faust refused to reply. He would not consider the possibility that Ernie had raised. They couldn't both be dead.
When they reached the place their camp had been, they found some pieces of wreckage. Parts of two of the wagon wheels and one axle, a frying pan pounded into a strange shape by the flying hooves; the battered Kelly joint from the drilling equipment; a pulley, and a frayed and twisted length of cable; segments of the donkey engine and some bits of board from the derrick itself; the Tyler wrench and the stump to which they'd hitched the horses. There was no trace of either steed. Whether they'd been killed in the stampede or somehow escaped was impossible to determine.
And there was the body of John Faust. He didn't look much like one of the toughest and most respected wildcatters in the entire North American oil business. Sprawled face down, Big John Faust resembled any other corpse. Ernie saw a scrap of canvas from the tent, and pointed. Jacob nodded. They would wrap their father's ruined body in it for burial. The brothers picked up the canvas, walked to the body and gently rolled it over.
An eyelid flickered.
A ghost of a groan--almost inaudible--floated from their father's lips.
It had to be a miracle, or was it his life force that would not be suppressed?
Big John Faust had suffered terrible injuries and might perish at any moment, but he wasn't dead yet.
"I'm going to be honest with you," Dr. Edgerton said after he'd completed his hasty examination. "Our little hospital is brand new and can't compare with what you'd find in New Orleans or even Houston. Your dad's been smashed up worse'n anyone I ever saw. Can't understand how he's still breathing. Ordinary man'd be dead for sure."
"He's not an ordinary man," Jacob said soberly.
It was a flat statement of fact, not just love.
"Can't promise he'll make it," Edgerton warned.
"Got to," Ernest announced.
Edgerton scanned the holes torn by steer horns, the broken limbs and ravaged flesh. Then he looked up.
"We'll try," he said.
"Got to because he hasn't hit his gusher yet, Doc, Ernest explained.
The physician shook his head. This breed that called itself wildcatters was not like other men. These wildcatters made their own rules.
"He'll probably be crippled for life, you know.
He'll never be the same if he does survive, which I can't see happening anyway."
They refused to hear.
"We'll be back tomorrow," Ernie said and they left
There was a big story in the local paper the next day. It told about the mysterious explosions that were still being investigated, the fire that consumed hundreds of thousands of gallons of oil, and the magnificent job done by the city's powerful new pumpers. Only that modern equipment, the labor of some four hundred volunteers and a very fortuitous rainstorm had prevented a huge disaster. There had been three killed and 22 hurt. Among those who perished was Derby Kincaid's nephew. The article didn't mention it, but he'd been too drunk to flee from the stampede.
John Faust hovered between life and death for three days in a coma. "Man's got the constitution of a steer himself," Edgerton told his nurse on the third morning. Then there was a rapping on the door. Big John Faust had a visitor. Dr. Edgerton was not surprised that it was a beautiful woman. Another very attractive female had been in to watch over the unconscious wildcatter the day before, and there might well be some more beauties soon.
On the afternoon of the third day, John Faust began to groan and he tried to move. The casts and splints and the traction weights that held broken, bones in place prevented that, but his body tried again. Then he grunted several times as if in frustration or anger. That figured, too, the physician thought. A man such as Big John Faust wouldn't accept limitations or bonds. He was used to having his own way.
The dark-haired woman was still there. She had not left the room since she had arrived except for very brief visits to the toilet. She sat there staring at
the shattered man with an amazing intensity, totally involved. When Faust finally opened his eyes at 5:20 p.m., they hurt and so did almost every other part of his body. From head to toe, he throbbed with pain. An angry oath bubbled from his lips. 
"Hush," the woman soothed. 
He blinked, and now he could see her. He could not quite make out her features, but he recognized that mass of jet black hair. There was only one woman who said "hush" when he swore. 
"Maria? Is it you?" 
"Yes, John." 
She had come back. 
His wife had returned. 
His face lost its mask of suffering. He smiled. The effort hurt, but he kept smiling. 
"Maria .. . Maria .. . where have you been?" 
"Not far. Near enough to read about this in the newspaper. In one more hour I was to get on a train for Denver, but I couldn't." 
Edgerton could see the love in her face. He did not guess what she had gone through in making this decision. What was the hold that this semi-civilized wildcatter still had over her? Why should she come running--abandoning her pride, her senses and everything else--on word that he was gravely injured? How had her body overpowered her wisdom so swiftly? 
"I'll be all right now," Faust said and closed his eyes with a placid sigh. 
"Ill be back tomorrow," she assured. When she was outside in the corridor, Edgerton decided that a man's wife was entitled to the truth. 
"He's lucky to be alive, Mrs. Faust. Just wouldn't give in." 
"My husband is a very determined man." 
"What I'm saying is that his recovery will take a long time, and it may not be complete. Don't expect too much of him." 
Her answering smile was both lovely and sad. 
"I'm afraid I will. I always have," she said truthfully and went out to find her sons. 
The three of them returned in the morning. She seemed happier now, and the strapping young men were plainly delighted that their mother was with them. It was difficult to believe that this vibrant and youthful woman was the parent of such full-grown sons. 
John Faust had sipped liquids the previous evening, and now he was ready to eat solids. One of the few bones that hadn't been broken was his jaw, so he could chew slowly. He had to control himself, for after so many days without what he called "real food" he was ravenous. 
He ate four boiled eggs, five sausages, an,d three slices of bread covered with honey from local bees. He downed half a quart of milk and two cups of coffee, and he would have eaten more if Dr. Edgerton had permitted. "The return of your appetite is a good sign," the physician said, 'Taut let's not overdo it." 
"Return, hell. I never lost it," Faust whispered. His speech still wasn't quite right, for he had apparently suffered some blow to his throat. Maria and his sons didn't permit him to talk much anyway. To husband his strength and keep him quiet, Ernest and Jacob spoke of what they'd been doing and how close they had been to striking oil when the stampede destroyed everything. 
"Only eighty feet from a major gusher, Ma. AI gusher worth millions!" Ernest told her. 
"You're so like your father," she said affectionately. "You can't really be sure there's oil there. I'm not saying you're wrong. I hope you're right, but you. don't know."
"We're almost--we really believe it's there, Ma," the younger son declared. Her eyes misted for a moment as she studied Jacob. He had grown so. In little more than a year and a half, he had developed into such a young man. The boy she'd left was gone.
"It probably is," she told him and looked over at John. Their eyes kissed for a moment as they shared the pleasure of Jacob's new maturity.
"Rig's gone," the man in the bed said suddenly.
"That's right. How are we going to get that oil out, dammit?" Ernie grumbled.
"Now you hush, Ernest/' she said firmly. "No swearing in my presence. You may be a bit larger, but I won't stand for it."
Then she spoke to them of Silsbee, omitting all mention of Paul Harris. She felt so guilty about the good man. He had loved her truly, given up his home and job so she could seek safety far from the oil fields. She had left him dazed and weeping, wondering how she could reject him for the brute from whom she had fled. In the little time that they had had between the moment she learned of her husband's grave injuries and the departure for Beaumont, she could not find the right words to explain the things that pulled at her. Perhaps those "right" words did not exist.
They stayed all morning, and then she tenderly spoon-fed lunch into the wildcatter's bruised and swollen lips. It was as he was finishing that Amanda Burford arrived with an armful of flowers.
"I thought they might brighten the room. They're from our garden," she explained after she'd been
¦ introduced to Maria. Jacob's mother and the young woman who meant to be his wife responded to each other immediately. They were both well-born Southern ladies, educated in the amenities and living by similar standards, rules, and courtesies. Savannah was a much older, grander and more sophisticated community than Beaumont, but once Maria Faust heard of Amanda's talents on the pianoforte and the lessons she'd given Jacob, those differences meant little. The very thought that her sensitive son had found such a genteel and musical young lady out here in the midst of an oil boom dissolved any barriers.
"My sister and I would be delighted if you could stay with us, Mrs. Faust," Amanda told her. "Be much less noisy than the hotel. There'd be a room for you too, Jacob."
Maria Faust glanced at her older son.
"Why don't you do it, Ma?" Ernest urged. It would leave him free and on his own. Getting out from under his proper mother's supervision would make life a lot easier. "It's a fine house, and there's no liquor, so nobody gets . . . loud ... or anything. Miss Amanda's one of the grand ladies in the local Woman's Temperance Union."
"I'm the vice-president of the Beaumont chapter," Amanda admitted with a modest blush.
"But where will you stay, Ernest?"
"At the Crosby," he replied. "I think Mrs. Wilson'll find me a bunk there."
"Mrs. Wilson?"
Ernest looked his father in the eye for a long moment before he answered.
"Nice old widow," he said with a grin. "She owns the hotel. Well preserved for her age, and real kind to strangers."
John Faust decided that he would settle with his sly son later. He was feeling weary again, and this was neither the time nor the place to tell Maria about his relationship with Charlene Wilson. He sighed, and they took the signal. Maria kissed him ever so gently before they left.
That Ernie was a mischievous devil, the injured wildcatter thought as he closed his eyes. He couldn't be that angry with the boy. It was the sort of teasing trick he might have done himself at that age. In any case, Ernie's remarks had served one valid purpose. They had made him realize that his wife was the woman who counted, and the cozy affair with the passionate blonde widow was over.
Hot-blooded though she was, Charlene was a mature and sensible person.
She'd understand.
She'd have to.
He had never lied to her with vows of eternal love * or marriage, so there wasn't anything for her to get bitter or nasty about now. Some women might, but Charlene Wilson wasn't the sort to hold a grudge.
They had enjoyed and appreciated each other, and that was all there was to it. They had five good months to remember--very good months. Charlene wasn't the type to make a scene or seek vengeance anyway. No, she was much more realistic than most women. He had been fortunate to find her, and he would think of her warmly. There would be no problem with Charlene Wilson, he thought Ten seconds later he was asleep.
As soon as the Texas Rangers confirmed that the explosions were the results of bombs and not accidents, the stunned city mobilized in self-defense. The danger that another sabotage attempt posed to the very survival
of Beaumont was obvious. The oil boomers saw the threat to their hopes and their incomes. The rest of the community faced the grim fact that their homes, their other property, their churches and their lives could all be destroyed in one night of fiery horror.
"Galveston," merchants and bankers muttered uneasily--and everyone knew what they meant. Only a year earlier, a gigantic hurricane had battered that port city just down the Gulf with tidal waves and savage winds that massacred more than five thousand Texans in one day. A major oil conflagration in Beaumont, whipped by sea winds, might do even more damage, take even more lives. There was no point in pretending. It could happen here.
Barbed wire sales boomed, and there was a run on rifle and shotgun ammunition. Armed guards patrolled each of the bigger oil wells, and deputies with six shooters were assigned to protect the large storage tanks where the black gold was held until it could be shipped out by rail or sea. The town buzzed with wild rumors and speculation as to the possible motive for the bombing.
"You wouldn't believe the crazy yarns people are spinning," Sheriff Bob T. Holly confided to Charlene Wilson as he paused between bites of barbecued spare ribs at dinner. "Some are saying it's a war between those Mellons and the Rockefeller crowd. Others talking "bout foreign spies and such. Never heard such rubbish!"
"What do you think, Bob?" she asked as she toyed with her brandy.
"Can't say yet, but I've got my notions. Yessir, I sure do."
She had known Holly long enough to understand that he didn't have the slightest idea as to who'd done
this crime. He was one of the better sheriffs in eastern Texas, but, like so many, he had his macho pride. That was fine in shooting it out with rustlers or train robbers, but useless in this situation. 
"You'll get them, Bob." 
"Hope so. There's a $10,000 reward. That's as much as they offered for Jesse James, you know." 
He paused to shovel more food into his face, and then still more. The sheriff was an honest man who would not think of taking a bribe, but he ate a great deal when he dined at the hotel as Mrs. Wilson's guest every Wednesday night. Completely stuffed, Holly looked up in time to see Ernest Faust framed in the doorway as he crossed to the bar. 
"That's the brother of the fellow who was stabbed a few months back," the sheriff recalled. "Faust. Yes, son of the one they call Big John. He staying here?" 
She nodded. 
"His father had the idea some gambler named Latham knifed the boy. Jacob? Sure, so this other one must be Edward." 
"Ernest," she corrected. 
"Whoever he is, you can tell him I've heard the St. Louis police just missed Latham five or six weeks ago. Something about doping a race horse. They think he headed west with a circus." 
"If I see him I'll mention it," she promised mechanically. Her face did not reflect her indifference, just as it had not shown her fury when she learned that John Faust didn't want to see her any more. The fact that he was strong and handsome did not give the wildcatter the right to treat her as if she were a casual bedmate or some sort of easy one-night roll in the hay. He had treated her like some promiscuous bar 
girl instead of an attractive, respected and important citizen who counted for a lot in Beaumont.
John Faust would pay for his arrogance.
She would strike back at him where it would hurt most. Let him have his pretentious society wife with all the grand Savannah airs. She would take his favorite son--the one he'd often said was so much like him. That gullible and sexually inexperienced young man would be her weapon against the father.
She would have her revenge. 
The
return of his wife would not help. There would be no happiness for John Faust, she vowed to herself. It wouldn't be that difficult to accomplish, and if this Ernest were one half the lover that his father was it could be highly pleasurable.
For a few moments she remembered the wildcatter's weight upon her. She licked her lips, and she shivered. Then she concentrated on shaping her plan. It was not easy to maintain that focus. Even with her hurt and rage, she was not a general, but a woman. That was the solution. She would be as tough and hating as any battlefield commander, but she would fight with- her woman's weapons. They had worked for thousands of years. They would prevail now, and the whole Faust clan would be humbled.
She was considering specific tactics when Mayor Burford entered the dining room and saw her. There seemed to be a special glow about her this evening, he thought In fact, she had never looked lovelier.
It was amazing! There had to be an explanation. "How old are you, Mr. Faust?" Edgerton. said, testing him four mornings later. "Not old enough. Why do you ask, Doc?" the 
battered wildcatter replied. Both arms and legs, his feet, and half of his torso were in casts. Most of his head was swathed in bandages. He was wrapped in a manmade cocoon of plaster, splints, and cotton.
"I asked because I can't believe the rate at which your strength is returning. You're recovering from terrible injuries as if you were a teen-age boy. I'm talking about the shock and damage to the flesh and organs, not the broken bones."
"They'll be coining along soon, too," Faust predicted confidently. His spirits had been so high since his wife had reappeared. Edgerton hesitated for several seconds, weighing whether to tell him. Some patients couldn't handle that kind of news. The physician had seen many give up their will to live when they heard they'd be cripples for the rest of their days.
It might be especially bad for a burly wildcatter.
"These things are difficult to predict," Edgerton hedged. "No two patients are alike. Some take many weeks or many months before many of the bones mend. I've seen cases where they don't all mend exactly right."
"Right?"
"One woman was left with a bad limp," Edgerton said and felt angry with himself for not being more specific. Was the man so dense that he couldn't take a very large hint, or wouldn't he allow himself to face the grim reality? The odds were 99 to 1 that Big John Faust would hobble on crutches till the day he died.
"I'll heal right, Doc. Had a busted leg some years back when a derrick collapsed, and my arm was broke in two places when a well blew in and sent everything flying up in Oklahoma. Healed fine."
Would he be this cheerful in three or four months when the truth could no longer be avoided?
"And this time I got a special advantage," Faust boasted.
"What's that?"
"Maria. She wasn't with me out there in Oklahoma. Maria's my ace in the hole. Don't mean no disrespect to you doctors, but there's nothing that heals Like the love of a good woman."
Edgerton decided to let him have his dream for now. After all, dreams were what wildcatters lived on ... what kept them going beyond all reason.
"Can't argue with that, Mr. Faust," the physician said. "See you this afternoon." 
As Edgerton left the 18-bed hospital that had been opened only three weeks earlier, he met Maria Faust arriving for her daily visit. She came each morning at ten and didn't leave until dusk. This man was her whole life. With that sort of commitment, and in her role as acting head of the family, Edgerton reasoned, she had a right to know.
"How's John?" she asked.
"In good spirits. I don't think that he understands how very seriously he was injured."
"My husband has always made his own reality, Doctor. That's the way these oil men are. You can't tell them they won't win," she said with a loving smile.
"Then there's something I'll have to tell you. His legs--they're broken in many places. I doubt that he'll ever walk like a normal man again."
"We'll see."
She wouldn't believe him either, and he'd told her the cold facts. He'd spell it out again.
"Mrs. Faust--" 
"It's all right, Doctor. You think I don't understand either. I suspect you don't really understand my husband. John Faust has never been like other people. He never was what you'd call a normal man, not since I met him. He's bigger." 
"Bigger?" 
"Thinks bigger, dreams bigger, loves bigger, hates bigger. He's more generous, and he has a hotter temper too. He's six foot three, but he lives as if he were eight feet tall." 
She was serious. 
It was clear that she loved Big John Faust, but there was a rueful quality in her voice too. This woman wasn't fooling herself. She cared deeply for a man whom she knew was flawed. It couldn't be easy. 
"Well, I've told you the medical facts. I've done my duty," Edgerton asserted stiffly. 
"And done it well. We're all grateful. Thank you, Doctor." 
Then they heard the distant boom, and both turned in the direction of the sound. Four miles from the hospital, another rotary drill had finally chewed down into a long-buried pool of petroleum. Another new well had blown in with a blast of gas and a spout of oil ninety feet into the sky. It wasn't a tenth the size of the Spindletop or the other major strikes on Big Hill, but it would produce one thousand five hundred to two thousand barrels of oil daily. With oil-burning ships and trains clearly the wave of the future, and the number of horseless carriages likely to grow, this well was worth a nice piece of money. 
"More than enough to buy a used fishing boat in Stavanger," Brom Torgeson thought as he and his 
helper battled to slow and throttle the flow of black gold spurting from the earth.
It was his well.
He had done it! He had brought his family across the stormy Atlantic with little more than the clothes in their two metal trunks, determined to make enough money in this foreign land so he would never have to work for anyone else again. People had laughed at his Scandinavian accent, his poor command of English, and his ignorance of American ways. They wouldn't laugh any more. He had noticed that no one laughed at the rich in this new world, whatever their style or social graces.
He had done what he set out to do, he told himself. Now they could all go home to a good and proper Me in the God-fearing community where Torgesons had been for at least five centuries. The fishing port from which Viking longships had sailed to raid Britain and Ireland did not have the wildness of this oil boom town or its turbulent challenge, but Stavanger was growing into an active port for both coasts and international freighters. Bryna was quite wrong to call it a "chilly backwater."
With the assistance of a dozen men from nearby rigs, he managed to stop the flow of oil altogether. These peculiar Americans were extremely helpful, even to strangers. So were Norwegians, but he expected that of his own people. A score of men came up to congratulate him before he wiped most of the oil from his face and hair, hands and clothes. All the way home he thought about what he'd say to his wife. When he entered the hut, he had few words for her.
She was frightened when she first saw him.
"What has happened? Are you all right, Brom?"
"Oil--at one thousand three hundred twenty feet. At least one thousand barrels a day, Anna!"
"That's wonderful!" she congratulated. She was surprised that he was not washing away the oil that had stained his hands and face. Brom Torgeson was usually very compulsive about keeping clean, but now it seemed as if he didn't care.
"Bryna can give up that job in the hotel where all the men look at her," he said slowly, "and we can go home as soon as I've sold the well. I will not let them cheat me, Anna. I'll get us a good price. We have all worked too hard to let anyone rob us of what is ours."
It was probably the excitement of the hour, but she could not help noticing that Brom Torgeson was using words that had rarely come to his lips before. "Cheat" and "rob" and this determination to get "a good price" were not part of his usual thinking. Of course, a man didn't strike oil every day.
"This is a great thing, Brom," she told him truthfully, "and I'm so proud. Bryna will be too. Let's not talk--not today, anyway--about going back. Let her share your joy."
To her surprise, her regularly inflexible husband did not argue. Was it possible that he was, somehow and for some unknown reason, changing? No, it must be that he was too tired or distracted to insist. He drank several glasses of bottled spring water, washed his face, and combed his hair neatly. Aside from the scar over his left eye, this 51-year-old was still goodlooking in a rough fisherman's way. He ate some bread and cheese, wrapped up another portion of each for his helper, and prepared to return to the well for his shift. He hadn't changed that much, not yet
"Couldn't you tell her tomorrow, Brom?" his wife asked.
"If you like."
The following afternoon, Torgeson put on his "good" clothes to go to the Crosby. He had never entered that noisy, smoky, bustling den of iniquity before. He wanted to see where his daughter worked; to inspect the place and the people.
Neither pleased him. There were several women in the lobby who seemed to be less than moral. Among these was a young female of no more than sixteen who rubbed against him and suggested that she could make him feel young again--for $10. That was more than what a laborer earned in a week, Torgeson calculated.
He found Bryna in the dining room. She was surprised to see him.
"I have brought you news," he told her.
"It must be important, Papa. You are wearing the clothes you put on for church, and it isn't Sunday."
"I have come to tell you the news, and to hire another helper--a man who knows oil wells."'
Her eyes swept the room. She saw Ernest Faust finishing cake and coffee with Mrs. Wilson.
"Do you see that husky young man--the handsome one seated by the wall with the blonde woman?"
Her father nodded.
"They say he knows much. He had his own derrick with his brother and father. They were drilling when that stampede destroyed it nine or ten days ago."
"Is he strong? Honest?"
"I wouldn't know, Papa. Maybe she might. I'm sorry. That wasn't a nice thing to say. What's the news?"
"We are no longer poor foreigners, Bryna. I have
struck oil! Not a huge well, but respectable. I can sell it for enough to pay our way home and buy that fishing boat." 
Her effort to look joyous was only partially successful.
"So that's why you're in your good suit? You've come in to sell the well?" 
He didn't answer her question. 
"Can we speak to that young man now?" he asked. 
At that moment, Ernest Faust and Mrs. Wilson laughed at some joke they shared and rose to depart. 
"That's the woman I work for," Bryna whispered. A few seconds later she made the introductions. 
"You've got a lovely daughter, Mr. Torgeson. We're glad to have her with us." 
"Thank you, Mrs. Wilson. I was just telling her that my well came in yesterday." 
Bryna tensed in dread. Now he'd say she was leaving. 
"Congratulations, Mr. Torgeson," the buxom blonde widow replied warmly. "May I invite you to have a drink?" 
"You are kind, but I do not use alcohol. There is something else you could do." 
"Yes?" 
"I need a helper with experience to work on my next well," he answered and looked at Ernest. 
Bryna could hardly believe what she'd heard. He didn't mean to drag them all back to Stavanger after all! 
"Do you know such a person? I'll pay well for the right man," Brom Torgeson said. 
"I'm your man," Ernest Faust declared. It wasn't a difficult decision. He had no money, and the Fausts' own drilling enterprise could not be revived for 
months. He needed a job badly. It only took a few moments for the two men to agree on the salary, and as they shook hands, Brom Torgeson told him where to report the next morning at seven.
"Now I go to bank for money to start a new well," he told his daughter as Mrs. Wilson led Ernest Faust away.
What had happened to her father?
"A man with two wells is important. He is taken seriously," Brom Torgeson explained solemnly.
"Two wells?"
"Or three. Why not? Anything is possible-in this country. You have said it many times. Don't you think your father can do it?" he challenged.
Was it the money bug that had bitten him, or had he finally come down with that raging oil fever' that burned inside half the population of Jefferson County?
"Of course you can," she answered.
"I have not forgotten about the fishing boat. I will make enough money in this oil business to buy three fishing boats--maybe a whole fleet! You will see, a dozen vessels flying our flag!"
He spoke loudly, trying to convince her--and himself--that he meant it. Something in his voice, his eyes, his whole manner communicated another message. Brom Torgeson was no longer the sober and pious European who aspired to nothing more than owning his own small coastal vessel. He had changed. Now he wanted it all. He had become a wildcatter.
When they left the dining room, Charlene Wilson decided that it was time to make her move.
"We ought to have a drink to celebrate your job," she said. Ernest nodded towards the nearby bar, but she shook her head.
"Much too noisy in there. Come upstairs and try some of my Napoleon brandy," she urged. "This is a special occasion, and we should celebrate it in a special way."
"It would be my pleasure, Ma'am." ¦
"Charlene," she suggested. He was such an innocent, she thought. So gullible and unaware of women's wiles. Once she got this man-child into bed, she'd be able to twist him to her slightest whim. Big John Faust's elder son would be her slave, held in bondage by her mature sexual skills and still fine body. After all, she had the firm figure of a woman of thirty-five, and no scruples at all. This strapping young stallion would be on his knees, begging for her favors like some starving child. He would follow her around like
a faithful dog. She would miss no opportunity to humiliate him in public, as his despicable father had humiliated her.
First she'd ply him with liquor. Once they were settled on a couch in her suite, she chatted pleasantly and made sure that his glass was refilled swiftly. The third time she did so, and leaned over so he could not ignore her plunging neckline, Ernest Faust realized that he was to think that he was seducing her. He wondered why. For several days he had been uncertain as to exactly what this woman wanted. Was it simply a new lover; did she have a special appetite for men two decades her junior; or was it something else? Did she want him as a substitute for and connection with his father?
Ernie Faust was in no hurry to find out. He was more curious than concerned. Though only 19, he'd had enough experience with women to accept the reality that each of them was different and would do exactly what she pleased for her own reasons--reasons often obscure to the foreign minds of men. With this awareness, very few women fooled him anymore and he certainly didn't try to fool women. Often that wasn't necessary, as a number of women were adept at fooling themselves. From what he could tell, Charlene Wilson was probably one of those. She was fooling herself into thinking that she fooled Ernie. ¦
He wasn't annoyed.
It was sort of funny, but he knew he shouldn't' laugh. He'd let her play her hand out. It didn't occur to him that she'd go to bed with him out of hatred for his father. He wasn't that sophisticated, and he hadn't much experience with the wrath of women scorned. He sipped the excellent brandy, and waited for her to signal that he was to become ardent
"And it hasn't been easy since my husband died. It's been hard running this hotel," she said, "and so lonely." 
She reached back to pat her hair, a move that thrust her ample bosom forward. He recognized his cue. This woman had the beauty and money to attract many men in Beaumont's power elite. Why had she chosen him? 
"I can't believe that a lady as pretty as you could be lonely," he replied dutifully. 
Tears came to her eyes. She played her role of the unhappy widow fairly well, and Ernest Faust reached out to console her. Within seconds she was pressed against him, pretending to sob while she gave him the chance to hold and soothe her. Caresses came next, followed by feeble protestations and appeals for him to stop his disturbing intimacies. 
"This woman must think I'm a child," Ernest Faust told himself and reached forward to unbutton her blouse. Three minutes later, she permitted herself to be undressed and taken to bed. He wasn't as gentle as his father. He was bolder, stronger. He literally carried her to the bed. She was surprised to find herself feeling small and helpless. It wasn't going quite the way she'd expected. 
She was losing control. It didn't make sense. He was only 19, but an awesome lover. There was a royal and ruthless quality about the way he aroused her, not cruel but somehow deliberate. She twisted, pleaded, shook, and surrendered. After the third time, she was covered with sweat, and dazed. She was also afraid. How had this happened? How could it? It had been incredible and unbearable. Utterly exhausted, she was glad that it was over. 
But he wasn't finished. He rolled her over and took 
The Wildcatters 173 her on the wild ride again. She had no resistance or sense left, only sensations so overwhelming that she thought she might die. Was he trying to kill her? Why was this 19-year-old still throbbing within her? Why was he pushing her to the limit--and beyond?
"Please, Ernie. Please, please, please. I'm going to faint," she appealed.
She did. She never found out whether he stopped or continued until he was satisfied. When she awoke hours later, he was gone. Somehow it had all gone wrong. Though it made no sense, this teen-ager had conquered her. She had failed, but she felt no frustration or hatred. Even her vengeance on John Faust didn't seem important anymore. She was groggy and thirsty, sated but still aglow with need.
She needed Ernest Faust.
She knew that it was purely physical, but Charlene Wilson didn't care. She purred as she thought about him. She got up to pour and drink three glasses of water. When she finished the last drop, she discovered that she was still purring.
Kapitan Otto Mohelius glanced out of the window of his office on the second floor of Imperial Naval Headquarters, felt the breeze sweeping in from the canal, and returned his attention to the message form in his hand.
"So they failed," he said coldly.
"They had a good plan," his aide replied, "and they made an excellent attempt. It was a major fire."
"Plans do not interest me, Nessler. Results are what count."
"Of course you're absolutely right," Lieutenant Nessler assured his superior officer loyally. "They should have anticipated that rainstorm, and struck on another night. It was not wise."
Morelius glanced at his assistant, dropped the message form on his desk, and eased himself into the chair behind it.
"It was not successful. Where are they?"
"In a small hotel near the port in New Orleans.
Ships from many countries come and go, so men with foreign accents are not likely to attract attention. They're awaiting further instructions, Herr Kapitan." 
Morelius drummed his fingers on the desk for several seconds before he answered. 
"We are dealing with two factors, Nessler. First, they must not be captured. We have no desire to let the Amerikaner know who has attacked their oil field. The Amerikaner are not our foes. Their nation is far from us, and has no military significance. It is a minor power, and not a very sophisticated one. Besides, our goal is to buy time--not to destroy their oil wells, but to cripple this one field temporarily. We may need that oil for our own fleets someday." 
"Our purpose is to dissuade the British from converting their navy to oil now," the junior officer declared. 
Morelius wondered why Nessler always said the obvious. It was an annoying trait 
"The second factor is time," Morelius continued. "In four or five weeks, seven at the most, the security at the Beaumont field will get sloppy. The guards will grow bored, and they'll start to sleep on the night shifts. The British are still designing their equipment to convert the ships. I would say the end of August or the first week of September would be suitable for our second and decisive attack. What about our men in New Orleans?" 
"They're well, sir." 
The young officer was very fortunate that his uncle was deputy chief of naval operations, Morelius thought. Otherwise he'd be on duty in a Baltic Fleet warehouse counting torpedoes instead of assigned to intelligence work. 
"That's not the question. Were they identified, or would it be safe for them to return to Beaumont? If not, we must send another team, Lieutenant."
"There is no indication that they were recognized, sir. Our consulate reports that the Beaumont police have no idea at all as to who set off the bombs."
"Sehr gut. Re-equip them with more bombs, even more powerful ones. Add some of the phosphorus devices that burn so well. And the new time pencils, a dozen. They are not to return to Beaumont until 48 hours before they strike, and of course they must not stay in the same hotel they used before."
"Of course," Nessler agreed glibly.
"If I can delay the Englander for a year or two, we will have served the Fatherland well," Morelius calculated aloud. He flipped the pages on his desk calendar, tapped it with his index finger.
"August 29th or 30th--no later," he ordered.
"Zu befehl, Herr Kapitan" Nessler replied and clicked his heels. As soon as he'd left to have the signal coded for transmission, Kapitan Morelius shook his head gloomily. The junior officer had the cunning of a bratwurst. Why did they send these sausage- heads to intelligence instead of the gun crew of some battleship or a training unit for recruits at Wilhelmshaven? 
There was only one consolation.
It was entirely likely that the British navy had the same percentage of well-born or well-connected simpletons in the wrong jobs. In light of that, it was baffling how the Englander had gained control of the seas and built their far-flung empire.
Courage was one answer, Morelius admitted. The British had always found heroes--they called them
"stout-hearted men"--at critical moments. Now the world was changing swiftly, moving into a new phase in which machines would dominate men in both war and peace. Bravery would still be admirable, the German captain reflected as he looked at the Kiel Canal through his window, but engineering would decide. 
He saw the dueling scar on his right cheek reflected in the window. That mark was supposed to be a sign of courage and honor, but how much would those be worth when technology ruled? There would be war between the great powers in five or ten years. It was inevitable, and if the British were too naive to recognize that, so much the better for Imperial Germany. Using the newest and best machines, Germany would build the greatest war machine that the world had ever seen. 
Nothing would be able to stop it on land or sea! 
It would travel on oil. 
The age of knights was over. The era of the greasy mechanic would begin tomorrow. Whoever had the mechanics and the oil would rule the world. Perhaps it would not be a gallant world, Morelius thought, but it would be a German one, and that was what mattered. 
It would take a great war to accomplish this, for the British and the French and the legions of Czarist Russia would not submit easily. On land and sea-- perhaps in the air, too, if these new flying machines fulfilled their promise--there would be savage fighting. All Europe would be ripped and battered in bloody confrontation. Exactly when this huge war would officially start or end was difficult to predict with certainty, but one thing was definite. The first 
secret battle would be fought in about six weeks.
Far away. Thousands of miles from London or Berlin. The soldiers would be men without names or uniforms. The site of their struggle would be equally unknown. After all, who had ever heard of Beaumont, Texas?
Ernest Faust did not show up for work at seven the next morning as Torgeson had instructed. He was there 25 minutes before that, and he pitched in immediately. From the first moment, the Norwegian could see that Ernest knew exactly what to do and was more than ready to do it.
"How is your new helper?" Bryna Torgeson asked her father when she returned from the hotel that evening.
"He is no shirker," Torgeson admitted grudgingly.
"A good worker?" Anna Torgeson inquired as she continued her darning.
"He earns his money."
Within a week, Torgeson realized that the husky young man was doing more than that. His substantial experience in drilling for oil and his training by Big John had taught him a lot. There were things--practical precautions and short cuts--that Brom Torgeson himself had not mastered. He did not say anything about this to Ernest, of course. No point in spoiling him or giving the hired hand inflated ideas of his importance. He might ask for more money.
Ernest did not earn a lot, but he was able to give most of it to his mother. His own expenses were quite small. In a sexual daze that made her mouth water whenever she thought of him, Charlene Wilson made certain that he was not billed for his room, food or
drinks. Each afternoon she felt her throat tighten and her stomach churn as she began to anticipate his return from the Torgeson rig. The July temperatures were over ninety every day and in the humid eighties at night, discouraging most people along this steamy Gulf coast from physical lovemaking. She could not wait for his flesh. She was like a schoolgirl who had just discovered the possibilities and ecstasies of carnal connection.
No other man had affected her, shaken her, like this. There was a heat inside her far warmer than the blistering temperatures that cooked Jefferson County, and she found herself drinking large quantities of cold water that helped only a little. It was an effort for her to attend to her duties of running the hotel. Her attention span was oddly short, and people noticed that she smiled when nothing funny had been said. They wondered whether she had contracted malaria or some more exotic fever. They were concerned lest she be sick.
So was Charlene Wilson. She tried to analyze the situation. Love often confused people, but she was honest enough to recognize that the force that gripped her was not that noble. It was lust. At first she was embarrassed when she faced that reality. Within three or four days she didn't care. Her body ruled, not her mind. It was preposterous to think that this strong and handsome young man, not yet twenty, had touched the animal buried within her. Her solution was simple. She stopped thinking, except about Ernie Faust.
She refused to consider the age gap or the fact that she was obsessed or what anyone might say. She begrudged every moment that others were with them, for that barred her from his flesh. She even hurried
their meals. He noticed that, but was too considerate to mention it. With fans whirring overhead to dry some of the perspiration on their entangled limbs, they rested only briefly between each soaring intimacy. All sorts of things, in every corner of her suite, whatever and wherever he wanted. 
It couldn't go on. 
He was very strong and had the sexual stamina of the young, but it could not continue like this indefinitely.
Something would give, or change. "He was a wildcatter, second generation. In a few weeks or months he'd be injured or move on to some new oil field. She would not let herself face the possibility that he might be stolen away by a younger woman. No. He had unleashed the animal in her, and she would fight like an animal to keep him. He had been sent to Beaumont for her, no one else. 
Let no one try to come between them--including his family. Charlene Wilson was no longer a 42-year- old woman. She was a lioness. She would nurture him, and when they both recognized that the time was right they would wed. Then no one could harass or threaten them. He was no sponger or gigolo, but an honest, hard working and law-abiding young man. He was hers. 
She listened to his stories of progress at the new well he was helping Brom Torgeson drill, and the encouraging reports on Jacob's job at the Miller stable and his mother's work in the Burford store. The news of his father was not nearly as positive. His flesh had recovered from the brutal battering it had endured six weeks earlier, but his bones had not mended well enough to end the traction. He was miserable in the
casts because of the itching and the August heat.
"How soon will I be out of this contraption, Doc?" he demanded one morning.
"Getting impatient, Mr. Faust?"
"No, I am impatient. Been in this rig, trussed up like a hog, for more than a month now. I want to get back to work!"
"Don't get excited," Edgerton advised.
"Doc, when can I walk out of here and get back to drilling oil wells?"
Was this the time to tell him?
"You've made excellent progress. Truth is, much better than I'd expected. You're coming along nicely,, Mr. Faust, but there's a way to go."
The wildcatter trapped him with a glance; looked him square in the eyes.
"How far? And how long will it take? I've got a right to know, and you've got a duty to tell me where I stand. You don't have to pull any punches with me, Doc. I'm an old slugger who's come through a lot of tough fights."
The physician sighed in surrender.
"Mr. Faust, I'm afraid that you probably won't walk out of here for weeks, and then very slowly. It's going to be that way for a long time--maybe the rest of your life."
"You saying I'll be a cripple? Permanently?"
"Not for sure, but it's likely."
The big man in the bed shook his head as far as he could.
"No," he said.
"Mr. Faust, you're lucky to be alive. Think about that."
"No, I'm not done yet. You're dead wrong, Doc."
If the unfortunate man understood, it might be a lot less painful for him, Edgerton thought.
"Mr. Faust, I'm doing what you wanted. I'm giving it to you straight. I'm telling the truth as a scientist."
"What the hell has science got to do with Big John Faust?" the wildcatter demanded. "Get out of here. Get out!"
That was August 14th.
On the 15th the explosives and time pencil fuses reached the Imperial German consulate in New Orleans in two diplomatic pouches. Three days later these materials of war were in the hands of the saboteurs. So were Kapitan Morelius' instructions that Beaumont was to burn ten days later.
No one had ever told the trio why this target had been selected.
No one had informed them why this date had been chosen.
It was not their role to question, but to destroy for the Kaiser and the Fatherland. They weren't shrewd or brilliant secret agents, merely men who had been trained to damage and destroy in a variety of ways. There was nothing heroic about them. They were typical of the drab and nameless horde of plodding mechanics whom Morelius believed would fight tomorrow's wars, so it was fitting that they should strike the first blow in a neutral country, and with no idea as to the strategic significance of the act that risked their lives. If Morelius was right, it was going to be like that for soldiers throughout the twentieth century, and far beyond.
In London, Lord Harrington set September 3rd for the meeting of the Admiralty's long-range planning group. The major question of whether to convert His
Majesty's Royal Navy to oil was the sole item on the agenda. The time for decision was at hand. 
Welsh coal or Texas oil? 
The fate of Europe and the Empire lay in the balance. 
They took the casts off John Faust on the morning of August 23rd, and Maria began the massages an hour later. After such a long period of disuse, his muscles were stiff and weak and lacking in tone. Using scented oil that Fortuna Gonzalez had procured from the same excellent Mexican grocery that provided the delicious sausages, Maria Faust rubbed her husband's pale weak flesh with both tenderness and diligence. 
She concentrated on his calves and thighs, arms and wrists, shoulders, and even his fingers, She did not mean her touch to be erotically arousing. This was to stimulate both the muscles and the flow of blood. Nevertheless, feeling the flesh of the man she loved-- stroking and kneading it after a year and a half of absence--had an effect on her that was troubling. It was desire. 
She made an effort to keep her touch impersonal, and she was careful to maintain a running conversation about the weather and her job. She also kept her eyes averted from his loins, lest she observe any sign that 
he was aroused too. If he was, that would make it much more difficult for Maria Faust to finish the massage that he needed.
Dr. Edgerton had told her that daily massage was likely to help, and he had also spoken candidly about his confrontation with her husband. Now that the truth was out, they could start thinking about when the wildcatter might leave the hospital and where she might take him for his convalescence.
"He's wrong, you know," John Faust told his wife suddenly as she drew near the end of this day's massage.
"Who's wrong?"
"The witch doctor. Hell, I've met Indian medicine men in Oklahoma who knew more. I'll be back to work in two months."
"Yes, John," she soothed.
"All right. Three. No question about it. What I'm thinking on now is how we'll raise the money for the new rig."
"We'll get to that as soon as you're out of here," she replied.
It was too bad that Maria had no sense of time, he thought silently as her fingers worked. She didn't feel" the urgency of this. What was a wildcatter doing lying in bed like an infant? It was unnatural, almost shameful. To whom could he turn for cash or credit in Beaumont? The banks didn't know him, and wildcatters weren't usually comfortable with vested bankers in starched white shirts and gold watches on chains anyway. Plump men with clean nails and freshly shined shoes tended to make the wildcatters uncomfortable, and vice versa.
And it wouldn't be right to ask the Burford girl, who probably didn't have much and whose bitch
sister would fight it fang and claw. Derby Kincaid or Pegleg Brown were just able to keep their own efforts going. The logical person was Charlene Wilson. She was raking in a load of money every week at the hotel. Dammit, this would be a top-notch investment for her. * 
Too bad it couldn't be. That English fellow whose play Jacob had read back in Savannah had said it in one simple statement. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Nobody talked like that anymore, but the Englishman was right. Charlene Wilson was as proud as she was passionate, and she was bound to be sore as a boil since Faust had sent word that it was over. Even if she wasn't that angry, it would be cheap to ask. 
Cheap and small. 
Utterly unlike Big John Faust 
And if that weren't enough, he'd never taken money from a woman. He didn't know how. He'd raise the cash somewhere else. He'd talk to Ernie about it. Ernie would have a good picture of the current "action" in Beaumont, since he lived at the hotel that was the bustling center of the oil business in Jefferson County. 
The massage felt good, and for a moment he relived those baths the widow had given him in her luxurious suite. That uninhibited woman had strong appetites. It would take a strong man to fulfill her, Faust judged as he floated in sensation. He must not let the memory of Charlene Wilson excite him, for that would be close to disloyalty. By John Faust's code, a man was involved with one woman at a time. Maria was back. She had always been all the woman he'd ever needed. 
He needed her now. Going so long without a woman was not his way. As soon as his health permitted, he would show her how much he needed and 
loved her. She must be yearning too, after so many months of continence. It never occurred to the wildcatter that she too had found a lover during that period. His wife was a fine and noble woman. For her to become physically involved with another man would be unthinkable. That would be infidelity, and she was far above that. Since that possibility was beyond consideration, John Faust refocussed on the more practical question of finding and funding a new drilling rig to replace the one pulverized in the stampede. 
There was one possibility, but he wasn't ready to talk to Maria about that yet. It was certain to cause trouble. He wasn't ready for such a confrontation--not yet. Maybe he'd come up with another solution that wouldn't make her furious. This was no time for a family war. 
"Hope that'll help," Maria said as she finished and patted the perspiration from her face with a scented lace handkerchief. 
"Helped already. Thanks, my love." 
"I've got to get back to the store." 
"You won't be working there long," the wildcatter pledged. "By the end of the year you'll have a fine house with servants, fancy clothes--even a gasless buggy." 
She loved him too much to cast a pall over his male fantasy, so she fought down her impulse to tell him that it wouldn't be and it didn't matter. Being back with her husband and children was what counted. The rest was just icing on the cake, whether generous John Faust believed it or not. It wasn't that sackcloth and ashes appealed to her. She wanted very much to live comfortably again. She wanted John Faust well and productive even more. It was that simple. 
She did what she could to make that dream--her dream--become a reality. She returned each day to give him the massage that his muscles required to regain their vitality. Every night she came back with home-cooked food to give him added strength. 
So it was on the night of August 28th. On that same starry night, the moon shone bright, and a blessed breeze in from the Gulf cooled Beaumont just a bit, and Bryna Torgeson was restless. When she finished her work at the hotel, she did not walk directly home as she usually did. She strolled off instead towards her father's new well. 
It was not to see the drilling rig. 
She had a feeling that he might be on duty this evening. There was something about the young man who worked for her parent that intrigued her, that puzzled and challenged her. What sort of person was he? He barely spoke to her when they passed each other in the hotel, but perhaps that was because he was occupied with Mrs. Wilson. Or was it something else? What sort of a man would be so closely associated with a widow who had to be at least twice his age? 
Was he a gigolo--a stud for hire? 
Why wouldn't he speak to her? 
She told herself that it wasn't far out of her way, and she certainly wouldn't stay long. He was very muscular and handsome. He probably thought he was every woman's dream. She wouldn't let him think that she was another of those silly sheep. Perhaps he was afraid of her--the boss's daughter. Yes, that might be it. 
She could hear birds singing over the thump-thump
thump of the drilling. The sounds of those creatures seemed to change these twisting rows of derricks into a forest. Despite the visible industrial impact of the oil boom, Beaumont was still a country town in spirit. This community, with nearby pine forests and the Gulf not far away, had not lost its Southern grace. Why didn't her father understand that this would be a fine place to raise a family . . . that Beaumont was much more than oil and greed and grabbing for pleasure?
She stepped off the road to let a horse and carriage go by. She recognized the driver as one employed at a local livery, and the flashy blonde woman passenger as a harlot who served at a second rate brothel named Maine's. Bryna had heard men at the Crosby joking about Maine's enterprise and initiative in sending her employees out to attend to the men on night duty at the rigs. Of course, the charge was double but the oil boomers were not bothered by that. Mrs. Wilson had identified this woman as a whore, and given orders this very week that she and other tarts were to be politely but firmly barred from the hotel.
Bryna walked on. One man called out to her lewdly from the shadows of a derrick under the misapprehension that she, too, was a prostitute. Most of the drillers were either busy or dozing. Ernest Faust was wide awake. He was seated on a wooden box a dozen yards from a clattering donkey engine, eyeing the heavens with a smile on his face and a Colt .44 on his hip. She decided to slip up on him silently.
"Raise 'em highly he ordered.
He'd moved with the speed and night vision of a mountain lion. In a flash, the six-shooter had blossomed in his hand, pointed directly at her.
"Put that down, Mr. Faust!" she commanded. 
He recognized her voice, laughed, and lowered the gun. 
"Sorry, Miss Torgeson," he apologized. "Had no idea it was you. Just doing my job protecting your daddy's property." 
She thought that she detected a teasing note, but she couldn't be quite sure. With her chin high, she strode to the box and tripped on something in the darkness. He caught her in his arms. They both felt the electric charge that coursed between them... then bound them together. They were both startled by it. She squirmed and gasped before she regained her self-control and broke free. 
"Thank you, Mr. Faust," she said as coolly as she could. 
"You all right?" 
"I'm perfectly all right," she lied. Now she walked on a few steps before she looked at him. He was staring at her unashamedly, making no effort to conceal his intense admiration and desire. How could he feel this way if he was sleeping with the widow? How strong was his bond to Mrs. Wilson anyway? 
"Nice of you to come by," he told her mechanically. The moonlight somehow made her extraordinary red tresses even more splendid, her lush young figure even more magnetic. 
"I was just out for a stroll. Might I sit down?" 
He nodded. She rested on the wooden square five seconds later. He stood nearby, looking down into her face, creamy shoulders, and bodice. He was still appreciating her charms, but he had his feelings under restraint now. He was very good looking, she noted, and much too young for Mrs. Wilson. The widow was a woman of considerable experience. It would take 
a strong and splendid lover to please and hold her. Bryna Torgeson found herself wondering what it might be like in bed with this man. She was a virgin. It was all a promise and a mystery.
Something swept over her.
Something surged down her throat, through her torso and into her thighs. Now it was in her knees.
Was it something healthy like natural desire, or was it something petty such as competition?
Could she take him from Mrs. Wilson? Should she? Was this the lover for whom she had put off all the others who wanted her? Maybe she'd just flirt with him to test her power.
"It seems more peaceful here at night," she said.
"Most nights it's kind of dull."
She avoided his glance, but she knew that he was eying her bosom. Her nipples stiffened. Perhaps she ought to leave. «
"Don't usually get visitors, except for an occasional sneak thief," he continued.
"You think I came here to steal?" she fenced.
"Only you'd know that."
"Mr. Faust" she protested.
"I was joking. No reason for you to steal. Everything here belongs to you and your family anyway. That doesn't include me, since I'm a person--not a thing."
Was he challenging her?
"Have you no romance, Mr. Faust? Don't you belong to anyone?"
"Why, I'm just busting with romance," he answered with a chuckle that was both boyish and knowing. "I'm a wildcatter. Haven't you heard how daring and romantic we are?"
"You laughing at me, Mr. Faust?"
"Lord, no. That would be disrespectful. You're the boss's daughter. Someday all this will be yours, Miss Torgeson." 
How could a man want her so and still be almost impudent? She'd have to teach him a lesson. 
"As for belonging to anyone," he continued. "I'm a grown man now. I belong to Ernie Faust." 
"What sort of person is he?" she bantered. 
"Better than most. We get along fine." 
"I admire your modesty," she said and wondered whether she should pull up her bodice. 
"That's my one weakness," he admitted. "We Fausts don't run to modesty. We're good looking, strong, hard workers, and kind to animals. Smart as whips, and very friendly--but not real modest. My pa's like that too." 
"How is he?" 
"Coining along. Be a while before he's drilling again, but he'll do it. He's a stubborn cuss. That's our other little thing. Never give up till we get what we want. He wants to make a million, and he will." 
She looked up at the stars again for a moment, aware that this thrust her breasts up seductively but feigning utter innocence. 
"The trick is to know what you want," Ernie said. 
"You know what you want?" she asked provocatively.
He nodded. This was the most beautiful woman he'd ever met. He wanted her, and he had a fairly good idea that she knew it. Why was she playing games with him? Was this the way European women behaved?
"I sure do, and I'm going to get it," he replied. 
Something inside her said that it was time to leave. 
"I've got to get home," she announced. He reached a hand down to help her rise. When she took it, he drew her both up to her feet and into his embrace. She was startled, but in a moment her resistance dissolved. 
He held her close against his body. His arms were strong, his churning kiss irresistible. He was even more stimulated and shaken by the touch of her lips. It was as if his very blood was ablaze. He felt breathless, and when her tongue brushed his he pressed his desire against her. Her thighs twisted forward to meet him, but only for a moment. Then she pulled back and broke out of his embrace. 
They were both breathing hard as they stared at each other, mouths open and eyes glowing in the summer night. He didn't understand why she had pulled away. Her beauty had crazed hi-n, he thought, and wondered why she had affected him as no other woman had. He knew so little about her. She had come from Norway with her family, had a tough and taciturn father, worked at the Crosby dining room, and was the most magnificent looking female his eyes had beheld. 
Was she one of those women who arouse and frustrate men as a tactic, or as a sport to show their power? 
Was she a righteous virgin waiting for a gold ring? 
Tin going," she said. 
"Tomorrow night?" 
She hesitated, thinking of her father and the many risks she might run. Losing her job at the hotel was surely one of them, for Charlene Wilson would not tolerate any woman who dared to tamper with handsome Ernest Faust. The sensible thing would be for 
Bryna Torgeson to run from this dangerous situation, but the pulsing within her said that she would walk back here soon. 
"Or the next," she answered, and hurried away. Watching her go, Ernie Faust listened to the drilling rig and engine again, found everything all right, and stared off at her retreating figure, almost invisible already, swallowed up in the night. 
He turned to look across the field at the unused tool shack ninety yards away. It had been a farmer's hut before all these acres were carved up for oil leases. Drilling on the adjacent property had been unproductive, and the man who had those mineral rights had abandoned the efforts weeks earlier. Whenever she returned, that hut was where he'd take her for privacy. No one ever went there. It would be safe. 
Not wholly safe. 
For him to have any personal connection with this stirring young woman with the long red hair was full of hazard. 
Any sensible person would tell him that it was a mistake. It was difficult for him to be sensible about this woman. His head told him that Brom Torgeson would be furious; that the Norwegian was a man with a slow-burning but terrible temper. His reaction would be swift enough if Torgeson found out that his employee was making love to Bryna. Ernie would be fired on the spot, and the raging father would lash out with his big fists to batter the young wildcatter in retribution. 
Brom Torgeson would probably try to kill him. 
She did not return on the 29th. 
Ernie Faust waited longingly until the small hours, with his throat dry, his eyes hurting, and loving desire coursing through every vein. He was tired and taciturn when he reached the rig at sunset on the 30th. If she did not come this evening, it would mean that she had been toying with him. It would mean that she didn't really care about him at all. 
"Drill's down to 710," reported the man going off duty. "Working like a clock. Shouldn't give you no trouble, unless you run into rock." 
"Good." 
"But you never know." 
"Never know," Ernie agreed mechanically, and wished that the fool would pack up his cliches and leave. Ernest Faust didn't want to speak to anyone but the disturbing beauty with the flaming tresses. He had to see her, to hold her, tonight. 
There had been nights when the hours raced by like distant planets flashing across the dark blue skies of 
Texas. Those evenings had been smooth and seamless, flowing like a river on its way to the sea. There was nothing to notice or remember. Time bad simply passed.
This was not one of those nights. Every minute trudged by grudgingly. It was as if the second hand on some celestial clock had been slowed by the Supreme Being for divine purposes that no mere mortal could comprehend. Time crept. It inched forward with the pace of an arthritic old soldier, limping along painfully in the darkness. Ernie Faust was not a person who waited well. He was restless, then angry, then uncertain--and then the cycle repeated. He found himself needing . . . hoping . . . denouncing . . . anticipating . . . resenting . . . worrying . . . rehearsing . . . despairing .... and finally just wanting.
She was not going to come.
There was nothing that he could do about it. She had merely been leading him along. He'd half suspected it, of course. This clever beauty hadn't fooled Ernie Faust entirely.
"Sorry I'm late," she apologized, and emerged from the darkness.
His heart leapt as he hurried towards her.
"We had some extra guests," she explained and handed him a napkin containing a piece of French Mocha cake. She must have noticed that he often ordered it at the Crosby. It was her present, her trophy of caring. He thanked her. He felt wonderful. It was a marvelous night. Nearly ninety degrees with humidity of seventy-eight percent, but that was irrelevant. That was the climate on another planet. She was here, and everything was perfect.
After he finished the cake, they kissed for a long
time and held each other close. Then he led her by the hand to the shed, pried loose the lock with a screwdriver, and drew her inside. A small window, perhaps a foot square, let in a swath of moonlight. There was straw on the floor. He'd put it there some hours earlier. After more kisses and caresses, he undressed her slowly. Though no man had seen her nude before, she stood there like some ancient goddess, naked and proud. She knew that she was beautiful, and that she wanted to open herself to this man. She was not afraid. 
He sensed that this was the first time. He was gentle, sensitive to her reactions and needs. He was slow and tender. Aware that she was not familiar with male anatomy, he guided her hand to his loins so that she'd have some notion of what to expect 
"This might be--it could hurt for a moment," he warned. "Just a moment." 
"Now. Now," she commanded. She wasn't pleading. She was ordering. He obeyed, and then they were lost in the rhythms of the experience. The sensations of this man within her were more than anything she'd anticipated. So this was what it was like. 
"That's good. That's so good," she whispered over and over. The ending was even better. As she snuggled with her head on his shoulder, she wondered whether it would be like this with other men. No, it couldn't. She couldn't know. It might be fine with some others, she reasoned, and perhaps she'd find out. She wasn't hungering for other men now. Ernie had been wonderful with her tonight, and this was just the beginning. She felt rich and luxurious, filled with womanly anticipation of all the nights they'd repeat and expand this magic. 
The time came to leave. Languorous and smiling, 
she found her garments in the moonbeams and dressed slowly. So did he. They kissed again, rubbed their heads against each other and walked out into the soft summer evening.
They were a dozen steps from the shack when they heard the approaching feet. Ernest Faust drew her to concealment behind a long abandoned water trough that had once served some farm creatures here. She stared in surprise as she recognized the three men who had pretended to be Swedes. They had left town two months ago. What were they doing back here in the oil field carrying heavy valises in the night?
She pointed at them. Ernie gestured for her to stay down and remain silent, both of which she did until the trio entered the hut and closed the door behind them. Then she told the whole story to her lover.
"They left the day of the stampede? That alone doesn't mean a lot, but why should Germans lie and say they're Swedes?" Ernest Faust tested.
"Go get the sheriff. Let him ask them questions," she urged.
"I want to take a look at what they're doing inside there. It's all right. I've got this," he said and slapped the .44 caliber Colt pistol that night duties required.
"Don't. Please."
He wouldn't be talked out of it. With a tense Bryna two steps behind, he advanced warily to the shack to peer in the small window. They saw the saboteurs removing bundles of dynamite and time fuses from the valises. A moment later, one of the Kaiser's men saw them at the window.
Ernest drew the six-shooter and ran for the front door of the hut. He jerked it open. Before he could say a word, one of the saboteurs hit him in the head with a piece of lumber. He reeled back, dropped the
gun, and crumpled to his knees. The saboteur raised the board high to finish him off.
At that moment, Bryna dived to the ground and scooped up the .44. She knew what to do. One of the cowboys who'd stayed at the Crosby had showed her how to fire this weapon. She pointed it at the foreign agent, sucked in her breath, and fired. The heavy slug knocked him back. A dark splotch blossomed on his shirt just above his trousers, and the man growled a curse in pain. He clutched at his ruined belly and tottered back into the hut
A second saboteur rushed out, still clutching a time fuse in one hand as he groped for the long-barrelled .30 caliber Mauser stuck in his belt. She shot him twice. The first slug shattered his left shoulder. The heavy weapon jumped in her hand, but she was strong enough to control it. Her next bullet ripped away a chunk of his face. Sheer survival impulse sent him. staggering back into the darkness and safety of the, shack.
Most people who'd never before fired a gun in anger would have panicked, but Bryna Torgeson didn't She seized the screwdriver Ernest had used to pry open the door, slammed the portal shut, and thrust the tool into the hasp. They were locked in, but for how long?
She had to think quickly. She had to think ruthlessly. Ernie was still groggy as he got to his feet, and those armed men inside would be trying to break or shoot their way out in another half minute. She had to cope with them. She also had to get away from this place before her presence was known. If Brom Torgeson discovered that his daughter had been up here in the night on her way home, he'd go wild.
"Ernie! Ernie! You've got to get help! Can you make it to that next rig over there?"
It was about two hundred yards away. She could see the pinpoint gleam of a lantern in the watchman's shack.
"What?" Faust wondered groggily.
"Somebody's got to call the sheriff. Can you make it? Can you?"
"Try," he replied.
"You've got to. And don't mention me. You shot them. You're the hero, Ernie. I was never here!"
He grunted in comprehension, accepted the six-gun and started off to sound the alarm. She could hear shouts from inside the shack, but she couldn't make out the words. It was something urgent. She guessed that the men were afraid they'd be caught. She did not suspect that was only a small part of the reason for their agitation. The second saboteur she'd shot had fallen on his time fuse, starting it running. In another 13 minutes, it would go off. It was ticking away their lives.
She waited until Ernest was just a dot, turning her head and looking back at the hut every few moments. Her experience in there had been all she'd dreamed of, but now that place was a house of violence and danger. She heard them banging at the door, crashing at the walls as they tried desperately to escape.
Her time had run out. She still felt the rosy glow within her, but she could not linger here to enjoy it. It was less than a mile to the sheriff's office, and deputies would be arriving here in another ten minutes. They must not see her. She straightened and brushed off her clothes, patted her hair into some semblance of order, and set out for home.
She was half-way there when she heard the pounding
of hooves. The Beaumont authorities had not yet acquired gas buggies for the sheriff or any other public officials, but neither had any other U.S. town. So Sheriff Holly and four deputies galloped by Bryna Torgeson some ninety seconds later, riding at top speed towards the shack where the three saboteurs were trapped.
They did not notice her. They were riding fast, and she kept her face averted as they passed. Bryna hurried towards her home, rehearsing the fabrication she'd offer her parents to explain her lateness. She smiled as she realized that she would need an entire repertory of stories in the months ahead. She meant to spend many more hours entwined with her newfound lover. It had been a joyous and thrilling thing, She felt no shred of shame, only pity for those who did.
Ernest Faust reached the shack at the same time as the deputies. They swung off their steeds, drew their guns, and approached him cautiously. Then the sheriff recognized him.
"It's all right, boys," Holly told his men. "He's the fellow who found these buzzards. What the hell are they doing in there?"
Ernie Faust listened for a few seconds before he replied.
"Sounds like they're screaming," he said, and winced as the pain pulsed in his head again.
"You say that they got dynamite and they're talking German?" the sheriff checked.
"And they've got guns. Don't ask me what they're up to, Sheriff. Ask them."
"We'll just do that, son," Holly announced importantly.
He didn't
The time fuse ignited. In seconds the interior of the
shack was ablaze. The men were trying to stamp out the fire, but it spread too quickly. Now the saboteurs were screaming. A decent man, the sheriff stepped forward--and stopped.
"Dynamite?" he asked.
Ernest Faust nodded. The deputies glanced at each other, then at their boss. Only a lunatic would charge into a burning hut filled with explosives. The Beaumont lawmen were brave, not insane. When Holly took the reins of his horse and led the animal away from the shack, they followed silently with their mounts. The sheriff walked his steed some eighty yards before he stopped and turned. The shack was wreathed in flames.
Then it blew up.
The first blast hurled chunks of burning boards in a fiery arc, dropping blazing wood within a few yards of the watchers. They stepped back ten yards further as the second explosion sprayed more wreckage. It wasn't only parts of the building. Human limbs flew through the night. There was a third blast.
No one was screaming any more.
The only sound was that of the roaring fire.
Nothing living remained in that burning wreck. Holly sent a deputy into town to bring back the hearse. When the undertaker arrived with that lumbering vehicle, he was in a glum mood. He had always hated night calls, and having to wait around while the deputies tried to assemble the parts of the charred bodies added to his depression. There was also the question of money.
"Who's gonna pay for all this?" he asked.
"All what?" Holly answered.
"Fixing them up, the boxes, the burial, the graves-- you know."
. The Wildcatters 203 
The sheriff shrugged. 
"Guess the city will, Fred," he speculated. 
"Be months before I see a penny. They have any money?" 
"If they did, it burned up in that fire," Ernie Faust reasoned. 
"Any friends?" the mortician wondered. 
"No idea." 
It was exasperating--a total mess. 
"Well, who were they?" 
"Germans, Ernie thinks. Can't be dead sure. We've got no names or papers, not even an engraved watch. It all went up in smoke." 
The undertaker threw his arms in the air in disgust. 
"What am I going to put on their death certificates, Sheriff?" 
"Three fellows on the way to hell. They should be checking in there now," Holly answered soberly. He was somewhat troubled himself. He was a conscientious man who hated loose ends and despised mysteries. The question of three unidentified foreigners in town with dynamite for some reason he couldn't explain was extremely irritating. The newspaper and the town council would ask questions, he figured gloomily, and Mayor Burford was going to be furious. 
He was. 
"Why would Germans be here with dynamite, Bob?" Burford asked over a bourbon in the Crosby Hotel bar forty minutes later. 
"Faust boy isn't that sure they were German; says it sounded like they were talking German. His grandpa spoke it some," Holly answered. 
"Faust? Wait a minute. Is his daddy Big John Faust?" 
The sheriff nodded. 
"I ran into him and two strapping sons a few months back when they helped save Number Three on Big Hill. Tougher'n hell, they were." 
Holly nodded again. 
"That's Ernie. We're lucky he bumped into those fellows in the middle of the night. Most men would have run, you know. That Ernie's a hard case," he told Burford. 
"We've got to think of what's best for the town," the mayor said. Bob Holly was able to translate that immediately. With an election later in the year, the mayor was worrying about his ass again. No reason he shouldn't. Perfectly normal for a politician. World needed politicians just as much as it needed tough, brave men like the Fausts. Those wildcatters couldn't keep a city going. That was for sure. 
"Be bad for business if people started thinking somebody or other--maybe a gang of foreigners--was out to bust up the town. Some foolish folks might try to connect this thing tonight with that incident in June," Burford rationalized. 
Holly didn't think it would be foolish at all, but he didn't bring that up. Arguing with the mayor would be a stupid thing for a civil servant with a wife and three children to do. 
Td say that three geologists--let's forget that German stuff--were killed when there was an accidental explosion. Natural gas. That's it. There wasn't any dynamite. Any of your deputies see dynamite?" 
"Only the Faust boy," Holly replied. "Could be one little problem. He says they attacked him, that they had guns." 
"For self-defense, Bob. They didn't know who he 
was. Thought he'd come to rob them. You'll explain that to Ernie Faust, won't you?"
"Uhhuh."
"Town's got a great future. I'm confident that young Faust wouldn't do anything to hurt Beaumont's reputation or to bother the financial community. One more for the road?"
Holly recognized that he was being dismissed. He declined the offer, rode back out to the Torgeson rig, and told Ernest Faust what the mayor had said.
"Geologists?" the young wildcatter asked incredulously.
"You got any proof they weren't geologists?"
Ernest shook his head, and winced once more.
"Got something for that," the sheriff told him. He pulled a pint of whiskey from his jacket and thrust it at Ernest. The young wildcatter drained a long swallow from the bottle, then another. The liquor seemed to help immediately.
"All right, geologists," he agreed.
"Keep the bottle. Thanks, Ernie."
When the sheriff was gone, Ernest Faust took another sip and decided that he'd better save the rest. He was responsible for this rig. He had to be sober, to care and to watch and listen. It was only after he inspected the drilling gear and donkey engine again that he let himself think about Bryna Torgeson. He felt giddy for a moment. Was it the blow to his head or the liquor, or was he falling in love?
Bryna did not come to him every night.
She was too prudent for that. He wanted her fiercely, but he understood that neither of them could afford to risk the harsh consequences of detection. Each needed their job. She made her way furtively to the drilling rig each third or fourth evening. He had built a new hut that he said was for storage of tools, and it was there that they enjoyed each other in the humid darkness. With the vigorous sounds of two sweaty torsos colliding the sole noise, they celebrated their young bodies and passions in the September night.
She was uninhibited and joyous, full of energy and bold desire. It was as if she were making up for those years of waiting.
"You've learned a lot in five weeks," Ernie told her as he stroked her silken tresses.
"No, I knew it all the time. I was born with it. Most women are, you know. It's a natural talent," she said. Then she laughed and pulled him on top of her again.
It was the fact that there were intervals between
their secret assignations that permitted Ernie Faust to continue his adventures in Charlene Wilson's large bed. He learned to be very delicate and creative in their lovemaking, pleasing her in ways that left the widow sated but did not exhaust him completely. Charlene Wilson was as bewitched by him as he was obsessed with Bryna. Ernie Faust recognized the irony of the situation, decided that he couldn't do much about it, and settled in to enjoy it. 
He hadn't sought two women at the same time. 
Still, two were better than none. He would free himself from Charlene when he could afford to do so, and try to hurt her feelings as little as possible. She had to realize, even now, that her intense relationship with a much younger man couldn't last. 
He was less than 20, a free spirit, and endowed with a large and lusty appetite for life. There was a lot more to the world than Beaumont. He'd talk this out with Bryna when the time came, when he'd made his own grubstake--enough to move on to a new oil field waiting to be conquered. 
Could be anywhere. 
There was promising action in California, Mexico, even the Dutch East Indies and Venezuela. 
There were many millions of dollars out there for wildcatters to make; enormous opportunities that the Rockefellers and Mellons and those British Samuels' didn't yet control. That was the challenge of wildcatting. There was room for the loner, for the person without big money or corporations behind him. 
Some of the men Ernie Faust drank with at the Crosby bar predicted that it was going to get tougher for the little fellow, that the powerful companies would combine and apply huge sums to grab it all. They brooded that the time of the independent oil 
man, the free wheeling wildcatter, was coming to an end.
"Horse feathers," Pegleg Brown snorted over a double whiskey at the Longhorn the next afternoon. Ernie had fallen into the habit of dropping in at the not-so-fancy saloon to meet his father's old comrades and get away from the watchful eye of the possessive widow. "Always be room for us wildcatters, Ernie. Hell, we make our own room."
"Pegleg's right," John Faust agreed the following day. "Wildcatters move faster, move smarter, take more chances than those corporation fellows. They're all scared of making a mistake that might cost their jobs. Wildcatters understand life's full of mistakes. Don't give a damn. Life's full of chances to make it big too, and we take 'em. Those fat companies need us to show 'em how. Hell's bells, this country was founded by wildcatters. Wasn't no corporation presidents on the Mayflower."
"And no New York lawyer ever brought in a gusher," Ernie added. They were sitting on the back porch of the three room adobe house that Sam Miller had found for the Fausts when Big John had left the hospital ten days earlier. It was on the edge of the Mexican part of town, across the street from where Miller's blacksmith lived.
That's it. Think I'll try the weights again," the senior Faust said. He reached down for the two chunks of iron and began to raise them. Then he let them down, and raised them once more. He repeated the process a dozen times.
"You're going through with this?" Emit asked.
His father grunted assent.
"I don't think ma's gonna like it," Ernie warned.
"Why don't you think of another way for me to raise the money?" his father answered harshly.
"Pa? Where are you?"
It was Jacob. He emerged from the house to join his father and brother on the rear porch--really a roofed-over little patio. As he came out the door John Faust put down the weights. He sucked in his breath as he struggled to rise. Jacob reached down to help.
"Leave me alone. Not a cripple, dammit!"
With an effort, the injured wildcatter got up and walked. He had to force every step. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead from the intense exertion. With all that, he could only move slowly, and not in a straight line.
"Like a crab somebody trod on, that's what you're both thinkin'!" Big John Faust raged.
"You're making progress, Pa," Jacob assured.
" 'Course I am. Tired of people feelin' sorry for me. You think I'm hardly movin', don't you? Well, I'm doing twice as good as last week. Next week I'll be better'n that. Save your damn pity for somebody who needs it!"
"We don't pity you, Pa," the younger son explained. "We love you."
Big John Faust didn't know what to say. In his book, it was women who talked about love. The word made him uneasy. He cared deeply for his wife and sons, but saying that word was difficult for him.
"In two weeks I'll be tying weights to my ankles. Build up the muscles. First an hour a day. Then two, three. It's gonna hurt. Hurts right now, but I've got to do it. I'm gonna be stronger'n I ever was. More leg power, more arm and fist power."
Jacob was puzzled by that last reference, but only for a moment. He could hardly believe what his father was saying. Startled, he looked at his brother for confirmation, 
"Does he mean what I think, Ernie?" 
"Tell him," Big John Faust ordered belligerently. 
"You tell him." 
The veteran wildcatter glowered at his son. 
"All right. I'm going to fight for money. I did it when I was a kid, and there's nothing wrong with it. Honest labor for an honest dollar." 
"Ma thinks it's dirty" Ernie reminded. 
"No, she says it's . . . it's a disgrace," Jacob corrected.
John Faust resumed his warped walk grimly. 
"It's cleaner than a lot of the dirty business in offices," he said with an effort. He panted for several seconds before he could speak again. "I've always fought clean. A clean fight for an honest dollar. Who could object to that?" 
"Ma will. You know it, Pa," Jacob reminded. 
The wildcatter took another step, stumbled, and had to struggle not to fall on his face. He was down on one knee, hurting and furious. 
"Stay away, dammit. I'll get up myself." 
He did. They could see that he was suffering, but Big John Faust couldn't admit that. 
"You couldn't fight a bag of feathers," the older son said. 
"Not yet. But in two months I'll be ready for anyone."
Jacob turned to his brother, who shrugged. 
"Ernie, he'll get hurt." 
The hell I will," Big John boomed defiantly. 
Ernest Faust sighed. If his father fought as a bare
knuckle boxer his mother might throw John Faust out, and that could send him back to the widow. Hard to guess whether she'd even talk to him, but there was a chance it might make it easier for Ernie to leave her bed. Was he really ready to do that? 
There was something else, another question that was more important. Whatever John Faust's boxing might do to Ernie's life, it would tear up his mother's. Tough as Ernie was, he didn't want that. He cared a great deal for his mother. He suspected that Jake was a bit closer to her--no, a lot--but Ernie Faust did not wish Maria to suffer. She'd done enough pleading and weeping. There wasn't much chance that Ernie, or anyone else, could stop his father, but he had to try. 
"Look, Pa," he reasoned. "I'm saving money every week, and I'm doing mighty well at the poker table. You be patient, just a bit. I'll have enough money for our new rig in four or five months." 
"Don't be dumb. Win one night, lose the next. Can't count on the cards, boy. Thought I taught you that," Big John replied scornfully. 
There had to be another way. 
"If somebody has to fight for money, Pa, Til do it," Ernie offered. 
"You think you could box as good as your pa?" John Faust challenged belligerently. 
"Good enough," Ernie replied in an attempt to avoid a confrontation. 
"Who'd you ever fight? You're just a kid with big ideas, son. Strong enough for your age. Ain't saying you're a weakling, but you couldn't go four rounds in a real fight with a boxer. You got no experience. Just cause you decked some sailor in a bar fight don't mean a thing." 
The older son flinched and bit back the words of anger. 
"Ernie's just trying to help. There's no reason to mouth him down like that," Jacob protested. 
"You think he's got a good idea?" 
Jacob shook his head. 
"No, but I don't think fighting's the way for any of us to earn the money. I say it's all right to fight in self defense, but not as a trade." 
"Sound like your mother. I can still support this family. I wear the biggest britches 'round here, and don't either of you pups forget it." 
There was no point in arguing with John Faust's pride. 
"I'd better go," Ernest said and departed. 
"That wasn't right, Pa," Jacob declared quietly a few moments later. "We're not children. We're doing men's work, earning men's pay." 
"Man's work is drilling for oil," John Faust replied stubbornly and returned to lifting the weights. Jacob watched his father sadly and compassionately. It wasn't easy for John Faust, and it would get worse. 
"When are you going to tell ma?" 
"When I'm ready. You keep your mouth buttoned. I'll explain it all in a couple of weeks, and she'll understand. She'll have to." 
Jacob nodded. He waited until his mother got home from the store before he left to have dinner at Amanda's house, as he did three times each week. 
The days floated by, and Big John Faust grew stronger and stronger. It was almost miraculous the way he defied medical logic to rebuild his body, his brute power. 
October passed. Now John Faust was well enough 
to make love to his wife again. Jacob heard her blissful sounds in the small hours, and wondered how long her happiness would continue. She was so pleased with her husband's steady progress. She went around smiling all the time, as she had when Jacob had been a little boy. She didn't mind working in a store. She had her husband and her sons. That was what mattered.
John Faust was shrewd. He only did his basic exercises when she was home. He saved the others--the ones that were specifically designed to ready him for the rough and tumble world of bare-knuckle boxing-- for when she was at her job. In his head, he was choosing the words, planning exactly how he «would break the news. It wasn't as if he meant to fight professionally for the rest of his life, he told himself. Just six or eight bouts, maybe ten, to build up that nest egg for the rig. 
He would tell her of his plan soon. 
Perhaps next week. 
The week after at the latest 
"Thanks, Ma," Jacob Faust said as he finished the pecan pie. 
"Best Thanksgiving dinner I can remember," his father agreed. 
Maria Faust beamed, then noticed Ernie had left most of his dessert on his earthenware plate. This simple Mexican crockery wasn't quite the elegant Limoges china that she had grown up with, but she was content in her new home. 
"Aren't you hungry, Ernest?" she asked. 
"I ate a lot, Ma," he protested. In fact, he'd shared half a plate of turkey in bed with Charlene Wilson 
three hours earlier, and he had good reason to expect Bryna would again bring some food to the shack beside the rig later tonight. 
"Grand pie," John Faust announced. 
"The food's not what we used to have for holidays," Maria answered cheerfully, "but being together for Thanksgiving is what matters. We've got something precious to be thankful for this year. Our reunion and your father's wonderful recovery--who could ask for more?" 
"You're all well, aren't you?" Ernie asked. 
"Could fight my weight in wildcats," Big John Faust answered before he realized what he was saying. "Guess that's a good sign," he improvised quickly. "After all, I'm a wildcatter." 
"How are things at your rig, Ernest?" Maria Faust asked. 
"Looking great. I think that lucky Norwegian's gonna bring in another two thousand five hundred barrel a day well. Getting rich, I guess. Watches every penny. Tight as a pig's . . . scuse me. He's awful frugal." 
"His wife's very nice, and so is his daughter. She's terribly pretty. Lovely red hair. Do you ever run into her at the hotel?" Maria Faust inquired innocently. 
Running into Bryna Torgeson was exactly what Ernest intended to do in a few hours, but he wasn't going to discuss that at this table. Ernie Faust wasn't exactly the textbook Savannah gentleman, but he had the manners and sense not to discuss his sexual adventures. It was more than a matter of being considerate or protecting some female's reputation. He was still obsessed with Bryna. When he moved on to the next oil field, she had to come with him. She was no mere roll in the hay. Though the concept of matrimony 
made 19-year-old Ernie uneasy, he might even consider marrying Bryna. 
She had a great body; fine sturdy bones with wide hips. She'd have no trouble bearing him half a dozen red-headed children, all beauties. That was a way off, of course. Maybe in a few years when Ernest Faust had made as much as her father. No need to rush into wedlock yet, however. 
"I see her in the dining room sometimes," Ernie responded casually. "Hard worker, like her pa. Think I'll be heading back soon. Need a full night's sleep for tomorrow." 
Both sons were gone an hour later, and 45 minutes after that John and Maria Faust were in bed. He was slow and tender in his caresses as he had been years earlier, and their intimacy was as deep as it was thrilling. The concentric rings of fire whirling in her womb spun out to every corner and curve of her lush body, and soon she sighed in profound contentment. 
That was when he felt it was safe to tell her. 
Feeling stunned and a little betrayed by what was almost surely a calculated manipulation of her mood and body, she listened to his plan. She heard him out without any interruption, and when he was finished with his explanation she managed not to shout, to strike out or cry. 
"No, John," she said flatly. 
"I don't see any other way. I'm afraid I have to do this, for a little while." 
"I don't," she replied. 
He didn't quite grasp what she meant. 
"Maria?" 
"Good night, John," she said and rolled over to go to sleep. It wasn't until she heard him snoring that she, began to weep. Her crying was different this 
time. It wasn't the uncontrollable racking sobs of tha past, and it didn't last very long. 
She wasn't going to fight with him. 
She wasn't going to curse at him, plead with him, or menace him with woman threats. 
She had done all that in the past, with no benefit for either of them. She was not the woman who had run away from Savannah two years earlier. She had grown two decades wiser and more mature in those 24 months. 
She had told the man she loved the stark truth. 
Now it was up to him, and she hoped he would understand. 
After all, this was their last chance. 
Now that he had told his wife about the plan, John Faust began to practice his boxing openly. He was pleased that he'd been right. Despite the gloomy predictions of his sons, she hadn't exploded. Hell, a man always knew his own woman better'n anyone else did. That peculiar little comment she'd made in bed didn't add up to a hill of beans, he told himself as he worked on his uppercut and polished his footwork in the November morning. 
"Uh ... uh ... uh,uh," he grunted as he went through his punching patterns. All the old tricks and feints, the clever deceptive moves with his head and shoulders, were coming back. By the second week of December, he was practicing his "combinations" against human sparring partners. Sometimes it was the hefty Mexican blacksmith, Diego Hermosa. Then it was his older son. 
"Uh ... uh '. . . uh," Big John Faust sounded as he successfully tapped his son with that quick "one-two" 
to the body and chin. "If I'd put all my power on that, boy, you'd be on your back and--" 
Suddenly Ernie lashed out with a series of punches, three of which stung. His father shifted and bobbed, grinning in approval. 
"Not bad for an amateur. Yeah, maybe you could box--someday. You've got speed, son. That's something to build on." 
Then Ernie swung harder. Big John half-turned, evading one blow and blocking the next with his upper shoulder. 
"That's called slipping the punch, son. You've got some power too. No style though. You make mistakes. Telegraph your punches like Philadelphia Murphy used to do. That beefy Mick could hit like a sledgehammer, but he always telegraphed," John Faust recalled as he circled for an opening. 
He found it. 
Four fast punches. 
Ernie was on the ground. 
"That's how a pro does it, boy. Come on, get up. I didn't hit you that hard." 
Then John Faust helped his son up, and slapped him on the arm. 
"Not bad at all, son. Thanks for the workout," he said and danced away. He was extremely quick and graceful for a man of his size, Ernie noticed, and quite impossible. It was fitting that John Faust should be training to fight in Texas. This was probably the only state large enough to hold Big John Faust's ego, Ernie thought as he rubbed his sore jaw. 
On the morning of December 9th, John Faust told his wife that he wouldn't be home for supper. Business would keep him out till after ten. He didn't specify what it was, but she knew. 
"Please don't do this, John," she asked. 
"Nothin' to worry 'bout, hon. You'll see." 
The fight took place in a large barn near the Longhorn saloon. More than one hundred men, some in clothes that identified them as business types and others obviously wildcatters, gathered by the light of 36 lanterns to watch Big John Faust do battle with "Rowdy" Moats, a raw-boned cowboy who'd won five bouts in Jefferson County during the past year. Moats was 12 years younger and 20 pounds heavier. He was the favorite. 
"Another hundred on Moats," Mayor Burford called out. "Any takers?" 
"Yore on," Pegleg Brown replied instantly. 
"No disrespect for your friend," Burford said as he counted out five $20 bills, 'Taut I'm a banker and I bet on sure things. Faust just isn't in Rowdy's class, you know." 
Brown matched the cash; pursed his lips and put down $50 more. 
"But you've never seen Rowdy fight," Burford warned. " "I seen John. You gonna talk or cover this?" 
"It's not good business to bet on sentiment, Mr. Brown." 
The grizzled wildcatter shook his head and pointed at the extra $50. Feeling almost sorry for the old fool but unwilling to resist a chance at easy money, George Burford laid down a $50 bill. Then somebody shouted, and the two boxers strode out into the "ring." It was a 24-foot square as specified by the official London Prize Ring rules set down in 1853. Both men were stripped to the waist. Moats looked fit and eager. A battered left ear and two missing front teeth told of previous ring confrontations. 
Burford, his well dressed friends, and most of the locals cheered for Moats, a native Texan. The oil men shouted their support for Big John Faust. Young Jacob looked around the large chamber, wondering whether all the noise could cause problems. After all, bare-knuckle boxing was illegal. 
"What's the matter, Jake?" Derby Kincaid asked between chewing his wad of tobacco. 
"This uproar could bring the law." 
Kincaid spat a gob of brown onto the sawdust. 
"Hell, we already got the law!" he replied, and pointed at Sheriff Holly talking to the mayor a dozen yards away. While thieves, rapists, rustlers and murderers were vigorously pursued in every part of Texas, boxing and gambling were not considered "real" crimes by most of the males in Jefferson County. Along with drinking too much and discreet prostitution, these were seen as basically "victimless" offenses. The laws were on the books because the ladies and the clergy had been hollering and politicians always ran on platforms of total virtue, but in their hearts and groins the good ol' boys couldn't quite take these pious restrictions seriously. 
Somebody rang a bell. 
John Faust looked at Ernie, who was serving as his second, and then to Jacob. He smiled and waved one fist to let them know he was ready. 
The crowd still babbled loudly. The bell rang again, and a very fat man in a red vest stepped into the center of the ring. He gestured grandly for everyone to be quiet, and men hooted. Some laughed. Everybody knew and liked Bowie Gillis, best damn boxing promoter in East Texas. When the bell sounded a third time the hubbub subsided. 
"That's better," he boomed.
"You tell 'em, Bowie!" a Longhorn bartender yelled, and lots of people laughed.
"Tonight we've got two good men in the ring," Gillis announced. "Should be a fine fight. Gonna run 20 rounds--"
"The hell it will!" the cowboy's second disagreed. There was more laughter.
"Twenty rounds of three minutes each," the fat promoter continued. "No gouging, no butting, no hitting or kicking below the belt. No kneeing either. Two minutes rest between rounds. If there's a knockdown, that ends the round. No stomping a man while he's down."
The crowd rumbled impatiently. These men had come to see swift and violent action. It was the same spirit that had filled the seats at the Roman Coliseum nineteen hundred years earlier when gladiators battled.
"Over here is a fellow who's won five straight, Rowdy Moats!"
The cowboy's supporters shouted.
"And this is a man from Savannah with a great record of his own, Big John Faust!"
More enthusiastic applause, and then the bell rang and the fight began. Moats moved forward confidently, smiling at the thought of the $200 "purse" that would soon be his. Faust circled backwards as if on a unicycle, calmly studying his opponent's moves and methods. The younger man pursued him.
Faust slowed down quite deliberately to test his adversary's strength and punching style. Moats tossed a jab, which the wildcatter easily avoided. Then the cowboy tried a fast left hook, which Faust blocked with his shoulder. The crowd yelled at the thump,
the sound of flesh striking flesh. Faust absorbed the impact, decided that Moats was a good but not very special puncher.
Then he pedalled back again, and Moats renewed the pursuit. This time the cowboy hurled a left and a right to Faust's head, but the older man caught both with his forearms. A roundhouse right designed to knock his head off whistled past as John Faust bobbed, ducked, and pulled away again.
Moats renewed the attack. He barrelled in with a flurry of hooks and jabs. One got through and with a loud thud hit Faust's stomach. The fans cheered. Here was a little action at last. The wildcatter winced as if he'd been hurt, but it was a fake. Months of exercise had turned his stomach muscles to iron. He wanted Moats to believe that the blow had hurt him; that he was vulnerable to belly blows.
The cowboy grinned.
"Pound him! Pound him!" an ordinarily dignified lawyer yelled.
Moats tried. He charged in slugging, but Big John Faust blocked and slipped the blows. He was ac cumulating the information that he needed for his counterassault.
"Come on and fight! You yellow?" the frustrated cowboy demanded.
That was when Faust pulled back his left fist, and rifled it into Moats' stomach with an impact that echoed. The cowboy gasped and almost doubled up. Three lightning-fast jabs--right . . . left . . . right . . . ripped to his face, and then two more hard punches bruised his abdomen. Stung and startled by the brutal barrage, Moats retreated.
"No, I'm not yellow," Faust answered. He landed two more punishing body blows and a punch that
made blood spurt from the cowboy's nose just before the bell ended the round.
Moats walked slowly to his corner, sore and thirsty and puzzled by what had happened. He drank a dipper of water, felt the soreness where he'd been hammered, and turned to his second. "Why didn't you tell me he could hit like that? Jeezus, I never seen such a tough old bird before."
"Nobody knew, Rowdy," the second apologized.
"He's got fists like horseshoes. I'd better take him out in this next round before he gets up full steam."
Across the ring, Big John Faust was also sipping water. The crowd was talking loudly about the unexpected events of the first round, but the wildcatter wasn't listening. He was studying his foe, appraising him as if he were a side of beef to be cut up into edible portions.
"Not bad for an amateur, Pa," Ernie joked.
"I could finish him now, but I won't."
"What?"
"Wouldn't be fair to the crowd. They came to see some fighting. I'll carry him for a round or two, just to make it interesting."
"Don't get cocky," Ernie warned. "He's earned his reputation."
Big John Faust sighed, and nodded ambiguously. Too bad his sons understood so little about boxing and their father's strength and skills. The bell rang. The cowboy came out on the attack again, but not quite so boldly. His second had suggested that the wildcatter had been lucky, but perhaps it was more than that. The old bastard could sure hit.
Taking fewer chances, Moats worked carefully to find holes in the wildcatter's defenses. Now and then he did, and he landed more punches than in the first
round. Perhaps he had overestimated Faust after all, he thought. Then he stopped thinking. Something had exploded under his jaw, and he was on the ground. So were at least two of his teeth. The punch had come out of nowhere, moving so fast that he'd seen nothing.
What the hell was happening?
Who was this 41-year-old wildcatter anyway?
Moats struggled to his feet, shook his head to clear it, and the round ended. There was an enormous amount of noise. Faust's devastating punches and startling speed had shocked and excited the crowd. They hadn't seen a boxer this good in Jefferson County in years.
The cowboy was even more cautious in the third round. Now he was the one who circled, who blocked punches and dodged and looked for exactly the right opportunity to hammer home the roundhouse that was his pay-day punch. He didn't find it. Instead, the wildcatter began to batter Moats' midriff with solid blows that jarred him in his tracks.
Moats adjusted his defensive stance to offer more protection for his torso. He fired his jab . . . jab . . . hard hook at the wildcatter's head, and the hook caught Faust high on the right cheek. The cowboy's supporters chorused approval. Moats moved in to press the attack.
Faust feinted with his right, and hit him in the face with a left jab that rocked Moat's head back. Moats shook it off, tried his own fake, and slid in to strike at his foe's gut.
Something that moved like a railroad, steam locomotive and packed almost as much power clubbed him between the eyes. As he wobbled, something else crashed into his ribs twice, breaking three of them.
It was like being assaulted with a rifle butt. The cowboy lurched forward, tied Faust up in a clinch, and managed to finish the round. 
"He's in bad shape, Pa," Ernie said during the brief rest. 
"But he won't go down. He's stubborn. I'd better end this before he's hurt too bad," the wildcatter decided. He looked at his battered adversary, and saw Burford arguing with the man's second. The mayor was angry that he might lose his bets, and he had no concern for the groggy, bloody cowboy. 
Faust made his plan as the next round began. It would not be enough to knock Moats down again and again, for that would merely stop each round. He had to hammer him unconscious, so that Moats could not resume the fray after the compulsory two minute rest between rounds. The alternative was to pound the cowboy down slowly, to beat him into a helpless animal over the next 16 rounds. His nose was bleeding, his mouth was leaking blood, and a cut over his right eye was already reducing the foe's vision. John Faust didn't want to maim or destroy this boxer. All he wanted was the $200. 
A knock-out, not a knock down. 
That was the answer. John Faust maneuvered around the ring, peppering his opponent with stinging jabs to the face designed to hurt and enrage him. The pain was to confuse the cowboy, to anger him into tossing away his boxing savvy to the wind and rushing in blindly. That would leave him wide open for the big punch that would put him out of his misery. 
Clearly equipped with more guts than brains, Moats still thought he had a chance to survive the full 20 rounds--perhaps to win on a lucky blow. Or a dirty one. He tried several punches that were aimed below 
the belt. Then he attempted to knee the wildcatter in the testicles during during a clinch. Faust wondered whether Burford and his second had told him to use these foul tactics. 
For a few moments, John Faust lost his sober control. He hit Moats in the belly as hard as he could, and then struck him there again. The cowboy made an awful gagging sound, as if he might vomit. The wildcatter threw a bomb that sent another tooth flying, and he felt the spray of Moats' blood spatter on his chest. Then Faust regained his calm, and he returned to his battle plan. 
The opportunity came thirty seconds before the end of the round. Moats could hardly see, and in a desperate effort he swung wildly at a foe who was only a vague shadow. John Faust tensed with all he had, unleashed an uppercut that literally lifted the cowboy off the ground, and then fired another. Moats tottered forward, then backwards. "Do it, John!" Derby Kincaid yelled over the tornado of shouting. 
Faust looked at the helpless hopeless foe. He didn't smite him again. He couldn't hit a brave if stupid foe who was completely helpless. John Faust was hard, but not vicious. Fighting--not killing--was his game. Moats raised a fist, pulled it back, and fell unconscious on his face. He was out cold as the referee ended the round. He was still out two minutes later when it was time to resume the fight, so the referee raised the wildcatter's bruised right hand in victory. 
A roar of triumph swept from the oil men in the place. Even the others who had rooted for Rowdy Moats joined in the shouting. To his surprise, young Jacob was caught up in the emotional eruption hailing his father's surprising win. He was cheering as much 
for his father's own recovery and pride as for the knock out. With the exception of the pouty-faced mayor and four or five others who'd lost hefty bets, the entire audience was cheering. 
Some were primarily hailing the terrific fight--best in a long time even if it was shorter than they might have liked. They paid to see 20 rounds of fierce fisticuffs, of basic bare-knuckle combat, and got less than half of that. Still, it was definitely one helluva fight. Others were celebrating the achievement of their fellow oil man and friend. 
Bowie Gillis handed Faust the $200 and nodded in approval. 
"You can fight, mister," he said. 
"Thanks." 
"Like to fight in Houston next month?" 
"How much?" 
"Don't you care who you're up against?" the portly promoter asked. 
Faust shook his head, accepted a towel from Ernie, and mopped the sweat from his handsome face. 
"I care about money," he answered. 
"This fellow, name of Fast Tom Suckley, he's 'bout twice as good as Moats," Gillis warned. 
"Then the purse must be twice as fat, right?" 
That was a lot of money, but Houston was a real city--five or six times bigger than Beaumont. If word of this wildcatter's skills could be properly publicized, the contest could pull quite a crowd at $4 or even $5 a head. If the battle drew three hundred men, a purse of $400 to the victor would still leave a very nice profit for Mr. Bowie Gillis. 
"Twice as fat," the promoter agreed and secured Faust's address so that he might be in touch with him when the date was set 
"Sooner the better," the wildcatter declared. 
"You're a man in a hurry, huh?" 
"Got some catchin' up to do. See you in Houston, Mr. Gillis." 
Men were crowding around to congratulate John Faust as he soaked the tattered towel in his water bucket to wipe off the sweat and blood. There were no other facilities, no locker rooms or washing up places, for bare-knuckle boxers who had to fight in places such as this. 
"You should have told me you're such a fine fighter." George Burford scolded him with a scowl. 
"Sure would have if you'd asked, Mr. Mayor." 
"Got something else I want to ask you--something private. Come have a drink with me at the Crosby bar tomorrow at five, if you can." 
"Five? See you then." 
When the mayor and his rich cronies left, Big John Faust dried himself off and put on his shirt to go home. But he didn't proceed directly to the adobe house, for Pegleg Brown invited him to help spend some of his gambling winnings at Madame LaRue's posh "social club." By the time they arrived, word of his victory had preceded them. 
"Our mademoiselles are all eager to entertain you, Monsieur Faust," the brothel owner told him. 
"Some other time, when I'm not so bruised and tired. I'd be poor company," he apologized. "Would you forgive me if I only stay long enough for a glass of champagne and a cigar?" 
The man had manners and style, Madame LaRue noted. 
So few of these wildcatters did. 
"Not a glass. A bottle," she insisted, and he did not argue. Pegleg was limping upstairs with a very large 
and very blonde woman as Faust left forty minutes later. She was at least one hundred fifty-five pounds, and topless. Both facts seemed to interest Brown a good deal. He was staring at her substantial bosom as if he'd never seen breasts before. 
It was half past ten by the time John Faust entered his house. He was feeling the effects of the fight and the entire bottle of champagne. He looked around to tell his wife of the victory, but she was already in bed and the lantern in that chamber was out. 
Asleep already, he guessed as he yawned. Well, he'd show her the purse and cheer her with that in the morning. She'd be delighted to see that he wasn't cut or marked up at all. No point in talking about the Houston thing right now though, he reasoned. Feeling pleased with himself and proud that he'd shown that damn fool doctor, Big John Faust undressed and slid into bed beside the warm body of his wife. The buzz of the champagne continued to relax him. In five minutes he was asleep. 
When he awoke the next morning, he had a slight headache, and he could feel several places where Moats' punches had landed. He wandered into the kitchen to tell Maria all about his triumph and display the $200, but it was 8:35 a.m. and she'd already left for work. 
Two hundred dollars wasn't bad for a night's work, he reflected. No one could argue that. 
Hell, it was what she earned in two months at the store. Well, she wouldn't have to work more than four or maybe six months longer. He'd figured it out carefully. He'd take half of each purse he won and bet it on himself, and in a while he'd be clearing $1,000 a contest. That wasn't nearly the kind of money that heavyweight champion Jim Jeffries earned, but bare
knuckle boxing was a lot less official and less lucrative than the legal kind of fighting with gloves that Jeffries did. 
He already had the mineral rights lease. 
All he needed was $10,000 or $12,000 for the drilling equipment, and he'd get that with his fists before summer. He had no doubt that he'd prevail in the bouts ahead. After all, everyone knew that Big John Faust was a winner. 
At five minutes before five that afternoon, John Faust was striding towards the Crosby Hotel when he saw Madame LaRue. In fact, he barely stopped himself in time to avert bumping into her. She was emerging from a woman's clothing store with a hat box in one hand and a large carton in the other, looking very chic in a linen dress with a matching blue picture hat and high buttoned shoes that had more style than any he'd seen. 
"'Scuse me, madame," he apologized. 
"It is my fault," she replied. Now he could place the accent that had bothered him since they'd first met. It wasn't true Paris. It was Cajun or New Orleans, the French Quarter, with all those fine restaurants and fancy little houses staffed by pretty coffee-colored courtesans. 
"No, it's mine. Nice to see you. My, what a grand ... chapeau? Did I remember the right word?" 
She smiled. It was very gentille for this not terribly sophisticated wildcatter to use the French term for hat. 
"Absolument. Thank you for the compliment." 
"I'd say more, but I'm rushing for an appointment with our mayor." The merriment in her eyes faded. 
"You know him?" Faust asked. 
"Everyone knows George Burford," she answered guardedly. 
"Then maybe you could tell me something about him? He's related to the sisters, Amanda and Sally, who run that store?" He nodded towards the hardware establishment a block away. 
She nodded stiffly. 
"Their oncle." 
Then she looked at him strangely. 
"Are you ... do you do business with him?' she inquired. 
"Not yet. Is there something I ought to know?" 
She hesitated while she made sure that no one was near enough to hear what she said. 
"Perhaps. Yes, I believe that I can trust you, Monsieur Faust. In my profession, the oldest, they say, I have learn much about men and how to judge them. There are many with two faces." 
"Met a gang of those myself," the wildcatter said. 
"They come to my club every week and joke with me, but on the street they pretend not to see me. You are not like that, Monsieur Faust." 
"I'm just a plain ol' wildcatter." 
"No, you are a gentleman. The mayor is not. He is at my club, but he is bad. He has hurt two of my mademoiselles, and he laughs. He laughs at the many good people of Beaumont. They would not keep him as mayor if they knew." 
"Well, well." 
"You are not completely surprised, are you? You 
have the eyes of one who can recognize a rogue. I can say no more." 
"And I didn't hear a word you said. Pleasure to see you again, Ma'am." 
When he entered the hotel, many men came to congratulate him on his victory. He had to decline a dozen offers of drinks, and accept even more thumps on the arm, as he made his way to the bar. 
"Right on time. I like a man who respects time," Burford said in greeting. He gestured for Faust to join him in the corner booth, and the wildcatter sat down. 
"What's your pleasure, Mr. Faust?" 
"Sour mash and branch water, please." 
Burford ordered Scotch whiskey, and as he spoke of the "splendid fight," the wildcatter wondered why the sisters never admitted that he was their uncle. What had he done? The mayor rambled on about how well Beaumont was growing; what a fine future the town had. 
"We're going to be the oil capital of the whole world. Mark my words, Mr. Faust--the whole world. We'll have tall buildings, street cars, and so many gas buggies that we'll have to double the sheriff's staff just to direct traffic. I'm not speaking only as the mayor, but also as a major stockholder in Beaumont's largest bank. Beaumont's on the march!" 
He paused to sip his Scotch. 
"Beaumont's going places, Mr. Faust, thanks to men such as you. We know what we owe to you wildcatters. I'll tell you something else," he announced dramatically. "You're going places too. You're an exceptional boxer, sir." 
Here it comes, Faust guessed. 
"You could go far--maybe to the top, with the 
right management. You have all the ingredients of a champion, Mr. Faust. You could make big money. I'd like to help you do it." 
"Me?" 
"You could be the next Jim Jeffries," Burford predicted, invoking the name of the heavyweight champion of the nation. 
The wildcatter managed to appear startled as he took a large gulp of the potent bourbon. An open confrontation with the mayor would be stupid. He had to slip the punch, to dodge the impact as he had the previous night. 
"Oil's really my game, Mr. Mayor. I'm just fighting to pay some bills till I start drilling again. Like to think about your offer though." 
The unctuous politician winked. 
"I understand. Consider it carefully. We could make a ton together. I know the right people, and I'd get you top dollar. Would be more like a hobby for me, of course. I like to help fellow sportsmen out when I can." 
"Mighty white of you, Mr. Burford," Faust fenced, and finished his sour mash. "I never considered I was important enough to have a manager. I'll think it over good." 
Then he thanked Burford, side-stepped an invitation to have a second drink, and made his escape. He was a little uneasy when he faced Maria that night, but she asked no questions about the fight and made no fuss. He was encouraged to see how sensibly she was taking the boxing. Her realistic attitude was a great improvement over her past intolerance. 
Maybe it was because there was hardly a mark on him, he guessed. Aside from the one bruise on his cheek, there was no sign that he'd been in a tough 
bare-knuckle battle. That and the $200 he'd collected were obviously enough to calm and reassure her. To make sure that she understood he had no intention of making fighting his career, he again explained that he'd be back drilling in a few months. 
"Next week," he told her on New Year's Eve, "I'll be in Houston for another bout. Purse will be twice as big, and I'm betting the two hundred I have on myself. I'll come home on January 5th with $800. Should have two thousand or more by the end of February. You'll see." 
She shrugged. 
"You still don't like it, huh?" 
She shook her head. 
"Do you have to do this, John?" 
"I think so. Bear with me, Maria. By June well be back drilling. By September, you'll have a sore arm counting our money." 
She considered this, sighed, and returned to her fine embroidery. 
By agreeing to work on the weekend, Ernie Faust got January 4th and 5th off so he could accompany his father on the train to Houston. Fast Tom Suckley had a reputation in this city--four or five times as big as Beaumont--as a contender for the state championship. As a result, more than three hundred fifty men and a number of women were in the audience that assembled to watch this slugfest. Of course, if Suckley moved with his usual speed he'd probably do all the hitting while the older fellow took all the beating. Cutting up slower opponents, almost surgically, was Suckley's trademark. 
"They say he's a mean one, Pa," Ernie reported after he'd spoken to several local fight fans. "Goes for the eyes a lot. Throws plenty of kidney punches too. His left is fast, and his right is faster." 
I 
236 Lee Davis Willoughby 
"How's his chin?" 
"One fellow did say he had a weak jaw, but it's damn hard to get at it." 
John Faust filled his mouth with water, drank half, and spit out the rest. Too much of it in your belly could be bad for a fighter. 
"Anything else?" he asked. Before Ernie could answer, one of Bowie Gillis' men appeared to lead the wildcatter out to do battle. The introductions were brief, as usual, and the fight began at two minutes after eight. Within 90 seconds, John Faust saw how Suckley had earned his nickname. It wasn't only his hooks and jabs that were fast. His footwork was swift and expert. He was a much better boxer than Moats. 
Suckley was smarter too. He didn't barrel in as a less professional fighter might. He deliberately tested the wildcatter's defenses, and also tried to lure Faust into attacking so he could analyze the oil man's offense. Big John Faust dodged and slid, slipped and bobbed, hurled a cross, and then two jabs--but showing no combinations. He threw his punches at less than full force. 
He was taking Suckley's measure, the first step in baiting his trap. He was in no rush, not with all of his $200 winnings bet. By the end of the first of the scheduled 25 rounds, he knew more about his foe than Suckley knew about him. By the end of the third round, he noticed something that gave him a battle plan. Suckley had a busty brunette girlfriend in the second row who kept shouting "Sock him, Handsome!" The way that he preened when she screamed this suggested that he was vain about his pretty-boy face; that he'd strive to protect it. 
Starting in the fifth round, Faust began to batter 
Suckley's body with punishing punches. Whenever he got the chance to hit him, he punched for the belly or ribs. Now he was hitting much harder, and these blows began to have an effect. He hurt and hurt and hurt Suckley's torso for three rounds. Fast Tom tried to fight him off, attempting to sneak painful punches to the kidneys as Ernie had warned. Then he tried to thumb Faust in the eye.
The fourth time that he attempted this Faust crashed a fist into that exposed gouging thumb. Suckley screamed. It was broken. He wouldn't try that dirty trick with his right hand again. By the seventh round, Tom Suckley wasn't so fast anymore. He hurt so much when he moved that he was a lot slower, and now he had to lower his hands some because he couldn't endure any more body punches.
That was when Big John Faust hurled the uppercut that broke his jaw and ended the fight. For a moment, the stunned audience gaped in silence, and then it roared. Someone had beaten Suckley at his own game, methodically and ruthlessly. People were cheering for the stranger, and Bowie Gillis beamed as he thought of future profits.
"I've got some more good news," Ernie said as they left. "People were so sure Suckley would take you I got two-to-one odds on your bet," he reported and handed his father $600.
Added to the $400 purse, that made $1,000.
All the way back to Beaumont on the train the next morning, that number kept echoing in Big John Faust's head along with the clickety-clack of the wheels on the steel rails.
$1,000 . . . $1,000 . . . $1,000 . . . $1,000.
The money was building even more quickly than he'd hoped.
$1,000 . . . $1,000 . . . $1,000.
Maria would be pleased, for if things went this well he might be able to give up boxing as early as May. Weary because he hadn't slept that well on the hard bed in the cheap hotel near the railroad station, Big John Faust closed his eyes and dozed off contentedly. He didn't awaken until Ernie nudged him with word that they were entering Beaumont.
They saw the sheriff as they stepped out of the station.
"Been on a trip?"
"Houston," John Faust replied.
"He beat Fast Tom Suckley last night," Ernie announced proudly.
"Congratulations! Can I give you a ride? You can tell me all about it. Must have been a helluva fight."
In the sheriff's buggy on the way to the bank to deposit the $1,000, Big John Faust told Holly what had happened. His son broke in frequently with details, for the father was not the sort to boast.
"Suckley's probably still sleepin', Sheriff," Ernie said as they neared the Beaumont Trust. "They must have heard that uppercut in Dallas."
"There's the bank. Thanks for the ride," John Faust acknowledged. That was when Holly noticed the thin man with wispy white hair lounging near the bank door. He did not stop the buggy, but drove on.
"Where you goin'?" Ernie demanded.
"Round the corner where that fellow can't see me. The one standing outside the bank--I recognized his picture. That's Whitey Murdock, wanted for five killings. He's part of the Markel Brothers gang. I think you know them, Mr. Faust."
It was the thugs who'd tried to steal Miller's horses at the stable on the day the Fausts reached Beaumont. 
"Met em," the wildcatter replied succinctly. 
"They said they'd come back and get you," Holly reminded as he halted the buggy, "but I figure they're here for the bank. They took one in Sugar Land two weeks ago, and the Rangers almost got them in Humble six days back." 
"Think they're in the bank?" John Faust asked. 
"In or on their way. They use Whitey as a lookout," Holly explained and jumped down from the driver's seat. Then he asked Ernie to hurry the rig to his office only half a mile away, round up at least half a dozen armed men, and return as quickly as possible. 
"I ain't going against the Markel gang alone," the candid lawman announced. After John Faust got down, Ernest drove off for help. Then Holly and the wildcatter took up a position diagonally across the street from which they could watch the bank. 
"I'd put that star in my pocket," Faust pointed out. "Makes too good a target." The sheriff followed his advice immediately. They watched and they waited. So did Whitey Murdock. Then another cowboy-- stocky and about five feet six inches tall--joined him. 
"That's Shorty Gannett. It's the Markel gang all right. Where the hell are those deputies?" 
Big John Faust didn't reply. His attention was focused on three riders approaching slowly from the opposite direction. One was unfamiliar, but he'd seen the other two at Miller's stable. 
"We got more company," he told the sheriff softly. Holly recognized the Markels, and shrewdly turned his back before they could spot his face. The trio cantered by, dismounted, and tied their horses loosely 
to the hitching post in front of the bank. Giving no sign that they knew the lookouts, they were chatting easily as they entered the building.
"Deputies are here," the wildcatter said. One hundred yards down the side street, half a dozen men, divided in groups of two, were hurrying towards the sheriff. One was Ernest Faust. His father noticed that he'd borrowed a six shooter from someone. It was stuck in his belt.
"We've got to get rid of those lookouts," Holly thought aloud. "Question is how. They're trigger- happy types, and if anyone with a gun walks up they might start blasting."
"Then let's try someone without a gun," the wildcatter proposed. "Those two outside don't know me, so what the hell?"
He stepped out and began to walk towards the bank. Shorty Gannett saw him first, and said something to Murdock, whose left hand moved a few inches towards the Colt on his hip. The white-haired killer was a southpaw, Faust registered, and made his plan accordingly. He pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket, groped for a match, and swore. Then he tried his other pockets and cursed some more. Gannett grinned at the obscenities. Whitey Murdock's pale blue eyes merely blinked. Aside from that, he showed no reaction.
" 'Scuse me," Faust apologized. "Hate to bother you, but I wonder if you could spare a match?"
Murdock shook his head about an inch. Gannett nodded, and pulled a small box of wooden matches from his trouser pocket. John Faust began to reach forward to accept it. Half way, his hand closed in a fist that smashed into Murdock's throat. The homicidal hoodlum gagged and reeled under the awful pain. He tried to cry out but no sound emerged. Reacting
to the agony, both his hands clutched at his windpipe instead of at the pistol in his holster. 
An instant after the wildcatter's savage punch crippled Whitey Murdock, Faust swivelled and hit Gannett on the jaw. He struck him as hard as he' could, three times in swift succession. Gannett staggered forward. Faust ripped the pistol from the dazed criminal's holster, spun it with the skill of a stage magician, and slammed the butt across the side of Shorty Gannett's head. That laid him out, bleeding and nearly unconscious. 
The sheriff and his deputies began to run towards the bank. Big John Faust didn't wait for them. He spun the pistol again, turned to Murdock who was still gasping, and rammed the muzzle of the .44 into the lookout's open mouth. 
"Stand still--dead still--or you'll eat bullets. This ' is a six shooter, Mister," he reminded grimly. "One wrong move and they'll be scraping chunks of your head off the trees." 
Fear and hate blazed from Murdock's reptilian eyes. 
"Don't move. Not an inch, or you're meat for the, dogs to chew. Keep your hands up there. That's right. Stay alive, Whitey. You're too young for a pine box." 
Faust reached down, took Murdock's gun, and handed it to Holly as he arrived. The sheriff gestured to his deputies, who dragged the two lookouts around the corner. 
"I think you're crazy," the sheriff said admiringly. "We can take it from here." 
"I'll finish the round," John Faust answered. 
"Okay, they should be out in a minute." 
They were. By that time their horses had been led away. The three bank robbers ran from the Beaumont Trust, saw neither steeds nor lookouts, and froze in 
uncertainty. John Faust clubbed one Markel. Holly hammered down the other. The third thief turned to face two pistols and a pair of shotguns. The double- barreled scatterguns were aimed directly at his belly.
"What's yore name, son?" Holly asked.
"Chandler."
"Lift 'em high, Mr. Chandler."
When all the hoodlums had been disarmed and taken into custody by the deputies, Holly thanked the Fausts and offered them transport to their rented house. He waited with the buckboard while the wildcatter deposited the $1,000, and then delivered them to the small adobe residence on the edge of the Mexican section.
"They're not goin' to bust out this time," Holly vowed. "There's a hangman's rope waiting for them in Bandera, and they're gonna swing. Should be some money in this for you--maybe one third of the reward. Your piece could be $2,500."
"Sounds fine. Oh, here's Whitey's gun."
"Keep it. Beaumont's never been a real rough town, but a man never knows when he might need a six shooter. 'Bye."
"You wouldn't be heading by the Crosby?" Ernie asked. Holly nodded. Ernest Faust shook hands with his father, and rode off with the sheriff.
The little adobe house was empty, but that was no surprise. It was after nine, so Maria was at her job in the hardware store. Big John Faust walked to the bedroom, took off his shirt and trousers, and opened the closet door to hang the pants on a nail.
The closet was more than half empty.
Her clothes were gone.
He strode across to the chest of drawers, and opened the top two that were Maria's. Not a stitch of hers
remained. He stood there baffled for several seconds before he noticed the blue envelope that rested on his pillow at the head of the bed. 
Their bed. 
He tore the envelope open impatiently. 
Dear John 
I cannot live with a man who does not take my feelings seriously. 
I told you how I cannot endure fighting and brawling, but you went ahead to make it your business. That hurt and humiliated me, and reminded me of so much unhappiness. 
I have tried my best, but now I must go. I will not return. You will never see or hurt me again. You cannot change, so I must run away. By the time you read this, I will be hundreds of miles from Beaumont--leaving Texas, and you, forever. 
Now we have little left but our memories and two fine sons--young men making their own lives and destinies. Please give them my unending love. 
I hope that you find your gusher, and somebody to share it with. It's too bad that you could not listen, or hear. We might have had so much together. 
Maria 
First he was hurt, then angry. After that he cursed for a while before he thought about the past six weeks. She had made some hints; had signalled her plain opposition to the fighting. He wondered why she hadn't spoken out more forcefully. She'd seemed to accept his explanation that he had no other course. 
She was wrong. He'd listened, but he couldn't agree. She hadn't understood. He had cared for her, and his 
gusher too. Why did she have to make him choose between them? Well, he'd get along without her. She'd probably come crawling back in due course anyway. She wouldn't find another man like Big John Faust. 
He found the almost empty whiskey bottle in the kitchen, drained it in five minutes, and wondered what to do. Half the men in the state . . . no, in the country . . . didn't listen to their women any better than he did, dammit. Why had she done this foolish thing? Why now? 
He wasn't going to hang around here moping. He put on a clean shirt and made his way to the Cajun woman's "social club." Madam LaRue (her first name was Giselle) could see how deeply he was troubled. She decided to give him her personal attention. It was the madam herself who took him upstairs with a bottle of champagne under each arm; who left word that they were not to be disturbed, and took him into her room, where brothel patrons never entered. She liked this strong, good-looking, and well-meaning man. 
They drank, and then she took him into her bed and body. An hour later they repeated, and that was not the end of it. Food was brought in, then more liquor--whiskey, this time. Then sleep, with more carnal adventures and coffee and wine and more sleep. He was a remarkable lover. She didn't want to let him go, but she knew that she had to. 
Big John Faust finally left at ten the next morning. He had a clear head despite the hangover. Walking home, he faced up to the fact that there was no point in looking for her. Whoever was right or wrong, it was too late now. There was only one thing he could do. 
Fight and win. 
Again and again, against ever tougher foes for bigger and bigger stakes. 
It would help him forget the beautiful woman who knew him better than he knew himself. 
He would have to find another woman, one who was not appalled by his ways or dismayed by the life styles of the wildcatters. That was one thing he couldn't change, and -didn't want to. 
Big John Faust was a wildcatter, and he was proud of it. He would be till the day he died. It wasn't a mere job. It was a calling. He had $1,000 now, and with the reward that would be $3,500. It could be double that in a month. Maybe he'd take in a partner. He was in a hurry now, to show her ... to show the world. The gusher would be his. 
On January 21st, Big John Faust fought in Shreveport, Louisiana. His adversary was an ex-lumberjack known as Iron Head Kieling, who'd earned that nickname from opponents who had broken their hands on his tough and totally hairless skull. The wildcatter boxed him silly; whittled down his resistance with pinpoint jabs and finally decked him in the 14th round.
Lefty Walters only lasted 11 rounds when he met Faust on February 12th in Dallas. Walters was a bleeder. He cut easily. Two series of punches in the sixth and seventh stanzas opened gashes over his eyes, and a right cross that he tried to duck under slashed open two inches of his lower forehead. Walters spouted blood, struggled to see, and then his nostrils leaked crimson. He had so little vision left by the tenth that the wildcatter expected the referee to end the bout.
That's what would have been done in a "regular" fight between professionals wearing gloves, but the
referees were less finicky about blood in bareknuckle battles and the crowds who came to these contests considered gore proof of a "good fight." Lefty Walters had little defense left, so it was no problem, except one of fairness and dignity, for Faust to pound him unconscious. 
The referee in Mobile on March 1st couldn't see much himself, or perhaps he was a cousin of Sailor Ed Collins. After only three rounds, the former stoker abandoned all pretense of fighting fairly and began butting and kneeing. His skull was as hard as Iron Head Kieling's had been, but his ribs were not. Collins butted the wildcatter four times and the referee said nothing; Big John lost his patience. 
After catching a knee in the groin in a clinch, Faust lost his temper. He began to batter the dirty fighter, concentrating on his midriff. Round after round, he crashed punches in Collins' beefy middle. He was not throwing these blows at full power. He didn't want the louse to collapse until Collins had absorbed so much punishment that he'd never forget Big John Faust. 
"This is for the butting and kneeing," the wildcatter whispered during a 17th round clinch. "You're going to take a lot more, mister." 
Sailor Collins looked frightened, and then he tried to knee Faust again. That was a mistake. Faust hammered and jabbed mercilessly for nine more rounds, by which time his fouling foe was groaning continuously and hurting almost everywhere. He had been knocked down eight times before Faust ended the ugliness with a Sunday punch in the 23rd round. 
Tornado Larranaga had a different style. The energetic Cuban came charging out with a nonstop barrage of punches. He was like a whirlwind of fists, 
but he didn't hit that hard. Faust did. The March 25th battle in Dallas was supposed to go 25 rounds, but lasted only six. Everyone agreed that the Cuban had lots of courage and style, and that Big John Faust was one of the best heavyweights seen in Texas in recent years. 
"When do I fight next?" the wildcatter asked as he pocketed the $700 purse. 
"Shouldn't that be who?" the promoter asked. 
Faust shook his head. 
"Don't have time to worry 'bout that. That's your problem, friend." 
"What's the hurry, John? You're making a name. The money's getting better every fight, and you are too," Gillis told him. 
"Got my reasons for rushing, Bowie. There's a lot of oil with my name on it under Jefferson County, and I hate to wait." 
The promoter nodded. 
"One more thing. I want $1,000 next time," Faust announced. 
"You won't get it. You're not ready yet. Got to fight more important fellas first." 
"Can you fix it? If you can't, Bowie--" 
Gillis recognized the ultimatum, and shrugged uncomfortably.
"I guess I could. You've scored six straight knockouts. Nobody very big, but six is something. I'll try," he agreed and looked at Ernest questioningly. 
"He could get hurt. Can't you talk to him?" Gillis asked moments later when Big John Faust was occupied talking to a reporter. 
"He always does things his way," Ernie answered. He was simply stating a fact, something that wouldn't change. Gillis wondered why the son didn't seem to 
worry about his father. Was he that loyal, or was there something else? He had enough tact not to ask. If there was some tension between the Fausts, it was something deep and dangerous. Family things were much too explosive for outsiders to touch. 
The wildcatter's next victory in New Orleans was not easy. Blackie Ireland, 30-year-old son of a former slave, was a strong and experienced boxer who'd left the cotton fields six years earlier to fight for a living. He'd won 34 of his last 40 fights, with three draws and only three losses. This battle went the full 25 rounds, with Faust taking the decision. Each of the battlers was knocked down several times. Both left the ring with many bruises and marks, but no hard feelings. They'd fought cleanly and fairly, and each respected the other as a man. 
"You took your lumps this time, John," Gillis noticed soberly. 
"So did he. The difference is, I won. He was good. I was better," the wildcatter answered and held out his sore and swollen right hand for the purse. It only took him half a minute to count the 16 $50 bills. Eight hundred dollars, the most he'd ever won. 
He had $13,100 in the bank. He needed only $4,000 or $5,000 more. One big fight would do it. 
"When do I get my thousand-dollar-fight, Bowie?" 
"It'd have to be somebody first class--a real name. I'm talking about someone like Indian Tom Elk Horn." 
"Get him." 
"You think you're ready for Indian Tom?" the prompter challenged him incredulously. "He's got thirty pounds on you, John. Fists like hams, and he's mean." 
"He's a Sioux?" 
"Half Sioux, from the Lakota tribe, and half white. They say he turned bitter as a kid when people teased him." 
"Why'd they tease him?" asked Faust. 
"Cause he's a half breed." 
"That's crazy. What the hell has that got to do with anything? Sioux, huh? Heard they're a fine people. Braver'n hell, and real religious." 
"Tom's grandpa was a medicine man; rode with Sitting Bull when they wiped out Custer and the Seventh Cavalry back in '76." 
"So he hates white people?" Ernie asked. 
The promoter nodded. 
"And he's got problems with Indians too. Kind of a loner," Gillis reported, "but one helluva fighter. Been fighting a lot up in St. Louis since he got a new manager." 
"Can you reach him?" Faust demanded. 
"Maybe. Can't promise he'd fight you, but he might. His manager must be hungry. Got him fighting twice a month, or more. He's hard--39 consecutive knockouts. Thirty-nine. Might have had a shot at the championship if he wasn't half Indian." 
"No wonder he's mean," the wildcatter thought aloud. "He's mean cause he's sore. Can't blame him." 
"Can you beat him is the question," Gillis said. 
John Faust did not answer it. He had money on his mind. 
"Not $1,000. $1,500" the wildcatter specified. 
The promoter considered the number carefully. 
"Maybe. He's a big draw. Lot of folks come to see him whipped. Been disappointed so far." 
"I won't disappoint 'em," Faust promised. "This is the one I need--the rest of the money. Then I'll quit." 
They all said that, Gillis thought. Most of them went 
on and on anyway until they were battered and toothless hulks, some half blind or so punch-drunk that they didn't remember their own names. 
Should he tell this to the wildcatter? 
No, it wouldn't matter. Ernie had said it. Big John Faust did what he wanted; did everything his way. Listening to other people wasn't what this independent-minded man did best. 
"I'll send the telegram," Gillis agreed. 
Within a few days, word that the fight was on--St. Louis on April 23rd--was all over Beaumont. People were excited. Among those who were aroused was a woman who had shown no public .interest in any kind of boxing. Lying in her bed in the darkness, Sally Burford closed her eyes and thought of the savagery that was to come in five weeks. 
The violence made her shiver. Just anticipating it made her breathing quicken. Her hands were caressing her thighs, but the mental picture of the burly men, stripped to the waist and bare-fisted, was somehow just as arousing. She sucked in her breath as she recalled the photo that the Beaumont paper had run the day before--a tall, dark-complected gladiator with bulging muscles and an angry face. He was half Indian, capable of almost anything. 
It would be something to tame him, she mused as the heat waves flickered within her. A savage--that would be extraordinary! There was no way that she could do it, of course. As a proper Texas lady, she couldn't be seen associating with a Red Indian. 
Her touchings grew swifter. 
That left Big John Faust. 
Why not? 
She'd had the son, and the father appeared to be 
just as simple an animal. She'd wait until lie returned from St. Louis. That would give her many pleasant evenings of naked anticipation in this dark bedroom, hours and hours to plan and fantasize.
She heard a door close, and realized that Amanda had said good night to Jacob. Her sister was a child, a fool, Sally thought. Now she slowed her caresses, and wondered how long Amanda intended to remain a virgin. Amanda was so pure that she might hold back until--no, that was unthinkable. A Burford could not marry the half-educated son of a brawling wild- carter. The whole family .would be laughed at by society.
Yes, when the father came back she'd find a way.
Not for just one night, either.
Her needs were greater than that. It would be easy to arrange, for he lived alone and he had a reputation as a man of powerful passions and appetites. There was no telling what such a primitive might want of her. Her wishes would prevail, of course. No man would dominate Sally Burford.
Now it was time.
Her hands moved more quickly again.
Three minutes later, she floated in smiling sleep.
On March 29th, Brom Torgeson began to feel that something was wrong.
It wasn't his oil wells. Two had come in, and in a few days the family would move into the fine three- bedroom house he'd bought. It was tangible proof that the Torgesons were no longer hopeful immigrants scrambling for survival on the edge of Beaumont's business and social community. He had money, and he'd be making more. Bankers and shopkeepers were already greeting him in the streets.
No, it was his daughter who troubled him. Twice when he had come by the hotel in his new buggy to give her a ride home she was not there. Each time she returned to the little house late with the excuse that she'd had to work.
Bryna was lying to her parents.
Why?
He didn't discuss his concern with his wife, for that was not Brom Torgeson's way. On April 12th, he 
decided to watch where she went. He had to know. That evening he hid in a doorway near the hotel. She came out at the proper time and went directly home. It was the same on the next evening, too.
On the 14th, she left the Crosby at nine once more, and he wondered whether he was wasting his time. When she set out on a route that did not lead to the Torgeson home, he was oddly pleased. Now he'd learn her secret. He followed her to the oil wells, and saw her heading directly for one of his own rigs.
He couldn't believe it.
She was meeting Ernest Faust. He could barely control his disturbance as he watched her take the man's hand in hers. What would his daughter have to do with an oil field laborer, a nobody? The Fausts were common wildcatters without money or respectability. The father was a cheap fist fighter, no one important.
He glared as he saw them hug and kiss. He would have been much angrier if he knew what they did on nights when Bryna's monthly rhythms permitted. He would have become violent. Even this limited physical contact was unthinkable. Who could say where it might lead if the relationship was not stopped? She was an inexperienced young woman, full of romantic ideas and yearnings for independence. These were typical of the unrealistic ideas one found in this strange country.
Firing Faust might make him a hero to innocent Bryna.
At this age some foolish females were eager to defy their fathers; to assert themselves in any way they could. He had to find another plan. By the time he got home he had done so.
"It's Shakespeare's birthday," Jake Faust thought aloud as they made their way through the crowd of noisy St. Louisans. His father didn't hear him. To Big John Faust, the important thing about this sunny April 23rd was that he'd be up against the best fighter he'd ever get to oppose. When he told Gillis and his own sons that this was to be his final professional match, he meant it 
He had to win. 
He'd bet every cent he had on the outcome. It was Jacob who'd made the actual wagers, for it would not be stylish for a professional to put the money down on himself. Ernie had been unable to get the four days off for the long journey by rail up to St. Louis, but Sam Miller had not only given Jacob the time but had come along himself to root for his friend. 
Men and women by the hundreds were calling out as Faust neared the ring. Some were cheering him. Others were shouting crude racial epithets about his adversary. Gillis had been right. A lot of people had turned out with the hope that he'd beat Indian Tom to a pulp. Their faces glistened with hate. 
There was no such fury in John Faust. 
He had not come to break a fellow human's body or pride. He was here to defeat a worthy adversary, and go home with $27,000--enough for a rig. Listening to their ugly insults, Big John Faust scowled in contempt for these vicious people. 
"That's right, John! Get mad and punch that stinkin' breed silly!" a prominent restaurant-owner yelled. 
"Smash his ugly face!" screamed the wife of a city councilman. 
"Kill him! Kill him, Big John!" a dozen others chorused. 
The wildcatter stared straight ahead, trying to ignore them.
"Is it always like this, Pa?" Jake asked as they reached the ring.
"Not like this. There's always folks hungerin' for blood, but not as bad as this. Listen to them!"
Jacob Faust shook his head.
"Do I have to?" he asked.
"You'll learn something, son. These good folks call Indian Tom mean. Hell, he's probably a saint compared to them."
The mob roared, an awful animal sound that was far from human. There he was--Indian Tom. He was even larger than the photos indicated, at least six feet four with fists as large as small melons. Behind him strode his manager, a thin dapper man in an elegant black silk suit.
"So he's wearing a beard now," John Faust said grimly.
"What?"
"That's him, Jake. That's the scum who stabbed you!"
Whatever name he was using now, it was Philip Latham. A thousand miles from Beaumont with a new face and identity, he felt safe. Not that feeling safe mattered much to Latham. Running outrageous risks and doing the unspeakable were among his trademarks, indeed, his pleasures.
"Now he's mean. That's Phil Latham," Faust identified. "Don't stare at him. We got to play as if we don't know him. Otherwise he'll run before the fight's over, and we'll lose him."
A bell began to ring loudly.
"He carries that silver-handled dagger in his fine Spanish boot. Remember that, son," Faust advised a
moment before the referee started to introduce the combatants. 
"At 205 pounds .. . with seven consecutive wins . .. the fair haired son of Beaumont, Texas ... a fighter with a great future and a lot of heart . . . BIG JOHN FAUST!" 
The uproar was deafening. Then he presented the other battler. 
"Two hundred thirty-five pounds . . . terror of the South Dakota badlands . . . undefeated in 43 contests ... a ferocious warrior well known in these parts . . . INDIAN TOM ELK HORN!" 
There was some applause, but more catcalls and boos. 
The grandson of a medicine man didn't even blink. He was used to this hostility, and he'd learned to use it too. It stoked the embers of the fire within him, made his hurt and loneliness glow. He had never wanted to smash others for the entertainment of thrill- seeking strangers. Home on the northern plains where the once mighty tribes barely survived, his family was ashamed of him. He had nothing but his pain and anger--bitterness such as this--to nourish him. 
The bell sounded. 
The fight began. 
Both men boxed carefully through the first two rounds. Each landed several solid punches, enough to show the other that he could throw a bone-jarring punch. Though his footwork was good, Indian Tom's speedy jabs and swiftness in blocking blows were much more impressive. He was the best defensive boxer John Faust had seen, let alone met in action. 
In the fifth round, the wildcatter feinted with his right . . . cocked his left to throw a hook . . . and found himself on the ground. That ended the round. 
When John Faust got to his corner to swallow some water, he rubbed his sore jaw before he spoke. 
"I hardly saw that one coming, Jake. He's fast." 
"You okay, Pa?" 
"Yeah. He can hit. Well, let's see if he can take it as well." 
Half way through the sixth round, the wildcatter slipped a punch, bobbed, and stung his foe with three hard blows to the stomach. Indian Tom nodded as if in acknowledgment of a capable adversary. Then he stepped forward and dropped John Faust again. The crowd screamed disappointment, pouring down enmity and curses on the man it despised. 
Jacob was worried. He peered into his father's eyes as the wildcatter squatted on the stool for the two minutes of rest. 
"We still don't know how well he can take it, do we?" John Faust whispered with a crooked grin. Jacob smiled back. If his father could joke, he was all right. 
In the eighth the wildcatter caught several more hard blows, and seemed to stagger. Indian Tom moved in quickly, too quickly. He walked right into the ambush. Two hard rights to his face and a roundhouse left sent him sprawling. He got up and nodded. You did a good job of fooling me, he seemed to say, but that won't work again. 
"Now he comes to me," Faust predicted to his son. "Got his pride up, so he's got to even the score." 
That was exactly what happened. Faust concentrated on defense for two rounds, then .began to pound Elk Horn's head. He'd learned that his opponent had a body like oak. Some ninety or one hundred punches to the ribs and stomach had done nothing to slow the man down. A change in tactics was in order. He 
pounded away at his foe's face and head, trying to hammer his jaw. 
In the 11th, he split Indian Tom's lip and opened a cut over his left eye. In the 13th, the wildcatter knocked him down again. Faust felt good about that-- until Indian Tom dropped him to the hardpacked earth in the 14th. 
"Your nose is bleeding, Pa," Jacob said, and handed him a rag filled with chunks of ice. 
"Is Latham still here?" 
"Yes." 
"Then everything's okay." 
John Faust continued to hammer at his opponent's face. It was swollen and bleeding in several places. Indian Tom grunted under a punch that broke loose two teeth, but he managed to finish the round. He was obviously hurt, but determined. 
"Finish him off! Deck him!" 
The wildcatter tried. His battered foe refused to quit. He was knocked down again in the 17th and the 18th, and everyone wondered whether he'd come out for the 19th round. He did better than that. With a new spout of strength and energy, he resumed the attack. Weaving and dodging as if it were the first round, he took the initiative. Only twenty seconds before the bell was to ring, he hurled a roundhouse left that sent Faust down to one knee. 
"Come on, you yellow dog," Latham jeered between rounds. "Show 'em you're not a coward. They think you're trash--an animal. Here's your chance to show you're a man, not a mangy dog. Knock that dumb wildcatter out! Do it!" 
Indian Tom charged back with a barrage of punches, but soon slowed his assault. He was running out of steam. John Faust wasn't. He knocked Elk Horn 
down in the 22nd and 23rd rounds again, punishing him with a wide variety of blows. The fighter from South Dakota was exhausted. He was battling on sheer stubbornness and will. The hammering that his body had taken had left it covered with welts, and the pain he felt told him that at least three ribs were broken. Still, he kept slogging on and trying to hit back with leaden arms--limbs he could barely raise.
He had no defense left in the 24th round. John Faust could hit him at will, but something kept him up. Was it some medicine man's power? Was it some Sioux sense of pride?
"Kill him! Kill him! Knock his brains out!"
Indian Tom Elk Horn did not surrender. He could hardly see and he barely heard the obscene taunts that Latham was using in a desperate effort to provoke him. All he knew ... all he sensed ... all he cared about . . . was the next round, the 25th.
He had to finish the fight.
He would show them all that he was no coward. Somehow he got to his feet when the bell sounded, and shuffled forward looking for his opening. One lucky punch--one perfect punch--was all he needed to win. He'd knocked out dozens of men, and he wasn't finished yet.
There was his chance. He had a clean shot at the enemy's jaw. Faust was tired too. He was making mistakes. Indian Tom swung his best punch with all his might. John Faust dodged it, and fired back an uppercut with everything he had. Indian Tom shook like a tree that had been axed, stared glassy-eyed at the wildcatter, and toppled forward with a crash.
He was done.
The savage fight--perhaps the best that St. Louis
had seen in five years--was over. The hated halfbreed had finally taken the thrashing that he deserved, and the crowd went wild.
John Faust looked down at his fallen opponent for several seconds, as if uncertain that he'd actually won. He was obviously close to exhaustion himself. People were screaming, yelling approval and pounding him on the back enthusiastically. He was too tired and hurt too much to tell them how vile he thought they were, or how he felt about the man he'd defeated.
Somehow Jacob steered his father through the hysterical throng to the dressing room. The promoter found them there minutes later. Big John Faust was utterly worn out, barely able to speak as he accepted the $1,500.
"You were terrific! Terrific! They love you, John. I can get you $2,000 for the next fight. $2,000."
The wildcatter shook his head.
"No more."
"We'll talk in a couple days when you're feeling better. One great fight, John. I'll never forget it!"
When Gillis was gone, Faust turned to his son.
"Latham," he reminded. Jacob nodded, and ran. He sprinted down the corridor, pushing his way through boisterous fans to the other crude dressing room. There was no one outside this door. He rapped, but nobody appeared. He knocked again. Nothing. Finally he tested the knob.
Semi-conscious and badly marked from 24 rounds of hard bare-knuckled combat, Indian Tom Elk Horn sat slumped on a table with his back against the raw plank wall. His manager stood less than a yard away, hissing contempt like a desert rattler.
"They're right. You're nothing!" he sneered. "You're
stupid and you drink too much, and you've got the guts of a chicken. Yeah, you're not an Indian. You're a lousy chicken!"
The battered gladiator stared.
"And I lost $2,000 betting on you, you lily-livered moron! If it wasn't for me, you'd be panhandling in the streets!"
Then he slapped Elk Horn three times.
"Don't do that," Jacob Faust said. Latham turned.
"Who the hell are you? Get out of here," he ordered.
"I'm John Faust's son, Jacob. I'm the one you stabbed in the back last year outside Beaumont, Mr. Latham."
"My name's Peabody. Never saw you before, sonny."
Jake shook his head.
"You're going to the police station, Mr. Latham. You tried to kill me."
The thin dandy smiled.
"Guess I might as well finish it," he smirked and pulled the Florentine blade from his boot. Moving the knife back and forth with a deft skill that signalled experience, he advanced menacingly.
"Say your prayers, fool!" he advised, and thrust for Jacob's heart. He was startled when the young man dodged him expertly, and kicked him in the stomach. Latham doubled up in pain.
"First time I ever tried that, Mr. Latham. Watched fellows do it in bar fights. It isn't that difficult."
The murderer gasped for the wind that had been knocked out of him, and raised the blade again. Jake kicked him in the belly even harder, then hurled him against the wall with a crash. The knife fell. Latham found it, and managed to get up on one knee. Jacob seized his wrist and twisted it sharply to make him drop the weapon. He heard something snap, but didn't pause to ask what it was. Instead he jerked
Latham to his feet by the nape of his custom-tailored jacket. The killer was yelping in pain and terror. Jacob Faust stopped that with a blow to the face that left Latham dazed. 
Then Jake turned to Indian Tom. 
"You fought very well. My father wanted me to tell you that. You're a fine boxer, Mr. Elk Horn. One of the best." 
Indian Tom looked at him tensely, not quite believing.
"You shouldn't be associated with criminals such as him," Jake said. "You're the grandson of a great medicine man of the Dakota Sioux. You're an important person. Why do you fight in big cities far from your home?" 
The large brown eyes flashed as Elk Horn remembered.
"Home," he repeated longingly. 
"Do you want to fight to entertain strangers, or do you want to go home?" 
The big boxer groaned. 
"No money to go home," he muttered between ruined lips and nodded toward the criminal on the floor. 
"He took your money?" 
The fighter nodded. 
"Well, we can straighten that out. I'm sure Mr. Latham would be glad to give you a going-away present," Jake declared. He rolled the manager over, jerked out Latham's wallet and counted out the currency contents: ten $20 bills and eight one hundreds. 
"One thousand dollars ought to get you home, Mr. Elk Horn. Don't worry about him. He's going to the penitentiary with free room and board--if he's lucky. If he's not, they'll hang him next month." 
Latham's eyes were open now. There was bilious fear in them, and blood oozed from his nose. He stared as Jacob helped Elk Horn wash his cuts and bruises and get dressed. After the boxer had drunk three mugs of water, he forced himself to stand tall as he faced Jacob Faust. 
"Your father fought well too. Tell him that Thomas Elk Horn said so," he declared gravely. 
"I'll tell him, Mr. Elk Horn. Have a good trip home." 
"They call you Jacob?" 
"Yes, sir." 
"Thank you, Jacob. You are a good man. You bring honor to your clan." 
Jake Faust's heart surged with pride. 
It was by far the greatest compliment that he'd ever received. 
"Thank you, Mr. Elk Horn," he replied in a choked voice. 
Half an hour after Thomas Elk Horn left, John and Jacob Faust delivered a snarling Philip Latham into the hands of the St. Louis police. 
"With three different states looking for this devil," a rotund sergeant told the Fausts, "Mr. Latham will be behind bars for fifteen or twenty years." 
That prediction was not accurate. Less than sixty days later, Latham got into a fight with a cellmate who strangled him. The only person at his funeral was the prison chaplain, and he hurried through the service to get out of the rain. 
It was the beautiful red-head who worked at the hotel. John Faust was still sore in a score of places as he descended from the train, but the bruises and tender spots were not enough to prevent him from reacting to this lush young creature. Vibrant and voluptuous, she'd catch the eye of any healthy man. 
Bryna Torgeson--that was her name. 
"Morning, Miss Torgeson," he said pleasantly. Then he smiled, and his face hurt from Indian Tom's fists. He had never been this close to her before, so the splendor of her wide green eyes was a surprise. 
"Good morning, Mr. Faust. I'm afraid you just missed your son." 
"Ernest?" 
She nodded and pointed at a train pulling out of the station on the track heading west. 
"He's on his way to Oklahoma with my father. Something about leases in a new field, I think." 
"Ernie didn't say anything about this," Jacob thought aloud. 
265 
"I'm as surprised as you are," she assured. "It just came up all of a sudden. I suppose he ... they'll write. Excuse me. I'm due at work." 
She hurried off to the hotel, swaying as fine a set of hips as John Faust had appreciated in a long time. Of course he'd been without a woman since Maria had left so many months ago. That might have sharpened his interest. Jacob noticed the gleam of admiration in his father's eyes, but said nothing as they left the station. 
Within two hours, John Faust had bought a drilling rig from a card-playing acquaintance of Pegleg Brown. The man had taken it in payment of a poker debt, and he was offering it for $16,000. Faust looked it over, offered $12,000, and finally paid $13,500 when they signed the papers. 
"We start moving her to our lease tomorrow," John Faust told his son cheerfully. It never occurred to the wildcatter that Jake might prefer to continue at the stable, doing the work he enjoyed and being close to the woman he loved. He had no idea of what dislocation the move out to the hill six miles from town would create. Jacob didn't want to go, but his father needed him. His father had no one else to turn to now. Maria Faust was far away, and no one could predict when Ernie might return. Maybe Ernie would write soon, Jacob hoped. 
Ernie did. He sent letters to Bryna Torgeson every week, and her father made certain that not one reached her. He wanted her to believe that Ernest had forgotten her, so that her pride would turn her attention away from such an irresponsible and fickle man. Brom Torgeson did something else to turn her against Ernest. He permitted two of the letters addressed to Big John Faust to get through. 
His plan worked. One afternoon when the wildcatter was in town to buy supplies, he took time for a few drinks at the Crosby bar before he returned to the rig. It was there that Bryna saw him. She could not restrain her impulse to ask.
"How are things going, Mr. Faust?"
"Drilling away. Down past nine hundred. Got my fingers crossed. Be easier if Ernie was back."
"What do you hear from him?" she inquired in as casual a voice as she could muster.
"Not a lot. Only two letters. Must have found himself a gal up there. Maybe one of those pretty Indian ladies. He's got an eye for females, you know."
She couldn't decide which was more irritating--the two letters to his father and none to her or the possibility that he was engaged in some sexual adventure with another woman. How could the man to whom she'd given her virginity do this? Did he really think she'd put up with it?
"How's your dad?" Faust asked.
"Fine. Fine," she replied mechanically.
"Nice to see you, especially in that dress," the wildcatter flirted.
Now why couldn't Ernie be as attentive? His father had so much better manners, and he was just as good looking. In fact, she found herself noticing that there was a definite resemblance. They didn't exactly look alike, but there was an interesting similarity. At that moment, Mrs. Wilson joined them.
"Good afternoon, John. How've you been?"
"Working hard, Charlene. And you?"
"Just fine. How are the boys?"
Big John Faust didn't recognize the false tone, but it was as loud and clear to Bryna Torgeson as a bugle blast. What was Mrs. Wilson hiding?
"Boys are well," Faust acknowledged, pleased that the widow wasn't holding any grudge. He'd expected that her wrath would subside, it certainly looked as if things had worked out just that way. 
"Any word from Ernie?" 
That was it. Bryna was stunned, but also stung. Mrs. Wilson had some secret and special connection with Ernie. How could it be? What could it be? She knew the answers in her womb. As a woman, she sensed that it had to be carnal. It was most unlikely that Ernie could love the older woman, but a physical relationship would be another matter. Perhaps being with Bryna only every third or fourth night was not enough for Ernie Faust. 
"Ernie's okay. Writes the food's good but the whiskey's rotten," the wildcatter reported and reached into his pocket to pay his bar check. The widow waggled her finger at him in affable reproof. 
"This tab's on the house. Come in again, John." 
It took a woman to understand, Bryna thought as he walked away humming. John Faust believed Mrs. Wilson was being friendly to him. He didn't suspect that she hungered for more news about that faithless but formidable son in Oklahoma. 
More weeks passed. Not a word from Ernie, and she grew angrier. Outside Beaumont, John Faust was also irate. He'd drilled down to 1,900 feet in vain. There was no oil under the acreage he'd leased, and he lacked the tens of thousands--perhaps hundreds of thousands--of dollars that new leases commanded at the day's wildly inflated prices. All the prize fights, all the battering he'd taken, all the work and all the dedication had been for nothing. He'd gambled, and lost. 
Some men would have been depressed. 
John Faust was sore as hell. 
"That was a grand supper, Ma'am," John Faust announced.
"Tell that to Fortuna," Amanda Burford replied, "but I doubt that she'd believe you. You hardly touched your food, Mr. Faust. Is everything all right?" 
"The grub. . , 'scuse me, the food was fine. Real nice of you to invite me. Don't get this sort of meal at the rig, do we, Jake?" 
Jacob shook his head in assent, and Amanda smiled happily at the young man she loved. It was so good to have him back in town after those long, lonely weeks. 
"To put it in a nutshell, we've hit a dry hole," John Faust announced. "And that's it. No point in kidding ourselves. We're tapped out." 
Amanda looked puzzled. 
"It's a race track expression," Jacob translated quietly. "Means out of money." 
"You've still got your rig," Sally Burford pointed out tartly. She'd been studying John Faust furtively 
269 
throughout the meal. He had an excellent physique, and looked strong and sensual. The fact that he'd struck out on the lease outside of town fit her plans perfectly. If he were back at his house here, her seduction would be much simpler to accomplish. 
"But no place to drill. I don't think there's an acre of land within twenty miles that's available," the wildcatter said. 
"I know four acres." 
They all stared at Fortuna Gonzalez. It was she who had spoken. 
"Where?" John Faust asked instantly. 
"Just across the road from where your rig sits," the housekeeper answered and continued pouring coffee. 
"That's a pig farm," Jacob remembered. 
"Si, Senor. Sucre? Sugar?" she offered. 
"Whose farm is it?" 
"Mine, Senor. I have inherit from my grandfather some years ago. Just a pasture for pigs, Senores, but if you think it could help--" 
She was offering it for Amanda. She loved Amanda Burford, and she knew how important it was for Amanda to keep young Jacob in or near Beaumont. 
"I don' know if there is oil there, Senores" she said truthfully. 
"Only God knows. What do you say, Jake?" 
His son smiled at Amanda Burford, who glowed back at him. 
"Worth a try, Pa." 
Recalling the original terms that Amanda had asked for the Fausts' rental of space in the back yard, Fortuna Gonzalez was prepared to settle for a small monthly sum, perhaps $100. Big John Faust insisted on paying her triple that, with the proviso that one quarter of any oil they found would be hers. While 
Sally Burford glowered, her sister penned the simple contract in the most graceful handwriting and both parties signed. 
Then John Faust left immediately for the Crosby Hotel. This was something that required a drink or two to celebrate, and alcoholic beverages were not stocked in the Burford home. 
The bustle in the lobby was no longer what it had been. Men weren't buying and selling leases at that frantic pace anymore. As some had predicted, a few huge companies now controlled most of the land and they were exploiting those mineral rights, not speculating for quick profit. Many of the parasites and confidence tricksters had already moved on to the new fields in Oklahoma. 
The Crosby bar was still full, however, so John Faust found acquaintances to banter with as he knocked back the pair of double bourbons. Feeling only the slightest buzz after imbibing what would have many men groggy, he tipped the bartender generously and started for the street. He stopped to open the door for Bryna Torgeson. 
"Now I'll ask you," he told her. "Any word from Oklahoma?" 
"My father writes that they're in good health, and he's taken another lease. No mail from Ernest?" 
The wildcatter shook his head and followed her out into the street. 
"Only letter I've had in two weeks was from my wife. 'Scuse me, ex-wife. Got a divorce in Colorado, so that makes it all right." 
"Makes what all right?" 
"My walking you home. Wouldn't do if I was still married. People like Sally Burford wouldn't consider that proper, I bet." 
Bryna Torgeson grinned. She knew the starchy Sally and her prissy ways. In addition, she liked the pleasant style of John Faust's easy-going flirting, so much less intense than his absent son's. 
"Unless you think your daddy might mind," the wildcatter added. 
"He'd probably be glad that some decent gentleman's escorting me home." 
As they strolled through the flower scented May night, John Faust could tell that his funny stories, compliments, and colorful anecdotes about the oil world amused and warmed her. She was young but not girlish, impressively strong and mature for a female about half his age. Vital, lovely and bright, she had a directness that was as attractive as her extraordinary hair and figure. Hell, Maria had been older than this when he wed her. 
When they reached her door, he didn't try to kiss or even touch her. He guessed that she might wonder why. He was right. He wanted her to think about him, to try to figure out what this meant and what--if anything--he might do next. The twinkle in his eye hinted that she'd see more of this man, but when? She found herself thinking about him at odd times during the next two days--as he intended. 
Then he was there again. She walked out of the hotel expecting to make her own way home, but John Faust stood waiting. He had something wrapped in green tissue paper. Flowers! Carnations. No one had ever given her flowers before. Once again they strolled home. Once again he merely smiled his goodbye.
This man was starting to bother her. He wasn't courtly or oozing oily flattery like so many lecherous 
older men. Indeed, he wasn't lecherous at all, and she wasn't even aware of the age difference. She was soon surprised to find that he was filling more of her thoughts than his annoying son. Was he as splendid a lover as Ernie? Better? 
He disappeared again for several days until the rig was operating satisfactorily in the pig pasture. It was a strange scene; the derrick and its drill gouging into the Texas earth with sixty or seventy pigs, large and small, behind a crude fence only yards away. The flowers kept coming every day while he was gone. There was no card, but she knew. She grew impatient for his return. 
Suddenly he was back. This time he took her to dinner at Beaumont's best seafood restaurant, where the shrimp were big and the white wine chilled just right. What was this man waiting for? she fretted. He wasn't waiting any more. When they neared her door, he reached out and she moved into his embrace. It was effortless, the most natural thing in the world. They kissed feverishly, and when she pressed against him she felt his wanting. Her mouth, her full breasts, her whole body burned with need. 
They went to his small adobe house the next evening, and her unspoken question was answered. He was not only a better lover than Ernest, but better than she could have dreamed. She could hardly speak on the way to her home, so complete was the experience.
He went back to the pig farm before dawn. The steady clatter of the donkey engine and the noise of the drill confirmed that everything was going ahead normally. The machinery was working, Jake was brewing a pot of coffee, and the drill was down to 
650 feet. It would be at least another month before they'd know whether there was oil (in commercial quantities) under this pasture. 
"Smelled some gas coming up "bout an hour ago," Jacob reported. 
"Don't mean much. Could be no oil at all, or just a few barrels a day. If it's that, we'd better start thinking of what we do next--and where." 
That Bryna was something. It was a lot more than her youth and wild passion that attracted him. Damn, it would be terrible to leave Beaumont now, John Faust brooded. 
"Here," his son said. "I'm staying here." 
It was a statement of principle. He had made his decision. His father shrugged and nodded. The lad was right. These were special women, worth fighting for against all that passed for business logic or common sense. They'd find oil here if they had to gouge it out with their fingernails. 
He nodded his thanks to Jake as he accepted the hot mug of coffee. He took a sip of the bitter brew, cursed himself for forgetting to bring back sugar from town--and heard the noise. It was a low growl, the sound of a nearby animal. John Faust turned towards the source of the noise. He was facing the rig. He saw no animal there. He had a sudden hunch. 
Was it possible? 
"Jake," he began. But his son never heard the rest of that sentence, for a steadily louder rumble rose from the ground. The earth itself began to shudder. Now the noise was awesome, deafening. The derrick was vibrating like a child's toy. In all his years of wildcatting, Big John Faust had never seen this. 
It was frightening. 
It was primeval. 
Jake was gaping at the shaking, rattling rig, pointing and yelling something completely drowned out by nature's own barrage of subterranean power. Whatever it was, it was enormously strong--irresistible. John Faust, and his son retreated some thirty yards. If the rig collapsed, they didn't want to be crushed under its debris.
The noise grew still louder.
Then a blast greater than a dozen peals of thunder boomed from the ground, and chunks of pipe were hurled up and across the sky like javelins. Seconds later, an enormous spout of Hack liquid squirted from the earth. It rose more than one hundred and fifty yards into the air.
"It's a gusher! It's a gusher!" John Faust shouted. His son was yelling the same thing with equal excitement, but neither heard a word--not even his own. They stood there pointing at the incredible eruption.
The skies were raining oil. Black petroleum poured down on both men, covering them from head to toe. They had to wipe it from their faces to see, to breathe. After a minute they realized that they were losing the unequal struggle. They both ran back another thirty yards to get away from the sticky, dangerous shower.
The pigs were whimpering and snorting in terror. The team pulling a passing buggy bolted in utter panic, racing down the road at top speed while the driver desperately fought to slow them. John Faust's own horses plunged and heaved to break loose from their tethers, and half a mile away a herd of longhorns burst blindly through the barbed wire fence that contained them.
The Fausts stood watching the fantastic sight, spitting out gobs of oil and pointing.
Thousands of gallons were spewing into the air!
John Faust leaned close to his son's ear.
"It's bigger than Spindletop! Bigger than Spindletop!" he exulted.
The noise of the explosion brought dozens of other oil men from every rig within four miles. Derby Kincaid, Pegleg Brown and men to whom Big John Faust was only a legendary name came to help quench the gusher. They looked at it in awe, cried out joyfully, and charged into the sticky black rain. Even with all these volunteers, it took nearly five hours to plug the well. It would take hundreds of thousands of dollars more to reopen it properly and commercially so that the oil could emerge in a regulated flow.
There would be no trouble borrowing that.
This well was worth ten million dollars--maybe double that. The man who owned it would find friends at every bank in the nation. Big John Faust wasn't going to make the mistake that the Spindletop's original owners had. He wasn't going to yield most of his share to some northern bankers for a pittance. He wasn't going to sell out what he'd sweated so many years to achieve.
This was The Big One.
It was his future, and that of his family.
When the flow was halted, the filthy men looked at each other and laughed crazily. They were splattered with oil. Their hair, faces, clothes, shoes were coated with gobs and smears of the black gold. They all looked awful.
"Like we was tarred and feathered," Derby Kincaid cackled.
Jacob told them of the stream less than half a mile away. Laughing and boasting and shouting in high spirits, they straggled down to the bank of that mini- river and jumped in shouting. They swore at the cold
water, frolicked like playful porpoises, worked to cleanse themselves of the oil. They were only partially successful. 
"We need soap," Jake said. 
"What's that?" chortled Pegleg Brown, and most of the other dirty men roared in sympathetic laughter. 
"We look worse'n those pigs now!" Brown joked. 
"You always did," Kincaid teased. Jacob was the only one who noticed John Faust leave the stream. He wondered where his father was going. He was still wondering ten minutes later when he saw his parent ride by on his horse, heading for Beaumont. 
Cantering through the afternoon heat helped dry his clothes, but not completely. They were still damp and wrinkled when he tied the steed to the hitching post in front of the Crosby, and rivulets and blobs of oil remained as ebony blotches from his hair to his shoes. People peered at him curiously as he entered the hotel. 
Ignoring their glances, sniggers, and coarse remarks, he strode directly through the lobby to the dining room. Bryna Torgeson was busy seating a patron. She had the rosy look of a woman who has had a complete physical experience with a man she cares about. 
Just how much did she care? 
He was about to find out. When she turned, she saw him and she was startled. He'd expected that, and he didn't mind. It was logical that she'd be shocked by his strange and filthy appearance. 
"John? Are you all right?" 
He looked directly into her eyes and nodded. 
"Bigger than Spindletop! I think she's the biggest ever!" he told her. "Before you ask any questions, I've got one for you." 
All the diners were staring at the man who looked like a bedraggled tramp, but her eyes showed nothing but approval.
"Will you marry me, Bryna?"
She hesitated for several seconds before she replied.
"Why do you want me to, John?"
His wide grin lit up half the room.
"Because I love you, Bryna."
Her smile was just as large. She nodded slowly.
"I'll marry you, John Faust."
Her father wouldn't like it--for two reasons. First, an older man wasn't Brom Torgeson's idea of the best mate for his precious daughter. Second, a wildcatter was probably his idea of the worst.
"When did you have in mind?" she asked evenly.
"Day after tomorrow. Take that long to get this oil off me, and I'll need a new suit."
"You look fine to me, John Faust. You look like the man I've been waiting for," she told him. Then she framed his greasy head in her hands, and kissed him.
Everyone applauded.
"We're going to be very rich," the wildcatter told her a few seconds later.
"That's fine, but I'm not marrying you for that."
"Why are you marrying me?"
She patted his oil-stained cheek.
"Because I love you, John Faust."
Then they kissed again, and the patrons cheered once more. John Faust turned and smiled happily twenty seconds later. He finally had his gusher and the most beautiful young woman he'd ever seen. And she loved him. What could possibly go wrong?
The wedding was not a large one, but the house that John Faust bought for his new bride two days later was one of the finest in town. It was less than a block from the Burford home in the best section of Beaumont, with five bedrooms, and lawns, and a fine garden. There was a stable, which John Faust immediately filled with two first-class riding horses, an elegant sulky and a high-stepping team of white steeds to pull it. 
It was bigger and grander than the residence Brom Torgeson had purchased. That was the first thing Torgeson noticed when he came to visit his daughter three weeks after she moved in. He was cool and controlled now. His initial reaction to the telegram had been rage. Then he reread it, saw that she'd been wed for almost a week, and wondered how to punish her. No, he'd punish both of them. Brom Torgeson was not a man to forget an insult, and in his mind this wedding--without either his knowledge or permission-- was a personal affront. 
When he saw the house, that angered him further.
Bryna read it in his eyes the moment they met. Her father was jealous. It was ridiculous, but this private, intense, ambitious ex-fisherman resented his own daughter's prosperity. Then his expression changed. After they exchanged greetings, she found out why.
"So he's rich. Now I can understand," he told her.
"Understand what?"
"Why you married this man. It was the money, of course."
She couldn't believe what she was hearing.
She shook her head. He ignored it.
"That's what counts in this country," Brom Torgeson continued. "I've learned that. Your father isn't a stupid foreigner any more. I'm making lots of money myself. I've got four wells producing now, and we're drilling two more in Oklahoma. Your Ernest is doing a good job for me, Bryna."
He noticed her shock.
"Don't worry. I won't tell his father. I may want to do business with Mr. Faust. Business is what matters, isn't it?" he demanded.
"Papa, you don't understand. You're wrong about me, and you're wrong about this country."
He wasn't listening.
"I don't forget what you did, Bryna. Maybe it was for the best. I have plans for bigger business. If your husband is so rich, that can help. He owes me. He took my daughter like a thief, but I can forgive. We can make much money together."
How had this happened to her father?
This blind obsession about money was sick!
"I love John," she said.
"How rich is he?"
"Please, let's not talk about money. Say that you're
glad that I'm married ... that I'm happy. He's a wonderful man." 
Torgeson's eyes narrowed craftily. 
"You want it all? You don't need your father anymore? You think you're bigger than your father now, huh? We'll see who's bigger. You watch. In one year . .. maybe two ... I'll be much bigger than your John Faust!" 
"You're talking foolish, Papa," she appealed. 
"We'll see who's the fool. Tell that to your man!" he ordered bitterly and turned to go. 
"Please. Don't leave, Papa. He'll be home in a hour. I'd like you to meet him, to see what a fine son-in-law you have. Everybody likes him." 
Brom Torgeson paused to take a last look at the lavish furniture. 
"Enjoy it while you can, daughter," he advised in tones icy with menace. "Do not come crawling to us for help when it is gone. Your man is' a wildcatter. Their luck does not run long. He will squander it all, and you'll be living in a shack." 
"Wait, Papa!" 
"A shack!" he repeated and stormed from the house. 
When John Faust got home, she told him of the dreadful visit. 
"I wish he'd waited," Faust said and put his arms around her reassuringly. "I'd like to have met him. Maybe we could go in on some leases together. After all, he's your dad--" 
"He's crazy. Well, half-crazy anyway. This money thing is a ... a lust. He's burning with it." 
"Honey, honey, he's your father. I'd like to help him." 
"I don't think anyone can. He's all mixed up, and he's angry." 
Big John Faust squeezed her gently. 
"Maybe it's the shock of our wedding," he reasoned. "Look, I'll go over to see him tomorrow. Courtesy call. Show we respect him. That ought to help." 
"He's wild, John," she warned. "I think he's dangerous."
"Then I'll wait an extra day to give him more time to cool off. Hell, there must be a lot of people chewed up with envy of our gusher. It's kind of normal, I'm afraid. Don't worry. Your father and I will work it out, man to man." 
They didn't. 
When John Faust arrived at the Torgeson house two days later, Bryna's mother looked embarrassed. Her husband had left for Oklahoma that morning. She had no idea when he'd return. 
There was no letter from Oklahoma. None from either Brom Torgeson or Ernest. Jacob had written to his brother about the wedding, and received only a curt reply that mentioned the hope that "they'd be happy." Ernest wasn't much of a letter-writer, of course. He was like his father in that, but Jake was still disappointed that he heard nothing more from his brother after that. 
The weeks seemed to flash by, and the months passed almost as quickly. The Fausts put down a second well at the far end of the incredible pig pasture, drilled down to 900 feet and hoped for the best. 
They got it. 
Another fantastic gusher--more millions of dollars. Big John Faust bought a gasless buggy, then another. He was the first in Beaumont to own two. Now he hired the services of the town's shrewdest lawyer, and 
before long the wildcatter found himself incorporated. He had a company, an office and a bookkeeper. He laughed about all three. 
There were jewels and fine clothes for Bryna. There were servants in the house, one a niece of Fortuna Gonzalez. Fortuna herself insisted on continuing at her job for months, even though she too was immensely rich now. She bought herself a much finer house, and one for her sister, and another for her proud parents. To her cousin who had tended the pig farm, she gave a five-acre pasture twelve miles out of town, and a new herd of pigs. 
"Why can't people leave me alone?" she asked Amanda Burford. 
"They mean no harm. It's just that they think you've got a fortune. Some say a million dollars, and if they had that much they wouldn't work." 
According to the lawyer who advised Faust Oil, Inc., the housekeeper's s,tock was worth at least four million--and would increase in value. 
"I like it here, and I like to work. Am I not a good cook?" 
"None better. You could, if you wanted to, open a fine restaurant." 
"To do what? Make more money? I've got enough. And if I did, how much would I see of you? Who would take care of you? I'd miss you, Senorita." 
Amanda Burford sighed, then smiled. 
"I'd miss you, too, Fortuna. I have an idea. Maybe somebody else could take over the housekeeping chores, and we--" 
"Could open a very fine restaurant--un magnifico-- together," Fortuna finished. "Good for both of us." 
Fortuna Gonzalez was one of the few people who knew that most of the assets left by Amanda's and 
Sally's parents had been looted by their shifty uncle, the greedy executor who'd cunningly stolen more than eighty percent of their inheritance. Income from a restaurant would surely help her beloved Amanda. "We could try it," Amanda agreed.
It was an immediate success, for there were now many more wealthy people in oil-rich Beaumont than the Crosby Hotel and other good dining rooms could handle. The women named their venture Amistad, the Spanish word for friendship. Everyone came, including John and Bryna Faust. It wasn't long before bright- eyed Fortuna noticed that Bryna was pregnant.
That was in December, the month in which the first British naval vessel was converted to burn oil and the same month that Big John Faust turned down a Rockefeller offer of $23,000,000--half in cash and the rest in Standard Oil preferred shares.
"They'll double in three years," Standard's stiff- collared attorney promised.
"Don't doubt it, but that's not my game. Oil, not stock, is my line," the wildcatter replied.
It was the next month that the trouble began. When he went to negotiate a lease on a new parcel 26 miles from town, someone else had beaten him to it. When he hurried to purchase an advanced drill that was in short supply, someone had bought it out from under his nose.
"These things don't add up to a row 'a beans," he told Jacob, "but I'd like to pin a name on that someone. It's spite work. We've got an enemy, son, and we might as well know who it is."
"We haven't harmed anyone, Pa," Jake protested.
"But someone's trying to harm us."
Whoever it was had access to the confidential plans
of Faust Oil. It could be their lawyer, or maybe the bookkeeper or the newly hired secretary. Private detectives were quietly brought in from the Pinkerton office in New Orleans. They watched and tracked the three suspects for twelve days. Then they turned in a hefty bill and a report with solid evidence that the traitor was their bookkeeper. He'd sold them out to the White Star Investment Co., which had deposited four checks of $500 each in the bookkeeper's account during the past nine weeks. 
- It took three weeks for John Faust's lawyer to find out who owned White Star. The firm was registered with authorities at the state capital in Austin, where the files and records were laboriously examined. 
"You won't like this," the attorney predicted when he received the information from Austin. 
"Who is he?" Big John asked impatiently. 
"It's them. Two men. You know both. One is our dear mayor, George Burford." 
"The other?" 
"Mr. Brom Torgeson." 
Bryna had said that he was half-crazy, and she was right. He couldn't tell her about this, not in her condition. He couldn't let them think they'd gotten away with these dirty tactics either. They needed a lesson. 
Ten days later, John Faust summoned the bookkeeper to his office. 
"You're fired, Stanley. Just heard your friends bought the Alexander farm, so we don't need you 'round here anymore." 
The pasty-faced bookkeeper gaped in surprise. 
"They took the bait," Faust told him. "We never had any intention of buying that worthless hunk of used- up cotton patch. Your White Star pals just bought themselves $185,000 worth of gopher manure." 
The informer struggled to defend himself. 
"Mr. Faust, I must protest. I never--" 
"Yes, you did. We've got proof. My lawyer says we could put you in jail. I say I could bust your jaw and a few other parts, but Jake doesn't think that's a good idea. He's what you might call squeamish about breaking bones and such." 
The wildcatter threw an envelope on his desk. 
"Here's your pay through today, and a train ticket to Memphis. I want you out of Texas within 48 hours. No room for crooks in Texas." 
"It might be a bit--" 
"If I find you in town in 48 hours, you'll go to the hospital," Faust promised. He meant it. Recalling his muscular employer's well known record as a savage bare-fisted fighter, the treacherous bookkeeper left Beaumont before the deadline. An hour before he boarded the train, he posted a letter to the secret mail drop used by White Star. 
"One hundred eighty-five thousand dollars--and he probably knows who we are," Brom Torgeson thought aloud grimly when he read the letter. 
What would Faust do next? 
He wasn't the sort to stop with this one counterattack, Torgeson calculated. This was bad enough though. He'd rubbed their noses in the dirt. No, gopher manure--just as he'd said. Faust was probably laughing at them at this moment. 
Brom Torgeson had his pride too. Nobody could sting him for so much money and get off unscathed to chuckle about it. Nobody--not John Faust with his millions--or anyone else could make a fool of Brom Torgeson. Faust would suffer for this. 
How could it be done? 
What would hurt him most? 
John Faust was rich and powerful, and now he was on the alert. He might have people spying on Torgeson at this very moment. He might be organizing some financial conspiracy against Torgeson, or gathering evidence to be sent to the state's ambitious Attorney General. 
Torgeson was worth more than $5,000,000 himself, but that was only a fraction of the resources that Faust could mobilize in a business battle. No, Brom Torgeson would have to fight a different kind of war for his vengeance. He'd teach them both that he was an important person, someone to respect. 
There had to be another way to hurt them. 
It came to him quite suddenly that evening as hate prevented sleep. 
It was perfect. 
He would not merely hurt the Faust family. 
He would destroy it. 
It had to be done carefully. 
It couldn't be rushed. 
Torgeson knew that Ernest had been troubled by word of Big John Faust's marriage to Bryna. Big John Faust? He'd be a lot smaller after this. The son would be the axe used to cut down the father. 
Torgeson began to have an occasional drink with Ernie, encouraging him to grumble about the boredom of life in the Oklahoma oil fields. Torgeson did not speak about Bryna at first. Instead he joined in complaining about how much "better" life was back in Beaumont, how isolated and lonely it was here. 
"You can bet they're having more ... more everything ... back home," the older man needled. Then he refilled Ernie's glass. 
"Yeah." 
"What are we doing here? This is nowhere." 
Ernest Faust nodded in glum assent and drank the whiskey. 
After three such sessions, Torgeson inched closer 
to the point. He started to talk about how lavishly Bryna and her husband were living. Two nights after that, Torgeson made his move. 
"We should be there, Ernie. It isn't fair. I'm glad you're here helping me, but what he did wasn't right" 
"Who did?" 
Torgeson feigned embarrassment. 
"Uh . . . well ... I shouldn't talk about it." 
"Say it, dammit." 
"Your father. He intercepted all your letters to Bryna. That's why she thought you didn't ... you know." 
Ernie looked up, suddenly intent. 
"He did that?' 
"Wanted her for himself. Now he's got her. Baby's coming in three months. I hope they'll be happy, but I can't help thinking it wasn't fair." 
"That dirty cheat!" 
"Must have been jealous of you, Ernie," Torgeson poisoned, and pushed the bottle closer to his drinking companion. This time Ernie took a gulp directly from the glass container--a large swallow. 
"You sure about this?" 
"He boasted about it to me. I didn't have the heart to tell you. Maybe I shouldn't have now." 
"He's always been pushing me around," Ernie said bitterly. 
"I was shocked. I didn't even know' you'd been seeing Bryna until he laughed about how he'd put one over on you. You're much closer to her age. What a shame!" 
"The bastard!" 
"Forget it. There's nothing you can do about it," Torgeson said maliciously. "You're just a boy, and he's Big John Faust." 
"We'll see about that!"
Torgeson smiled as the tipsy young man stormed out in a rage. Less than thirty-nine hours later, Jacob Faust was startled to see his brother charge into the Faust Oil office in Beaumont. Ernie had that look in his eye--one Jake knew all too well.
"Ernie! How are you? Welcome back!"
"Where is he?"
"It's so good to see you. We missed you."
"He didn't Where's our fine father?"
The wrath in his voice confirmed the expression on the older brother's face. He'd come to fight.
"What's wrong, Ernie?"
"Nothing that concerns you, Jake. Where's Pa?"
The younger brother glanced at the pendulum clock ticking away on the wall. It showed ten minutes before six.
"Guess they're on their way to Amanda's house. I'm supposed to meet them there for dinner in a few minutes."
"I think I'll join you."
Jake shrugged. Ernie was like his father in so many ways. There was no reasoning with either when they were furious like this. Still, Jake had to try.
"What's the trouble? I'm your brother. Maybe I can help."
"Let's go," was Ernest's only answer.
When they reached the Burford house, they found John and Bryna and the sisters sipping lemonade in the sunny back yard. The women greeted them warmly.
"Hello, Ernie," Big John Faust said and held out his hand. His son did not take it.
"He wants to fight, Pa," Jake warned.
"I can see that. Anything special, Ernie?" 
"You know damn well." 
Bryna flinched, and the foetus within her felt it. Amanda Burford looked startled. It was Sally who could barely suppress a smile of anticipation. 
" 'Fraid I don't, son." 
"Ernie, this' is crazy," Bryna appealed. "You can't fight your father. He loves you." 
Ernie pointed at her stomach. 
"That should have been my son." 
"He's drunk," Amanda gasped. 
"Did she tell you, Big John?" Ernie asked defiantly. 
The father began to unbutton his shirt. 
"I think it's time for that fight," he announced calmly. Then he turned to Amanda. 
"No, he isn't drunk. He's been spoiling for this fight for a long time, and we might as well get it over with. Right, Ernie boy?" 
"I'm no boy," Ernie replied. He started to remove his shirt too. "I'm a better man than you are. I don't steal." 
"Stop them," Amanda pleaded to her lover. 
"He can't," Bryna answered. Then tears welled in her large green eyes; 
"She's right," Jacob confirmed. 
"And I don't intercept other people's letters so I can take their woman," Ernie announced as he tossed his shirt on the ground. "Her father told me how you boasted about it." 
Big John Faust shook his head. 
"Never happened. Get ready, Ernie. I'm a little out of training, but I think I can give you a few lessons. Suppose we go till somebody yells enough?' 
"Suits me." 
Faust dropped his shirt on a chair and walked out into the late afternoon sun. His older son followed.
"This won't take too long," Big John Faust predicted.
"It's barbaric!" Amanda Burford protested.
The combatants circled each other only briefly. This was not to be an extended 25 round contest where stamina was important. Though.neither of the adversaries had said so, this was to be a slugfest--a battle of hitters. One would have to batter the other into submission. There would be no intermissions to rest, no pauses after knockdowns.
Ernie threw the first punch. It moved quickly, but Big John blocked it deftly. Then Ernie hurled a right cross, which his father slipped without much effort.
"You got to do better than that, boy," Big John said. A split second after he spoke, he caught Ernie with two jarring jabs that hurt.
"Like that," the father explained. Ernie faked with his left, drilled a punishing right to his father's stomach. Big John grunted under the impact.
"That okay, Pa?" Ernie challenged.
"Not bad," his father replied and threw a hook that snapped back his son's head.
"Stop it! Stop it!" Amanda cried. She turned to Bryna, who was staring at the flowers, waiting for the madness to end. The tears were still coursing down her cheeks.
Ernie pounded another hard blow to his father's midriff, dodged a hook, and banged in two punches to Big John's face.
"Your nose is bleedin', Pa," he taunted moments later.
Sally Burford was breathing hard with excitement.
Her eyes glistened with animal pleasure. John Faust hammered two jabs to Ernie's ribs, then a hard left cross to his foe's ear, and a lightning-fast hook that split Ernie's lip. 
"Your mouths bleedin', son," he announced, and hit Ernie squarely on the point of the jaw. Ernie fell to all fours, shook his head and got up to resume the battle. 
Half a minute later Big John was on the grass. He rose and circled for some seconds searching for an opening. 
" 'Fraid to fight, old man?" 
His father's answer was three brutally punishing hooks to the stomach, a jab to the upper right cheek, and an uppercut that sent Ernie staggering. 
"You're gonna have a black eye, Ernie," he predicted. His son charged back stubbornly. He had the strength of youth; the speed of hate. He unleashed a rain of punches. John blocked most of them--but not all. Now he was on the earth again. 
He was up immediately, and he was angry. He knew what he had to do. Using the professional skills honed in all those fights, he started to box with the cunning of a veteran. He dodged, bobbed, feinted-- hit ... and hit again. He knocked Ernie sprawling. 
"Had enough?" he asked. 
Ernie would not surrender. Coming back with the brute force of a young bull, he began to pound his way through John's defenses with sheer muscle. One blow spun his father's head. The next dropped him to the green. 
"You had enough?" Ernie panted. 
The boxing was forgotten. 
It was a raw slugfest now--two powerful men standing toe to toe, hitting as hard as they could. Many 
punches struck home. Grunts and curses. More blood flowed. The son spit out a tooth, but kept fighting. The father hit him again, then again. Ernie slugged back, and saw crimson well from Big John's forehead. 
They kept hitting, almost blindly now. Suddenly Ernie began to sway, and then he fell. His battered father peered down. It was several seconds before John Faust could speak. 
"I guess ... I guess." 
Then he slowly crumpled to the grass, only a yard from Ernie. They stared at each other glassily. 
"That's enough," Jacob Faust announced firmly. "I say that's enough. It's over." 
The exhausted fighters looked at each other. 
"It's finished," Jake insisted. 
The bloody men on the ground nodded. Jacob Faust put his arm around the sobbing Amanda, and then spoke to Bryna. 
"They're both all right." 
She turned. She was frightened. Why didn't they get to their feet? Were they crippled? 
"Her father was lying?" Ernie asked slowly. 
"Through his teeth." 
Ernest Faust nodded, reached up to touch the tender spot that had been occupied by one of his molars until four minutes earlier. 
"You've got a pretty good punch, Pa," he judged. 
"You're not too bad yourself, son." 
Then they got up and looked at each other appraisingly. There was respect in each one's eyes, and something else. 
Something very strong, very deep, very difficult for either of them to put into words. 
"I guess you're a man, Ernie," John Faust said. "You hit like one anyway." 
"Now I've got to live like one. Sorry I thumped you on a lie, Pa." 
"Thumped me?" Big John challenged. "Hell, you ought to take a look at yourself." 
"You both look terrible," Bryna said. "Awful. It's disgraceful. Amanda, stop crying and get some towels and ice." 
Amanda gulped down her sobs and went into the house. 
"Fine girl, Jacob. You ought to marry her," Bryna said suddenly. 
"I was thinking on it," Jake admitted. 
Sally Burford was on her feet, eyes blazing. 
"My sister? I wouldn't stand for it. There's no--" 
"Shut up, Fortuna," Ernie interrupted pointedly. 
Sally Burford froze in panic. 
"You knew?" she whispered hoarsely. 
Ernest Faust nodded. 
"You wouldn't . . . P" 
"Yes, I would," he threatened. "But that's not going to be necessary, is it?" 
She'd be a laughing stock. She'd be ruined if he told 'of her midnight visit to his bed. 
"No, Ernest," she yielded meekly. 
"You'll make a beautiful bridesmaid," Ernie assured and winked at his brother. 
"What was that about?" Jacob asked. 
Ernest winked again as Amanda emerged with the towels and ice. The battered fighters applied the wet cold to their cuts and bruises, and they spoke. 
"Why do you think he told that lie?" Ernie wondered.
"Because he's crazy!" Bryna Faust declared. "He's sick. Full of hate and all twisted with a madness for money." 
"Listen to your step-mother, Ernie. She's a smart old lady," John Faust joked.
"Smart enough to marry the best man in Texas," she replied smugly.
"What are you going to do now, Ernie?" his father asked. "Be a real help if you came in with me and Jake."
"Pa?"
"Yes, Jake?"
The younger son stiffened his shoulders.
"I've been talking to Sam Miller. He says he could use a young partner. I've got the $20,000 saved."
"Uh-huh. Well, you always did like animals. But what's going to happen to your horses when everybody's riding these gasless buggies? It's coming, you know." 
"Then he'll have his ranch and cattle," Bryna said.
Both Jacob and his father looked puzzled.
"The ranch and cattle you're giving them as a wedding present," she explained sweetly.
Big John laughed.
"Oh, that ranch and cattle. About two hundred head?" he tested.
"Three hundred," his wife corrected. "Now let's talk about Ernest,, John."
"How many head for you, Ernie?" John Faust asked cheerfully.
"No, thanks. I'm a wildcatter like you, Pa. It's oil for me, but not here. You understand."
His father nodded in comprehension. Ernie had to be his own man; find his own future in his own place. Here he'd always be the son of Big John Faust.
"I'm proud of you, Pa," Ernie said as if reading his father's mind, "but I want a place where Ernie
Faust is just as important as Big John--where I stand on my own. I'm thinking of Oklahoma. There's a new field that smells right to me. Feels right. You know what I mean."
"Would one hundred twenty-five get you started?"
"One hundred twenty-five, Pa?"
"One hundred twenty-five thousand dollars--that's what Jake's ranch and herd will probably run. You're just as important ... just as much my flesh and blood."
"He's trying to say he loves you boys," Bryna translated.
Jacob and Ernest Faust stared at their father.
"Something like that," he admitted. Then he had to change the subject.
"When will you ladies have supper ready? I'm hungry as a bear."
"You look like one too," his wife chided affectionately. John Faust grinned back at her. It was good to see him so contented at last.
"Sorry for any trouble, Bryna," Ernie said. "I think you married the right man."
"Right for me," she answered. Then the baby within her moved, and she patted her stomach in reflex response.
"When's my kid brother due?" Ernest asked.
"Doc says in July," Big John Faust reported, "but I'm betting on June. Look at her. She's big as a barn already."
They all started for the house.
"Betting on the date your baby's coming, Pa?" Ernest Faust joked.
Bryna Faust stopped, hooked her arm through her husband's, and smiled possessively.
"He'll bet on anything," she said. "He's a wildcatter."