Free Deep in the Heart of Trouble by Deeanne Gist Page A

he made up for in brawn.
    Instead of returning to the pipe he was stacking, though, Wilson snatched up his knuckleduster and bullets, then hurried back to the tree.
    Tony tossed down his shovel and jogged after him. “What is it, Wilson?”
    “I spotted a squirrel up in that there pea-can tree and I mean to get me a piece of it,” he hollered over his shoulder.
    Tony slowed, coming to a stop several yards behind Wilson. Toolies, roughnecks, roustabouts, and pipeliners from the surrounding rigs left their posts. All work came to a standstill as they watched Wilson shoot up a box of twenty shells.
    For ten minutes he and the squirrel played chase. Men cheered poor Wilson on while simultaneously making bets against him.
    When he’d fired his last shot, the untouched squirrel eyeballed him from the edge of a branch, flicked his tail, then jumped to another tree and darted out of sight.
    Throwing down the empty box of ammunition, Wilson cursed the varmint. Red-faced, he plowed through the crowd and headed back toward the pipe he’d been stacking.
    The fellas slapped him on the shoulder as he went through their gauntlet. “Didn’t know you was such a crackshot, Wilson.”
    “Where’d ya learn to shoot? At Lady Pinkham’s School of Charm?”
    “I’m thinking ol’ Crackshot would’ve had a better chance of finding hair on a frog than pullin’ that squirrel’s picket pin.”
    “Maybe you oughter join up with Miss Spreckelmeyer’s shootin’ class fer ladies. Now, there’s a gal that could fill a hide so full o’ holes it wouldn’t hold hay.”
    Tony tried to pinpoint who’d called out that last remark, but the crowd was too dense.
    “Back to work, fellas,” Moss hollered. “We ain’t being paid to laze around in the sun.”
    As tool pushers go, Moss was a whopdowner—hard, mean, and ugly. He didn’t put up with any lip or lollygagging. No one openly criticized him, though, because he had a few loyalists who would frail your knob if you low-rated him. He looked after all of Sullivan Oil’s rigs and had the stroke to hire and fire.
    Catching Tony’s attention, he motioned him over. “I see the old bicyclette changed her mind about you.”
    “It’s the judge who’s responsible for me being here.”
    “I wouldn’t put any money on it if I were you.” Moss had a laugh that sounded more like a growl. “The lady of the house wields a mighty sword and you’d best be remembering it.”
    Someone from a rig up the way called for Moss, and the tool pusher headed his direction.
    “He’s right, ya know,” Jeremy said, falling into step beside Tony. “Miss Essie pretty much runs the place. Even Moss reports directly to her.”
    “Why?” Tony asked. “Why doesn’t the judge manage it?”
    “He kinda lost interest when his wife died. So Miss Essie took over and it’s been that way ever since.”
    They reached the sump Tony was digging and paused. “Is it true what that fellow said?” Tony asked. “About Miss Spreckelmeyer being an accurate shot?”
    Jeremy smiled broadly. “It shore is.”
    “And she teaches other women how to use a gun?”
    “My missus takes lessons from her every Thursday mornin’, ”
    Jeremy said, “along with a passel o’ others.”
    “What possible use could a woman have for shooting?”
    Chuckling, Jeremy placed a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Don’t let Miss Essie hear ya askt such a thing. She’ll wear yer ear out giving ya reasons.”
    Grandpa barked out Jeremy’s name. The boy hustled up the rig to his spot on the double board leaving Tony to try and make sense of Miss Spreckelmeyer. Checker champion. Marksman. Wheeler. Banister-slider. And worst of all … boss.

    By the time Tony had been to the bathhouse and washed off all the drilling mud, the shale, the ditch, and the compound used to grease the pipe with, he’d barely made it to Castle’s Drug Store for dinner. He took his time over the meal, though, regardless of the fact that the “boss” wanted to see