Previously in the novel: West Texas farmboy Harley Sadler toured the High Plains in a traveling melodrama show, married Billie, opened his own show and delighted in his daughter Gloria. The Great Depression stole his successful business, his daughter died in childbirth, his wife sank into alcoholism and he lost the last of his money on wildcat oil drilling.
Mitch Sawyer, the foreman on Harley’s latest foray into wildcat oil drilling, stood in the back of the tent auditorium watching the end of one of the time-worn melodramas. It had been years since he had seen Harley on stage. Mitch thought the actor was too old to be playing the youthful sidekick, but all he could do was shake his head. He had bad news to deliver, and as the curtain went down, he steeled himself as he headed backstage. Actors directed him to the dressing room where Harley sat slumped over his table removing this makeup.
“Harley?” he asked hesitantly.
He looked around and stood. “What’s the problem, Mitch?”
“What makes you think there’s a problem?” He was a terrible liar.
“Well, the oil rig is three hours away from here,” Harley explained. “So when my foreman shows up I figure there’s a problem.”
Mitch did not know how to begin. “We need you there tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“We’re about to hit something,” he began with a sigh. “If it’s oil, fine, but if it’s water, we’re bust. I think you ought to be there to call it quits.”
Harley nodded and finished changing his clothes. They walked through the backstage area when Billie stopped them.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Billie, honey, I’ve got to go out to the rig tonight.”
“But that’s a long way.” She wrinkled her brow.
He shrugged. “I have to go.”
Mitch followed Harley out but looked over his shoulder in time to see Billie pull a small whiskey bottle out for a swig. So the rumors were true, he thought. She really did like her liquor. The ride in his pickup truck down the long straight highway was mesmerizing. Mitch glanced over at Harley who was nodding off. He tried not to think about the situation too much.
In the business circles of wildcatters, Harley Sadler was well known as an easy paycheck. He was so nice to work for because he did not understand seismology. He was in it for the thrill of the risk. All a driller had to be careful about was drinking on the rig. Harley hated drunks, they said. By this time in the late forties most wildcatters made excuses not to work for Harley. It was like taking candy from a baby, they said.
So when Mitch got a phone call from Harley Sadler, he knew he must be the last oilman on the list. Times were hard. Mitch told himself. He had a family to feed. As he stared at the looming white line down the highway, Mitch fought back tears. When they finally arrived at the drill site on the high plains, he nudged Harley.
”We’re here,” he whispered.
Harley stirred, rubbed his eyes and sat up. “Okay, let’s do it.”
They walked to the brightly lit derrick. A worker trudged over to them.
“Any news, Ike?” Mitch asked.
“Struck mud.”
“How long ago?” Harley’s voice was flat and passive.
“About an hour,” Ike replied. “We kept on drillin’, hopin’ to hit somethin’ else but we ain’t.”
Mitch couldn’t think of anything else to say. He stared at Harley as the old man walked closer to the derrick, becoming a hunched-over silhouette against the glaring light. Harley turned and smiled a smile that Mitch found vaguely familiar. Then he remembered. It was the Toby smile.
“Well, boys,” Harley announced, “let’s turn it off before it completely drains me.”
Harley wanted to sit in the truck until the last light had been extinguished and the last crewman had left. Without a word Mitch knew it was time to start the engine. Soon he was making good time getting Harley back to his show. The old man began snoring softly. Mitch did not want to consider how much of his retirement funds would remain after all the drilling bills were paid. Hot tears rolled down his rough cheeks.
Hell of a way to make a living.