The Drasnoe Pipe-Line

On a windy and sullen morning in May, 1864, a caravan of fifty wagons, each piled high with barrels, crawled down the muddy road from the Drasnoe oil-field. Beside the leading team of the procession walked a one-armed man and a fifteen-year-old boy. The faces of the two were not cheerful. That of the man was sad; the boy’s was anxious. Behind trooped the other teamsters, shouting, cracking their long blacksnake whips, swearing at the horses, the mud, the threatening sky. They were always boisterous and blasphemous during the long daily haul. The one-armed man and the boy walked together silently by preference. “Do you suppose General Grant is done fighting by this time?” the boy asked, at last. His companion smiled sadly. “I guess he won’t be done fighting for a good many months yet. But I shouldn’t wonder if he was out of the Wilderness by now.” “It must be a big battle,” said the boy. “Most as big as Gettysburg, don’t you think, John?” “Pretty nigh.” “How long do you suppose before we hear about father—whether he’s all right?” “Depends on how long the battle lasts. I guess in a week.” “That’s an awful time to wait. Your folks didn’t hear about you till ten days after it happened, did they?” He glanced at the empty sleeve. “I believe not. But there was a good deal to ’tend to after Gettysburg. Maybe there won’t be so much in this battle.” “I wish I was down there instead of hauling oil every day,” said the boy. “You’re making more money hauling oil,” replied the teamster. The boy glanced at him, hurt and scornful. “Yes,” continued the man, in his quiet voice, “you’re making quite a heap of money. And as long as you’re doing that, what’s the good of running off to fight? That’s what all that gang behind us would tell you—and there’s mighty few of them that are staying away from the war to support their mothers.” In his quiet voice there brimmed suddenly the full bitterness of contempt: “Floaters—and stay-at-homes!” The boy thought that perhaps John Denny was hard on the men. At least it was not cowardice that kept them hauling oil when they might be shouldering rifles. The boy had seen too many evidences of their courage and recklessness to believe that; he had seen also too many rough-and-tumble fights among them to believe that a distaste for fighting kept them in the paths of peace. Nor was it altogether greed for the dollars that were being so lavishly squandered in the oil country in those days that detained them; among them all there was hardly one who was laying money by. The boy himself, with his small farm wagon, had earned as much as seventy dollars in a week. But what the men earned so rapidly they spent as royally; it was the excitement of a sudden prosperity, greater than any they had ever expected or foreseen and the joy of indulging it had made them heedless of the call to arms. The boy was aware that whether they liked John Denny or not—and in view of his ill-concealed contempt it was hard for them to like him—they yielded him position and respect. The summer before, while the armies of North and South were battling in one corner of Pennsylvania, in another there had sprung up excitement over oil. John Denny had returned from Gettysburg with his right arm shot off at the shoulder, and had found this excitement at its height. He could make a living, one-armed as he was, on the farm. But instead, he mortgaged the place and drilled for oil. The hole was a dry one; and Denny faced the world in debt as well as crippled. Fortunately, the great Drasnoe wells began to flow at about that time, and teamsters were needed to transport the oil to the railroad eight miles away. The prices of oil and labor were high; and after six months of hard teaming, Denny had paid off his debt. And his fellow teamsters, who had mostly drifted in from “outside,” yielded him grudgingly a certain admiration. It was not diminished by the fact that he held them all at a distance—all but the boy, Elmer Todd, who was the youngest of the teamsters, and whom he took under his protection. At a turn in the road they saw a wagon backed up into a field. Two men were unloading sections of pipe. A third, a young man in high boots, such as the teamsters wore, stood by, giving directions. He looked up at Denny and the boy, and his face brightened pleasantly. “Morning!” he said. “We’ll get the last of our pipe laid to-day.” Denny stopped his team. “That so?” he said, grimly. “You expect when it’s laid it will stay, Mr. Ross?” The young man’s eyes narrowed together into a frown; his clean-cut face assumed a more determined expression. “That’s what I expect,” he said. “There’s some talk to indicate it won’t,” said Denny. He was in a black mood, and this young superintendent, who was making his fortune instead of hearing arms, came in for a share of his contempt. “When you hear any such talk, Mr. Denny, discourage it,” said Ross. “The men won’t gain by fighting with us over this matter.” “I guess,” observed Denny, brutally, “that if you were any good for fighting you would be elsewhere, Mr. Ross. Get up, boys!” He cracked his whip and walked on beside his horses. [Illustration: “THREE OF US WERE RIDING DOWN THE SLOPE OF THE GREAT, GRASSY HILLS”—page 269 _From the drawing by W. H. D. Koerner_] “That brought the blood to his face, didn’t it?” he said to the boy, with a laugh. Beside the road and up over the rising meadows ran a ridge of freshly turned earth. “It looks,” said the boy, after a silence, “as if we wouldn’t make many more trips.” “Yes. Once they begin pumping oil through that pipe-line, it’s back to the farm for you and me. Well—teaming has been a lift for me, anyway, this winter.” “I’ve got three hundred dollars all my own,” said the boy, proudly. “It will start me in at college some time—when father comes home.” “It’s more, I guess, than a good many have saved up.” Denny glanced back along the line of wagons. “And when they’re cut off from their day’s work—I expect there will be trouble.” The teamsters observed no great secrecy in expressing their emotions and in making threats. In consequence of specific declarations which he had heard, at nine o’clock that night Denny was crossing the Drasnoe oil-field, following the ridge that denoted the pipe-line. As he walked, he kept his eyes on the ridge, intent for any sign that it had been tampered with. After he had gone a mile he came to a strip of woods, through which the pipe-line was laid, although at this point the road diverged and made a circuit. The woods were not more than half a mile in area, and except for another clump of forest six miles distant, near the railway station, made the only secluded spot through which the pipe-line passed. The teamsters all lived in the vicinity of the Drasnoe field. “They won’t go six miles to cut pipe,” Denny thought. “Right here’s the place to catch ’em.” The sky had cleared during the afternoon; it was a mild, clear night, with a moon that showed the road from the edge of the woods for some distance. Denny sat down on a log, lighted the lantern he had brought, and taking a book from his pocket, began to read. Presently he looked up, and made out a figure approaching across the fields, following the pipe-line. He shielded the lantern and waited. When the approaching man entered the woods he stepped out to meet him. “Mr. Ross!” Denny ejaculated, contemptuously. “What are you doing here?” The superintendent’s voice was menacing. “I’m constable of this borough, Mr. Ross, and I’m here to prevent mischief.” “Then we’re on the same errand.” “Are we?” Denny asked. “You’d better go home to bed, Mr. Ross. You don’t want to get mixed up in this. You wouldn’t be any good—and it mightn’t be good for you.” “Look here, John Denny!” Ross stepped up close; his eyes flashed in the light of the lantern that Denny held aloft. “You the same as called me a coward to-day, and because you’ve got only one arm I can’t resent it! You told me that if I was any good for fighting I’d be somewhere else than here. Now I want you to know one thing—my plans were laid last week to leave for the front next Monday. You think I haven’t wanted to go! I don’t tell my private affairs to you or any other man, but I’ll say this much: over in Oil City I’m leaving a family provided for if anything happens to me.” “If that’s the case,” Denny said, slowly, “I take it back, Mr. Ross. I take everything back.” They sat down together on the log and talked amicably. Denny’s thoughts were turned back to his war experience. He told the new recruit stories of campaigning and battle. Ross listened with a respect of which his maimed subordinate became somehow conscious. That tribute of respect from one whom he had both envied and despised, and whom he had come so suddenly to like, swept the bitterness from Denny’s soul. “You’re giving up a good bit to go,” he said, at last. “Old man Drasnoe likes you; you’ve got a start toward being a millionaire. You throw it all up and go off to the war—and you can’t tell what you may come back to.” “I’ll have to run my chance,” Ross answered. “Mr. Drasnoe satisfied to have you leave?” “Yes,” replied Mr. Ross, quietly, “Mr. Drasnoe is quite satisfied. He likes the man I’ve picked to take my place.” Denny’s interest was at once awakened. “And who might that be?” Ross hesitated. “It’s hardly time to talk about it yet.” “Oh, all right. I wasn’t meaning to pry.” They arranged to divide the night into watches Denny was to sleep until twelve, then Ross would rouse him and sleep till four. At about one o’clock, while Ross, lying at the foot of a tree, was sleeping, the marauders came. Denny saw them as they climbed over the fence by the roadside. He awakened Ross, and said: “They’re coming. You’d better leave this to me—as constable. If they see you, they’ll get ugly. You go in behind that thicket and wait.” Ross protested. “You can come out if you’re needed,” Denny said; and the superintendent reluctantly withdrew. Denny put out his lantern, and stepping behind a great oak, awaited the approach. There were a dozen men, carrying lanterns, mattocks and spades; they passed close by where Denny stood. “Spread out, now—and rip it up all along!” cried one; and he lifted his mattock and brought it down upon the earth. Denny stepped forward. “Boys,” he said, “hold on!” They faced him, startled. The one who had spoken caught up a lantern and turned it on him. “Denny!” he exclaimed. “Spyin’ on us!” “I’m borough constable,” said Denny. “Destroying property has a penalty attached.” The men crowded round him, disturbed, angry, threatening. “Well, here we are!” said the leader, scornfully. “Arrest us.” “There won’t be any arrests if there’s no damage done, O’Brien,” Denny answered. O’Brien turned and struck his mattock into the earth. “Show him a little damage, boys,” he urged. “Yank up the pipe.” The others set to work, cursing at Denny meanwhile. The dirt flew; they flung it jeeringly at him. “All right,” said Denny. “You are twelve men against one. Maybe I can’t arrest you to-night, but I’ve got your names.” In a few moments they had exposed the pipe, which was not buried deep. Then O’Brien knelt and sawed it through in two places, and cast the section at Denny’s feet. “There!” he said. “How d’ye like the looks of that, Mr. Constable? And now, so’s you won’t follow us and see where else we operate, we’ll just tie you up for a while.” “You fellows will be piling up trouble for yourselves,” Denny warned them. “Murphy and Conway, there—you ought to have more sense.” One of these two men, Murphy, spoke in a low voice, unwillingly: “I guess maybe we’d better quit. If he reports us—” “He ain’t going to report us!” interrupted O’Brien. “He don’t dare. Come, boys, get a-hold of him, and we’ll tie him up—” He advanced a step toward Denny, and in the same instant Denny drew a revolver and leveled it at O’Brien’s head. “Don’t lay a hand on me,” he said, quietly. “Get behind him and grab him, somebody!” shouted O’Brien. “Spread out and get round him.” But the men hesitated. “I said we’d ought to have wore masks!” muttered one. “He’s seen us all now.” O’Brien made a quick dash, trying to circle Denny, who whirled and held the revolver pointed at O’Brien’s face. “Jump on him now!” shouted O’Brien; and then one, bolder than the others, sprang upon Denny’s shoulders and bore him to the ground. O’Brien was instantly upon him also, got possession of his revolver, and then with breathless imprecations began winding a rope about his ankles. “All right!” muttered Denny. “You’ve got me—but you fellows will pay for this.” Then Ross walked into the midst of the group. The leader of the gang looked up from where he knelt. “It’s you, is it?” he said, defiantly. Ross turned from him to the others. “Will you give me five minutes?” he asked. “I’m in your power; I’m all alone. Will you let me have five minutes to talk?” “Go on,” said one of the men. “Just five minutes, mind,” said O’Brien, truculently. He tightened the rope that bound Denny’s arm behind his back and stood up. “When I came here to-night,” Ross began, persuasively, “it was with the idea that there might be some trouble over this pipe-line. But though I was expecting trouble, there was only one man that I looked on as my personal enemy, and that was John Denny. He called me a coward to my face this morning; and when I came here a couple of hours ago, and found him on duty as constable, I felt I’d found more trouble than I was looking for. Well, we talked the whole matter out—and came to an understanding. And maybe, after talking this other matter out, you and I can come to an understanding. “Here’s the situation. A pump and a pipe together are going to do for almost nothing more than all you men have been in the habit of doing for a good deal of money. They’re going to put you out of business. So you get together and decide to put the pipe out of business. And you mean to keep putting it out of business just as often as it resumes. Isn’t that stating the case.” Two or three of the men laughed uneasily; there was no dissent. “Now you can do that to-night; you can keep on doing it for a while. But you must see—your common sense must tell you—that when an economical way of doing a thing is discovered, the expensive way has got to be abandoned. They are to have a pipe-line over in the Deepwater valley, and the teamsters will have to quit; they are to have another up at Anderson, and the teamsters will have to quit; they’re putting pipe-lines in everywhere. It’s a fact you’ve got to face; the day of the teamster in the oil regions is over. “Just to make it practical—to demonstrate it, not to make threats—listen. You cut this pipe to-night. What happens? There are two witnesses against you—John Denny and myself. All that the law requires is two witnesses. It’s true you have us in your power to-night—but I hardly think any of you mean to do murder in cold blood. You may think of keeping us out of the way for a while—maybe using force on us to make us hold our tongues. But some time you’ll have to let us go free—and I expect we will go free without making any promises.” He spoke these words with slow distinctness and emphasis; there was an uneasy stirring in the crowd. “Moreover,” Ross continued, “before I started out to-night I left a note at home, saying where I was going and why. If I should mysteriously disappear, that note will afford a clue. You may all feel that you’re strong enough to defy the law and destroy property and commit violence. But even supposing this is true—what can you gain by it? Do you think the company whose pipe you cut will ever again employ you to drive its wagons? Drasnoe would rather let his oil forever run to waste than be coerced into letting you handle it. And you can’t so easily carry matters with a high hand—” “You begin to threaten us!” cried O’Brien. “We’ve had enough—” “I don’t mean to threaten,” Ross replied. “I’m just trying to make a complete statement of the case. In a moment I’ll talk in a way that you can’t regard as threatening. But as to your being able to override the law—you know, of course, what will happen. The company will spend its last cent fighting for its rights. It will hire men to protect its property. The community will be roused against you. You’ll have to fight with the company’s watchmen; you can’t go on cutting its pipe with impunity. And meanwhile you’ll be blacklisted by the company, whereas, if you accept this overturn in a peaceful spirit, the company will try to give work of some kind to as many of you as want it. Now I’ve come to the end of everything that may sound threatening. Are you willing I should go on for a few moments longer?” “No,” shouted O’Brien. But “Yes!” cried the others; and some of them turned to O’Brien and bade him be still. “I want you to know that last week I tendered my resignation as superintendent, to take effect next Monday. Next Monday I start for Virginia, to join Grant’s army. It’s just occurred to me that that would be a pretty good thing for those of you to do who are out of a job and so have a hankering to fight somebody.” He spoke the words with a smile; by the lantern-light he could see the smile reflected on the face of some of the men. “I hope you’ll think better of fighting the company—for if you don’t, I’ll have to stay here and deprive General Grant of my services.” This time the smile on his face was echoed by a murmur of laughter. “I’d be mighty glad if those of you who feel bound to fight somebody would join me next Monday and start for the Wilderness. I don’t know that it would be any more of a fight than you’d get by staying here and tackling the company—but I guess it would be enough. That’s all I have to say; and now if you think the only thing is to string me up on one of those trees, I can’t help myself.” “I guess there won’t be any lynching!” muttered one of the men; from the others there issued only sheepish, uncomfortable laughter. O’Brien was silent. “Well,” remarked Murphy, at last. “I don’t know but I may join your soldier squad on Monday, captain. Looks like things will be kind of quiet round here for a full-grown fightin’ man.” At this there was loud laughter, and Ross knew that he had won. “You think, Mr. Ross,” said a man, hesitatingly, “if a fellow was to stay, the company might find him a job?” “I think so. That will be one of the problems for my successor—who, by the way, is lying there with his feet tied.” The men gazed at one another; Denny lay speechless and amazed. Then one of the men turned to O’Brien. “O’Brien,” he said, gravely, “if you and me are looking for jobs, suppose we untie his feet.” At eight o’clock on Monday morning there waited at the railway station a group of ten men, who were starting South to join Grant’s army. Among them was one whom the others half jestingly, yet half-seriously also, called “Captain.” He stepped apart from the rest to speak to a one-armed man and a boy who had just driven up to the platform. The sound of the approaching train made itself heard. “You’ll be sure to see father for me, won’t you, Mr. Ross?” said the boy. “Sure. I’m glad you had word he was all right. I’ll send you a letter as soon as I see him—and I’ll tell him all about you. Good-by, Elmer!” He turned to the one-armed man. “Good-by, Denny!” The train rushed along the platform as Denny gripped Ross’s hand. “Good-by, Mr. Ross—thank you—” His voice broke, but he regained it. “Come back to us—and come back—_whole_!” Then, amid the cheers of the few who had gathered to see the departure, the recruits boarded the train, and the train pulled away. “He _will_ come back!” said Denny to Elmer, with conviction. “Even if the whole of Lee’s army lays a trap for him, he’ll come back.”