A Tragic Storiette
By Vida Tyler Adams
"WHOSO DIGGETH A PIT—"
HE CAME from nowhere—just dropped in one morning at the cook house during breakfast, and asked for a job. Men were scarce during the first boom of the little oil town; that is, good men who knew oil, drilling and tool-sharpening, and the construction of derricks. For that reason, Matt Wilson judged by knowledge first, and character last.
So he hired Baden, who at once sat down with the men and ate ravenously, as if famished. He seemed a droll fellow, and the men enjoyed his company except for one fact. He never, at any time, looked any one of them straight and square in the eye. Through narrowed lids, his gaze shifted swiftly from a man's chin to his watch chain, or to the location of his pockets. It gave the men, at first, an uncanny feeling. But later, as they knew him better, their confidence returned. They jibed him about this habit finally. But he only laughed. So they labeled him "Shifty" Baden.
His past was a closed book. Once a man had questioned him too closely. His hands were long and slender, but they suddenly revealed hard, knotted muscles, which responded skillfully and brilliantly.
"Good fist work," commented Shorty Mason.
Shifty Baden accepted the tribute graciously, belittling his prowess modestly, and thus he won Shorty Mason's heart. Other bouts were staged with Shorty as manager, and money flowed into Shifty's pockets.
"Shifty's some little boxer," commented Shorty with pride.
"Yeah," agreed Indian. "Boss don't like it, though. Beats them to a mush. Can't work for a week."
"Forget him! Shifty says he's not paying us half what we're worth, anyhow. A man doesn't get even enough to pay his losses."
"Nope," Indian agreed, stirring the gravel with his foot. "Shifty says men're scarce. We should cash in on it, he says."
News of the unrest drifted in to Matt Wilson as he sat figuring ways and means with the Big Chief. The swinging screen door opened, letting in a dozen buzzing flies and Red Nelson.
"We want more pay, and time and half for Sundays," he said bluntly, eying Matt Wilson across the top of the battered office desk.
The heat was sweltering. The flies buzzed maddeningly.
"Gosh, Matt," the Big Chief exploded, "I thought you said you could handle the men. Better be 'tending your own end. I'll figure out mine alone." And he gathered up his figures and puffed out of the office.
Matt Wilson was bewildered.
"Why, Red," he said, "Have you forgotten? I told you fellows if you'd stand by me until we get agoing, I'd make it up to you. I meant what I said."
Red gazed at the dirt on the floor.
"That was six months ago," he said sheepishly. "We want more pay now."
Carefully, confidently, Matt explained to him various data regarding waiting contracts, the outlay of money before income could be expected, anxious investors, the inability to meet more wages now.
"This work is under the American plan, Red," he reminded him. "You agreed to that when you came to work. But I keep my promises. You will surely get time and a half as soon as we get on our feet. If you fellows strike now, you'll ruin us. There will be no work at all, then."
Red turned upon him an ugly and sullen look.
"You refuse then?"
"We haven't the money to swing it now, Red."
Without another word, Red turned and left the office, banging the screen door violently behind him.
Matt Wilson stared after him incredulously. Red Nelson, his best engine man. And his loyalty! Matt had never found occasion to question it.
Scarcely had the door closed than another shadow darkened the opening, a large abundant shadow, the jolly, and motherly person of Widow Gates. But today, no smile wreathed her usually tranquil visage. Rather, she trembled with wrath as she faced Matt Wilson.
"What sort of men be you hirin' now, Matt Wilson?" she exploded. "Of all the low-down ornery he-snakes that I ever saw, that there Shifty Baden beats them all. If I ever lay my hands on him, he'll cuss his birthday, and wish he were a worm to crawl underground where he belongs. What do you mean, wishin' him on us as is tryin' to build up a peaceful law-abidin' town with morals? Haven't we done well by you?" she demanded.
Matt Wilson gazed at her, his mind awhirl.
"Sit down, Mrs. Gates," he said.
She waved the proffered seat aside.
"Here I be standing this morning around the corner of the main bunkhouse, and there was Shifty talkin' to the Kid. She was deliverin' the washin', seeing as this is Friday.
"'What's your name?' he asks.
"'I'm the Kid,' she answers. 'I brung your washing.'
"'Oho!' he says and sizes her up and down. 'You do the washing.'
"'No, Mrs. Gates does,' she says, 'I deliver for her. Git them, too.' Then she shoves his parcel toward him.
"He takes it and says 'thanks,' and squeezes her hand right there before my very eyes although he didn't see me.
"And the poor Kid, being, as you know, 'nobody home'"—she tapped her forehead significantly with her forefinger—"She grins and looks up at him stupidlike.
"And that vile snake runs his hand up and down her arm.
"'How's that?' he asks.
"And she says, 'tickles,' and giggles at him.
"I couldn't stand it any longer so I came around the corner, and gave him such a look as would freeze him to an ice-cake, were he not so hard-boiled."
The widow panted for breath.
"And I sends the Kid home, but he's found out she lives with me, and he's come past so often it's made me nervous. And the Kid stays inside and sulks and
