won't help me, 'cept I let her out so as she can talk to him."
Matt Wilson passed his hand over his forehead.
"Troubles never come singly," he cited. "That is not all, Mrs. Gates. The men have planned to strike. They want more money. Shifty must be back of it. They were satisfied until he came."
He thought a moment.
"Tell Chris Younger I want to see him," he commanded.
The widow waddled off excitedly.
Chris Younger came at once.
"I want you to go out in the field and take Baden's place and send him in to me at once." Matt Wilson's voice was hard.
Baden was sullen.
"I was just amusing the Kid," he offered. "As to the strike! I have nothing to do with it. If the men want to strike, I can't help it."
Matt Wilson was furious. It rather amused Baden.
"Got any proof about the strike?" Baden asked.
"No! you cur, but I have about the Kid, and that's enough. Get your time and get out!"
Baden's eyes narrowed. Slowly, he advanced toward Matt. He raised his right hand. It was knotted into the famous fighting fist.
But Matt was before him. Swiftly, he opened a drawer, and Baden was staring into a wicked little contrivance of steel and pearl.
He turned, and slunk out of the office like a beaten thing. But, once clear of the office, and out of sight, he turned, knotted up his fist and shook it maliciously toward the way he had come. He was in an ugly frame of mind. By nature underhanded, he went about getting his revenge entirely under cover. He found the Kid delivering clothes as usual. He had only a moment.
"Hello, Kid!" he greeted brightly.
The Kid snickered.
"Hello, yourself!" she responded.
"Say, like to go for an automobile ride this afternoon?" he asked.
"Sure." The Kid's vacant eyes took on a happy expression.
"All right. That's fine. Now listen, Kid. Today there's going to be a fire in one of those oil tanks out there." He waved toward the field of tanks beyond the towering derricks.
"When the fire gets going good, and everybody's gone out to where it is, I'll come to Mrs. Gates' place for you, and we'll go for a ride." Baden turned to go. "Now don't forget. If you are not at Mrs. Gates' front gate waiting for me, I won't take you. Remember, when you see the smoke, I'm coming for you."
A sharp whistle, like a little boy calling his dog, sounded from around the corner, and Baden struck off in the direction of the oil tanks.
Carefully, he skirted the derricks, with their choking engines and labyrinth of crawling cables. Down a gentle slope he crept to where the great storage tanks lay blinking in the hot sun. He chose the farthest tank. It lay glimmering at him in the sun, huge, black with weather stains, shimmering in the heat. Baden turned his eyes from the tank, and carefully scanned the field around him. Five other tanks made up the field, one fifty feet away, the others more distant. They reminded Baden of big stone animals, quiet, peaceful, waiting for his mischief. There was no life about them. Not a human being was in sight.
Deftly Baden took from his hip pocket a small cloth bag. From under the rubber band around it, he pulled out a yellow note book and tore from between its covers a white square of paper. Quickly, he filled the paper with the contents of the cloth bag. Next a match from his vest pocket. Another quick look around, and he bent his head forward, cupped his hands to his mouth and the cigarette was lighted.
With a lithe spring, he made the first rung of the iron ladder that clung to the side of the tank. He climbed rapidly. He pressed more firmly between his lips, the forbidden cigarette, and bent further over the trap door, the better to examine the contents of the tank, puffing rapidly the while that the cigarette might be well lighted before he dropped it in. He balanced his body easily on the top rung of the ladder. But it was slippery. His foot slid. He grasped the side of the tank wildly, lost his hold, and fell headlong into the reservoir.
THE oil was black, heavy and unrefined. It received his body without sound, and sucked it half way to the bottom. Oil filled his ears, his nose, oozed between his parted lips, covered his face, his clothes, and his shoes with slime.
Now Baden was young, and full of strength and the love of life. He fought his way valiantly to the top, with the long measured strokes of the practiced swimmer. He reached up a slimy hand to brush the oil from his eyes. Failing in this, he shook his head vigorously, and managed to open his eyes at last. All was black around him. Accustomed to the glare of the sunlight, his eyes could not penetrate the thick gloom. He turned his attention to his swimming.
"Stuff's easy to tread if only my shoes were off," he muttered.
Gradually, his vision became clearer, and he was able to discern the side of the tank. He swam toward it. The crude oil belabored the process, and he spent his strength freely, but at last he reached his goal. The side of the tank rose above him, smooth, slimy, bare of any handhold. He looked above. The trap door shone distant, a square of light in a vast expanse of gloom and shadow, unattainable, mocking.
"Help, help, help!" he cried. His voice choked with oil, echoed back feebly from the sides of the tank.
Then it was that he looked around him, and his oil-sodden eyes opened wide in horror.
"God help me now!" He could not speak. He could only breath the words.
A hundred globules of fire danced before him, bounding like rubber balls across the thick oil, sputtering in one pool, igniting others. No steady conflagration burned. Due to the quality of the impurities in the oil, the fire had not yet found constant feed. The top of the oil was like a huge frying pan in which dozens of fiery balls spat and sputtered at each other, to break out at last, scattering fire in all directions. They lighted up the interior of the tank in sulphuric colors, blue and green and royal purple, and the golden glow of lightning. The little white tube of tobacco floated innocently near Baden, its fire scattered, its mission fulfilled.
Baden gasped.
"Help!" he cried, frantically from between sticky, oil-smudged lips. The cry was smothered, gummed in his throat with oil. Baden made a superhuman effort and spat out the filth.
By this time his shoes were thoroughly saturated with oil, and weighed heavily, bearing him downward. Each movement of his legs cost him effort which he could ill spare. His clothes, drenched with oil, were oppressive, clinging to his body like slimy hands, eager, waiting to pull him downward. He struggled against their deadliness. A ball of burning oil burst near him, spraying his face with liquid fire. It seared into the flesh. Automatically unthinking, he dived back into the oil.
He rose farther away from the fire. And now he was continually on the move, dodging, ducking, a weary chase, with the fire-balls constantly increasing in number. At length a huge ball
