This was in the spring of '22 and the oil boom was flowing along, bringing lots of money, and strangers, to this part of Texas. Tumlinson County was getting its share of both and Smeed was right in the middle of Tumlinson County.

I waited politely by my car with my hat over my heart. It was respectful and folks in small Southern towns expect respect, especially if you're asking for something. I'm always asking a lot, I'm a private investigator. My name's Earl Chisolm.

I had come to Smeed to serve papers on a fellow who had become the object of a lawsuit. Process serving doesn't pay much but a paycheck's a paycheck. All I had to do was find this joker and give him some legal papers. It was supposed to be simple.

The cars pulled up under the trees and the mourners began to exit. A woman got out first. She was young and blond. A tall older man, dark haired and stone faced under a Stetson hat accompanied her. He looked like a lawman. I've had a lot of experience with laws. I was a Ranger and a military policeman and a sheriff's deputy so I can usually spot them.

I stood and watched even though it had nothing to do with my errand in Smeed. In small towns things often have connections, although usually they're just out of sight. The mourners stood silently as the preacher spoke. The woman wept, silently too, at first. But as the coffin was lowered into the ground her sobs became wilder and suddenly spun out of control into hysteria.

"Oh Lord, why did they kill my Jimmy? He was a good man! Let the oil field trash kill each other but not my husband! Why didn't you do something Robert Buck? Are you like the rest? You let them kill my husband with a shotgun!"

She was screaming at the tall grim man. He took it like a stone statue. I figured now was a good time to get in the car and head into town.

As I said, I was really in Smeed to serve process, not ogle funerals. My bird was a brush gambler by the name of Leroy Cantwell. He had sold some oil leases he'd won in a card game with a wildcatter who was luckier at finding oil than aces. I expect they were up Cantwell's sleeve, the aces, not the oil. Anyway the title on the leases was tangled and when the land turned out to be productive everyone started suing everyone else. It was the usual Texas oil two-step.

Smeed had a street but no pavement. Back in Austin folks tend to regard my habit of wearing boots as just a cowboy affectation. Mostly they keep off the mud on the roads churned up by cars, trucks and mules. It was hotter than usual in Tumlinson County. I was starting to regret the jacket I wore. I wasn't going to take it off though since it covered the .45 automatic in my shoulder holster. I don't use it too often. Mostly I rely on a smooth tongue, when that doesn't work the .45 comes in handy.

Smeed normally had about 200 people, now it had swollen to well over a thousand. Oil brought them in. A drilling team had sunk a well that blew a gusher and folks swarmed in from everywhere. Roughnecks, speculators, promoters, jackleg lawyers, gamblers, hookers and outlaws overran the place. That left the locals, whose main occupations were reading the Bible and watching the crops wilt, feeling more than a little flustered.

I parked the car and walked up Smeed's street. The morning sun cast shadows from the oil derricks that had sprung up in every open lot. I paused in front of the town hall. It occupied a single floor building on Smeed's street. Although it was 9 am on a Wednesday the door was locked. A small sign said "Closed for Funeral".

I moved on to the town's hotel. It was Cantwell's last known address. It had glass fronted doors that opened onto a small lobby. One door was missing its glass and had been boarded over. I looked at the wooden post holding up the porch roof. It had a couple of holes that would have fit some stray buckshot nicely. I went into the lobby.

The fellow behind the desk was a short skinny balding man who started to tell me there were no empty rooms. I gave him a card with my name on it. It didn't say anything about my occupation. I asked after Mr. Cantwell, saying I had some business relating to an oil lease. He rolled his eyes.

"I ain't seen nor heard a thing of him in a couple of days. Not since that happened." He pointed to the boarded over glass door. I asked how it happened.

"Well, it was Monday this week, right in mid-morning. I heard some fellas scufflin' outside and I went to ring the constable. Directly I turned around I saw Deputy Jim O'Brien on the porch with his pistol out. Well mister, there was a man right there. Clean shot Jim with a twelve-gauge shotgun. Got in a car and drove off."

"Have the police done anything?"

"We had a constable and three deputies. After Jim was shot one quit and the other didn't say a word to nobody, just got on the bus for Dallas."

I ran down a list of law enforcement in the area. The sheriff was as crooked as a snake's back, the Prohibition Agent was too busy getting drunk and the nearest Texas Ranger was a Governor Ferguson appointee. I'd sooner ask Long John Silver for help than the pirates Ferguson gave badges to. It looked like Smeed was on its own.

I asked the hotel man to keep an eye out for Cantwell. He said he already was since Cantwell had left without paying his bill. "Didn't even take his stuff. Not that it was worth a durn cent anyway. I've had folk skip their bills before, but they always take their bags." I thanked him and left not a bit closer to Cantwell.

The door to the town hall was open so I stepped in. A corridor had a row of doors marked "Constable", "Mayor", and "Justice of the Peace". I found the tall grim man from the funeral behind a desk in the office marked "Constable". It had a gun rack with some rifles and shotguns, some pictures and a plaque recognizing Constable Robert Buck for honorable service to Smeed. He asked my business and I told him directly and honestly. I try not to lie to lawmen if I don't need to, it's professional courtesy.

"Cantwell huh? Some ol' lease peddlin' gambler."

"That's who I'm looking for."

"Can't say as I've found him. Don't think I'm much inclined to look. As you can see I'm alone here at town hall."

"What about the mayor?"

"On vacation."

"Justice of the peace?"

"Sick"

"Town council?"

"Got sick on vacation."

I was getting nowhere. Buck had problems far beyond a little process service. He'd been hung out to dry. Things dry fast in the Texas heat.

"Just one more question constable, where's Ragtown?"

Buck swiveled in his chair and pointed toward a cluster of oil derricks. I didn't really need directions. I was just curious to see if he'd acknowledge its existence.

Ragtown existed all right. It wasn't the smell or the mud that gave it reality. It wasn't the rows of tents and lean-tos either, though they gave it a name. It was the throng of people tossed into a tiny Texas hamlet, once sleepy, now wide-awake. Bored prostitutes rubbed shoulders with leasehounds trying to get oil rights cheaply from farmers who'd consult their Bibles before they signed on. Roughnecks' wives did laundry and nursed babies while bootleggers and gamblers plied their trades. They were all here in a sea of mud and oil looking to get rich or at least get by. Somewhere in the middle of it was Cantwell.

"Thanks, this is a ten dollar job with twenty five dollars worth of aggravation."

Chappell gestured toward Ragtown. "You know, I've been in some rough towns but this place beats all. Bootlegging and vice are one thing but there are some real hoods here. Folk are scared. There's a rumor that Rocks Foley is strong-arming the moonshiners and gamblers. Worse yet a policeman was murdered two days ago."

"I know about the deputy. If Rocks Foley is taking over a lot more fellows are going to get knocked off." I took a deep breath of Ragtown's sour air. "I talked to Constable Buck. He was overwhelmed when he had three men, now he's alone. If anything's going to be done regular folks are going to have to step up and show some initiative." I didn't much care for vigilantes. I'd seen what lynch mobs could do, but a posse dedicated to upholding peace was a different proposition. It was a slim hope in a mess like this.

I didn't like the idea of Rocks Foley being on the prowl. Rocks was an enforcer for the Dallas bootleggers and was suspected in a number of payroll robberies. He was a prime candidate for a striped suit but even so Rocks wasn't on my plate. All I had to do for my pay was give Leroy Cantwell some papers and leave. The part about leaving sounded good.

As Chappell went his way I got back to my hunt. It didn't take long to find what I needed. I bought a pint of moonshine whiskey off a bootlegger who obligingly told me where I could find a card game. I figured a couple of hands of poker would shake loose some information. The game would be rigged of course, the bootlegger getting a share from each sucker he sent in. I didn't care, I was getting paid expenses.

I found the gambler in a tent attached to a tumbledown shack. Inside was a table made from a board propped up on packing crates and some more crates for chairs. The stink from Ragtown had wandered in, gotten lost and stayed. I understood why brush gamblers liked to play outside. I hung my hat on a nail and asked to be dealt in.

The game consisted of a couple of travelling salesmen, myself and a lean, sallow faced joker in a straw boater, suspenders and an undershirt. Maybe he was just hot or maybe he was trying to pretend he wasn't hiding cards in his shirt. Every so often a big thick-necked mug in overalls would come in and glower. Straw hat would get a little nervous at those times, but not too nervous to deal off the bottom.

In between hands we smoked and I shared out some of the moonshine. We chatted about characters we knew around the oil patch and I dropped Cantwell's name.

One of the salesmen perked up. "Oh, I know Leroy. He took seven dollars off me in a game two weeks ago. Well, I saw him in town Sunday and damned if he didn't ask to borrow fifty more. Said he'd overextended himself and owed it to some clown. I let him have five. Where is Leroy? I want to get paid back."

The salesman's voice had gone up a little too loud I guess because Overalls suddenly burst through the tent flaps.

"Who's talkin' 'bout Caintwell?" He was angry and in case we missed the tone of his voice he was gesturing with an axe handle. "What sumbitch brought up that no 'count's name?"

For some reason all eyes drifted to me. I slowly rose from seat grinning stupidly and holding my hands out at shoulder level. I hoped this was considered a friendly gesture by cavemen.

"Take it easy pal. I just said I knew the guy."

"You can forget you knew him! All y'all can! He done crossed Mistah Foley and now he in all kind o' trouble. You gone be too peckerwood if'n you don't shut up 'bout Caintwell!" Overalls poked me with the axe handle for emphasis. This was getting out of control, not to mention aggravating.

"I understand."

"I don't think you do!" He poked me again. AS the stick touched my chest my left arm shot around it and my right launched a fist into Overalls' nose. I followed up with a head butt as blood gushed from his nose. Overalls recovered quickly and we grappled and fell to the ground.

He was crushing the wind out of me and I was bashing his ribs with short punches. A free hand snaked toward my face and I bit it. Overalls howled in pain and I got an arm loose and jammed it into his windpipe. He gurgled and collapsed.

I scrambled to my feet and pulled the .45 from my shoulder holster.

"Don't try anything else junior or I'll see if ape blood looks like the human kind!" He sat up rubbing his throat. The fight had gone out of him. I picked up my hat and the pint of moonshine.

"It was fun playing cards with you fellows. Next time I'll bring a baseball bat and a tommygun for entertainment between deals."

I stumbled off into Ragtown. My suit was wrecked and the rest of me wasn't a whole lot better. I had most of Overalls' blood mopped off of me by the time I got to my car. I was ready to leave Smeed. If Cantwell was mixed up with Rocks Foley he was more likely to be seen in a morgue than a courtroom. In any case I wasn't getting paid to wrestle cavemen. I cranked up the car and headed out of town.

I got as far as the cemetery and stopped. The earth on Jim O'Brien's grave was fresh and a few flowers had been laid there. As I stood silently smoking under an oak tree I saw O'Brien's widow walking toward me.

"May I have one of those? It's awful improper to ask but I need a cigarette something terrible." Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying but her hands were steady as she lit the cigarette. "It's easier to ask for a smoke from a stranger. Folk would talk but I don't care. Smeed's got nothing to reproach me for. My husband gave everything for Smeed. Being a deputy is such a hard job, if you're honest."

"I know ma'am. I was a ranger once."

"Smeed used to be such a quiet place. We were too poor to expect much out of life. Now I don't know what we can expect." She slowly walked away and I got back in my car. I turned around on the narrow road and headed back to Smeed. Back to Constable Buck, Rocks Foley and Leroy Cantwell.

There was a shiny new sedan parked in front of the town hall. The door was open and I could hear an angry voice inside. I stepped into the corridor outside the constable's office where I could eavesdrop.

"So youse thought youse could monkey around wit' Rocks? Youse bums made a big mistake."

"Your deal with the mayor and the others isn't my concern." Bob Buck's voice was low and calm yet filled with suppressed tension.

"It concerns you now! You tell the mayor and the rest of your lousy hick town that Rocks is calling the shots now and he'll decide how much graft youse gets if youse gets any at all, see!"

"You made your point Sal. You killed my only honest deputy and everyone else in this town is too scared to go against your gang."

"They'd better stay that way or they'll join O'Brien!"

The interview must have been over because not a moment passed before two men stalked out of Buck's office. One was a fleshy man with a black handlebar mustache and a cheap suit. The other was wiry and hollow eyed and dressed in work clothes. I was less interested in how they were dressed than in the twelve-gauge pump shotgun the second man was pointing at me.

It took me a moment to recognize them. Mustache was Sal Varchetti, the other was Pete Coakley. Varchetti was wanted in connection with an armored car robbery in New Orleans. Coakley had broken out of the Texas state prison at Huntsville a while back. He had been doing life for murder for killing a bootlegger in a hijack. Keeping an eye on the wanted posters paid off.

Coakley gestured towards me with his shotgun. "Hey, we were warned about this joker. This is the clown that punched out Bobby Lee at the card game."

Sal sneered, "Get in the car tough guy. Rocks wants to talk to you."

They recognized me too.

They took my gun and shoved me in the shiny new sedan. We drove out of town over rutted back roads. Every bounce of the car made me wince because Coakley kept the shotgun pointed at me the whole time.

"Aim that thing away from me, will you? I don't think Rocks wants to talk to my corpse."

"Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't."

"Pete, if you make a mess of my new car I swear to gawd I'm gonna stab youse in the eyeball."

It was an uncomfortable ride.

Finally the car stopped at a cabin in a wooded hollow. A clear stream flowed past and the sickly sweet scent of mash cooking into whiskey was heavy in the air. Half a dozen or so armed thugs loitered around. Occasionally one would enter the cabin or carry some firewood off to where the still was cooking.

Coakley shoved me inside the cabin. We were in a central room with doors leading to side rooms and a back door. The room was filled jugs of moonshine. Rocks Foley sat in a stuffed chair giving orders on how to tend the still to a couple of the thugs. Rocks wore a flashy suit and had a diamond pin in his silk tie.

"This is the guy who beat up Bobby Lee."

Rocks glared at me. "Who do you think you are bustin' up my card game? Why are you so interested in Cantwell?"

"I get all giddy sometimes and can't be held accountable is what my doctor says."

"Don't crack wise! I oughta plug you now. Don't you know every tinhorn gambler, bootlegger and tart pays me to operate in Smeed? This town's mine! What's your name and no lip!"

"I'm Earl Chisolm."

"Didn't you used to be a Texas Ranger?"

"I decided to go straight and get an honest job."

Rocks laughed. It was an opening so I took it.

"Look, I'm not interested in any fool brush gambler." A little truth is always deadliest. Cantwell was academic at this point. "It's about the graft." Rocks scowled. "The county bosses sent me: the judge and the sheriff and the commissioners want to get things running smooth. But the O'Brien thing was a little too much. It draws too much attention."

"Coakley's got an itchy trigger finger. What about the graft?" Rocks looked a little worried, just the way I wanted him.

"The county bosses like the way you've handled Smeed. In fact they want the whole county organized. Let the gamblers and bootleggers pay you and then you make one payment to them. It's easier and cleaner. You just need to ease up on the rough stuff."

"Why'd they pick you? You ain't nothin' but an ol' broke leg private eye." Rocks may not have been too bright but he had a natural suspicion of everything that moved. It had served him well so far.

"The sheriff ain't gonna come in person! They needed someone from outside who wouldn't be too obvious." It was improvisation but it would have to do.

Sal leaned over and whispered something into Rocks' ear. He shrugged and gestured to one of the side doors.

"Just to show I can be generous I'm going to cut loose this ol' boy here." Sal opened a side door. Inside a small room Leroy Cantwell sat tied to a chair. His left eye was swollen shut and dried blood was on his shirt. He'd been worked over pretty well. Coakley cut loose his bonds.

"Leroy thought he could get away with not paying Rocks his cut." Rocks chuckled. I didn't like Rocks to begin with and referring to himself in the third person didn't help.

"I was gonna pay you ol' friend but I had some bad luck at cards is all. I ran into some fellows who cheated. You ain't gonna shoot me for paying a little late are you?" If Rocks didn't shoot Cantwell I thought I would. It would almost be worth losing the ten dollars process server fee.

Rocks ignored Cantwell. "I sent Sal and Coakley to grab him and O'Brien was dumb enough to stick his nose in."

"Too bad." I said.

"Yeah, too bad. Now let's hear about the money."

We all trooped outside. Rocks said the cabin smelled and it did stink of fermenting mash. As we stood in the open Rocks fidgeted with my gun. Cantwell leaned on a tree asking for a cigarette. No one paid any attention. Sal and Coakley sat on the woodpile. Sal had a pistol in his hand and Coakley still had his shotgun. I wondered if he slept with the damn thing.

I babbled a little more about setting up payoffs. Rocks just mumbled an occasional "uh-huh". He seemed more interested in cocking my .45. I was beginning to sweat and not just from the oppressive heat. All I wanted was to get away from this gang of trigger-happy goons. A sick knot of fear was twisting around my stomach. I could smell treachery as strongly as the rotting mash. A film reel flickered in my head. It showed Rocks blasting Cantwell and me. It ended with Sal and Coakley dumping our bullet riddled corpses in a shallow grave. I didn't like that picture at all.

Finally I ran out of things to say. "So we have a deal." I smiled like a salesman who'd just made a hundred-dollar commission.

"Yeah sure." Rocks muttered.

"Let's drink on it." Slowly I eased my jacket open and pulled out the pint of moonshine. As I lifted it to my lips someone shouted, "There's men in the woods! It's a raid."

Turning slightly, I could see a man standing behind a tree. He was leveling a rifle toward the cabin. Rocks cursed and raised the pistol, aiming it square at my face. "You stinking double-crosser." We were a little over arm's length apart. With a flick of my wrist I dashed the contents of the moonshine bottle into his face. As the raw stinging alcohol hit his eyes Rocks flinched and I dove for the gun. My shoulder crashed into him and we fell. The gun came loose and hit the ground. I scrabbled for it and my hand clamped on the grip.

My nerves were taut steel wires as I leapt for my feet. Gunshots were popping all around. I sprinted for the cover of a sturdy oak. Cantwell was just ahead of me. We dove behind the trunk and a load of buckshot went whistling overhead. I risked a look back. Rocks was standing in the open pumping a shell into a shotgun he had grabbed from someone. I leveled the .45 and blasted four shots at him. Two went in and Rocks Foley dropped.

Just as suddenly as they started the guns were silent. I looked around. Coakley was on the ground moaning, a bullet had laid him low. Sal was limping forward, hands up in surrender. Rocks wasn't moving at all. He was dead. I'd ruined his flashy suit for good. The other gunmen were either giving up or running away.

I stepped out from behind the tree as the attackers showed themselves. Constable Buck was giving orders to a dozen fellows who disarmed and handcuffed the prisoners. I heard a familiar voice. It was Chappell. He congratulated me on my narrow escape.

"We put together a posse like you suggested. Buck had an ambush planned but we had to spring it early. We saw Foley had your gun and was giving you one last drink before he shot you."

I thanked Chappell graciously. They probably did save my life. I looked around and saw Cantwell. He was nervously smoking and slugging back some of Rocks' moonshine.

"I can't hardly thank you enough. You saved my life."

"Don't mention it." I started to walk away but stopped. "By the way," I said, pulling the legal papers from my jacket. "Consider yourself served."