The Mopper-Up (Short Story)

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On through the dusk and into the night they worked. Their clothes were splattered with grease and their ears and lips were purple, for winter was on and the weather was two above. The bluest norther of the year had been brewed in a devil's cauldron in the Rockies and it boiled out and came rolling down through Raton Pass to roar across the flats of the Panhandle and lash and sting and freeze.

The crew of Excelsior No. 1 was gaunt and tired and half-frozen, for they worked in a field that was squarely in front of the great slot through which the northers slid, but they cursed loud and kept on.

“Let's go with the bit, you—! The land's crazy with oil!”

Black gold down below.

A sixth of ninety days' production split eleven ways for the crew.

The rainbow's end for a roughneck who's slaved his life away.

Parties and liquor and sweet times for a hairy-handed tool dresser.

A warm apartment and a soft bed for a rig-man who's used to cots.

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