Hankinshaw was indeed a man to be reckoned with. He was of a sullen and revengeful nature, and prided himself on always “getting even” with any one who crossed his will. For Tom and his friends he entertained an especially bitter feeling, not only because of the clashes at Shopton, but also because he had succeeded in persuading himself that Tom had “double crossed” him in getting the rights to the drilling on the Goby farm. In reality, Tom had been moved more by a desire to protect the blind man from being swindled than by a wish for his own personal gain.

However, as is common with men of his sort, Hankinshaw judged Tom by his own warped and twisted standards, and even before oil had been struck on the Goby farm he was planning to have revenge for the fancied injury. But when he learned that Tom had actually struck a gusher, his anger and chagrin knew no bounds. He saw the riches that he had thought to pocket himself going to others, and the sight drove him fairly wild with rage. He immediately called his confederates together, that they might plan some way to bring about Tom’s downfall.

They gathered in Hankinshaw’s room at the hotel one evening about a week after the well had been tapped. Hankinshaw’s partners were almost as bitter as he over their loss of the big gusher, and were prepared to follow him in any enterprise that promised revenge.

Hankinshaw, as the more forceful, had taken Thompson’s place as leader, and he was the one who opened the conference.

“Well, boys, we’ve been done to the queen’s taste,” he began, as he smoked his vile pipe furiously. “That cub Tom Swift and his friends have put the kibosh on us good and proper. They’ve struck oil, and we’re left out in the cold when we should be running that gusher ourselves right now. That being the case, are we going to take it lying down like dogs, or are we going to hit back?” and he glanced from one to the other with an ugly scowl on his face.

His companions shifted uneasily in their chairs and looked at each other.

“I’d like to hit back all right,” said Thompson. “But all the same, I do not care to do anything that may land me in jail. I’ve kept clear of that so far, and I’m not anxious to begin.”

“I feel the same way,” agreed Bragden. “It’s better to be safe than sorry. All the same, Hankinshaw, let’s know what you have in mind.”

Hankinshaw looked at them with a wicked gleam in his close-set eyes. “I’m not so particular as you fellows,” he sneered. “When a man has done me an injury, I aim to get even with him and I am none too squeamish as to how. I do it. I’ve thought up a scheme that will do the trick for us, and there is not enough risk in it even to scare you pikers.”

“Cut out that rough stuff, Hankinshaw,” said Thompson. “That isn’t going to get us anywhere. Lay your cards on the table.”

“All right, then; here’s the dope. You both know oil wells, and you know that when a gusher comes in it spreads out over the landscape quite considerable before it’s got under control, don’t you?”

They both nodded, and waited expectantly for him to go on.

“I suppose you also know that if an oil well gets afire, it’s a mighty hard thing to put it out, don’t you?”

Again they nodded, while a gleam of comprehension crept into their eyes.

“Well, now, the woods and grass are pretty dry at this season of the year, and if one of us happened to drop a match into the grass when the wind was blowing toward the Goby farm, I imagine the fire might travel real fast, especially after it reached the oil-soaked belt around the well. What do you think?” and he glanced keenly at his accomplices.

Thompson considered for a moment, his brows knitted in a malignant scowl.

“When it comes to planning, Hankinshaw,” he said, “you’re there with the goods. If that well could be set afire we will have taken a good long step toward getting even, and I won’t feel so bad about the money we have lost. But as far as the actual work is concerned, count me out of it. Get as many roughnecks together as you need, and I’ll bear my share of the expense. I suppose you feel the same way, Bragden?” he added.

Bragden nodded his head.

“That’s the way I feel about it,” he agreed. “But when the thing happens, I am going to be out of town. I’ll help bear whatever expense there may be in carrying out the plan.”

“Leave me to hold the bag, eh?” Hankinshaw sneered. “Well, I didn’t expect anything else,” he added. “You have always looked to me for the rough stuff, but let it go at that. I’ll take a chance; play a lone hand.”

Thompson and Bragden chose to ignore the slur about their courage, and a conference followed on ways and means. When the gathering broke up it had been agreed that Hankinshaw’s nefarious scheme should be put into effect on the first night that conditions were favorable.

All unaware of their enemies’ plotting, Tom and his companions were exceedingly busy with plans for getting the oil to market. They had already ordered several miles of eight-inch pipe, which they intended to run to Copperhead, the nearest town on the railroad. The time of delivery was uncertain, however, and until the pipe arrived, there was not much that could be done toward developing the well. They had secured a right-of-way for the pipe line over the adjoining farms, and were now anxious to get the oil running.

“It won’t take us very long to lay the line, once we get the pipe,” remarked Tom. “If only we had been absolutely sure that we were going to strike oil, we could have ordered it months ago, and had it here all ready and waiting now.”

“Bless my thick skull! that’s true, Tom,” exclaimed Mr. Damon. “But none of us are prophets, and eight-inch pipe isn’t the cheapest thing in the world to buy. That’s one of the things we simply had to let go until we knew we had the oil to put through it. We don’t need to worry, anyway. The main thing is that we’ve got the oil, and a week or so’s delay won’t hurt us. It will give us a chance to rest up.”

Luckily for Tom and his friends, they did not have to have pumping stations, as their well was on comparatively high ground, and there was a continual slope from there to Copperhead. All they had to do was to run their eight-inch pipe line to the town and empty it into a concrete tank. This tank had already been started several days before, and they expected to have it completed by the time they got the oil line connected up.

Urgent telegraph and telephone calls hurried up shipments of pipe, and in a few days it began to come in. Tom directed the laying. The men all liked the young inventor and worked willingly and untiringly at his bidding, but at best it was slow work getting those four miles of pipe laid. In spite of his desire for speed, Tom would not allow any careless work, and each joint had to be made to his satisfaction before another could be bolted up.

They laid the pipe in shallow trenches and covered it a few inches deep with dirt. Length after length, it grew steadily.

It looked like plain sailing then, but for some unexplainable reason, after they had started the line from the well, the valve started to leak. Probably the tremendous pressure of the oil behind it had opened up some little flaw in the gate or seat, and oil started coming through—not in any great quantity, to be sure, but still there was a constant stream, which ran through the pipe and made it difficult to join the sections together and kept the men constantly dripping with the thick brown liquid.

Tom would not admit it, but he was worried. He knew that the leak might get worse, that the valve might give out altogether and release the imprisoned oil. His first act was to telegraph for a new valve. After that, he gave orders to have the new pipe line disconnected close to the well. This stopped the oil running through the line, but of course it ran out into the ground instead and trickled down the hill in every direction. However, the leakage was not large as yet, and if it got no worse would not be a serious thing. It meant some loss of oil, but it would be for only a few days, until they could get the line connected to the tank in Copperhead.

“Bless my forebodings! I don’t like it, just the same,” said Mr. Damon, with a shake of his head. “It takes away my confidence, Tom. If that valve can leak a little, it can leak a lot, and I expect almost any old time to hear it let go.”

“It’s possible,” admitted Tom. “No use worrying about it, though. I don’t like to see our good oil going to waste any more than you do, but I guess it won’t amount to very much, after all. There’ll be plenty left in the well, Mr. Damon.”

“Dat stuff doan look like oil, nohow,” said Rad, who was an interested spectator of all that was going on. “Dat looks mo’ lak good ole molasses to me.”

“Well, maybe it is,” said Tom. “Taste it and see, Rad.”

Rad did as he was bidden, but instantly made a terrible face and looked reproachfully at the young inventor.

“Is it molasses, Rad?” asked Tom, trying hard to keep a straight face.

“No, sah, dat ain’t no molasses. It’s de worst stuff dat dis niggah evah tasted, an’ Ah doan want no mo’ of it. Guess Ah’ll have to take a good swig o’ watah to git de taste outen ma mouf,” and Rad made for the water bucket.

“Live and learn,” laughed Mr. Damon, his anxiety over the leak forgotten for the moment. “Bless you, Rad, things aren’t always what they seem.”

“Ah believes you-all now, Mistah Damon,” said the old negro, as he ruefully scrubbed at his lips in an effort to get rid of the taste. “Nex’ time Ah lets some odder fool niggah do de samplin’.”

That night at the farmhouse, while the others of the company were chatting about the events of the day, Mr. Damon stepped to the window to take note of the weather, as he was accustomed to do. As he reached the window he gave a startled exclamation.

“Bless my fire insurance!” he cried. “There’s a big fire. Looks as though it might be in Copperhead, only it’s hardly far enough away for that.”

At his words, the others jumped up and crowded to the window.

“I should say it isn’t as far as Copperhead!” ejaculated Tom. “Why, that fire is close, and getting closer every minute!” and he dashed out of the house, followed by the others.

In the north was a lurid glare, growing brighter every moment. A fresh breeze blew toward them, bearing a stifling smoke, with now and then a floating spark. The long, dry grass was on fire, and, blown by a lively breeze, was rapidly approaching the oil well!

“The well!” shouted Tom. “It’s coming toward the well!”

Terror gripped at the hearts of all. The men stood for an instant as though paralyzed. Carol wrung her hands in anguish.

“With this wind blowing, nothing can stop it,” groaned Mr. Damon, his face white with excitement.

“But even if it gets that far, the well is capped!” exclaimed Ned, catching at a shred of hope.

“It’ll catch fire just the same,” said Tom, as he remembered the leaking gate valve and the oil-soaked hillside. “Once let the flames begin to lick round that casing, and there’ll be a tremendous explosion. Don’t let’s fool ourselves. We’ve got to stop it—got to stop it! Carol, you run to the ’phone. Call up the neighbors. Call up Copperhead. Get all the fire-fighters you can. You men come with me.”

Hankinshaw and his gang had done their work well. The night was an ideal one for their project, the wind being strong and from the north where there were dense thickets and many trees to furnish fuel for the fire, which was now advancing at terrifying speed.

“Everybody get shovels,” yelled Tom. “I’ll get the men up,” and he dashed toward the cabin where the drillers slept. Usually, Koku slept there too, and Tom hoped to find him, for he knew what the giant’s great strength and tireless endurance were worth in an emergency.

Luckily Koku was in the cabin with the men, but it was almost impossible to get him awake. The others had all rushed out with shovels and axes before Tom finally shook him into consciousness.

“What’s matter?” he muttered, as he scrambled sleepily to his feet. “Time get up?”

“You bet it is—high time,” replied Tom, and the excitement in his voice effectually aroused the faithful giant. “The woods to the north of the oil well are on fire, and the flames are coming toward us fast. We’ve got to put that fire out, Koku.”

“I do that,” declared Koku confidently.

“Get a shovel and follow me,” ordered Tom. “You might take an axe along too,” he added. “The only chance we’ve got is to clear a space ahead of the flames that they can’t jump over. If we can do that, we may save the well yet,” and he and Koku started at a fast run toward the oncoming flames.

The fire had not yet reached the oil belt, but it was not over a mile from it when the young inventor and his faithful giant arrived on the scene. Everybody that could handle a shovel or an axe was there, but they were working without leadership until Tom arrived. He took control at once, and in a few minutes everybody knew just what he was expected to do.

By this time the heat of the fire was intense, and the smoke enveloped those fighting it in a stifling cloud. Hot sparks and embers floated over their heads, and threatened at any moment to kindle new fires nearer the oil well. Tom detailed three of the drillers to watch for these incipient fires and smother them or beat them out before they got serious. Ned and Mr. Damon, together with the rest of the drilling gang and such of the neighbors as had come to help, he put to work digging ditches and clearing the ground in the path of the approaching flames of its dried underbrush, while he and Koku set about chopping down some of the trees that grew on the hillside.

They were not large trees, scarcely more than saplings in fact, but there were a great many of them.

“Now, Koku,” shouted Tom, “work as you’ve never worked before.”

“Me do,” answered the giant, as he tightened his hold on the axe.

Tom himself was an expert at wielding an axe, and he swung with a tireless stroke that soon showed results, but for every sapling that he brought down Koku felled two. In the red glare of the oncoming fire the giant worked like a demon, his great muscles swelling and knotting as he swung the blade of his axe in gleaming circles. The heat increased until it became so unbearable that everybody else had to fall back, but he hardly seemed to feel it. He kept at work until the fire was almost on top of him, and Tom yelled to him to come back. But by that time they had cut a long swath along the side of the hill between the fire and the well. Other workers had pretty well cleared up the underbrush and drawn the bulk of it back, apparently out of the reach of the oncoming flames.

But they had reckoned without the wind, which blew strongly and fanned the fire into a fury that recognized no check. As it reached the edge of the cleared space it died down slightly while it ate along the edge as though it were endowed with intelligence and was seeking out the easiest place to cross. The scorched and weary fire-fighters leaned on their tools and waited with nerves tense to see if their efforts had prevailed. Had the night been still, the red enemy would have been conquered then and there from lack of fuel to feed upon, but the wind rose until it reached half a gale and carried on its wings blazing leaves and twigs that alighted on the far side of the cleared space. Here the fire found fresh fuel to feed upon, and resumed its devastating march toward the oil well.

Some of the fire-fighters were ready to throw down their tools and admit defeat. They had seen the fire demon at work before, and they knew how hard it was to bar his progress. Had it been left to them, they would have given in to what they considered the inevitable, and accepted defeat. But Tom, like a famous American commander, had “just begun to fight.”

“Come on up farther, and we’ll try again!” he yelled. “The wind is dying down a little, and this time we may stop it.”

But this time he resorted to a stronger force than mere human labor. In a shack not far from the well was stored some nitro-glycerine, which they had bought when it seemed as though they might have to explode it to strike oil. It was not needed at that time, but now the thought of it flashed through Tom’s mind, and he resolved to try it. He figured that by exploding the powerful nitro-glycerine he could plough up a deep and wide trench that might effectually prevent the further progress of the fire.

“Come on, Koku!” he shouted, “I’ve got a job for you.”

Followed by his giant retainer, he set off for the storage shack. When they reached it, Tom reached in his pocket for the key to the padlock. He fumbled about, but the key was gone—lost in the mad activities of that lurid night.

“We’re up against it now, Koku!” exclaimed the young inventor, in desperation. “We’ve got to get into that shack, but the key is lost, and that’s a strong padlock. How are we going to do it?”

For answer, Koku seized the padlock and, placing his foot against the door jamb, pulled until his powerful muscles stood out in ridges. There came a screech of nails being drawn through wood, padlock and hasp came flying off the door, while Koku staggered backward and almost fell from the force of his own exertions.

“Good enough!” exclaimed Tom. “Now, Koku, this is dangerous stuff to handle. If we fall with it, they’ll never be able to find the pieces. Are you game to take the chance?”

“What you tell me, I do,” replied Koku calmly.

Each took all of the explosive he could carry and started back toward the fire. It was a terribly dangerous journey, as a fall would spell disaster. The fire gave such a light, however, that they could see as clearly as in daytime, and it was not long before they had the high explosive in place in front of the approaching flames. Then all ran to a safe distance, while Tom set the charge off.

There was a terrific roar, and a cloud of gravel, chips, and other debris went flying through the air. When the smoke cleared away, the fire-fighters saw that they had a broad trench for hundreds of feet in both directions, with sand and gravel heaped up in great piles along its length.

It looked as though this would surely stop the fire, and for a time it seemed as though their hopes would be justified. The fire hesitated, and died down until it seemed to be only smouldering.

But suddenly a burning tree, almost uprooted by the explosion, toppled across the ditch, and before Tom or any of the others could get to the spot, the fire had taken hold again, and was rapidly spreading. All their work was wasted, and the fire was a good deal nearer the well than when they had started!

Still they fought on doggedly, blistered and smoke-begrimed. Carol and other women passed up and down the line with coffee and sandwiches. Tom and Ned were here, there and everywhere, working feverishly and cheering on the men.

“We’re goners though, old boy!” groaned Ned.

“Never say die!” panted Tom, feigning a confidence he was far from feeling. “We’ll beat it yet.”

But when the morning came, the fire was still gaining—gaining only by inches now in the desperate battle—but gaining. The gallant host of weary men still fought on, but they fought like men at bay, looking into the fiery eyes of doom!

Tom was as near despair as he ever permitted himself to be. It looked as though the well was doomed. Even though it was capped, he knew that if it became the center of those devouring flames the steel would melt and the fire come in contact with the oil. And this meant a catastrophe so appalling that none could foresee the consequences.

But it was not in his nature to quit, and he cudgeled his brain desperately to find some way of averting the calamity. Suddenly a thought came to him like an inspiration.

“Come along, Ned. You too, Koku,” he shouted. “Mr. Damon, you keep the men working.” And without waiting for an answer the young inventor started on a run for the Winged Arrow.

Ned and Koku were close on his heels when he reached the giant plane. Fortunately, it was always kept in readiness for instant flight.

“Jump in!” he shouted to his companions, setting the example.

He started the engine and the plane soared into the air and turned its nose toward Copperhead.

“Ned,” he said, “those fire bombs of ours! We shipped a lot of them to Southern cities. Which is the nearest town that has some? Think quickly, old boy.”

Ned caught on to Tom’s idea instantly.

“We sent a lot of them to Dallas,” he replied. “A big shipment went to Wesson and Robbins of that place. No doubt they have some of them on hand.”

“Good!” cried the young inventor. “There’s a flying field on the outskirts of that town. I’ll let you down as near to Copperhead as possible. You rush to the office and get Wesson and Robbins on the long distance ’phone. Tell them to have a dozen of them at the flying field when I get there. I won’t wait for you, but put right out for Dallas on the chance. It’s nearly a hundred miles, but the Winged Arrow will make it in an hour. You hotfoot it back to the farm—get an auto or a horse—and take charge there till I get back. Keep the fire down as much as you can.”

“I’ll do it,” said Ned. “Great head, old boy. Good luck.”

In two minutes more they were close to Copperhead. Tom swooped down, let Ned get out, and then with a whiz and a whirr rose and made for Dallas.

The fire bombs to which Tom referred were of his own invention and had achieved such remarkable results that they had been adopted by fire departments all over the United States. They contained chemicals of which Tom held the secret that were of wonderful efficiency in extinguishing fire. Tom had demonstrated their value on many occasions, notably when he had saved a great office building in a city not far from Shopton by dropping from an airplane the bombs containing the chemicals directly on the apparently doomed building, as narrated in the volume of this series entitled: “Tom Swift Among the Fire Fighters.”

Tom’s mind was a tumult of stormy thoughts. Would Wesson and Robbins have the bombs? Would Ned be able to get his message through in time? Even if these things went smoothly, would he get back before the flames reached the well, making all his efforts go for naught?

But he did not let these thoughts take his mind off the plane. This was vital. If the plane broke down, all hope would be gone.

So he urged and coaxed the plane along, pressing it to the utmost speed he dared. This was a race—a race against fire—a race against time!

Before long he could see the towers and steeples of the city in the distance. He neared it rapidly, straining his eyes to catch sight of the flying field with its white signals for the guidance of airmen.

Yes, there it was, and luckily on this side of the city. He swooped down and made his landing in close proximity to a loaded truck that he guessed might contain the bombs.

As he jumped out and ran toward it, he saw with a thrill of exultation the name of Wesson and Robbins on the truck. Ned had got the message through. Good old Ned!

It was the work of only a few minutes with the aid of Koku and the two burly truckmen to get the bombs transferred to the plane. And Tom blessed his stars that he had brought the big plane South with him instead of one of his smaller airships.

With a hurried word of thanks, Tom jumped into his seat and started on his homeward journey. On the way he instructed Koku to hold himself in readiness to drop the bombs when he should give the word.

In less than an hour, which seemed to him like an eternity, he had passed Copperhead. He had been straining his ears for the sound of an explosion and thanked heaven when it failed to come. But the angry glare that grew more vivid as he approached told him that the fire demon was still trying to get at its prey.

In another minute or two he was circling above the Goby farm. Beneath him he could see men running for cover. He knew that Ned had seen him coming, and had ordered the men to disperse so that they would escape danger from the falling bombs.

He could see the flames eating their way ruthlessly toward the well, and only a few yards away from it. He steadied the airplane as nearly above the flames as possible. Koku was holding one of the bombs in readiness.

“Now!” cried Tom, and the giant dropped the bomb.

It fell about a hundred feet from the well, right in the midst of a seething caldron of flame.

The effect was instantaneous. The fire died out in a twinkling. For a wide area the red turned to black. Even the smoke disappeared and was replaced by a cloud of vapor that was slowly dissipated.

They were too high to hear the cheers that rose from the fire-fighters looking on, but Tom could see them waving their hats and hands and jumping up and down like mad.

Koku held another bomb poised aloft, and again at a signal from Tom he let it fall. It struck in a different place this time, but with the same result. In the vicinity where it struck, the flames went out as though some wizard had turned a switch and extinguished them.

Several times this was repeated until Tom saw that the flames had been definitely conquered. Only little scattered patches were left, and these could easily be put out by hand. The young inventor had won the fight!

Only when he was sure of this did he swoop down to his usual landing place and get out, to be overwhelmed with cheers and handshakings and thumpings by Ned and Mr. Damon and the host of grimy fire-fighters with blackened hands and faces, all of them almost crazy with joy. What little was left to do was quickly done, and before long every spark had been extinguished. The well was saved!

It was a tired but happy group that sat in the living room of the Goby farmhouse that night. Mr. Goby’s face was beaming. Mr. Damon was blessing everything and everybody.

In the kitchen, Koku was boasting of his exploits and Rad was belittling them, the only thing on which they agreed being that although there were some great men in the world, there was none so great as “Marse Tom.”

Suddenly the door of the living room was flung open and a stalwart young fellow rushed in.

Every one looked up, startled by the unceremonious irruption. Carol sprang to her feet with a joyous cry, ran toward the newcomer, and threw her arms about his neck.

“Oh, Father!” she cried, “it’s Hitt! It’s brother! He’s come back to us!”

The blind man tried to rise, but fell back in his chair. The next instant his son and daughter were beside him and he folded them in his arms.

Tom rose, followed by Ned and Mr. Damon, and tiptoed into the adjoining room, leaving the reunited family to themselves.

But they were called back before long, and Tom and Ned were overwhelmed with thanks by Hitt Goby for the way they had rescued him from death.

“And he’s going to stay at home with us now for good,” announced Carol happily.

Probably there was no happier home in Texas that night than the Goby farmhouse. Carol was in the seventh heaven of delight, her father’s face was radiant, Hitt Goby was joyous. The happiness of the others, while perhaps not so rapturous, was not less real.

And Tom among the intervals of talk and laughter was thinking of—Mary. He was counting the hours before he could be back with her and share with her his triumphs.

But before that wished-for moment could be reached, there were many things that imperatively claimed his attention. He had a fortune in his well and in the other leases and purchases he had made in connection with his associates. And there was another fortune, and perhaps a bigger one, in that marvelous drill, whose achievements had so interested the captains of finance that offers for the patent rights were beginning to flow in on him from all directions. The first, and so far the best one, was from the company represented by Mr. Blythe. Some of these things had to be attended to by Tom personally and at once, but whatever was possible he left to Ned and Mr. Damon to adjust.

He had put inquiries on foot to find out the source of the mysterious fire, and one day was apprised by Judge Wilson that Hankinshaw had been arrested. One of the confederates he had employed had been arrested for another offense, and with the hope of getting a lighter sentence had revealed the incendiary plot. Warrants were out also for Thompson and Bragden, but those worthies had already put half a continent between them and their pursuers and had not yet been apprehended. Hankinshaw, however, was less lucky, and some time later was tried and sent to prison for a five-year term.

“That’s one rascal that’s got his deserts,” remarked Tom.

“Not by a jugful!” exclaimed Ned. “He ought to have got twice as much.”

“Bless my lockstep!” snorted Mr. Damon. “They should have sent him up for life.”

“Oh, well, who cares?” Tom summed it up. “The main thing is that he didn’t get away with it. We won out. The whole thing’s been a great adventure.”

The Goby family could not get over what Tom had done for them.

“You’re a friend worth having,” was the way Hitt Goby expressed himself. “If it wasn’t for you, I don’t know where I’d be to-day. Most likely in the cemetery.”

“Oh, perhaps not as bad as that,” returned the young inventor modestly.

“And see what he has done for the whole family!” cried Carol, her eyes sparkling. “Why, this oil is going to make Father rich.”

“It’s making us rich, too,” said Tom.

“But think of what might have happened if we had put ourselves in the hands of those rascals,” came from Mr. Goby. “I tell you, Tom Swift, you are one young man out of a million!”

“The best ever,” murmured Hitt. “I’ll bank on him every time.”

“So will I,” laughed Ned.

Tom could not stand all this praise, so he merely smiled and turned away. Yet it pleased him greatly.

Other adventures are still in store for Tom Swift, but these must be kept for another volume. For the present we will leave him with his great success in making a wonderful improvement in oil-well machinery and bringing in his Great Oil Gusher.

THE END

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.