Dallas Manuscript Page 1

Dallas-Sellers. Chapter 1. Every barfly, railroad bum and down at the heels cropper for miles around was crammed into the saloon, bellying up to the bar because Digger Barnes was buying. Jock Ewing pushed into the crowsd, shoved past grinning unshaven men whod been given another look at the end of the rainbow. Though they stank of sweat and despair, beyond them was the perfume of raw crude staining Diggers clothes, that promised land smell of money. Hed watched this scene a dozentimes over, and Jock was tired of it, of paying the bills. Because this nearest saloon was only the start; Digger would spread himself from here, boozing and brawling, whoring and playing poker, and leaving a trail of IOUs wide as a cattle drive. It would end somewhere from Amarillo to Abilene, with Digger Barnes in a drunk tank, all sick and sorry. But for Digger, why the hell not? Another Well waited to be brought in, more black gold to be called forth by his magic touch. Yonder he comes! Digger bellowed. My Buddy, My Partner. Give him room, you damned roughnecks. Make way for the Midas of Muleshoe County; rich and getting richer, long as ol digger puncher holes in the right places. He had the heft and holler to stand about nine feet tall, Jock thought, and most of it was gristle and whang leather. Stomping around on a high lonesome after he brought in a well, it seemed like Digger was yay high to derrick, but when you looked at him frontside-to, there wasn't a loafer in the place that didn't top him by a head or more.