Chicken Fries - a short story

I wrote this story, an account of actual circumstances when I was a young geologist in Oklahoma, the home to more American Indians than any state in the United States. Tribes were forcibly moved here when the country usurped their tribal lands. Many tribes were already in Oklahoma, including the now-extinct Mississippian Tribe that occupied much of the southeastern part of this country.

The Mississippians were mound builders and accomplished artisans, as seen from the relics and artifacts gathered from their excavated ruins. 1000 years ago, the Mississippian branch near Spiro, Oklahoma, was the spiritual hub of the Indian universe. Every year during the Summer Solstice, thousands of Indians from North and South America congregated on a plateau overlooking a bend in the Arkansas River. Days of games, feasting, trade, and celebration would ensue. In my book Blink of an Eye, P.I. Buck McDivit travels back in time and witnesses this celebration.

The mighty chief of the Mississippians ruled the spiritual clan known as the Southern Death Cult. Today, in Oklahoma, many residents are descendants of American Indians. In Bones of Skeleton Creek, a pagan enclave celebrates Native American spiritual beliefs.

Many still believe in the "old ways" and still practice the tenets of American Indian mysticism. I learned as much years ago working as an independent geologist near Pond Creek. I hope you love reading Chicken Fries, a story about an occurrence that happened to me. Oklahoma is much more than cowboys and college football. A peek into Paranormal Oklahoma might help pierce its mysterious veil.

CHICKEN FRIES

Years ago, I worked up a geologic prospect in Grant County, Oklahoma, and sold it to a company that bought it only because I would personally sit the well. This means I would stay near the location while the well was drilling and study the drilling samples as they came to the surface. This occurred before Anne and I were married, but not before we were living together. Deciding to make an adventure of it, we rented a thirty-three-foot recreational vehicle. Country and Western singer Wanda Jackson’s former RV, according to the man we rented it from. Heading north to Grant County, we took along our good friend Ray.

The well was in the middle of a wheat field, without a tree. The drilling rig, we soon learned, didn’t have the power to generate enough electricity for the RV, so we had to run the generator full-time. It was hot that summer, at least one hundred degrees every day. Although the weather was steamy, the wheat field dusty, and the drilling rig noisy, we had a daily respite. Three, actually. There was a little eatery in Pond Creek called the Curb Café. The County sheriff owned the place, and the house's specialty was chicken-fried steak. Soon, Anne, Ray, and I were eating chicken-fried steak and eggs for breakfast, the chicken-fried steak luncheon special, and the dinner that included a fully loaded, baked potato. Sheriff Archie’s chicken-fries weren’t his only claim to fame. He was also the state expert on witchcraft, crop circles, and cattle mutilations, many of which occurred during that particular summer.

The month was July, and the temperature was hot. There were no trees at the drilling location for shade. At the height of the eighties drilling boom, every man on the drilling rig was a weevil (translation: workers who had no earthly idea what they were doing). Anne, Ray, and I weren’t worried because we had chicken fries to look forward to three times a day. Returning to the rig after breakfast on the second day of drilling, a state trooper directed traffic and suspicious cars to the side of the road.

“Where you folks headed?”

“We’re drilling a well about a mile from here. What’s the deal, officer?”

“Someone cut up a cow out there last night,” he said, pointing to the fenced pasture. “Sliced its udder smack-dab off and not a drop of blood anywhere.”

Anne glanced at me, and I looked at Ray. “What’s going on?”

“A coven,” he said. “Last night was a full moon.”

Ray grinned as he glanced first at Anne and then at me.

“You're kidding, aren’t you?”

The question earned him a dirty look. “Mighty big RV you got there. Mind if I take a look inside?”

“Help yourself,” I said, my easy acquiescence earning another dirty look, this one from Anne.

The trooper didn't wait for a second invitation, hurrying up the short flight of stairs to the RV’s opened door. He glanced inside the tiny bathroom and the bedroom in the back before satisfying himself that Anne, Ray, and I weren't part of the coven that had mutilated the cow the previous night. We were soon on the road again to the drilling rig.

“Why did you let him look inside the RV? He didn’t have a search warrant,” Anne said.

“We have nothing to hide,” I said. “I thought he might give us more information about what happened last night.”

Ray shook his head. “Fat chance of that! He could hardly open his mouth because of that frown on his face.”

As we turned off the highway, a dust devil blew across the location and our talk of covens and cattle mutilations. The location, a bare four acres bulldozed from an Oklahoma wheat field, lay miles from the nearest town or farmhouse. The roar of a giant diesel engine accosted our ears when we stopped and opened the RV’s door.

Ray and Anne relaxed as I hurried across the location to the drilling rig known as a double because it drilled with stands of pipe consisting of two thirty-foot sections. The mast poked seventy or eighty feet into clear Oklahoma sky. The doghouse and drill floor were twelve feet above the ground and were reached by climbing a steep flight of metal stairs. The sample man had tied my drilling samples to the handrail at the base of the stairs. Before returning to the RV with the samples, I checked the drill floor anyway.

I sprinted up the steep twenty-four steps leading to the doghouse. Three roughnecks acknowledged my appearance by melting away without a word. Ralph, the daylight driller, stared across the wheat field, rubbed his oily hand through his equally oily three-day-old beard, and spat tobacco juice on the ground below. I glanced at the Geolograph, the mechanical device on the rig floor showing how deep we had drilled. Ralph continued to ignore me.

This wasn’t my first rodeo. I hadn’t been on a drilling rig in more than a year, though I knew the hierarchy of a drilling well. Ralph looked older than his thirty-odd years, his shirt as black as his oily hair. Still, he had drilling intelligence, maybe more than me. He knew as much about the subsurface of Grant County, Oklahoma, as did anyone I knew. He could immediately pick “pay dirt” and didn’t tolerate fools. Neither did I.

“Was that last drilling break in the Layton Sand?”

“Yep,” he said.

“You heard about the cow cutting up the road?”

“Yep,” he said again.

“And?” I asked, trying to draw him out.

Ralph spat a wad of tobacco over the railing and started away toward the rig’s diesel engines.

“Weren’t no alien spacecraft,” he said, his words quickly overcome by the mechanical drone of the giant diesel outside the door.

“Then what was it?”

Ralph turned and looked at me. He wasn’t smiling. “Don’t pay to ask too many questions around here about such as that.”

He gave me no chance to ask any more questions, hurrying down the steep stairs as fast as his gimpy leg would let him. I glanced again at the Geolograph and followed him down the steep stairway. I found Anne and Ray watching a portable television while eating potato chips and drinking Coke, Anne’s omnipresent drink of choice.

They both looked apprehensive. We had a lively discussion that evening when I said, “Maybe we better lock the door tonight.”

Many strange and eerie events had already occurred in Oklahoma that summer. When one occurred, the news stations always interviewed Sheriff Archie, the owner of our chicken fry café in Pond Creek. We discussed the mysterious events as we drove to Pond Creek for our nightly feast.

“Let’s confront the sheriff,” Anne said. “He’ll tell us what he thinks is happening around here.”

“Maybe he knows what’s happening because he’s a Satanist himself. Maybe we should keep our questions to ourselves.”

“Bull,” Ray said. “I agree with Anne. Let’s ask him. You think he’ll put a hex spell on us or something?”

Anne snickered when I said, “Maybe.”

“Well, it’s two to one,” she said. “Tonight, we talk with Sheriff Archie.”

True to its name, the Curb Café sat just north of a big bend in the highway as it passed through Pond Creek. The café was large and almost always crowded. When Sheriff Arch was around, he held court at a big booth in the corner near the kitchen.

Every farmer, rancher, and shop owner entering the restaurant paid him homage, shaking his hand before sitting for dinner. An imposing figure, he ruled Grant County by his mere presence. Maybe, but intimidated is how I felt, as apparently did Ray. Not so Anne. Walking straight to his booth, she extended her hand and introduced herself. She was also an imposing figure with the savvy and intelligence to play to his ego. It was easy to see that he was immediately impressed.

“I’m Anne, Sheriff, and these are my friends Eric and Ray. May we pick your brain a bit?”

“About what, little lady?”

“Satanists and cattle mutilations. You're the expert on the subject. Everyone in Oklahoma knows that.”

“Slide in here, little lady,” he said.

Anne slid into the booth beside Sheriff Archie. Looking skeptical, Ray followed her, and so did I.

“The usual,” Ray said to Chloe, our regular waitress.

She smiled and walked away toward the kitchen, knowing without asking that we all wanted chicken fried steak dinners.

“I see you like our specialty,” Sheriff Archie said. “We think it’s the best in the state.”

“Best I’ve ever had,” I said.

“What about you, little lady?” the sheriff asked Anne.

“Are you kidding? I've gained three pounds in the last week.”

“A pound of that came from your bread pudding,” I said. “It’s Anne’s favorite dessert.”

“Good, good. Now, what can I do for you?” he said.

“There was a cattle mutilation just west of here last night. State police stopped and questioned us. The tool pusher on the rig we are on said it wasn’t aliens that were responsible.”

Sheriff Archie chuckled. “Most likely the Blackwell Coven. They've been fairly active lately.”

Ray said, “The Blackwell Coven? You mean there's more than one?”

“Depends on who you ask,” he said.

Anne gave me a glance I knew meant, "How does he know how many covens there are unless he's a member of one of them?" She must have been afraid to ask. Both Ray and I were.

Instead, she said, “Can you tell us exactly what cattle mutilation entails?”

Sheriff Archie rubbed his grizzled chin and nodded. “It’s always the same. The farmer finds the cow dead, drained of blood, and its sexual organs surgically removed. Its eyes and tongue are gone. No blood on the ground. Not a drop.”

“Is the tool pusher on our rig correct when he said the mutilations aren’t related to aliens?” I asked.

“You don’t really believe in little green men from Mars, do you?” he asked, staring me straight in the eye.

“No, but . . .”

“Then give me some credit,” he said, his tone suddenly stern as if he were a teacher admonishing a slow student. “These mutilations are done by Satanists, plain and simple.”

“But how do you know that?” Anne asked.

“I know because the mutilations always happen during satanic holidays or eves to holidays.”

“Such as?” Anne goaded.

“Yesterday was the first day of July. It's when Satanists and pagans celebrate the Demon Revels. It celebrates female sexuality, and a cow's udder is often taken for the ceremony. That’s what happened last night.”

“You mean Satanists have celebrations, like Christians?”

Our chicken fried dinners arrived before Sheriff Archie could answer Anne’s question. After the waitress left our table, he said, “All the Christian holidays are based on pagan activities that preceded them by centuries.”

“Even Easter?” Ray asked.

“Son, do you know what estrus means?”

Ray stuttered a bit and said, “Well, not really.”

“It’s when an animal goes into heat. Easter was the Anglo-Saxon fertility goddess associated with eggs and rabbits. Their holiday for Easter took place around the Vernal Equinox of spring. Does any of this sound familiar?”

“So these Satanists are really pagans, acting out ancient beliefs?” Anne asked.

“That’s right,” Sheriff Archie said.

“Then why are they so secretive? We do have freedom of religion in this country,” she said.

“Because the congregation at the local Methodist Church doesn’t kill cattle that aren’t theirs, then cut them up for use in some pagan ceremony.”

“Is that all they do that’s illegal?” I asked.

Sheriff Archie motioned Chloe to bring us a refill on our coffee. After she had filled our cups and left the table with a smile, he said, “There’s a rumor that they do quite a bit more than cattle mutilations.”

“Such as?” Ray asked.

“Sacrifice of the human variety.”

After hearing Sheriff Arch’s words, Ray and I simply sat there, staring at him with our eyes wide and mouths open.
Anne wasn’t so content and asked, “Do you know any Satanists?”

“Yes, I do, little lady, and so may you. Ralph Thompson, the daylight driller on the rig drilling your well, is an elder in the Blackwell Coven.”

***

A near-full moon lighted the highway on our return trip to the drilling rig that night, the talk of pagans, cattle mutilations, and possible human sacrifices resounding in our heads. The last two weeks of June had seen record rainfall and cool temperatures. That all had changed with the first week of July. The RV’s air-conditioner worked overtime as we pulled onto the location. After nine, the sky was dark as I parked the large vehicle and turned off the engine.

Sated by chicken fries and mashed potatoes, Ray and Anne prepared for some light reading, followed quickly by bedtime. I wasn’t so lucky. Leaving them to their idleness, I headed for the rig floor to retrieve my drilling samples. I found a moon-bright location and not a single roughneck in sight. Far across the wheat field, a coyote bayed at the moon.

The eighties drilling boom featured fast money, prominent drugs, and rampant inexperience. The most experienced roughneck on the night crew had less than a year of oil field work under his belt. The rest, well. . .

My samples weren’t waiting for me at the usual place, so I climbed the stairs to the drill floor in search of the driller. I found an empty doghouse and a fresh joint of pipe turning slowly. There was no one in sight. Above the pungent odor of burning diesel fuel, I smelled something wafting up from below: the unmistakable scent of pot. I started down the stairs toward the smell. Following my nose to the mud bin, I found two roughnecks. They were young, probably in their early twenties. From the look in their disjointed eyes, both were stoned.

“Did you fellows forget to catch my samples?”

The two young men answered me with nervous giggles. Realizing I wouldn’t get much more information from them, I walked around the drilling rig searching for the driller. A sizeable rotary rig powered by twin diesel engines is noisy. Most oil patch workers have significant hearing loss. A drilling rig is also a perilous place to work, and roughnecks with missing fingers are common. Fingers aren’t the only things lost on a drilling rig. Those who aren’t careful often lose larger limbs and even their lives. High-pressure gas spewing uncontrollably from a broken wellhead had blown a man’s head off that year. I hadn’t witnessed the accident but knew the victim’s father.

As I rounded the drilling rig, a heavy steel cheater bar tumbled off the rig floor, missing my head by inches and bouncing as it hit the ground. With my heart racing from the adrenaline rush, I glanced up to see what or who was responsible. Seeing no one there, I ran up the steep steps to find the dog house and rig floor deserted. When I retraced my steps down the steep ramp, I found my missing samples had miraculously appeared, tied to the bottom rail in their usual place. Feeling I would get no satisfaction as to how the accident had occurred, I started back toward the RV. Waiting for me at the vehicle’s door was a giant pentagram painted in the sand with oil. On the front step was a headless chicken, its muscles still twitching.

My heart was racing as I rushed into the RV. “You’re not going to believe this,” I shouted to get Anne’s and Ray’s attention. “Quick, come see.”

“There’s a good movie on,” Ray said.

“And I’m reading the last ten pages of my book,” Anne added.

“I don’t care. You have to see this.”

“See what?” she asked.

“Hurry,” I said.

Finally convinced, they followed me out the RV’s side door, and I immediately realized something was amiss. There was no dead chicken, and the pentagram painted in the sand had miraculously disappeared. Anne and Ray were behind me, and I could feel their staring eyes on my neck. They weren’t the only ones. Every roughneck on the crew and the driller had suddenly appeared. Standing on the drill floor, they watched Anne, Ray, and me, waiting to see what we would do.

I didn’t give them the satisfaction. Brushing past Ray and Anne without explaining why, I quickly returned to the RV. After exchanging their own perplexed glances, they followed me through the door.

Anne always had a sharp tongue, and Ray laughed when she asked, “Hitting the hooch a little early tonight?”

I ensured the door was closed and the shades down before answering. And then I blurted, “Someone tried to kill me. They painted a pentagram before the door and left a headless chicken for me to find.”

“Okay, Wildman,” Ray said. “You have our attention. What’s the punch line?”

“There is no punch line. I think every roughneck working this rig is a Satanist. I also think we're in danger.”

“Maybe you two are. I’m going back to OKC tomorrow after breakfast,” he said.

“So, you’re just going to desert us?”

“You knew I was leaving tomorrow. I’m not deserting anyone.”

“Have you flipped out?” Anne asked, shaking her head. “You must be making up this entire story.”

“No way,” I said. “It happened just the way I told you.”

***

I had trouble sleeping that night, half expecting a bomb or something worse to fly through the RV window. Anne and Ray had no such trouble, positive I was pulling their legs or partaking in some of the roughneck’s pot. As I lay there, wide awake, I wished I had a little pot to help me sleep. I apparently didn’t need the help, and someone banging on the RV’s door roused me from a deep trance. When I glanced at my watch, I saw it was three in the morning.

“What is it?” I asked the excited driller, a kid no older than twenty-two or three.

“We’re taking a big gas kick. What'll I do?”

Pulling on my pants, I rushed out the door and headed for the rig floor. “Stop drilling. Pull up a stand or two and circulate the bottoms up. Get a measurement of the mud and add some weight if necessary. Bring me samples every fifteen minutes until I tell you to stop.”

“I’m sort of green,” the young driller said. “I got no clue what you’re talking about.”

There was a gas detector on the rig floor, and it was registering somewhere far off the chart. Reaching the dog house before the young driller, I quickly engaged the clutch.

“You got a gas bubble coming up. Hurry and do what I say before this rig lights up like a Roman candle.”

I could feel the roughneck’s stares as they followed my orders, pulling up and circulating. I watched the hydrocarbon detector as it went off the chart, enough unexpected gas to burn the rig to the ground if we hadn’t interceded. By four in the morning, we had things under control, and I had called for a drill-stem test to determine how much gas we had. With the results more than twelve hours away, I slept as Ray drove us to Pond Creek for our morning chicken fry.

“We’re here,” Anne said, shaking my shoulder to rouse me.

With the groggy head of someone who hadn’t slept much in thirty-six hours, I followed them into the café. We had a surprise when we entered the door.

Ray’s wife, Kathy, had driven up from Oklahoma City and was waiting for us in a large booth. “I’ve had all the fun I can take,” Ray said. “Kathy’s here to take me home.”

Forgetting Ray’s pronouncement, we were soon in the throes of what else but chicken-fried steak and eggs. Between bites, the three of us conveyed our story to Kathy, who was enthralled.

“Let’s stay,” Kathy said. “I’ve never seen a Satanist before.”

She was serious, and Ray soon agreed. They followed us back to the drilling rig, Anne and Kathy spending much of the day catching up on gossip. Ray slept while I observed the pulling of the drill-stem test.

After the hefty kick on the gas detector, I expected gas to surface, good pressures, and every indication of a potentially fine well. I was totally disappointed as the last stand of drill pipe came out of the borehole. As the driller started back into the hole with the drill bit, I headed for the RV for an hour or so of much-needed sleep.

Irv was a petroleum engineer and one of the owners of the oil company drilling the well. He woke us early the following day with a knock on the RV’s door. Anne started a pot of coffee, and we soon had jolts of caffeine coursing through our systems. I needed it. After draining the coffee pot, we headed to Pond Creek for breakfast, Irv’s eyes gleaming when our server brought our usual: chicken-fried steak and eggs with cream gravy.

Between bites, Irv said, “The rig is shutting down and circulating for the Fourth of July. You may as well take a break because they won’t start drilling again until six A.M. on the Fifth.”

“We’re leaving it to you,” Ray said. “Kathy and I are going back to OKC.”

After picking up the tab, Irv headed for the front door. “Ron and I have another well drilling in Alfalfa County. Got to check it out. See you two in a couple of days.”

Anne and I soon found ourselves alone in the large booth. “It’s too far to return home in just thirty-six hours,” she said.

“And too damn hot to stay on location. Let's drive to Ponca City. We could go to the sports car races. Surely there's an RV park around someplace.”

Anne agreed, and it felt good to drive in a direction away from the drilling rig and know that we didn’t have to get back in ninety minutes or so. Ponca City isn’t far from Pond Creek, and we drove in about an hour. Still worn out from lack of sleep, I napped in the passenger seat while Anne drove. We were pulling into town when I awoke, feeling rested and still full from breakfast.

Ponca City is too far off the beaten path for most tourists, a pity as the city is steeped in history. Ponca was the home of oil baron E.W. Marland, who arrived in town penniless and soon drilled his way to enormous wealth. 1922, he controlled a tenth of the world’s oil supply, yet died pennilessly. His second wife, Lydie, was his adopted daughter before he had the adoption annulled. Even before the adoption, she was his niece by the marriage with his first wife, Virginia. Their mansion, built at the cost of more than five million dollars, even in the twenties, remains one of the major attractions of Ponca City. At the risk of sounding like a travelogue, check out Ponca if you ever get the chance.

Anne and I weren’t interested in history that particular day. We had come to Ponca City to escape the hot and noisy drilling rig and partake in the holiday festivities during the Fourth of July. Since the sixties, the Sports Car Club of America had staged races at a one-point-five-mile track constructed from city roads just east of town. The track abutted Lake Ponca. During the Fourth of July, the average 20,000 or so population of Ponca City would double. Anne and I felt very lucky we didn’t have to search for a room to have a place to spend the night.

Racers and spectators took all the camping facilities around Lake Ponca, so we continued east to Kaw Lake, where we found an RV park. We rested until nearly six and then headed back toward Ponca City in search of a place to eat dinner, apprehensive about finding an equal to our favorite café in Pond Creek. When we reached downtown Ponca City, cordoned off for only pedestrian traffic, we waded into the ongoing street party and quickly realized we had nothing to worry about.

Sports car racing had concluded for the day, and most spectators and racers alike had descended on downtown Ponca City. A rock band played on a raised stage, electrifying the summer night with drum rolls and guitar riffs. Street vendors lined both sides, selling everything from hot dogs to Indian tacos. Anne and I got Budweiser in plastic cups and hot dogs. Finding a vacant spot on a park bench, we ate, drank, and watched the passing crowd. We soon had a pleasant surprise, seeing a couple we knew from Oklahoma City.

It was Andy and Cathy. Yes, I know, but the name was common at the time. This Cathy was Anne’s ex-roommate, the person who had introduced us. Andy was a friend whom we'd presented to Cathy. Well, you get the picture. Andy raced motorcycles and sports cars, but they were in town only as spectators this weekend. The crowd was shoulder-to-shoulder, and we decided to find a pub, drink a few more beers, and catch up on what we'd done since last seeing each other.

Cathy and Anne were as close as sisters, and neither of us took offense when she asked, “Have you two gained weight?”

“Too many chicken fries,” I said.

Anne told them about our new favorite café in Pond Creek.

“If we don’t hurry and finish this well, we’ll both be ten pounds heavier when we return to Oklahoma City.”

Andy laughed when Cathy said, “More like twenty pounds if you ask me.”

“How is the well going?” Andy asked, changing the subject.

“Running high and looking good,” I said. I explained the negative drill-stem test. “The results were less than promising after having one heck of a show of gas. Maybe the zone was plugged with drilling mud.”

Cathy elbowed Anne. “I don’t want to put a crimp in the conversation. That man across the room has been staring at us since we sat. Does anyone know him?”

It was Ralph, the daytime driller and, according to Sheriff Archie, the spiritual leader of the Blackwell coven. He suddenly saw us looking, got up from the table, and headed for the door. I followed him after motioning Anne, Cathy,  and Andy to wait for me.

“Ralph, wait. I need to talk with you.”

Though I knew he heard me, he kept walking without turning around. It didn’t matter because I was younger. Even with an extra ten pounds or so of weight, I was still faster. Pursuing him through the crowd, I soon caught him and grabbed his shoulder.

"Why are you running from me?”

He halted and wheeled around. Crossing his arms, he stared into my eyes. “What is it you want, mister?”

“You know me. I’m Eric, the geologist on the rig.”

“I know who you are.”

“Then maybe you can answer a few questions. Do you mind?”

The street party in downtown Ponca City had reached a crowded and noisy crescendo. When a slightly tipsy couple banged into him as they passed on the sidewalk, Ralph glanced around.

“Not here,” he said.

After our conversation, I left Ralph on the street and returned to the pub to rejoin Anne, Cathy, and Andy. They had finished a pitcher of beer or two while I was gone and had started on yet another.

“Where've you been?” Anne asked.

“Sorry. I caught up with Ralph. I didn’t get any answers to my questions.”

“You two better watch yourselves. Anne told us about the cow mutilation and the supposed accident on the rig. I think you should leave well enough alone,” Cathy said, wagging her finger at me.

She wasn’t always right, though she was never at a loss for an opinion. I took her advice with a grain of salt. Andy had his trademark smirk and motioned our server for yet another pitcher of beer.

Budweiser, Miller, and Coors beer are three-point-two percent alcohol in Oklahoma. The breweries argued with the State legislature in the seventies over who had the right to distribute their products. The significant breweries only want their licensed distributors (read insider deal) to do the distribution. The State of Oklahoma thinks anyone should have the right. To this day, Bud, Miller, and Coors sell only three-point-two and no strong beer in Oklahoma, and then only in grocery stores, not liquor stores. Even weak beer will eventually catch up with you, as any person stopped for a DUI will tell you. It had already caught up with Andy and Cathy, and I was glad they were staying in a nearby hotel within walking distance. Anne and I weren’t so lucky. We still had to return to the RV Park on Kaw Lake and hook up our sewage and electricity. I realized the problem and asked the server to bring me an iced tea.

“Ralph didn’t tell you anything?” Anne asked.

“I told him where we were staying. He’s coming by later to talk with us.”

“Are you nuts?” Cathy asked. “You two could be tonight’s human sacrifice.”

“She’s right, Wildman,” Andy said. “If I were you, I’d stay in town tonight.”

“Right on,” Cathy said. “And if you’re too bull-headed to listen, leave Anne here. Surely, you don’t intend to risk her life as well.”

“I don’t intend to risk anyone’s life,” I said. “I’m sure Ralph is perfectly safe.”

“Yeah, right!” Cathy said. “One minute, you tell us he tried to kill you; the next minute, he’s your best bud.”

“Lighten up on him,” Andy said. “Obviously, he has a death wish.”

Andy had a smirk on his face and was obviously goading Cathy on. His ploy was working. She was more than slightly tipsy when she grabbed Anne’s arm and said, “My roommate is staying with us tonight. You can go get yourself skinned alive if you want. Leave Anne out of your misguided decision.”

Cathy was a pretty blond with big brown eyes. Her razor tongue became even sharper when she had too much to drink. That night, she was exceeding even her limit.

“Fine,” I said. “I told Ralph I would meet him and intend to do that. Anne can stay here with you two, and I'll pick her up tomorrow.”

“Screw that, Tarzan,” Anne said. “You aren't always the brightest bulb in the lamp, but where you go, I go.”

We had barely left the Ponca City pub after saying goodnight to Andy and Cathy, and I could tell Anne was not in a perfect mood.

“What’s the matter, Little Honey?” I asked.

“We’re about to be killed, and you ask me what’s the matter?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about. How could you invite a Satanist to our RV for a late-night visit? Are you a total ding-a-ling?”

“Ralph doesn’t seem dangerous to me,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s probably what that poor cow said.”

Like Cathy, Anne had a quick wit and sharp tongue, and I couldn’t help but laugh. She wasn’t laughing, turning away from me in the passenger seat with her arms and legs tightly crossed. If body language could speak, hers shouted that I was a complete idiot. Anne was also a great judge of character, and I began doubting my decision to invite Ralph to visit us at the RV Park.

Kaw Lake Park was poorly lighted, and I had trouble re-hooking the sewage and electricity. It was already quite late when I completed the task, went inside, and relaxed on the sofa, drawing a deep breath of exhaustion. Anne joined me, her smile indicating even if we were about to die because of my stupid decision to invite Ralph to the RV, she didn’t hold a grudge. It was a good thing because less than ten minutes passed before we heard the throaty exhausts of a Harley outside the RV. We waited, listening as someone scraped their boots on the ramp leading up to the door. Then footsteps. . .

Anne made a face as I opened the RV’s door. “Come in,” I said.

Ralph wasn’t alone. A woman accompanied him, and Ralph introduced her as Goldie, his soul mate.

Goldie had long blond hair decorated with pink, azure, and purple beads and had big, expressive blue eyes. She wore a leather-fringed jacket beaded with the same colors and American Indian totem signs. She seemed like a sixties flower child who had put on twenty pounds in the seventies to become the quintessential earth mother. Ralph also wore a matching leather-fringed coat. I saw him without a hat or helmet for the second time since meeting him. His dark hair draped almost to his shoulders, and I could see he was much younger than I’d previously thought. Pointing to the built-in seating around the stationary table, I invited Sonny and Cher look-alikes to join us.

“Would anyone like a beer?” I asked.

Ralph and Goldie nodded, so I brought a round of Coors from the RV’s refrigerator. The lighting was dim. The atmosphere became surreal when Goldie began rolling a joint on the tabletop. The hallucinatory odor of burning pot permeated the RV as she lit the joint, took a deep drag, and handed it to Ralph. After taking his own pull from the joint, he passed it to Anne. She took a hesitant puff and quickly passed it back to Ralph. Ralph shook his head and nodded in my direction. I’m a non-smoker and no fan of the effects of marijuana. I could see the big picture. If Ralph and Goldie were going to impart their knowledge of Satanism and cattle mutilations to us, they first wanted us to join them in a simple illegal act.

Anne’s eyes grew large as I took the pencil-thin joint, drew a deep lungful of the smoke, and held it for a long moment before blowing aromatic smoke rings toward the RV’s ceiling.

“Like it?” Goldie asked. “Home-grown from our own private patch.”

She was grinning, as was Ralph and Anne. I soon realized that so was I. When I arose to get more beer from the refrigerator, I almost fell.

“Creeper weed,” Ralph said. “It takes a while to catch up with you. Watch out when it does.”

Anne lit a candle, put it in the center of the table, and turned out the lights. Along with the pungent odor of marijuana, rising smoke, and flickering candlelight, we all needed a bit of heavy-metal music. We made do with the chorus of crickets and tree frogs outside the RV. Finally, Ralph spoke.

“Word is going around that you’re meddling in things that aren’t your business.”

“Is that why someone tried to kill me the other day?”

“No one tried to kill you. That was an accident.”

It unnerved me that Ralph knew what I was talking about, even if it were an accident. “The pentagram and dead chicken weren’t accidents,” I said.

“The boys were just trying to warn you to mind your business.”

“Or?”

“Or nothing. They didn’t mean nothing by it,” Ralph said.

“We wouldn’t turn you in, even if you are Satanists,” Anne said.

Goldie laughed and rolled her eyes. “We’re not Satanists,” she said.

“Sheriff Archie called you Satanists. If he’s wrong about that, then what are you?” I asked.

“We worship the moon, the stars, and the cycles of the earth and planets,” Goldie said. “Some people call us pagans.”

“Pagans?” said Anne.

Warming to the conversation, Goldie said, “It’s the oldest religion in Oklahoma and maybe the world.”

It was my turn to ask, “How could you possibly know that?”

“Because of the excavations at the Spiro Mound sites in southeastern Oklahoma. The site was the hub of religion and government for prehistoric Indians for thousands of miles. The religion is connected to the Druids and Stonehenge and is likely the world’s oldest religion.”

Ralph droned in. “Like the people at Stonehenge and Spiro, we still celebrate the earth's and stars' cycles.”

“You worship cycles?” Anne asked.

“We worship the universal pulse that controls everything,” Goldie said. “We call ourselves the Southern Death Cult, after one of Spiro’s branches. Some of the followers are part of the Buzzard Cult.”

“How many followers are there?” asked Anne.

“Thousands likely,” Ralph said. “No one exactly knows. There are branches all over the world.”

“And what about cattle mutilations?” I asked.

“We naturally get blamed for lots of things we don’t do. Sometimes coyotes kill cows in these parts.”

“What about removing udders and sexual parts with almost razor-like precision? How could a coyote, or any other wild animal, do that?” I asked.

“Bacteria,” Ralph answered. “It’s a proven fact if you leave a carcass outside in these parts, bacteria will remove those parts in hours.”

Anne caused my heart to skip a beat when she asked, “Yeah, if you aren’t Satanists, then how do you explain your use of human sacrifice?”

The looks on Ralph and Goldie’s faces told me Anne had offended them. Like experienced diplomats, they both took deep breaths. Before answering, Goldie rolled another joint.

After making a production of lighting it, she took a deep drag before passing it to Ralph. Ralph took his own deep drag, and I could see by the expression in his dark eyes that Anne’s comment had not made him happy. When he passed the joint to Anne this time, she took a long toke, as did I when she handed it to me.

As a Vietnam vet, I am far from a virgin regarding drugs. I like beer, but that doesn’t mean I've never sampled the weed. This weed was different. By my second puff, I was stoned. I stifled a giggle when I observed the hurt expressions on Ralph and Goldie’s faces.

“The Southern Death Cult doesn’t practice human sacrifice,” Ralph finally  giggled himself when he added, “Maybe a chicken or two, but nothing more.”

Anne began laughing uncontrollably at this point, and Goldie, Ralph, and I soon joined her. I staggered up to the refrigerator and retrieved the last of the Coors.

When I returned with the beer, I asked, “If you don’t practice human sacrifices, then why do you have a name as ominous as the Southern Death Cult?”

“We couldn’t have made that one up if we’d tried. Southern Death Cult is the original name the Indians used. No one really knows why.”

“So why all the secrecy if you’re not really Satanists?” Anne asked.

“Oklahoma is the hub of the Bible Belt. The only Southern that most of our neighbors understand is Southern Baptists. We came to tell you you have a problem with the well.”

“What kind of problem?”

“The spot you're drilling on is hallowed, an old Indian burial ground.”

“Are you sure? I never found anything in the literature. How do you know?”

“It’s been passed down, and there’s a curse against anyone ever using that spot of land. You’re drilling almost the exact location.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, and neither could Anne. “What should we do? We’ve spent too much money to quit now.”

“This ain’t about money; it’s about sacred land. You got to make amends.”

“Or what?”

At this point, Goldie’s facial expression went from a pretty smile to an angry frown. Standing from the table, she said, “Seems like we’ve done all we can, Ralph. Let’s get the hell outa here.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Anne said. “My father was a Baptist minister. You can’t just come in here and tell us you’re members of a Southern Death cult and that you're descended from Indians who believe in cycles of the universe and expect to convert us in one fell swoop! Tell us what it is you want us to do. At least respect us enough to give us a chance.”

Anne’s tirade caught them both by surprise, as well as me. Goldie and Ralph exchanged glances, and Goldie resumed her place at the table.

“Please tell us what to do,” I said.

Ralph drank some beer and leaned forward in his seat. “All right,” he said. “If you’re serious, you need to know this.”

***

By the following night, Anne and I were back on the rig. As a scientist, I was skeptical, to say the least, of Ralph and Goldie’s beliefs. As someone who had drilled many risky wells, I knew better than to think I knew it all. Like Bob Dylan said, “The only thing I know for certain is that I don’t know anything for certain.”

“You have to make a sacrifice to appease the spirits,” Ralph had told us. “Otherwise, the well will be dry.”

According to Ralph, the sacrifice essential had to be something from the heart, vital to us.

That night, late, I walked out to the drilling rig. I had brought something from Sheriff Archie’s Café. It was a chicken-fried steak with baked potato and a double helping of cream gravy. I said a few words, left the offering beneath the drill floor, and returned to the RV. My meager sacrifice, probably fueled by my lack of belief, was all I could convince myself to muster.

When we logged the well, it looked great. Money in the bank, I thought! We sat production casing and began testing the wonderful-looking zones. The well could have been completed for a thousand barrels of oil daily. It didn’t. We tried every great-looking zone in the hole. Finally, after scratching our heads, we plugged the well as a dry hole.

Drilling for oil is complicated. Finding oil is harder. After many years of watching wells drilled into the earth, I have learned one thing; however, that particular thing escapes me now. The well in Grant County should have been a monster discovery. Instead, it was an unexplainable dry hole. Well, it's not wholly baffling.

Anne and I returned to Oklahoma City after one last chicken fry and moved on to other oil deals, though I’ve often wondered about the Southern Death Cult well in Grant County. Should we have taken Ralph and Goldie more seriously? If the land we were drilling was really hallowed, I doubt any sacrifice would have sufficed. Later that summer, we visited them at their farm near Blackwell. Hey, but that’s another story waiting to be told.

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You might also like checking out his Facebook page.