Part One: The Battle of Oilfield
Thirty years ago, it was, when old Oilfield was still a bustling metropolis with its three farms, its deputy and sheriff's office, and its single bait shop. Still don't know why we even had a bait shop. Ain't no fishin' for miles unless you want to catch whatever lies in Old Man Garper's willow creek. And you don't want to catch whatever lies in Old Man Garper's willow creek.
It was sometime in 1917 we went down into old Biddy Farmer's basement and found that amusement park sculpture she'd been tellin' us about. Looked like a giant frog, it did, only made out of steel and with teeth that would make a deep sea fangly fish beg for its Mama. Some kindly man in a well-worn suit had filled it with all sort of cogs and machinery, she said, and that if we could get it a-workin' she'd give us one of her homemade rhubarb pies.
Ain't no tellin' what she was getting us into, but if'n you get the opportunity to taste one of Biddy Farmer's homemade rhubarb pies, well, you just jump at the chance.
It took us a month, but soon enough we got that machine a-workin' and started feeding it that old sludge that Picky Wilson calls "gasoline." As soon as we did that, why that old machine just hummed to life like it'd been asleep the whole time and just a-waitin' for its chance to wake up.
All it'd do was sit there and croak, sounding like an old, scratchy voice on the radio calling out, "MOOOOOOOOORE," and boy did that thing burn through Picky's sludge like wildfire!
Mama told us to get rid of the thing soon as we could, but Delbert, the youngest of the Lofton brothers, convinced her otherwise. Told her we'd make a fortune showing it off it as a special attraction. Oilfield never did have what you'd call "tourism opportunities." Except for Stumpy the Mule, that mule we got tied to a post in the center of town. And Stumpy don't do no tricks. He just eats carrots.
We scraped together every cent we could and spread word all around the county. Oilfeild's Automaton, we called it. Come one and come all! Gather yonder and take a look at the most exciting thing this side of the county save for that runaway train that almost killed Teddy Roosevelt. Pay twenty cents and you can even feed it some of that old sludge yourself and listen to it purr like only a gigantic frog-like monstrosity can!
We were a big hit and raking in that money left and right, right up until that Potter boy stepped up to feed old Froggy a can of gasoline and got his arm clean bit off at the shoulder. Business went down after that, I'll tell you that.
Once that machine got a taste for blood, why, it was like it was possessed! It wheeled around on its massive spokes and screamed out, "FEED ME!" until it tracked some poor feller down and swallowed him whole. Yup, that old machine took out Pastor Rebdon and half his congregation before the sheriff showed up and tried to restore order. I don't know if you've ever tried to stop a ten-foot tall, mad-as-houses killer frog with nothing but a measly .22 before, but I can tell you you've got a run for your money.
I lost three of my brothers that day, and we buried Mama beneath the old fig tree once that machine took care of her. Soon the whole town was just down to a few farmers, a handful of rifles, and some women all locked up in the sheriff's office waiting for help to arrive. I don't think I need to tell you, none came.
Wasn't no easy task, neither, trying to take that thing down. It got to movin' so fast, you'd think it was one of those hares racing around a greyhound track. Then old Casey Blanc found out the one thing even a bloodthirsty frog is afraid of. Fire. Old Casey was on fire at the time, of course, having accidentally lit himself trying to protect Picky's last store of gasoline, but he did his part to help the cause nonetheless.
We lit fires around town so's the old automaton wouldn't up and terrorize the rest of the county, and I don't know if you guessed from Oilfield's name, but the ground is practically soaking with what Mama used to call "that old black blood of the Earth."
Yup, the whole town went up like a match, and we made our last stand just outside of old Blinky Mason's bait shop. Blinky was none too pleased, of course, and kept trying to convince us to make our stand some place else, any place else, but once you've drawn a line in the oil-soaked dirt, you just can't go back.
"Come at me, you old goat!" Picky called, and those were his last words right before the big iron frog wheeled up and swallowed him.
There was five of us left, four farmers with old .22 action rifles and Crazy Mel the School Marm with her lucky axe. "Whack!" came the first strike of the axe, and we all charged in with guns a-blazin' until there were so many holes in that old automaton that you'd think it'd last a fight with a particularly angry hole-punch.
When the smoke'd cleared, Mel was the only one left standing, and I'll never forget the sound of her axe ringing out in the night as she beat that beast from here to the old graveyard at the edge of town.
Me and Mel had an understanding, you see. The graveyard was where we kept our old supply of dynamite back when we were excavating the mines. One match, and all our kinsfolk up in heaven would feel the blast. I think we had an understanding, anyway, and when old Mel finally fell into the maw of the beast, I snuck in and set the charges to blow.
Blinky's truck took me halfway across the county before the Earth begun to shake and the whole town lit up like the Fourth of July. That was the last of Oilfield, and weren't no one left alive to tell the tale 'cept for old Hobart Lofton, and nobody ever did believe that old coot, anyhow.
Stumpy the Mule by Tim Collins is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.