A Deal On A Handshake
The Story of Wildcatting and the Search For Oil
by
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THE POW WOW
Jerry Walter Corley, Sr. buried his grief over the death of his beloved wife Amanda in the arms of an Indian Princess named Emma Arnold. Emma’s father was white but her mother was full blood Cherokee whose father ruled their small tribe in Coleman, Texas - just 15 miles south of Ranger.
J.W. was attracted immediately to Emma’s long, perfectly black hair down her back - like water. Her eyes were slanted and he said, "knew things." There was a faint blush along the top of her high cheekbones and she had full hips, but her hands were as hard as a man’s.
On one of his many nightly trips into town from the oilfield camp, J.W. joined the crowd of men who were gathered around, smoking cigars, talking loudly, gambling, drinking, the usual behavior of men in these oil towns. Through the faint mist, J.W. saw a trail that led away from the hub of the town and a shadow that caught his eye.
A figure walked through the damp night unhurriedly. It was Emma and she was going to the Indian Pow Wow on the other side of town. J.W. followed her as though he had no choice. He got up and left the smoky hot circle of men, trailing the tall figure as it floated through the mist leaving no sound. In the distance he could hear a humming like bees. As they grew closer he could see a flickering light and hear a beating from the earth. It was a circling sound like no other sound he had ever heard. It was a sound of all the things that he had ever known and forgotten. He let himself be pulled to it through the cool air, following Emma.
When they reached the edge of the light, she turned around and looked at him. She had known all along that he was there. She put her hand up to her head and pulled out a leather clasp that held her hair and let it fall to her back smooth and heavy as oil. She looked straight at him and did not smile. She shook out her hair and went into the dance.
Women were clapping and stomping and whirling, their heads tilted back and their eyes vacant, a keening sound coming from their throats. They wove into one another with a pattern, crushing the ground under them as they moved until their feet were so heavy that J.W. thought they would sink through the earth. He watched the girl and saw how the others made way for her. She danced but it seemed that she danced more lightly and she made no noise at all. She wore a bright red scarf and he watched at it wove through the crowd.
J.W. followed her and forced his way through the ring of people sitting around the fire who hissed at him and tried to push him back. He forced his way through and finally stood breast to breast with her when she danced. He looked down and saw her feet in the dust. He saw how they stepped, heel toe, toe, toe, heel. Then the other foot. She shifted her weight, bent as if in a wind. Toe, toe, heel, toe. His own feet followed hers. He lifted his arms and began to dance with her. She smiled at him briefly and danced off. He kept dancing until one by one the women in the group dropped out and he was left there alone. He stopped dancing and felt foolish looking around for the girl who had let him in.
She was behind a tree watching. She laughed from the corners of her eyes and looked at him sideways. He took a step towards her and felt his feet as heavy as walking through sand. And then Emma relented and shook her hair back and came to claim him. Maybe she did it because of his bold look or the way he held his shoulders. Maybe it was the hair that crowned his head in such a fashion, thick and brown. Maybe it was because a woman never left him standing, ever in the middle of any circle. He would never lack for soft hands to cover his mistakes. She was not the first and would not be the last.
She took him away from the dance and walked him to a shack where the sheep herders rested at noon. Inside it was full of shadows. There was a cot and a water dipper in the corner with a gourd in it. She stood looking at him for a long time. Finally, he put out his hand and touched her chin. She put her hands on his wrist and stroked the hair on his arm where it gleamed from the light from the window. She had never touched light colored hair before. It was very soft. Softer than the hair of her brothers. She put his hands up to her forehead and he ran his fingers hard into her hair feeling the roundness of her skull. She trembled a little under his hand. She pulled his hands down her sides firmly as if she felt no doubt that she was safe. She had been bred never to show fear. He loosened her wrap and pulled it impatiently over her head. He clutched the curve of her hip under the shadows and bit his lip, keeping back a groan.
The next night and many nights after, he drove to the town and took the dusty path down to the shack. When he wasn’t with her, she was on his mind constantly. He thought of the times when she laid her head into the hollow of his shoulder while they waited for the sky to grow light. And how she traced each of the sparse silky hairs on his chest with her forefinger.
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About the Book
The author’s 5th novel has topped her first!
While drilling for oil, wildcatters battle competitors and sabotage. A story of treachery, betrayal and treason - with rich sights and sounds of a unique place, alive with passion, dark with greed and desperation, this novel is an unforgettable reading experience.
Magical, bold and untamed, this is the story of an American wildcatter. A novel from the flat, red, dusty plains of Texas to the swamp lands of South Louisiana and the rich black oil pulsating beneath their surface. It is an eerie, feverish, delicate tale of Texas men and women and one man in particular, J.W. "Blackie" Corley, a patriarch who charmed his family to destruction.
With his wild recklessness, his magic touch, and his rash ways, J.W. was a born wildcatter, staking his life and livelihood drilling for oil in unlikely places. But oil would twist and break J.W. and take a price, finally, from his family.
Based on actual events.
About the Author
The author was born in Atlanta, Texas and raised in Golden Meadow, Louisiana on the banks of Bayou Lafourche near the Gulf of Mexico - one hour south of New Orleans.
For 30 years the author worked in the field of Human Services, mostly as a Mental Health Counselor and Social Services Program Director in the Houma area. She holds a B.A. in Psychology with graduate work in Psychological Counseling from Nicholls State University and a PhD in Human Services from Walden University.
Historical Fiction is her favorite genre. While her career has been focused on dealing with academics, her interests have ranged far beyond the classroom and include a love of the paranormal, science fiction, the exploration of space and the search for extraterrestrial life - along with some simpler pursuits such as genealogy and photography. The author lives in Houma, Louisiana with her 3 cats.
She is the author of five novels on the folklife and folklore of south Louisiana Cajun Country. As a writer who indulges in the effort of what is glibly called literary fiction, and additionally labeled southern fiction, this southern author tells stories. She is concerned with Southern fiction as a form that is an expression of outlook and experience.
The author states, "I've been hearing that ‘you show stories.’ But people tell stories; they show things in pantomime or movies, but people tell stories. Southern Literary Fiction as a form and tradition has its root in oral story telling. It is a way of relating experience and interpreting experience. More simply put, it is telling stories about people, their world, and what has happened to them, and what they think about it. Their world, as is my world, is the Deep South."