The Wildcatter. Peggy Nicholson
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with a groan snagged in his throat. Oh, please, no! Over the years he’d lost friends to car wrecks. The men of the Texas Oil Patch were hard drinkers, hard drivers. When they raced back to the rig after a night of carousing, accidents weren’t uncommon. But to take that golden girl? God could not be so cruel!
Oh, but he could. He could.
What was I thinking, loaning her my truck?
He hadn’t been thinking, at least not with his head. He groaned again and trudged on toward the lit windows of the foreman’s house.
A thump on the back door brought an answering shout from within. Miguel swallowed hard and stepped into the light. “Mr. Tankersly.”
No answer. He drew a deep breath and moved on into the house. Passed through the kitchen doorway and found himself on the threshold of the living room. Ben Tankersly slouched in a leather easy chair, with a drink at his elbow. A bottle of whiskey sat on the table beside him, along with a bag of chips.
The old man lifted his drink and sipped deliberately, his dark, hooded eyes measuring Miguel over the rim of his glass.
No offer of a seat. Miguel unfisted his hands and waited, determined not to speak first.
The rancher set his glass aside. “Got a question for you, Heydt. Do you know where my daughter might be? Risa’s missing.”
Relief surged through Miguel like a river breaching a dam. ¡Gracias a Dios! He let out a long slow silent breath, fighting the smile within.
Which faded immediately. Because if Risa was alive and well, still he was in danger. And thank you, rubia! Lack of sleep must have made him stupid this evening. Any idiot would have realized that she was coming to a stranger for a car because her father did not approve or even know. Somehow he’d thought she came to him because…because… Just because.
Because she knows a sucker when she sees one! He shook his head. “Your daughter? No, sir. I have no idea where she might be.” She could be off most anywhere, breaking men’s hearts. She’d told him Durango, but maybe she’d lied. Clearly, Risa hadn’t troubled herself about a hired hand’s skin.
Or his job. Dios, if Tankersly fired him at this point, what would he do? He hadn’t evidence yet to prove his find. Besides, if Tankersly blamed him for aiding his daughter in her mischief, why should he do business with the man who’d helped her?
“Huh.” Tankersly took a long, considering sip of whiskey. “All right. Second question. What were you looking to find, prowlin’ around my land at night?”
“Sir?” Damn, damn, how did he know?
“If it’s gold or silver you’re after, then you can pack your bags. No man will mine Suntop while I’m alive. Miners are rapists—greedy swine—tearing down God’s mountains for a handful of shiny. Pah! Spoiling the land with their piles of tailings and the creeks with arsenic. Is that what you are, boy?”
Miguel pulled himself erect. “No, sir. I’m a wildcatter.” The elite of the oil business. The men who dared much and risked all. Those who sought oil far from the known fields, in places where it had never been found before.
“An oilman, huh, that’s no better! Rigs lit up like Christmas trees, trucks roaring in and out scaring the cattle, wastewater and oil spills. Well…” Tankersly stared broodingly off into the distance. “Well, that’s a pity. Tell Wiggly to cut you a check, and be gone by morning.”
He’d laid his fingertips on treasure, only to have it wrenched from his grasp!
But not without a fight. “Sir, it doesn’t have to be that way. It’s true that in the past oilmen have been careless, despoiling the land they drilled. But a man who cares can drill carefully, cleanly, taking the riches below without hurting the land above. The rig stays only till the pipe is set, then it goes away. The waste can be trucked out, the pits covered and resodded.” He flipped his hands palms up and shrugged. “The cows will get over their fright.”
“Huh.” Tankersly swirled the ice in his glass till it tinkled. “That so?”
“That is so. And if a well is made, the money can flow like a river.”
The rancher laughed a dusty, soundless laugh. “You think I don’t have a cash flow already?”
“Can a man ever have enough money? With more money you could buy more land, if that is what matters to you. Or better cows.”
Wry amusement froze to black ice. “There’s none better in the West than my herd!”
“Oh. Then more range for your cattle.” Perhaps a car for your daughter. But something was working behind the old man’s eyes and Miguel held his tongue.
Tankersly nodded toward the kitchen. “Go get yourself a glass.”
His palms were itching as if he’d scooped a double handful of luck. Still, he hardly dared to breathe; one wrong word and it could trickle through his fingers. And any minute Risa might drive into the yard in his pickup—its headlights would sweep these windows! Let that happen and her father would probably shoot him. But still, but still, he could feel his palms itch. This was a night to bet and bet big.
Returning, he held out his glass while the old man poured him a generous measure. Tankersly nodded at the sack of chips. “Some pork rinds?”
“Um, no, thank you.” He dared to sit on the couch opposite. Took a wary sip, while Tankersly crunched a pork rind and considered him, much as a butcher might size up a side of beef, planning his first cut.
“So you found the oil seeps,” Tankersly growled finally.
Miguel inhaled a gulp of liquid fire and choked. “Y-you know about—?”
Tankersly sighed. “It’ll save us both a truckload of manure if you don’t figure me for a fool, Heydt. Of course I know what’s spoilin’ my groundwater over on the flats.”
“Yes, sir.” But where was his leverage if the old man already knew? Miguel had hoped to trade news of his discovery for the right to drill. Usually a landowner was surprised and delighted to be told that there might be oil below his property. But in this case…
“So that’s where you’d figure to drill—on the flats?”
No, he shouldn’t panic. He still had a bargaining chip. “Perhaps, perhaps not, sir. You see…” He sipped, gathering his thoughts. “After oil is formed deep underground, it is pushed toward the surface by the pressure, enormous pressure, of the rocks and mountains above. But it can only travel if it finds a highway, a layer of porous rock such as sandstone, along which to move.
“So what I seek is a place where the beds of sediments have folded over millions of years into an arch—an anticline, they call it. The oil travels along its permeable highway to the top of this arch, this dome, buried deep in the earth.
“Then, if by the greatest good luck there is a cap of impermeable, nonporous rock—say, a layer of tight limestone—above the dome, then the oil becomes trapped there, at the top of the arch. It can rise no farther. Geologists call this a trap. At this place there may form a pool of oil, perhaps an enormous pool. If we tap into this…”
“Then we’re all driving gold-plated Cadillacs filled with dancing girls—I got that. But isn’t this dome below the oil seeps?”
“I don’t know yet. There is some sort of fracture in the rock, sí, there where the oil seeps out. But the oil may simply be rising in the sediments past that point, on its way to the trap, which might be three miles to the east or five to the south. What I must do is try to map the beds, see where they rise and fall, till I can discover where I think the top of the dome is located.”
“Huh.” Tankersly munched another pork rind. “Why didn’t you come to me in the first place and tell me you wanted to scout my land for oil?”
Because I’m a nobody again, now that Harry’s dead. Sí, perhaps I could have shown you my map