The Wildcatter. Peggy Nicholson
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to scout, would you have given it?”
“Nope.”
“So I thought it would be best to know there was a good chance of oil before we talked.”
The rancher’s old eyes glinted with amusement. He wasn’t quite buying it, but perhaps the whiskey was mellowing him. “Huh.” For a while he ate pork rinds and Miguel prayed. “Here’s how I see it,” he drawled finally. “You’ve got a problem, Heydt. You’re hungry for a crack at my oil. You don’t even know yet, for sure, if you’ve got something here or not. And even if you find it—well, think you’ve found it—still, I’m not hungry. Maybe I’ll decide I’m leaving that oil in the ground for my grandchildren. It’s like money in the bank.”
It was—if it was truly down there in its vault of stone. In the end, Miguel could only say that to the best of his knowledge the oil should be down there. But the very best of the wildcatters drilled five dry holes for every well they brought home. It was a break-heart career, but still, gambler that he was, he’d choose no other.
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