The Wildcatter

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“Tell me,” he said after a moment. He patted the trailer behind him, drawing her eyes back his way. “Who owns this thing?”

“The trailer?” Lara’s mother had owned it originally, Risa remembered. So she supposed it had become her daughter’s when she died. But Lara had written her elder sister in March, in desperate need of money—for what she would not explain. Some scrape that she’d had to conceal from Ben.

Risa had sold a classmate her favorite Zuñi bracelet, a corn blossom sterling-and-turquoise bracelet, and sent three hundred dollars on to her sister. Which meant that Lara owed her. Which meant that now, if Heydt’s inquiry was more than idle curiosity… Her shrug was elaborately casual. “I do.” At least, you could say she had a three-hundred-dollar interest in Lara’s trailer. “I and my sister own it. Why?”

“Because I would like the use of it. I have so little time to ride after work. With this I could go farther.”

“Oh? But I was talking about borrowing your truck once,” Risa pointed out, fighting an urge to clap her hands in excitement. “If you mean to use this trailer often, then I’d want to…” She met his gaze squarely. “Then how about a one-for-one trade? For each time I get to use your truck, you get a night’s worth of my trailer?”

His eyes gleamed like shards of obsidian. “Bueno, a woman who knows how to bargain! But there’s una problemita. I’ll need my truck to tow this thing.”

Risa gave him a wide, close-lipped smile. “Oh, that’s no problema at all.”

IN SPITE OF his exhaustion, Miguel didn’t fall asleep until nearly ten. The poker game in the bunkhouse kitchen was particularly raucous tonight; somebody was drawing good hands. Each time he laid his cards on the table, the shouts of disbelief and groans of indignation carried through the thin walls.

Lying on his top bunk in the darkened room he shared with three other men, hands clasped behind his head, Miguel stared at the ceiling only a few feet above. It was too dark to make out the crack in the plaster, but he knew it already by heart; a line like a ragged river, cutting its patient way through limestone.

He wiggled his toes under the sheet with pure pleasure. The creek bed at the Sweetwater Flats! His hunch had been right. From the instant he’d stumbled across that old map of Trueheart in a flea market in Abilene, he’d known it in his bones. Somewhere along the course of that creek was an oil seep—maybe several seeps. He hadn’t been able to find the upwelling in the dark. Every crack in the bank, every shadow cast by a rock, looked like a gush of black gold by the light of his lantern.

But though he’d yet to find it, he’d tasted the water and that told him enough. Bad water? This was water to make a man’s fortune! Agua bendito!

An image of Risa’s heart-shaped, haughty face flashed through his mind. Would you look down your adorable nose at me, gringa, if I were as rich as your papá? Richer than your Mr. Mercedes?

He could picture her standing in the midst of his miraculous stream. She was wearing only her white T-shirt and that scrap of turquoise silk. He stood before her, cupping the precious water in his hands and pouring it over and over her fiery curls, black gold for his rubia. And when she was drenched, her T-shirt clinging to her delectable body, water hanging in crystal from her long lashes…when she stared up at him, her big eyes full of wonder and admiration, he’d hook an arm around her slender waist and draw her slowly, so slowly… Miguel smiled, sighed luxuriously…and slept.

“HEY, HEYDT, you’re wanted.” A hand jostled his shoulder.

“Uh?” It could not be morning! He felt as if they’d buried him under blankets—under the earth—then parked a hay wagon on his chest. “No,” he grunted, rolling onto his stomach.

The knuckles returned to jab him harder. “I mean it. Get up! Wiggly wants you.”

That pierced his stupor. “Uh.” Wiggly?

Jake, one of the cowboys, nodded grimly, his square, freckled face level with the top bunk. “Yeah. What the heck’d you do?”

Reached for the stars? Miguel didn’t know, but a summons in the middle of the night—because it was still dark outside the window—this could not be good. Would be anything but. “Where…is he?”

“Out on the porch. And if I was you, I wouldn’t keep him waiting.”

Miguel didn’t. Tucking a clean shirt into his jeans, he zipped, buckled his belt, stepped out the screen door.

The foreman looked him up and down, not smiling. “The boss wants t’see you.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

TANKERSLY WANTED to see him? Perhaps Miguel wasn’t even awake; this was a nightmare to punish his dream of the old man’s daughter!

But the packed dirt of the ranch yard felt solid and real under his boot heels as he walked toward the foreman’s house, where Wiggly had sent him. He glanced overhead. And the stars were all in their proper places. It wasn’t as late as it felt; by the moon it must be only eleven or so.

It hit him suddenly, bursting on his befuddled brain. Risa had taken his truck.

Ay, Dios, she’d wrecked it! He stopped short 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 and persuaded you that oil might be present—but then you might have turned around and called in one of the big-name outfits to find it for you. No, Miguel had wanted his discovery firmly in hand before he came to the bargaining table. But now…“I’d heard the way you feel about miners,” he lied tactfully. “If I’d come to you and asked permission 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.