The Wildcatter. Peggy Nicholson

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      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.