Betty Gordon in the Land of Oil: or, The Farm That Was Worth a Fortune

CHAPTER XII
IN THE FIELDS

“I always thought oil was for lamps,” said Betty, as she picked her way after her uncle and Bob, “but there aren’t enough lamps in the world to use all this oil.”

They were walking toward a pumping station still in the distance, and Mr. Gordon waited for her to come up with him.

“Perhaps lamps are the least important factor in the whole big question,” he answered earnestly. “Oil is being used more and more for fuel. Oil burners have been perfected for ships. And schools, apartment houses and public buildings are being heated with oil in many cities. And, of course, the demand for gasolene is enormous. I rather think the engine of the train that brought you to Flame City was an oil burner.”

“I wish we’d gone and looked, don’t you, Bob?” said Betty. “Oh, what a big derrick! How many quarts of oil does that pump in a day, Uncle Dick?”

Mr. Gordon laughed heartily.

“Little Miss Tenderfoot!” he teased. “I thought you knew, goosie, that we measured oil by barrels. That well is flowing slightly over five thousand barrels a day. Altogether our wells are now yielding well over fifty thousand barrels of oil a day.”

“I read in one of the papers about a man who paid three thousand dollars for one acre of oil land,” said Bob thoughtfully. “How did he know he was going to find oil here?”

“He didn’t know,” was the prompt answer. “There is no way of knowing positively. Many and many a small investor has lost the savings of a lifetime because he had a ‘hunch’ that he would bring in a good well. Right here in Oklahoma, statistics show that in one section, of five thousand two hundred and forty-six wells driven, one thousand three hundred and fifty-six were dry. Now it takes a lot of money to drive a well, between twenty and thirty thousand dollars in fact, so you may count up the loss.”

“But there is oil here – just look!” Bob waved comprehensively toward the beehive of industry that surrounded them.

“Right, my boy. And when they do strike oil, they strike it rich. Huge fortunes have been made in oil and will be made again. If the crooks who pose as brokers and promoters would keep their hands off, it might be possible to safeguard some of the smaller speculators.”

Bob was minded to speak again of the two sharpers he had overheard on the train, but they had reached the pumping station, and he and Betty were immediately interested in what Mr. Gordon had to show them.

There was a long bunk house at one side where the employees slept and ate and where a comfortable, fat Chinese cook was sweeping off the screened porch. The pumping station was another long, one-story building, with eight tall iron stacks rising beside it. Inside, set in a concrete floor, huge dynamos were pumping away, sending oil through miles and miles of pipe lines to points where it would be loaded into cars or ships and sent all over the world. The engineer in charge took them around and explained every piece of machinery, much to the delight of Bob who had a boy’s love for things that went.

From the station they walked to one of the largest storage tanks, a huge reservoir of oil, capable of holding fifty-five thousand barrels when full, Mr. Gordon told them. It was half empty at the time, and three long flights of steps were bare that would be covered when the storage capacity was used.

“If there isn’t a laundry or a hotel in Flame City,” observed Betty suddenly, “there is everything to run the oil business with, that’s certain. Is it all right to say you have very complete equipment, Uncle Dick?”

“Your phrase is correct,” admitted her uncle, smiling. “Poor tools are the height of folly for any business or worker, Betty. As for Flame City, the place is literally swamped. People poured in from the day the first good well came in, and they’ve been arriving in droves ever since. You can’t persuade any of them to take up the business they had before – to run a boarding house, or open a restaurant or a store. No, every blessed one of ’em has set his heart on owning and operating an oil well. It was just so in the California gold drive – the forty-niners wanted a gold mine, and they walked right over those that lay at their feet.”

They took the automobile after inspecting the storage tank and went several miles farther up the field to the gasolene plant that was isolated from the rest of the buildings. Here they saw how the crude petroleum was refined to make gasolene and were told the elaborate precautions observed to keep this highly inflammable produce from catching fire. Seven large steel tanks, built on brick foundations, were used for storage, and there was also a larger oil tank from which the oil to be refined was pumped.

“I’d like to see a ship that carries oil,” remarked Betty, as they came out of the gasolene plant and made their way to the automobile.

One of the men had happened to mention in her hearing that an unusually large shipment of oil had been ordered to be sent to Egypt.

“Well, that’s one request we can’t fill,” acknowledged her uncle regretfully. “You’re inland for sure, Betty, and the good old ocean is many miles from Oklahoma. However, some day I hope you’ll see an oil tanker. The whole story of oil, from production to consumption, is a fascinating one, and not the least wonderful is the part that deals with the marketing side of it. We have salesmen in South America, China, Egypt, and practically every large country. Who knows but Bob will one day be our representative in the Orient?”

They had dinner, a merry noisy meal, with the men at the bunk house. It was a novelty Bob and Betty thoroughly enjoyed and they found the men, mostly clerical workers, a few bosses and Dave Thorne, the well foreman, a friendly, clever crowd who were to a man keenly interested in the work at the fields. They talked shop incessantly, and both Betty and Bob gained much accurate information of positive value.

After dinner Mr. Gordon drove them back to the Watterby farm, promising another trip soon. He had to go back immediately, and slept at the fields that night. Thereafter he came and went as he could, sometimes being absent for two or three days at a time. The horse he had ordered for Betty arrived, and proved to be all that was said for it. She was a wiry little animal, and Betty christened her “Clover.” For Bob, Mr. Gordon succeeded in capturing a big, rawboned white horse with a gift of astonishing speed. Riding horses were at a premium, for distances between wells were something to be reckoned with, and those who did not own a car had to depend on horses. Bob even saw one enthusiastic prospector mounted on a donkey.

As soon as they were used to their mounts, Betty and Bob began to go off for long rides, always remembering Mr. Gordon’s injunction to stay away from the town.

“How tanned you are, Betty!” Bob said one day, as they were letting their horses walk after a brisk gallop. “I declare, you’re almost as brown as Ki. I like you that way, though,” he added hastily, as if he feared she might think he was criticising. “And that red tie is awfully pretty.”

“You look like an Indian yourself,” said Betty shyly.

But Bob’s blue eyes, while attractive enough in his brown face, would preclude any idea that he might have Indian blood. Betty, on the other hand, as the boy said, was as brown as an Indian, and her dark eyes and heavy straight dark hair, which she now wore in a thick braid down her back, would have enabled her to play the part of Minnehaha, or that of a pretty Gypsy lass, with little trouble. Her khaki riding suit was very becoming, and to-day she had knotted a scarlet tie under the trim little collar that further emphasized her vivid coloring and the smooth tan of her cheeks. Although the sun was hot, she would not bother with a hat, and Bob, too, was bareheaded. They looked what they were – a healthy, happy, wide-awake American boy and girl and ready for either adventure or service, or a mixture of both, and reasonably sure to call whatever might befall them “fun”.

“Why don’t we go to that north section Dave Thorne is always talking about?” suggested Bob. “He is forever harping on the subject of a fire there, and I’d like to look it over.”

“But it must be five miles from here,” said Betty doubtfully. “Can we get back in time for dinner?”

“If we can’t, we’ll get some one of the Chinese cooks to give us a lunch,” returned Bob confidently. “Let’s go, Betty. I know the way, because I studied the map Uncle Dick had out on the table night before last. The north section is shut off from the others, and it’s backed up against the furthest end of that perfect forest of derricks we saw the first time we went to Uncle Dick’s wells – remember? I think that is what worries Dave – some of those small holders have tempers like porcupines and they always think some one is infringing on their rights. Let one of ’em get mad and take it out on Dave, and there might be a four-alarm fire without much trouble.”

“Do you know what I miss more than anything else?” asked Betty, when the horses’ heads were turned and they were on their way to the north section. “You’ll never guess – ice-cream soda! I haven’t had one for weeks – not since we left Chicago.”

“And I guess it will be some more weeks before you get another,” said Bob. “Ice doesn’t seem to be known out here, does it? Did you see how the butter swam about under that hot kitchen lamp last night? We used to think the Peabodys were stingy because they wouldn’t use butter, but I’d rather have none than have it so soft.”

They reached the north section and found Dave Thorne directing the drilling of a well which he told them was expected to “come in” that morning.

“Bob, I wonder if you’d do an errand for me?” he inquired. “I have to go back to the pumping station, and I want to send a record book back to one of the men here. Will you ride back with me and get the book? Betty will be all right, and she’ll get a chance to see the well come in. MacDuffy will look after her.”

Bob, of course, was glad to do Dave a service, and the old Scotchman, MacDuffy, promised to see that Betty did not get into any danger.

“You’ll like to see the well shot off,” he told her pleasantly. “’Tis a bonny sight, seen for the first time. The wee horse is not afraid? That is gude, then. Rein in here and keep your eye on that crowd of men. When they run you’ll know the time has come.”

Obediently Betty sat her horse and fixed her gaze on the small group of men who were moving about with more than ordinary quickness and a trace of excitement. There is always the hope that a well will “come in big” and offer substantial payment for the weeks of hard work and toil expended on it.

Suddenly the group scattered. Involuntarily Betty’s hand tightened on Clover’s rein. For a moment nothing happened. Then came a roar and a mighty rumble and the earth seemed to strain and crack.

CHAPTER XIII
THE THREE HILLS

Betty saw an upheaval of sand, followed by a column of oil, heard a shout of victory from the men, and then Clover, who had been shivering with apprehension, snorted loudly, took the bit between her teeth and began to run. MacDuffy, resting securely in the assurance Betty had given that the horse would not be frightened, was occupied with the men, and horse and rider were rapidly disappearing from sight before he realized what had happened.

“Clover, Clover!” Betty put her arms around the maddened creature’s neck and spoke to her softly. “It’s all right, dear. Don’t be afraid. I thought you had been brought up in an oil country, or I wouldn’t have let you stand where you could see the well.”

But Clover’s nerves had been sadly shaken, and she was not yet in a state to listen to reason. Betty was now an excellent horsewoman, and had no difficulty in remaining in the saddle. She did not try to pull the horse in, rather suspecting that the animal had a hard mouth, but let the reins lie loosely on her neck, speaking reassuringly from time to time. Gradually Clover slackened her wild lope, dropped to a gentle gallop, and then into a canter and from that to a walk.

“Well, now, you silly horse, I hope you feel that you’re far enough from danger,” said Betty conversationally. “I’m sure I haven’t the slightest idea where we are. Bob and I have never ridden this far, and from the looks of the country I don’t think it is what the geographies call ‘densely populated’. Mercy, what a lonesome place!”

Clover had gone contentedly to cropping grass, and that reminded Betty that she was hungry.

Far away she saw the outlines of oil derricks, but the horse seemed to have taken her out of the immediate vicinity of the oil fields. Not a house was in sight, not a moving person or animal. The stillness was unbroken save for the hoarse call of a single bird flying overhead.

Suddenly Betty’s eyes widened in astonishment. She jerked up Clover’s head so sharply that that pampered pet shook it angrily. Why should she be treated like that?

“The three hills!” gasped Betty. “Grandma Watterby’s three hills! ‘Joined together like hands’ she always says, and right back of the Saunders’ house. Clover! do you suppose we’ve found the three hills and Bob’s aunts?”

Clover had no opinion to offer. She had been rudely torn from her enjoyment of the herbage, and she resented that plainly. Betty, however, was too excited to consider the subject of lunch, even though a moment before she had been very hungry.

She turned the horse’s head toward the three hills, and with every step that brought her nearer the conviction grew that she had found the Saunders’ place. To be sure, she had seen nothing of a house as yet, but, like the name of Saunders, three hills were not a common phenomenon in Oklahoma, at least not within riding distance of the oil fields.

“It’s an awful long way,” sighed Betty, when after half an hour’s riding, the hills seemed as far away as before. “I suppose the air is so clear that they seemed nearer than they are. And I guess we came the long way around. There must be a road from the Watterby farm that cuts off some of the distance.”

Betty did not worry about what Bob or the men at the wells might be thinking. They knew her for a good rider, and Clover for a comparatively easily managed horse. No one in the West considers a good gallop anything serious, even when it assumes the proportions of a runaway. Betty was sure that they would expect her to ride back when Clover had had her run, and, barring a misstep, no harm would be likely to befall the rider.

After a full hour and a half of steady going, the three hills obligingly moved perceptibly nearer. Betty could see the ribbon of road that lay at their base, and the outline of a rambling farmhouse.

“Grandma Watterby said the hills were right back of the house!” repeated Betty ecstatically. “Oh, I’m sure this must be the place. If only Bob had come with me!”

She laughed a little at the notion of such an accommodating runaway, and then pulled Clover up short as they came to a rickety fence that apparently marked the boundary line of a field.

“We go straight across this field to the road, I think,” said Betty aloud. “I don’t believe there is anything planted. Clover, can you jump that fence?”

The fence was not very high, and at the word Clover gracefully cleared it. The field was a tangled mass of corn stubble and weeds, and a good farmer would have known that it had not been under cultivation that year. At the further side Betty found a pair of bars, and, taking these down, found herself in a narrow, deserted road, facing a lonely farmhouse.

The house was set back several yards from the road and even to the casual observer presented a melancholy picture. The paint was peeling from the clapboards, leaders were hanging in rusty shreds, and the fence post to which Betty tied her horse was rotten and worm-eaten.

“My goodness, I’m afraid the aunts are awfully poor,” sighed Betty, who had cherished a dream that Bob might find his relatives rich and ready to help him toward the education he so ardently desired. “Even Bramble Farm didn’t look as bad as this.”

She went up the weedy path to the house, and then for the first time noticed that all the shades were drawn and the doors and windows closed. It was a warm day and there was every reason for having all the fresh air that could be obtained.

“They must be away from home!” thought Betty. “Or – doesn’t anybody live here?”

A cackle from the hen yard answered her question and put her mind at ease. Where there were chickens, there would be people as a matter of course. They might have gone away to spend the day.

“I’ll take Clover out to the barn and give her a drink of water,” decided Betty. “No one would mind that. Grandma Watterby says a farmer’s barn is always open to his neighbor’s stock.”

So, Clover’s bridle over her arm, Betty proceeded out to the barnyard.

“Why – how funny!” she gasped.

The unearthly stillness which had reigned was broken at her approach by the neighing of a horse, and at the sound the chickens began to beat madly against the wire fencing of their yard, cows set up a bellowing, and a wild grunting came from the pig-pen.

Betty hurried to the barn. Three cows in their stanchions turned imploring eyes on her, and a couple of old horses neighed loudly. Something prompted Betty to look in the feed boxes. They were empty.

“I believe they’re hungry!” she exclaimed. “Clover, I don’t believe they’ve been fed or watered for several days! They wouldn’t act like this if they had.”

There wasn’t a drop of water anywhere in or about the barn, and a hasty investigation of the pig troughs and the drinking vessels in the chicken yard showed the same state of affairs.

“I don’t know how much to feed you,” Betty told the suffering animals compassionately, “but at any rate I know what to feed you. And you shall have some water as fast as I can pump it.”

She was thankful for the weeks spent at Bramble Farm as she set about her heavy tasks. She was tired from her long ride and the excitement of the morning, but it never entered her head to go away and leave the neglected farm stock. There was no other house within sight where she could go for help, and if the animals were fed and watered that day it was evidently up to her to do it.

She worked valiantly, heaping the horses’ mangers with hay, carrying cornstalks to the cows and feeding the ravenous pigs and chickens corn on the cob, for there was no time to run the sheller. She had some difficulty in discovering the supplies, and then, when all were served, she discovered that not one of the animals had touched the food.

“Too thirsty,” she commented wisely.

Watering them was hard, tiresome work, for one big tub in the center of the yard evidently served the whole barn. When she had pumped that full – and how her arms ached! – she led the horses out, and after them, the cows. She was afraid to let either horses or cows have all they wanted, and jerking them back to their stalls before they had finished was not easy. She carried pailful after pailful of water to the pigs and the chickens and it was late in the afternoon before she had the satisfaction of knowing that every animal, if not content, was much more comfortable than before her arrival.

“Now I think I’ve earned something to eat!” she confided to Clover, when, hot and tired and flushed with the heat, she had filled the last chicken yard pan. “And I’m going up to the house and help myself from the pantry. I’m ’most sure the kitchen door is unlocked; no one around here ever locks the back door.”

She was very hungry by this time, having had nothing since an early breakfast, and she had no scruples about helping herself to whatever edibles she might find.

“I begin to sympathize with all the hired men,” she thought, making her way to the kitchen door. “I don’t wonder they eat huge meals when they have to do such hard work.”

The door, as she had expected, was not locked. A slight turn on the knob opened it easily, and Betty stepped cautiously into the kitchen. The drawn shades made it dark, but it was not the darkness that caused Betty to jump back a step.

She listened intently. Would she hear the noise again, or had it been only her nervous imagination?

No – there it was again, plain and unmistakable. Some one had groaned!