The rhythmic thud of the drilling rig was the only sound cutting through the still night air. That is, until the approaching clatter of horses’ hooves shattered the peace. The camp fell silent as five riders erged from the darkness, led by a grizzled man wearing a wide-brimd hat and a worn leather duster. His rifle was slung across his back, and his eyes were sharp as they surveyed the scene before him.
Matthew’s heart skipped a beat, but he kept his expression neutral. Dalton, on the other hand, calmly finished his sip of coffee before stepping forward.
The sheriff dismounted with the fluidity of a man who had spent most of his life in the saddle. His boots hit the dusty ground with a soft thud, and the n around the camp froze, eyes warily fixed on him. The sheriff’s eyes swept over the tents, the drilling rig, and finally rested on Dalton and Matthew standing near the campfire.
"You the ones running this here operation?" the sheriff asked, his voice gravelly from years of barking orders.
Dalton stepped forward, tipping his hat slightly. "That’s right. Na’s Dalton, and this here’s Mr. Hesh," he said, gesturing toward Matthew. "We’re drilling for oil."
The sheriff’s eyes flicked toward Matthew, then back to Dalton. "I see," he said slowly. "Well, I’ve been hearing so talk in town ’bout a new drilling site out here, so I ca to check it out myself. You boys got the proper permits and licenses to be diggin’ around these parts?"
Dalton crossed his arms, leaning casually against one of the crates stacked nearby. "Sheriff, as I’m sure you’re aware, the law in these parts says that a permit isn’t required until we confirm the presence of a steady oil flow," Dalton said smoothly. "And so far, we’ve only hit traces—no steady stream yet. So, by the book, we’re in the clear."
The sheriff squinted at Dalton, clearly not satisfied with the answer. "Is that right? Seems like a convenient interpretation of the law to ."
Dalton shrugged nonchalantly. "It’s all in the legal code, Sheriff. We’ve done our howork. Until we hit a productive well, no permits are necessary. We’re just exploring for now."
The sheriff looked over his shoulder at the four n who had ridden with him, all of whom were still mounted, rifles resting casually across their laps. He turned back to Dalton and Matthew, eyes narrowing.
"I don’t like troublemakers in my town," he said, his voice dropping to a low growl. "If I find out you’re breaking any laws or stirring up trouble, I’ll be back. And next ti, it won’t just be a friendly visit."
Matthew could feel a bead of sweat trickling down his temple, but he stayed silent, letting Dalton handle the conversation. He had to trust that Dalton knew the local laws well enough to keep them out of trouble—for now.
Dalton held the sheriff’s gaze, unflinching. "No trouble here, Sheriff. We’re just honest n trying to strike it rich, sa as anyone else in this godforsaken land."
For a mont, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. Then, the sheriff finally nodded, albeit reluctantly. "Alright, Dalton. But I’ll be keeping an eye on you and your crew. One wrong step, and I’ll shut you down faster than you can say ’oil well.’"
With that, the sheriff turned on his heel, whistling sharply for his n. The riders tugged at their reins, turning their horses back toward town. The sheriff mounted up with one smooth motion, casting one last, lingering look at the drilling site before leading his posse away.
As the sound of hooves faded into the night, Dalton let out a breath he had been holding. He turned to Matthew, a sly grin spreading across his weathered face.
"Well, that went better than I expected," Dalton said, brushing so dust off his coat.
Matthew, still trying to process the encounter, turned to him with a puzzled look.
"Is it a normal occurrence here? Sheriffs coming by to ’check in’ on drilling operations?"
"You could say so, but that is not a big deal. We should focus on drilling."
***
April 9th, 1881 – Late Afternoon.
A dry wind swept through the camp, carrying with it a fine dust that clung to everything. The n moved sluggishly, their spirits low as supplies dwindled. It had been nearly a week since the sheriff’s visit, and the tension in the camp had only grown.
Matthew leaned against the side of his tent, watching Dalton’s crew struggle to keep the drilling rig running. The sound of the walking beam creaking and the steam engine hissing was a familiar background noise, but today it seed almost forlorn, like the last gasps of a dying beast.
They were on their last barrels of water, and the food was running dangerously low. The n were tired, sunburned, and on the edge of mutiny. Matthew could see it in their eyes—the unspoken question of whether all this effort was worth it. Doubt had taken root, and it was spreading fast.
But Dalton was relentless. He drove the n hard, pushing them to keep drilling, even as their bodies begged for rest. He knew, just as Matthew did, that they were on the verge of either a breakthrough or complete disaster. There was no in-between.
Dalton stood by the derrick, his eyes fixed on the rhythmic rise and fall of the cable tool. He had been monitoring the drilling depth closely for hours, not even taking a break to eat. The n working the rig were exhausted, their shirts soaked with sweat, their hands raw from gripping the mud pump handles.
"Keep her steady, boys!" Dalton barked, his voice hoarse from shouting over the noise. "We’re almost there. I can feel it!"
Matthew, standing beside Dalton. They were at nearly 1,200 feet—the depth where he believed they would strike oil. But the ground had grown harder, and the rate of penetration had slowed to a crawl. It was taking hours just to gain a few more feet.
Suddenly, there was a change in the sound. A low, hollow thud echoed up from the depths of the borehole, different from the dull impact they had grown used to. Dalton’s eyes widened.
"Hold up! Stop the drill!" he shouted.
The crew quickly brought the walking beam to a halt. The n on the mud pump let out a collective sigh of relief, their arms trembling from the effort. Dalton leaned over the borehole, listening intently, his face tense.
"What is it?" Matthew asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Dalton raised a hand to silence him, his ear still turned toward the hole. Then, with a sudden, wild grin, he turned to Matthew.
"I think we hit it."
The n around the rig froze, every eye turned toward the derrick. For a mont, there was only the sound of the wind and the soft creak of the wooden structure. Then, a faint gurgling noise began to rise from the depths of the borehole.
"Quick, get the bailer up!" Dalton barked. The n scrambled into action, cranking the winch to pull up the heavy steel cylinder used to extract debris from the well. Every second felt like an eternity as they waited, the air thick with anticipation.
As the bailer erged from the hole, droplets of dark, viscous liquid dripped from its sides. The n pulled it over to a pan and carefully tipped it, emptying its contents.
A cheer erupted as thick, black crude oil pooled in the tal pan, the unmistakable scent of hydrocarbons filling the air.
"We’ve got oil!" Jennings, the burly worker, shouted, pumping his fist into the air.
Dalton clapped Matthew on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of him. "You did it, Hesh! You were right all along!"
Matthew stared at the glistening pool of oil, unable to believe his eyes. After weeks of drilling, facing down the sheriff, and nearly running out of supplies, they had finally struck it rich.
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