And now she told the visiting geologists that if oil was what they were looking for they would surely find it under the ranch, because her younger son’s initials were J.D.
Such excitement was contagious. Into our repetitive talk of sheep, cattle, horses, weather, and markets, new words appeared: anticline, syncline, red
beds, sump, casing, drill stem, bits, crow’s nest, cat walk, headache beam. Almost every herder had his own oil dome. We took up oil claims.
A range ne’er-do-well, grizzled and tattered, caught a ride to our house. He inquired importantly whether he might stay with us a few days while he did some validating work on his oil claims. Then he zakelijke energie vergelijken asked John if he might borrow a shovel. But to get to his claims, he said, he needed a team and a wagon. Having succeeded so far, he demanded, “Now, where’s your il?”
The boys might be far from sidewalks, but they would not grow up naive. A man named Jim Roush had a way of finding oil without a drill bit. Arriving at the ranch, he offered his services. Jim Roush was sort of a Music Man-an itinerant alchemist of structure, a hydrocarbonic dowser. He had a bottle that was wrapped in black friction tape. It dangled from a cord, and contained a secret fluid tomographically syndetic with oil. While David Love looked onwith his brother, his mother, and his father-Roush stood a few feet from their house and suspended the bottle, which began to spin. Light flashed on one hand-from a large apparent diamond. In silent concentration, he counted. Ypresian, Albian, Hauterivian, Valanginian-there was a zakelijke energie geologic age in every spin. When the bottle stopped, its aggregate revolutions could be factored as depth to oil. David never saw Jim Roush again, except to the extent that his ghost might haunt the Geological Survey.