The Will

by Reed Arvin

  “You mean Crandall?” Amanda asked.

  Henry shook his head. “Durand. And Hesston, by the looks of it.”

  “You might just make them angrier.”

  “I hope so,” Henry answered. “Angry people make mistakes.”

  “So what does this mean?” Harris asked. “How does it affect our plans?”

  “This was inevitable,” Henry stated. “Roger was never going to let the will go uncontested anyway. But with Durand and Hesston, he might actually pull it off.” He fingered the envelope a moment thoughtfully, then ran his thumb through the flap and tore it open. He pulled out several pages stapled together, flipped to the end, and read for a moment. “His mother’s name is on the petition as well, the bastard.”

  Amanda frowned. “And Sarah’s?”

  “No,” Henry answered. “I knew she wouldn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “So what happens now?” Amanda asked.

  “Court happens. We have three days.”

  The geologist was not what Henry had expected. When the man’s hat appeared over a ridge close by on the north, it was topped with a long, somewhat weathered feather—eagle, by the look of it. Eagles were protected, and the adornment raised certain legal issues: the fine for killing one of the birds was twenty-five thousand dollars and a year in jail. The hat and feather were followed by an equally weathered face, darkened by the sun but still, unmistakably, red in color. “What’s his name?” Henry asked.

  “John Brown.”

  “An Indian named John Brown?” Henry asked. “You mean like the abolitionist?”

  “I didn’t know. I only talked to him on the phone.”

  Henry watched the man come over the ridge, taking him in: he was tall, and quite lean; Henry guessed about forty-five, but the red-tinged face hid years in sun-beaten lines and it was hard to be sure. His jet-black hair was interspersed with thin streaks of gray and was pulled back in a long pony-tail between his shoulders. A turquoise earring hung from his left ear. He wore black work boots, faded blue jeans, and in spite of the day’s growing heat, a rough-cut leather vest over a white cotton shirt. A bulky canvas bag was slung over his shoulder, and he carried a small shovel. Henry and Amanda walked toward the approaching figure, and Henry stuck out his hand to introduce himself. The man shook it rather formally. “Thanks for coming,” Henry said. “Glad you could make it.”

  “Thing got my curiosity up,” Brown answered. He looked at Amanda. “And I knew about you anyway. I heard about what you’re trying to do, checking up on the old wells. It’s a good idea.”

  “Really?” Amanda looked surprised. “I didn’t know anyone else was thinking the same thing.”

  “It makes sense,” Brown replied. “I think everybody knows it does, but folks don’t like to think long-range.”

  “Are your people from around here, Mr. Brown?” Henry asked.

  Brown looked up, but his face remained implacable. “Now or then?”

  Henry nodded, understanding the meaning of the question; every Native American tribe, without exception, had been relocated during the years following the Civil War, sometimes more than once. “Originally,” he said.

  Brown waved to the east. “We stretched from Pennsylvania to Ohio in the twenties,” he said. “But the Indian wars drove us west, here to the Kansas territories.” He took his shovel and drew a circle in the dirt at his feet. He pointed toward the top of the circle and said, “Northern rim of Colby County. The other side is a hundred forty, hundred fifty miles south. Inside the circle was all that was left by the start of the war.”

  “You’re Shawnee,” Henry said, pleased with himself.

  For the first time Brown’s face flickered with interest, but he merely nodded.

  “I was interested in that stuff as a kid,” Henry said. “My father took me to see the old ruts of the wagon trains ten miles from where we’re standing. They run right through the buffalo wallers.”

  “Shawnee hunted them here,” Brown said. “With antelope, and bear, and everything else that’s gone now. The only thing left is jackrabbits and coyotes.”

  “Henry’s surprised by your name,” Amanda said, smiling.

  Henry shrugged and said, “I can’t be the first.”

  “Shawnee don’t hand down names like whites,” Brown answered. “We change them from time to time, to commemorate a big event. My grandfather was the first in my family to be educated in a white school, and he admired John Brown. He took his name.”

  “I’ve seen him,” Amanda said. “His painting’s up in the mural on the capitol rotunda. He looks possessed. He’s standing in front of a burning building, with an enormous beard and long wild hair in the wind.”

  “He set the fire,” Brown said. “Burned out some settlers, and when they came out he hacked them to pieces with a saber. Called himself the Hand of God.”

  “John Brown killed Indians, too,” Henry said.

  “Just Iroquois,” the man answered stoically. “We were hunting them ourselves. Shawnee hid Brown sometimes when the government hunted him.” The geologist glanced across the field at Boyd, who was sitting quietly in the car.

  “Who’s that?” he asked.

  “Raymond Boyd,” Henry answered. “He’s just inherited this land. He’ll be staying in the car.”

  Brown stared at the car a moment, then shrugged. “His life. Now let’s see this so-called oil field.”

  The three figures climbed up a sloping hill toward the closest well. After some time they crossed a shallow but treacherous gully; the sides of the depression were crumbling pebbles, shifting under their feet.

  Amanda pointed. “Limestone,” she said. “And clearly extruded.”

  “We’ll see what we see,” Brown answered.

  When they arrived at the first well, Brown stared at the hulking, rusted tower. “This still pumps?” he asked skeptically.

  “About two hours a day,” Amanda said. She looked at her watch. “Three barrels a week, roughly. It’s timed to start in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Twelve barrels a month,” Brown mused. “For a well this age, that’s pretty good. Most of them that are still alive at all only pump every other day.”

  “It’s a miracle, considering the fact that we’re standing on pure chalk,” Amanda said. She pulled out a geological survey and spread it on the ground. Brown knelt down beside her, scanning the page.

  “I checked into this site at the statehouse,” Amanda said. “It’s been spot-checked by field agents six times since it was drilled. Came back legit every time. Flow at the pump checked out, everything. This one peaked at twenty-eight barrels a day, then went shallow in the third year. Now that’s where it gets weird. It’s been running about two, two and a half a day for years. No drop-off, no increase. It never changes. Ever hear of a well like that?”

  Brown didn’t answer. He had already turned and was cleaning the face of a pressure gauge with a bandanna. Black grime and oil streaked away. He peered at the gauge and said, “Six pounds of pressure. A little high for such small production, but within reason.” He turned to Amanda. “How deep is the well?”

  She looked at her chart. “Thirty-six hundred feet,” she said. “And the pay zone is pretty thin—no more than forty feet.”

  “Okay,” Brown said, “so they drilled three-quarters of a mile down, and they found forty feet of oil.” A disbelieving smile spread across his face, the sunburned lines creasing back around his eyes. “They’ve been pumping it for more than twenty years, and they’ve been doing it in pure chalk.”

  “Then I’m not crazy,” Amanda said, her face flushed. “I knew there was something wrong here.”

  “The pump is due to start in ten minutes,” Brown said, glancing at his watch. “We’ll see what we see.”

  The three waited in silence as the minutes ticked slowly by. Then, at 7 P.M., a subterranean, graunching sound creaked from the base of the wellhead. The rusting hulk came slowly, painfully to life. In the next minute or so it rumbled
into the monotony of another day’s pumping. Brown leaned over to the pressure gauge and squinted through its grimy cover. “That’s strange. It didn’t move,” he said.

  “Why strange?” Henry asked.

  “The pumps build up pressure at rest. When they start, the pressure is released and the gauges should go down. This one started at six psi; it shouldn’t read more than two or three when pumping. But nothing changed.”

  “Can you explain it?” Amanda asked.

  “It usually means that there’s still a lot of oil down there, so much that even when the well pumps the back-pressure remains constant,” Brown said. He shook his head. “But even the wells in the Gulf drop pressure after this many years.” He stared up at the well a moment and picked up his bag. “All right, let’s find out what’s going on here.”

  Brown led the others to a large collector tank thirty yards down a gentle hill behind the well. “They store the oil here,” he said. “Pick it up by truck every couple of months. There’ll be a flow gauge measuring what’s coming in from the well. They can monkey with the gauges, of course, but at least it’s something.” Brown dropped his bag and looked through a tight maze of iron pipes and fittings. Eventually he got down on his knees and peered underneath a large pipe. “Got it,” he said after a few moments. “Gauge says seven cubic feet per hour. And you said, what, two barrels a day? So that’s about right.” He got up and dusted off his pants. “Checks out so far,” he said. A low metallic scream to the west cut across the field; another well was starting. “They all run about the same time?” Brown asked.

  “That’s right,” Amanda said. “The difference must just be the internal clocks.”

  The light was fading; the sun was slowly drifting downward toward the horizon. In another thirty minutes, it would be dark. Brown stared across the range grass at the first well. “What are you hiding, princess?” he asked. “What’s your little secret?”

  “It’s bad timing with the sun setting,” Henry said. “Doesn’t give us much time.”

  “The darkness can help,” Brown answered. He turned to Henry, an odd smile playing on his lips. “Are you feeling brave today, city lawyer?” he asked.

  “Depends.”

  Brown picked up his shovel. “The lady says in two hours the pumping will stop on its own. But I can stop it anytime. Then I can open this pipe and see what’s really going on inside.”

  “And what should we see?”

  “Pure black crude,” Brown said, “running from the well to the holding tank. That’s what the gauges say. But gauges lie.”

  “I see you’re not above bending a few rules.”

  “Main reason I never took an oil company job. I like the flexibility.”

  “So what do you think, Henry?” Amanda asked. “Any problem with stopping the well?”

  “Probably,” Henry said. “But why did I leave Wilson, Lougherby and Mathers if I can’t break a few rules?”

  “I thought it was because you wouldn’t break rules you left.”

  “Different rules,” Henry replied. “Go ahead, Mr. Brown. Stop the well.”

  Brown nodded and opened his leather bag. He pulled out a large wrench and walked to the wellhead. “This will take a few minutes,” he said. He examined the well for a long time, walking completely around the structure twice and poking his head underneath pipes. At last, he switched off the motor to the pump and it ground to a halt.

  “That’s it?” Henry asked.

  “Shutting off the pump doesn’t shut down the well. It’s still active.” Brown methodically turned a metal wheel, shutting off a pipe. He stood staring at it silently for a full two minutes.

  Henry watched, finally blurting, “And what are we doing now?”

  “Got to let the pressure equalize,” Brown said. “Course, if you want me to hurry you might want to back up a half mile or so.” Brown reapproached the well. He turned several more wheels, watching and listening carefully. Finally, he picked up a large wrench. “All right,” he said. “Let’s see what’s coming out of this thing.” He placed the wrench around the fitting and pulled down with all his might; the bolt didn’t budge. He rummaged through his bag and retrieved a spray lubricant, liberally applying it to the metal. When he pulled again, it jarred loose and began to slowly move. As contact between the pipe and the fitting became looser, black oil began leaking through the threads, further lubricating the nut. It began to spin easily; suddenly, the connection was broken and a half gallon of crude splashed out of the pipe. The oil pooled on the grass below and began running farther downhill in thick rivulets. “The oil’s flowing, just like it should,” Brown said. “The back-pressure looks about right, too.” He placed his hands on his hips. “Whatever this is, it’s clever,” he said. “I don’t see it yet.”

  Amanda picked up the shovel and absentmindedly pushed dirt around near her feet. Brown watched her with an occupied, distant expression. Suddenly, however, he came to life. “Forget geology for a minute,” he said. “Let’s try archeology. If there’s nothing aboveground, we go down.”

  “That will leave more signs that we were here,” Amanda said, looking at Henry.

  “I’ll handle that,” Henry said. “In fact, I’ll dig.” He reached over and took the shovel from Amanda. Since coming back to Council Grove, he had found himself longing for physical exertion. Growing up he had loved outside work, and the health club workouts in Chicago had never been a good substitute for him. “Just point,” he said to Brown.

  Brown indicated an area just below the aboveground pipes and said, “Go slow. Don’t blow us up. Test, then dig. Metal on metal makes sparks.”

  “That oil can’t possibly burn.”

  “Oil won’t. Fumes will.”

  “I understand.” Henry pushed the spade point in cautiously; satisfied, he pulled several shovelfuls of dirt from the site. Soon he hit rock, but it crumbled easily under his effort.

  “Chalk,” Brown said, nodding to Amanda. “Like you said, all the way to the surface.”

  Henry worked carefully but doggedly, sweat building on his muscles in spite of the cooling temperature. The sun was dying now, a rim fragment sliding into the edge of the fields. “Dark soon,” he said, breathing heavily. “Do we have lights?” Brown opened his bag and pulled out a couple of powerful flashlights, handing one to Amanda.

  “Ready for a rest?” Brown asked.

  Henry stood a moment, resting an arm on the shovel handle. He hadn’t built up a real sweat outside of a racquetball court in more than three years. It was a loss he hadn’t truly appreciated until this moment. “Nope,” he said with a smile. “I wouldn’t trade this, frankly. Now if you’ll get out of my way, I have some earth to move.” Brown stepped back, and Henry dug back in with vigor, welcoming his second wind. The dirt was flying off his shovel as he dug.

  “Careful,” Brown said. “If there’s anything there, it can’t be much farther down.”

  “But what are we looking for?” Amanda asked. “Are we just digging with no idea?”

  Brown was silent, concentrating on the digging. He pointed his flashlight down and a pool of white light appeared at Henry’s feet. “Hang on,” he said softly. “Everybody be quiet. Henry, pick up your left shoe.”

  Henry looked down and slowly raised his foot; to his surprise, it made a sucking sound. “Let me see the flashlight,” he said. He bent his knees and played the light around his feet from close range. The dirt appeared to be slightly wet, although from what he couldn’t tell. He reached down and dipped his finger in the moist earth and shone the light directly on it.

  “Oil,” Brown said. “Not a lot, just normal leakage.”

  “Leakage from what?” Amanda asked.

  “From another set of pipes,” Brown answered. “Come out, Henry. I better take over.”

  Henry took Brown’s hand and pulled himself out of the hole. Brown stepped away, carefully removed his vest, and set his hat on the ground a good distance from the hole. He stepped nimbly down into the hole and b
egan gently prodding the ground with the spade. He continued digging and searching for several minutes, when a soft thrust downward yielded a clanking, metallic sound. “That’s it,” he said, looking up at Henry and Amanda.

  Now Brown dug earnestly, clearing the ground from around a steel pipe about four feet below ground level. It was dark now, and Henry and Amanda kept their lights on his work. After twenty minutes he had managed to make several feet of pipe visible. “Another pipe, hidden from view,” he said at last. “It runs underground, but to the same collecting tank.”

  “What’s it for?” Henry asked.

  “I’ve seen this kind of thing before and it works pretty simply,” Brown answered. “If you’re a driller, you tell the farmer that you’re pumping out so much oil from the land. You meter it aboveground, like normal, where everybody can see. But you put another set of pipes underground and pump more oil, unmetered oil that nobody knows about.”

  “And steal from the farmer,” Henry concluded.

  “Sometimes the farmer is in on it,” Brown said. “They both steal from the government. But to make it work you need an inside man, somebody at the refinery or in distribution.”

  “Durand,” Amanda said quietly.

  Brown shrugged. “Except that it’s impossible in this case. More and more oil where there shouldn’t be any in the first place.”

  “You say there’s oil in the underground pipe,” Amanda said, “but we don’t really know. All we can see is a pipe. It could have played out years ago.”

  “I was standing in leakage when I was digging,” Henry said. “That couldn’t be twenty-five years old.”

  “No,” Brown said, “it would have been absorbed long ago. Whatever’s here has to be fairly recent.” He tapped the pipe with the flat side of the shovel. “There’s nothing to do but open this.”

  “Is there a visible fitting?” Henry asked.

  “Right before it turns upward there’s a fitted sleeve,” Brown answered. “I can unscrew it there.”