In 500... (or less)

Oil Boom

The derrick shook and rattled as the drill ground its way through the ground.

Garrick and Barton looked at each other greedily.

"I'm telling you, Jack, we're gettin' close," Barton told his partner. "Colonel Drake won't have nothin' on this well!"

Unlike the other people who had flocked to Titusville during the oil rush, the pair chose to lease a patch of ground far from the other strikes, convinced there was oil everywhere. One need only find it.

Starting up was not without its difficulties. The old farmer, Wilson, would only lease a spot that was otherwise useless to him -- a wooded hill on the back of his property. The men toiled for weeks clearing the land and lugging their equipment up the hill.

"You think we got enough pipe?" Garrick asked. "I don't want our oil gushing all over the place."

"Not to worry, my friend," Barton reassured him. "Got all the pipe we need, and barrels too."

"How much deeper, you reckon?"

"Can't be more than 10 feet," Barton answered. "We've already gone down at least 40, I'd say."

The instant millions would make all the misery and hard work worth it. Broken drill bits and supply problems were irritations. The muck swallowed up their wagons and made getting equipment to their remote location even more difficult. It was all about to pay off.

They waited in anticipation, certain this would finally be the day they'd strike it rich.

"Heard a few more dopes settled into Pothole with their picks and shovels," Garrick said, trying to pass the time with idle conversation.

Barton rolled his eyes and spat a mighty ball of tobacco-stained spit onto the ground.

"Dopes," he said. "They're selling plots for ungodly amounts and those idiots are all suckin' oil from the same spot. It'll be dry as bone there in a month at best."

Barton had struck up a conversation with the colonel himself one day at the hotel, and took all the advice Mr. Drake would give him. He fancied himself an expert by the time the ten-minute conversation was over.

There was a little tremor, something had happened.

"Another broken bit?" Garrity asked in disgust.

"Nah, that was different," Barton said. "Hit something different. Get the pump ready."

Once they pulled up the drill, the oil didn't gush out the way they'd hoped.

"Sometimes oil's stubborn," Barton surmised. "Gotta coax it outta there."

They hooked up the pump and started rocking the handle back and forth. There was a gurgle, then another.

"Here it comes!" Barton yelled. "Liquid gold!"

And gold it was. Like gold-colored. Weirdest oil they'd ever seen.

"Oil?" Garrity was puzzled by the amber liquid bubbling out from the pipe.

Barton reached down and sniffed the liquid, then tasted it to confirm his suspicion.

"Ain't oil," he said. "Not even close."

He'd always heard Holtz kept his beer cold by putting it in a cave.