Jim, a man of practical logic and grease-stained hands, thought Bill had finally lost his marbles. He couldn’t understand why Bill would risk a broken neck over a cow’s weird behavior. Bill just looked him in the eye and said, “Bessie’s been telling me something for five years, Jim. I’m finally going to listen.”
Jim warned him about “bad air”—methane or carbon monoxide that could settle in old shafts. But Bill was stubborn, trusting the stonework his grandfather had laid. Realizing he couldn’t talk Bill out of it, Jim agreed to man the rope. They set the date for Sunday morning, hoping to get it done before the neighbors were up and asking questions.
Mary was a nervous wreck. She made Bill promise to come up the second he felt lightheaded. He kissed her cheek and told her he’d be back in ten minutes with an answer. He sounded more confident than he felt.
Sunday morning arrived with a thick blanket of fog. Bessie was already at her post, but she stepped back as the men approached with the gear. Jim tied the rope to a massive old oak tree near the well, a tree that had stood for a century and wasn’t going anywhere. He gave the rope a hard tug, satisfied with the anchor.
One last time, Jim asked if Bill wanted to reconsider. Bill just nodded, clicked on his headlamp, and stepped over the edge. The descent was slow. The air grew cold and damp, smelling of ancient stone and wet earth. The walls were slick with a black, oily moss that felt like grease under his gloves.
About thirty feet down, the smell changed. It wasn’t just damp anymore; it was that sharp, chemical scent again, much stronger now. It stung his nose and made his eyes water. He hung there for a moment, breathing through his shirt, trying to place the scent. Jim’s voice echoed down the shaft, distorted and hollow, asking if he was okay.
Bill shouted back that he was fine and kept going. Finally, his boots hit the soft, silty bottom. He stood in about six inches of murky water. He panned his light around the base of the well, and that’s when he saw it. It wasn’t a gas leak, and it wasn’t a dead animal.
Coming directly out of a fissure in the limestone rocks was a thick, dark, shimmering liquid. It was oozing slowly into the water, creating brilliant, swirling rainbows on the surface. Bill’s heart hammered against his ribs. He reached out, dipped his gloved fingers into the sludge, and brought it to his face.
It was jet black, incredibly slick, and smelled exactly like a mechanic’s shop. It was crude oil. Pure, unrefined “black gold” was seeping into his grandfather’s well. Bill realized in a flash that his humble farm was sitting on top of an oil pocket. He fumbled a plastic water bottle out of his pocket—one he’d brought just in case—and filled it with the dark liquid.
He shone the light higher and saw the oil was weeping from several cracks in the stone, suggesting there was significant pressure behind it. This wasn’t just a spill; it was a reservoir. Jim’s voice boomed down again, sounding panicked this time. Bill signaled for the pull, and Jim began the slow process of hauling him back to the surface.
The trip up felt like it took an hour. His mind was racing with the implications. He’d seen the news stories about the oil booms in North Dakota and Texas. He knew what this meant for his family’s future. When he finally scrambled over the edge, Jim was pale from the effort, ready to hear the bad news.
