They formed a camp among the thick hemlocks, back of the Dustin farm, and at the nearest point to the well they could reach. Here one or more of their number remained on watch night and day, with fleet horses beside them, ready to bear them to the nearest telegraph station with the first bit of information they should obtain. From this camp a powerful field glass was always directed toward the new derrick, the strokes of the walking beam were counted, and every movement of those who came out of, or went into, the boarded structure was closely watched.
During the darkness of night the scouts crept closer, and, with many a narrow escape from the guards, who constantly patrolled the premises, watched and listened for any chance bit of news that might thus be gleaned.
At last their patience and perseverance were rewarded, and they gained the very information for which they had striven so long. A scout, who had lain concealed in a clump of low bushes beside the derrick, during the long hours of a dark, stormy night, overheard a remark not intended for his ears. It furnished a key to the situation; and, slipping away, still unobserved, to where his horse was fastened, he galloped rapidly off in the direction of the village.
In the several oil exchanges of the country, the principal item of news the next morning was that the Dale-Dustin mystery well had proved a dry hole; and many were the jokes made concerning the Dustin “duster.”
CHAPTER XXXI.
A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT.
The Dale-Dustin well was a dry hole. It contained a little gas and plenty of salt water; but not a drop of oil flowed from it, though, as Brace Barlow said, the material through which the drill had finally pierced, at a depth of twelve hundred feet, was as likely looking oil sand as one would wish to see. The boss driller was greatly puzzled to account for the present state of affairs, though he was not inclined to talk much about it. He had so often and so confidently predicted that this well was not only going to strike oil, but to prove a “gusher,” that he now had nothing to say.
He spent the greater part of the morning in wandering moodily about the place, occasionally entering the derrick, and casting reproachful glances at the idle drills, as though they were in some way responsible for having opened such a useless hole in the ground. Then he would pick up a handful of sand, from a little pile on the derrick floor, where the sand-pump, that brought it from the very bottom of the well, had deposited it. He would smell of this sand, and taste it, and rub it slowly between his fingers. Then, with a perplexed shake of his head, the “dear giant” would throw it away, and again set forth on his melancholy wanderings about the place. He had discharged and paid off his men that morning; so now he was left entirely alone with his thoughts. At length, about noon, he disappeared, and nobody knew what had become of him.
The night before, his tour of duty, or “tower,” as the oil men say, began at midnight, when he took charge of the drilling, with one assistant. They found that the tools had entered the third sand, in which it had been expected to strike oil, and were rapidly cutting their way through it. The layer of sandstone at this point was unusually thick, and it was not until nearly daylight that the drill penetrated beyond it.
With each drop of the tools, the anxious watchers at the surface expected a rush of oil; and each time the sand-pump was let down, its return was eagerly awaited, and its contents were carefully examined. There were, to be sure, traces of oil; but that was all.
All night long, Colonel Dale sat in the derrick, hardly speaking or moving, except when he stepped forward to study the contents of the sand-pump. It was a night of nights to him. His fortunes, and those of the dear ones dependent upon him, were to be decided by the result of those few hours’ labor.