The road was full of chuck holes and very dusty, both faults due to the heavy travel that went over it day and night.  They were in the oil field now and gaunt derricks tapered to the sky to right and left of them.  Occasionally Dave could hear the kick of an engine or could see a big beam pumping.

“I suppose most of the D Bar Lazy R boys have got into oil some,” suggested Sanders.

“Every man, woman, and kid around is in oil neck deep,” Bob answered.  “Malapi’s gone oil crazy.  Folks are tradin’ and speculatin’ in stock and royalty rights that never could amount to a hill o’ beans.  Slick promoters are gettin’ rich.  I’ve known photographers to fake gushers in their dark-rooms.  The country’s full of abandoned wells of busted companies.  Oil is a big man’s game.  It takes capital to operate.  I’ll bet it ain’t onct in a dozen times an investor gets a square run for his white alley, at that.”

“There are crooks in every game.”

“Sure, but oil’s so darned temptin’ to a crook.  All the suckers are shovin’ money at a promoter.  They don’t ask his capitalization or investigate his field.  Lots o’ promoters would hate like Sam Hill to strike oil.  If they did they’d have to take care of it.  That’s a lot of trouble.  They can make more organizin’ a new company and rakin’ in money from new investors.”

Bob swung the team from the main road and put it at a long rise.

“There ain’t nothin’ easier than to drop money into a hole in the ground and call it an oil well,” he went on.  “Even if the proposition is absolutely on the level, the chances are all against the investor.  It’s a fifty-to-one shot.  Tools are lost, the casin’ collapses, the cable breaks, money gives out, shootin’ is badly done, water filters in, or oil ain’t there in payin’ quantities.  In a coupla years you can buy a deskful of no-good stock for a dollar Mex.”

“Then why is everybody in it?”

“We’ve all been bit by this get-rich-quick bug.  If you hit it right in oil you can wear all the diamonds you’ve a mind to.  That’s part of it, but it ain’t all.  The West always did like to take a chance, I reckon.  Well, this is gamblin’ on a big scale and it gets into a fellow’s blood.  We’re all crazy, but we’d hate to be cured.”

The driver stopped at the location of Jackpot Number Three and invited his friend to get out.

“Make yoreself to home, Dave.  I reckon you ain’t sorry that fool team has quit joltin’ yore shoulder.”

Sanders was not, but he did not say so.  He could stand the pain of his wound easily enough, but there was enough of it to remind him pretty constantly that he had been in a fight.

The fishing for the string of lost tools was going on by lamplight.  With a good deal of interest Dave examined the big hooks that had been sent down in an unsuccessful attempt to draw out the drill.  It was a slow business and a not very interesting one.  The tools seemed as hard to hook as a wily old trout.  Presently Sanders wandered to the bunkhouse and sat down on the front step.  He thought perhaps he had not been wise to come out with Hart.  His shoulder throbbed a good deal.