BRACE BARLOW THE MOONLIGHTER.
Besides Uncle Phin and Cynthia, Arthur had one other friend whom he
seldom saw now, but whom he was always glad to meet. This was Brace
Barlow, a stalwart, good-natured, young fellow, about twenty-five years
old, who seemed so big and strong to the little boy, that the latter
called him his “dear giant.” He worked for Arthur’s uncle when the boy
first came to live with the Dustins, and had immediately taken a great
fancy to the gentle little fellow. He taught Arthur to ride horseback,
to drive a team, and to swim, and was always ready to tell him stories
of adventures in the oil region. Besides these things, he took pains
patiently to explain where the oil came from, and how wells were
drilled, deep down into the earth to its hiding-places.
Some months before the time with which this story opens, Brace Barlow
left Mr. Dustin’s employ, and, much to Arthur’s dismay, became a
“moonlighter.”
Now to understand what a “moonlighter” is, one must know at least as
much as Arthur did about oil wells. They are holes about the size of an
ordinary stove-pipe, bored, by means of immensely heavy iron drills,
hundreds and sometimes thousands of feet into the earth, until they
reach the layer of porous sandstone that holds the oil, just as a sponge
holds water.
With the oil in this sandstone are vast quantities of gas, that exert an
enormous pressure upon it; and the moment an opening is made to where it
is, this gas forces the oil to the surface, often driving it forth in
great spurts and fountain-like jets. Such a well is called a “gusher,”
and from it the oil flows for days, weeks, and sometimes for years.
After a while, however, the supply of oil or gas, or both, becomes
exhausted, so that the stream no longer rises above the mouth of the
well. Then a pump is used, and by means of it the oil is pumped up, just
as water is from an ordinary well. But the supply of oil always
decreases, until, by and by, the pump no longer brings it up in paying
quantities.
For some years after the discovery of oil, these exhausted wells were
abandoned, and their owners sunk new ones in other places. At length,
however, a wise man who had studied the situation very carefully,
concluded that if, by any means, the oil-bearing rock could be shattered
for a considerable distance around the bottom of these old wells, the
flow of oil might be increased, and it might again be produced from them
in paying quantities. So he invented a torpedo that could be exploded at
any required depth in a well. It was simply a long tin tube, closed at
the lower end, and filled with nitro-glycerine. This is one of the most
terrible explosives ever discovered; and though it is only ordinary
sweet glycerine, such as is used for chapped faces and hands, mixed with
nitric acid, it is ten times more powerful than gunpowder, and explodes
upon receiving a very slight shock or blow.
A torpedo of this kind, lowered to the bottom of an oil well, and
exploded by means of a sharp-pointed iron weight dropped upon it,
shatters a large area of oil-bearing rock, and the oil or gas, comes
rushing to the surface as when the well was first opened. This operation
is called “shooting a well”; the lowering of a torpedo into position, a
thousand feet or more below the surface of the earth, is called “placing
a shot,” and the men who undertake this dangerous business are called
“torpedo men” or “well-shooters.”
The person who invented this process of well-shooting, and obtained a
patent on it, charged so much for the use of his torpedoes that to shoot
a well was an expensive undertaking. Many oil producers thought they
could not afford it, or that their exhausted wells were not worth the
further expenditure of so much money. Under these circumstances a class
of reckless, daring fellows sprang into existence, who made a business
of manufacturing torpedoes, and secretly shooting wells without paying
the inventor the royalty to which his patent entitled him. Thus they
were able to do the work much more cheaply than the regular torpedo men,
and a great number of well owners were willing to employ them for the
sake of what money they would thus save.
As these men generally worked at night they were called “moonlighters,”
and many thrilling tales of the desperate risks run by them, are still
told in the oil regions. The inventor of the torpedo, who was the only
man having a legal right to use it, was of course most anxious to detect
and punish these “moonlighters,” and for this purpose he employed a
number of spies. These spies, or detectives, were generally mounted on
fleet horses, and whenever they discovered a “moonlighter” driving along
the lonely roads, with his load of nitro-glycerine, they gave chase to
him. Then he would whip up his spirited team, and drive away at full
speed, reckless of consequences, and only intent upon escaping from his
pursuers.
Thus it often happened that people sleeping in the vicinity of those
quiet mountain roads were awakened at night by the sound of galloping
horses, the rattle of a light wagon, and the shouts of its pursuers.
They would hold their breath and wait in anxious suspense until the
sounds died away, happy if they did not hear the awful roar of an
explosion, that meant instant death to all who were anywhere near that
ill-fated wagon.
When it is remembered that such an explosion could be caused by the
breaking of a wheel, the upsetting of the wagon, or even its sudden
striking against a rock or stump, and that such an accident would result
in the instantaneous and complete disappearance of men, horses, wagon,
and everything within reach of the awful stuff, it will be understood
what terrible risks the “moonlighters” ran in pursuit of their illegal
business, and what reckless men they were. As the patent on oil-well
torpedoes expired some years ago, and anybody can now use them who
chooses to do so, there are no longer any “moonlighters,” but at the
time of this story they were numerous, and Arthur’s friend, Brace
Barlow, was one of the most daring of them all.
To have his “dear giant” engage in a pursuit at once so wrong and so
dangerous was a great grief to the honest, loving little soul, and at
every opportunity he pleaded with Brace to give it up. But the young man
would only laugh, saying that he had as much right to shoot wells and
risk his life as anybody else, and that it was the easiest way of making
money he knew of.
At length, however, about daylight one morning, he came to the Dustin
house, bruised, bleeding, and with an awe-stricken look on his usually
merry face. Waking his little friend, he said he had come to tell him
that his moonlighting days were over, and that hereafter he was to be an
honest well-shooter, in the service of the rightful owner of the torpedo
patent.
“Oh, I am so glad!” cried the boy, “only I wish you would work at
something else, and never touch the awful glycerine again.”
“I can’t give it up entirely, little one,” replied Brace. “Its very
danger makes it exciting, and any other life would seem tame after it.”
“Well,” said Arthur, “if you must be one, I am glad you are going to be
an honest torpedo man. But, ‘dear giant,’ are you hurt? What makes you
look so queer?”
Then Brace told him that about an hour before, he had been driving
quietly along, with fifty quarts of nitro-glycerine stowed snugly under
his buggy seat, toward a well that he was to shoot at daylight, when the
sound of galloping hoofs gave warning that a detective was on his track.
He instantly whipped up his horses, and, as they sprang forward, his
light buggy was nearly upset by striking some obstacle, and he was
thrown to the ground with such force as to be partially stunned. As he
lay there the detective dashed past without noticing him, and overtaking
the runaway team a minute later probably tried to stop them. They must
have swerved to one side, the buggy had undoubtedly been upset, and a
terrific explosion instantly followed. When Brace reached the spot no
trace of man, horses, or wagon, was to be found, and only a great hole
in the ground marked the scene of the catastrophe.
The boy shuddered as he listened to this story, and for days afterward
his sunny face was clouded by its memory. Still he found some comfort in
reflecting that nothing less than some such terrible lesson would have
made an honest torpedo man of his dear “moonlighter,” with whom, from
that time forward, his friendship became stronger than ever.