Chapter 9 - The Dry Creek Trail
The starter motor of the old 1984 farm truck whined through three agonizing rotations before the engine roared to life, spewing a cloud of blue-black exhaust into the brush. Nora slammed the floor shifter into low gear, the transmission grinding furiously as the heavy tires found traction in the deep dirt.
She couldn't take the main county road; Vance’s private haulers and the deputies’ squad cars had the cattle guard completely blocked. Her only route off the ranch was the dried-up limestone bed of Miller Creek—a treacherous, boulder-strewn canyon that ran south toward the federally protected state forest boundary.
The truck bounced violently over jagged limestone shelves, each jolt sending searing waves of agony through Nora’s cracked ribs. She gritted her teeth until her gums bled, keeping one hand clamped tightly against her chest while the other wrestled the unassisted steering wheel. In the passenger seat, the glass jar of crude oil clinked against the brass surveyor's compass inside the canvas bag.
Two miles down the creek bed, the sheer rock walls began to narrow, casting long shadows across the chalky white stone. This was the area her father had circled on the survey map—the fault line.
As she rounded a sharp bend where the creek split around a massive cedar bluff, Nora slammed on the brakes. The truck skidded sideways on loose shale, stopping inches from a sheer vertical drop.
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The dry creek wasn't empty.
Crammed into the narrow river gorge was a full commercial core-drilling rig, unbranded and painted matte gray, silently drilling deep test shafts directly into the river stone. Surrounding the rig were four armed men in unmarked tactical gear, staring back at her through the cloud of dust kicked up by her sudden arrival.
