Cam’s secret buyer might be hurt, Joe thought. If the buyer knew that he could never drill, the ranch would be all but worthless. But the buyer wouldn’t have had the mineral rights in the first place, since they had been sold off years ago. So why would he care?
Suddenly, Joe felt a spasm in his belly. Realtors didn’t work for buyers, Joe thought. Realtors worked for sellers. The person—people—who would be hurt by the discovery would be the Overstreet sisters. But could two old, cranky women who hated each other be capable of this? Again, it didn’t work, he thought. If the mineral rights didn’t go with the property, a bad-water report wouldn’t impact the sale to a buyer who wanted a ranch and not a CBM field.
So who was the secret buyer?
Then, as if a dam was breached, more questions poured forward. Where were Cleve Garrett and Deena?
Who was L. Robert Eckhardt, the owner of the cell phone number, and what was he doing driving forest backroads in Wyoming at 4:30 in the morning?
What in the hell did “Nuss-Bomb” mean? Joe moaned out loud.
“Are you okay, honey?” Marybeth asked sleepily.
“I’m sorry, I was thinking,” he said. “I’m giving myself a headache.” “You’re giving me one, too,” she said.
t was an hour later, and although Joe hadn’t come up with any answers, he had thought through a list of places where he might find them. Care-fully, he swung out of the bed, trying not to disturb Marybeth. “I’m not sleeping,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.”
He looked at the clock next to his pillow. It was 3:48 a.m.
She turned over and snapped on the lamp.
“Joe, if the information I got was so easy to find, why didn’t the task force do it earlier?”
“We weren’t looking into the backgrounds of the victims,” Joe said. “We were searching for aliens and birds, or not doing much at all. We were hoping the whole thing would go away, I think.”
“That’s.. .” she hesitated, then her eyes flashed, “that’s inexcusable.” Joe nodded, “Yup.”
“Aren’t you cold standing there in your underwear?”
“I can’t sleep. I was going to get up and make a list of things to do in the morning.”
She looked at the clock. “It’s practically morning now. Why don’t you come to bed?”
“Can’t,” he said. “I’m too edgy. Every time I close my eyes, a million things charge at me and I can’t stop any of ’em.”
“What if I make it worth your while?” she said and smiled.
He hesitated, but not for long.
hen they were through, Joe rolled over onto his back. “Sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t concentrate.”
“You did fine,” she purred.
28
The county clerk’s office was located in the same building as the courtroom, jail, sheriff ’s office, and attorney. A man named Stovepipe manned the reception desk and metal detector, and he nodded at Joe and waived him through at 7:45 a.m.
“You’re up early this morning,” Stovepipe said, lowering the morning edition of the Saddlestring Roundup. Joe noted the headline: HERSIG SAYS NO PROGRESS IN MUTILATION DEATHS.
“Still broken?” Joe asked about the metal detector. Stovepipe nodded. “Don’t tell nobody, though.”
“I never do. Is Ike in yet?”
“They don’t open until eight, but I think I seen him come in earlier.”
Ike Easter’s glass-walled office was behind the counter where Twelve Sleep County citizens lined up daily to do business with the three matronly clerks who sat on tall stools and called out “NEXT!” Most of the business transactions involved titles on automobiles and property. This was also the place to get marriage licenses, so the clerks who worked for Ike Easter were among the better informed gossips in the county, and much sought after when they got their hair done.
When Joe opened the door to the main office, all three of the matronly clerks wheeled on their stools and glared at him. It was easily one of the most unwelcome receptions he had ever received, he thought. One of the clerks quickly raised an open palm to him as he entered. “Sir, we’re not open for fifteen minutes,” she said. “Please take a seat in the hall and . . .”
“I’m here to see Ike,” Joe said flatly, ignoring her, and went through the batwing doors on the side of the counter.
“Sir . . .” The clerk was irritated.
“It’s okay, Millie,” Ike called out from his office when he saw Joe coming. “I forgot about your elite Republican Guard,” Joe smiled, stopping outside Ike’s office and tipping his hat toward Millie. Millie huffed melo-dramatically. To Ike: “Do you have a few minutes? It’s important.” Ike motioned Joe in, and Joe shut the door behind him.
“I’ll ignore the Republican Guard comment,” Ike said, not unpleasantly, “but they won’t. Next time you need a new title for your car, expect delays.”
Joe sat in a hardback chair across from Ike. “Unfortunately, it’ll be a while before we get a new car.”
“All my clerks are county employees,” Ike said. “They work eight hours a day and not one minute longer. They take an hour for lunch and get two fifteen-minute breaks. If you woke one of them up in the middle of the night, she could tell you to the hour how long she has until retirement, how many days of sick leave she’s got left this fiscal year, and to the penny what her pension will be. Those women keep me in a constant state of absolute fear.”
Ike had a smooth, milk-chocolate face and wore large-framed glasses. He had a silver mustache and his receding hair was also going gray. Like his cousin, Not Ike, Ike was quick to smile and had dark, expressive eyes. He had been reading the newspaper as well, and it lay flat on his desk, opened to the page where the NO PROGRESS IN MUTILATION DEATHS front-page story was continued inside.
“Before you ask me whatever it is you’re going to ask me, can I say one thing?” Ike said.
“Sure.”
“Thank you for being so kind to my cousin, George. I know he gives you fits with all of those temporary licenses and all.”
Joe grunted, and looked down.
“I’ve tried and tried to get him to get a yearly license,” Ike said, “but I just can’t break through to him. It’s very generous of you to ease up on him a bit, Joe. I know you don’t have to do that. His life is fly-fishing, and I figure as long as he’s fishing he’s not getting himself into any other kind of trouble.”
“Okay, Ike, gotcha.”
“But I do appreciate it, Joe. Both Dorothy and I are grateful.” “Okay, Ike. Enough,” Joe said.
“So, what do you want from me so early in the morning?” Joe looked up. “How do mineral rights work?”
Ike’s eyes narrowed, and he paused. “Let me get another cup of coffee.
This will take a few minutes.”
Ike Easter used a legal pad to explain. He started out by writing “OG&M”
on the top of the pad.
“When I say ‘OG&M,’ I’m referring to oil, gas, and mineral rights. They’re usually sold for a term on a specific piece of land, or they can be retained by the landowner. If the OG&M are sold, it usually means that the developer pays the landowner a fee for the rights or, in some cases, a percentage of the gross that is derived if the OG&M is exploited.”
Joe asked, “Are they like water rights?”
Ike shook his head. “No. Water rights go with the land. That means if you sell your land to somebody, the buyer gets your water rights. You don’t keep them and lease them back, and you can’t sell them separately to somebody else downstream or upstream.
“OG&M rights, however, can be bought and sold among companies or developers, or eventually returned to the landowner if the terms of the sale run out.”
Ike explained how the market for mineral rights in Wyoming peaked in the mid-twentieth century, during the boom years for oil, trona, coal, and uranium. Some landowners made much more from their mineral rights than they ever made from their cattle or sheep.