“Dead or broke?” Clay asked, cutting the engine.
Luis hesitated. “The company men are gonna chew your ass.” Landman
Clay grabbed his flashlight and a rolled-up plat map. The wind had a knife-edge to it. When he reached the ridge, he saw it: a small, weathered headstone, no bigger than a shoebox, half-swallowed by mesquite. The name was worn smooth, but the date was still visible— 1887 . “Dead or broke