Mark Rigney Ross v. CEMOIL, INC.
What's This Case About?
Let’s be real: most of us would sooner chew aluminum foil than sue an oil company. But Mark Rigney Ross, a man from Ardmore, Oklahoma, looked at the mountain of paperwork, the corporate jargon, the indifferent phone reps, and said, “Nah, I’m suing.” Over $1,692.92. That’s not even enough to buy a decent used pickup truck in 2026. But this isn’t about the money — or at least, that’s what we tell ourselves as we dive into the wild, spreadsheet-fueled drama of Mark Rigney Ross v. Trace Oil & Gas, LP and Cemoil, Inc., a case so petty it’s practically geological.
Mark Rigney Ross isn’t a billionaire. He’s not a corporate raider. He’s just a guy who, at some point, found himself on the royalty side of an oil and gas lease — meaning, somewhere beneath Oklahoma soil, under a plot he likely inherited or co-owns, black gold was being sucked up, refined, and sold. And for that privilege, he’s supposed to get a cut. That’s how royalties work: you own the mineral rights, the company drills, and you get a check. It’s passive income, the kind that makes people in rural Oklahoma say, “Well, at least the land’s still paying for something.” But somewhere along the way, the checks stopped. Or rather, they never started. Because according to Mark, Trace Oil & Gas, LP and Cemoil, Inc. — two companies operating in the dusty, oil-stained corners of Caddo County — owe him $1,692.92 in unpaid royalties. And not just that — they owe him interest, compounded at 12% annually, because Oklahoma law (specifically 52 O.S. § 570(D)(1)) says if you stiff a royalty owner, you pay the price. Literally.
Now, let’s talk about these defendants. Trace Oil & Gas, LP, registered in Cement, Oklahoma (yes, that’s a real town, and yes, it’s hilarious), is the kind of company that probably has one office, one truck, and a guy named Rick who does the books in Excel between smoke breaks. Cemoil, Inc., based in Chickasha, is likely its administrative twin — small-time, regional, the kind of outfit that survives on slim margins and even slimmer oversight. These aren’t ExxonMobil. They’re the mom-and-pop shops of the oil patch — except instead of selling pickles, they’re selling crude. And Mark isn’t suing them for environmental damage or a pipeline explosion. He’s suing them because they didn’t pay him for oil they already sold — oil that came from land he has a legal right to be paid for.
The story, as best we can piece it together from a single affidavit and a frankly exhaustive spreadsheet, goes like this: Starting in January 2022, oil was being produced and sold from at least three wells — labeled “WEST,” “JAMES,” and “SOUTH” — and Mark should have started seeing payments. Instead, he saw nothing. Month after month, the oil kept flowing, the money kept being made, and Mark’s bank account stayed empty. The spreadsheet — Exhibit A, a document so detailed it could double as a tax audit — shows tiny royalty payments stacking up: $8.58 here, $25.43 there, most of them suspiciously round, like they were calculated by an algorithm that forgot to account for human dignity. By March 2023, the principal owed was already over $900. By the end of 2023, it was over $1,200. And yet — no check. No apology. No “Oops, our bad.” Just silence. So Mark did what any self-respecting Oklahoman with a grudge and access to the court clerk’s office would do: he filed a petition.
The legal claim? Breach of contract. Fancy term, simple idea: you had a deal, you didn’t hold up your end. In oil and gas, when a company leases mineral rights, they sign a contract that says, “We’ll drill, we’ll sell, and we’ll cut you a check.” That’s the contract. If they don’t pay, that’s a breach. And in Oklahoma, royalty owners are protected — not just by contract law, but by statutes that slap on 12% interest the moment a payment is late. That’s not a typo. Twelve percent. In a world where savings accounts pay 0.01%, that’s brutal. And it’s why Mark’s $1,692.92 in principal has, according to his filing, ballooned to over $2,200 when you add in interest and costs. The math in Exhibit A is… something. It’s not always clear how the interest compounds or why some months show multiple entries, but the message is loud and clear: “We’ve been waiting. We’ve been counting. And we’ve been adding.”
So why are they in court? Because Mark asked for his money, and the companies said no — or, more likely, said nothing. And when that happens, your only option is to drag them into the Caddo County Courthouse and make them explain why they’re hoarding a few grand that doesn’t belong to them. The hearing is set for April 14, 2026 — a cold, formal date in a place where courtrooms smell like old wood and regret. Mark is representing himself, which means he’ll probably show up in a button-down shirt that’s one size too big, clutching a folder full of printouts. The oil companies will likely send someone — maybe their registered agent, maybe a lawyer if they’re worried — to argue that, hey, maybe the payment was sent, maybe there was a clerical error, maybe Mark’s not even entitled to the royalties in the first place. But until they show up and prove it, the court assumes Mark is right.
Now, let’s talk about the $1,692.92. Is that a lot? In oil terms? No. A single oil well can make tens of thousands a month. To Trace Oil & Gas or Cemoil, this is pocket lint. It’s less than the cost of a single frac job. It’s the kind of amount that probably got lost in a spreadsheet, forgotten in a folder labeled “Misc. Payouts – Q2 2022.” But to Mark? That’s rent. That’s car repairs. That’s Christmas for the grandkids. And more than that — it’s the principle. It’s the fact that a small guy with a small claim is staring down two companies that could probably pay this in cash from petty funds and still not notice the difference. He’s not asking for punitive damages. He’s not demanding a public apology. He just wants what’s his. And 12% interest. And court costs. And maybe a little vindication.
Our take? This case is beautiful in its absurdity. It’s David vs. Goliath, if David were really just tired of getting stiffed on his gas money. It’s a one-man audit against the oil patch machine. And the most ridiculous part? The spreadsheet. Look at it — month after month, $25.43 for “south*” (yes, with two asterisks — we don’t know why, either), like Mark is tracking the financial sins of a corporation one decimal point at a time. It’s obsessive. It’s righteous. It’s the kind of document you print out and tape to your wall like a conspiracy board. And honestly? We’re rooting for him. Not because he’s going to get rich. Not because this will change the oil industry. But because sometimes, the most powerful thing a regular person can do is say, “Actually, I did read the contract. And you do owe me.” In a world where corporations vanish into LLCs and liability shields, where checks get “lost” and emails go unanswered, Mark Rigney Ross is doing the bravest thing possible: making them answer. Even if it’s just for $1,692.92. Especially if it’s just for $1,692.92. Because this isn’t about the money. It’s about the record. And baby, the record is sealed*.
Case Overview
- Mark Rigney Ross individual
- CEMOIL, INC. business
- TRACE OIL & GAS, LP business
| # | Cause of Action | Description |
|---|---|---|
| 1 | breach of contract | plaintiff seeks payment for oil and gas royalties |