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The ingredients of Steve Doeung's life do much to explain why this soft-spoken, bespectacled man is the last holdout on Carter Avenue. After everyone else has given up, Doeung continues to resist Chesapeake Energy's attempt to claim the majority of his front yard for a 16-inch pipeline that would transport non-odorized and highly flammable natural gas. He worries about his young daughter playing in the yard above a type of pipeline that has been known to explode when ruptured or leaking. He expects the value of his property to plummet and wonders if he could ever sell his house if he decided to move.

And most of all, he doesn't like being manipulated by a corporation out to multiply its millions.

Countless memories, even some that seem inconsequential, bounce around in Doeung's head and help shape his decisions while he navigates this minefield of law and bureaucracy.

For instance: the image of Davy Crockett in The Alamo, battling his enemies even after he was out of bullets. Recollections of that movie are one reason why the Cambodian-born Doeung wound up in Fort Worth.

Doeung's father packed up the family in early 1975, shortly before the Khmer Rouge began its long reign of terror and genocide that cost the lives of more than 2 million Cambodians. Many of Doeung's relatives would be counted among those casualties. "It scarred my mother pretty bad," Doeung said. "I don't think she ever got over it."

The family stayed in a refugee camp in Thailand for six months before immigrating to the United States. After a brief indoctrination at a U.S. Army camp in Arkansas, the Doeungs and other refugees had to decide where to settle.

"Most people chose California or Florida because of the similarity in climate [to Cambodia]," Doeung said. "I remember people laughing or being baffled about my father's decision to go to Texas. But a few years earlier he had watched The Alamo, with John Wayne. There was something about that movie and the spirit of the people that really stuck with him."

The Fort Worth-Dallas region was booming, and the Doeungs decided it was a good place to make their stand. In December 1975, a local church leased a small apartment on East Lancaster Avenue for Sokthy Doeung, his wife, Banan, their five children, and a longtime family servant. Sokthy got a low-level job at the city parks department. They all struggled to learn a new language and fit into an odd, citified cowboy culture that didn't really know what to make of this family, perhaps the first Cambodian refugees to light here.

Steve Doeung was 10 when his family made the move. He learned to deal with bullies and racists, excelled in sports, hit the schoolbooks with diligence, and made new friends. He went on to earn graduate degrees in psychology and Christian studies at a Houston college, then put himself through Southwestern Baptist Seminary in Fort Worth, with plans to become a minister.

But a missionary trip to Minnesota in 1986 left him feeling ill. Since then, chronic fatigue and aching muscles have forced him to give up the idea of the ministry. Many years passed before a doctor diagnosed him with Lyme disease, a tick-borne ailment that, if left untreated, can evolve into a debilitating malady. He receives treatment now, but the physical damage is done, and the pain and other symptoms continue.

His faith helps him cope. That same faith, combined with the stubborn independent streak implanted by his adopted state, has strengthened him while he's done what few people considered possible: put up a thus-far effective fight against a powerful industry and complicit city officials.

His supporters say Doeung displays bravery not unlike that shown by those who stood up to the Mexican army at the Alamo in the fight for Texas independence.

"It's not about the money with Steve, it's about the principle. That's about as courageous as you can get," said Gary Hogan, who served on the city's gas ordinance task force and saw first-hand how difficult it is to stand up to gas companies and their teams of lawyers.

Chesapeake revealed plans to purchase pipeline easement rights from Carter Avenue residents in spring of 2008, setting off a pitched battle with homeowners who didn't like the idea of a 16-inch gas line - big enough to swallow a beach ball - being buried underneath their front yards.

The company originally sought an easement 30 feet wide for a 24-inch-diameter pipeline. That meant entire front yards would be claimed. Amid howls of protest, the easement was narrowed to 20 feet and the proposed line reduced to a 16-inch diameter.

Texas Midstream Gas Services, a Chesapeake subsidiary, wants the easement for a line to carry gas from a well near Carter Avenue. Easements give workers access to properties, and they can dig up the pipelines when they wish or even add more. Meanwhile, homeowners are limited in what they can put on easement surfaces. In other words, your front yard is no longer yours.

Energy companies years ago determined that their pipeline subsidiaries could claim the right of eminent domain, as utilities or "common carriers." They can force owners to sell easements on private property, even if other easements owned by other companies are available nearby. The practice has drawn vehement criticism from property owners, rural and urban, across the state, and critics say the companies abuse their eminent domain powers to take more land than is often necessary.

For instance, Chesapeake has begun discussions with Texas Department of Transportation about sharing an already established easement near I-30 instead of putting the pipeline down Carter Avenue. (TxDOT had opposed running the pipeline along the freeway but later withdrew its objections.) But the discussions didn't start until criticism by Carter Avenue proponents reached a fever pitch. And there is still no word on whether Chesapeake will use the I-30 easement even if it's offered.

Texas Midstream referred questions for this story to a Chesapeake spokesperson who didn't return a reporter's calls.

Bruce Waterman, an engineering assistant at the Texas Railroad Commission who processes pipeline permits, acknowledged that gas companies' creation of pipeline subsidiaries as a means to claim eminent domain powers involves "some gray areas.

"The rules are completely written for the gas companies," he said.

It's a bitter pill to swallow for property owners whose land ends up helping build the fortunes of gas companies while their own property values and quality of life may plummet. Chesapeake, for instance, reported a net income of more than $600 million in 2008, and CEO Aubrey McClendon received a $110 million pay package in 2009.