A limestone outcrop.
A shallow drainage cut.
And every time Everett followed the numbers, the line moved away from the creek.
Not toward Cole land.
Into Briggs pasture.
Ten feet.
Thirty.
Seventy.
At one point, almost two hundred.
Everett repeated the measurements.
Then repeated them again.
The result stayed.
The creek had shifted east over decades.
If the legal boundary followed fixed markers rather than flowing water, then the Cole family might have lost land simply because everybody stopped checking.
Everett could barely sleep.
Not because of the acreage.
Because his grandfather had known.
Why had he never said anything?
That became the mystery.
Harold returned on Thursday.
This time he came in a pickup.
Two ranch hands sat inside.
Everett was working near a shallow bend where the bank had collapsed after spring flooding.
Harold stopped the truck beside the county road.
He climbed out.
No laughter.
Everett immediately noticed.
Harold walked toward him.
“Your mother home?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should be there.”
Everett kept one hand on the willow cutting.
“I’ve got work.”
“No.”
Harold stopped at the edge of the mud.
“You’ve got a hobby that’s getting stupid.”
Everett stood.
“I’m not on your side of the creek.”
Harold pointed inland.
“Those last three sticks are west of the bank.”
“Yes.”
“That’s Briggs ground.”
“According to the creek.”
Harold’s eyes narrowed.
“According to everybody.”
Everett looked at the notebook.
Harold followed his gaze.
“That old book means nothing.”
“It has measurements.”
“It has scribbling.”
“County records can check.”
Harold laughed without humor.
“You think county surveyors are going to come crawl through mud because a boy found his grandfather’s diary?”
Everett’s face reddened.