Slightly.
“What?”
“Leave it.”
“Why?”
“You'll ruin the surface.”
“You said it's scrap.”
Dale’s jaw tightened.
“It is.”
Noah looked at the mark.
Then rubbed another inch.
A faint letter appeared beside the shield.
W.
Then another.
F.
He did not understand.
But someone behind the crowd did.
A metal tool hit the dirt floor.
Clang.
Everyone turned.
Silas Boone stood thirty feet away.
He had been near a table of hand planes, talking to another old farmer.
Now he was staring at Noah's anvil.
Not casually.
Not curiously.
He looked as though somebody had opened a grave.
Silas began moving toward them.
At seventy-eight he usually walked carefully.
Not now.
He pushed between two men.
“Move.”
One looked surprised.
“Silas?”
“Move.”
The crowd parted.
Silas reached the table.
His eyes went immediately to the half-cleaned mark.
Noah stood.
“Mr. Boone?”
Silas did not answer.
He took off his glasses.
Wiped them on his shirt.
Put them back on.
Then leaned toward the anvil without touching it.
Dale’s face had become unreadable.
Silas whispered:
“Where did this come from?”
The auctioneer, hearing the commotion, wandered over.
“Estate sale.”
“Whose estate?”
“Everett Clay.”
Silas turned sharply.
“Everett had this?”
“Apparently.”
“For how long?”
The auctioneer shrugged.
“No idea.”
Silas looked at Noah.
“You bought it?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Fifty-five.”
Several people laughed again.
Silas did not.
“No one touches this anvil.”
The laughter stopped.
Dale folded his arms.
“Oh, come on.”
Silas turned.
“Not you.”
Dale’s face hardened.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means keep your hands off it.”
“This is ridiculous.”
Silas pointed toward the mark.
“You know what that is.”
“No.”
“You looked at it during preview.”
“No, I didn't.”
Silas stared.
Dale smiled.
“Careful, old man.”
Noah looked between them.
“What is it?”
Silas did not answer immediately.
Instead he asked:
“Did you use wire brush?”
“No.”
“Sandpaper?”
“No.”
“Anything chemical?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He crouched.
The crowd moved closer.
Silas leaned toward the stamp.
Shield.
Crossed hammer.
W.
F.
Then he looked toward the heel.
His fingers hovered over a small chip.
“Lord.”
“What?”
Noah asked.
Silas stood.
“Get your mother.”
“She’s at home.”
“Call her.”
“Why?”
“Because you're fourteen.”
Noah frowned.
“I know.”
“And because in about ten minutes several grown men may start offering you money.”
Dale laughed.