“Fifty-five.”
A pause.
“That was all your money.”
“I know.”
“Does it at least look usable?”
“I think so.”
“Then good.”
“Mom?”
“What?”
“A man offered me two thousand dollars for it.”
Silence.
Longer.
“What?”
Noah looked toward Dale.
“He said two thousand.”
“Why?”
“That’s what we're trying to figure out.”
“Who is with you?”
“Mr. Boone.”
Another pause.
“Silas?”
“Yes.”
“Put him on.”
Noah walked back.
He handed the phone to Silas.
The old blacksmith listened.
Then said:
“No, Ellen.”
“I don't know yet.”
“Yes.”
“I think it may be.”
“No.”
“Don't let him sell anything.”
Silas looked directly at Noah.
“No offense.”
Noah frowned.
Then Silas continued.
“Come down.”
“Bring Adam’s old flatbed if it still runs.”
“No, don't call anybody else.”
“Yes.”
“Now.”
He handed the phone back.
His mother said:
“I’m leaving.”
Noah asked:
“Do I sell it?”
“No.”
“You don't even know what it is.”
“Neither do you.”
“That’s exactly why you don't sell it.”
She hung up.
Noah put phone away.
Dale said:
“Three thousand.”
Noah shook his head.
“Offer expired.”
The crowd reacted.
A few laughs.
Dale's face darkened.
“Kid.”
Silas stepped between them.
“That’s enough.”
Dale pointed toward anvil.
“You don't own it.”
“Neither do you.”
Silas answered.
Then to the auctioneer:
“Can we move the table somewhere people stop breathing on it?”
The auctioneer looked amused.
“Back office.”
“No.”
“Too small.”
“Then side bay.”
They rolled the table toward an open bay near the rear of the barn.
The anvil itself remained still.
People followed anyway.
Silas told Noah to photograph everything before cleaning another inch.
Front.
Back.
Feet.
Face.
Horn.
Heel.
Mark.
Auction tag.
Table.
Surroundings.
Noah did.
Then Silas asked the auctioneer to sign a short statement that the mark had been present at the time of sale.
The auctioneer laughed.
“You're serious?”
“Very.”
He signed.
Dale watched.
“You think this is some museum piece?”
Silas finally looked at Noah.
“Maybe.”
The word spread through the barn instantly.
Museum.
People moved closer again.
Noah asked:
“What do you recognize?”
Silas breathed slowly.
“That shield.”
“Yes?”
“Whitlock Forge.”
“Who?”
“St. Louis.”
“Old company.”
“How old?”
“Late eighteen hundreds.”
Dale rolled his eyes.
“Lots of old anvils have maker stamps.”