The farmhouse was white, old, and forever needing paint.
The machine shed leaned slightly east.
The barn roof had four mismatched sheets of metal.
It was not picturesque in the way magazines liked farms.
It was useful.
That mattered more.
They unloaded the anvil with their old front loader.
Silas insisted it go inside the heated shop.
Not near fertilizer.
Not on dirt.
Not where rain could blow in.
They placed it on four thick oak blocks.
Noah stood looking.
At home, away from the auction crowd, it seemed enormous.
Ellen asked:
“What now?”
Silas looked toward Noah.
“Now we do almost nothing.”
Noah frowned.
“That sounds terrible.”
“We clean only enough to identify.”
“No grinder.”
“No flap disc.”
“No wire wheel.”
“No acid.”
“No paint stripper.”
“What can I use?”
“Rags.”
“Mineral spirits in controlled amount.”
“Wooden scrapers.”
“Soft brass brush only where necessary.”
Noah sighed.
Silas smiled.
“You wanted blacksmithing.”
“This is archaeology.”
“Old tools are both.”
For three hours they cleaned carefully.
Ellen returned to chores.
Silas stayed.
Noah worked on the left foot.
The shield became clearer.
Beneath it:
WHITLOCK FORGE CO.
Then:
ST. LOUIS, MO.
Noah’s hands trembled.
Silas said:
“Slow.”
“I am.”
“You’re breathing like a calf in a chute.”
Noah forced himself to slow.
They cleaned below the maker name.
Nothing.
More grease.
More dirt.
Then the wooden scraper caught on shallow characters.
Noah leaned close.
E.
Silas stopped moving.
Noah cleared the next area.
Dash.
Then:
E-3.
Silas sat down.
Noah looked at him.
“What?”
The old blacksmith removed his glasses.
Rubbed his eyes.
“What?”
Noah repeated.
Silas whispered:
“I have seen this anvil before.”
Noah stared.
“When?”
“Sixty-one years ago.”
The shop became silent.
Noah laughed nervously.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Silas looked toward the heel.
“Turn it slightly.”
They used loader.
Only enough to rotate.
Silas searched the underside near right rear foot.
There.
A chiseled mark.
Not factory.
Hand cut.
Three letters.
N.K.
Silas closed his eyes.
Noah waited.
Finally:
“Nathaniel Kerr.”
“Who?”
“My teacher.”
Silas sat on an overturned bucket.
“When I was seventeen, I apprenticed with a blacksmith named Nathaniel Kerr.”
“His shop was outside Jefferson City.”
“Old even then.”
“He had an anvil everybody talked about.”
“Five-hundred-something pounds.”
“Whitlock exhibition piece.”
“Nate said it came from St. Louis World's Fair.”
“I thought he was exaggerating.”
“You worked on this?”
Silas smiled.
“I learned to draw square stock on this.”
“Made my first decent horseshoe on it.”
“Burned more steel than I care to remember.”
Noah looked at the anvil.