“What does it mean?”
The farm girl spoke more quietly.
“He used to talk about twelve pre-production tractors the company sent around Iowa and Illinois before the Forty-Four went into full sales.”
Her mother looked back toward the tractor.
“Pre-production?”
“Factory demonstrators.”
“For dealers.”
“They painted parts gold underneath so factory engineers could photograph wear after field tests.”
Her mother frowned.
“Why repaint them red?”
“Grandpa said they were supposed to be stripped and sold as regular used units after testing.”
“Some were.”
“Some were supposed to be destroyed.”
Her mother looked at daughter.
“You think that is one?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You just paid four hundred fifty dollars based on ‘I don’t know yet.’”
The girl swallowed.
“Yes.”
Her mother stared for five seconds.
Then ten.
Finally:
“Your grandfather would be proud.”
The girl smiled.
Her mother added:
“I am deciding whether I am.”
The girl’s smile disappeared.
“That’s fair.”
Her mother looked toward tractor again.
“What do we do now?”
“Get it home.”
“How?”
The girl glanced toward the men still laughing.
“I’m working on that.”
The gray-haired farmer had overheard enough to become curious.
He approached slowly.
“Your grandfather had service notes?”
The girl turned.
“Yes.”
“What dealership?”
“County Farm Equipment in Des Moines.”
The farmer’s expression changed.
“Who was he?”
The girl gave him her grandfather’s role instead of his name.
“He was a field mechanic there in the fifties.”
The farmer narrowed his eyes.
“Red-headed fellow?”
The girl nodded.
“He worked demonstrations?”
“Yes.”
The man stopped smiling.
Behind him, two other farmers still joked about the tractor.
The gray-haired farmer ignored them.
He walked back to the front axle.
Crouched with more difficulty than the girl had.
“Show me the paint.”
She did.
He rubbed the chipped spot.
Gold.
His face changed.
One of the other men called:
“What are you doing down there?”
The gray-haired farmer did not answer.
He stood.
Walked toward the tractor’s right side.
Looked beneath the steering box.
Then at the rear axle casting.
The girl watched.
He knew where to look now.
That mattered.
He wiped grime from a small raised boss on the housing.
No serial number.
Only a three-character casting mark:
F7X
The farmer stepped back.
The laughter behind him faded.
“What?” someone asked.
He looked at the girl.
“Where’d you learn that spindle measurement?”
“Grandpa’s book.”
The farmer stared at the old tractor.
Then muttered:
“I haven’t seen one since I was nineteen.”
Now the entire group went quiet.
The brown-hatted farmer said:
“One what?”
The gray-haired man ignored him.
He looked at the auctioneer.
“Who consigned this?”
“Estate from east of Boone.”
“Original owner?”
“Family says grandfather bought it used in fifty-four.”
The old farmer ran one palm over the hood.
“Fifty-four.”
His eyes narrowed.
“That fits.”
The farm girl’s mother stepped closer.
“What fits?”
The gray-haired farmer looked at her daughter.