“You may want to get this off the property before somebody gets smart.”
The auctioneer heard.
“Hold on.”
The farm girl’s heart quickened.
The auctioneer approached.
“What exactly are we talking about?”
The old farmer pointed at the chipped paint.
“Factory field unit.”
“Maybe.”
“Gold under red.”
“Odd axle.”
“No production serial where it ought to be.”
The auctioneer laughed nervously.
“You telling me we sold prototype for four hundred fifty dollars?”
The farmer turned.
“I’m telling you I wouldn’t laugh anymore.”
Nobody did.
The farm girl looked around.
The same men who had pointed and smiled were now crowding closer.
One bent to inspect axle.
Another wiped paint.
A third asked:
“How many made?”
The girl answered:
“Twelve according to Grandpa’s notes.”
“How many survive?”
“I don’t know.”
The gray-haired farmer did.
“Three confirmed.”
Everyone turned.
He corrected:
“Before today.”
The auction yard went silent.
The auctioneer stared at the girl.
Then at the tractor.
Then back at the sale sheet.
A man in a clean polo shirt stepped from the edge of the crowd.
He had not been laughing earlier.
He was a collector.
Everybody knew the type.
He arrived at farm auctions with a trailer worth more than some houses and bought machinery he never intended to work.
He walked around the tractor once.
“What’d you pay?”
The girl answered:
“You heard.”
“Four-fifty.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll give you two thousand.”
Her mother looked at her.
The farm girl shook her head.
“Not selling.”
“Three thousand.”
Several men inhaled.
The girl’s mother whispered:
“Three thousand.”
The farm girl knew.
Three thousand would repair their existing tractor transmission.
Pay property taxes.
Buy winter fuel.
She looked at the old Prairie King.
Then the gold beneath the red.
“Not yet.”
The collector smiled.
“Five.”
The girl’s mother closed her eyes.
Five thousand dollars.
The girl swallowed.
Still:
“No.”
The collector’s smile vanished.
“You’re fifteen.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t know what restoration costs.”
“Probably more than I have.”
“So take five.”
“I didn’t buy it to restore for a show.”
“What’d you buy it for?”
She looked at him.
“To use.”
The men laughed again.
But differently now.
Not mocking.
Disbelieving.
The collector said:
“You want to put a rare factory prototype back in a field?”
“If it runs.”
He stared at her as though she had insulted his religion.
The farm girl added:
“My family needs a tractor more than a museum piece.”
The gray-haired farmer smiled.
“Your grandfather would like you.”
She smiled back.
“He did.”
The auctioneer cleared his throat.
“There is one issue.”
The girl looked.
“What?”
“If lot was materially misidentified—”
The mother immediately stiffened.