Harold sneered.
“You brought county because of sticks?”
Mr. Dalton looked at line of willows.
“Actually, those are interesting.”
Harold laughed.
“Don't encourage him.”
The surveyor crouched by first.
He looked at notebook.
Measured from old sycamore stump.
Used metal detector.
Nothing.
Moved.
Second.
Third.
Fourth.
Harold stood with arms crossed.
“This is ridiculous.”
One farmhand chuckled.
The other did not.
Mr. Dalton moved fifteen feet toward bank.
Detector sounded.
Short.
Strong.
He stopped.
Harold’s arms dropped.
Everett stopped breathing.
The surveyor passed detector again.
Beep.
He took small hand trowel.
Harold stepped forward.
“What are you digging?”
Mr. Dalton raised hand.
“Don't step here.”
“Why?”
“Because I may have monument.”
Harold’s face changed.
The surveyor scraped mud.
Roots.
Pebbles.
Then metal.
A rusted iron pin.
Thick.
Driven deep.
Beside it, buried almost completely, a flat sandstone slab with chiseled cross.
Mr. Dalton froze.
Everett crouched.
“Is that it?”
“Don't touch.”
Harold said:
“That could be anything.”
The surveyor brushed mud carefully.
On top of iron was flattened cap.
He cleaned.
Faint stamping.
HC 1951
County monument.
Mr. Dalton looked toward Harold.
Then toward current fence almost two hundred yards away.
He stood slowly.
Nobody spoke.
Finally Harold said:
“Fence has been there forty years.”
The surveyor answered:
“Maybe.”
“That pin is not boundary by itself.”
“No.”
“Then don't act like it.”
“I’m not.”
Harold stepped closer.
Mr. Dalton held up palm.
“But nobody moves anything until I finish.”
Everett looked at iron pin.
Then willows.
His grandfather’s measurements had led within four feet.
The boy’s chest tightened.
Harold turned on him.
“You think this means eighteen acres?”
Everett swallowed.
“I didn't say.”
“You told whole county.”
“I told one surveyor.”
Harold’s voice rose.
“My father built that fence.”
Everett’s grief and anger collided.