“You need something?”
One smiled.
“Heard there’s Civil War stuff out here.”
“Who told you?”
“People.”
“This is private property.”
“We weren’t hurting anything.”
“You’re trespassing.”
They left.
Two days later, Marcus found holes near the creek.
Word had spread.
He moved Vault 1 contents into Ruth’s spare room.
The ledger went into a locked cabinet.
Seed sacks onto wooden pallets.
Tools inventoried.
Then Dale returned.
Gray-suited attorney beside him.
Marcus met them near the stone wall.
The attorney introduced himself as Carlton Reeves.
“My client has a boundary concern.”
Marcus looked at Dale.
“You didn’t have one in April.”
Reeves continued.
“The eastern wall is historical, not necessarily legal.”
“It’s the boundary.”
“Possibly.”
Marcus waited.
“Our preliminary information suggests Mr. Pruitt’s family has used a strip extending west of this wall for decades.”
“How wide?”
“Approximately thirty feet.”
Marcus almost laughed.
Vault 2 sat inside that strip.
Reeves spoke carefully.
“If confirmed, any objects attached to or recovered from that portion could be subject to ownership claims.”
“The land’s mine.”
“That is the issue.”
Dale finally spoke.
“I’d still buy the whole parcel.”
Marcus looked at him.
“You told me it was a rock pile.”
“It is.”
“Then why do you want it?”
Dale’s face hardened slightly.
“Because it joins mine.”
“For how much?”
“Your twelve back. Plus five.”
Seventeen thousand.
Six months earlier, Marcus might have felt rich.
Now the offer sounded like someone trying to buy the answer to a question before Marcus could finish asking it.
“Not for sale.”
Reeves handed over an envelope.
“Then we’ll let a court determine the line.”
Four days later Sheriff Tom Barrett served the order.
No excavation anywhere on disputed property.
Nothing removed.
Recovered items preserved for inspection.
Marcus read the papers twice.
“How long?”
Sheriff Barrett looked genuinely sorry.
“Land cases can take time.”
“Months?”
“Yes.”
Marcus looked toward the oak.
Vault 4.
Land records.
Exactly what he needed.
Buried.
Court order said he could not touch it.
That evening Ruth sat at the kitchen table with untouched tea.
“I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.”
Marcus stopped.
“Don’t say that.”
“I should know better.”
“Grandma.”
“Every time our family gets close to that land, somebody finds paper.”
Marcus felt anger rise.
Not at her.
At history.
At coincidence.
At a system moving slowly enough to feel familiar.
He needed a lawyer.
Harold Jennings worked above the hardware store.
Seventy-two.
Semi-retired.
Office smelled of paper and pipe smoke from decades earlier.
He read the ledger.
Read Dale’s complaint.
Read the auction deed.
Read Marcus’s notebook.
Finally:
“You documented well.”
“My uncle taught me.”
“Mechanic?”
“Yes.”
“Mechanics make good witnesses.”
“Why?”
“They remember serial numbers.”
Harold smiled.
“I’ll take it.”
“How much?”
He quoted a reduced rate.
Marcus swallowed.
“I can’t promise when I can pay.”