Then a rusted neck.
Then the unmistakable shape of an old hand pump head broke through the surface.
Nobody spoke.
Water streamed from it.
Algae hung from the handle bracket.
Below the pump was several feet of bent pipe casing.
Dale whispered, “I’ll be damned.”
Eli stared.
For weeks he had imagined finding something.
A board.
Stone.
Old metal.
But imagination was different from watching proof emerge from black water.
Marcus stepped into the shallows.
“Don’t let it swing.”
Together they guided the assembly closer.
Otis and Warren used another rope from shore.
The old pump finally slid onto the bank with a deep, wet scrape.
It landed in the grass.
Forty pounds.
Maybe more.
Rust.
Mud.
History.
Everyone stood around it.
Warren knelt slowly.
He brushed sediment from one side.