A maker’s stamp appeared beneath the corrosion.
H. B. MARSHALL PUMP CO.
Warren touched the letters.
His face changed.
“My father talked about Marshall pumps.”
Marcus crouched beside him.
“You think this was it?”
“I don’t think.”
Warren looked toward the pond.
“I know.”
Eli felt a rush of triumph.
It lasted only seconds.
Warren looked at him.
“This proves the well existed here.”
Eli nodded.
“It doesn’t prove what shape the shaft is in.”
The lesson landed immediately.
Proof was not permission to stop thinking.
Marcus stood.
He looked at his son.
Then at the water.
Then at the stakes.
“Everybody stays out of this corner until we get somebody qualified here.”
No argument.
No joke.
By noon, Marcus had called the county extension office.
By two, he had spoken to a licensed well contractor named Harold Benson who had dealt with abandoned agricultural wells for more than thirty years.