Walter leaned over.
Toby pointed.
SPRING.
A small square nearby.
COLLECTION.
Then a line.
A symbol.
IRON GATE.
Another line ran downhill.
LOWER LINE.
Walter sat down on an old trunk.
"I never knew."
Toby studied the page.
"What does 'divert high flow' mean?"
Walter put on his reading glasses.
A note in tiny writing beside the drawing read:
During wet periods open lower diversion. Do not allow chamber to back.
Toby read it twice.
"Back up where?"
Walter shook his head.
Another note:
Gate rope replaced May '39.
Toby looked up.
"The rope."
Walter's face became serious.
"Could be."
The next morning they returned to the pond with the ledger drawing protected inside a flour sack.
They brushed mud away.
The rope led downward.
Toby dug only with his hands, careful not to disturb more than necessary.
A curved piece of rusted iron appeared.
Ring.
Thick.
Attached to something deeper.
Walter compared it with the drawing.
"Gate."
Toby whispered.
"So when I pulled..."
"You may have moved it."
"Opened it?"
"Maybe."
Water glistened in the disturbed mud.
Helen stood on the bank.
"If that means the spring is feeding the pond again, that's good."
Walter looked at her.
"Unless there was a reason they kept the gate shut."
That quieted everyone.
The drought continued.
Yet the pond rose.
By September 8, cattle no longer had to descend dangerously steep mud.
Helen stopped discussing immediate herd reduction.
Hay remained a problem.
Pasture remained brown.
But water was no longer disappearing.
For the first time in months, hope entered the Mercer kitchen.
It was cautious hope.
Helen began recalculating feed.
"If we hold sixty through October..."
Walter said, "Depends on hay."
"We buy twenty tons?"
"Price is high."
"Still cheaper than rebuilding herd."
Toby listened.
His discovery had changed the numbers.
That made him proud.
Also nervous.
He measured twice a day now.
Morning.
Evening.
The pond gained almost an inch every twenty-four hours.
Then another half.
Then more.
Ray Dobbins arrived September 10.
Walter knew him from county work.
Ray owned a small earthmoving company.
He repaired ponds.
Dug drainage.
Built farm roads.
He was fifty-three, sunburned, permanently dusty, and skeptical of anything described as mysterious.
Walter showed him the rope.
Ray crouched.
"Tarred hemp."
"You've seen this?"
"Old wells."
"Barn hoists."
"Spring gates."
Toby's attention sharpened.
Ray looked at him.
"You pull it?"
"Once."
"How hard?"
"Pretty hard."
"How far?"
"Three feet maybe."
Ray grunted.
"Enough."
He examined the wet soil.
Then the old drawing.
"Well."
Toby waited.
Ray smiled.
"You want ghost story or boring answer?"
"Boring."
"Good."
He pointed.
"Spring probably fed a stone collection box."
"Gate controlled flow."
"Lower pipe carried excess somewhere else."
"Then somebody built pond over the whole business."
Walter asked, "Why gate it?"
"Flow control."
"Maintenance."
"Keep water from washing out bank."
Ray looked at the drawing.
"If lower line clogged and spring kept running, pressure would find somewhere else."
Helen frowned.
"Pressure where?"
Ray pointed toward the dam.