Dewey climbed down from the wagon and pulled the needed tools from its bed. He swiped his forehead with his shirt sleeve and looked up at the sun. It was nearing one-o’-clock he figured. By the time this job was over he might need two baths: one to get the grit and grime off, the other to refresh him. Blast. Every time he’d tried to set up a date with Molly something came up. If he didn’t make it this time, she might give up on him altogether. Well, he’d better hurry up if he had any chance of making this one.
It had taken him two hours of driving to find the old well. There was a spring up the hill and an abandoned shed with the roof falling in. The door on the shed hung lopsided from the hinges. There were no houses nearby, only a square perimeter of rotting logs where a house or cabin had been.
The burial site was easy to find. The grass was too short to have been there very long, and it was sparse. The mound was only about eight inches high, Dewey guessed. He put his shovel at the edge of the mound, placed his foot on its rim next to the handle, and pushed. It sunk into the clay earth about four inches and hit rock.
Dewey swiped his brow with his shirt sleeve and moved the shovel another two inches inward and pushed again. The shovel sunk deeper this time without hitting rock. Now he was digging in earnest. The fourth plunge of the shovel snagged a piece of burlap. The deputy moved the shovel over, moving all the way around the mound.
Two and a half hours later he had the burlap sack and its contents out of the hole. A brisk breeze blew crepe myrtle and dogwood blossoms across the burlap. Dewey sneezed and coughed. “Ugh.” He turned away and gagged on bile. Pulling a kerchi...