“Howdy, old-timer,” Ramage said to the farmer. “How you doing?”
“Howdy yourself.”
“We were driving by and saw your sign down by the road.”
“Figured as much. Brings visitors up every now and then.”
“I’ll bet it does.”
“Interested in free dirt, are you?”
“Might be.”
“Can’t get but a couple of sacks in that little car of yours.”
“We couldn’t use any more than that. You the own er here?”
“That’s right. Name’s Peete. Last name, three e’s.”
“Sam Ramage. This is my girlfriend, Carolyn White.”
Carolyn gave him a look. She didn’t like the word girlfriend. Ms. Feminist. But, hell, that was what she was, wasn’t it?
“What’s the dog’s name?”
“Buck.”
“He doesn’t bite, does he?” Carolyn asked.
“Not unless I tell him to. Or unless you try to bite him.”
That made her smile. “You have a nice place here, Mister Peete.”
“Suits me.”
“Must take a lot of work to keep everything so spick-and-span.”
“Does. Always something that needs tending to.”
“Keeps you and your hired hands busy, I’ll bet.”
“Don’t have any hired hands,” Peete said.
“Really? Just you and your family, then?”
“No family, neither.”
“You mean you live here alone?”
“Me and Buck.”
“Must be kind of a lonely life, ’way out here, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I like it. Don’t like people much.” Peete was looking at Ramage’s right hand. “Some trick you got there, young fella,” he said.
Ramage grinned. He’d been knuckle-rolling his lucky coin back and forth across the tops of his fingers, making it disappear into his palm and then reappear again on the other side.
“That’s his only trick,” Carolyn said. “He’s so proud of it he has to show it off to everybody he meets.”
“Don’t pay any attention to her. Her only trick is running her mouth.”
“Never seen a coin like that,” Peete said. “What kind is it?”
“Spanish doubloon. I picked it up in the Caribbe an a couple of years ago.”
“Genuine?”
“Absolutely.” Ramage did three more quick finger rolls, made the coin disappear into his hand, and then into his pocket. “I don’t see this free dirt of yours, old-timer. Where have you got it?”
“Barn yonder.”
“Let’s have a look.”
Peete led them across the farmyard to the smaller of the two gleaming white barns, the big dog trotting silently at his side.
On the way Ramage asked conversationally: “What do you keep in the big barn? Cows?”
“Don’t have any cows.”
“Sheep? Goats?”
“No livestock except chickens. Big barn’s for storage.”
“Farm equipment?”
“Among other things.”
When they reached the smaller barn, Peete unlatched the double doors and swung one of the halves open. Ramage could smell the dirt before he saw it, a kind of heavy, loamy odor in the gloom. It was piled high between a pair of tall wood partitions, not as much as he’d expected, but a pretty large hunk of real estate just the same-ten feet long, maybe twenty wide, by seven or eight feet high. He moved closer. Mixture of clods and loose earth, all dark brown with reddish highlights. Some of it toward the bottom had a crusty look, as if it had been there for a while; the rest seemed more or less fresh.
“What makes this dirt so special?” he asked the farmer.
“Special?”
“Well, there’s a lot of it, and you keep it in here instead of outside, and you give it away free. How come?”
“Best there is. Rich. Good for gardens, lawns.”
“So why don’t you use it yourself, on that vegetable garden behind the house?”
“I do. Got more than I need.”
“Where does it come from?” Carolyn asked. “Some place on your property?”
“Yep. Truck it in from the cemetery.”
She blinked. “From the…did you say cemetery?”
“That’s right. It’s graveyard dirt.”
There was a little silence before Ramage said: “You’re kidding.”
“No, sir. Gospel truth.”
“Graveyard dirt?”
“Yep.”
“From a cemetery on your property?”
“Yep. Old Indian burial ground.”
“Never heard of any Indian tribes around here.”
“Long time ago. Miwoks.”
Carolyn asked: “You don’t desecrate the graves, do you? Just so you can carry off a lot of rich soil?”
“Nope. Do my digging in the cemetery, but not where the graves are.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I’m sure. You would be, too, if you saw the place.”
“Miwoks?” Ramage said. “I didn’t think they ranged this far south.”
“Nomadic bunch, must’ve been.”
“Nomads don’t build cemeteries for their dead.”
Peete fixed him with a squinty look. “Don’t believe there’s a burial ground close by, that it?”
“Let’s just say I’m skeptical.”
“Prove it to you, if you want,” Peete said. “Take you over and show it to you.”
“Yeah? How far away is it?”
“Not far. Won’t take long.”
Ramage looked at Carolyn.
“Oh, no,” she said, “count me out.”
“Real interesting spot,” Peete said. “Artifacts and things.”
“What kind of artifacts?” Ramage asked.
“Arrowheads, bowls, pots. Just lying around.”
“Uhn-huh.”
“Fact. See for yourself.”
“Not me,” Carolyn said. “I don’t like cemeteries. And I’ve seen all the Native American artifacts I care to see.”
“No damn’ spirit of adventure,” Ramage said.
“You go ahead if you want. I’m staying right here.” She meant it. And when she got stubborn about something, you couldn’t change her mind for love or money.
Ramage said disgustedly: “All right, the hell with it. I guess we’ll have to take your word for it, old-timer. About the dirt and the burial ground, both.”
“Some do, some don’t. Suit yourself.”
“For now, anyway,” Ramage added. “Maybe some other time.”
“Anytime you want to see it.” Peete gestured at the pile of free dirt. “How many sacks you want?”
“None right now. Some other time on that, too.”
Peete shrugged, led them out of the barn into the sunshine. He closed the doors, set the latch, and started to move off.
“Hold on a second,” Ramage said. And when the farmer stopped and glanced back at him: “About that sign of yours, down by the road.”
“What about it?”
“Don’t take offense, but you misspelled dirt.”
“That a fact?”
“It’s with an i, not a u. D-i-r-t. You might want to correct it.”
“Then again,” Peete said, “I might not.”
He took the dog away to the house without a backward glance.
Carolyn said: “Did you have to bring up that sign?”
Ramage ignored her until they were in the car, bouncing down the rutted lane. Then he said, more to himself than to her: “Some character, that Peete.”
“You think he’s just a dumb hick, I suppose.”
“Don’t you?”
“No. I think he’s a lot smarter than you give him credit for.”
“Because of that business with the dirt and the Indian burial ground? I didn’t believe it for a minute.”
“Well, neither did I,” she said. “That’s the real reason I didn’t want to go along with him. The whole thing’s a hoax, a game he plays with gullible tourists. I wouldn’t be surprised if he misspelled dirt on that sign just to draw people like us up here.”
“Might have at that.”
“If we’d gone along with him, what he’d’ve shown us is some spot he faked up with Native American artifacts and phony graves.”
“Just to get a good laugh at our expense?”
“Some people have a warped sense of humor.”
“Didn’t look like Peete had any sense of humor.”