Free Witch Cradle by Kathleen Hills Page B

the envy of every male over the age of three. McIntire was no exception. He coveted the tractor-mounted plow with which Gopher, aided by the small daughter on his lap, was clearing away snow, scraping it down to his nicely graveled driveway. If snow removal could be considered an art, the precise rectangles and orderly banks in Anderson’s yard made him the Picasso of the Plow.
    Anderson left the child bouncing on the tractor seat, gleefully fiddling with the various levers, and came to lean on the hood of McIntire’s milksop Studebaker.
    â€œCan you do it? When the ground is frozen?”
    Gopher chewed a grease-embedded thumbnail. “I can try. Might not be froze that far down. We got snow pretty early on. Anyway it’s sandy around there, and it was a dry fall. Might not be too hard.”
    â€œI could build a fire,” McIntire offered, “try to thaw the ground a little.”
    â€œHeat goes up, not down. Wouldn’t do much good. The Ten-B can do ’er.”
    Anderson seemed illogically optimistic. Eager even. His next words gave a clue as to why.
    â€œHow come you want to dig out Rosie Makinen’s old well?”
    McIntire remembered the rock-hard feel of that earth under his shovel. Maintaining Anderson’s zeal could be crucial. “Because I think Rosie might be in it,” he said, “maybe along with her husband. You think we can get at it tomorrow?”
    Gopher nodded.

Chapter Fourteen
    WASHINGTON—President Truman signed a bill giving FBI agents authority to make arrests without a warrant, for any federal offense committed in their presence.
    McIntire chose his wardrobe for the day by a simple rule: two of everything, three to cover the really important parts. It was going to be a long, cold day, with little for him to do but stand around and shiver. He stuffed his trouser cuffs into his overshoes and wrapped his neck in his Christmas muffler. It was knit with Leonie’s own hands in a becoming red and black snowflake pattern. Something Gopher Anderson and his fellows would not be caught dead in.
    When he reached the Falk place, the flatbed truck was blocking the road, and Anderson was huddled in the cab of his shovel, face in a thermos cup, scoop poised over the cleared spot.
    â€œI thought I’d better wait for you to give the go-ahead.”
    â€œGo ahead.”
    The engine growled, a confusing system of cables and pulleys clanked into action, and the claw at the end of a ten-foot steel beam descended with a screech and a deafening crash.
    A half-hour later, Anderson was still hammering and scratching at the frozen earth, making inch-deep clefts in the frosty sand. McIntire was still stomping his feet and blowing on his frozen fingers, remembering why it was he had
not
taken up ice fishing.
    After forty-five minutes, the teeth bit through the crust to expose a darker, loamier soil. The next time the bucket rammed into the ground, it brought up a bushel or so of black, lumpy earth. McIntire felt a surge of excitement. Gopher didn’t seem to share it. After three more scoops he leaned out of the cab and beckoned to McIntire.
    â€œThis ain’t it,” he shouted.
    â€œWhat?” McIntire moved near enough to hear over the grumbling engine.
    â€œIt ain’t no well. It’s a shithouse hole.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    He pointed to the mound of black earth. “That stuff ain’t water. Besides, there ain’t no casing.”
    He switched off the engine.
    The blissful spell of silence was broken by the sound of a car approaching from the south. As McIntire stood staring into the unfruitful cavity, the noise stopped and a door slammed shut, then another. A few minutes later, Sulo Touminen trudged into view, accompanied by his cousin, Uno. Sulo and Uno, dubbed the Touminen Twins. They shared the same birthdate, albeit a dozen years apart.
    They did indeed make an identical pair, treading one foot ahead of the other in the