“Good.”
Keith stared at him.
Walter walked toward the combine.
“Keep it that way.”
Keith was already frustrated.
“And you are?”
“Walter Granger.”
Ryan looked up.
“Granger?”
Walter nodded.
“You knew my dad?”
“Harold Keller?”
“Yeah.”
“Bought seed from him for twenty-two years.”
Ryan blinked. Then recognized him.
“You used to farm the west section.”
“Thirty-seven years.”
Keith stepped between them.
“That’s nice, gentlemen, but unless Mr. Granger brought a bigger wrecker—”
Walter walked past him. Keith’s jaw tightened.
Walter reached one of the cable attachment points. He studied the direction of the pull. Then looked at the tracks left by the combine. He followed them backward. Thirty feet. Forty.
The rainwater wasn’t sitting evenly. A thin current moved through the field. Almost invisible. Walter stopped. He watched bits of soybean leaves floating past his boot. They drifted southeast. Then curved. Toward a shallow depression in the field. A drainage swale.
Walter’s eyes narrowed. He walked toward it. Keith followed now—not because he trusted Walter, but because Walter appeared to be looking for something specific.
Walter stepped into the swale. Water reached halfway up his boots. He turned toward the combine. Then toward an old fence line beyond the field. His expression changed.
“Stop pulling that machine.”
Keith laughed once.
“We already stopped.”
“No.” Walter pointed at the recovery rigs. “I mean stop trying to pull it the way you’ve been pulling it.”
Keith crossed his arms.
“You got a better idea?”
Walter walked back toward the combine.
“Yes.”
Cody snorted. Walter stopped beside him.
“Every time you pull it forward, it sinks.”
Cody shrugged.
“No kidding.”
“Every time you pull it backward?”
Keith answered.
“Same.”
Walter nodded.
“And you’re wondering why.”
Keith’s patience finally broke.
“We have eighty thousand dollars’ worth of recovery equipment sitting here. We’ve changed pull angles six times. We unloaded the header. We cribbed the front once until the cribbing disappeared. So if you’ve got something useful, say it.”
Walter looked directly at him.
“Then stop pulling before you bury it for good.”
Keith stepped closer.
“You think you know something we don’t?”
Walter pointed at the combine.
“You understand the machine.”
Then he pointed down.
“You never checked what’s holding it.”
Keith stared at him.
“What’s holding it?”
Walter looked beneath the combine. Then toward the drainage swale.
“The field.”
Nobody laughed.
Walter walked to the left front tire. He knelt despite the water. Then drove a steel probe from his wagon into the mud. Two feet. Three. The rod suddenly dropped. Walter stopped. He pulled it out. Moved six feet sideways. Drove it down again. This time it stopped much sooner. He tried a third place. Then another.
Keith watched.
“What are you finding?”
Walter ignored him.
“Ryan.”