A Farmer’s Unlikely Idea Ended Up Feeding an Entire Community
Until it fed the county for twenty years, the wealthy farmer who refused to give him water laughed at his dry hole.
The pasture beyond Eli Mercer’s home had turned the colour of old rope by the third week of July.
Not very golden. Not the colour of wheat. Not even brown in the manner that a harsh summer sun turned healthy prairie grass brown.
Under a boot, it was sharp, brittle, and gray-brown, with fissures that ran through the soil like lightning caught in clay. Instead of smell, the breeze delivered dust.
Children in Harper County no longer thought water had ever flowed in the stream bed south of the barn since it had been dry for so long.
Just after morning, Eli stood at the fence line with one hand on a cedar post and observed six thirsty cows swarming around a metal trough filled only with dust and two dead grasshoppers.
Although many who viewed him from a distance frequently assumed he was older, he was sixty-two that summer. He was tall and thin, his shoulders hunched over from carrying grain sacks, fence rails, and problems that no one could quantify.
His face had the brown leather appearance of men who never learned how to properly complain because they worked outside. His eyes were obscured by a fading Kansas State cap.
The Mercer property behind him appeared to be what it was: 100 acres of obstinate land that had endured for three generations, primarily due to the Mercers’ steadfast refusal to leave. Paint was needed for the farmhouse.
Eli had nailed sheet metal over storm damage in three silver areas on the barn roof. The rust-covered blades of the ancient windmill beside the south draw were frozen.
And the dry hole sat down past that windmill, partially obscured by weeds and a drooping ring of wire.
Eli Mercer’s dry hole was well known across the county.
When Eli was a teenager in 1979, his father had hired a drilling crew to sink it.
They had descended 240 feet, then 300, then 320 feet. Nothing worth pumping was hit by them. Water isn’t steady. No reliable vein.
Only sour dirt, wet gravel, and a small amount of seepage that disappeared by dawn. “You got yourself the most expensive empty pipe in Harper County,” the drilling man said to Eli’s father after capping it.
People dubbed it Mercer’s Folly for years afterward.
Eli’s dad never made fun of it. Eli didn’t either. However, everyone else did.
Forty years later, Eli would have done anything to turn that empty pipe into anything more.
He looked away from the fence and toward the Harlan farm in the east.
Less than 0.5 miles away, just past the county road, was where Clayton Harlan’s acreage started. Under three center-pivot irrigation rigs, Clayton’s fields continued to display green patches while Eli’s pasture was dry and grey.
In the morning light, his white grain bins gleamed. Eli’s entire barn was smaller than his machine shed. He had a fleet of John Deere tractors, three deep wells, nearly two thousand acres, and enough clout in Harper County to cause men to keep quiet when his name was mentioned.
Clayton had water, too.
That was the important thing.
Eli returned to the barn after taking another glance at his empty trough. There was a battered water tank strapped in the bed of his old Ford pickup.
Additionally, the tank was empty. Dust rose behind him like smoke as he drove toward Harlan land after climbing in and turning the key twice before the engine caught.
He detested having to ask Clayton Harlan for anything.
Although “known” and “liked” were not the same thing, the two men had known each other since elementary school.
Clayton had been the type of youngster who showed up at school in clean boots and teased other boys whose lunches were wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper.
Eli was silent both then and now. He had discovered at a young age that a man who spoke too much offered others more to retaliate against.
A brass H was welded into the center of a black iron gate at Clayton’s residence. Eli didn’t want to leave dust on Clayton’s concrete apron, so he parked outside and went up the drive. When a hired worker noticed him, he gestured to the machine shed.
With a phone in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, Clayton was leaning against a brand-new tractor.
He wore a white straw hat that had never seen rain and was clean-shaven, broad, and red-faced. He still conducted himself like a banker disguising himself as a rancher at sixty-four. He had polished boots. The silver buckle on his belt was too big.
As he put the phone in his shirt pocket, Clayton remarked, “Well, look what the wind blew in.” “Eli Mercer.” It’s been a while since I’ve seen you off that patch.
Eli took off his cap. “Good morning, Clayton.”
“Good morning,” Clayton said, turning to face the road where Eli’s pickup was parked. “Are you hoping to transport something?”
Eli took a swallow. It was like sand in his throat. “I must purchase some water.”
Clayton’s smile developed gradually, much like a storm cloud. “Water?”
“For my cattle.” Just enough to see them through the week. I am able to pay.
Clayton turned to face one of his verdant fields, where silver arcs were shot into the air by a pivot rig. “Are you able to pay?”
“I said I could.”
“With what? That vintage Ford?”
From behind a toolbox, one of the hired workers chuckled.
Eli continued to stare at Clayton. “I’m not requesting donations.”
“No,” replied Clayton. “You’re requesting my water.”
“I would like to purchase some.”
Clayton moved a couple of paces nearer. “Eli, do you know how much water costs now?
Do you know how much it costs to maintain equipment, operate pumps, drill deep, and pay electricity bills? Men like me made plans in advance. Men like me made investments. Men like myself didn’t wait for the skies to feel sorry for us.
Eli said, “I know what it costs.”
Clayton gave him a thorough examination. Do you?”
The hired worker ceased to chuckle. He appeared to sense that something cruel was about to happen.
Clayton gestured to Eli’s farm in the west. “Don’t you have a well? That well-known one. What were they calling it? Mercer’s Ignorance?”
Eli remained silent.
“Why don’t you apply that?Clayton raised his voice and enquired. “Why don’t you use the money your father dumped into that dead dry hole to fill your tank?”
This time, the hired hand laughed more forcefully.
Eli replaced his headgear. “I came to make a fair request.”
“And I gave a fair response.” Clayton’s grin vanished. “No. Not a gallon.
Eli clenched his jaw.
Clayton took a step closer and lowered his voice, but not enough to prevent the hired hand from hearing. “You sell those cows before they pass away.
A wise man would act in that manner. Then, before the bank takes it, sell that location. A sensible person could turn your ground into a legitimate operation.
Eli remarked, “Someone like you.”
Clayton held out his hands. “If the shoe fits.”
Neither man moved for a moment.
Then Clayton chuckled. Not a laugh. Not a courteous giggle. His laughter reverberated off the metal shed and across the concrete yard.
“Go home, Eli,” he urged. “If you look at that dry hole long enough, perhaps it will fill itself.”
Eli turned without responding. Clayton’s laughing followed him all the way to the gate as he made his way back down the drive.
He took his time driving home.
The cows at the vacant trough raised their heads at the sound of the truck. One let out a raspy, hoarse cry.
Eli sat with both hands on the wheel after turning off the engine.
He felt the old wrath rising within him for the first time in years. Not attractive, not stupid, not the kind that caused a man to clench his fists.
This rage was more icy. Along with the farm, the dry hole, and the propensity of not giving up when it would have made more sense, he had received it from his father.
He turned to face the lifeless windmill in the south.
“All right,” he stated out loud. “Let’s gaze at it.”
Eli entered the ancient milk room behind the kitchen that evening after lugging two small tanks of water from a local public tap at a cost that made his stomach ache.
Thirty years had passed since it had held milk. It now included boxes of papers that only Eli cared about, coffee cans full of bolts, seed catalogues, and broken handles.
He took out his father’s notebooks from the wood trunk beneath the window.
Everything had been recorded by Walter Mercer. Rain. yields of crops. dates for calving. repairs for fences.
Diesel prices were paid. names of both the men he owed money to and the men who owed him money. Eli discovered what he was searching for—the 1979 drilling record—in the back of the third notebook.
He moved it to the kitchen table, placed a lamp next to it, and read till the wee hours of the morning.
depth. soil. gravel. Clay. Shale. Sandstone. layer of moisture at 118 feet. 176 dry gravel. 201 is a sticky blue clay. 286 damp sand. No recuperation. No flow.
No recuperation.
The well had been killed by that phrase.
Eli reread it.
No recovery does not imply that the area had never been affected by water. It indicated that the water had not returned quickly enough for a pump.
Something was different. That was something his father had known. Eli recalled his father standing next to the rig with mud on his boots and a dejected expression on his face while he argued with the drilling man.
However, the sand had been wet. Gravel had been present. After severe rains, there used to be a draw close by where storm water ran hard.
Eli reclined in his seat.
An ancient black-and-white picture of his father standing next to the windmill while it was still operational was displayed on the wall above the stove.
In that photo, Walter Mercer was thirty-eight years old, younger than Eli had ever imagined. He appeared exhausted, proud, and confident that he would have something to do tomorrow.
“Dad, what were you seeing?Eli muttered.
Eli drove to town the following morning.
Three levels of limestone and unwavering local pride, the Harper County courthouse stood on Main Street. The records room was located in the basement, beyond the tax office and a bulletin board with notices about estate sales and church suppers. It had an odour of old carpet, dust, and ink.
When Eli entered, Maggie Lewis, the county clerk, glanced over her reading glasses.
“Eli Mercer,” she said. “You were defeated?”
Eli said, “Probably.” “But not more than normal.”
Maggie grinned. She had silver hair tied behind her head, was about his age, and had a memory that would terrify attorneys. “What do you want?”
“Old maps of water. Good records. anything to the south of where I live.
Her brows went up. “Are you considering drilling?”
“No.”
“Well. You can’t afford it unless you have oil money hidden beneath your mattress.
“I’m considering comprehending what already exists.”
After examining him for a while, Maggie got up. “Walter Mercer would say something like that.”
In the rear, she guided him to a metal filing cabinet. Eli spent two hours going over soil reports, faded diagrams created by long-dead men, survey maps, and ancient well permits.
He discovered that before roads, terraces and field cuts altered the flow of water, the south draw on his property had been a part of a wider drainage route.
Less than a quarter mile from the dry pit, he discovered a 1936 Works Progress Administration map that depicted a seasonal spring. “Fractured sandstone with intermittent recharge” was mentioned in notes he discovered from 1954.
sporadic recharging.
He remembered the phrase.
Maggie made copies of the pages. “What are you constructing there?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
Does dynamite play a role?”
“No.”
“I’ll wait until next week to worry.”
Eli nearly grinned.
He drove from the courthouse to the library, the junk yard and the co-op.
He printed articles about sand filters, recharge wells, cisterns, and outdated infiltration galleries from a computer at the library that took 10 minutes to start up.
The majority of the terminology was too sophisticated for his needs. Engineers had a talent for making seemingly simple things costly. However, the concept was rather simple behind the technical jargon.
When the water came, catch it.
Before it went underground, clean it.
Keep it out of the sun’s reach.
Slowly pump it.
Really, that was all a well had ever been: a site where geology and patience met.
Eli worked from dawn till dusk over the following week.
A secondhand solar pump, pipe, gravel, and enough concrete mix to fix the damaged well pad were purchased using the proceeds from the painful sale of three cows.
He removed the old wire and cleared weeds from the area surrounding the dry hole. He lowered a weighted rope into the pipe after removing the corroded cap. The line returned moist at 112 feet.
Not damp.
moist.
That night, it was sufficient to keep him awake.
He used a shovel and a notebook to walk the south draw the following day. If it ever rained again, he noted the low areas where rainwater would collect.
He examined the land’s slope. When he was a youngster, before fields were levelled for larger machinery and neighbours dug new ditches, he recalled where floodwater had flowed.
Then he began excavating.
Above the old well, he excavated a shallow, wide settling basin. He used hand-packed clay to line the bottom. He constructed a ditch beneath it that was covered in layers of charcoal, sand, gravel, and stone.
He placed a conduit through it so that overflow would only approach the well casing once the mud had settled.
In order to prevent the entire structure from being washed away by a strong downpour, he constructed a spillway out of reclaimed limestone. He fixed the windmill tower, but since the wind was not as reliable as it once was, he replaced the rusting head with a little solar pump.
By the end of August, the area resembled a battleground more than a farm project.
People took notice.
Farmers slowed down on the county road to gaze. A few waved. A few shook their heads. Word got out because in Harper County, word usually gets out.
Eli stopped for coffee at Miller’s Diner one morning and heard Clayton Harlan before he saw him.
Along with two other major landowners and a seed dealer, Clayton was seated in the huge booth by the window. Clayton leaned back and smiled as Eli entered.
“There he is,” Clayton remarked. “The wizard of water.”
The diner became quieter than normal.
Eli sat down on a stool at the counter. “Good morning, Ruth.”
He was served coffee by Ruth Miller, who owned the restaurant and half the town’s opinions. “Good morning, Eli.”
Clayton spoke up. “I’ve heard you’re using rocks and barbecue charcoal to fix that dry hole.”
Two men chuckled into their mugs.
Eli topped his coffee with cream.
Clayton went on. “You should sell tickets. In one family, people could witness a man pouring money into the ground twice.
On the stool, Eli turned. “Are you done?”
Clayton smiled more broadly. “Not close.”
Eli answered, “Then continue.” “Laughter is more affordable than water.”
The diner fell silent.
For a brief moment, Clayton’s expression clenched. “Are you still upset that I didn’t give away what I paid for?”
“I made a purchase offer.”
“You proposed to purchase a cup from a river.”
Eli replied, “No.” “I offered to purchase a small amount of mercy.”
Eli didn’t intend for that to land so hard.
He noticed it in the diner’s patrons’ expressions. Men glanced at their dishes. Ruth gave up cleaning the counter.
Slipping out of the booth was Clayton. “Be careful, Mercer.”
Eli got up, put cash next to his unfinished coffee, and departed.
The drought persisted.
September was hot and dry. Wind arrived in October. Eli’s endeavours were unsuccessful. His pond was a bowl with cracks in it.
He transported town water twice a week to sustain the surviving livestock. He shed pounds. Digging caused his hands to split open. He studied his father’s notes and drew on feed sacks while sitting at the kitchen table by the lamp at night.
People’s laughter subsided by November. When your own well begins to cough air, it is more difficult to laugh at a man who is thirsty.
Throughout the county, a few shallow wells started to fail. Voluntary limitations were issued by the county commission. Though not as frequently, Clayton Harlan maintained his pivots. He possessed the loudest confidence and the deepest wells.
He said, “Droughts end,” to anybody who enquired. “Weak farms are the first to fail.”
Eli remained silent after hearing the quote from someone else.
The sky changed in early December.
On a Wednesday afternoon, it started out as a low, blue-black line of heavy cloud on the western horizon.
Before the first drop fell, the air had a distinct fragrance. All the animals on Eli’s property raised their heads. The wind ceased. Then, like barrels on a barn floor, thunder swept across the county.
When it started to rain, Eli was in the south draw.
It was difficult.
Not soft. not drenched. difficult. Rain of this type bounces off dry ground before the ground knows what to do with it. Dust, leaves, and broken stems were carried by the water sheeting across the grassland. It ran in muddy ribbons toward the draw.
Eli’s heart was racing as he stood beneath a slicker next to the settling basin.
When the first rush reached the basin, it boiled brown. The muddy water swirled, rose, and slowed. It leaked into the filter trench through the throat of the rock. Eli had a terrible moment when he thought the trench might clog right away. The water then started to sink.
not disappear.
Sink.
Once more, the basin filled.
The overflow was cleanly taken away by the spillway. More was consumed in the trench. Rain streamed down his neck and pounded his cap. The old well casing turned silver as lightning streaked across the grassland.
Then, by himself in the storm, Eli laughed—not because he had won anything, but rather because something he had imagined was taking place.
It rained for six hours.
The county road ditches were operational by midnight. For the first time in years, water was carried by the south draw. Eli remained outside with a torch until the storm shifted eastward, revealing chilly stars in its wake.
He lowered the weighted rope into the old dry hole the following morning.
It splashed at ninety-four feet.
Eli froze.
He raised the line, examined the moist mark, and then lowered it once more.
Ninety-four feet.
Water.
Not enough to boast about. Not enough to keep the county intact. Perhaps not enough to save him just yet.
However, the lifeless dry pit had come back to life.
He took a seat in the mud next to the casing and put his hands over his face.
The water level had stabilised at 107 feet by spring. Eli carefully installed the pump, drawing slowly and setting it high.
Not because he was stupid, but because he was obstinate, he tested the first water at a lab in Wichita. After filtration and treatment, the outputs were safe for domestic use and clean enough for animals.
He pumped a hazy first bucket. The second was superior. The third got away with it.
After carrying the third bucket to the empty trough, he filled it.
A cow took a sip.
With his hand resting on her rough neck, Eli stood next to her and gazed south toward the windmill tower that had been fixed.
“Well,” he replied, “I’ll be.”
The narrative ought to have concluded there, with a poor farmer using perseverance and hard effort to save his own land.
However, tales in rural areas seldom come to a satisfying conclusion. Land comes into contact with land. Every man in the vicinity is concerned about the water beneath one man’s feet. Pride moves more quickly than rain.
Before lunchtime, Clayton Harlan learned about the water.
He arrived at Eli’s gate about four o’clock in a white pickup that was worth more than Eli’s house. He did not immediately leave.
He sat staring at the south draw, where the dark soil contrasted with the pale gravel beds and fresh pipes.
When Clayton eventually came over, Eli was fixing the fence.
Clayton remarked, “I hear you got water.”
Eli wrapped wire around one of the posts. “A few.”
“Leave that old hole.”
“A few.”
The repeated word seemed to annoy Clayton. “How much?”
“Enough for me if I exercise caution.”
Clayton looked at the system. “You sign it up?”
“I submitted the documentation.”
“With whom?”
“Office of State Water.” health of the county. district for conservation.
Clayton gave a snort. “You’ve been quite busy.”
“I spent evenings.”
Do you believe that will endure?”
“I have no idea.”
“It won’t,” Clayton declared. “Wishful thinking and runoff cannot be used to create a well.”
Eli made the wire tighter. “So you don’t have to be concerned.”
Clayton gave him a stern look. “I’m not concerned.”
“Excellent.”
The creaking of the fence stretcher was the only sound for a little moment.
Clayton’s tone shifted. It got softer, which in some way made it worse. “You understand that water affects the value of land, Eli.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Have you ever considered selling?”
“No.”
“You should. before you become entangled in rules. Before an inspector determines that the aquifer is being contaminated by your small science experiment.
Eli turned away from his job and confronted him. Is that a warning or a threat?”
Clayton grinned. “That’s a neighbourly concern.”
“I recall your neighbourly concern.”
Clayton’s grin vanished.
Eli grabbed his pliers. “Gate is where you left it.”
Clayton departed.
Eli received a letter from the county two weeks later.
His water collection system was accused of posing a pollution risk and perhaps diverting natural drainage, according to a complaint. His appearance before the county commission was mandated.
After reading the letter again, Eli folded it and placed it next to his father’s journal.
The room was full during the hearing.
Five persons often attended county meetings: three commissioners, Maggie Lewis, and a resident who was upset about the gravel on the roads.
Farmers lined the walls that evening. Ruth Miller arrived. The manager of the cooperative arrived. Before Maggie instructed him to take off his white hat, Clayton Harlan sat in the front row with his arms folded.
Dale Whitcomb, the commissioner, cleared his throat. “Mr. We are here to discuss the installation of a water recharge and collecting system on your property, Mercer.
Eli got up. “Yes, sir.”
“Unauthorised water distribution, groundwater contamination, and runoff diversion are concerns.”
“I’m not giving out water.”
Clayton moved around in his seat.
Dale reviewed his documents. Have you have any paperwork?”
Maps, test results, permits, diagrams, receipts, pictures, and letters were all in a cardboard produce box that Eli had packed. One by one, he arranged them. The taller the stack, the quieter the room became.
Eli’s system did not divert water from nearby property, according to a conservation district representative who stepped up. Runoff that had already crossed his land was captured.
Eli had tested the water and was using it within permitted limits, according to the health authorities. As long as he did not exceed residential and livestock use without an additional permission, the state water office had no objections.
Dale seems almost unhappy that the situation had gotten less dramatic.
“Mr. “You filed the complaint, Harlan,” he said. Do you have any more proof?”
Clayton got to his feet carefully. “I have a straightforward concern. We will have anarchy if every man begins constructing his own water projects. There’s a reason we have rules.
“Rules didn’t fill my well,” a farmer in the rear complained.
Dale once struck a gavel. “Silent.”
Clayton went on. “I made appropriate well investments. deep wells. legal wells. Mr. Mercer now wants to work as an engineer and possibly sell water in the future without supervision.
Eli remarked, “I never said I’d sell water.”
“But you might,” Clayton answered.
Speaking from the rear was Ruth Miller. “Clayton, a man can accomplish a lot of things. No rules are being passed regarding kindness, but you might learn it someday.
A wave of laughing swept across the space.
Clayton’s face flushed.
The commissioners rejected the objection, but they mandated regular water testing in the event that Eli increased his use. Eli concurred.
A few folks gave him shoulder slaps as they filed out. A few enquired about settling basins and gravel. He was asked whether he would examine a dry well at his home.
As he went by, Clayton remained silent.
There were three good storms of rain that spring. Enough to validate the system, but not enough to put an end to the drought.
After every storm, Eli’s water level increased and then gradually decreased while he pumped. He became familiar with its beat.
He discovered that he shouldn’t take too much. He discovered that subterranean storage was more like a living organism than a bank account. Abuse it, and it didn’t work. You were astonished, and you should respect that.
Eli added natural grass strips and short terraces to the catchment area by the second year. To reduce runoff, he planted buffalo grass and switchgrass along the draw.
He constructed an additional filter bed. To let gravity to feed the troughs, he installed a storage tank uphill from the barn.
It was no longer referred to as Mercer’s Folly.
It was known as Mercer’s Well.
The summer that altered everything then arrived.
Although it wasn’t the driest summer Harper County has ever experienced, it arrived after too many difficult years.
Clusters of wells that had withstood the initial drought started to fail. The town put limitations in place. Stock ponds disappeared. Eli’s gravel beds used to make families laugh, but now they drive by slowly and study them like scripture.
Four thousand acres north of town were destroyed by a lightning fire in August. Throughout the night, volunteer firefighters battled it. The town’s supply was insufficient to swiftly replenish the two tanker trucks that were sitting empty the following morning.
At first light, Ron Avery, the square-built fire chief, arrived at Eli’s farm.
“Eli, I hate to ask,” he murmured, holding his cap.
Eli was already aware.
“How much is required?”
“As much as you have to spare.”
Eli turned to face the south draw. He didn’t like how low the water level was. He had livestock to consider. a home. a farm.
Then he recalled asking for water while a man chuckled as he stood on Clayton Harlan’s concrete.
Eli said, “Bring the trucks.”
They didn’t get everything they wanted from him.
That would have been stupid. He did, however, provide what the well could safely spare. After carefully filling his storage tank, the firefighters headed back north. The firing line held by nightfall.
MERCER WELL HELPS FIRE CREWS was the modest headline that appeared in the county paper three days later.
The phone calls began at that point.
Eli had no desire to sell water. He worked as a farmer. He preferred pipe fittings over paperwork and livestock over committees. However, need has a way of giving guys employment that they did not apply for.
He spoke with Maggie. He had a conversation with the conservation district. He spoke with the state.
He established a modest, licensed rural water supply with stringent pumping regulations for use in agriculture and emergencies.
He didn’t charge enough to become wealthy, just enough to keep the system running. No one was allowed to take more than their fair share. Lawns arrived after households. Swimming pools came after livestock. Firefighters received no compensation.
A few people complained.
Most didn’t.
Mrs. Hanley, a widow whose shallow well had failed after 47 years, was the first client. Eli declined her offer of further cash after delivering five hundred gallons to her cistern.
The second was a dairy cow and a young couple with two children.
The county road crew came in third.
Eli had a sign at the gate toward the end of the summer:
MERCER WATER
Agricultural Supply and Emergencies
NO WASTE
Without first speaking, there is no credit.
The sign sounded just like him, according to Ruth Miller.
No gallon was purchased by Clayton Harlan.
His wells were still deep. He was still wealthy. He still possessed pride, which can be more hazardous than debt in a dry nation.
However, deep wells do not last forever.
Clayton had pumped more than anyone for years. Prices were favourable, so he planted thirsty crops. Because banks enjoyed expansion, he increased irrigation.
While his pivots operated in the midday sun, he spoke at meetings on efficiency. He referred to state officials as alarmists when they issued warnings about falling water tables. He referred to smaller farmers as weak when they made cutbacks.
Then he started pumping sand from one of his wells.
He initially placed the blame on equipment. Then he pointed the finger at the pump manufacturer. Then he blamed bad luck, bad regulation, lousy casing, and finally—though not in public—himself.
The cost of the repair was higher than anticipated. The following year, the second well became weaker. The Harlan enterprise had lost its unbeatable lustre, but Clayton was still able to manage.
One quarter piece was sold by him. Then one more. His grain bins’ white paint faded. The number of employed workers decreased.
Eli did not enjoy watching from the other side of the street.
He was shocked by that.
He had once believed that Clayton’s humility would be a sign of justice. However, Eli had already supplied water to too many individuals in need to satisfy the thirst of another man by the time it occurred. Enemies appeared tiny during the drought. It made pride seem absurd. Water appeared sacred as a result.
It was ten years later.
Mercer Water was integrated into the local community. Not very large. Not very elegant. Just trustworthy if people respected its boundaries.
Like his father, Eli maintained meticulous records. Rain. depth of recharge. volume of pumping. test findings. fixes. names of those who made the payment. names of those who were unable.
When necessary, he learnt to say no. The most difficult aspect was that.
“I am unable to fill your ornamental pond.”
“No, I am unable to provide a new subdivision.”
“Unlimited water hauling is not permitted for a private hunting lodge.”
“I won’t sell you priority rights, Clayton.”
That final exchange took place on a chilly February afternoon in Eli’s kitchen.
Clayton was not as fit as he had was. His hair had turned white. He was still wearing nice boots, but they were now scuffed. Without being asked, he took off his hat.
Eli filled their cups with coffee.
Despite not drinking, Clayton put his hands around the mug. “Investors are looking at my east ground.”
“I heard.”
“They desire water security.”
“Water security is something that everyone wants.”
Clayton raised his head. “I could finance an expansion.”
“No.”
“You prevented me from finishing.”
“I am aware of its end.”
Clayton’s jaw clenched. “We could both gain from this.”
“Your sale would benefit from it.”
“That’s business.”
Eli replied, “No.” “That’s turning a system designed for emergencies into a marketing tool.”
Clayton gazed into his cup of coffee. “You’ve always been obstinate.”
“You were, too.”
A weary grin briefly appeared on Clayton’s face before disappearing. “I guess I deserved that.”
Eli remained silent.
Clayton turned to face the south window, where the old dry hole sat beyond the barn, encircled by grass and now shielded by a genuine well house. “I was mistaken about that hole.”
“Yes.”
“I was also mistaken about you.”
Eli held out.
Clayton took a swallow. “Back then. when you arrived to enquire.
The clock in the kitchen ticked away.
Clayton said, “I shouldn’t have laughed.”
“No,” Eli answered. “You ought not to have declined.”
Clayton appeared as though the comments had affected him. He gave one nod.
“I had water,” he muttered. “Your cattle were thirsty.” I could have saved some.
“Yes.”
“I thought I might buy your place if you failed.”
“I am aware.”
Shame hardened Clayton’s face. “I was a man like that.”
Eli reclined. “Were?”
Clayton laughed inanely. “I still am sometimes.”
Neither spoke for a long time.
“My north well is failing,” Clayton finally declared.
“I also heard that.”
“Come summertime, I could need water for animals. Not preferential treatment. not rights. Simply regular, if sufficient.
Eli examined him.
It was there. A younger version of himself could have imagined this scene: Clayton Harlan sitting in his kitchen and requesting water.
Eli might have chuckled. Every hurtful word from that morning years ago could have been repeated by him. He had the option of telling Clayton to go look at his own dry wells.
Rather, he stood up, opened a drawer, and took out the water request form that Maggie had forced him to print after the county demanded that he improve his organization.
Eli said, “Fill this out.” “Everyone follows the same rules.”
After glancing over the page, Clayton turned to face Eli. “Is that all?”
“That’s it.”
“Are you not going to force me to beg?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Eli turned to see his father’s picture hanging on the wall. “Because I recall how it felt.”
Clayton grasped the page in both hands.
Clayton Harlan purchased water for thirty-seven livestock from Mercer Water that summer.
He made his payment on schedule.
In town, he never brought it up.
In any case, everyone was aware.
Ten more years went by.
Eli, who was eighty-two at the time, moved more slowly in the morning. He thought it was a fair deal because his hands hurt when it was going to rain. Compared to the day Clayton made fun of him, the Mercer farm appeared different.
Once more, the barn was painted crimson. Even though the pump was now solar, the windmill tower remained upright. The draw was maintained by native grasses. Near the drainage line, cottonwoods had grown, their leaves glistening in the wind.
The dry hole was no longer merely a well, let alone a joke. It served as the focal point of a meticulous network of terraces, tanks, filters, basins, and regulations.
On field trips, students come to visit it. Visitors from other arid regions were brought in by county officials. Eli was referred to as inventive by some.
He was dubbed a conservation hero by some. He was referred to as “the same old Eli with better plumbing” by Ruth Miller, who is still alive and unimpressed by fancy language.
He never allowed anyone to claim that he was the creator of water.
He told each group that arrived, “I didn’t make a drop.” “I simply stopped squandering what went through.”
Harper County hosted a small event at the fairgrounds to commemorate the twentieth anniversary of the first emergency water delivery.
Eli had no desire for one. Maggie persisted. If he didn’t comply, Ruth threatened to make him a cake in the shape of a dry hole.
A tanker truck was brought by the fire department and parked close to the grandstand. Farmers arrived wearing clean clothing. Kids dashed between foldable chairs. A banner with the following words was hung:
MERCER WATER FOR TWENT YEARS
Stiff and uncomfortable, Eli sat in the front row wearing a brand-new denim shirt that his niece had mailed from Topeka.
The county commissioner, who is now young enough to have visited Mercer Water during a school field trip, spoke about stewardship and resiliency.
The lightning fire was discussed by the fire chief. The granddaughter of Mrs. Hanley talked about the year Eli filled her grandmother’s cistern. Ruth yelled, “Let the man have his cake before we all dry up,” as a science teacher described filtration and recharging.
People chuckled.
Clayton Harlan then got to his feet.
Nobody anticipated it.
At eighty-four, he used a cane to walk, his once-dominant physique diminished but not completely gone. He carried a simple tan hat in his left hand. Before speaking, Clayton waved back his son, who had assisted him to the microphone.
Clayton remarked, “I wasn’t asked to talk.”
A few individuals laughed.
“I anticipate that’s due to Maggie Lewis’s continued sound judgement.”
More chuckles.
Clayton turned to face Eli. “But even if only a few people heard it first, there is something that should be said in public because the wrong was done in public.”
The fairground fell silent.
Eli Mercer came to my farm twenty years ago and asked to purchase water for his cattle, long before our water system had any significance. I drank water. He was in need. I turned him down.
Eli glanced at his hands.
With a gruff but firm voice, Clayton went on. Even worse, I made fun of him. His old dry hole made me giggle. I chuckled at his father’s error. I laughed because I believed that water improved me and money made me smarter.
Nobody made a move.
“I was mistaken. concerning the water. concerning the hole. Concerning the man
Clayton pivoted slightly to face the throng. “A wealthy man is poorer than he realises if he has water but no mercy. That was demonstrated by Eli Mercer. Not by destroying me. Not by making fun of me. He demonstrated this by giving this county what I wouldn’t offer a single neighbour.
Eli felt his throat constrict.
Clayton raised his hat slightly. “I apologise, Eli.”
In the sweltering fairground air, the apology lingered.
Eli got to his feet cautiously.
People didn’t know whether to cry, clap, or act as though they weren’t watching for a brief period. Eli approached the microphone. Eli placed a hand on Clayton’s shoulder as he moved aside.
“I agree,” Eli replied.
That was all.
It was sufficient.
Quietly at first, the applause became louder until it filled the stadium.
Eli sneaked away from the gathering after the ceremony and moved behind the animal buildings, where the commotion subsided. He discovered Clayton, exhausted from speaking, sitting on a shaded bench.
“Are you okay?Eli enquired.
Clayton gave a nod. “A man is more exhausted by pride than by walking.”
Eli took a seat next to him.
They observed kids moving paper glasses of lemonade around the fairground for a while. The August sky was beautiful and expansive. Thunderheads were forming in the west, far away.
“It appears to be raining,” Clayton remarked.
“Perhaps.”
When it comes, do you still become anxious?”
Eli gave a slight smile. “Every single time.”
“Why?”
“Because water is never guaranteed.”
Clayton gave a nod. “No. It isn’t.
Eli drove home that night under a purpling sky.
As he turned through his gate, the first drops struck his windscreen. He did not enter the barn after parking near it. Rather, he moved gently in the direction of the south draw.
Rain started to fall more forcefully, travelling in thin lines across the meadow, knocking on leaves and deepening the dust. It was given to the basins. It was slowed by the grass. It was filtered by the gravel beds. Without pride, without remembrance, without joy, the old dry hole received it.
Eli listened while standing next to the well house.
Twenty years ago, he had stood there with thirsty cattle and nothing to do but work, humiliation searing in his chest. At the time, he was unsure if the hole would ever supply water. All he had learned was that sometimes a dead thing merited further glance.
Rainwater now flowed through sand and stone as the system hummed gently.
Beyond his gate, the county road was drenched. The Harlan fields were dark beneath the storm across from it. Lightning flashed across Clayton’s old grain bins.
The land didn’t care if a man was wealthy or impoverished, arrogant or modest. It revealed what had been rescued and accepted what had fallen.
Eli took off his cap and exposed his face to the rain.
He recalled the first splash on the weighted line, the word foolishness, Clayton laughing, and his father and the drilling crew.
He recalled every truck that had filled up at his tank, every animal that had survived, and every kitchen tap that had turned on as a result of people learning to share more and waste less.
A person may believe that riches must be sought deep for half of their life.
Occasionally, it was discovered in an area where everyone else had given up.
Occasionally, it was discovered in the choice to avoid becoming like the man who rejected you.
The rain got heavier. Water collected in the draw and moved where Eli had trained it to, directed rather than coerced or squandered.
In the darkness, he grinned.
“Continue,” he muttered.
And the once-dead hole continued to drink for another year beneath the old Mercer farm.
THE FINAL
