“Get a rope,” the trooper ordered the old man.
“Ain’t got one.”
The policeman reddened and stood up to his full six-foot-two. “Look, mister-what’s your name?”
The elderly man shrank back, as if suspecting that the trooper’s patience might have been tried too far. “Ben Smith,” he mumbled.
“Okay, Mr. Smith, you get a rope or something else to pull this boy out. And fast!”
Ben Smith gulped on his chewing tobacco and hurried off. A minute or so later he returned with a length of clothesline. The trooper lowered it into the well and Bud was soon climbing out, looking like a drenched rat.
“Sorry, son,” Smith said apologetically. “Guess I should have warned ye.”
Bud chuckled good-naturedly. “It’s all right,” he said. “It was my own fault for not watching where I was going. Besides, you can’t blame an American for not liking the idea of having his home searched.”
The old man chuckled too and flashed a wary
SECRET CACHE 41
eye at the trooper. “I’ll go get ye a towel to dry off with,” he told Bud.
Meanwhile, Tom was investigating a house down the road with another state trooper. The owner, a paunchy unshaven bachelor named Pete Latty, and his seventeen-year-old nephew accompanied them to the basement.
A naked light bulb, hanging from the ceiling, revealed an ancient furnace, and an accumulation of junk. Most of it was covered with dust, but Tom noticed a large packing crate that looked as if it had been freshly moved. He walked over and began to shove the heavy box aside.
“What’re you doing?” Latty asked gruffly.