I’ve got about a hundred and thirty acres up there. Been in the family since the 1940s. My trailer sits right in the front of the property. It was the only way I could get electric.”
“ Okay,” I said. “So what’s the problem?”
“ Here’s the thing. Russ has a camp up on the backside of the ridge. It’s been there for years. He wheeled an old camper in, and him and his buddies use it when they go hunting.”
“ Yeah?”
“ Now I get this certified letter. It came this morning.” She handed it to me.
I read it quickly. Russ Stafford was suing Noylene for quiet title of most of Quail Ridge under the adverse possession statute. A hundred and ten acres worth.
“ Oh, man!” I said.
Noylene went pale. “You mean he can jes’ take it!?
“ Did you ever give Russ permission to use the property?” I asked.
Noylene shook her head. “Not once! Thought I was being nice, so I never said anything. I wasn’t usin’ it for nothin’.”
“ It says here that Russ has been using the property exclusively for twenty-one years.”
“ That’d be about right,” said Noylene.
“ How about improvements? Russ make any improvements?”
“ He did some clearing, pulled some dead stumps out. He made a pasture on the backside and planted corn for the deer. Cut down a few dead trees. I never said anything. I figured he was doing it out of kindness ’cause I let him hunt on it. Then Wormy told me yesterday, he’s built him a little cabin back there.”
“ You didn’t ever use the property? Farm some of it maybe? Graze some cows?”
Noylene set her mouth hard and shook her head again. “It’s about those diamonds, ain’t it?”
“ I suspect so.”
“ Is this legal?” she asked in flat voice.
“ I’m afraid it is,” I said, handing the letter back to her. “You might take him to court for a while. Hold him up. But he has enough here to make it stick. Maybe you should go ahead and sell it to him if he’ll still buy it.”
“ In a pig’s eye,” snarled Noylene.
•••
The last afternoon of Bible Bazaar 31 A.D. promised to be memorable. To begin with, all the children were finishing up their various projects and making ready for the concluding ceremony, which would take place inside the temple tent and would include the presentation of certificates to all participating children; a brief presentation by Cynthia and her disciples of belly-dancing, all decked out in the beads, veils and other accessories they’d fashioned in the jewelry shop; some Hebrew prayers (recited in unison) that the children had learned; a few songs sung; and most of the crafts laid out on colorful blankets for the kids’ parents to “Ooo” and “Ah” over and then take home.
The memorial garden was abuzz. Kimberly Walnut had informed everyone who would listen that the skit would be at 4:45, to give everyone enough time to prepare for the other activities. It was at about 4:30 that people started noticing a distinct lack of children. The tent-mothers were in their usual places, chatting around the well and having their afternoon tea at the herbalist’s. The shopkeepers were a lot less busy than usual. Seymour Krebbs didn’t have much of a line at the camel ride. I decided that it was time for me to do a little tax-collecting. I’d been pretty lax on the first couple of days. It was time for these kids to render unto Caesar.
I caught the first remnant cowering behind the tent of the tribe of Naphtali. He’d seen me coming and darted into the tent, but I suspected he’d duck under the canvas and try to hide in the back. Sure enough, I found him cowering behind a black chokeberry bush.
“ I’ve come to collect the Roman tax, “ I growled, extending a hand. I didn’t know him—one of the kids from the Methodist or Baptist congregations. A slight boy, maybe six years old.
“ Please, sir,” he whimpered. “I don’t have any more coins.”
“ Didn’t your tent-mother just give you some?” I asked,
“ Okay,” I said. “So what’s the problem?”
“ Here’s the thing. Russ has a camp up on the backside of the ridge. It’s been there for years. He wheeled an old camper in, and him and his buddies use it when they go hunting.”
“ Yeah?”
“ Now I get this certified letter. It came this morning.” She handed it to me.
I read it quickly. Russ Stafford was suing Noylene for quiet title of most of Quail Ridge under the adverse possession statute. A hundred and ten acres worth.
“ Oh, man!” I said.
Noylene went pale. “You mean he can jes’ take it!?
“ Did you ever give Russ permission to use the property?” I asked.
Noylene shook her head. “Not once! Thought I was being nice, so I never said anything. I wasn’t usin’ it for nothin’.”
“ It says here that Russ has been using the property exclusively for twenty-one years.”
“ That’d be about right,” said Noylene.
“ How about improvements? Russ make any improvements?”
“ He did some clearing, pulled some dead stumps out. He made a pasture on the backside and planted corn for the deer. Cut down a few dead trees. I never said anything. I figured he was doing it out of kindness ’cause I let him hunt on it. Then Wormy told me yesterday, he’s built him a little cabin back there.”
“ You didn’t ever use the property? Farm some of it maybe? Graze some cows?”
Noylene set her mouth hard and shook her head again. “It’s about those diamonds, ain’t it?”
“ I suspect so.”
“ Is this legal?” she asked in flat voice.
“ I’m afraid it is,” I said, handing the letter back to her. “You might take him to court for a while. Hold him up. But he has enough here to make it stick. Maybe you should go ahead and sell it to him if he’ll still buy it.”
“ In a pig’s eye,” snarled Noylene.
•••
The last afternoon of Bible Bazaar 31 A.D. promised to be memorable. To begin with, all the children were finishing up their various projects and making ready for the concluding ceremony, which would take place inside the temple tent and would include the presentation of certificates to all participating children; a brief presentation by Cynthia and her disciples of belly-dancing, all decked out in the beads, veils and other accessories they’d fashioned in the jewelry shop; some Hebrew prayers (recited in unison) that the children had learned; a few songs sung; and most of the crafts laid out on colorful blankets for the kids’ parents to “Ooo” and “Ah” over and then take home.
The memorial garden was abuzz. Kimberly Walnut had informed everyone who would listen that the skit would be at 4:45, to give everyone enough time to prepare for the other activities. It was at about 4:30 that people started noticing a distinct lack of children. The tent-mothers were in their usual places, chatting around the well and having their afternoon tea at the herbalist’s. The shopkeepers were a lot less busy than usual. Seymour Krebbs didn’t have much of a line at the camel ride. I decided that it was time for me to do a little tax-collecting. I’d been pretty lax on the first couple of days. It was time for these kids to render unto Caesar.
I caught the first remnant cowering behind the tent of the tribe of Naphtali. He’d seen me coming and darted into the tent, but I suspected he’d duck under the canvas and try to hide in the back. Sure enough, I found him cowering behind a black chokeberry bush.
“ I’ve come to collect the Roman tax, “ I growled, extending a hand. I didn’t know him—one of the kids from the Methodist or Baptist congregations. A slight boy, maybe six years old.
“ Please, sir,” he whimpered. “I don’t have any more coins.”
“ Didn’t your tent-mother just give you some?” I asked,
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