Promethean Farms

Allen’s thoughts of bounty or selling the thief’s body to the mill fell apart as the cultivator lurched out of the equipment shed on its own.
He swore under his breath as he watched the implement shamble from the shed in the middle of the clearing toward the treeline. As it stepped out of the moonlight and into the trees Allen got up from his hiding spot on the other side of the clearing and went after the wayward farm tool, cursing his luck.
A thief had been the most obivous and likely explaination. Over the last two weeks a trencher and two other cultivators had gone missing. He’d asked about any thefts in the area the last time he’d been in town. No one had had any problems so it seemed his farm was being singled out. It made sense since Promethean Farm was the largest and richest in four counties. The theif had probably figured a few pieces of equipment wouldn’t be missed, but Allen kept a close eye on his inventory.
Now though, any notions of a thief seemed fanciful at best. What he was facing wasn’t a matter to be settled with a bullet but with lawyers. The days of Caveat Emptor were long gone and companies were expected to produce quality merchandise. A far cry from his grand daddy’s day when men worked their farms by the sweat of their own brow and nothing more than crude tools of dead wood and cold iron.

© Copyright 2007 E. G. N. (erikglenn at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.

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