A spring was at the base of it, bubbling out of red clay. Above it the red dirt led a hundred feet to a dike of granite and stopped. He hurried up the hillside that was rapidly whitening with snow and saw the vein.

It set against the dike, short and narrow but red-black with the iron it contained. He picked up a piece and felt the weight of it. It was heavy⁠—it was pure iron oxide.

He called Schroeder and asked, “Are you down out of the high hills, Steve?”

“I’m in the lower ones,” Schroeder answered, the words coming a little muffled from where Tip lay inside his jacket. “It looks black as hell up your way.”

“I found the iron, Steve. Listen⁠—these are the nearest to landmarks I can give you.⁠ ⁠…”

When he had finished he said, “That’s the best I can do. You can’t see the red clay except when the sun is low in the southwest but I’m going to build a monument on top of the hill to find it by.”