"A coal mine," Garland replied, "and a good one, too. I guess this little mountain is mostly coal. We're just clearing off the face, but you can see the seam if you like."
Coal! Faith stared at the wound in the hillside. She could see a dark belt, the "seam" of which Garland had spoken, partially exposed. There, overlain by soil and worthless rock, screened by tree and brush, was the stored fertility of some bygone age, the compression of the growth of a young world, potential heat, light, power.
"This isn't much more than outcrop," Garland was saying, "but it's good coal. Braden will make a clean-up on this when the railway comes through—that is if it is his." His eyes met Poole's, and again there was the unspoken query, the speculation.
"But I'm sure it isn't," said Faith. "That is, I'm almost sure."
"It would be a good thing to be sure about," Garland told her.
"I think my husband will be able to tell you," said Faith.
"No use telling us," Garland replied. "Braden's the man for him to see. And—well, our instructions are not to allow anybody on the ground."
"No trespassing," Poole corroborated.
"But if this is my property—"
"That's the point—if it is."