"Except the one we saw had twelve teeth instead of fifteen. And even the man who made it couldn't find where it had been altered or tampered with."
It had been the same with a score of other things. Each one slightly changed, just different enough to make identification impossible to prove.
Slowly, Jerry said, "Wood gets weathered, metal oxidizes, honest wear is unmistakable. And these all take time, which can't be faked."
His implication hung in the air. If the things had been stolen, then altered to avoid identification, whoever did it had more than human ability.
"Magic," Watson muttered.
"There's ... no ... such ... thing!"
"No, there absolutely ain't."
They sat looking with troubled eyes out over Dark Valley, till Jerry said abruptly, "I'm going on up to see the Carvers."
Watson reached for the door handle. "They don't have no use for me. I'll wait here. I got plenty to think about."
Jerry nodded. The sheriff would be remembering the seeds already sprouting in the kitchen gardens. The leaves that had jumped out on the old fruit trees. The lambs and calves capering in pastures washed with the green of new grass.