To find the main stream he dug for hours, his worn, pointed shovel probing below the drought.
He'd brought in many springs throughout the county; his hands on the polished handle showed as much.
He could read the land, the shapes of hills, could tell how the water ran and where to dig.
"I have no gift for dowsing, no magic tricks," he claimed. "I just know where water is."
His voice spoke no pride - a kind of awe, perhaps, at such powers held in trust.
By early afternoon he'd found the stream, "at least four gallons a minute, enough," he guessed,
and lifted the pointed shovel, burnished from digging: "I struck the rock," he smiled, "You know, like Moses."