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picked up and when Mr. Underhill crossed the street, walking in our direction, I thought for sure he’d pluck one of us for that new grave marker. We backed into an alley and watched as he passed by. He hunched forward and his arms didn’t move as he walked. They just hung stiff by his side.
    “Come on,” Ruthanne whispered, and we all three took off after Mr. Underhill. He headed to the edge of town and skirted around the trees near Shady’s place. Lettie stepped on a twig, snapping it in two, and Mr. Underhill turned around. We stayed still in the darkness of a tree until he moved on.
    “Where’s he going?” I asked.
    “Where else would an undertaker go?” Ruthanne pointed ahead to the wrought iron fence that surrounded hundreds or maybe fifty or so graves. “Come on, there’s an opening on the other side.”
    This was one of the universals I had so far avoided. In other places, I’d seen kids who followed their leader like blind mice, right into the carving hands of the farmer’s wife. Being an outsider, I didn’t usually fall under the leader’s spell. But I’d never been on a spy hunt before. So here I was, traipsing after Ruthanne, enjoying the excited, scared feeling that made my spine shiver.
    Ruthanne went first, squeezing through the fence where there was a missing iron rod. Then Lettie, then me.
    “Over here,” Ruthanne said, crouching behind a tall tombstone. We followed, then waited. And peeked.
    Mr. Underhill plodded over to a grassy spot between two graves and stretched his arms between the markers. His fingertips barely brushed the stones on both sides. I’ll be hung if he didn’t lie flat on his back then, like he was ready to die himself. From our hiding spot, we could only see his knees poking up as his long legs butted against another grave marker in front.
    He lay there, seeming a little too comfortable. Then he got up and made some notes on a pad of paper and, arms hanging down again, walked out of the cemetery.
    We waited for the gate to quit squeaking before we gave up our hiding spot.
    “He’s measuring for somebody’s grave,” Lettie said.
    Ruthanne looked over the grassy space Mr. Underhill had recently occupied. “The way his legs were bunched up, looks like there’s not enough room for a full-grown adult.” She stretched out her arms, measuring length, as the undertaker had done. Then, with one hand about the same height in the air, she turned real slow. “In fact, I’d say there’s probably just enough room for someone about the size of … one … Soletta Taylor!” She placed her hand on Lettie’s head.
    “You stop that right now, Ruthanne McIntyre! Or I’ll tell your mother that you used her colander for catching tadpoles.”
    Ruthanne laughed. “Oh, don’t get your knickers in a knot.”
    “Let’s go home, Ruthanne,” Lettie said. “I’m thirsty and Mama will be awful upset if she finds out I was clear out in the woods. It must be near midnight.”
    “For heaven’s sakes, Lettie, it’s barely dark.”
    “Still …” Lettie whined just a little.
    “Oh, you’re probably right. Supper will be waiting at my house too,” said Ruthanne.
    I hated to see them go. “Maybe we can find a creek to fill our pop bottles,” I suggested.
    “There’s nothing more than a trickle within a hundred miles of here. Everyone knows that,” said Ruthanne, kicking up dust as we walked.
    “My daddy said he’d heard the drought hadn’t taken hold here like it had in other parts.”
    “Bad enough,” she answered, stuffing a wad of grass in her lip like tobacco as we made our way back to Shady’s place.
    “Still,” said Lettie, “Uncle Louver says folks around here are lucky. Least there’s underground wells to draw from to keep people watered. He says places not that far west of here are so dry people shrivel up like November leaves and blow all the way to California.”
    We started back toward the tree house to get Ruthanne’s pack.
    “I’m tired,”