Maddie, he thought, always ready with his black coffee. It was a good town, a nice place to live. It probably would have been worth moving to it anyway, even without a motive. But that was beside the point. He was here now, with business to take care of, not to sit and ponder the benefits of life in Jackson Hole.
The paper in front of him was worn and yellowed, with a rough tear along the left side and a stain of some sort just to the right of the center of the page. Lines, both solid and dotted, meandered across the sheet of paper, crossing at times and staying parallel at others. At one point of intersection there was a mark off to the side, which appeared to be something of a cross between a star and an “x”. There was no indication of direction, no typical markings to show north, south, east and west. And there weren’t any words on the page at all to give even a general location. An uneven zigzag line wound its way across the upper left side of the page, disappearing into the torn edge. Three symbols resembling arrows were clustered to the right.
Jake set the paper down on the table, took another swig of his beer, and let out a frustrated sigh. This wasn’t going to be enough, he thought. Maybe he needed to start over from the beginning, to think it all through again. He felt a sudden, familiar flutter of apprehension, one that he shook off as quickly as it took hold of him. He hated these moments when doubt weaseled its way into his thought process. Hesitation was counter-productive. He brushed it aside and tried to put his thoughts in order.
It was an old legend, though not a familiar one to many, much to his advantage. It was never widely publicized. Few articles had been written about it and those that had been were less than convincing. The lack of evidence was to blame, at least in Jake’s opinion. People tended to want something concrete before they would accept a tale as feasible. They sought specific clues or multiple accounts of the same story. The little that Jake knew he’d learned from his grandfather, an eccentric old man with a seemingly wild imagination. Little he said had carried much credibility. He’d told numerous tales during his lifetime, all met with skepticism at best.
But his story of buried loot had captured Jake’s attention as a young boy. As he grew up he became more and more convinced that his grandfather’s story had some truth to it. It made sense, wild as it sounded, that there could be a stash of treasure hidden somewhere in or around the valley. There were plenty of other legends he’d heard over the years. Some told of stagecoaches that had been robbed, while others claimed various pioneers had found gold and run off with it. Still others described local Native American tribes who had accumulated valuable goods by trade over the years and hidden them away. Yet it had always been his grandfather’s tale that he had believed the most.
Jake folded up the paper and carried it into the large living room. He looked around, weighing his options, and then walked over to a tall, oak bookshelf and pulled out a book about Wyoming history. Opening it to a page in the middle, he inserted the map, taking care not to damage the paper any more than it already was. He then pressed the book shut, replacing it on the shelf.
Jake took a moment to survey his book collection. He had just about everything that had ever been published about the history of the old west, in particular those books concerning the area of Jackson Hole. Whatever recent additions had come into print he’d picked up at the library that afternoon, along with any publications about the area’s topographical profile or books containing trail maps of the mountains.
He was sure the mountains were the key. Grabbing one of the trail guides, he settled into a comfortable, wing-backed chair, switched on a small floor lamp and began to browse through
The paper in front of him was worn and yellowed, with a rough tear along the left side and a stain of some sort just to the right of the center of the page. Lines, both solid and dotted, meandered across the sheet of paper, crossing at times and staying parallel at others. At one point of intersection there was a mark off to the side, which appeared to be something of a cross between a star and an “x”. There was no indication of direction, no typical markings to show north, south, east and west. And there weren’t any words on the page at all to give even a general location. An uneven zigzag line wound its way across the upper left side of the page, disappearing into the torn edge. Three symbols resembling arrows were clustered to the right.
Jake set the paper down on the table, took another swig of his beer, and let out a frustrated sigh. This wasn’t going to be enough, he thought. Maybe he needed to start over from the beginning, to think it all through again. He felt a sudden, familiar flutter of apprehension, one that he shook off as quickly as it took hold of him. He hated these moments when doubt weaseled its way into his thought process. Hesitation was counter-productive. He brushed it aside and tried to put his thoughts in order.
It was an old legend, though not a familiar one to many, much to his advantage. It was never widely publicized. Few articles had been written about it and those that had been were less than convincing. The lack of evidence was to blame, at least in Jake’s opinion. People tended to want something concrete before they would accept a tale as feasible. They sought specific clues or multiple accounts of the same story. The little that Jake knew he’d learned from his grandfather, an eccentric old man with a seemingly wild imagination. Little he said had carried much credibility. He’d told numerous tales during his lifetime, all met with skepticism at best.
But his story of buried loot had captured Jake’s attention as a young boy. As he grew up he became more and more convinced that his grandfather’s story had some truth to it. It made sense, wild as it sounded, that there could be a stash of treasure hidden somewhere in or around the valley. There were plenty of other legends he’d heard over the years. Some told of stagecoaches that had been robbed, while others claimed various pioneers had found gold and run off with it. Still others described local Native American tribes who had accumulated valuable goods by trade over the years and hidden them away. Yet it had always been his grandfather’s tale that he had believed the most.
Jake folded up the paper and carried it into the large living room. He looked around, weighing his options, and then walked over to a tall, oak bookshelf and pulled out a book about Wyoming history. Opening it to a page in the middle, he inserted the map, taking care not to damage the paper any more than it already was. He then pressed the book shut, replacing it on the shelf.
Jake took a moment to survey his book collection. He had just about everything that had ever been published about the history of the old west, in particular those books concerning the area of Jackson Hole. Whatever recent additions had come into print he’d picked up at the library that afternoon, along with any publications about the area’s topographical profile or books containing trail maps of the mountains.
He was sure the mountains were the key. Grabbing one of the trail guides, he settled into a comfortable, wing-backed chair, switched on a small floor lamp and began to browse through
Similar Books
