Yellowstone Memories

by Spinola, Jennifer Rogers

  “Depends on the outhouse, I suppose.” Jewel ducked her head into the wind and walked side by side with Wyatt. “The structure and the design.”

  Wyatt shook snowflakes off his glasses and snorted. “If it’s really there, old Pierre was crazier than I give him credit for. Or smarter. Nobody in their right mind would hide gold in a privy—and nobody in their right mind would look for it.”

  They rounded the corner of the old cabin, and the front door creaked in the wind, swinging slightly open. Wyatt hushed, listening for footsteps or voices. “That old place gives me the creeps,” he whispered, moving closer to Jewel. “I guess we are really crazy to do this.”

  “Maybe so.” Jewel set her lips in a determined slant. “But I’m not giving up now—maybe never. I need to find this gold. I have to. It’s more important than you can possibly imagine.”

  Wyatt looked sideways at her, lifting a thick spruce branch for her to walk past. His shovels and rifle clinked together, hollow and metallic.

  “What’s so important?” he asked. “Why do you want the gold so badly?”

  Jewel hesitated a moment, her eyes briefly meeting his. “I need it to start over.” She rubbed her nose, which had reddened in the cold. “Nothing more.”

  “Start over?”

  “You know what they say about me. That I killed my husband. But I didn’t. I give you my word.” Her eyes glittered, but Wyatt couldn’t tell if it was tears or wind that made them fill.

  “Did you have any reason to want to kill him?”

  “Many.” Branches snapped under Jewel’s boots.

  Wyatt drew back in surprise but said nothing. The wind rattled bare tree branches together like skeleton fingers, and Jewel lifted her long skirts to step over a fallen limb.

  “But I didn’t kill him. His death was mysterious all right—but I didn’t do it. Although I think I’ve figured out who did.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone who wanted the letter.”

  A shiver of cold fear tingled Wyatt’s spine. “But you’ve got the letter. Do you mean somebody might be looking for you now?”

  “Possibly. My husband wasn’t exactly tight-lipped about secrets,” she said, passing the lantern to her other hand and accepting Wyatt’s arm to pass through a thicket of briers. “A little whiskey, a hand or two of cards, and he couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. He spoke about the letter a week before he died, and that same week some men ransacked our house—apparently looking for the letter.”

  “So you think one of them did it?”

  “Of course. It’s pretty obvious to me, but no one would listen.” Jewel shrugged. “His whole clan had always disliked and distrusted me for being Indien d’Arapaho, as if that made me less than human. So when he died, everyone blamed me without a second thought.”

  Wyatt paused and surveyed the forested stretch outside Crazy Pierre’s homestead, scanning the trees for anything resembling an outhouse. His breath fogged and faded like the thin hope of comfort Jewel must have felt back in Idaho among the trappers.

  “Why do you still wear his ring then?”

  She shot him a dark look. “I assure you, Mr. Kelly, that a woman alone in this part of the country is far safer if she wears a ring than if she doesn’t. I’m surprised you didn’t think of that yourself.”

  “Sorry.” Wyatt scratched his neck, ashamed. Until now he’d thought of Jewel mainly in labels: Indian. Female. Hired hand.

  But under it all, she was painfully vulnerable. Just like himself, but perhaps more so.

  “Did … did you love him?” Wyatt asked in a near whisper, barely managing to speak the words. He kept his burning face turned toward the cabin, shivering under his thick leather coat.

  “I beg your pardon?” Jewel twisted around to see him.

  He shouldered his shovels and rifle uncomfortably, and everything clattered together. “I’m sorry.” He felt heat flood his face in racing pulses. “It’s none of my business. Forgive me.”

  Jewel brushed strands of hair from her eyes with her free hand. “Did you ask me if I loved my husband?”

  Of all the fool things for me to say. “I truly apologize.” Wyatt rubbed his face in his calloused palm, eyes scrunched together in embarrassment. “Forget I said anything, will you?”

  “No, I did not love him.” Jewel’s steady gaze caught his. “Ever.”

  Wyatt remained as still as a blue spruce, not daring to speak or even to breathe.

  “He treated me as nothing but property, Mr. Kelly. I was bought, sold. He wasted our money on whiskey and women, and he beat me. Quite severely at times. Once he might have killed me if I hadn’t defended myself with a pitchfork.” She ran her hand over her forearm—the one where Wyatt had seen the long scar.

  In a blinding second Wyatt remembered Jewel in Crazy Pierre’s cabin, raising the blunt end of the pistol stock to swing at Kirby Crowder with surprising force and agility. But she did not pull the trigger.

  “Why do you ask?” Her cheeks were red with cold.

  “Huh?” Wyatt turned, too shy to look at her. “Why do I ask what?”

  “If I loved my husband.” Jewel turned her eyes on him, their darkness keen and penetrating.

  Wyatt paused a moment, his chest rising and falling under his coat with his breath. Afraid to speak, to ruin the hush. “Did I ask that?” he stammered, painfully aware of what a short distance separated them. A foot? Six inches? Jewel’s breath misted, dissolving into thin air near his cheek.

  “You did.”

  Wyatt looked down at his boots in reddened humiliation, twisting the lantern handle and trying to come up with a reason that made any sense at all. “I … I have no idea.”

  “No one’s ever asked me that before,” Jewel whispered. “Thank you.”

  Then she reached out boldly and gave his cold hand a gentle squeeze.

  “Over there.” Jewel pointed as they tromped through fallen pine branches and autumn-thin leaves. Snow gathered in white patches in the crooks of tree trunks.

  “What’s over there?” Wyatt had to force his attention away from her, willing the wild hammering of his heart to slow down. Straightening his knocking knees.

  “The outhouse, Mr. Kelly.”

  He could still feel the fleeting warmth of her fingers against his. “Oh, that.” Wyatt swallowed and crossed his arms, trying to feign nonchalance. “You’re right. It sure looks like a privy to me.”

  Jewel strained on tiptoe to see better. Not that she was short. In fact, she came all the way up to Wyatt’s chin—not a mean feat for a girl. The Arapaho were tall and stately, great warriors, and Jewel must have come from hardy stock.

  “The outhouse has a stone base, Mr. Kelly. Will you look at that.” She caught her breath. “And a crescent moon carved in the door.”

  “By gravy.” Wyatt stroked his jaw. “That stone base might make it sturdy enough to hold a stash of gold, if the rafters are built sturdy. And it’s solid pine log. You just might be right.” Wyatt looked over at her. “You’re not too squeamish to peek inside a crazy old man’s latrine?”

  “As I recall, I wasn’t the one scared of spiders.”

  Wyatt scowled and pretended not to hear.

  The outhouse stood in a thin stand of trees, not far from an old barn. It was a simple structure, with log walls and a peaked roof. A few shingles had come off over the years, but otherwise the outhouse probably looked much the same as when Crazy Pierre spent his days digging up the forest.

  Snow blew in fast flakes as Wyatt attempted to pry the outhouse door open, tugging on the swollen wood. Jewel put down her lantern and pistol and helped Wyatt pull, and the bottom of the door creaked open, scraping across soil. Wyatt stuck his boot inside the crack and leaned against the door, easing it wider for her to duck inside.

  “Do you see anything?” Wyatt struck a match and lit the lantern wick. He pushed the door wider with his shoulder and held up the lantern, straining for a glimpse of the rafters over Jewel’s head. “It’s boarded
over.” Wyatt’s heart leaped. “And the board’s buckling in the middle. Can you see that?”

  “Look at the wood he used.” Jewel leaned her hand on Wyatt’s shoulder and stepped up on the wooden seating platform, avoiding the cavernous dark hole. “It’s a different wood type than both the structure and the door. Here.” She reached for the lantern and shined it on the joint between the wall and the ceiling. “It looks like heavy barn board.”

  “And nailed up in a hurry. It’s a bit crooked, unlike the rest of the structure.” Wyatt felt around over his head.

  “See the nails over there? They’re starting to pull out.”

  “Braces.” Wyatt’s voice came out in a hoarse whisper. “By George. He put braces and trusses in here.”

  Jewel shivered, and her teeth chattered together. “It’s got to be the treasure.”

  “I’ll break it open.” Wyatt reached for his ax.

  “And let it all fall through that open hole?” Jewel gasped, pointing at the shadowy toilet opening in the platform. “If you break the ceiling and rafters open, all the gold will crash down on top of us.” She tapped the wooden seating platform with her foot. “You know this thing isn’t very sturdy, right? And there’s an open pit underneath that’s probably been … shall we say … well used over the years?”

  “I get it, I get it!” Wyatt stuck his head through the creaky wooden door and peered up at the roof. “We can hack the roof open, but there’s no way I can crawl up there myself. I’ll have to boost you up.”

  “All right.” Jewel put her things down and pushed past him. “Hurry though. This snow’s coming down hard.”

  Wyatt bent down and locked his fingers together. He waited for her to step, first one pointy, high-buttoned boot and then the other, and then he boosted her up. Jewel grabbed at the edge, her fingers clawing at shingles, and Wyatt pushed her up to the roof.

  Jewel steadied herself on the rough shingled peak, her wool skirts fluttering in the wind, and reached for the ax. She brought it down hard at an angle, turning her face as splinters flew from the boards and shingles. Then again. Two brittle shingles cracked and tumbled off in pieces.

  “That’s it—keep going!” Wyatt shielded his eyes as heavy white flakes melted and beaded on his glasses. “Do you see anything yet?”

  Jewel braced herself again and swung the sharp ax blade, and Wyatt heard the thump of metal cutting into wood. She hacked a few minutes, splitting open a crack, and then brought the ax down with a mighty whack.

  The boards split open, and broken chunks of wood rolled down the shingled roof and into the grass.

  Wyatt strained his head excitedly. “What’s up there?”

  “I don’t know.” Jewel bent and put her face to the crack and then shook her head. “It’s dark, and the snow’s coming down too hard. Let me open it up a bit more.”

  Wyatt watched Jewel’s steady brown hands and felt a stab of shame at the way he’d spoken of her, tried to use her. Why, he and his uncle hadn’t done much differently than her French trapper husband, who viewed her as property to be beaten.

  Jewel’s lips moved, her face turned toward him—and Wyatt realized she’d said something.

  “Pardon?” He shook the snow from his hat.

  “I said there’s something here.” Jewel’s voice was sharp, urgent. Triumphant. “An old burlap sack full, bulging and tied at the top with twine. And …” She sucked in a gasp. “Something’s glittering through the place where the burlap’s worn through.”

  Chapter 8

  Wyatt tried to speak, but his mouth felt dry, like he’d swallowed straw. “You’re serious.” His hands shook. “You’re really serious. What’s in the sack?” Wyatt tugged on the side of the outhouse roof as if to pull himself up, desperately wishing he could see.

  “It’s the gold,” Jewel whispered. “Pounds of it. Nuggets of all sizes. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  She reached into the hole in the roof and then reached down toward him with cupped hands. Dribbling a rain of gold nuggets into his outstretched palms.

  Wyatt turned the gold over in his fingers, speechless. Snow sifted down on the pile of gleaming nuggets in white streaks, sticking in ornately pronged flakes and then melting into tiny water beads.

  “We’ve … we’ve found it,” he whispered. “So Ezra Kind wasn’t bluffing about the gold—and the Thoen Stone’s real. I can’t believe it. I never thought …” Wyatt glanced up at Jewel. “You were right about the outhouse thing.”

  “A wild guess.” She tucked her neck and shivered in the wind.

  “A good one.” Wyatt looked down again at the gold in his hand. Funny thing though—it didn’t look much like gold at all. He sifted it in his fingers, watching the light gleam on the dull, brownish edges of mottled nuggets, like dirty cracked corn. The kind he might fling to his uncle’s chickens without a second thought.

  And to think this yellowish stuff was the metal of kings, of ancient currencies and Egyptian tombs.

  He could buy a new suit now—a new team of the best horses—the best oats for Samson—repair the wagon—help Uncle Hiram pay off the rest of his cattle. Start a sheep business. By jingle, he’d run the sheep business! And books—the best books—new ones! He’d have a collection. No, a library!

  And the land … oh, the land he’d longed for nearly all his life. Beautiful Cheyenne prairie that had nestled just out of his reach—occupied by the murderers who’d taken his family away from him. Not for sale exactly, no—but for the right price, even the US Cavalry would … ahem … negotiate.

  He’d dreamed of the deed, the feel of the paper in his hands. The persuasive argument in favor of US interests, with all the right words and loopholes. The smirk of satisfaction as the judge signed his name in black ink: “Land ceded to the United States Government, supervised by Mr. Wyatt E. Kelly.” The bang of a gavel.

  He’d have his revenge after all—the last say.

  Long-lost wishes and thoughts swelled up in Wyatt’s throat in giddy delirium, nearly choking him.

  Jewel was straining at something in the hole in the roof, pulling and twisting, and Wyatt barely had time to react when she heaved a heavy sack at him. He threw the handful of nuggets in his coat pocket and grabbed the sack before it bowled him over.

  “Watch your aim, will you?” Wyatt grunted as he lowered the hefty sack to the ground. It slid sideways into a fat, lumpy pile, the threadbare patches on the sack nearly ripping open.

  “You try balancing on a roof and handling a bag this heavy,” Jewel shot back.

  “Well, just warn me next time.” Wyatt knelt and pulled at the top of the sack. Images spun through his mind: the abandoned inn outside Cody. Gold nuggets dripping through his fingers like yellow sawdust. His patched trousers, and a fat pocket full of heavy nuggets.

  Time seemed to stop; the neck of the bag slipped open in a blurry haze.

  “You’re not going to faint again, are you?”

  “What did you say?”

  And Wyatt looked up in time to see a black circle opening over his head, swallowing him whole.

  “You’re really something,” Jewel was saying from the top of the outhouse.

  Wyatt looked up from where he leaned against the log side of the outhouse, head bent. One arm against the wall for support.

  “What’s wrong with you? Have you always been this … uh … fragile?” It sounded like she was going to say the word weak but slipped in a substitute at the last second.

  Wyatt bristled. “I’m fine, okay?” He stood up shakily and wiped his face. “Just a little vertigo is all. Why’s it such a big deal?”

  Jewel scooted down the outhouse roof and dangled off then let herself go. She dropped to the ground next to Wyatt and refolded her wool shawl. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just …” She shrugged and brushed the snow from her hair. “You’re different.”

  “I’m who I am, all right?” Wyatt snapped. “I get overwhelmed by things, I guess. Too much emotion and not enough guts. Is that
what you’re trying to say?”

  “I never said that.” Jewel pressed her lips together, and streaks of snow fell past her face like shooting stars. “I like who you are, Mr. Kelly. The most honest man I’ve ever met.” She raised her face boldly to his. “And you’ve got plenty of guts. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

  Wyatt knelt by the sack, not looking up at her. Incredibly thankful the brim of his cowboy hat hid his burning face. “Of course not,” he fumbled, trying to pick up a couple of gold nuggets and dropping them clumsily in the grass. “You’d have figured it out already and been halfway back to wherever by now.” He looked up at her with a plaintive, hollow gaze. “I guess that’s what you’re going to do now that you’ve got the gold, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe.” Jewel knelt next to him and opened the mouth of the sack, sifting her hand through the nuggets.

  “I thought so.” Wyatt scooped up the scattered nuggets and dropped them lifelessly in the sack. “I guess I always figured you’d go back to your people someday.” He swallowed, barely peeking over the brim of his hat to see her. Wishing he had something to offer her—to make her stay.

  But she was a rich woman now, and she certainly didn’t need him. Hurt seared under his breastbone, startling him.

  Jewel didn’t answer, turning a golden chunk between her fingers. “I said maybe,” she corrected him softly, almost sternly. “But probably not. If you want to know the truth, I’ve already been back to Nebraska.” Jewel dropped her gaze and tied the sack shut. “And it didn’t work.”

  “What do you mean it didn’t work?”

  “I’m not one of them anymore, if you can understand.” Jewel tucked her cold hands inside her shawl and shivered, looking positively frozen. “I lived with the French community in Idaho for years, and I’m not who I was before. I don’t understand Arapaho ways like I used to. I walk differently, dress differently, even eat differently now. I’ve forgotten many of the old ways.”

  “You could learn again, I guess.” Wyatt tugged on the sack of gold, the weight making him stagger off balance. Keeping his face turned away.