by Phil Truman
And with that he walked out her door. That had been two nights ago.
It was probably just as well, Sunny thought. “We’re about as opposite as two creatures can get and still be called human beings,” she said to her cat Igor.
She put on her denim jacket, and stocking cap in preparation against the sharp north wind blowing outside on that dark, steel-gray November morning. The eggs needed gathering in the barn and the goats fed. Going to the barn was something she dreaded doing since that night when those men had accosted her. Before Gale walked out on her, he had either gone with her to do those chores, or done them himself.
She pulled the holstered six-shooter off the peg in the kitchen, and strapped the belt around her waist. When her pistol came up missing after “That Night,” she went to a gun store and bought another almost exactly like the last one. Lately, she didn’t want to leave home without it.
Sunny knew her fear of going into the barn was mostly irrational, because one of her assailants, the one called Red Randy, had been arrested, and was laid-up in a hospital bed with plaster casts from head to foot. An armed guard stood outside his room, until such time he could be transported to the county jail to await trial.
Sheriff Bluehorse had come by to tell her about his capture and arrest. His story seemed a little sketchy on what’d happened to the guy, but he told her Randy had suffered a broken collarbone, two broken arms, three broken ribs, a broken leg, a strained neck, and a ruptured spleen. The Sheriff thought the man was lucky to be alive. The other one, he said, the little creep called Threebuck, had escaped.
“We ain’t tracked him down yet, but I doubt he’ll be coming around here,” Sheriff Bluehorse told her. “I ’spect that boy is long gone from these parts by now. Just the same, you’d be wise to have some protection until we can get him into custody.”
Well, she didn’t have big, strong, Gale standing next to her now, but she did have Mr. Beretta. She decided it was all the man she needed.
Sunny pulled her coat collar tight around her throat as she hurried through the cutting north wind. Her head bent, her eyes to the ground, she trotted across the barn yard. At the barn door, she caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye; something... or someone, standing on the top step of the root cellar. It startled her, her right hand going to the handle of the pistol. But when she looked squarely at it, no person stood there. What she did see, though, surprised her more than if it had been one of her assailants.
She studied it for several seconds as she stood at the barn door. Then she walked over toward it, that strange sentinel standing like a bizarre totem pole on the cellar steps. She continued to stare at it, by then oblivious to the cold wind.
Her four-foot terra cotta kimchi jar sat on the cellar step; and atop the jar’s lid stood a two-foot tall painted concrete statute, the yard gnome she called Frodo. He looked back at her and smiled from behind his Santa Claus beard. But the thing that made her laugh was the piece of cloth the size of a handkerchief that’d been tied at two corners, and the loop placed over Frodo’s pointed red cap. There, bouncing in the wind, flew a Confederate flag printed bandana.
Sunny put her hand to her mouth, and shook her head. “That damn Punch,” she said.
From out of the trees on the side of the hill about a quarter mile away the wind carried a long mournful sound.
Sunny looked out toward the trees, then back at the jar and its mounted yard gnome. “That idiot,” she said to Frodo. A sudden gust chilled her, so she clasped the jacket collar around her throat again, and hurried back to the house.
Epilogue
In the winter of 2008 Randell Vitus Brown, a.k.a. Red Randy, had recovered enough from his injuries to stand trial for the murder of Buck Buchanan, as well as for lesser charges of breaking and entering, burglary, and assault with intent to kill. During the second day of his hospital stay, Randy confessed to his part in the murder. But Randy’s admission didn’t come until, writhing in pain—that is, writhing as much as possible in his almost totally plaster-casted state—he begged for his pain medication. The sheriff, who had been at Randy’s bedside for a couple of hours interrogating him, kindly promised Randy he would let the nurse give him his medication just as soon as Randy told him about Buck’s murder.
Randy admitted he had been the ring leader, but he said his accomplice, one Chauncey H. Threebuck, was the one who had actually conked Buck on the skull, and then ran him over with the disking implement. He even told the sheriff he would find the murder weapon in the toolbox of Buck’s tractor. The sheriff had Deputy Butch go out to Sunny’s, where he did locate that crowbar in the tractor. The forensic folks not only found a latent print from Threebuck, but also skin, blood, and hair samples whose DNA matched Buck’s.
Randy had also implicated Stanley “Goat” Griggs in the crime, so the sheriff stepped up his efforts in locating the man. That would probably have gone for naught had not Sunny received a Christmas card from her dad with a return address in Barstow, California. Goat had written her a short note telling how he had found Jesus, and had established a small church he called The Road to Glory Church of Jesus Christ, which occupied a store front in an abandoned strip mall right next to the Flying S Truck Stop on I-15. There he’d turned his days into spreading the Gospel and ministering to road weary drivers, and all other manner of indigents.
The sheriff had Goat extradited back to Oklahoma to stand trial for his murder charges. Once back he cut a deal with the district attorney to testify against Red Randy. Goat got a twelve to fifteen year deal. Not long after his arrival in prison, he became a trustee for the prison chaplain, and still serves his time working for the Lord in Big Mac.
Red Randy received a conviction for murder in the first degree, and was sentenced to life without parole.
Sunny and Punch never really got back together, although Sunny didn’t give up hope. A month after Punch walked out on her, he and Jo Lynn had a reconciliation of sorts. With the advent of the Christmas season Jo Lynn apparently got a heart full of goodwill toward men and welcomed Punch back into her arms. That only came after Punch got down on his knees before Jo Lynn, begging her forgiveness and swore that he would never wander from her again. Jo Lynn didn’t really believe him, but she’d aged into a sentimental fool, so she let him in the door. Besides, now that Galynn and Artie had become officially engaged, Jo Lynn wanted the entire family to be together for the holidays.
But Sunny never gave up thinking Punch wanted to come back to her, because he kept sending her little messages in his warped sort of way. She kept making batches of kimchi and sticking the jar in the cellar, and the jar would disappear for a few days only to reappear empty on the cellar steps a few days later. Sunny would then replace it. She continued to do this for a few weeks, because she believed that it was Punch’s way of telling her he still cared about her. One of the odd, and endearing, things Punch always did was leave some sort of token on the lid of the empty jar—a pile of walnuts, a gathering of gooseberries or blackberries (in season), different nests of wild mountain herbs, several excellently smooth, flat, and spiritually useful river rocks, and once, unfortunately, a dead raccoon. He never did disturb the yard gnomes, though; and Frodo, standing again at his post above the cellar door, silently watched it all with his enigmatic smile.
White Oxley got some interest from the people at the History Channel on his Halloween night video. Parts of it did seem to show some kind of huge menacing creature or creatures, but the whole thing was dark and jerky and mostly out of focus, and it went dead just as White zoomed in on the creature throwing the man. White put a price of one million dollars on the video, but the History Channel people thought it too inconclusive at that price, not to mention smelling of a hoax, so they passed.
The Founders Day Committee got all their ducks in a row, and on a bright day in June the town of Tsalagee held their most gala and successful Founders Day celebration. That evening at Veterans Park Jorge Estavez gave a speech in which he honored Hayward Yo
st and his father-in-law Socrates Ninekiller for their combined one hundred and seventy plus years as life-long Tsalagee residents and revered Hometown Heroes. He further announced the city council had declared them official Legends in Their Own Time.
* * *
On an oppressive August day, at a spot some ten miles from the town of Tsalagee, a twelve year old boy, Eddie Dunaway, sat on a wide flat rock that stood above the bank of a cool stream. He sat on the rock fishing; all his gear spread out around him—his tackle box, his canteen and lunch sack, his hunting knife.
Eddie had found this rock several weeks back when he’d traipsed along the stream’s shore as it meandered through the woods all the way from where it emptied into the Illinois River. With the hills behind it, and the creek bending so that the rock stood at the apex of that bend, Eddie’s rock sat in almost perpetual shade. He not only fished for hours, but he also stretched out on the smooth flat rock, and while he listened to the gurgle of the stream and the chit and frit of the woodland birds, the buzz of dragonflies and wasps, he snoozed. This particular day, Eddie had reached that point.
At that cusp of dropping off, Eddie heard a short rustle in the grass behind him. He sat up quickly being wary of a snake. Eddie’s rock didn’t present itself as an especially good place to sun, but an old water moccasin likely didn’t know that until he tried it. Eddie came to a crouch looking around in the grass and brush carefully, but he could see no snake, nor hear any further rustle. It could’ve been a mouse or a bird. He laid back down.
No sooner had he closed his eyes again than something metallic pinged off the rock to his front, and arced into the water. Eddie whirled around and looked up the hill behind him. Seeing nothing, he looked over the rock’s edge into the water. At that point just below his rock, the water stood about six feet deep and moved slowly.
As Eddie sat looking into the water, something else splashed into the deepest part of the pool. He didn’t get a good look at it, but he knew it had fallen from above and not leaped up from the surface of the water. He turned and looked up the hill behind him again just as something fairly heavy, but not too big, hit him in the chest.
“Ow!” Eddie said and looked down at the object as it spun on the rock’s surface. It was a coin. One side displayed the profile of a person’s head—a woman, he thought—wearing a crown. Stars studded a circle around the edge. He turned it over. The words “United States of America” were imprinted around the edge, then sort of a flowery circle thing, and inside that
1
DOLLAR
1849
It was golden in the afternoon sun.
As Eddie examined the coin, something flew over his head. He ducked and turned just in time to see another gold coin splash into his fishing hole.
“Hey!” he yelled. “Who’s up there?”
He got no response. A few seconds later another gold missile whooshed by his ear.
“Hey!” he yelled again, but this time he did get a response—a low, frightening rumble.
Eddie jumped back, but he could see nothing. The boy shoved the gold coin into his jeans pocket and quickly left his rock. He stumbled hurriedly along the bank until he came to a shallow run of rapids where he splashed across to the other side, sprinting along the creek, not stopping for the mile or so, until he reached the spot near the highway where he’d left his bike. Furiously peddling toward home, he realized he’d left his gear on the rock. But he didn’t care; he would never go back for it, nor would he ever speak of the incident.
In the clear pool below Eddie’s rock four gold American dollars lay scattered at the bottom. After a day or two, silt, carried by the current, started to cover them.
A Personal Note from the Author
Thank you for taking time to read Treasure Kills. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review here. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and much appreciated.
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Thanks again – Phil Truman
About the Author
Phil Truman is a native Oklahoman, born in the small town of Miami in the northeastern part of the state. A former teacher and businessman, he and his wife have lived in the Tulsa suburban city of Broken Arrow for more than 30 years. Phil’s website is at www.PhilTrumanInk.com.
Other Novels by Phil Truman
GAME: an American Novel
Year in and year out the football powerhouse Hert City Trojans import a ringer to fuel their championship charge, but their luck is about to change. In the small backwater town of Tsalagee, first-year coach Donny Doyle knows the only way he can fulfill his promise to unseat the Hert City juggernaut, is to beat them at their own GAME. But in his own recruit, the mammoth and powerful, yet troubled and ominous Leotis McKinley, Doyle finds more than he bargained for. Truman’s character-rich novel GAME spins an energetic tale around the intensity of small-town high school football in America. And yet, amid the fast-paced drive of the story, lies an account of the human spirit struggling through adversity and finding victory. Readers of any age or gender will feel the triumph, honor, and glory that comes from the… GAME.
Get the ebook for these ereaders:
Kindle – Nook -- Kobo
West of the Dead Line, the Complete Series
The Dead Line, as it came to be called, was a railroad, the Missouri, Kansas, and Texas, cutting across the middle of Indian Territory down through Cheyenne and Comanche and Kiowa lands. It was a line on the map, a demarcation. West of it there was no law, only outlaws. On trails out there, notes would be put up on trees and posts letting lawmen know they’d be killed if they continued their pursuits west of the Dead Line.
In the storied history of the American West, no place comes close to matching the dangers and mortality federal officers faced doing their jobs. Their courage, resolve, and dedication to duty were beyond reproach... for the most part. Those who survived became titans in the legends of the West, particularly one man called Bass Reeves. These stories are fiction, but the encounters this lawman faced, and The Dead Line, were not.
Get the ebook for these ereaders:
Kindle – Nook – Kobo
Red Lands Outlaw: The Ballad of Henry Starr
In the last years of the tough and woolly land called Indian Territory, and the first of the new state of Oklahoma, the outlaw Henry Starr rides roughshod through the midst of it. A native son of “The Nations” he’s more Scotch-Irish than Cherokee, but is scorned by both. He never really wanted to journey west of the law, yet fate seems to insist. He’s falsely accused and arrested for horse-thieving at age sixteen, then sentenced to hang at nineteen by Judge Isaac Parker for the dubious killing of a deputy U.S. marshal, but he escapes the gallows on a technicality. Given that opportunity, the charming, handsome, mild-mannered Henry Starr spends the rest of his life becoming the most prolific bank robber the West has ever known.
Get the ebook for these ereaders:
Kindle – Nook -- Kobo
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21