River Rocks: A West Virginia Adventure Novel

by Steve Kittner

St--ms f-ow fr-- hil-- -igh

  A southern -ewel rest-

  Fr-m - -ain- n-gh-

  San- -s a -aul-

  Key -rom -he doo-

  In -n I- -an- -ank

  Josh and Eddie were on either side of Otis, looking at the paper and then at each other and then at Otis. His large dark eyes were fixed on the paper and the boys watched his eyes dart back and forth. He stared at the letters for a while and then drew in a deep breath and exhaled it through his nose. “Boys, I don’t really think this is going to be that hard to decipher.” He paused. “Some of these words are just missing one or two letters and it’s just the process of elimination to figure what the word is. Have you guys tried that?”

  “No, not yet.” Eddie replied. “Been so busy with everything else.”

  “Well, first line: Whe-- -teel --r--s r-n. And the first word is Whe--.”

  The three simultaneously began to run possibilities across their lips quietly; Whets, When, no, not enough letters, Where…

  Eddie said, “Maybe it’s Where.”

  Josh agreed. It was the simplest possibility.

  Burl took a short, broken pencil and wrote the word Where on a piece of paper.

  “Ok. Where. Next word is –teel.”

  Josh said, “Just run through the alphabet on that one, it’s only one letter.”

  They started doing it again, silent mumbling between them, trying all the possibilities and then Burl said Steel. It’s the only one that works.”

  Without any hesitation he wrote down the word Steel on his paper after the word Where.

  “Where steel…”

  Josh and Eddie looked at each other.

  ”We should have already had this done,” Josh said.

  It’s true that what they were doing now was just a simple game of fill in the blank but their lives, since finding the document in the can, had been a whirlwind of adventure and one thing after another, such as two long bike rides to the library, a trip to the Town Offices, an intimidating visit by the Sheriff, a new friend who happened to be a gorgeous young girl, another new friend who most kids would rather stay away from, and another new friend who owns the coolest log home they had ever seen, a raft project, a near death experience with a cougar and the best rabbit they had ever sunk their teeth into. All these things had left them with very little time to do any sort of deciphering work on the document, but now they were doing it! They were sitting by lamplight in the presence of a man whose family was history in those parts, in the warmth of the best log cabin ever built in this county, deciphering a map to possibly the greatest treasure ever to be rediscovered east of the Mississippi River, The Southern Jewel.

  “Next word. This one is going to be harder: --r--s”

  Burl flipped his piece of paper over and began writing possibilities for each letter. Josh and Eddie leaned in and offered opinions.

  Burl said, “Well, we need some vowels somewhere.” The three started throwing vowels at the blank spaces here and there to see if something would jump off the page at them. They spoke the possibilities: “Curses, verses, barges, partys.

  Burl looked up and down the draft, squinted his eyes and looked puzzled at times. “Horses, he said. “Where Steel Horses…”

  “Ran, Eddie added.

  “Or Run”, Josh said. “Where Steel Horses Run.”

  “Boys, I do believe we have the first sentence!” Burl announced.

  “What does that mean? Steel Horses?” Eddie queried.

  Burl offered a quick history lesson. “Well, back in the late 1700s, a man by the name of James Watt helped to perfect an invention called the steam engine and right away the world began trying to use it in all different ways to make life a little easier. So, soon was born the Steam Locomotive; a huge heavy beast of steel. Of course up until that point the main form of transportation was horseback and it just came natural to nickname this new contraption a ’Steel Horse.’”

  “Ok, so where steel horses run means where a train runs, on the track?” Josh reasoned.

  “Right,” said Burl. “And I do believe that fits right in with what we are trying to figure out. We have a train robbery, and we have train tracks right here close. Oh, and as a matter of fact I can show you the exact location of the robbery sometime. Right down to where the train was stopped. It’s just above the old trestle down there where you guys fish, maybe a half mile.”

  “I would love to know where that is,” Josh returned.”

  Josh and Eddie had walked those railroad tracks many times, not knowing what would later occupy their adventurous spirits. Many times they had walked right over the site of a historic robbery/murder and maybe even picked up a rock from that very scene and chucked it into the Elk River down below. Their lives had surely changed this summer.

  “Let’s keep working!” Burl advised.

  The team worked continuously as time slipped towards midnight and after. Letter by letter they filled in blanks and figured out one word at a time, some words taking much longer than others. A Southern Jewel Rests they already knew. They figured out the words streams, rainy, vault, and island and also door and bank.

  Burl Otis got up from the table more than once to fill up his coffee cup but they were all intent on solving this part of the puzzle tonight! They wanted to know what was so important that it had to be stored away in an old milk can, sealed shut with wax, lost and then hunted for many years by many parties only to be accidentally found by two young fishermen more than a hundred years later. Tonight they would solve this part of the puzzle as lamplights flickered in their eyes and fatigue gave way to anticipation and excitement.

  At around 1:30 in the morning their hard work paid off and they had the letters filled in. Josh read it aloud:

  “Where steel horses run

  Streams flow from hills high

  A Southern Jewel rests

  From a rainy night.

  Sand is a vault

  Key from the door

  In an Island bank”

  “And it’s dated September 1st, 1904,” Eddie finished, “the date that this deer hide was written.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  1903

  The old black bartender poured two more drinks as requested by the two men sitting at the far end of the long wooden bar. Regulars, they were, though he had never seen them drink together before and yet these two men were having an intense yet private conversation. They looked each other in the eye and occasionally would look around to see if anyone was close to them, within earshot. The bartender was somewhat amused and even curious about these men as he continued his job of serving drinks and washing and drying glasses, but he did not give them too much thought. The first night.

  The Cross Roads Tavern was situated on a small island of about six acres square in the middle of the Elk River near Red Creek. It was suitably named due to the fact that it sat near the crossroads of Red Creek Road and Elk River road, just north of the island. There was an old swinging bridge that connected the island to the area across the river just near the old Red Creek General Store.

  Outside the three-story wooden structure that night it was properly dark, with the only light coming from a half dozen dim light bulbs that were strung down the pathway that led to the landing where the steamboats arrived. Boats would travel upriver through a series of crude locks from Charleston and drop passengers off for the weekend to enjoy Island Life as they advertised it. But this was no family vacation destination. This was a getaway primarily for men in those days, to gamble, drink and fight. And plenty of all three went on there.

  The basement was half below ground and half above ground and was mostly for the storage of food, drink and hotel supplies. Its walls were of stone and inside was poorly lit with only lantern lights and small rectangular windows to provide illumination for the service workers.

  The main floor was the tavern floor with the bar, a few card tables and a roulette wheel. There were always plenty of locals in the tavern along with the wealthier Charlest
on men, washing down the dust of their day’s work until nighttime called them to their homes. The stone workers, all German immigrants, had their corner every night. These men were the best at what they did and were on the river for a couple of years to construct limestone train trestles over the small creeks and streams that flowed out of the hills along the C & O Railroad. One German gentleman seemed to be the foreman and he and the others had their corner table every night. These workers had a small labor camp set up on the far north end of the island as granted by the railroad to house them while they completed their project in that area of the C & O and thus had a short boat ride and a shorter walk home in the evening.

  On top of the tavern floor were two resort floors with six rooms each, for rent for the price of two dollars a night. Nothing fancy, just a bed with fresh clean linens and a wash basin with a mirror. There was a hat and coat stand in one corner, as the men would dress properly to come up the river. At the end of the hallways on the resort floors were bathrooms with large tubs for soaking.

  The very next night, the old black bartender observed these same two gentlemen in the very same intense type of discussion. The two men would stare into each other’s eyes, seemingly looking for any signs of distrust or treachery as they conversed. This went on for a couple more nights as the bartender served them up nice and strong. The more these men drank the more careless they became and, as they let their volume increase in their conversation each night, the bartender was able to pick up phrases of conversation from the clean-cut gentleman about gold shipments and access to the tools we need and a special train that will be running. The unkempt-looking woodsman looked him in the eye and offered suggestions of dynamite and a signal lamp.

  As they talked, the bartender became more and more uneasy as this began to sound like something that he didn’t really want to hear about! But his ears stayed trained on the conversation because it was also something that he didn’t want to miss a word of.

  As days passed, the clean-cut gentleman, whom the bartender came to know as a man named Franklin, had infrequent words with the stone foreman who he later learned was named Mansfield. But conversation between these two men was always brief and never happened when the scruffy man was around, which also seemed unusual.

  The Crossroads Tavern was also suitably named due to the fact that two men, Clyde Franklin and Arthur Otis, would enter the crossroads of their lives on these nights of planning, and the old bartender, Washington L. Brooks, would be there, drying glasses and serving drinks, and taking in all the bits and pieces of information that he could hear over the noise of shuffling chairs, high spirited working men and card-playing hustlers.

  Brooks would never tell a stranger what he had heard on those nights.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Late in the evening, after helping Brad through the shoals and returning home, Tiny Brooks sat in a century-old rocking chair with only a small lamp lighted in one other corner of his modest shack on the banks of the river. The scent of fried catfish and homemade hush puppies could still be detected in the air, but the leftovers had long been put away.

  He was sorting slowly through pictures and letters of Brooks family history, looking at each old picture with fondness and pride. Good memories he had of his relatives, aunts, uncles, grandparents who had all gone on before him. Each picture was a memory in time of a family get together, one of the many they had had there on the banks of the river. His Uncle William, always the practical joker. Earl, the serious one, was deeply religious, and was the man whom the family looked to for guidance in hard times. Images of Mama and Papa on this very same porch forty years ago. And Aunt Pauline who made the best fried chicken on the river!

  All were gone now but the pictures and memories remained strong in his heart.

  Tiny continued to relax and reminisce after a great day on the water and a fine meal, until he came across the one picture that always intrigued him. It was a picture of his great-great grandfather, Washington L. Brooks. The picture was cracked and faded with time but the image was still clearly visible and showed a man who looked to be in his 50s or 60s standing on a sand bar by the river with a cane fishing pole in his hand and six freshly caught catfish on a stringer. He was dressed in an old white cotton work shirt and black slacks with no socks or shoes but a smile on his dark face as big as the New River Gorge; the contentment of his life on the river was evident. In the background was a newly-constructed stone train trestle with a tunnel which provided passage for the small mountain stream to pass through and flow into the Elk River.

  Tiny particularly liked this picture and even remembered holding it as a child and looking at it with intrigue. It was a picture that reminded him a lot of himself, still living on the river, still existing with simple means and a heart full of happiness and peace.

  But what was written on the back was like a ghost from the past.

  A simple note to the only son of Washington L. Brooks read:

  Charlie, we know it’s here somewhere!

  One day the river will give it up!

  Paps

  Tiny Brooks had always heard of a legend of some sort here in Mountain County, but as it filtered down through the generations it had become a yarn and it was hard to separate the fact from the embellishment. The story in his family came from the man in the picture and told of a couple of men in an island tavern conjuring up a plan to somehow hold up a train and make a gold heist, using an old railroad lantern to flag down the train and dynamite to take care of the business of getting rid of the witnesses!

  Washington L. Brooks had heard these plans for himself in 1902 and had told no one outside of his family, and close family at that. Tiny has been told many times of this old story and the interesting part of it was that it had happened. That was a fact! Tiny also knew that it had involved the Otis family and that was what concerned him about the boys heading up to Tater Holler. Tater Holler of course was the location of the old Otis place, the Tater Holler Homestead, one of the oldest homesteads in the county. Tiny Brooks had seen Burl Otis many times up and down the river but had never become acquainted with him. He only knew the rumors of the Otis family being unfriendly and hermit-like and was concerned for Josh and Eddie trekking up through that neck of the woods.

  As Tiny thought about the old legend and read again the words on the picture, he couldn’t help but wonder what the boys were really up to. He knew them pretty well and he also knew that Tater Holler was not a much-desired camping location. It was hard to get to, hard to climb, and once you got back up in there it was nothing special. No good flat areas for setting up a tent and, other than a nice view of the river valley, no reason to exert so much effort for so little reward--- unless they were up there for another reason of course.

  As the sun rose the next morning Brad Radcliffe could tell it was going to be a good day. He got up and had a good country breakfast prepared by his mom and then headed down to the riverbank, long before his father arose. He prepared to sail downriver to meet Tiny Brooks to do some dredging work on the shoals of the river just below the baby blue bridge. Brad carried a bag with a jar of peanut butter in it and a sleeve of saltine crackers. That would be his lunch. He also toted a gallon jug of fresh drinking water drawn right from the sink.

  Brad untied the dock line and stepped aboard his craft, then grabbed the long pole and gave himself a shove off of the bank. Once again life was free and easy as he started his drift on the river. This leg of the journey he would go solo and the sense of freedom was incredible. There was no need for the sail, which would remain furled for the downriver drift. The current provided adequate speed and enabled him to relax and enjoy the ride.

  Brad once again took in the sights while coasting along: the turtles sliding off the logs and into the river, the bass hitting the top water bugs and the kids in their back yards playing, having been sent outside after breakfast by their mothers. One boy was up on the roof of his dad’s shed with a long stick in his hand, sighting down it like a rifle. An
obvious game of war! Reconnaissance or maybe sharpshooting.

  Tiny’s little shack was literally just a few feet up the river bank from the water high enough to avoid any floodwater but close enough to be one with the river. That’s just the way he liked it. His ancestors had built this home with that intention and it had suited every Brooks since then just fine.

  Brad rounded a slight bend in the river and the old Brooks home came into view. Brad poled the raft to get closer to shore as he planned his approach to the front of Tiny’s home. Tiny was on the front porch having a morning tea when he spotted Brad coming from upriver. That big Brooks smile spread across his face as he swallowed his last drink of honey ginseng and went down the old wooden stairs to catch a rope tossed to shore by Captain Brad.

  “Mornin’ Capn’,“ Tiny joked.

  “Mornin’ Mr. Brooks! Ready to throw some rocks?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be! Let me grab my bag.”

  Tiny returned from his shack with a brown burlap sack his daily provisions for working in the river. He also had a five-foot pry bar and a shovel which Brad was staring at as he came down to the raft.

  “In case we need to move some big ones,” Tiny said.

  Tiny stepped onboard, grabbed the long pole as Brad took the tiller and again the beautiful milk jug raft was adrift on the mighty Elk River. Tiny looked around and moved his body to check stability just as he had done the day before when he had helped Brad bring it back through the shoals from the mouth of Tater Holler. Still impressed, he flashed his big smile at Brad for a job well done.

  The team reached the shoals and tied off over by the shoreline. Tiny produced two empty milk jugs from his burlap bag that were painted, one red and one green to be somewhat “marine correct” for buoys.

  “We can set these with an iron rod down through them and clear out everything in between. Maybe make a pass about 20 feet wide,” Tiny suggested. “Every fisherman on the river is going to appreciate this.”