Yellowstone Memories (6 page)

The US Army. The national park. Reality seemed to fade, ripple, as Wyatt sank to his knees.

Yellowstone, they called the park—where thunderous falls roared over a yawning chasm of volcanic rock and sulfur steam boiled up from the ground like a watery furnace. Scalding water bubbled and spurted, sometimes hundreds of feet into the air—and shimmering pools of acid carved wildly colored rings and chambers into the rock like glazed Indian pottery.

Jim Bridger and other explorers had written about “petrified birds and trees” and “waterfalls spouting upwards,” all stinking of volcanic smoke, but most folks thought they were weaving tall tales. Bridger, however, spoke the truth. Wyatt had seen the geysers himself as a skinny kid, prodded along by an impatient Uncle Hiram who wanted to show him the pits of “fire and brimstone” where he was sure the devil lived. And where “boys who disrespect their elders go, too, when they die,” Hiram had added, giving an evil cackle.

Wyatt had stared, horrified, into a shimmering basin of searing water, heat bubbles breaking on its steaming surface—recalling the black-clad street preacher in Cody who’d wept and shouted about hell, hanging graphic paintings of lost souls in a smoke-filled agony that looked an awful lot like Yellowstone.

As the mists on the geyser pit lifted, Wyatt peered deep below the shivering water to an underwater pool of clearest crystalline blue—so blue the color hurt his eyes. Beyond it, streaks of red-gold and green intertwined like strands of multihued cliffs against a cobalt Wyoming sky.

“Uncle Hiram,” he’d said, pointing. Breathless. “How could the devil make those colors? They’re so beautiful, don’t you think?”

Hiram had leaned forward, scrunching his craggy brow. “Dunno, Wyatt. Mebbe he got bored there in hell. Ain’t nothin’ to do but burn.”

Wyatt said nothing, gazing over the railing and wondering if Uncle Hiram and the street preacher were right, and the devil made it all. Or if both of them were wrong, and by some sort of divine, comic irony, God had made the whole thing.

Wyatt had just turned to follow along the rickety boardwalk when a long snort at the far edge of the wood made him turn his head. And there, not thirty feet away, stood a colossal, full-grown bull bison—chest-deep in the hot springs, steam clouding all around him like heavenly stained glass. Two sharp horns curved toward the sky in reckless splendor.

The biggest animal Wyatt had ever seen. So strong his sinews stood out under his massive brown hide in taut lines, shaggy fur mounting around his enormous head like a king’s chain mail battle cloak. Daring anyone to disturb his respite on such a cool morning.

The bison stamped his bushy feet, shaking the water into colored rings, and waded a pace or two deeper. Mockingbirds and meadowlarks parted; aspens cringed. He snorted again and tossed his magnificent head, horns gleaming. Breath misting over the water. Huge and defiant eyes caught Wyatt’s in an insolent gaze of absolute fearlessness, should Wyatt dare to challenge his majesty’s peace.

Wyatt backed up, white-faced, and scrambled up the boardwalk to call for help.

But no one had noticed the bison. Wyatt stopped, peering over his shoulder. The big beast turned his head away from Wyatt, silent and aloof.

And Wyatt said nothing. Dry-mouthed. Keeping the secret to himself, a fluttering of pressed-down excitements too wonderful to voice.

But as he rounded the forested bend, seeing nothing more of the bison but a cloud of steam through the aspen leaves, Wyatt knew one thing: No devil had made Yellowstone.

It had to be God.

Someone tugged open the cellar door, and Wyatt looked up at Jewel’s silhouette against stars in the open roof. Crazy Pierre’s dark and ruined house curved around her, silent.

The stench of sour pickles wafted up from the root cellar, and Wyatt thought suddenly of spiders.

“Are you all right?” Jewel knelt down and lit the lantern. The glow warmed her face and cupped hands.

Wyatt tried to raise his head, but it felt heavy.

“Mr. Kelly?” She shook his shoulder. “They’re gone. You can come out now.” She held up the lantern. “You should have covered me better, you know that? If it were up to you, I’d be dead by now. I think our deal should be more like sixty-forty, not fifty-fifty. But you did keep them out of the cellar. I suppose that counts for something.”

Something twinkled over her head, like a spider dangling from a silken thread.

“Did you shoot the buffalo, too?” he murmured, feeling a giddy blackness in his head. “I hope not. It’ll take more rounds than you’ve got in your revolver anyhow.”

And Wyatt put his head down on the top step.

W
yatt flipped the Bible page and fixed his glasses, trying to look calm and nonchalant, as if he didn’t care a bit. “So you really think I fainted, Mrs. Moreau?” He watched Uncle Hiram in the rocking chair by the fireplace, dozing. His fingers steepled together and eyes closed.

“You did faint. I didn’t know you were so … sensitive.”

“I’m not sensitive.” Wyatt felt heat flare in his cheeks.

“And afraid of spiders.”

Wyatt scooted his chair back in a huff, blood pulsing in his face. “That’s enough. Read the next Bible story, will you?” He glared over at his uncle again, wondering if he’d been bats to invite Jewel back for tutoring. But he needed to speak to her about the gold—and by George, Wyatt wasn’t the sort of fellow to slink around the ranch alone with a young girl—married or not—making the ranch hands whisper.

Jewel looked up at him with a slight smile. “It’s all right, you know that?”

“What’s all right?” Wyatt’s brow still made two angry lines.

“To be afraid of things. To be … well, just like you are. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Wyatt bristled, turning the pages of the Bible faster than necessary. He scrubbed a fist along his cheek, scruffy with patchy red, and hoped he could hide the blush. “Are you going to read or not?” he asked crossly.

Her gaze probed him with gentle curiosity before turning to the Bible before her. “ ‘Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen,’ ” Jewel read aloud over Hiram’s snores, her words clear and beautifully strong. “ ‘Through faith we understand that the worlds were framed by the word of God, so that things which are seen were not made of things which do appear.’ ”

“Does that make sense to you?” Wyatt stifled a yawn.

“Not really.” Jewel blinked at the lines of type, following them with her finger. “Do you have faith, Mr. Kelly?”

“In what?”

“In God. In the truth of the Bible.”

“I … I don’t know.” Wyatt squirmed uncomfortably. “Faith in anything seems a little impossible to me. Although I’m always interested in the truth.”

“I know you are.”

“You … what?” Wyatt scratched his red hair uncomfortably.

“I can tell you’re a man who seeks the truth.” Jewel leaned back and regarded him coolly. “Of course, I could be mistaken. But people do say you keep your word.”

Wyatt lifted an eyebrow. “I’m not sure anybody around here has a good word to say about me.”

“You’re quite mistaken, Mr. Kelly.” Jewel leaned forward boldly. “You want to hear truth? You could do so much more with yourself if you stopped trying to be someone you’re not.”

“Pardon?” Wyatt’s jaw slipped.

“You’ve got a good head on your shoulders and your own good gifts and strengths. You don’t need your uncle’s approval or anyone else’s.”

Wyatt stared, sputtering for words. “How dare you speak that way about my uncle,” he managed, his heart beating fast in his chest. “He’s your superior. Your boss. He hired you.”

“I never said not to respect your uncle.” Jewel raised her voice slightly. “He’s a good man, Mr. Kelly, and he deserves your respect—and mine. He’s raised you and looked after you his whole life. But he doesn’t own your future, and you certainly owe it to yourself to discover what you can really accomplish if you stop comparing yourself to someone else.”

“Are you crazy?” Wyatt bristled. “I don’t compare myself to anybody!”

“Yes you do. All the time.”

“Who?” He scooted his chair forward, making an ugly rasping sound. Uncle Hiram stirred, his snores sputtering.

Jewel folded her hands and glanced up at the faded tintype photograph of Amos Kelly on the mantel. “You know who,” she whispered.

Wyatt abruptly got up from the table and fidgeted with something on the shelf, trying to straighten the plates with quivery hands until he knocked them together. When he sat down again, he polished his glasses a long time without speaking and then growled, “You sure do speak your mind,” and stuck his glasses on his face at a twisted angle.

“So should you.”

“You’re wrong about all of it, you know that?” Heat climbed Wyatt’s neck. “Completely wrong.”

“No I’m not.”

“That’s enough!” Wyatt shut the Bible and pushed it to the side of the table, his fingertips shaking with anger. “Look. If you want to talk about the gold, then talk. Otherwise we’re done here tonight. Got it?”

“Fine.” Jewel met his eyes without flinching. “Go ahead. You start.”

Wyatt shuffled his feet irritably under the table, glancing over at Uncle Hiram’s sleeping figure. “All right then. What do you think of the contents of the box?” He dropped his voice to a near whisper. “Do you think Crazy Pierre really buried it, or did someone else take what he’d originally left and replace it with something else?”

“You said you saw him bury it.”

“I did, but that was years ago. Somebody might have dug it up since then.” Wyatt rubbed his forehead with his fist, letting his temper cool down. And keeping his father’s photograph out of his line of vision. “If it was Pierre, what was he thinking leaving nothing in that box but a rusted old set of spurs?”

“And his letter to my husband doesn’t help much: ‘
Le trône de solitude dans la lumière de la lune
.’ ” Perfectly accented words rolled off her tongue like kisses. “ ‘Throne of solitude in the light of the moon,’ ” she translated. “But it makes no sense to me. Pierre said something about looking under the whiskey jug if my husband was too dense to figure it out.”

“Under the whiskey jug.” Wyatt rested his chin in his hand. “That’s pretty cryptic.”

“Not only that, but Pierre wrote that letter over four years ago. Even if he left a specific whiskey jug, maybe down in the root cellar, it would almost certainly be gone by now.”

“So what next? I don’t get the spurs or the letter. A throne is where a king sits. Something royal? Expensive?” He raised his palms in frustration. “Or something up in the sky, like … like a constellation. Is that what he meant by solitude and the moon?”

“Maybe something related to a horse, then, because of the spurs?” Jewel played with the Bible page.

“Is there some … horse-shaped constellation?”

“What? No.” Jewel stopped another laugh with her palm, and Wyatt glared.

“I’m just trying things, you know,” he grumbled. “You could at least be civil.”

“Wait a moment.” Her smile faded. “Pegasus. The winged horse.”

“Why, you’re right.” Wyatt ran a hand over his jaw in surprise, thinking. “No,
I’m
right. The big square in the winter sky.”

“Could the big square be a box? Like the box we found?” Jewel gasped. “And one other thing. A horseshoe could look like a moon. A crescent moon.”

Wyatt studied her briefly, the candle flickering between them. A bead of wax slipped slowly down, melting into a molten ivory pool.

Jewel actually hadn’t shown him the letter. Who knew if she’d told the whole truth—or even part of it? “Is there anything else in the letter, Mrs. Moreau?” he asked carefully. “Anything at all?”

Jewel didn’t answer, twisting the wedding band on her finger.

Wyatt crossed his arms. “You’re keeping something from me, aren’t you?”

“Should I?” She eyed him with a suspicious look. “If I tell you everything up front, you could figure it out and take the entire stash yourself.”

“Me?” Wyatt pointed to his chest, openmouthed. “I’d never do that.”

“How can I believe you?” Jewel held his gaze. “No shrewd treasure hunter shows the landowner the full map before she asks permission to dig.” The candle flame flickered from her breath.

Wyatt crossed his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes. “You promised me fifty-fifty. That was the deal. And that means you tell me everything.” He raised an eyebrow. “Partner.”

“How do I know you’ve told
me
everything? Prove it, Mr. Kelly.”

“I gave you my word, and that should be enough.” He leaned across the Bible. “You admitted yourself that I’m a man of my word.”

They regarded each other across the table, and neither spoke. A log snapped in the fire, sending up showering sparks. Outside the house, the wind rattled a loose shutter, which banged and groaned.

“So long as you doubt me, how can I trust you with any evidence I find? Or my ideas, or … or anything?” Wyatt banged a fist in his palm for emphasis. “Fact is, I don’t even know who you are. What’s to ensure me you won’t take what I say and run off with the treasure yourself?”

“Nothing. Do you trust me?”