Yellowstone Memories

by Spinola, Jennifer Rogers

  “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders and your own good gifts and strengths,” Jewel had said at his Uncle Hiram’s kitchen table.

  And something deep inside him wanted desperately to believe that, too.

  The courthouse in Cody—that’s where he needed to go. He’d make up some excuse for Uncle Hiram and leave first thing in the morning. His motives were twofold: First, to request a map of the area from five years ago, when Crazy Pierre would have written the letter. And second, to ask a few questions about a certain Collette Moreau, otherwise known as Jewel.

  “Mornin’, Clovis. Got any news for me today?” Wyatt tipped his dusty hat and leaned against the counter. A stripe of sunlight glanced off the polished wooden desk, making his sleepy eyes wince. His room at the boardinghouse in Cody had been cold and dirty, and metal bed slats poked him in the spine all night long.

  “Well, well, well. Look what the wildcat drug in.” Clovis peered at Wyatt through tiny wire spectacles, which reflected the dirty window glass and city street lined with hitching posts, empty with late fall. He grinned and leaned over to shake hands. “Wyatt Kelly. Ain’t seen you in a while. How’s that ranch? And that uncle of yours?”

  “Oh, fine. He’s thinking about investing in sheep these days.”

  “Sheep, huh? They’re a lotta work, you know. Well, I don’t have any news for ya, unless you count the drunkard who got thrown in jail yesterday for walkin’ the railroad track.” He chuckled together with Wyatt. “What brings you to town?”

  “Nothing much.” Wyatt rubbed his fingers together to warm them from the cold. “But listen, I need a favor.” He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice, leaning both elbows on the counter. “I need some maps of the land around, say, East Fork River or thereabouts—on the other side of the Shoshone reservation. Older maps.” He scratched his shoulder and stretched. “How far back do you go?”

  “Old maps? Why, you ain’t prospectin’, are ya? Or fightin’ with somebody over boundary lines?”

  “Don’t be silly.” Wyatt straightened his hat and tried to produce a posture of ease, slouching against the counter. “I’m just looking for a couple of places is all.”

  “Well, now, let me take a look. I’ll be just a minute.” Clovis adjusted his glasses and disappeared into a storage room, rummaging and pulling out boxes, and finally returned with his arms full of stuff.

  “Looky here.” He dropped some dusty papers on the counter. “See if this is what you want.” He smoothed a paper with wrinkled hands. “Here’s a copy of the map drawn by the Hayden Geological Survey came through the area back in 1871. All the rivers and geological features and such, and some sketches, too, if you’d like to see them.”

  1871. Back when Crazy Pierre was still digging holes like a mole. Wyatt straightened his glasses to see better.

  “And here’s a later map of the Yellowstone River area back in ‘81. East of here a bit. Why, close to your uncle’s ranch, probably.” Clovis carefully handed him a print. “Lotta details and such. The railroad lines and some businesses. Even some private property.”

  “Let me take a look at that.” Wyatt pulled the paper closer.

  He made space at the counter for an elderly man in a suit and studied the map, his eyes running over the lines and contours. Following the names with his finger. He read the tiny type from top to bottom and back up again—pausing only at a little place about ten miles from Pierre’s cabin, up in the mountains. About twenty miles from Yellowstone, up against a mountain ridge.

  “Clovis,” Wyatt pointed to a square on the map as Clovis shuffled under the counter, “what’s this place here?”

  “That?” He squinted then took his glasses off and stuck his face closer. “Why, that’s old Crescent Ranch.”

  Wyatt sucked in a sharp breath, feeling his pulse pick up. “I remember that place. They had an inn, didn’t they? A boardinghouse or something?”

  “Sure they did.” Clovis ran a hand over his balding head, his hairs grown as long as possible and combed over with some kind of waxy pomade. “Forgot what it was called now. Water in the well dried up and had to close everything up. Never rebuilt.”

  The room seemed to shimmer suddenly as if through heat waves. “The inn had a big chair in the entranceway, didn’t it? Made of deer antlers or something?”

  “Moose.” The white-haired man in the suit leaned toward Wyatt at the counter. “Antlers from a prize moose, and the rest elk.”

  “You remember it.” Wyatt faced him.

  “Sure I do.” The man’s eyes were nearly opaque, like pale blue ice. He turned a knobby cane as he spoke. “That chair stood more than six feet tall—and my father killed the prize moose himself. Nobody’s ever seen a bigger moose in these parts.”

  “Do you remember the name of the inn?” Wyatt held his breath.

  “Of course. The Monarch Inn. After the butterfly.” The man blinked, and those pale blue eyes seemed to drift away. “I was a boy when they built it.”

  Monarch. Throne. Crescent. Wyatt held on to the counter with shaky hands. “Do you know what’s there now—in the place where the inn used to be?”

  “What do you mean?” The man’s face twisted in a sort of confusion. “There’s nothing there. The whole place was boarded up like a ghost town. Been empty for years.”

  “Anything else, Wyatt?” Clovis carefully stacked the maps together.

  “Just one thing.” He tugged at his suspenders uncomfortably, not sure how much to say. “You ever hear about a fellow named Moreau? From Idaho?”

  “Moreau. Moreau.” Clovis passed a hand over his thin scalp, patting his long hairs into place. “French fellow, ain’t he?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “A fur trapper, if I remember correctly. Mink and ermine. Made a good living up there with his kinfolk.”

  Wyatt turned toward the window as Clovis talked, pretending to be absorbed in a man hitching up a cart along the street. Light snow blew in thin gusts like goose down, floating and whirling.

  Clovis kneaded his chin with his knuckles as he thought. “Augustin Moreau, you mean? If that’s the man, sure. I’ve heard some talk about him.”

  “What’s the word on him?”

  “Word? He’s been dead for three years.”

  Wyatt’s heart seized up, and he felt as if the blood had stopped pumping. Turning his fingers to ice. “What, was he shot?”

  “No. Bludgeoned with a metal stovepipe on Thanksgiving Day.” Clovis stuck his head closer. “Funny you should ask because just the other day the sheriff asked if any of us had seen an Indian girl in town. An Arapaho, I think. A young girl, he said, and pretty—looking for work. Said they were searching for her back in Idaho, and a few folks thought they might’ve seen her in these parts.”

  “Arapaho are good-lookin’ people.” A thin cowboy with cold-red cheeks and tawny, overgrown whiskers looked up from the doorway. “Tall and stately, with the nicest features you ever saw. They say the Ute Indians like to steal Arapaho wives.”

  Wyatt swiveled his head back and forth between the cowboy and Clovis, his mind an incredulous blur. “Why are they looking for the girl?” His heart beat so loudly he could hardly hear. “What’s she done?”

  “There’s a bounty on her head.” Clovis put the stack of papers back in a drawer and closed it. “They say she killed her husband.”

  Chapter 6

  Wyatt stalked through the stable in a fury. His hair hung a filthy red under his battered hat, like muddy river clay—messy with wood splinters and sweat and soil. “I give up, Mrs. Moreau. I mean Miss Moreau. Whoever you are.” He crossed his arms stiffly, furious breaths heaving in his chest. “There’s no gold.”

  “Excuse me?” Jewel looked up from raking through mounds of dirty hay, her fingers pink from cold.

  “Either somebody’s taken it already, or Crazy Pierre’s a liar.” He heaved a ragged sigh of frustration. “Or maybe both.”

  “No, both is impossible.” Jewel set the rake a
gainst a gate and offered Wyatt a stiffly dried cloth she’d hung after washing. “If he’s a liar, then there’s no way someone could—”

  “You know what I mean.” Wyatt scowled. “I’m in no mood for parsing verbs now, if you don’t mind.”

  One of the young stable hands paused, feed bucket in hand, and Wyatt glared at him until he scampered out of sight. Then he took the cloth and sponged his dirty face, borrowing a bit of water from the water trough to moisten the cloth and scrub his filthy boots.

  “Well.” Jewel wiped her hands and leaned the rake against the log wall. “It sounds like you’ve made up your mind.” Her breath misted like a fine veil, dissipating slowly.

  “Look. I’m tired of these games.” Wyatt snatched his hat and banged it against his boot to knock off the dirt. “I’ve been digging all day long, two days straight, and nothing.” He slapped the hat back on his head. “Show me the letter now, or I’m calling it quits.”

  “You’ve been digging?” Jewel put her hands on her hips, and her cheeks flushed. “You didn’t tell me.”

  “You haven’t showed me the letter yet!” Wyatt flung out his arms.

  “You should have told me where you thought the gold was, and we could have discussed it together. But you disappeared for five days without telling anybody where you’d gone, and what was I supposed to think?” A flicker of hurt flashed across her face, but she covered it quickly, picking up the rake again and pulling it across the stable floor in staccato strokes.

  “Look.” Wyatt put both hands up, trying not to look at her. Those flushed cheeks and red-and-blue beaded earrings glittering under her dark hair. “I didn’t intend to do any searches without you, all right? It just happened. I was in the right place at the right time, and what was I supposed to do?” A vein in his neck pulsed. “Ride all the way back here to the ranch and ask your permission?”

  “So … it just ‘happened.’ ” Jewel kept her back turned. “I’m not sure how that’s supposed to work. Have you ever heard of one partner digging without the other?”

  “Jewel. Listen.” Wyatt strode across the stable and grabbed her elbow. “Miss Jewel,” he faltered, reddening and dropping her arm. Horrified at his own boldness. “Ma’am. I apologize.” He ducked his head and scrubbed his dirty forehead with the palm of his hand, trying to gather his words and his sense. “I heard a few things in Cody, and I thought I’d check ‘em out. The old Monarch Inn on the Crescent Ranch? Ever heard of it?”

  “No.” Jewel smoothed her sleeve where he’d touched her and continued raking.

  “It had a big chair that locals called the ‘Throne.’ But there’s nothing there. Absolutely nothing.” He looked out over the stable, shaking with exhaustion and frustration. “I wasted my time.”

  “Look here, Mr. Kelly.” Jewel advanced toward him, pointing her finger straight at his chest with such spunk that he involuntarily put his hands up. “You shouldn’t have done anything without telling me first. I think I know where the gold is, and you didn’t bother to ask.”

  “You know?” Wyatt stumbled backward, knocking his hat sideways against a plank.

  “I thought of it after you left, and it makes perfect sense. But you haven’t told me why you went to Cody.”

  He straightened his hat and kept his eyes averted. “On business.”

  “Whose business?”

  “Personal business.”

  “Fine. Don’t tell me.” She folded her arms. “But don’t expect any clues from me either, if you’re not willing to tell me everything, fifty-fifty. You can figure out where the gold is on your own. But I think I know.”

  She turned to walk away, and Wyatt just stood there, hands on his hips. “They’re looking for you, you know,” he called after her. “I thought you’d appreciate it if I told you.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Jewel whirled around.

  “In Cody.” Wyatt dropped his voice and took a step closer. “You know why.”

  Jewel’s face went pale, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. “You told them, didn’t you?” she whispered. “You told them I’m staying here.”

  “I didn’t tell them anything.” Wyatt kicked the mud off his spurs against the hard floor, still angry.

  Jewel blinked as if confused and drew back, nearly dropping the rake. She lunged for it, catching the handle before it clattered to the floor. “You … mean you didn’t tell them I’m here?”

  “Of course I didn’t.” Wyatt tossed the cloth over a wooden gate. “What was I supposed to say? ‘The girl you say killed her husband is working at my uncle’s ranch—come and get her’?”

  “They’d drag me out of my bed.”

  “Doggone right they would.” Wyatt took a step closer, his hands clenching. “And I’ll be honest. I don’t know what to think of you.” He pointed a shaking finger at her, hoping the ache didn’t show too much in his eyes. “But let’s get one thing straight. You stay away from my uncle, hear me? If anything happens to him, so help me, I’ll call the local sheriff and have you dragged off to the gallows.”

  “I’d never touch your uncle.” Jewel spoke so softly Wyatt could barely hear.

  Wyatt sized her up, arms crossed. A lump swelled in his throat so tightly he had to breathe deeply through his nose.

  “Don’t you think I would have done something already if I’d planned to? I’ve been here more than two years.” Her eyes filled suddenly, and she looked down at the straw-covered floor, kicking at it with a high-buttoned boot. “And I didn’t kill my husband. It’s a lie.”

  Wyatt didn’t answer. He stuck his hands in his pocket and looked away, clenching a muscle in his jaw.

  “You didn’t turn me in.” Jewel raised her head, her expression changed to one of gratitude, almost humility. “That speaks more of your belief in me than anything you can say.”

  “I haven’t said anything,” Wyatt snapped, kicking a bit of straw with his boot. “I just want the truth, and that’s it.”

  Jewel studied him a moment, not speaking. A gust of wind blew snow flurries through an open window in the stable, and she shivered.

  “It’s in the outhouse.”

  “The outhouse? What’s in the outhouse—the truth?” He scrunched up his forehead. “What in the Sam Hill are you talking about?”

  Jewel glared, shushing him fiercely with a finger to her lips. “Crazy Pierre’s outhouse,” she whispered. “I think I’ve figured out the riddle.”

  Wyatt threw his arms up in disgust, ready to turn and stomp away, when the words fell across his memory like snowflakes: “Throne of solitude in the light of the moon.”

  Moon. Crescent. Outhouses sometimes have a crescent moon carved in the door.

  “Of all the …” Wyatt’s face bleached, and he snatched off his hat and whacked a post with it, not sure whether to laugh or kick something. Two horses backed and reared in indignation, and Jewel scolded him, rushing to calm the horses.

  “You’re telling me ol’ Crazy Pierre left his gold in a doggone privy?” Wyatt stalked closer.

  “Throne of solitude.” Jewel shrugged with a smile. “I guess they don’t call him crazy for no reason.”

  Wyatt considered this a second, letting out a snort of laughter. “He was eccentric all right. A strange fellow. But there’s no way under the sun I’m digging into somebody’s privy—I don’t care how long he’s been dead.”

  “Not under, over.” Jewel spoke in hushed tones. “The rest of the letter said this: ‘Deux pieds en bas et lèvent les yeux.’ ‘Two feet down, and look up.’ Do you understand?”

  “Exactly. Two feet down. I already told you, I’m not digging up a john. Got it?”

  “No, no, no!” Jewel shook her head furiously. “You’re not listening. Two feet down. You’re thinking measurements. Crazy Pierre was thinking feet.” She lifted the hem of her skirt to show her boots. “These.” She pointed. “In an outhouse, you put two feet on the floor.”

  “And then ‘look up.’ ” Wyatt’s voice dripped wonder. “So … up i
n the rafters?” He felt his eyebrows nearly touch his hair. “You think it might still be there?”

  “I don’t know. But I’d like to find out.”

  Wyatt faced her, his breath huffing as his mind whirled through the possibilities. Ticking off all the crazy clues one by ridiculous one.

  “The spurs in the wooden box,” he said hoarsely, resting a hand on his forehead. “They had crescent moons.”

  “Like an outhouse door.” Jewel stood so still that Wyatt could see a stray snowflake catch in her hair as it blew through a crack in the log walls—a tiny white sparkle among gleaming black, like a lone star. He felt the sudden urge to reach out and brush it away, but instead he stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets.

  “Let’s go then.” Wyatt reached over the wooden post and patted Samson’s shiny neck.

  “Now?”

  “I’ll tell my uncle you’re indisposed for the evening.” Wyatt straightened his hat. “First one to Pierre’s gets dibs.”

  Jewel’s eyes glowed. “I’ll beat you there.”

  Chapter 7

  Light snow whirled around Wyatt as he scrambled off his horse. He threw a wool blanket over Samson’s back and gathered up his lantern, rifle, and shovels. A brooding sky hung in blue-gray layers over the pines, like translucent paper.

  “Come on.” Wyatt looked over his shoulder, the cold wind nearly blowing his hat off. “I don’t like the way these clouds are rolling in. Looks like a snowstorm.”

  “If the gold is up in the rafters, it shouldn’t take long.” Jewel slid off her sleek Indian pony’s back, her long black hair blowing. She’d tied it back with a simple velvet ribbon; Wyatt was amazed at its length and thickness. The women in Cody would pay big bucks for a wig made of hair like Jewel’s.

  “But do you really think an old outhouse could support the weight of, say, a hundred pounds of gold?” Wyatt finished tying Samson and shouldered his things, forcing his eyes away from Jewel and into the gray distance past Pierre’s house. “And if there’s as much gold as he said, it would weigh a lot more than that.”