by Matt James
“Jack, something has come up,” Bull said. He didn’t sound right. He sounded worried. It was one of several emotions that Jack didn’t think Bull knew how to express.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yes, there’s a problem with my nephew.”
Jack rolled his eyes. He knew all about Chatan “Hawk” Durham. For a kid who never caused any problems, Hawk sure got in the middle of a lot of them. And it was Bull who was always asked to rescue him, even if he did live five hours away. Then again, they were the only family each other had. Hawk’s father, Bull’s brother, had died young, and his girlfriend, Hawk’s mother, had skipped town and abandoned little Chatan on Bull’s doorstep.
The two had been inseparable for a while, but Hawk had gotten into some regular teenage shenanigans. Bull wasn’t exactly the most heartfelt person Jack had ever met. He was honorable and a hard worker, but the guy wasn’t dad material. Neither was Jack, for that matter. The Durham men eventually grew apart. Hawk had moved to Cascade and got a job at a casino. Now, the only time Bull ever heard from his nephew was when the twenty-something needed something.
Unlike Bull, Chatan hated his given name and preferred its translated moniker instead. Hawk was like his uncle—in that he wasn’t a troublemaker at all. Jack doubted the kid had ever received a parking ticket, let alone seen time behind bars. He currently worked as a cashier for a renowned asshat-of-a-man, Bartholomew Creed.
Creed owned the Black Buffalo Resort and Casino in Cascade, Wyoming. The former land-developer was a wealthy, cruel cheapskate. He happily paid his people next-to-nothing because he knew he could. Most of them worked at the Black Buffalo and couldn’t quit, even if they wanted to. Finding a job that paid better—or one at all in today’s economy—was nearly impossible.
Creed was also of Lakotan ancestry, though he didn’t act like Bull. He was all about the money and was responsible for some very shady, despicable dealings in the Dakotas. Rumor has it that he had defrauded dozens of people out of their land, promising them money that never came. The covert fine print this guy wielded was abhorrent.
It’s also why he’s been so successful, Jack thought, listening in.
“Nina is in the hospital and Chatan thinks he’s next. I’m afraid for his—”
Nina? Hawk’s ex?
“Woah there, Bull. Hang on a second. Breathe, and start from the beginning,” he said, sitting on his bed. He patted his face dry with a random piece of clothing and closed his eyes. He heard the faint shaking of his bracelet as he moved his hand. Bull had given him a pair of the beaded, Native American ornamental bands shortly after meeting. They were a gift in honor of Jack’s service in the Armed Forces. Bull’s late father had also been a veteran.
Jack never took them off unless they needed repair.
“Chatan and I didn’t get to talk long,” Bull said, “but he mentioned something that I knew would pique your interest.”
Jack paused mid-wipe. “Wait, I thought he and Nina were in some kind of trouble?”
“You said to start from the beginning.”
“Touché. Continue.”
Bull grumbled on the other line. “Yes, well, Chatan’s girlfriend—”
“Girlfriend? They’re back together?” Jack asked, interrupting Bull.
“It seems that way. They’re an interesting pair.”
That was putting it lightly. Jack had heard some stories that nearly turned his hair white. It was the most Jekyll and Hyde kind of relationship he had ever heard of. Hawk was a saint, and Nina was a sinner. She partied and slept around. But she always seemed to come back to Bull’s nephew for a much-needed dose of bland normalcy.
Nina Farley also worked for Bartholomew Creed, but she was the man’s private secretary, not a cashier. Her nightly habits were different too. He would go home and battle other people online. After she clocked out, Nina would routinely close the bar and make Hawk come pick her up. The tattooed, heavily pierced, raven-haired girl had showed Jack exactly who she was the first time he had met her. Hawk didn’t drink on account of his father’s past drunkenness. When his dad wrapped his truck around a telephone pole, the man’s blood-alcohol level had been twice the legal limit. Hawk vowed never to be like his ‘old man.’
“Chatan was helping Nina clean out her grandfather’s home a couple of days ago because he had recently moved into a nursing home. They were prepping the place to be sold.”
Jack had just dealt with something similar, but he wasn’t going down that road right now.
“What does this—”
“I’m getting there, Jack.”
Jack put the call on speakerphone and tossed the device onto his bed. He got dressed while he listened. Showering could wait. His half-acre needed his attention. He would be sweatier than he was now when he was done.
“After they rolled up the living room area rug, Chatan and Nina discovered that a floorboard was loose.” Jack glanced at the phone and waited. “They tried to fix it but ended up removing it altogether.”
Oops, Jack thought.
“That’s when they found it.”
Hmmm. Maybe not “oops.”
“Found what?”
“A letter, Jack—and not just any letter.” Bull’s tone got more serious if that were even possible. “It spoke of a ‘wealth of a nation.’”
Jack’s ears perked up. “Treasure?”
“Possibly,” Bull replied. “But it also mentions the seven.”
“The seven?” Jack asked.
“The Seven Sisters,” Bull explained.
Jack’s left eyebrow rose. “Really?”
Legend has it that there were once seven sisters playing in the woods. They got too close to a bear’s den and disturbed the creature within. The animal pursued the girls to exhaustion. Terrified, the seven huddled together and prayed for the gods to save them. Miraculously, their prayers were answered. The ground around them had risen and whisked them high into the sky. It’s said that the sisters were then transformed into the star cluster, Pleiades, and the earth beneath them became Devils Tower. The tale also states that the immense vertical grooves cut into the side of the famous rock formation came from the bear as it attempted to climb up after its escaped prey.
That was all good and everything, but…
“Once again, Bull, you’ve confused me,” Jack said, trying, and failing, to put it together.
“So was I before Chatan told me who penned the letter.”
Jack picked up the phone and deactivated the speakerphone setting. Putting the device up to his ear, he listened carefully and asked the only other question that he could think to ask.
“Okay, then, tell me, who wrote Hawk’s letter?”
Bull cleared his throat. “Theodore Roosevelt.”
“Woah. That’s incredible!” Jack said, eyes wide. “But I’m still confused.”
“Me too, Jack,” Bull sighed. “Me too.”
3
Black Buffalo Resort and Casino
Cascade, Wyoming
Even at sixty-two years of age, Bartholomew Creed was thick and powerfully built. He had successfully intimated countless people into horrible business deals over the decades, dealings that rarely ever went sideways for him. Some called him a crook. Others said he was a gangster. Creed called it an expertise.
Fifteen years ago, he sold his land-developing company and moved west to Wyoming. There was nothing left in South Dakota for him and his practices. He had been the closest thing to a mob boss the rural Great Plains region had ever seen. His next venture had been that of a profitable casino tycoon. Internet sports betting was huge nowadays. Creed had slid into that life at the right moment. The casino itself had been a bonus for him. The real profit was all done online by people he never met. It was easy money. He had made tens of millions of dollars in no time flat.
Unfortunately, a national recession had eaten into his profits. Two summers ago, he had decided to remodel the main casino floor. The decision had cost him more than he had anticipated.
So much so that he had reached out for secondary financing from a group out of California. Their original investment—plus interest—was due any day now. It was money Creed didn’t have.
Looking down on his beautifully renovated casino, he sighed. No one could see him through any of the twelve, one-way mirrors that took up the western wall of his deep, rectangular office. The office’s design, like his business practices, was all about control. In fact, when anyone entered his domain, they were under his intense scrutiny up until they reached his desk. By then, Creed would know how much of a fight a person would put up.
If any at all.
His intercom buzzed. “Excuse me, sir, but Mr. Zietz is here to see you.” Strange, he didn’t recognize the woman’s voice.
Creed spoke without taking his eyes off the “pit.” His voice was deep and gravely. “Enter.”
A bearded man, the size of Sasquatch, opened the door. Tom Zietz’s stature had earned him the nickname of “Bigfoot” when he had been a police officer back in Montana. Years ago, Creed had read a story that recounted the man’s ferocity. It was a disposition that had gotten him suspended numerous times. Impressed with the enormous man’s tactics, Creed had offered him a job as his head of security and guaranteed him a fifty percent pay increase to leave the force. For the past eleven years, Bigfoot had taken care of things for Creed whenever a situation, good or bad, arose.
“Yes, Mr. Zietz?” Creed asked, watching a woman with an ample chest walk by below. The sight made him smile.
Creed turned and waited for Nina to close the door before they continued. But his usual secretary wasn’t there. He didn’t remember if she had called out either.
Zietz tipped his head back to the door. “She’s why I’m here.”
“Who, the new girl?”
The redhead was cute but, at first glance, didn’t offer Creed anything else besides that. He liked his women fiery. This one looked like a real straight-shooter. It was something he would have to fix if she was going to stick around for any length of time.
“Yes, but no.” Zietz stepped forward. “I had a run-in with Ms. Farley that turned…ugly.”
Creed’s eyes bore holes into Zietz’s face. Nina was his favorite girl, one he often had “isolated meetings” with. She kept her mouth shut and would do anything for him. All he had to do was write off what the girl drank. That was chump change to a man of Creed’s usual wealth. But the bar tabs had started to pile up more than he preferred. He was close to cutting Nina off.
Maybe this is a blessing in disguise.
He kept his rising anger under control and stepped around his ornately carved desk. He sat and motioned for Zietz to join him. The bigger man did, explaining what had happened. Creed knew Zietz didn’t do anything of this sort without a good reason. So, he gave his head of security the benefit of the doubt.
“Tell me.”
Zietz retold what he had discovered over the last two days.
“I decided to approach Ms. Farley and ask her myself. I felt that what she had in her possession would be valuable to us considering the situation we currently find ourselves in.”
That’s putting it nicely.
“And you believe her claim?” Creed leaned forward and interlaced his fingers together. “You think she has a letter written by President Roosevelt that describes a treasure in our backyard?”
He nodded. “I do.”
“Can any of this lead back to us?”
“No,” Zietz replied, “she’s unconscious, and I may have broken her jaw.”
Numb to the man’s violence, Creed sat back and relaxed. “And where is this letter now?”
Zietz’s hardened face faltered. “I am unsure. She wouldn’t say. But I have a good guess. There’s only one person she trusts.”
Standing again, Creed stepped over to the mirrored window and gazed down at his beloved sheep. He got a kick out of it every time. He owned all these people in a way. Whether it was their debts, or their various vices he fed, he was the man responsible for it all—a professional enabler. And there, snaking his way through a mass of patrons, was someone he knew well.
“Chatan Durham.” He looked over his shoulder and saw Zietz nod. He spoke softly to himself but directed the statement at the young man below. “She protected you, didn’t she?”
If this works, I can keep the investors off my back for a little while longer.
Creed blew out a long breath and turned. “Make it look like an accident. The two of them are close. Let’s see how close they truly are.” He turned back to the window. “Find out what he knows. Wait until morning. See if anything else develops before he is scheduled to come to work.” He smiled. “I’ll personally sign off on a last-minute sick time request.” Zietz stood and headed out. “Mr. Zietz?” The big man paused and looked over his thick shoulder. Their eyes met. “We need that letter.”
The enormous man spun on a heel without another word. If he took care of this “Chatan Durham situation” like he handled everything else, it would be a brutal display of the man’s abilities. Creed waited until Zietz left and picked up his phone. His lawyer was in on everything he did, and he happily did what he was asked just as long as he got paid. Plus, he had something on the guy and wouldn’t be double-crossed, not after Creed got the lawyer on film having “fun” with a handful of inebriated high schoolers.
“Mr. Taylor.”
“Yes, Mr. Creed,” the lawyer replied. “How can I help you today?”
The casino owner smiled. “Let the investors know that there’s a development they might be interested in.”
And maybe—just maybe—they’ll get off my back.
“Oh?” Taylor replied, intrigued. “And what’s that?”
Cody, Wyoming
The next morning, the sun seemed to rise extra early. Jack groaned against the sliver of light peeking through his blackout curtains. Thankfully, his nightmares had not been as debilitating as usual. He actually stayed in bed this time. However, that didn’t mean that he had slept soundly.
His cellphone buzzed across his nightstand. It got a second groan out of him. The only person texting him at this hour would be Bull. They planned to leave early in the morning and drive over to Cascade and meet up with Hawk. It was an incredibly dull five-hour trek across the state. Still, Jack enjoyed the travel. They were pleasant hours. Luckily for him, Bull appreciated the same type of music Jack did. Unfortunately, his four-door pickup truck was from the early 2000s, and it didn’t have Bluetooth detection or even an audio jack. Bull still changed out CDs as he drove, something Jack hadn’t done in a decade. He yawned wide. Bull didn’t own many albums either.
He read his iPhone’s screen. “Be there soon.”
Jack rolled out of bed and stumbled to his dresser. Like every other day, he pulled out a pair of worn jeans and a black Volbeat t-shirt. They were his favorite band—one Bull had heard several times but didn’t overly enjoy. The Danish outfit crossed many genres but typically pumped out hard rock tunes with a little bit of a metal influence.
He procured a black leather jacket from the back of a chair in the corner of the room and slipped it on. It would be quite chilly in the morning. Even in the afternoon, he was able to wear it without breaking a sweat.
He sighed. As long as we don’t get into any shit. Jack was sick and tired of getting into shit.
Back at the nightstand, he pocketed his phone, wallet, and keys. Then, he opened the table’s drawer and placed his thumb on an ultra-modern keypad. After two seconds of inaction, the black box responded with a soft, barely audible click. The lid opened. The gun safe held precisely what its name entailed.
Jack’s preferred carry weapon was a black FNS-9C with a Streamlight TLR-7A Flex pistol light. It was a relatively uncommon one in most firearm circles. He had shot one at a range a couple of years back and was impressed with its ergonomics and durability. The gun handled beautifully. He had been a Glock guy for years, like most people were nowadays. But since purchasing the pistol, he had
become a true believer.
It and its custom-formed Kydex holster slipped comfortably into the front of his jeans. Even though it was legal to openly carry a firearm in Wyoming, Jack chose to conceal the weapon as well as a spare magazine. It was a personal choice and nothing more. He also clipped a sheathed, short-bladed tactical knife onto the back of his pants. It, like his pistol, was nowhere in sight.
His front pocket vibrated. Jack pulled out his phone. It read, “Here.”
“Wonderful,” he said, letting loose another yawn.
He quickly slipped into his socks and shoes and headed for the door. The hallway on the other side was lined with pictures of people he hadn’t seen in years. Some of them were dead. Nearly all of them were ex-Special Forces guys, like him. Others were law enforcement officers or firefighters. Then, there were a handful of pictures of him and his grandparents from years ago. Jack rarely took the time to look at them anymore.
The loss of his grandmother was still too fresh.
Jack exited his home and locked the door. He turned and cracked his lower back, relaxing as the vertebrae realigned themselves. Breathing easier, he descended his porch steps and made the short trek down his driveway. He looked down the street before climbing into Bull’s truck. The Chevy Silverado was in excellent condition—even with the high mileage. Bull took care of it like it was a part of him. It was one of the rare interests he had that wasn’t work-related.
Jack plopped in the passenger seat, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. The aroma inside the truck’s cab was life-giving. Smiling, he happily accepted a vacuum insulated Thermos and poured himself a cup of coffee. Bull thought of everything.
“Gracias,” he said, taking a sip.
“I’m not Spanish,” Bull replied, throwing the vehicle into drive. They pulled away and headed east.
“Oh, right. Well, Merci.”
The Lakotan grumbled something under his breath and powered on his stereo. Bull’s favorite album started up: Bob Seger & the Silver Bullet Band’s Greatest Hits.
The first song on the album was Roll Me Away.
