It sounds like Jackson Hole is as interesting as you expected. Glad you are settling in and starting on research.
A couple things to think about:
Try, if you can, to push beyond the regular tourist information, beyond the advertised spotlights of the area. We want to find something different, something unusual. We want to give readers an inside view. See if you can get to know some of the locals and maybe some of the old timers, too. They’ll know things that wouldn’t be readily available through normal research channels.
Also, if you can do as much historical research as you can, it will cut down on the fact-checking we need to do later on.
We have a little time on this one, but I’d like to see it ready for print in two weeks. See what you can do and let me know if you have any problems.
Susan
Paige clicked on the return icon and quickly typed a short response, aware that others were in line for use of the computers.
To: Susan Shaw
From: Paige Mackenzie
Re: Jackson Hole Article
Hi Susan,
Thanks for the advice and direction. I think two weeks will be fine. I’ve already run into a few locals and will see what I can learn from them. I’ll also do some research at the Historical Society, where I can get accurate dates and names of events and people involved with Jackson Hole’s history.
Again, thank you for your help and support. I’ll give you an update later in the week.
Paige
Paige logged off and stood up, moving away from the computer in order to let the next person in line step up. Heading toward the exit, she rounded a corner quickly, without looking up. A clatter of books slamming against the floor followed her clumsy crash into another library patron. Embarrassed, Paige mumbled an apology while bending down to pick up the spilled books. Two more hands reached down to help, accompanied by a light laugh. To her surprise, she looked up to see Jake.
“Oh my, gosh,” Paige stammered, more shocked and surprised to see Jake than she was apologetic for the collision. “I’m so sorry.” She scrambled to grab a few more books from the floor and noticed they had titles about Jackson Hole. Some appeared to be history, others maps and trail information. She heard the light laugh again and straightened up to face Jake straight on.
“I really am sorry,” Paige repeated, glancing at the books in her hands before looking up. “It looks like you’re doing some research on this area. Local books?” She watched for a reaction.
“Jake Norris,” he said, shifting the books he was holding to one arm and extending his right hand toward Paige.
“Paige Mackenzie,” she countered. She met his hand with her own, feeling a sudden, unexpected shiver at the touch of his skin against hers.
“These books?” Jake said lightly. “No particular reason for them. I just enjoy reading.” Still, he clung tightly to the books in his arms.
Paige noticed the edge of the envelope sticking out of the pocket of his flannel shirt. In fact, she noticed the shirt itself, a light blue with gray and white lines in the design. She also noticed his jeans, his rugged skin and the tilt of his mouth, still posed in a slight smile. And she noticed his eyes, a blue-gray that matched perfectly with the shirt. And then she noticed that he was noticing her notice. She abruptly regained her composure, apologizing once more for not watching where she was going. With a thin grasp of dignity, she quickly added that it was nice meeting him. Turning to leave, she could feel his eyes and smile lingering on her back as she walked away.
Feeling oddly unsettled, she stopped to pick up a few more grocery items for the fridge that Dan had been kind enough to provide. With another stop, she added a few utensils and some small pads of paper for taking quick notes. From there she drove into the center of town, making the usual left turn required to head north. The gray clouds had lightened considerably and there was still plenty of daylight left. Impulsively, she pulled the car over in front of the town square.
Paige walked slowly around the perimeter of the park and then crossed diagonally along one of the slatted wood walkways that crisscrossed the square. Clusters of violet primrose and bright yellow dahlia surrounded a tall statue in the center, a memorial to war heroes. She headed toward the bench where she had seen Jake’s animated conversation with the other man earlier that morning. Sitting down, she took a slow look around the square. She ran through the scene in her memory, knowing she had been watching from too far away to be sure of any details. But it had been clear that Jake had seemed especially agitated and the man he met hadn’t been any less upset. The exchange of the envelope had been done quickly and discreetly, but not before an argument of some sort. After that there had been little or no conversation. Jake had merely tucked the envelope away quickly and walked off toward the Blue Sky Café.
Again Paige ran through the encounter in her mind, wondering what the envelope contained. It had to be important, both because of the way the interchange happened and because of Jake’s hasty exit from the café after reading the envelope’s contents. Her instinct told her she was onto something and should follow through with it. After all, Susan had encouraged her to pay attention to the local people, to try to get information that was not readily available to anyone who simply passed through town for a day. Whatever was going on with Jake and the other man, it was definitely something outside of ordinary town activity. She was determined to find out what it was.
From her location on the bench, Paige had a view of most of the square. She surveyed the area and paused, taking note again of the four antler arches, in particular the one on the corner closest to the Blue Sky Café. Again it seemed to have a faint glow across the top, just as it had when she passed by it the other day. Looking around at the other three arches, she didn’t see the same lighting. She looked up and searched for parted clouds and rays of sunshine, wondering if one might be directed at that particular arch. But there was nothing from above to cause that type of effect. Nor were there streetlights on, which ruled out yet another possible explanation.
She stood and took a few steps in one direction, watching the arch closely as she passed it by, but could see no change in its appearance. Reversing direction, she walked back, but the glow remained the same. Finally, facing the arch directly, she wondered if this could simply be a trick of Wyoming mountain lighting, some type of optical illusion caused by the high altitude. A scientific explanation was starting to sound like something she would welcome.
She approached the arch, expecting to see the light fade, but instead it seemed to grow brighter. Though it appeared to go unnoticed by other people passing by, it seemed clear enough to Paige. Stopping a few yards in front of the arch, she stared at its hazy glow for a few seconds, certain that she wasn’t imagining it. She looked around for bystanders who might be able to confirm what she saw, but the town square was now surprisingly empty. When she looked back at the arch again, the glow had completely disappeared.
CHAPTER TWO
The sun was starting to lower on the horizon when Jake pulled up to the fenced gate of the ranch. He stopped his truck just far enough back from the gate to allow it to open, pulled on the emergency brake and left the engine running as he jumped out. The latch was old and rusty and the hinge creaked abrasively into the still air. He made a mental note to replace it at some point. But that would have to wait, along with dozens of other tasks. He had much bigger things on his mind.
He swung the gate open, returned to the truck and drove it through, stopped again and jumped out to pull the gate shut and then continued on to the old farmhouse. He liked the building, old and run down as it was. It had two stories, a small attic and a large front porch that wrapped around the sides. The interior was spacious and boasted an impressive vaulted ceiling above the main room. Yet those features didn’t interest him as much as the view across the valley to the Tetons. This was the reason he had bought the property, that and the fact it dated back to the late 1800’s. It had cost him an arm and a leg, but he was c
ertain it would pay off in time.
Upon entering the farmhouse, he tossed aside his hat, a typical cowboy style with a wide brim. It was a clean shot, landing on a wooden hook on the wall to the right of the entrance. He dropped his jacket on the sofa and walked to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of Moose Drool. Savoring the questionably-named but satisfying malty brew, he sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out the envelope.
Damn that Frank, he muttered under his breath. He didn’t appreciate being blackmailed and that was exactly what Frank had done, as far as he was concerned. It should have been an easy exchange in the town square that day. Instead it became a dispute. Well, he wasn’t going to worry about it now. He had what he’d waited for right in his hands. Now he just had to put the pieces together. After all these years of waiting and searching, of keeping secrets and being cautious, he could feel the anticipation of reaching his long-time goal.
He opened the crumpled paper and stared at it, just as he had that morning in the café. Good old Maddie, he thought, always ready with his black coffee. It was a good town, a nice place to live. It probably would have been worth moving to it anyway, even without a motive. But that was beside the point. He was here now, with business to take care of, not to sit and ponder the benefits of life in Jackson Hole.
The paper in front of him was worn and yellowed, with a rough tear along the left side and a stain of some sort just to the right of the center of the page. Lines, both solid and dotted, meandered across the sheet of paper, crossing at times and staying parallel at others. At one point of intersection there was a mark off to the side, which appeared to be something of a cross between a star and an “x”. There was no indication of direction, no typical markings to show north, south, east and west. And there weren’t any words on the page at all to give even a general location. An uneven zigzag line wound its way across the upper left side of the page, disappearing into the torn edge. Three symbols resembling arrows were clustered to the right.
Jake set the paper down on the table, took another swig of his beer, and let out a frustrated sigh. This wasn’t going to be enough, he thought. Maybe he needed to start over from the beginning, to think it all through again. He felt a sudden, familiar flutter of apprehension, one that he shook off as quickly as it took hold of him. He hated these moments when doubt weaseled its way into his thought process. Hesitation was counter-productive. He brushed it aside and tried to put his thoughts in order.
It was an old legend, though not a familiar one to many, much to his advantage. It was never widely publicized. Few articles had been written about it and those that had been were less than convincing. The lack of evidence was to blame, at least in Jake’s opinion. People tended to want something concrete before they would accept a tale as feasible. They sought specific clues or multiple accounts of the same story. The little that Jake knew he’d learned from his grandfather, an eccentric old man with a seemingly wild imagination. Little he said had carried much credibility. He’d told numerous tales during his lifetime, all met with skepticism at best.
But his story of buried loot had captured Jake’s attention as a young boy. As he grew up he became more and more convinced that his grandfather’s story had some truth to it. It made sense, wild as it sounded, that there could be a stash of treasure hidden somewhere in or around the valley. There were plenty of other legends he’d heard over the years. Some told of stagecoaches that had been robbed, while others claimed various pioneers had found gold and run off with it. Still others described local Native American tribes who had accumulated valuable goods by trade over the years and hidden them away. Yet it had always been his grandfather’s tale that he had believed the most.
Jake folded up the paper and carried it into the large living room. He looked around, weighing his options, and then walked over to a tall, oak bookshelf and pulled out a book about Wyoming history. Opening it to a page in the middle, he inserted the map, taking care not to damage the paper any more than it already was. He then pressed the book shut, replacing it on the shelf.
Jake took a moment to survey his book collection. He had just about everything that had ever been published about the history of the old west, in particular those books concerning the area of Jackson Hole. Whatever recent additions had come into print he’d picked up at the library that afternoon, along with any publications about the area’s topographical profile or books containing trail maps of the mountains.
He was sure the mountains were the key. Grabbing one of the trail guides, he settled into a comfortable, wing-backed chair, switched on a small floor lamp and began to browse through the book. There were so many possibilities. This was where the hard part came in. In coming to Jackson and purchasing the old Manning ranch, he’d felt he would have a better chance at finding the location of the legendary treasure. Instead, he’d only run into frustration. The valley was too long, too wide, to make this an easy task. Just the trails alone roamed over fifteen hundred miles, all put together. And there was nothing to say the treasure was buried anywhere near a trail. After all, many of those trails had been developed over recent decades. They wouldn’t have existed one hundred years ago.
One possibility, Jake had thought, was a trail that looped up past Taggart and Bradley lakes, located about fifteen miles north of town. Another he had considered was an area behind Emma Matilda and Two Ocean Lakes. This area seemed less likely to him, in that it was approximately thirty miles north of town. Still, whoever hid the treasure may have felt more secure keeping it at a distance.
The area that had intrigued Jake the most, though, was up against the Grand Tetons, behind Jenny Lake. Here the possible hiding places were almost endless, as the trail wound up through Cascade Canyon and branched off at a fork, leading in one direction to Lake Solitude and in another to Hurricane Pass. Just to arrive at Hurricane Pass was over eleven miles one-way, not to mention the elevation gain of 3500 feet. Taking the other fork involved a distance of about nine miles total to get to Lake Solitude, with an elevation gain of about 2300 feet. And this didn’t include any searches he’d need to do off the trails themselves.
Jake thumbed through the trail guide a little more, looking over other options. Static Peak, accessible through Death Canyon, was another possibility. Nor had he ruled out Delta Lake, reached by trail out of Lupine Meadows. The truth was that it was a huge mountain range with a seemingly infinite number of possible hiding places. Finding the correct one would be a monumental task. But it was not an impossible dream, Jake told himself. He was determined to see it through. He owed it to his grandfather, as well as to himself.
He placed the trail guide by the front door, alongside a pair of well-worn hiking boots. A quick glance around confirmed other ready supplies – a bright flashlight, a small compass and a warm, but lightweight, jacket. It would be easy later on to grab everything quickly and head out to begin exploring some of the trails. At least he could work on ruling a few out. The more he was able to narrow down the search, the closer he’d be to his goal.
Crossing the room, he pulled out the book that held the crumpled map and sat back down in the chair. There had to be something he had missed the first time he looked at it, some other marking or a line that was more obvious than he thought. Turning the three-way light up to its brightest level, he held the map up and peered through the paper. With the exception of the smudged spot just to the right of the center, there didn’t seem to be anything hidden. He squinted, attempting to see through the spot, but it was heavily stained and the light did nothing to reveal anything that might be underneath.
The sound of a sudden crash outside brought Jake immediately to his feet. He switched the light off quickly and stuffed the map under the cushion of the chair, then crossed quietly to a front window, pressing his back against the wall to the side of the window sill. He waited to hear more sound, not moving, his heart pounding inside his chest. It didn’t seem possible that anyone could know why he was here, what he was searching for. But
it made sense to be cautious anyway.
When several minutes passed without any additional sound, he pulled the edge of his front curtains aside and peered outside. Only then did he realize that the sun was almost down, leaving behind only the partial view that was typical for the twilight hour. He hadn’t been aware that it had grown so late while he was wrapped up in reading the map and trail guide.
Seeing nothing unusual outside, he moved to the doorway and cautiously opened it. A soft breeze flowed through the opening and the wild grass outside bent with the rise and fall of the wind. There was nothing out of the ordinary that he could see. His truck rested right where he had parked it. The chairs on the front porch were undisturbed. Everything seemed to be in its proper place.
Jake closed the door, twisting the lock a little more attentively than he usually did. Without turning the lights back on, he made a circle of the house, checking latches and briefly looking out of each window. Still he found nothing unusual. The sound must have been an animal running through the property, he decided. It was not uncommon.
To calm his nerves, he returned to the main room and opened a tall, oak cabinet. He pulled out a round glass snifter and a decanter of brandy, setting it on the small table beside his chair. He poured a generous serving and settled back, taking a gulp, followed by a few smaller sips. The warmth of the sweet liqueur spread down his throat and into his chest. He took several deep breaths and finally found himself relaxing. It had been nothing, he figured. Just the normal sounds of the open range, the regular noises to expect when living in this territory.
CHAPTER THREE
It was still light when Paige returned to her cabin, even after making additional stops to run errands along the way. At the post office, she had dropped off a handful of postcards to friends back east. In the local thrift store, she had browsed around for a few more items.
Above the Bridge Page 5
