Gulch Gamble

I hear them break the silence. Gravel-dragging footsteps. I could distinguish the steps were not my brothers, because his thrift-store sneakers were planted just at the end of the hole we were digging. As I stood up and swung around, the tingling of my left foot told me I’d been squatting for too long.

“Dude. Why the hell would ANYBODY else be out here?” my brother whispered.

We were now frozen. There was surprisingly little sound in the desert at night. The sporadic steps were amplified in the silence.

“Were we followed?” I asked Joe with my eyes. We snapped both of our flashlights off and tip-toed to a small outcropped sandstone ledge above our dig site. The steps echoed through the canyon over and over.

The steps halted momentarily, and my half-brained sibling took the opportunity to click his flashlight on again, shining bright light on the small leather bound notebook that led us here.

“You idiot! Turn it off!” I snatched the flashlight and click it off, just after illuminating the orange stone walls like a light show.

“I was trying to see if the map showed anything nearby, maybe it’s the guy who owns this land checking it out.” I rolled my eyes to myself in the dark. Read the room Brosef.

I prayed silently to myself that the night walker wouldn't locate our massive hole. As I sat recounting the ways in which this endeavor could go "high and right", a small man walks around the far wall and down a small embankment. Wearing the generic Western-Old-Man uniform, this guy is the silver fox you see in all the modern day cowboy flicks. His white hair shone bright under the moon.

Joe grabbed my arm with such force, I knew I'd have a hard time explaining my bruises to mom. He saw the man too. We both held our breath as he walked closer to our perch. I keep my eyes glued to the man with fear and adrenaline surging in my veins like that weird CAT scan fluid that makes you feel like you peed yourself. Joe hands me the notebook to stash in my shoulder bag. How the heck are we going to explain this if we get caught.

Just as I'm forming my personal defence in my head, a sudden rock fall caught the man's ears and he snapped around. More rock sounds follow and he quickly hobbled back in the directions he came from. Huddling closer to the wall, we shone a light back onto the notebook to figure out if it’s worth the risk to continue. Joe opened up to the map on the third page. It’s meticulously hand-drawn. The gulch we’re in sits in the top right corner, with a small, geometric cube drawn in the area where we chose to dig. Next to the cube, an ancient petroglyph is shown that matches the white, etched cave drawing located on the sandstone above us. Treasure maps don’t really get much easier than that.

“Should we try again?” Joe questioned after a decent amount of time had passed. If we had any chance at all of recovering this cube, we had to go now.

“Let’s go,” I responded as we both scuffled down the slope back down to the hole. Joe grabbed the shovel and began frantically digging again. We’re now going at it with no flashlights. I quietly thanked the stars that my brother is a collegiate linebacker.

Clink.

It sure didn't sound like dirt. Looking into the hole, we see a shiny metal corner of an object. From my perspective, the small, perfectly smooth exposed side perfectly reflects the moon above, giving the impression that the box is lit up.

Joe ditched the shovel and began using his ginormous hands to clear away the sandy dirt. I scanned the gulch one more time for any sign of the moonlit fox and jumped in to help Joe pull the object from the ground.

It emerges. A perfect cube on all three sides, the corners and edges are seamless, like a metal ice cube.

“There's literally no way this is real.” Joe looks puzzled, almost making me laugh out loud.

"Looks real to me! Let's dip!” I said.

We stuffed the cube into my shoulder bag and try our best to “foot-scoot” the dirt back into the hole. Still under the light of the moon, we opted to store the flashlights too in case we ran into our old friend. We walked south out of the small canyon towards a cattle field. Distant moos tell us the cattle are not in our path back to the truck. We're puffing heavily in the thin desert air and our eyes are the only tool we have to spot any strangers.

Things looked desolate as we caught sight of our ride. The sound of an oncoming semi-truck gave me a strange sense of safety.

Joe and I walked casually but slowly towards the truck, scanning the shoulders of the highway for any other signs of cars or people. A few yards from the truck, both of us now visible under the streetlamp, I heard Joe spout my name as a question.

“Bets?” my nickname was laced with hesitation.

“What?”

“Over there.” Joe says.

A lone, black car sat roughly 150 yards away in the darkness. Incredibly camouflaged, the car seems lifeless.

“Was that there when we parked?” I asked Joe, hoping he would miraculously remember that detail. I was only met with a dumb stare that insinuated he didn't have a clue.

“Play it cool, it's probably abandoned.” we both giggled nervously at our absurd level of paranoia. At this point, the metal cube could be explained away as a funky mid-century modern home decor piece.

The doors to the truck unlocked, the car lights came on, and the empty road was illuminated as far as we could see in the direction we planned to go. Unfortunately, the breath of relief lasted about as long as the car took to start up, and the back of Joe’s head lit up in the view of the abandoned cars headlights.

“Damn it Betsy! Somebody saw us!” Joe was panicked now. He handled stress in the same way a toddler handles eating food they don’t like. Not well.

“Chill Joe, just drive, we’re in the car now, we’ll lose him once we get to town.” It was difficult to force a calm tone.

As we pull onto the road, the black car drove through our dust cloud and began to match our pace, staying just far enough back to avoid suspicion, but close enough to follow. Joe was white knuckled as he held his hands at the driver’s ed ten and two. He refused to look in the rear-view mirror to check on the black car. I didn't want to turn around to look, so I moved the rear-view mirror to my side to keep tabs on the stalker.

We passed the sign for the town of Ash Springs, which I remembered from the trip out here was home to a small 24-hour diner. Great place to ditch the creepy black car.

“Just tell me where to turn.” He replied without blinking. I was starting to feel bad that I pulled my sweet brother into this operation to begin with. It all seemed like such an innocent western adventure when we picked up that notebook back in a Las Vegas Antique Shop. I’m a known notebook junkie, and this beautiful authentic black leather notebook was just asking to be bought. I didn't even check if it had been used. Over margaritas, we discovered that the journal belonged to a person who charted several “strange” debri fields out in the desert north of the city. As we dug into the writings and drawings, we deduced that the previous owner of the journal must have simply been a paranoid drug addict. It was Vegas after all. But Joe and I had a penchant for spontaneity and after several more drinks, the pool party, dinner, and a round of roulette in the casinos, I hatched the plan in our hotel room to rent a truck the next day and head out to find this mysterious box in the gulch by the petroglyph.

“Just up there. Park under the streetlamp” I motioned with my pointed finger towards the diner glowing along the highway. Joe didn’t even use a blinker as he nearly drifted into the small row of parking spots in front of the restaurant.

We watched, and waited.

The black car approached, slowed, and passed as we sat motionless in our seats. Once out of sight, we jumped out and quickly made our way into the diner.

It was late, almost the early morning hours. Even so, there were several tables occupied with patrons. A mid-life crisis biker. An older lady looked like she came straight down to her kitchen in her moo-moo for a midnight snack. A couple in night club outfits sharing a milkshake.

And then, I saw it.

That unmistakable silver hair sat in the far corner booth. My heart hit my stomach which then hit the floor. I returned the arm-grab to Joe, who turned, and also, I assume, dropped his stomach as well.

“Can I help ya?” the waitress asked from behind the bar.

“Two please.” I responded while making "don't panic" eyes at Joe.

We walked over to a table near the club couple and ordered food. Joe sat facing me, while I faced the back of the old man’s head. The cube and notebook sat safely between my feet on the floor.

“What are the chances. We have an old croak wandering around that gulch, and then a weird black car following us?” Joe exclaims quietly.

“We lost the car. It’s just a coincidence. I think we're overreacting.” I assured him, as our faces, once again, were lit by headlights. On display, our squinting expressions portray absolute shock to see the black car pull up and park opposite our booth. As the car is closer now, I can identify the governmental decal stuck to the driver side door. We silently watched two men exit the car, both looking like off-duty Navy Seals, and walk inside. They ignore the waitress and walk straight towards Joe and I. They gestured for us to scoot over in our benches to make room for them. One of the men slugged a small lunch box onto the table.

“Let’s keep this simple, and no-one gets hurt.” The man on my side asks.

“Sorry, do we know you?” Joe asks casually, trying desperately to contain his nerves.

“Just a simple trade.” The man repeats.

“Trade what?” I ask. “We have nothing to give you.”

The men wait in silence. I look past Joe to see that the silver-hair man has now turned around and is looking at us too. As I look back at Joe, I realize that if this went bad, I would never forgive myself. I carefully reached down to the floor between my feet. I grabbed my bag and it banged awkwardly against the booth’s metal frame, making the restaurant go momentarily quiet. I placed my shoulder bag gently on the table, and the men swapped around the two items effortlessly.

“Don’t open the lunchbox until we're gone,” the men nod at each other as they both rise. Walking out the door, they exchange a second nod with the man from the gulch.

Several moments later, the old man also rose and walked out of the diner. We were left with the club couple, the biker, and the grandma. It took Joe and I a decent amount of time to calm ourselves down and realize we were ok.

I pushed the lunchbox towards Joe with unease, prompting curious looks from the old lady.

“We should open it right?” Joe asks.

“Those guys were from the government, so my gut tells me it shouldn't be anything dangerous” I reply.

Joe unzips the box. We look at each other, at the open lunchbox, back at each other, and Joe’s face begins to grow a gleaming, goofy smile.

We had traded for several stacks, twenty to be exact, of crisp, clean, green cash.