Buffaloman Treasure

The Anderson farmhouse originally served as an 1868 homestead built on the hills above Walla Walla, Washington. It had been added to many times since its first two-room floor plan. It now boasted two stories, five-bedrooms, with a den, and had sprouted a long, covered porch on the south and east sides. The original barn still stood strong. Other antiquated farm buildings, however, remained off-limits, as Grandpa joked, “Their held together by all them spider web.”.

Three generations sat gathered on the south porch, lounging and casually talking about the happenings over the year since they had been together. The sun hung lazily in the west, casting golden-rust hues through the dust of the waning heat of mid-August. Stark shadows crawled across the fields and bled onto the etched hills further east. A southeasterly breeze wafted aromas of juniper, cottonwood, and alfalfa drying in the fields.

Tall glasses of cool, fresh-made lemonade nearly completed this picture-perfect etching of tranquility. The serenity shattered only by Chris and Malcolm, his friend, loudly making plans for the following morning’s adventures.

In early spring, Grandpa had chanced upon a bundle of letters as he mended the chimney in the attic. These he plunked down on the table and slowly untied the ribbon. “These make mention of the location of the legendary Buffaloman Treasure.” He eyed each boy in turn. “For well over a century now, the story of a hidden cache of coins has sparked the imaginations of uncountable children, and even old men. Through successive decades, however, all leads have dwindled to dust.” A smug smile crossed his face. “Ain’t nobody knows about these letters here excepting us around this table. But I gotta warn you boys, these letters could reignite in you a treasure-lust that’s been hid since I was a lad. So waddya say? You gentleman up for some treasure huntin’?”

* * *

“So, what do you think about all that talk of treasure last night?”

Chris laughed. “There’s always been a legend of that buried treasure out here, but I don’t believe in that kind of stuff anymore.”

“But the letters. I dunno, it would be cool, don’t you think?” Malcolm asked.

“Yeah, I guess. But we can head out now and see if we can find some arrowheads or something before breakfast.”

The dahlias and hydrangeas surrounding the house looked like weather-worn sentinels searching vainly for autumn’s first rains. The fenced garden plot, on the other hand, was bursting with produce. An hour after dawn, Malcolm and Chris meandered through the vegetable rows looking for artifacts and picking and munching green beans, cucumbers, radishes and tomatoes straight from the source. “I feel like Peter Rabbit out here,” Chris mused.

“Yeah? And who am I, Benjamin Bunny?” quipped Malcolm. They laughed and hopped around like wild hares looking for some parsley to complete the joke.

This year was the first year Chris had free rein to explore. And after yesterday evening’s discussions about the Buffaloman Treasure, they were chomping for some adventure. Venturing further afield, they discovered the old camper-trailer, which had fallen into disuse. Peering through the filmy windows and the faded, molded curtains at the stuff still in there was like viewing the contents of a time capsule of one summer in the early ‘80’s. Moss grew around the window frames. Patches of ferns sprouted from the wheel wells. A set of rusty stalactites hung from the back bumper.

“Weird!” exclaimed Chris.

“Cool!” agreed Malcolm. “I bet there’s some kind of treasure in there, too.”

“Maybe, but I don’t want to go in. Looks like it stinks.” Chris grimaced and stuck out his tongue. He pointed across the field. “Race you to the barn.”

Stopping at the door, Malcolm queried, “Are you sure we’re allowed in there? Looks like a good place to get yourself killed,”

“Nah, I’ve been in here before. The only thing to watch out for is lots of spider webs and a ton of dust. Come on, let me show you something really wild.” Venturing further in, they walked along a narrow corridor lined with antique, rusty tools hanging on the wall. At the end, they stepped down into a small room that held a workshop. Chris halted in front of a long-handled sickle, declaring, “I can’t believe grandpa has one of these things. When I was a kid, the first time I saw it, I thought maybe that skeleton guy who kills people lived in here. Boy, was I freaked.”

“Who says he doesn’t?” asked Malcolm, a bit skeptical. He was looking around the workshop for any place the Grim Reaper might be lurking.

Chris scanned the surroundings, less confident, but continued. “There’s a whole bunch of really old tools and stuff back over here.” He pointed to the left of the door they had just entered. An old work bench lay strewn with dusty tools and an assortment of saws and hammers, hanging by square shank nails. “I’ve seen old junk like this in antique shops, and here it sits dusty in this old barn. I bet there's over a hundred dollars’ worth of old stuff here. I don’t know why Grandpa doesn’t sell it.”

They braved their way back toward the Grim Reaper sickle and a door led off to the right into the main part of the barn. Suddenly, a repeated thumping sound stopped them in their tracks. It emanated from behind the wallboards. Malcolm’s eyes grew wide, and Chris’ face turned ashen as a hissing started to grow louder, becoming a scream. The thumping reverberated against the boards. “Ghosts!” The two boys were frozen in place when, out of a hole in the wall, two frenzied cats scuttled out, hissing and scratching the living daylights out of each other and whipping up a dust storm in their wake.

Both boys bolted out into the open part of the barn hollering.

“Cats! I hate cats!” exclaimed Chris.

Malcolm was laughing. “Man, they scared us big time. I thought that deadman dude was coming after us.”

Having regained some of their composure, joking and laughing to settle their nerves, they elected for more exploring in the main part of the barn. Old farm implements, wagons, trailers and a rusty John Deere tractor were parked along with Grandma’s riding mower. At the far back wall of the barn, to their left, were long roughhewn boards stacked up end to end with a ton of barbed-wire bails, a hay rake, and four old wooden barrels in front.

“Man, this is a museum in here,” exclaimed Malcolm excitedly. He went over to the hay rake and twanged the tines a few times. “I’ve seen old pictures of people using this stuff. I can’t believe your granddad has this just sitting here. We should open a museum or something and make lots of money,” he said enthusiastically.

Chris, meanwhile, was craning against the back wall. “Hey look, there’s a door behind this stack of wood. I can’t squeeze through though.”

Malcolm came over and peered from the other side. “No cats this time?” He laughed. “Wonder where it leads?”

“If we go outside, we can see what’s on the other side of this wall.” Chris mused. They galloped out the way they had come and around the back. Blackberry brambles sprawled profusely up the back wall, covering a small shack adjacent to the barn. They could just make out that a shuttered window was the only other way in.

“Great! We have to hack our way through this jungle or move all those boards,” Chris exclaimed as he popped plump berries into his mouth, wiping stained fingers on his jeans. He picked up a stick and started to hack at the brush.

Malcolm joined in picking and eating berries while thoughtfully contemplating a large walnut tree adjacent to the shed, in front of the small window. “We could climb up that tree, tie a rope off that far branch, and then lower ourselves straight through the roof. It looks like we could just drop through it's so rotten.”

Chris gave a scowl and playfully pelted Malcolm with a blackberry.

“What?” retorted Malcolm, ducking not quit fast enough and getting the berry in his ear.

Malcolm in turn, threw a berry and pegged a laughing Chris right in the middle of the forehead.

Chris grabbed a handful of the more-ripe berries and returning fire, pelted Malcolm with the barrage. “Ahh, then it's war, is it?” Malcolm lobbed a handful hitting Chris square between the shoulders with an arsenal of his own. Just then the clanging of the breakfast bell rang across the field.

“I think using a rope is a good idea.”

“Yeah, well maybe we could tunnel underground,” Chris yelled back as they ran toward the house. Approaching, they were greeted by an incredibly old man just walking up the steps of the porch, hat and cane in hand.

“Well, now. It looks like you boys already been doin’ some tunnel'n! Your moms ain’t gonna be too happy to see you grubbed up like wildmen even before seven in the morning.”

Only then did the duo notice their mud-caked shoes from the garden, the webs and dust from the barn, and the pulled threads and blackberry leaves from hacking through blackberry bushes, not to mention the prolific berry stains of their recent battle.

The old man continued. “But I tell you, it does my heart good to see boys out and about early on a bright, beautiful Monday morning, instead of sittin’ watchin’ cartoonies. Come ‘ere, I’ll give you cover. You sneak in through the front door while I keep the cooks busy with my old man talk. Take off your shoes b’fore you enter and dust each other off real good. I’ll see you in the kitchen in about five and act like I never seen ya before in my life. Now git!” he said with a broad smile.

Malcolm and Chris scurried around the house following the old man’s suggestion. A few moments later they sauntered into the kitchen on bare feet and clean t-shirts. Chris surreptitiously plucked a tell-tale bramble from Malcolm’s hair and dropped it in the waste basket on his way across the room to kiss Grandma good morning and snitch a sausage.

“And who might these fine-looking boys be?” The old man stood up from his chair with a wink.

Grandma pinched their cheeks and introduced the boys in turn, “You remember my grandson Chris, and this is his school friend, Malcolm.” She then introduced the old man. “This here is Mr. Hank Monson. Mr. Monson’s Granddaddy homesteaded this farm. Then when Mr. Monson’s daddy was just a smidgen younger than you boys, Granddaddy Monson passed on, and the farm was sold to the man in those letters we found in the Attic. We asked Mr. Monson out to breakfast, to possibly shed some light on those letters, and the Buffaloman treasure, and to eat my famous french toast of course.” She smiled, then said, “And by the way, you boys been digging in a tomb or something? Go wash your hands and faces. And bring your other shirts down so I can spray them and get those berry stains out.” She winked and tapped the end of her nose. “You boys together are as quiet as wild horses clomping up them stairs.”

The boys glanced at Mr. Monson, who had a grin from ear to ear. “Ain’t no way to hide dirt from a grandma, boys. So, hurry it up, ‘cause I’m hungry.”