Mystery Box

The telephone rang, jolting Grandpa out of deep sleep. “5:30? Who’d be calling at this hour?” he muttered, stumbling out of bed.

“Ed, I knew you’d be awake, so took the liberty of callin’.” Hank Monson was exuberant on the other end. “Guess what. I found our Thomas Petersman. I know where the treasure is!” He was practically yelling. Grandpa could imagine this nearly century's old man jumping up and down retelling his news. “Could ya come pick me up? I’m just too excited to drive myself, why I practically had a coronary just dialing. Yiiiiihaaaaa!” he hollered.

Grandpa pulled the receiver from his ear. “Hank, what in Heaven’s name you talkin’ about?”

“Ed, the treasure! Thomas is the man who worked for my granddaddy way back when. After you mentioned the letters you found in the attic, I ‘membered some old letters and photographs hid away in my closet. When I looked, I found a letter addressed to my granddaddy. It's the same writin’ as the letters you found in the old house. I read it, and it gave directions on how to find the treasure.”

Grandpa stood, dumbfounded. His voice and hands were shaking in excitement. “You’re joshing me.”

“Nope, I got the box here. I’ll be waiting on the porch.” Hank hung up abruptly.

Grandpa stared at the phone receiver, and then shook his head to equalize his thoughts. “Can’t be.”

He moseyed down the hall and knocked softly on Mom and Dad’s door. Mom peeked her disheveled head out the door and replied with a bleary, “Yes?”

“Really sorry to wake you so early, nothin’s wrong, but I just got a call from Hank Monson. He said he knows where the Petersman treasure is, and would I come and get him.”

Dad was up and at the door now with a crazy-eyed stare. “Hank found the Petersman treasure?”

“Not exactly. He has a letter from the same Thomas Petersman, but tellin’ where the treasure is hid. I thought you ought’a know so’s when we get back ya’all’d be ready to hear the story from the beginning. Wake the boys in a bit. They’ll want to be part of this, too.”

“We’re awake, we’re awake,” Malcolm and Chris hollered as they tumbled down the stairwell like a freight train.

Brewed coffee and hot chocolate aromas wafted with fresh muffins in the oven when Grandpa and Mr. Monson walked in carrying an old, brown-papered box. Hank Monson set it down with great care. Everyone anxiously eyed the box. He cleared his throat. “Today, in your presence, I share the key to our treasure huntin’ success. In this here box, we enter the door to the past with all its mystery. And now we continue, where over a hundred years ago, the story stopped.” He lifted the top, and everyone peered expectantly inside. “I present to you . . . the map to the Petersman treasure.”

Chris and Malcolm sat back, disappointed there was no aged, vellum, pirate map. Hank Monson removed the contents, carefully placing them in neat piles in front of the box: a small stack of letters tied with a black ribbon, a bundle of old plate photographs wrapped in a worn, velvety-black cloth, a broach, and an old coin. Untying the letters, he pulled out one that looked startlingly familiar. The same penmanship as the attic letters stood out to everyone. Hank carefully opened the letter and began to read the faded pencil scrawl.

May 6, 1877. My dear Brother Peter, “That was my granddady,” Hank said with a broad smile. I thanks Providence remembering you and your kindness unto me. You came to find me and you fed me like a son. You gave me to read and write proper like. Never had I been treated like a equal human before you. I am sorry for the troubles I cause you in town. I can never repay your kindness. I am much better now thanks to your friend the Rev. Davenport. He is a good man with your good heart.

I do have one request. When you brung me to Portland, I is so beat up that I could not say to bring my treasure.

“Here’s where it gets exciting,” enthused Mr. Monson.

It is buried under the floor of where I sleep while in your cave. For me it holds great value as it came to me from my fathers. It is easy to find. Move the floor and find the wire. If you can send me it, I will pay the travel cost. I work here making bricks and am saving to have enough to get married to a good woman. I await your reply.

Sincerely, T. K.

Mr. Monson sat proudly. “So, there you have it.” He slapped the table. “It’s in the floor of his cave. I know the place. When I was young, it was my hiddy hole. I don’t think anyone else ever discovered it. Why, I even put a coyote carcass in there to scare off any two-bit punk thinkin’ of doin’ some diggin’.” Hank Monson settled back triumphantly in his chair.

Dad spoke, “I know that cave. That ole’ skeleton actually did the opposite for me. Growing up out here lit the spark that made this two-bit punk want to become an archaeologist in the first place.” He smiled mischievously at Hank.

Hank laughed at Dad and patted his hand. “I can’t blame ya for bein’ bit by the treasure bug.”

Grandma piped up, “How come you or your grandpappy never dug up the treasure? And what about all those letters we found in the attic? Surely someone else knew of the cave and dug around lookin’ for it? After all, the whole legend of the Buffaloman treasure revolves around those cliffs. You think this T. K. and the Buffaloman story are somehow related?”

“Before he could dig up anything, my granddaddy died. My grandmother sold the farm. She had three small children to look after and no way to run the farm. She sold it to the guy addressed in the attic letters. My father grew up in town and married there. That’s where I was born. Reading this letter early this morning is the first I seen connecting the cave and the treasure. To me, it held elements of legend, but I never knew that’s where the treasure was hid.”

“Here we are gummin’ when there’s a treasure to be had?” Grandpa asked. “I say we grab us some tools, head to them cliffs, and dig us some treasure. All in favor give a holler.”

It took a good ten minutes before the noise level subsided to the point that normal conversation continued. Grandma volunteered to pack a lunch, and Dad had gone to round up tools. The two boys were frantically collecting bags and boxes and flashlights and whatever else popped to mind. Within a half-hour they were ready to roll.

Amidst billows of dust, the old van screeched to a stop atop the cliffs at 8:06 that morning. Malcolm and Chris bounded out the sliding door before the dust could settle, much to the chagrin of the dust-choked folk inside. Eventually everyone else clambered out and trekked toward the ridge. Hank Monson, Grandpa, and Dad surveyed the valley, gauging the best route down to the cave below. The boys, looking like pack mules all geared out, impatiently beseeched to get the ‘move on.’

“Things sure have changed since last I was here. Junipers used to line this ridge heading down the valley. Suppose it's them cattle tramplin’ everything,” Hank Monson mused.

“Well, that was quite a while ago, Hank,” Grandpa replied.

“Seems like more than ‘quite a while ago.' Back then one could still meet Indians walking these hills. Sightin’ a coyote or deer was common. The endless blue sky never held jet trails. It was a whole life ago Ed . . . a whole life ago.’”

A reverent hush quieted the crew. Looking across the valley, they could almost see the smoke trails of Indian campfires and hear the yelp of coyote.

Mr. Monson abruptly broke the spell. “But time’s a wastin’ and we didn’t come here to look at scenery. We come for treasure.” And so they had.

Encumbered by their gear, the route down was slow. Dad led, pursued by the boys, trailed by Mr. Monson, helped by Grandpa. Finally reaching the mouth of the cave, they took a break. Grandpa took control, devising their plan. “First, we send in Stan with the tape measure and the camera to take a few pics for posterity’s sake and for a record, he being a two-bit archaeologist and all. Then, Hank, you go in n’ tell Stan what you saw way back when. Then me and the boys will follo’up with diggin’ tools and find us that wire Thomas spoke on. Too bad we didn’t bring a canary.” He surveyed the supplies. “We just might get so excited in there, we forget to breathe.”

Inside, the cave was just as the boys imagined from Dad’s description, except for the moldy smell and the lack of air, that was a surprise. Chris poked at the dog skull with a screwdriver as Malcolm tried to read the scratchings Dad pointed out on the wall. Grandpa was setting up the lighting while Mr. Monson surveyed the proceedings, resting on a stone bench. It was tight quarters, with every noise amplified.

A sixth person, silhouetted by the cave mouth, rose. No one noticed. “Ahem.” cleared a throat. No one heeded. A little louder. “Ahem!”

Grandpa looked toward the entrance. Seeing a giant shadow, he squeaked out a query, “Stan?”

Dad replied from the recesses of the cave. “Yes?”

Prickles of cold sweat rushed up Grandpa’s neck. Hank was beside him with the boys back with Dad. “Gentlemen?” His hoarse whisper quavered, “We got company.”