TREASURE!*
"Sure, there's treasure stories in all these old California gold rush towns. We've got our share. There's the Frenchman's Mill story, and one about a small cabin in town with a fortune buried under it. And several others."
George Tiscovia, the speaker, sat slumped in his chair, booted feet thrust straight out before him under the table. The table was in the Magnolia, the biggest and busiest saloon in Coulterville. It was late in the fall of 1883, with a cold, raw wind blowing outside. Warm enough here, though, in the barroom.
George still wore his hat. It was tilted low over his eyes, hiding most of his face and the quick, sharp glances he threw at the two young men facing him. Dried mud, the result of road conditions after the season's first hard rain, was spattered thickly across his clothes, dull red-brown clots against the faded blue of Levis and mackinaw. George drove the stage, and the eight-horse team that pulled it, from Coulterville to Yosemite and return.
The two young men he was talking to had ridden the stage down from Yosemite with him, arriving in Coulterville that afternoon. They were a friendly pair, both in their early twenties. Ben was the dark one, Luke the blond. They were of a size, tall and muscular, and both eager to know more about the history of the region. And since they'd asked when the stage reached town, George had agreed to have a beer with them.
"Coulterville was a good sized town in the early days, not like now," George went on. "That's because of the fire back in '79. Anyhow, a lot of gold was found hereabouts, years ago. And wherever there's gold there's stories about it. Gold hidden, and buried, and lost as far as anybody knows."
Ben spoke up. "But has anyone ever found any of it?"
"Sure. There's been a couple of times when somethin' turned up. But the big one that everybody know about, that's never been found. It's gotten to be a joke around town."
"How's that?" This time from Luke.
"Well, my grandfather was s'posed to've hoarded most of the gold he ever found, and he'd found a lot of it. Finally, the story goes, he buried it for safekeeping. Never dug it up, as far as anybody in the family knows."
"Where'd he bury it? Does anybody know?" This from Ben again.
"Sure, according to the story. He's supposed to have buried it under the hangman's tree just across the street. Nobody around town believes it. The story keeps getting' repeated, and laughed about, but sometimes I get to wonderin' . . ." His voice trailed off and he sat silent, his eyes on the two.
Luke asked the next question. "But why? Why hasn't somebody local dug it up?"
"Story's been told so often nobody here believes it, I guess. Besides that there's a hangin' tree. S'posed to be bad luck to mess around with it. That's just superstition, prob'ly, but I guess nobody wants to chance it." Taking a final pull at the beer in front of him, George pulled himself erect. "I got to get going. I need a bath after that stretch of road."
The other two stood as well. Luke asked, "We were going to take the stage on to Modesto in the morning. If we decided to go on tonight is there a livery stable where we could rent a rig?"
"Two of 'em. One's around the corner on Stockton, the other right up Main Street."
"Well, it's been nice meeting you. Hope we'll see you again." Luke extended a hand, shook, and watched as George shook hands with Ben, turned and left. Then he sat, motioned Ben to do the same, and waved for another beer.
The two argued through two more beers before they left the saloon, and continued to argue on the way to the livery stable. Then they went to the El Capitan for supper, still arguing.
After a clean-up and a change of clothes George had a leisurely dinner in the dining room of the Jeffery Hotel. Later he stopped in the Magnolia again, this time standing at the bar where Big John Thompson presided. At his nod, Big John drew a stein of been and slid it across the bar. Then, from his greater height, John glared down at George.
"What'd you tell them two young scalawags you brought in earlier?" Big John never talked around what he wanted to say. He just jumped right in.
"What'd I tell 'em? What d'you mean?"
"After you left they stayed a while. Asked questions of anybody'd talk to 'em, whenever they wasn't arguin.' Wanted to know about hidden treasure. Gold, I guess. Even tried to pump me."
"What'd you tell 'em? "
"Not much. They was askin' about the hangin' tree. Said something about gold bein' buried there. I told 'em I didn't know nothin' about it."
"Come on, John. That's an old story. Everybody around here's heard that one about my granddad. He was supposed to have buried gold there."
"Huh. Jist talk, and with you and all your jokin' I wouldn't be s'prised you started it. I didn't tell 'em nothin.' But I guess enough other folks already had, anyway."
For a long moment George just stared at Big John, but he didn't say anything. Then he shrugged and turned away, picking up his hat as he headed for the door.
It was late the next afternoon before George got back into the Magnolia. By then he'd already heard the talk around town. Couldn't help it, even if he had gotten up late. There was quite an uproar, with everybody talking about the same thing, so he wasn't surprised at Big John's hail as he came in.
"Hey, you, George, you hear what happened last night?"
George tossed his hat onto the big safe just inside the door and walked over to the bar. "What's that?"
"Somebody dug a hole under the hangin' tree. There's marks there shows where there'd been a big chest buried . Just the marks where it was. And them two young fellers you was in here with? They're gone. Rented a team and wagon last night from Goss. Whatever that treasure was, it was real. And now its gone. Whatta you think of that?" He slapped a beer on the counter in front of George, glaring at him.
George flipped a nickel on the counter and reached for the beer. His eyes met Big John's steadily. "Not much. How'd you know it was the young fellers?"
"Figgers, don't it? They was in here last night, and askin' about treasure. This mornin' they're gone. And somebody dug up a treasure last night."
"How'd you know it was treasure?"
"I don't, but it figgers. What else would anybody bury like that? Say, you didn't have anythin' to do with it, did you?"
"Now John, why would you say that? I don't know any more about it than you do."
"Well, you're always funnin' an' playin' jokes on people. 'Sides, somebody did a lot of work last night, diggin' and pryin' that chest outa that hole. And if you din't have anything to do with it, what's the matter with you today? You look plumb wore out."
"Had to go up on Schilling Road. Spent most of the night with a shovel tryin' to patch up the dam for Uncle Nick's reservoir. Worked my tail off. And a shovel sure wasn't what I'd planned on spending the night with, either."
"Well, you should'na offered to take care of your uncle's place while he was gone. Serves you right." But Big John wouldn't let it rest. "Whatta you think? I think we should send somebody after those two."
"Why, John? What have they done wrong? Even if they did what you say, that tree's not on private property. I can't see how you could do anything."
"Well, it jest ain't right. If there was a treasure there it should'a been ours. Us folks here in town. A lot of 'em are pretty upset."
George drank off his beer and put the glass back on the bar. "Well, I'm not. I'm headin' for my place. I'm still tired." He retrieved his hat from the top of the safe and left.
George decided to go to bed early. It wouldn't matter if the folks in town did send somebody after the youngsters. Not even if they caught up with them, which wasn't likely. There'd be no iron chest in the wagon, just their carpetbags. He'd seen them leave last night, after dark but not too long after they'd rented the rig. That's why he figured his idea would work, the one he'd gotten from Big John's talk
The lack of a chest in the wagon wouldn't prove anything to the men from town, though. They'd be sure the two had re-hidden the treasure, figuring to come back for it later. But with no way to prove it they'd have to let the boys go on.
George was smiling as he got into bed. He was still tired. He'd done a lot of work the night before. Digging the hole hadn't been so bad. The rain had softened the dirt so that part of the job was easy. But shaping the sides and bottom of the hole so it'd look like a chest had been removed, that was a lot harder. Especially when he'd had to work alone, completely in the dark And silently.
George himself had started the story all in fun a long time ago, knowing his grandfather hadn't hidden any gold. Not under the hanging tree, anyway. But now nobody in town would ever believe there hadn't been a treasure buried there. That was the best part of the joke. George was still smiling when he fell asleep.
*Copyright (c) 2002, by F. Barriger
All Rights Reserved.
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Forrest Barriger is the author of several E-books and articles published in a number of newsletters. Comment is invited to forbar@2xtreme.net/ Or see www.withfootinmouth.com/
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©2002 StoriesByEmail.com
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