Jerimiah's Gold

Chapter 12

"Are you Klara Blaine?"

A rugged, sharp southern accent cut deep through my tranquility of repose. I awoke, drool practically dripping off the right side of my cheek. I wiped it with my hands.

"Excuse me?" I managed to croak out.

"Klara Blaine, are you her? You fit the description: average height, Mexican woman, scar on the upper left of her forehead."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Agent Crawford, I work for the Pinkerton Detective Agency. I'm going to need you to come with me ma'am, you're under federal prosection of countless armed robberies, and gang affiliation." He stood straight, unscathed by the blistering cold, and unforgiving as Satan himself.

"I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about, please sir, I'm very cold" I was only partially lying. I was extremely cold, I wonder if I could lower his guard a bit and try to kill him.

"I'm not falling for that, Blaine," He pulled out a baton and flicked it open, it reached to about twelve inches of pure steel, "come with me peacefully, and things won't get complicated."

I rose to my feet. My knees shook as my entire body shivered from the fatal winds, even in my large coat I was shaking. I squared my feet to meet my shoulders, then slowly reached for my revolver. I wasn't going to let his guard down, and he wasn't going to wait for me to shoot.

With one swift motion he swiped my wrist hard with his baton. I recoiled my hand in pain. I heard Wiona rear up. I returned my focus to the agent. He rose his baton in the air with his right hand. Before he could make another blow, I kicked his knee cap inward, forcing him to the snow screaming in pain. He let go of his baton as he went to grab his knee.

This proved to be a massive mistake on his part. I quickly swiped up the baton from the ground and repeatedly bashed his temple until he stopped fighting. I then found my gun, pulled the hammer, and almost shot a round into his head until something stopped me.

He's already dead, why shoot him? The thought appeared in my mind, forcing my body to halt. I stared at the lifeless body that lay before me. He did not move, nor was his chest rising at all. This man, this Detective Crawford, had been beaten to death by my own hands.

I don't know why this revelation stunted me, but I felt utterly empty at the thought that I had just beaten a man to death. Surely, he would've killed me, right? I've killed many people before, why was now any different? I holstered my gun and took a deep breath. I was no longer cold, I suspected the sudden burst of adrenaline was the cause of that. I looked up at the sky, the sun burnt my eyes, but I did not care.

Wiona calmed herself upon inspection of me, I felt a worrisome manner about her. I heard her heavy hooves march up to me, I felt her bulky head rest upon my shoulder, I heard her knicker in response to me not patting her. Yet, I did not feel as if any of it was real. Dissociation, perhaps? I lazily lay my head on Wiona's, this was enough acknowledgement for her to lift her head up high and stomp the snow with her massive hoof.

I heard buzzards in the distance, directly behind me, actually. They smelt the new rotting corpse that lay unprotected, and unbothered by other predators. Fresh meat, to them, a traumatizing self reflection for myself. Eat then. Eat, you magnificent decomposers of nature.

I turned to mount Wiona when I spotted animal tracks in the snow. Wolf tracks, fresh ones too. I stood very still for a long time, studying my surroundings, looking for any sign of the wolf - or wolves. I followed the tracks that led to some trees, beyond those trees was the sound of running water.

Follow the buzzards, and they shall follow you. Rejoice with the wolves, and they might rejoice with you.

I turned my attention to the buzzards that were now circling overhead. One of them followed the footprints of the wolf, and the rest followed soon after. I took my place in line, and let the buzzards guide me.

I treaded the same line the wolf walked, matching its prints exactly. The sound of rushing water made itself ever more clear. I knew I was close. I had estimated my arrival to take at least another day, perhaps there's more mystery to this treasure than I'm anticipating. I cannot think of the possibilities of it being a trap, but I must prepare myself for anything. I approached the trees cautiously. The buzzards retreated to feast on Agent Crawford.

I retrieved Frederick's old Winchester repeater, the same one he used in the battle of Flint Plains, the same battle that killed Callin Shepard, and put an end to the Shepard Gang. I admired it, both its history and its beauty.

I turned it slightly so the sun could reflect off the well polished silver, and make the rosewood stock pop. It was a gorgeous weapon, but it was severely old. I wondered how Frederick kept it in such pristine condition. I walked onward into the trees, crushing and snapping twigs as my feet hurried themselves in the snow with each step.

The sound of rushing water grew louder, but I could not see through the trees. I stopped for a moment and listened to the water to determine the direction it came from. Left. I turned left and continued my voyage through the jungle of pines. Moss and other vegetation brushed against my jeans and boots. My spurs caught loose blades of grass and yanked them from the soil. The water grew even louder until I had unknowingly sunk my foot into the bay of a narrow stream.

Across the stream was a tiny town; one of the smallest I've ever seen. It was tucked away in this burrow of trees - this nest of bugs and vegetation. It bemused me utterly. Why on earth would someone build a town in the middle of such a dense pine forest? Someone who was hiding, I hypothesized. I knew now that I was in Michigan for sure. A crudely made sign that had what I assumed to be the town's name on it made itself clear.

I investigated the stream and found a makeshift bridge of large stones, I crossed it without error, and approached the sign. "Jerimiah Cliff" was etched into it with piss-poor handwriting. So he was a Cliff. I thought to myself. This made sense to me, as the Cliff gang was formed after the civil war and hasn't really ended. The treasure was brought to life in 1874, Jerimiah Cliff must've died around the same time.

I examined the sign thoroughly and found an established date, 1859. This was a Cliff hideout. I immediately reasoned. Why the hell is it so far North, though?

I entered the town. It was very small and quaint. It held only two shacks and a large townhouse that I'd guess was the meeting area; where they'd plan robberies and such, perhaps? The townhouse matched perfectly to the one on the gold brick, other than one detail. On top of the awning was a rather large sculpture of a wolf's head, and it appeared to have been made to look as if it were viciously barking. Maybe the Cliffs thought themselves as wolves, since they had such a tight knit pact? I was grasping for straws to find any conclusion I could to this treasure.

I stepped cautiously onto the stairway that led to the entrance of the building. The wood was rotting all over. Maggots have claimed this architecture. All things considered, it was a very well made townhouse. I pushed open the door. The hinges screamed off the empty walls of the one story building.