I n need of distraction and work to help clear his mind for thinking, Artie had thrown himself wholly into preparation and planting his alfalfa fields. Or what he hoped would be alfalfa fields. He had little confidence in his meager abilities.
By Thursday, he had finished the planting, but seemed to have made little progress on the thinking. He wanted Theo to walk with him while he went to check on the field, so he went to the parlor in search of him. He found Fred instead.
The little man turned to face him, beady eyes shifting with apparent nervousness.
“Did you need something?” Artie found the man’s twitching manner even more odd than usual.
Fred looked about them, despite being the only two in the room. “You didn’t get this from me.” His high, nasal voice sounded higher than it normally did. “You have to promise me that.”
“I didn’t get what from you?” Artie looked the man up and down.
Fred coughed, holding out a leather skin book. “I’ll give this to you, but-but I didn’t. I didn’t.”
“You do know that doesn’t make any sense whatsoever.”
Fred lowered his voice. “It would if you were me, sir. Tell no one.” He put the book into Artie’s hands, dashing from the room.
Artie watched him go before lifting the cover. He didn’t know what to expect, but his father’s handwriting surprised him.
Weaver’s Needle, Arizona
Tuesday, October 12th , 1920
The boys have been told that I’m on a business trip. They might as well think so. There’s no need for them to bother their heads over the truth.
My finances are in trouble. Not since before we came to Goldfield, have I suffered from this depletion of wealth. I have, however, lent money to far too many people who won’t pay no matter what I do, and it seems my last investment has been chosen poorly. The current resurgence in Goldfield is failing me.
Thus, I find myself in the Superstition Mountains once again—it has been a number of years since I searched for Jacob Waltz’s gold. It is time that I found it. It is a necessity.
I have heard tell enough that the mine is near Weaver’s Needle, so here I camp. Hidden as much as I can be, for fear of any old miners coming along, though I know they are fewer than they once were. I have no desire to tell anyone my business and I have not the patience for a partner being forced upon me.
I am well aware of dangers in these mountains. Though the threat of the Apache Indians coming after me is no longer an issue, I deem. Still, I keep this record on the possibility that it could be discovered with my skeleton.
Tomorrow, I begin my search for the Lost Dutchman’s Goldmine. It must not fail me this time. It cannot.
“Artie!”
Artie jumped at his sister’s voice, dropping the book. She cocked her head, laughing at him. “Did I scare you?”
He retrieved the volume, pushing it into his pocket with a shake of his head. “You just startled me, Sparrow.” He looked up. “Did you need something?”
“Mama told me to go find you or Theo for a while. I found you first.”
“Is she going out again?”
“No.” Hazel tied her braids underneath her chin, then held them away from her head. “She said she got home so late last night that she needs a nap.”
Artie nodded. “I see. You can walk to the field with me, if you like. I just need to check on things.”
She bounced in place, which he took as agreement. He led her toward the door.
“You may have to find Theo when we get back though.”
“Are you going to see Miss Dorothy again?”
Artie stopped to look down at the mischievous dark eyes. “How do you know anything about Miss Dorothy?”
“I heard Kat and Theo talking about her last night when she brought me home. I stayed at the Gilbert’s yesterday afternoon to play with Norm, since Mama had calls to make without me.”
Artie started to question what the two had been saying but changed his mind.
“Are you going to see her?” Hazel had to trot to keep up with him outside.
Seven-year-olds are terribly persistent. “Yes.” He slowed his pace.
Hazel nodded and skipped ahead of him.
Artie felt the book in his pocket as he followed with a frown.
I never heard of Dad going to the Superstition Mountains or even caring about the Lost Dutchman. Why did he keep it to himself? Why did he lie about where he went, and just how often did he do so?