“Maybe something from the journal?” I suggest pulling out my notebook. “A date, maybe, or coordinates?”
As I flip through my notes, a thought strikes me. “The markings on the stone guard—what if they weren’t just directions? What if the numbers were the combination?”
“Worth a try,” Caleb agrees. “What did we think they were? Two-seven and what else?”
I close my eyes, visualizing the weathered carvings. “I think it was two-seven-three. Or maybe two-seven-eight.”
Caleb tries 273 first, but the lock doesn’t budge. Next, he tries 278 with the same result.
“Let me see the notebook,” he says, and I hand it over. He flips through the pages, his eyes scanning my notes. “Wolf mentioned his wife’s birthday several times. When was that?”
I peer over his shoulder, our heads close together as we search for the information. His scent—pine, coffee, and something uniquely him—makes it hard to concentrate.
“Here,” I say, pointing to an entry I’d copied. “March 18, 1872. So maybe... 318?”
Caleb tries the combination, and with a satisfying click, the lock opens. We exchange a look of triumph before he carefully lifts the lid.
Inside the box lies a leather pouch, several folded papers, and what appears to be a small leather-bound book—different from the journal we already found. He first lifts out the pouch, loosening the drawstring to reveal its contents.
“More gold,” he confirms, tipping several small nuggets into his palm. “These aren’t processed like the samples in the first box.”
I reach for one of the folded papers, carefully opening it to reveal a detailed map of the area—far more precise thanthe rough sketch in the ammunition box. Various locations are marked with symbols that match those in Wolf’s journal.
“This is it,” I breathe, excitement making my voice tremble slightly. “This is the real map to the treasure.”
“And look at this,” Caleb says, opening the small book. “It’s a cipher key—explains all the symbols Wolf used in his journal.”
Scout barks suddenly, his attention fixed on something beyond the clearing. Both Caleb and I tense, my hand automatically moving to his arm.
“What is it, boy?” Caleb asks quietly, closing the box and sliding it into his pack.
The dog continues to stare into the trees, a low growl building in his throat. I strain my ears but hear nothing beyond the normal forest sounds—wind in the pines, distant birdsong.
“Maybe a deer?” I ask hopefully, though something about Scout’s reaction has me on edge.
Caleb shakes his head slightly. “He doesn’t react like that to wildlife.” He stands slowly, his posture alert. “We should head back.”
I nod, gathering our equipment while Caleb scans the treeline. The peaceful excitement of our discovery has evaporated, replaced by a familiar tension—the sensation of being watched.
We make our way back toward the UTV, moving more quickly than before. Scout stays close now, no longer racing ahead to explore. Twice, he stops to look back the way we came, his hackles raised.
“Someone’s following us,” Caleb murmurs, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
“Margret?” I suggest, though I don’t really believe it.
“Doubt it.” His hand brushes against his waistband, where I know he keeps his gun. “Keep moving. Don’t look back.”
We reach the stone sentinel, and I resist the urge to glance over my shoulder. The feeling of eyes on my back is almost physical now—a prickling sensation between my shoulder blades that makes me want to run.
The UTV comes into view, and I allow myself a small breath of relief—just a few more yards. As we approach, Caleb suddenly stiffens beside me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, following his gaze to the vehicle.
“The tires,” he says grimly. “They’ve been slashed.”
My stomach drops as I take in the sight of our disabled UTV, all four tires flat against the snow. This was deliberate—a message, or worse, a trap.
“Use your phone,” Caleb says, his voice calm despite the situation. “Call Jake. Tell him where we are.”
