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lives.’”
    Kiki looked over the top of the newspaper. She and I shared a telling glance, and then she continued reading:
    “‘However, to this day no one has found the treasure, reported to be worth millions of dollars. The location of the treasure, no doubt, is locked forever in the rugged Ozark hills of southwest Missouri.’”
    Kiki put the newspaper aside. Nobody spoke a word. Finally, Pia asked the question we were all thinking.
    “Could that twenty-dollar gold coin be from the Jesse James treasure?”
    A small gazebo formed the hub for the Outlaw Days Festival. An eight-piece brass band sat in the gazebo playing Civil War songs. Around the gazebo, in a huge circle, were dozens of craft booths, food stands, and open-air tents reflecting 19th century life in Jamesville, Missouri. The festival hadn’t changed much over the years.
    Many of the merchants and artists wore Civil War costumes, the men in Confederate uniforms, and the women in dresses from that era. Others were dressed up as outlaws or as lawmen. The sweet smell of apple cider lay thick in the air, and the laughter of children could be heard.
    The brass band had just finished its version of “Dixie” when we arrived on our dirt bikes. I chained the bikes to a telephone pole. We were headed for Uncle Ike’s Homemade Ice Cream booth when we were greeted by a man’s shout: “Kids! Over here!”
    The fat man was standing inside a cubicle located between a funnel cake booth and a pole-tent where Original Ozarks Folk Art was being sold. He stood behind a long table stacked with novelties. A blue banner hung from the table:
    JESSE JAMES SOUVENIRS
    “Step a little closer, children,” the fat man said. “Allow me to show you my exquisite merchandise.”
    We went over to the booth.
    “My name is Clarence Conboy,” the man said with a big grin. The loose, reddish skin hanging beneath his jaw reminded me of a turkey beard. “Welcome to the celebration.” Clarence was dressed up as a Brigadier General. There was a single star on each shoulder of his gray Confederate uniform. “Where you kids from?” His turkey beard jiggled as he spoke.
    “I’m Pia Perez. I live here,” Pia said. “This is my brother Pablo and my cousin Kiki. She’s from St. Louis.”
    Kiki and I nodded at the man.
    “How did you hurt your leg, Pia?” Clarence asked. Pia’s right leg was twisted slightly and she walked with a limp. “You the same Perez in that car wreck a ways back?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Killed your daddy?”
    “Uh-huh,” Pia recalled sadly.
    “I did your daddy’s funeral, Pia. I own the Conboy Funeral Home. I’m real sorry about that accident.”
    I thought Pia might start crying. She usually began sobbing when someone mentioned our Dad. But this time she didn’t.
    “Here’s my offer, children,” Clarence said, passing one plump hand over the merchandise displayed on the table before him. “Movie posters are two dollars. The key chains are a dollar. So are the paperback books and the treasure maps.” The souvenirs were neatly arranged on the table. “All the money goes to the Jamesville museum fund.”
    “Cool poster,” I said, eyeing The James Boys posters stacked at one end of the table. Two men peered out from the black and white posters, scowls on their faces, six-guns drawn.
    “How about a Jesse James treasure map?” Clarence said, sliding one of the maps off the stack. He held it up like an auctioneer at a farm sale. “Everybody loves to hunt for treasure.”
    “I’ve seen this map before,” I said, trying to remember where.
    “Course, you have. Everybody in the county has seen it before,” Clarence confirmed with a grin. “At the museum. We printed up a bunch for the festival.”
    The Jamesville Museum was located in the basement of the county courthouse. It was a favorite destination for grade-school fieldtrips.
    Clarence laid the map flat on the counter, and I examined the two-foot-square drawing. It was reproduced on parchment