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mules, but besides being more expensive they were hard to find. And most that were for sale would kick a man’s head off, and he didn’t need to tend to anyone kicked in the head—usually they never got their right mind back and posed a real problem for those tasked with caring for them.
    In those things in Trent’s saddlebags, Slocum had read the letters from his wife, who lived with her parents on a farm in western Iowa. In her letters, she had been concerned about his health out there, and the dangers he faced. She wanted him to come back home to farm and stop his treasure hunting so they could have family and a life together. One letter, Slocum recalled, addressed her concern about Trent dealing with the congressman’s son. She had doubts about anything to do with that man. Trent should have listened to her.
    Slocum sent her a note telling her that her husband was dead and had no things of value that Slocum could send on to her.
    A week later they set up on the bend in the Arkansas that was marked on the map. Slocum began to search the area with Murty riding on the back of his horse. One day riding close to the river he spotted a rusted old Spanish spur imbedded in the sand. He let Murty down and then dismounted to recover the once very ornate spur. It was corroded by rust and grime, so he found a rag and they polished the spur with sand and water.
    â€œWell at least we found their spur, huh?” She giggled and shook her head. “Way off up here, I bet that they were horny bastards when those Indians killed them.”
    â€œThis happened way before wagons even used this route. Maybe over a hundred years ago.”
    She looked around and across the shallow river. “But where did they bury their treasure, huh?”
    Big question. He had only one answer. “Have you ever witched for water in your life?”
    â€œNo. But I’ve seen it done back in Iowa. Why are you asking me that?”
    â€œI don’t have any power with a peach branch in my hands, but if you do, we might find it?”
    â€œHow do you figure that? You don’t need water.”
    â€œI was at a party in Biloxi once before the war, and a woman took a peach-branch fork and found a lost ring with it.”
    Murty scowled at his words. “Aw, I don’t believe that could happen.”
    â€œYou don’t know what you have not tried.”
    â€œWho has a peach-tree fork out here?”
    He pointed at his chest. “I do.”
    â€œWhere you get that at?”
    â€œPeople have thrown out pits all along this trail for years, and two days ago I cut a few along the river that had sprouted up. “Want to try one?”
    â€œSure, but it won’t do nothing for me.”
    â€œWait and see.”
    â€œYou think they buried them right here?”
    â€œHell, darling, I wasn’t here. But we found a spur here and we may find a treasure here.”
    â€œOkay, get the branch.”
    â€œComing right up.”
    She shook her head at him like she thought he was crazy. Then she giggled. “I don’t know about you at times, big man. You can come up with some real strange ideas.” Rambling on about how she didn’t believe there was any magic in a peach tree—she waited.
    When he returned, she held the small fork in her hands out in front of her and began to stride across the sand in the new wool-lined boots he’d had made for her. Out of nowhere she screamed and dropped the stick like it was on fire. Then she started backing up like she’d seen the devil himself or a rattlesnake, until she bumped into him and he caught her.
    â€œWhat in the hell is wrong, woman?”
    She hugged him tight. “Oh, my God, that damn stick turned in my hand and then I saw a strongbox down there.” Her whole body was trembling as she clung to him and pointed in the direction she had backed away from.
    â€œI’ve been in spooky deals—b-but never this