Bluebird Gold

Prologue

Dear Ilsa,

Remember those days when you were little, and I used to tell you stories?

We’d go fishing, and I’d tell you a story so you wouldn’t get bored.

I’d be cooking dinner, and you’d be sitting on the counter, kicking your bare feet as I told you about cowboys and bandits.

Or we’d be on the dock, watching the sunset, and I’d give you the short version of whatever book I’d just finished reading.

I miss those days. I miss the way you’d lean your head on my shoulder and hug my arm. I miss the sound of your laugh. I miss counting the freckles on your nose.

You’re long past the age of enjoying my stories, but there’s one I never told you. It’s a favorite legend of mine, and it goes like this.

Montana was a wild place during the gold rush days with some of the purest gold in the nation.

Pioneers flocked here with dreams of striking it rich.

Miners, outlaws and businessmen arrived on horseback or by wagon and stagecoach.

Some traveled with only the clothes on their backs, and the only way they survived our punishing winters was by sheer grit and determination.

Montana only keeps the iron willed. And those miners and early settlers were tough as nails, living on next to nothing. Surviving day to day on hopes and prayers.

Picture towns made of tents and ramshackle buildings. Shanties and dugouts. Saloons with hitching posts and swinging doors. General stores selling sacked flour, canned cow’s milk and hard candies for a penny.

Every man wore a pistol on his belt and there weren’t enough women to keep those men tame. There were corrupt lawmen secretly leading gangs of road agents. And masked vigilantes stepped in to uphold the peace.

Here’s where the legend gets interesting. What if those vigilantes were not always on the right side of wrong?

There’s a lost legend from Garrack, one of the more prominent mining towns in those days, that once, a wagon of gold was stolen by a notorious gang. After the robbery, a band of vigilantes went after the thieves. Except they returned empty-handed. And the gold was gone forever. Or was it?

Rumors began to trickle through Garrack that the vigilantes had in fact found the thieves. And rather than return the gold to its rightful owners, the vigilantes had taken it for themselves, hiding it away, biding their time until they could leave town without suspicion.

Only they waited too long. Speculation turned to accusation, and the townsfolk turned on their peacekeepers. Each of the vigilantes who’d gone in search of the stolen gold was hanged for their betrayal. The secret location of the stolen gold was buried with them in unmarked graves.

The gold was truly lost, never to be seen again.

And that’s the story of Garrack’s legendary lost gold.

I should have told you more stories, honey bear. Come to Montana. Come and see me so I can tell you more stories.

Love,

Dad