Yellowstone Memories by Jennifer Rogers Spinola

outhouse to gather up his things.
    “I’ll pack the tools on Samson, then, since your pony’s loaded down,” Wyatt called after Jewel as the snow blew harder, stinging his cheeks with tiny ice particles. He tromped through the snow and picked up the ax and spades, hoping he hadn’t straddled the pony with too much weight. Bétee, Jewel called her—or something like that in Arapaho—was strong and sleek, but that much gold would weigh down any pack animal.
    “Miss Moreau?”
    Jewel didn’t answer, and Wyatt turned, looking for her. He tied the tools to Samson’s saddle and looked around uneasily. Samson reared suddenly, knocking snow off a spruce bough and into Wyatt’s face. He whinnied, ears flicking.
    “Whoa there. What was that all about, fella?” Wyatt patted Samson’s graying head and swatted the snow from his face in irritation. “You mad at me, too? Or you just impatient for your oats?”
    Samson’s ears pricked, and he backed up several paces, stomping the snow-softened grass and straining at the lead.
    Wyatt heard something. A rustling in the trees and a scuffling. The sound of a low whistle, like a magpie.
    “Miss Moreau?” Wyatt loosened Samson’s lead and then the pony’s, letting them drop into the snow. If a wildcat was on the loose, he’d be a fool to leave his horses hobbled to a tree, utterly defenseless.
    The underbrush crackled, and Wyatt whirled around, reaching for his rifle.
Nuts
. He’d left it at the outhouse, propped up against the side when he grabbed their tools. No self-respecting man would leave his rifle lying in the snow—especially not the burly Amos Kelly.
    Samson backed up and whinnied again, a fearful sound, and Wyatt reached for his Colt. Wildcats proliferated in these parts; one of his neighbors killed one as big as an ox just a few weeks ago.
    “Miss Moreau? Where have you gone?” Wyatt stalked through the falling snow, his footsteps carpeted and soundless. An eerie silence filled the gray sky, save the soft rustling of the wind in the firs and the great rushing sound they made in his ears, like a stormy ocean.
    Without warning Jewel whirled around a tree, putting a finger to her lips. “Shh!” she whispered, her face white and startled. She ducked her head and flattened herself against the shaggy bark, not moving. “They’ve found us! Didn’t you hear them?”
    Then the world exploded. A blast of gunpowder, and a bullet whizzed past Wyatt, blasting the limb off a tree. Needles and snow whirled around him.
    “Of all the …” Wyatt threw himself to the ground, pressing his face to the snow. Was Jewel trying to kill him after all, now that they’d found the gold?
    Footsteps crunched through the underbrush.
    When he opened his eyes, he saw Kirby Crowder standing over him, raising his musket to fire again.

Chapter 9
    W yatt rolled out of the way and scrambled to his feet, hands and knees muddied and smarting with snow. Nothing made sense; not the frantic loading of the musket, nor the man in a coonskin cap who lunged after him, barely missing his jacket collar. Two other shadows crunched through the trees, and someone fired a pistol behind him.
    “Kirby Crowder?” Wyatt shouted, ducking behind a tree with Jewel as another blast shook the forest. Limbs rained around him, making his ears ring. The acrid odor of black powder hung in the woods over the soft scent of spruce and snow. “I thought the army hauled you off to the guardhouse for poaching.”
    “I busted out,” Kirby drawled, calmly reloading. “And I came back for what I intended to do in the first place—but with reinforcements. Didn’t expect to find you and that half-breed gal digging the place up. You’re lookin’ for ol’ Pierre’s gold, too, ain’t ya?”
    Wyatt halted as he scrambled for his Colt.
“You’re lookin’ for … Pierre’s gold,”
Kirby had said. Did he not see them shove the gold in Jewel’s pony’s saddlebags?
    “You know where the gold’s hid. It’s the