Black Cat Weekly #84

Chapter 7-1

by“I’m going to crush you at the Wheaties game, Becca,” Dougie yells. He’s on his hands and knees next to a six-inch hole, the c***k of his pasty white a*s peeking above the waistband of his jeans. He flips the penny over, massages it with his thumb, clay dirt staining his gloves. “This one is toasted. Tough to make out the year. 1930, maybe? Doesn’t matter. Still makes five Wheat cents for me.”

I turn up the volume on my metal detector, try to focus on my grid.

Keep sweeping.

But Dougie walks over. He hovers so close that I can smell the tuna and rye he had for lunch. He lifts an ear cup to my headphones. “King of the Hunt,” he whispers.

“Day isn’t over yet.” I grab my headphones before he lets go and they snap against my head.

“King of the Hunt,” Dougie yells this time, arms raised like he’s channeling Leo DiCaprio. He backpedals toward his grid still grinning.

“Watch out,” I yell. “You’re fixin’ to trip in one of your holes.”

But my warning is too late.

He stumbles. Cusses. Recovers.

Stumbles again.

He finally steadies his feet, hikes up his cargo pants, sees me staring, and flips me off.

“It’s your own dang fault for not putting that dirt back,” I tell him. But he doesn’t seem to listen. Dougie can never be bothered with detecting etiquette or personal hygiene or a belt for his pants. It baffles me the two of us share DNA, let alone that we’re twins.

I scan the churchyard and find our older brother, Skeeter. He works next to the abandoned church. I look at the crumbling stairs, the weathered clapboard, the broken stained-glass windows, the collapsing roof. I question if this church is old, if this place has some real history, or if it ended up on the wrong side of a tornado. Usually, it’s my job to pick our detecting location. I go online, look through old maps, consider the history, decide if a site is worth our time. But with school, the SATs, and my shifts at the Allsup’s, I couldn’t do it this week. Skeeter picked this site.

So far, I’ve only found some clad, a shell casing, and a Matchbox car. I wonder if he did some research, or if he simply discovered this place on a fishing trip to the Red. I shift my grid, move closer to an oak tree, start working again.

My detector chirps. Maybe this time.

Maybe this time.I sweep again.

A squeaker.

Excitement bubbles up in my chest. I try to tamp it down. It’s probably more trash. I put the detector aside, pull a hand shovel from my utility belt, dig a plug, and use my pin pointer.

It squeals.

I dig a little more. And then I see it.

Silver.

Silver.At least it looks like silver. It’s tarnished the way silver looks when it’s exposed to the elements. But only an edge peeks through the dirt, and I can’t be sure.

I hope it’s a ring.

I’ve always wanted to find a ring—a college ring, a wedding ring. It doesn’t matter. Something with an engraving. So, I can locate the owner and return it. A ring return is a bucket-lister for detectorists like me. It certainly would be more interesting than Dougie’s stupid coins.

I lean in closer, pinch the metal. Tug. My fingers slip under my gloves. I strip them off. Try again.

But it doesn’t move.

It can’t be a ring—not with this kind of resistance. I let go, and this time I see patina. A rare coin, maybe? A Barber quarter? Excitement bubbles up in my chest again. This time I give in to it.

Becca Kincaid unearths rare Texas artifact near Wellington.

Becca Kincaid unearths rare Texas artifact near WellingtonI can see the headline now. UT’s archeology department wouldn’t care about my SAT scores. With this kind of find, they’d fast track my college application for sure.

I work the edges, clay building under my nails. It’s wider than I anticipated—not a coin. Still, it could be something special.

I grab it again.

I have a firmer grip this time without the gloves. I pull, lean back, put my weight into it. The soil gives, the momentum nearly knocking me on my backside.

It’s out.

And it’a…a metal dirt clod.

That’s what it looks like in the palm of my hand anyway. I knock out the debris. It’s about two inches wide. But I’m still not sure what I’m holding. I go back to my utility belt, pull out a brush, dust off the piece.

Look again.

A shield with a star. A badge, maybe?

I rub it against my jeans. There’s an engraving.

I frown. That can’t be right.

I pull out a spray bottle, spritz it with water, work the edges with my T-shirt. Study it some more. The words are clean and clear: Texas Rangers.

Texas RangersMy breath catches. “Dougie!”

He looks up.

“Dougie!”

He puts his detector aside and lumbers over.

“A Texas Ranger badge.” The words tumble out of mouth in a rush of air.

“Get out! Let me see it.”

I hand him the badge. He inspects it. Smirks. “It’s a fake.”

“What?”

“It’s a toy. If it were real, Department of Public Safety would be written on it.”

.I fold my arms. “Since when did you become an expert on the Texas Rangers?”

“Walker, Texas Ranger, duh.”

“What?”

“Walker. Texas. Ranger.” He emphasizes each word like this will somehow jog my memory. But it still means nothing to me. I shrug.

“Chuck Norris.” He looks at me now like I’m an i***t.

“Hollywood—a fictional show—that’s your reference?” I roll my eyes. “Didn’t Birdie teach you anything?” I turn to call for Skeeter to show him what I found.

fictionalBut he’s already standing behind me, eyes on his watch. “We need to get back.”

“Look.” I hand him the badge.

He studies the front, flips it over. “Clasp is broken. Still, really cool find, Becca.”

“That thing is a toy,” Dougie says.

Skeeter weighs it in his hand. “I don’t know, D-man.”

I grin. “Now look who’s King of the Hunt.”

Worry flickers across Dougie’s face, our sibling rivalry running high. He eyes his grid. “One more signal, Skeet?”

“No time. We still have to clean up the site.”

“We’d have the time, if you would’ve filled in your holes like you’re supposed to.”

“Shut up, Becca,” Dougie snaps. He turns back to Skeeter. “Aren’t we at least going to layout our finds?”

“I promised Birdie we’d be back for an early supper. Her Bunco club meets at the church tonight.”

“On a Saturday?” I frown. “Since when?”

“Come-on, Skeet…” Dougie whines now. “It’s tradition. We gotta do it. Especially being our last hunt together until you get back from basic training.”

“Dougie’s right,” I say even though admitting Dougie is right about anything nearly makes me choke.

“See—” Dougie thumbs at me. “Even Becca agrees with me.”

Skeeter sighs. “Fine. But if we’re late, I’m blaming you.”

We collect our things, load them into Skeeter’s beat-up Chevy, and help Dougie fill in his holes. When we’re done, we return to the truck.

Skeeter lowers the tailgate and lays down a poncho. “Let’s see it.”

We unhook our utility belts, place our pouches on the tailgate. Dougie tips his over. The contents scatter. I catch a coin that almost bounces off the tailgate.

“Clasp from a bolo tie, baby spoon, button, five wheat pennies—one Indian head.” Dougie highlights each item even though we can see everything. “And—” He reaches into his pocket. “Drum roll, please.”

five“We don’t have time for this, Dougie,” Skeeter says visibly irritated.

“Fine. Be that way.” Dougie yanks his hand from his pocket and places a dime on the poncho.

I roll my eyes. “All that noise for a dime.”

“Not just any dime—a Rosie.”

Skeeter picks it up, flips it over. “Nineteen fifty. Impressive, D-man.”

Dougie looks at me and smirks.

“I’ll go next.” Skeeter reaches into his pouch, pulls out a bottle, places it on the tailgate.

Dougie picks it up, tries to read the faded label. “Laud—” He frowns. “Laud—”

“Laudanum,” Skeeter says putting him out of his misery.

“What’s that?” Dougie asks.

“Medicine.” I remember the d**g from AP History when we covered the Civil War. “It was used for pain, insomnia, lots of disorders. Until doctors realized opium was addictive.”

Dougie shakes the bottle. I’m not sure if it’s a reflex, or if he hopes there’s something still inside. He’s stupid enough to drink it. I yank it away and return it to the tailgate.

“The rest I found was trash, except for these.” Skeeter reaches into his pouch and pulls out some shell casings. “Thirty-ought-six. Could be from a bolt-action rifle like the Enfield or a machine g*n like the Browning Automatic. It’s tough to say.”

Ever since Skeeter decided to join the army, he’s become a bit of a g*n nerd.

Dougie’s eyes go from the shell casings to the cab of the truck, Skeeter’s g*n rack visible through the window.

“That’s a shotgun, dumbass,” I tell Dougie.

“I knew that.”

But I can tell by the look on Dougie’s face that he didn’t.

“It’s your turn, Becca,” Skeeter says, trying to move things along.

“The only interesting things I found were the badge and a shell casing.” I place them on the tailgate.

Skeeter picks up the shell casing. It’s short, fat, different than his thirty-ought-six. He tells us it’s a forty-five. I nod, like this means something to me. But the truth is, when it comes to guns, except for the shotgun, I’m nearly as clueless as Dougie.

Skeeter starts to return the casing but stops short. His eyes slide to the badge then back to the casing. He tilts his head like he’s considering something. “Rangers used to carry Colt 1911s. g*n uses forty-five caliber.” He shields his eyes and surveys the churchyard. “Different shell casings. Different locations. Could’ve been some kind of shootout.”

“At a church?” Dougie says.

“Church wasn’t always standing here.” I look at Skeeter, wait for him to agree with me, say something that indicates he did some research on the site.

But he says nothing.

I shake my head. I’m right. He picked this place from a drive by. I pull out my phone hoping Google can help. But the signal here sucks, and I can’t connect. I take pictures of our finds, a few of the churchyard, too. My plan is to do some research when I get back to the house.

Dougie sweeps up his stuff. “I’m clearly the winner.”

“How do you figure?” I ask.

“An empty bottle of Laudanum, some shell casings, and a toy badge.” Dougie rolls his eyes. “I’m the only one who found anything valuable.”

“Birdie says you can’t put a price on history.”

“History you can’t prove.”