If Catfish Had Nine Lives(104)

            I paraphrased. “Jerome thinks we should dig and explore.”

            “I do,” Jerome said.

            “We’ll be careful,” Jake said.

            It hadn’t taken much to convince him.

            Jake moved slowly and carefully as he put the tip of the small shovel into the ground. He dug up only a little bit of dirt at a time, moving it aside with care and reverence. I would have moved much more quickly and with much less care, but his respect for history was even bigger than his curiosity. I bit back my desire to tell him to hurry, but Jerome and I did share a weary look or two.

            “I’m not seeing any bones,” Jake said when the pocket seemed to be almost fully uncovered.

            “But I’m sure that’s the pocket to a mochila,” I said.

            “Me, too. Should I keep digging?” Jake said.

            “Sure,” I said. “It might have nothing to do with Astin Reagal.”

            Jake looked at me with one lifted eyebrow.

            “I know, it’s probably his, but even if there were bones, it’s been so long, maybe there’d be nothing they could tell us,” I said, but I truly had no idea what I was talking about. I wasn’t sure what long-lost bones could and couldn’t tell anyone. I just wanted Jake to keep digging.

            “I think we’re curious enough not to care too much. I’ll still be careful, but the rest of whatever is attached to the flap is straight down. I’ll just dig that way, try to keep from digging too wide.”

            “Sounds great,” I said.

            “It’d be good to get on with it,” Jerome said. “My goodness, I’m dead, and even I’m getting a little tired.”

            I smiled but didn’t say anything.

            True to his word, Jake had the rest of the mochila out of the dirt in another half an hour. It was well caked in grime, but it was clear that the case had been much better preserved than the flap. Even with the layer of dirt, the leather of the case was darker than the faded part of the flap that must have been exposed to the elements for a long time.

            Jake sat the freed mochila on a clear patch of ground and ran his hand over it.

            “It’s amazing. Betts—and Jerome—this is a real part of history. Not just words, but an actual artifact.”

            “I think we should open the pockets,” I said. I was much less impressed by the old item, but I did appreciate Jake’s point of view. But still, I wanted to see what was inside.

            “Okay.” Jake placed his hand on the flap. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose.

            Jerome smiled at me.

            Jake lifted the first flap and a dirty dust cloud puffed around the mochila. He held the satchel up and peered inside. He did the same with the other pockets. A moment later he looked at me.

            “Nothing.”

            “Nothing?” I said as I reached for the mochila.

            “Absolutely nothing.”

            I peered inside, too. Jake was correct. There was nothing in the case. It was empty except for a few grains of dirt. The inside had, of course, been even better preserved than the outside, but some bits of its surrounding burial place had found their way into the pockets.

            “Do you think some letters might have fallen out?” I said as I leaned over and looked into the hole.

            “I doubt it. But think about it, Betts. If he was on his way home, he might not have had anything to deliver. After he made his run, there might not have been anything for him to bring back. Not as much junk mail back then. It’s conceivable that no one in Broken Rope had a letter coming to them.”