If Catfish Had Nine Lives(17)

            Esther and I watched as Jake pulled a good-sized box from a bottom shelf and placed it on the table.

            “I wrapped it and then put it in this box, but it’s quite valuable, and I’ve considered talking to a preservationist to see what else I could do to keep it as intact as possible.”

            He lifted the lid and pulled out the one item inside.

            “I don’t even think it should be out of the wrapping much, but it might be kind of fun for you to see this, Esther.” Jake looked at me. “Don’t tell anyone I have it.”

            I nodded.

            It was a saddle. Kind of. It was a duplicate of the satchel I’d seen over Joe’s saddle.

            “This is called . . .” Jake began.

            “A mochila,” Esther interrupted. “It’s how they carried the mail.”

            Mochila! That’s it.

            The item looked kind of like saddlebags, but it was made to ride over the saddle, so it had its own formed seat cover. Its pockets weren’t baglike, but more boxy and with flaps; one of the flaps was still secured with an old metal latch. The leather was mostly tan, but time had worn it darker in spots. The letters SP CA had been tooled into it. The other flap was decorated with XP. It also looked as though a number of different words had been inscribed on its surface.

            “Are those names?” Esther asked as she peered closely at the mochila.

            “I think so. I think riders signed the mochilas. They didn’t have their own because whenever the riders changed at the stops, the mochila with the mail went with the new rider. It was a pretty efficient system.”

            “Wow, so this is an original?” I asked.

            “I think so,” Jake said as he nodded.

            “May I touch it?” Esther asked.

            “Sure. Gently.”

            “Of course.”

            Esther inspected every inch of the mochila. Once she’d memorized one side, she turned it over and did the same on the other side.

            “Wait. What do you suppose this is?” she asked.

            Jake and I leaned in to look at letters, which were small and had become dark with time and air and simple grime.

            “Well, I think . . .” Jake began. He stood straight and raised his eyebrows. “Esther, I can’t be completely sure, but look closely. Tell me if you don’t think that says Astin Reag. I can’t make out the other letters, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they were A–L. We might be just wishing. But how amazing would that be?”

            Esther blinked and then bent to look again. She gasped as she re-straightened.

            “Oh, my,” she said. “I . . . I don’t feel so well.”

            Somehow, an instant later, both Jake and I were holding on to Esther’s slack body.

            “Did she faint?” I asked.

            “I hope it’s nothing more serious.”

            “You have quite an effect on women, my friend,” I said.

            “History—it’ll take you to your knees if you ever start to really pay attention to it, Betts.”

            “Right.”

            “For now, lean her on me, and grab a glass of water.”

            I did as Jake asked, and we hoped it wouldn’t take more than that to revive our visitor.