Chapter Four: Watched from the Woods

 

Bluffs of Beaver Bend – Late Afternoon

The bluff looked like a sleeping beast—weather-worn limestone rising above the bends of the White River, jagged in places and soft in others, overgrown with brush and stubborn cedar. It was beautiful in the way old bones are beautiful: a silent reminder that everything changes, but not everything fades.

Kate had marked a spot on her topo map, just beyond the bend where a natural ledge overlooked a steep drop. She believed it might have been used as a lookout or signal point. Ray’s journal had made a cryptic reference to “the cliff above the water that sings,” and the wind here did hum strangely when it pushed through the hollows in the stone.

We climbed in silence, the damp chill of October clinging to the air. At the top, she scanned the trees while I checked a flat stone slab. More symbols—worn but present. One looked like a compass. Another was just a series of hatch marks.

We didn’t hear the man until it was almost too late.

A twig snapped, sharp as a gunshot.

Kate froze.

I turned, hand instinctively going to the folding knife in my coat pocket, even though I knew it wouldn’t help much.

He was standing about twenty feet away. Late forties, maybe. Dressed like a hunter, but something was off—no orange, no rifle. Just a sidearm and a too-clean camo jacket that looked like it had never seen mud. His hat was pulled low, face partly shadowed.

“Didn't expect anyone out here,” he said, casual-like.

Kate answered first. “Just hiking. We’re locals.”

“Funny. I’m local too,” the man replied. “Name’s Ryland. You folks looking for the overlook?”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah. Heard it was worth the climb.”

Ryland smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Some say the view can kill you. Slippery edge and all.”

The wind picked up, rustling the branches above.

Then he nodded toward the trail. “Well. Enjoy the day. It’s getting short.”

He turned and disappeared back into the trees.

We waited until we could no longer hear his steps.

Kate whispered, “He was watching us before we saw him.”

“I know.”

We scanned the bluff and took photos of the symbols quickly, then made our way down.

Back at the truck, I noticed something tucked under the wiper blade.

A strip of paper. Folded.

I opened it.

“Some treasure isn’t meant to be found.”

There was no signature.

Just a small triangle drawn in pencil.

And below it, the same three dots we’d seen carved into Jug Rock.