"As you are probably aware, not every Confederate regiment surrendered to Grant at Donelson. Forrest, in fact, took his men and escaped over the swollen Lick Creek rather than surrender. And there was one particular Confederate officer who gave the Union forces some valuable information that he had stored in a metal ammunition case in exchange for getting his men out alive and without being captured. It's our belief that the information was critical to the outcome of the battle, and that particular exchange occurred in the vicinity of your Pinkham Ridge. The metal case was never recovered, and it's my belief that it's still buried somewhere up there. More importantly, I believe that the evidence inside that case, will...ahem, make our case."
To Winndrow, something didn't seem quite right...Spriggs' theory didn’t seem to fit what he had always heard about the behavior and honor of Fort Donelson's officers, although admittedly, his involvement with the battlefield had been limited to loaning his boat to one of the park rangers and helping him fish a few cannonballs out of the river below his trailer. But, he thought, a hundred dollars is a hundred dollars.

"Okay, Doc, you got yourself a deal," he said finally, "but I want the money, cash, up front."

"Splendid!" said Spriggs, although inside he was bristling at the notion of paying this ruffian up front. "We'll begin bright and early tomorrow. Now that we've got all of that out of the way, what's good on this establishment's menu? We're famished!"

"Try the catfish," said Winndrow.

Spriggs made eye contact with Miss Smithers. "Yes, of course," he said.

The following morning was a Saturday, and it looked to be a carbon copy of the scorching day before. Spriggs had suffered through a restless night (blast these cornhusk mattresses!), and was a bit annoyed at seeing Miss Smithers' chipper mood when they met for breakfast in the restaurant. "Coffee," he said to the waitress, holding up two fingers.

"What exactly do you want me to do today, Dr. Spriggs?" asked Miss Smithers.

"Simple, dear. Your job is to distract our young Mr. Pinkham while I explore his property with the metal detector."

"Can I ask you another question, Professor? If Pinkham Ridge doesn't really figure into any of the history books, why do you think Bobby Beau Rutherford is buried there? I mean, what or who led you to believe that?"

"Ah, excellent question, my girl," Spriggs replied as he produced from his briefcase a worn and dusty leatherbound book with the initials "HDA."

"Introducing the personal diary of one Private H.D. Amberton. One of my former assistants stumbled onto it at an estate sale in Indiana," said Spriggs merrily. "She paid a few dollars for it, and dullard that she was, turned the treasure over to me for a few dollars more, plus an 'A' or two in her American History class. This Amberton chap was apparently one of Rutherford's junior officers who served at his side. But what's interesting about this diary is, not only does it tell about Rutherford's death, it also tells about burying his body along with his wealth, estimated at $250,000. And, there's a map, albeit a rough one, that shows where he's buried."

"So why didn't Amberton come back after the war and claim the treasure?" asked Miss Smithers.

"He was killed in battle and the diary was shipped home to his widow who kept it under lock and key and upon her death, it was passed down again and again to children and grandchildren who didn't have the slightest interest in the stuffy old Civil War. Apparently, none of them bothered to pick the lock on the cover to read what was inside."

©Copyright 2002 David Ray Skinner/SouthernReader. All rights reserved.