The Curious Case of the Crossbones Treasure

A peanut sat on a railroad track; its heart was all aflutter. Along came a choo-choo train, choo-choo, peanut butter.

“What do you make of this?”

My best friend, Chuck, handed me a worn and tattered piece of paper. On it was written the aforementioned children’s rhyme.

“Well, my dear Charles. It is one of three possibilities. Either the rhyme is about a peanut, a choo-choo, or peanut butter.”

“To the common mind, that would be the deduction,” my dear Martin, “but what I am referring to is the map on the opposite side of the paper.”

“Ah yes, I knew there was more to this than meets the eye. It is a map indeed, Charles, and as I examine the drawing, I see what appears to be a cave with railcar tracks running into it. Possibly a mine.”

“Possibly so, Martin. But look here,” he said, pointing at a section of the supposed track. “It appears that this symbol is a bridge, so the tracks cross a gap before going into the cave. And what is curious, is the drawing of a skull and crossbones in the middle of the bridge.”

“A pirate treasure, do you think?”

Charles took the paper and sunk into his rocker to contemplate it. He slowly sucked on two candy cigarettes.

“Where did you find this paper?” I asked with no little curiosity.

“Well, my dear Martin, it was left on my doorstep this morning by a one-legged friar who knocked twice before hopping off.”

“This paper was left by a chicken?”

“It was deposited by a monk. Please catch up with the story, Martin.”

“What has me baffled, are these three “Ms” drawn on the left side of the map. What could they stand for?”

He stubbed his candy cigarette out on the arm of his rocker.

“Quite possibly,” I said, “they are not “Ms”. Could it be that they are birds?”

“Birds? Hah! Martin. You observe, but you do not see. Hmmm, well yes, I guess they could be birds.”

“Then let me pose a possibility, Charles. If that skull and crossbones in the center of the bridge indicates a treasure left by pirates, we can assume that pirates sailed in by ship, therefore those “Ms” are seagulls.”

“But your theory is all wet if this map is indeed upside down and those “Ms” are actually, “Ws.”

We stared at each other for a moment and I put two candy cigarettes into my mouth.

“Let’s go back to the seagulls theory, Charles. Now think. Where have you seen these tracks going into a cave before? I’m sure we have been there in a previous adventure.”

“By Jove, you are right my dear friend, Martin. This is a drawing of the railroad tracks at Teddy Bear Cove which cross Mud Bay before going into the tunnel at Fairhaven. Why, my brain was momentarily prattled. Why couldn’t I see it?”

“And,” I added, “that bridge is over the waterway which allows the tide to flow in and out of the bay. The skull and crossbones in the center of the bridge indicate that the treasure is attached to the span or was lowered into the water beneath it.”

“Priceless, Martin. Simply priceless. We must go there at once to find the treasure. Come into the garage, my father has his rack of bay poles. We shall grab two and some treble hooks and snag the treasure from off the murky bottom.”

With rods and reels in hand, we wasted no little time, and hailing a Hansom Cab, we were driven to the parking lot of Teddy Bear Cove by what appeared to be a one-legged friar cabman. Very curious, indeed.

The parking lot was full of cars on that sunny day. Taking the winding trail down the hillside we found ourselves at the BNSF railroad tracks. The chatter of adults caused us to look out onto the rocks over the water.

“Nude sunbathers, Martin. Keep your eyes on the track in front of us and your mind out of the gutter.”

“I say, Charles. Those birds in the air do look like “Ms” and not “Ws”. I believe we are going in the right direction.”

“Keep eyes and ears open for trains, Martin. I don’t want one catching us by surprise. Look up ahead. It’s the bridge, and ahead of that, the tunnel.”

Standing on the bridge, it appeared that no treasure was attached to it. Therefore, the treasure was on the sandy bottom. We took Charles’ dad’s $150.00 bay poles and reels, and after tying weights and treble hooks to the lines, began dredging the bottom below the bridge for a treasure chest. We cast the lines without stopping for nearly 45 minutes when suddenly, roaring out of the tunnel came a BNSF freight train. The engineer sounded his horn to indicate that he could not and would not stop. The train was mere seconds from us.

“Jump down onto the bridge beams, Martin. Jump or be lost!”

We dropped our poles, and both jumped for the bridge beams below. Landing on them, away from danger but only a few feet from the rails, we watched as the two loud engines pulled 115 coal cars over the bridge. After the caboose passed, all was quiet again.

“I say, Charles. I may have messed myself a little,” I said.

“I too, Martin,” said he. “I too.”

Climbing back on top of the bridge, we found to our dismay that Charles’ father’s expensive bay poles were cut into much shorter lengths from being thrown onto the rails and being cut up by the train wheels.

“Rotten luck,” I said.

“Yes, rotten luck indeed,” said he. “I am beginning to deduce that the rhyme and the map with the skull and crossbones was a warning from the friar not to fish from this bridge. It is now clear in my mind also as to why he was missing one leg.”

“Brilliant deduction, Charles! You have once again solved two mysteries, which proves that you are indeed the world’s greatest detective.”

“If you say so, Martin. If you say so.”

We returned the poles to Charles’ father’s pole rack as if we had never borrowed them, but four nights later at about the 11th hour, even though I lived three blocks away, I could hear a manly voice scream,

“What did you two idiot boys do to my poles, now?”

** With sincerest apologies to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

**The Peanut rhyme if from the album, Rocket to the Moon, by David Landau.

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