Previously on DOOL…
The box sat between them, caked in dirt, heavy with silence. Everyone leaned in, brushing soil away like they were uncovering a relic. Iron bands bit into the wood, scarred and rusted, but the shape held firm.
Cheryl squinted. “That wood’s gotta be over a hundred years old.”
Nathan nodded, crouching low. “Wouldn’t shock me. The Battle of Franklin was fought right down the road. And Nashville, not long after. Soldiers could’ve buried anything.”
Lynette ran her fingers along one of the corners, reverent. “My uncle found bullets in his field once. People dig up buckles, bayonets, all kinds of stuff around here. Maybe this was a soldier’s stash.”
The idea hung over them, solemn and believable. Civil War. A time when people buried valuables in the ground, hoping to come back for them – or never coming back at all.
Sawyer brushed more dirt off the lid, heart thumping. She loved this, the rush of standing at the edge of history. She didn’t say anything yet, but inside her chest, it burned.
Her hand stilled when she noticed faint lines carved into the wood. Barely there, nearly swallowed by time. Two letters.
D.C.
“Could just be a soldier’s initials,” she said, forcing her voice steady. “Daniel Clark, Duncan Carter…. I mean, there’s the Carter House in Franklin, right? Anyway… Delbert Collins, Donald Cook… take your pick.”
Nathan shrugged. “Yeah. Thousands of names like that.”
The others leaned back into their theories, their voices hushed, still circling around the Civil War.
But Sawyer’s pulse skipped. Somewhere in her memory – a book she’d read, a half-remembered story – came the thought of Davy Crockett. Could just be because Crockett Park was her favorite place to bike ride, but she thought of Davy nevertheless. he carved his initials in trees across Tennessee. Some said you could still find them if you knew where to look – and if you were willing to climb…
She didn’t speak it out loud. She let the others talk relics and battles, soldiers and war. But her fingertips lingered on those two faint letters, and her eyes gleamed with a different possibility.
Wrestling With The Box
The four of them circled the dirt-caked box, panting. Lynette brushed soil off her jeans, muttering something about “this better not be an old toolbox.” Nathan wiped his forehead and gave the lock one last tug with the screwdriver. Nothing.
“This thing is welded shut by time itself,” he groaned.
“Then we stop before you hurt yourself,” Cheryl said firmly, dusting off her hands. “We’ll get it into my garage and figure it out later.”
Together, they heaved it up, awkwardly shuffling it across the lawn. Nathan nearly lost his grip on the uneven edge, and Lynette shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. Sawyer stifled a laugh even as her arms burned under the weight.
Just as they reached Cheryl’s garage, Maya appeared at the end of the driveway, a grocery tote slung over her shoulder.
“Hey, what are y’all – ” She stopped, eyes narrowing at the dirt-covered huddle. “What’s that?”
Cheryl stepped forward like a shield. “Old junk from my yard. Decided to clean out before fall.”
Maya’s brow arched, unconvinced. “Huh. Okay.”
Sawyer forced a grin. “Cheryl gets these bursts of energy. You know how she is.”
Nathan coughed, half-distracting Maya while he and Lynette shoved the box deeper into the garage shadows. Cheryl quickly dropped the door with a clatter that echoed down the quiet street.
Maya lingered a beat too long, scanning their dirt-streaked faces. “Well…don’t work too hard,” she said, finally heading off.
Sawyer exhaled when she was out of earshot. “That was close.”
Later, Alone
That night, Sawyer sat cross-legged on her couch, laptop balanced on her knees, dirt still stubborn under her nails. She typed in search after search: “missing civil war relics franklin tn”, “battle of nashville buried chests”, “hidden civil war caches in tennessee”.
She skimmed articles about soldiers hiding supplies in fields, stories of families burying valuables before Union troops arrived. One blog post caught her eye, written by some local amateur historian:
“Some say Crockett buried a chest near Franklin when he traveled west, leaving it under a marked tree. Folks whispered that the box would only be found by those who still believed in him.”
Her pulse quickened. Could it be possible? He may have come through here on his way to Texas, right?
Digging deeper, she stumbled onto a dusty old forum thread from 2009. The comment was short.
“My granddad swore he saw a box dug up in the 1950s on our property near the Harpeth. Two men carried it off at night. He said there were carved letters on it, but they wouldn’t talk about what they found inside.”
Sawyer stared at the glow of the screen. This one was a little too gossipy, but there could be some truth to it.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Blake:
“Hey, everything okay? Haven’t heard from you today.”
She stared at it, thumb hovering. She didn’t know what to say. How could she explain the weight of dirt still on her clothes, the smell of old earth in her nose, and the box sitting silently across the street?
And was he interested? In what kind of way? Hmmm. Or was he just being friendly? This was not Sawyer’s expertise. She closed her laptop with a soft click and put her phone on the charger. For now, she’d let the secret sit in Cheryl’s garage.
But her mind was already chasing Davy Crockett’s shadow through Tennessee history.