"My theory is," I said, "the robbers chopped the bars in half with axes. I cut a ten pound lead weight with my hatchet, you know off the old weight belt from our underwater dredging days, to test my theory." "You what?" Mike said. I ignored Mike's reprimand and went on. "Easier than cuttin' some of the meat we dried. And near pure gold is softer than lead. A big stout horse or mule could pack three-hundred pounds fast for awhile anyway." "But," Mike said, "they sure couldn't outrun a posse. That's why when their pack horses gave out somewhere around here they stopped.
"Dutch John was a mean old cob and treated the fifteen-year old sprout like a slave and threatened to kill the boy, take the one good horse, and hide all the gold. So when Dutch passed out, Little Dave cut off his head with an axe. Little Dave buried the gold bar halves and took off for Oklahoma Territory. He didn't want to be hung for robbery and murder. Then two years later he returned to dig up the gold, but everything looked different. The old trail and campsite was washed away by a flash flood and Granite Gap was a booming mining camp."
Mike poked the fire and put the last mesquite sticks in, the small fire crackled, the smoke and boiling coffee smelled good. The only trees left were shrub-sized twisted juniper and mesquite. Miners cut any decent trees over a century ago, and later cowboys used wood for fenceposts and branding fires. Oh well, I thought, plenty of sticks, cactus skeletons, and cowpies for a campfire.
Mike reached over to toss a dried cow flop in the fire. "Dammit Mike," I said, "at least wait; I do draw the line at cooking hotdogs in smoking cow turds." Uncle Wayne laughed and slapped his knee, "You sure are getting picky in your old age Jill." I reached down and threw a large cowpie at him; he ducked. "You're lucky we ain't tracking elephants and camels!"
After dinner of hot dogs, beans, and coffee, the three of us sat back smoking cigars. We breathed in the aroma of our Cuban seed cigars from Mexico and the New Mexican roasted cow flops. Actually, I thought to myself, both smells are quite similar.
Uncle Wayne said, "All these old lost treasure legends are fun to think about, but where are the hard cold facts, evidence? I think they're just a bunch of stories made up to sell more treasure hunting paraphernalia!" I saw Mike sit up straight and square his shoulders to respond. Uncle Wayne will get what he wanted: a good, heated argument. I can still remember a remark Uncle Wayne made years ago when our canoe capsized on the South Fork of the Forty Mile, "It's accidents and arguments that make life interesting."
A few crickets trilled, the small fire popped and hissed, and the donkeys munched dried bunch grass. In just a month, thousands of chirping crickets and high pitched buzz saw noises from cicadas would dominate the warm evening air. Nights now were too cool for rattlers, scorpions, and fire ants. It was a peaceful in-between time in the desert. We relaxed unmolested by dive bombing, biting, and stinging bugs.
The burros even ignored the smoky fire. During insect season the burros crowded close to the campfire smoke. Once Shaggy backed too near the fire and singed his tail. Donkeys are not afraid of smoke and fire.
The pile of treasures we found using our metal detectors shown in the firelight: some old conchos, a rusted cavalry canteen, lots of well-worn horse, mule and donkey shoes, tobacco cans, a rusty rifle barrel, and some promising-looking ore that probably fell off a mule drawn ore wagon. No gold bricks, no Spanish silver.
Mike took a deep breath, turned toward Uncle Wayne and started talking. "Me and Jill didn't believe all those miners, prospectors, and thieves could possibly lose or stash sacks of gold, or find rich veins of ore and never find them again. Of course, unless they died or something. But we went prospecting in Southeast Utah canyon country and got lost. Our compasses acted funny and the wind blew covering most our tracks. A few piles of donkey dung and Jill's rock cairns got us back to base camp the next day."
Mike paused, took a sip of coffee, puffed his cigar and continued. "That was before we bought the Global Positioning unit. People can get dazed and disoriented from exhaustion, thirst, hunger, and fear, then wander around for days . . . and remember, Jill, in Idaho you lost a vial of gold when you cleaned the sluice, the mosquitoes so thick you used your jacket with the gold vial in the pocket to swat them off? Then later in the season I lost a vial full of mercury, gold, and silver out of my shirt pocket while crawling around looking for a tiny nut and bolt. Both times we finally made the journey back to base camp, got the metal detector and found the lost vials, and nut and bolt. My point is, Wayne, that in frontier times no one had metal detectors, easy to read compasses, topo maps, aerial photos, GPS units, and RV's parked two miles away loaded with water and provisions . . . So I think a person could lose gold and search his entire life in the wrong canyon for that gold vein or buried treasure he stashed or found once, and walk days in a big circle . . . and die with the mystery unsolved. With metal detectors, maps, perseverance and luck we have lots better odds finding all sorts of lost or buried stuff."
"But," Wayne asked, "if any of this buried treasure is found, who is gunna know? If it's worth millions like the buried loot Skeleton Canyon claims, would you personally tell the world and get it stolen by a museum or the feds? HELL NO YOU WOULDN'T, so you don't even know if these gold bars are still here!"
"Wait a minute," interrupted Mike, "I've got that all figured out. We only know a fraction of what really was buried, stolen, and lost. Most folks would be too proud and embarrassed to brag about their dumbness. So usually while we're lookin' for one thing we find something else."
Uncle Wayne leaned back, puffed on his cigar, sipped cold coffee, thinking. Then he said, "I'll get out my dowsing rods tomorrow. I just happened to bring them along." Mike stared at him, disbelieving. I stifled a laugh. Uncle Wayne continued, "And maybe next week we can haul the burros and our gear down to Skeleton Canyon and do a little exploring. I was reading that Skeleton Canyon is on Smugglers' Trail and had a steady stream of contraband, from cattle to pesos, that flowed back and forth from Old Mexico to Tombstone and Tucson. The canyon is perfect for ambushing unsuspecting pack trains.
"In 1881 a large Mexican pack train carrying a gold shipment was attacked in Skeleton Canyon. From human bones recovered they think about nineteen men were killed and none of the gold showed up in the area. Curly Bill Brocius was mentioned as one of the gang leaders involved. Same fella that masterminded the 1882 Benson-Tombstone stage robbery; the eight bandits split up and two of them stopped here at the Gap, Dutch John and Little Dave."
Uncle Wayne and I sat near the dying fire, smiling. Mike looked puzzled. "Darn you Wayne, I thought you were a treasure huntin' skeptic." "Nope," Uncle Wayne said, "just wanted to get some lively conversation going. It's accidents and arguments that make life interesting. Well I'm going to hit the sack, lots of washes and old camps we haven't hunted in yet."
"Goodnight Uncle Wayne, you rascal," I said as I crawled into my cold sleeping bag. Klondike Mike stirred the dying coals of the cow flop fire, a smile on his face.