Rating: T

Word Count=9731

Summary: Gold, a curse, and the legend of a lost mine spark a quest for riches.  Camp in the Pines Dime Novel challenge.

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Cartwrights or Bonanza. No copyright infringement is intended. Original plot and characters are property of the author. This story is for entertainment and no money was made from it.

Reviews from the Old Library are on the last page.

Quest for the Mine of Lost Souls; or, The Treasure of the Uinta Mountains

Southpaw Morgan rode through a landscape strewn with boulders, the terrain akin to a giant’s playground. The horse wove a path among the rocks much as a bee through a field of flowers. Since neither man nor beast was in a particular hurry to arrive at a destination, both enjoyed the warmth of the summer sun.

Some folks called Southpaw a drifter but a doctor once said Southpaw simply had a case of the wanderlust. As far as Southpaw knew there wasn’t a cure for this particular ailment but when he had the urge to see someplace new he just packed up some vittles, saddled his horse, and off he went. Folks might say money couldn’t buy happiness but Southpaw knew from experience it could buy a bath, a bed, grub, whiskey, and even entry into a game of cards. 

A gunshot echoed in the slight breeze. Southpaw reined his horse and turned in the saddle to survey the landscape. Other than a ground squirrel collecting what food it could shove into its cheeks, Southpaw didn’t see another soul.

The mingled sounds of yells and another fired gun drifted up to his ears. Curiosity aroused, Southpaw nudged his horse forward toward a small rise. 

He halted the horse in the lee of a large boulder and gazed down on the scene before dismounting. A covered wagon was at the mercy of two desperadoes. A man was prone on the ground but Southpaw couldn’t determine if he was alive or not. One of the evil doers kept an elderly man covered with his pistol while his associate removed boxes and trunks from the wagon. 

The elderly man, white-haired with a long beard of the same color, stood by helplessly as the outlaw flung clothing and other items over his shoulder.

“Leave that be!” the old man yelled as the desperado opened a case and pulled forth a surveyor’s compass and a telescope. The white-haired man yelled again and lunged forward to reclaim his property. A flash of crimson stained the elderly man’s shirt as a bullet entered his chest.

The outlaw with the telescope held the instrument to his eye and scanned the landscape. Turning slowly, he took in details of his surroundings. His mouth turned down in a scowl upon seeing Southpaw peering from behind a boulder. The thief raised a hand and barked orders to his collaborator before grabbing items as souvenirs to stuff into his saddle bags. 

Keeping an eye on Southpaw through the telescope, the outlaw drew his gun took aim. Southpaw ducked behind the boulder as a bullet smashed into it and ricocheted, sending fragments of rock in all directions.

At the sound of hooves beating against the rocky ground, Southpaw looked over his shoulder and saw the cloud of dust raised by his horse as it retreated. His blood simmered with anger at losing his mount to a bunch of no account marauders.

When Southpaw peeked out from his hiding place to again look down upon the wagon, a passing bullet removed his hat and nearly parted his hair. Southpaw drew his pistol and fired several shots in the direction of the outlaws.

With the prospect of losing their own lives a distinct possibility, the two ne’er-do-wells mounted up and made their escape.

Southpaw fired bullet after bullet at the fleeing men but only managed to nick one; that unfortunate man fell in such a manner his neck snapped upon impact with the ground. 

Aggravated with the turn of events, Southpaw pulled bullets from the loops on his gun belt and reloaded his weapon before making his way down to the wagon. 

After a quick survey of the scene, Southpaw knelt down beside the younger man and noted a crimson streak trailing behind the man’s ear. Carefully rolling him over to get his face out of the dirt, Southpaw heard a faint moan from the man’s lips. Deciding the unconscious man would be all right for a while longer, Southpaw checked for signs of life from the other man. 

Southpaw placed two fingers against the white-haired man’s neck. Despite the deep red stain on the cream-colored shirt, a pulse was discernible. Pulling the man into a sitting position, Southpaw propped him against one of the wagon’s wheels before retrieving a canteen lying on the ground. 

The man lapped at the trickle of water and tried to raise an arm to take the canteen. Southpaw uttered soft words of assurance but didn’t allow him to gulp the water. 

Southpaw removed his neckerchief and dampened it before gently dabbing at the man’s face. In response, the man cracked open an eye.

“I’m afraid all hope is lost for me,” the man said in a hoarse whisper.

“Hope is never lost,” said Southpaw in a voice filled with bravado. “Sometimes it just tucks itself into your pocket until you need it again.”

“Uinta . . . .”

“Save your strength, old timer,” said Southpaw as he again carefully patted the man’s face with the rag.

“Map . . . box . . . .” The old man struggled to utter each word.

“Map of what?” Southpaw asked.

The man slowly shook his head. “Careful . . . curse . . . .” he said through a labored breath.

Southpaw sat back on his haunches. I don’t want any truck with a curse. 

The man breathed in, opened both eyes, fixed Southpaw in his sights, and said, “Gold,” in one long, ragged whisper. 

As the word faded in the still air, the old man’s head slumped forward until his chin rested upon his chest.

Southpaw gently shook the man but there was no response. He plucked off his hat and laid it over his heart as he silently sent up a prayer for the stranger’s soul. “You know anything about a map?” he asked the horse. The harness jingled as the horse shook its head.

Southpaw shrugged and patted the horse’s rump as he walked back to the driver’s seat. Looking underneath he saw a dusting of sand and a half full bottle of whiskey. He felt along the hard wood but didn’t feel anything to indicate a secret compartment. Deciding to quench his thirst, Southpaw uncorked the bottle and raised it to his lips. Before he could get a swallow, he felt his gun removed from the holster. Slowly, he turned around.

The younger man stood unsteadily but held the pistol, trigger cocked, with both hands. 

“You killed him,” the young man growled in a low voice.

“Now see here, fellah,” said Southpaw as he gestured with the bottle, “I was up yonder behind those rocks when I heard shots. Two men were down here going through your belongings. One of them shot your . . . your,” Southpaw was stumped for moment. “I ran those desperadoes off but it was too late to do anything for him. I sure am sorry.”

The young man looked around, noting the open trunks and the strewn clothing. 

“Those outlaws took a telescope for sure and maybe a map,” offered Southpaw.

At the word, ‘map,’ the young man’s head whipped around and he gripped the butt of the pistol tighter. “What do you know about it?” he asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Just what your . . . your granddad said as he was dying. He said there was a map and a curse and gold. I don’t want any part of a curse. Even if I had found the map I wouldn’t have stolen it.”

Southpaw looked up at the sky and he squinted against the bright sun. “We should get him buried before he starts smelling ripe.”

The young man pressed his hand to his still-bleeding wound. His face paled until he was almost as white as his shirt then he dropped to his knees, the gun clattering safely against the hard earth.

Southpaw carefully approached and squatted in front of the young man. He carefully parted his hair and noted the furrow in his scalp.

“It’s just a graze but you’re apt to have a splitting headache for a few days. Have a drink of this.” 

He handed the whiskey bottle to the younger man who grimaced after swallowing a generous portion.

Southpaw tore a strip of material from the dead man’s shirt and wrapped it around the younger man’s head. When the injured man protested, Southpaw said, “Angels don’t need fancy shirts because St. Peter hands out robes at the Pearly Gates.”

The young man sighed as Southpaw helped him sit in what little shade was available. “If only you’d arrived earlier, perhaps Daniel wouldn’t be dead.” The man took another swig of liquid courage then extended his hand in introduction. “Name’s Phineas Henderson but most acquaintances just call me Finn.” 

“Pleased to know you,” said Southpaw shaking the offered hand. “Folks call me Southpaw.”

“How’d you acquire that name?” asked Finn with curiosity in his eyes.

Southpaw released the pistol’s hammer and placed the gun back in the holster. Resting his hand on the butt of the gun, he asked, “Is it not clear?”

Finn nodded his head in silent understanding. 

“He isn’t my grandfather,” Finn said softly. “Daniel is . . . was . . . my uncle.”

Finn rested his chin upon his chest as he said a silent prayer for the repose of his companion’s soul. After a soft, “Amen,” Finn poured another slug of whiskey down his gullet.

Putting a hand on Finn’s shoulder, Southpaw said, “You rest up, I’ll plant your uncle.”

Southpaw scanned the back of the wagon and extracted a shovel. After a quick survey of the area revealed the most likely place to dig a grave, Southpaw set about his grim task without a word. 

Taking a short break, Southpaw leaned his weight against the shovel’s handle and grimaced. The vultures were feasting on the outlaw’s flesh. He turned his back on the sight and resumed digging. 

Once a hole of sufficient width and depth was excavated, Southpaw returned to the wagon and dragged Daniel’s body over to the open grave. Finn walked unsteadily, weaving along the path left by his uncle’s corpse. After Daniel was rolled into the grave, Finn said a few words over the corpse and then swallowed a belt of whiskey. Southpaw filled the hole then placed a layer of rocks over the fresh turned dirt to keep curious animals from uncovering the deceased man. 

With the impromptu funeral completed, Southpaw gently placed a hand on Finn’s shoulder to guide him back to the wagon. Southpaw tossed the dust covered shovel inside and dipped a gourd ladle into the water barrel. After several gulps, Southpaw removed his hat to wipe the sweat from his forehead. 

Southpaw checked over the horse to make sure it was in condition to haul the wagon. The animal had come through the desperadoes’ attack with no injuries. After checking the harness and reins and making necessary adjustments, Southpaw helped Finn clamber aboard. 

The two men drove in a companionable silence, the only sounds the creaking of the wagon and the rumbling of the wheels. Finn was soon lulled to sleep, leaving Southpaw free to ruminate on the earlier events and Daniel’s warning about cursed gold. 

A lone cabin emerged out of the gloom cast by the setting sun. It appeared to be a sturdy structure in the dim light. A small livestock pen stood beside the cabin.

Reining the horse, Southpaw applied the brake before hopping down to earth. Finn jumped down from the bench seat and stretched to relieve the cramps in his back. A piece of paper tacked to the door caught his attention and he strode over to read it.

“Yer welcum to thuh cabun. Jus tydee up.”

Finn opened the door and was pleased to see a neat, orderly room with two cots and wood stacked for use by the fireplace. A pot and a skillet occupied a shelf near a table. The lone window was covered with oilskin that could be rolled up and tied to allow a cooling breeze to waft in or to let the stifling heat filter out. 

“It isn’t much but it’s at least warm at night,” said Southpaw as he placed kindling in the well-used fireplace. “There’s beans,” he said over his shoulder, lifting two cans for proof. “You got any other grub?”

“Sure do,” said Finn before he exited. He returned with a large knife and the remaining part of a ham in a burlap sack as Southpaw put the finishing touches on the kindling in the fireplace. 

A fire sparked to life and reflected against the cool steel of Finn’s knife blade. Southpaw pulled his six-shooter from his holster in a fluid motion that bore witness to years of practice. Finn froze in his tracks sure he’d been lulled into a false sense of security by a wanted bandit.

Southpaw relaxed upon seeing the frightened look upon Finn’s face and he quickly pointed the muzzle of his weapon at the floor. Finn let out the breath he’d been holding tight just in case it was his last.

Finn held the sack and the knife away from his body and carefully placed both items on the table as Southpaw cradled his gun in its holster. Southpaw quickly set about slicing the ham to fry up in a pan.

“There’s a bucket over by the door. How about you get some water for the beans?”

Finn carried out the request, relieved he’d evaded death’s clutches. As he lowered the bucket into the water, he mused about his new companion. Southpaw seemed to be an honest sort, but experience had taught Finn a man could be a wolf disguised as a placid, gentle hound. It was lucky that Southpaw had arrived when he did even though Daniel had died at the hands of those men. Finn shivered but not from the cooling evening air. He turned the squeaky crank to raise the bucket and looked skyward at the first of the twinkling stars in the heavens. I wonder if the stars are merely souls gone to Heaven.

The aroma of frying ham teased Finn’s nose when he entered the cabin and his mouth watered in anticipation. The place looked downright cheery with the fire dancing in the sooty fireplace, casting a warm glow within the walls. He carried the water over to the hearth and set it down within Southpaw’s reach before retreating to a chair by the table.

Southpaw spooned water into the pot then added the beans before setting it over the fire. After a quick stir, he returned his attention to the ham. 

“Pass me those plates,” Southpaw requested, jerking his head in the direction of the shelf.

Both men were too engaged in eating to converse. After sating their appetites, they sipped hot coffee in companionable silence as the logs in the fireplace popped. 

Southpaw studied Finn over the rim of his cup. Finn didn’t have the look of an army deserter but he was secretive about that surveying equipment for some reason. If I can just get his tongue loosened up . . . .

Remembering a bottle of whiskey set into a nook close to the fireplace, Southpaw rose from the table. He tapped against the stones adjacent to the mantle until a hollow sound revealed the bottle’s location. A smile spread across his face as he removed his treasure.

“This’ll do us both some good,” he said after uncorking the bottle with his teeth. He poured a generous helping into his cup and then offered the bottle to his newfound friend. Finn splashed some into his coffee and savored the added warmth in his throat.

Southpaw poured more of the amber liquid into his own cup and knocked back a swig. He propped an elbow on the table and held the cup near his mouth to allow the fumes from the alcohol to give him added courage.

“What were you and that other fellah doing out here if you weren’t surveying for a road?”

Finn choked in mid-swallow. Helpful pounding on his back from Southpaw sent the coffee to its correct destination.

When his eyes stopped watering and he could again breathe, Finn said, “Daniel is . . . or rather was . . . an antiquarian. He traveled throughout Spain, Mexico, and Cuba searching out documents relating to the Spanish conquest of the New World.”

“So he was looking for gold?” asked Southpaw. 

Finn detected avarice in the gleam of his companion’s eyes. He saved my bacon but that doesn’t make him worthy of my trust.

Shaking his head, Finn said, “Daniel sought legends, not treasure. His sole interest was proving legends had their basis in fact. Take the Fountain of Youth as an example. There’s no actual spring containing waters that will give a person eternal life or youth but there is a fresh spring in an area where brackish water is dominant. It makes for a great story and it inspired exploration, but the spring doesn’t have any magical properties.”

“What legend was he pursuing out here? The Lost City of Gold?” 

Southpaw asked the last question with a smirk on his face. Not receiving an answer, he pushed back from the table and retrieved the coffee pot from its place over the fire. Returning, he filled his cup and offered to do the same for the other man. 

Finn shook his head; instead he poured a slug of whiskey into his cup and gently swirled it around. He was momentarily transfixed by the motion of the liquid as his nose was tickled by the fumes. Knocking it back in a single gulp, he set the cup down and leaned forward on both elbows.

“Daniel was looking for the Mine of Lost Souls.”

Southpaw coughed and gasped for air. His face turned a bright crimson and tears streamed from his eyes as the hot liquid and remnant whiskey fumes competed within his throat. He pounded his chest until a thin breath was able to squeak into his desperate lungs.

Everyone young and old in this section of the country knew the story of the Mine of Lost Souls. Old folks told stories around campfires about the Uinta Mountains and ghosts in Spanish armor.

According to some tales, a group of Aztec warriors and priests lit out during the siege of Mexico City with orders from their king, Montezuma, to hide the highest quality gold from Cortez and his men. Spaniards were taken prisoner by this group of savages and forced to carry the gold on their backs as if they were pack animals. Cortez sent men in pursuit to bring back the gold, not his countrymen. For months, the Spaniards pursued the Aztecs like a pack of wolves on the trail of a wounded elk. Reaching the Uinta Mountains, the Indians forced their Spanish captives to haul the treasure deep into a cave. After the gold was safely hidden, the priests brutally sacrificed their Spanish prisoners on a stone altar and then dribbled blood from still-beating hearts upon the ground as they worked black magic to hide the location of the cave. When the pursuing conquistadors caught up to the Aztecs, the priests called upon their pagan gods and a terrible battle took place between the two nations. 

Other tales told of a group of conquistadors greedy for riches and glory seeking treasure in the Uinta Mountains. These conquistadores found a nugget of gold as big as an eagle’s egg lying upon the ground. They began digging and quickly discovered a bonanza. Eager to extract all of the gold, the Spaniards enslaved a band of Ute and forced them to work the mine day and night. High-quality gold was hauled out of the earth on the backs of Indian women and children. As months wore on and no amount of gold satisfied their captors, the Ute called upon the spirit animals to carry pleas for help to other Ute bands. Weeks later, the Spaniards were slaughtered, their bodies left strewn upon the ground for the vultures to feast upon. The Spaniards’ souls were denied entry into heaven as their bodies weren’t buried in consecrated ground. Now their ghosts roamed the Uinta Mountains and guarded the mine from trespassers. 

Regaining his voice, Southpaw said in a ragged whisper, “That ain’t a legend. It’s a fact.”

Finn smiled in a condescending manner, as if Southpaw were merely a small child afraid of a monster lurking under the bed. “Have you ever seen these ghosts?”

After sucking in a deeper breath, Southpaw said, “No, but a piece of Spanish armor was found out that way ‘bout ten years ago. That’s proof enough for me.”

“That only proves a flesh-and-blood Spaniard was either in the area; someone found the armor but left it behind as they didn’t consider it valuable; or perhaps one of the local Indian bands discarded an heirloom because they thought it brought bad luck.”

“Well, everyone who’s ever gone looking for that mine has died in a terrible way,” said Southpaw in rebuttal. “I heard from a drifter who heard from a saloon gal who heard from a prospector who heard from an old timer that there’s a ghost army of Spaniards who guard the gold hidden in the Uinta Mountains. Anyone who tries to remove so much as the tiniest nugget dies a horrible death within three days.”

“Don’t you see what nonsense that is?” asked Finn. “There is no doubt a simple, rational explanation for the legend. Perhaps what’s in those mountains is simply pyrite—fool’s gold—but people who tried to pawn it off as the real thing, preying upon mankind’s lust for riches, died from someone else’s greed. Covetousness reared its ugly head and, as Cain slew Abel out of jealousy, someone killed for the possibility of striking it rich. Or maybe those who sought the mine fell to their deaths and were never heard from again because their bodies were scavenged by vultures or bears.”

“More like they were run through by the swords of Spanish ghosts,” said Southpaw into his cup.

“How could a ghost kill a person?” asked Finn in a voice tinged with skepticism. “Answer me that.”

Southpaw chewed his lower lip in concentration but no logical answer popped into his head. 

“Besides, there’s no such thing as ghosts,” said Finn with a wave of his hand.

“What makes you so sure?” 

“Think of all the people who have walked upon this land. Accounting for the small number of alleged ghosts, there’s a large percentage of souls who go to their final resting place rather than wandering around looking for gullible people to frighten.”

Southpaw stood, his eyebrows bristling in anger. “What’d you call me?”

“Sit down,” said Finn. “I didn’t call you anything. All I’m saying is some people are more inclined to believe a half-truth rather than the whole truth.”

“As I said, I’ve heard what happens to folks who try to remove gold from those mountains,” said Southpaw. He ran a finger around the rim of his cup as he thought about the stories he’d heard from those who’d said the legends were, indeed, fact.

“You say it’s just a legend,” Southpaw finally said. “If it was just a story, why would so many people spend their time looking for it?” He pointed at Finn and asked, “More important, why would you look for it?”

“Some people are plain stubborn and will only believe what they see with their own eyes, so they’ll search until their dying day to discover for themselves if a lost treasure exists. There are others who want something to believe in, even if it’s just a larger than life story. Then there are men like Daniel and me. Our interest is why a legend takes on a life of its own and how it drives others to prove it’s a fact. In this instance, the facts we know are as follows.” Finn held up a hand, fingers spread apart, and used the forefinger of the other hand as he ticked off the facts. “Spain conquered the Aztecs and gold was removed from Mexico by force or stealth; there’s a cave in a remote location in the Uinta Mountains; there’s either pyrite or a small amount of gold in that cave; and no credible sources exist to prove that ghosts guard the mine as anyone who’s heard the story has gotten it second- or third-hand.”

“You got one finger left,” said Southpaw.

“Greed,” Finn said as he pointed to his pinkie. “People ruled by avarice will hunt for treasure they can hoard.”
Finn pulled his watch from his pocket and opened it to check the time. Snapping it shut, he said, “It’s late. We should get some sleep before sunrise.”

“You go on ahead. I’m gonna check on the stock before I turn in.” 

Southpaw stepped outside and shivered. It wasn’t just the cool night air but thoughts of the Mine of Lost Souls roiling in his mind. A hair-raising scream pierced the silence and out of habit he drew his gun before realizing the sound was just a panther. He blew out a breath and shook his head to clear the images of Spanish and Aztec ghosts brandishing bloodstained swords and knives.

After checking on the horses, he re-entered the cabin and stirred the embers to rouse the fire. He added another log and was comforted by the flickering tongues of light that sprang to life. As he lay down on the cot, he silently prayed for any ill-intentioned ghosts to remain in the dark and shadows beyond the light cast by the dancing flames.

*
Southpaw awoke to the smell of coffee tickling his nose. He rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, still heavy from lack of sleep. His nightmares had been filled with the images of Aztecs dragging him to a blood-soaked altar and cutting out his beating heart while he screamed.

A low voice drifted around the oilskin shade covering the window. Southpaw cocked his head, but he couldn’t make out any words. He stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it yet that didn’t aid his hearing. 

“Good morning,” said Finn in an all-too-cheery voice as he stepped inside the cabin. 

Southpaw replied with a grunt. Sitting up, he pulled on his boots and lumbered to the door. The morning air carried a hint of moisture along with the smell of horse. He closed one and eye and squinted the other as he looked to the sky. The lack of clouds promised a hot, dry day. 

After checking the animal, he trudged back inside and poured a cup of coffee. 

“Were you talking to someone a while ago?” asked Southpaw as he propped one foot on the seat of the chair.

“No,” answered Finn, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. “Unless you mean the horse. I told him it shouldn’t be too much longer until we reach our destination.”

Southpaw held the cup to his mouth and merely raised an eyebrow in response. He talked to his own horse now and again, mainly because there weren’t any other folks around for company, but Finn didn’t seem to be the type to talk to animals.

Finn pulled a folded paper from inside his shirt and spread it on the table. Southpaw tried to make sense of the symbols and dashed lines but they didn’t appear to mean anything of significance. 

Tracing a line, Finn said, “This is all that’s left of the map Uncle Daniel and I have . . . had. He cut it in half, insisting the map would be safer if the entire thing wasn’t kept in one place. I hadn’t thought it a good idea at the time.” He sighed as he traced another line. “I couldn’t have been more wrong, huh?” he asked, looking up at Southpaw.

Southpaw set the cup down and leaned forward, palms flat on the table. An arrow pointed north but there wasn’t much of which he could use to orient the location of the cabin with whatever was on the map.

“Them other fellahs got your uncle’s half?” 

‘Yes,” said Finn, “but the other half was mostly taken up by Spirit Lake. It won’t do that desperado any good.” 

Southpaw chewed on his lower lip as he studied the map.

Finn looked up at Southpaw with a steely gaze. “Before I was knocked upside the head, one of the outlaws, the leader I suppose, demanded all of our valuables. When neither of us spoke, the larger of the two grabbed Daniel and threatened to pistol whip him if I didn’t reveal where we’d hidden everything of worth. The last thing I remember is telling them they wouldn’t find anything of value in our wagon.” Finn winced and touched his bandaged head. “They obviously didn’t believe me.”

“Where was your half of the map?” Southpaw asked.

“In my boot.” Finn traced another line and said, “Daniel must have thought me dead and told them where his half was.”

“What good would half a map be?” asked Southpaw, his lips quirked in thought.

Finn shrugged a shoulder in reply. “Maybe they thought it was complete since Daniel took great pains to cut it neatly.”

Southpaw nodded his head in silent agreement. “I saw them take a telescope from the wagon. What was that for?”
“That was to be used to answer any prying questions. If anyone wanted to know what two strangers were doing out here, we could simply, and honestly, say we were surveying. Just what we were surveying would remain our secret.”

“How are you going to survey now?”

Folding the map, Finn said, “We won’t need to. I memorized the entire map before Daniel cut it in half. You see, he acquired it when I was a boy and I spent many a day studying it, tracing the lines.” He tapped the side of his head with a forefinger and added, “Even though I have yet to see the terrain, I already know every path and boulder in those mountains.” 

Southpaw’s only response was a noncommittal, “Hmph.” 

After safely tucking the map inside his shirt, Finn pointed at Southpaw and said, “You wait and see. When we reach the Uinta Mountains I’ll make my way straight to the mine without fail.”

“We’ve got to get there first,” said Southpaw before he drained his coffee. 

Finn tidied the cabin as Southpaw doused the embers in the fireplace and then stocked the wood box. When the cabin was almost as neat as when they’d arrived, they stepped outside to prepare for the day’s journey.

Southpaw leaned against the cabin wall and studied his companion as Finn hitched the horse to the wagon. It’s mighty convenient Finn survived the robbery, especially as he has no need of the map, if his boast is true. There was no X to mark the mine on the Finn’s half so it must be on the other. That desperado may know where the mine is but he doesn’t know which trail leads to it.

“Let’s be on our way,” said Finn after he climbed into the driver’s seat.

Close to an hour passed without conversation. Southpaw’s head bobbed in time with the rocking of the wagon as the landscape drifted by. 

The Uinta Mountains loomed in the distance. Only the mountains knew if the Mine of Lost Souls was simply a legend, but the rocks wouldn’t reveal their secrets to just anyone.

“What was that?” murmured Southpaw as he raised his head and squinted against the glare reflecting off the hard-packed earth.

“Do you think we’ll make it into the mountains before nightfall? They look close enough but I can’t be certain without the telescope.”

“We’d do best to make camp in a few hours,” suggested Southpaw. “We’ll be close to the base of the Uintas by then and it won’t do us any good to wander around in the dark. A wrong step could send a man plummeting to his death. Or maybe one of them Aztec or Spanish ghosts would push a man off a cliff edge to keep him from finding the mine.”

Finn chuckled and said, “I told you that story is just that. Ghosts are merely a way for people to explain away things for which they can’t develop a logical, rational argument.”

“You’ve never seen a chair move all on its own or heard the hangers in a closet clatter together in the middle of the night when there wasn’t a breeze to move ‘em.” Southpaw frowned when Finn shook his head.

“Old buildings settle in odd ways and most often after the sun goes down and the air cools, so that explains the creaks, moans, and groans people attribute to ghosts. Hairline cracks in walls and floors usually go unnoticed by the naked eye, so I’d attribute moving hangers to air getting in through those cracks. And I’d lay money that you’ve only seen furniture move after a night of drinking.”

Southpaw’s reddening face confirmed Finn’s suspicion.

“You just wait until we reach those mountains,” warned Southpaw. “If you think you can explain away any of the odd happenings then I’m really a preacher.”

He shifted and looked over his shoulder. They hadn’t seen hide or hair of that bandit, and he was worried because Finn wasn’t concerned. The outlaw only had half the map and must know the other to still be safe with the wagon. Southpaw had an itch on the back of his neck that wouldn’t go away and he was sure it was because they were being watched through the stolen telescope. The scent of treasure could stoke avarice within the most honest man’s breast, so Southpaw didn’t believe Finn’s interest in the mine was solely curiosity.

They found a small bit of shade in which to rest during the afternoon. 

Southpaw watered the horse with what they could spare. Finn pulled the map from inside of his shirt and held it up in front of his face with the mountains in the background.

Finn pointed and asked, “See that mountain that looks as if it’s a rabbit’s ears? That’s where the mine is located.”

Southpaw nodded. “The Ute call that ‘Coyote’s Ears’.” It’s a sacred mountain for them. I don’t believe there’s any Aztec gold up there.” 

Finn shielded his eyes with a hand and said, “Perhaps that explains why people disappear when looking for the Mine of Lost Souls. They trespass on sacred ground and the Ute dispose of them.” He grinned as he looked over at Southpaw. “That may not sound as exciting as Spanish ghosts but it certainly explains the lure of a mysterious treasure for those who seek it.”

“If that’s the story behind the legend, then there’s no need for us to go on, is there?” asked Southpaw after a nervous swallow.

“It’s the most logical explanation but it may not be the only one. Let’s continue on and discover for ourselves,” Finn said as he climbed onto the driver’s seat.

Southpaw took another look at ‘Coyote’s Ears’ and wondered if he was on a fool’s errand. I should’ve minded my own business yesterday. Of course Finn likely would have died if I hadn’t intervened. He clambered aboard and took up the reins. The horse was reluctant to leave the comfort of the shade, but was soon convinced to again pull the wagon.

*
They reached the foothills of the mountains in the dwindling light of evening. The stars were peeking out of the darkening sky, forming into constellations that told of mythological feats and battles. The Ute, like Europeans, had stories told in those same constellations, tales of gods and beasts. 

Southpaw unharnessed the horse and hobbled it for the night. They’d need it in the morning to pack food and, if they found the Mine of Lost Souls, gold. However, the wagon would be a clear sign to anyone else poking around that someone was afoot and looking for something. The back of Southpaw’s neck itched again. Nothing good can be in the cards. 

There were cans of beans in the wagon but Southpaw had a hankering for something tastier. He grabbed up a length of rope and tied one end into a noose to use for a snare. Climbing up a short ways, he set a trap in hopes of catching a rabbit. Settling behind a rock, he patiently waited and was soon rewarded with fresh meat to cook over the fire. 

Returning to the wagon, Southpaw cocked his head at the sound of a voice talking in a volume louder than a whisper but lower than one would speak if unafraid of an eavesdropper. He strained to make out the words but couldn’t understand them. The language, though, sounded much the same as spoken by a cook on a trail drive years ago—Spanish. The air suddenly felt much cooler and Southpaw shivered as he nervously glanced around.

Footsteps caught his ear and he drew his gun in a fluid motion. Finn dropped the load of wood in his arms and raised them over his head. 

“Whew. This area’s got me jumpier than a frog in a skillet,” said Southpaw as he carefully holstered his pistol.

The color returned to Finn’s face with each new breath. 

“Why’d you do that?” Finn squeaked out.

Southpaw said, “I heard talking but couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Thought you might be a stranger bent on ill intentions.”

“Who did you hear?” Finn asked as he squatted to retrieve the wood.

“I don’t rightly know,” answered Southpaw. He rested his hand on the butt of his gun, a motion not lost on Finn. “Whoever it was sounded Spanish-like.” Southpaw nervously looked around and licked his lips. “You don’t suppose it was a ghost with a warning, do you?”

Finn chuckled as he lit a match and laid it to the kindling. “I told you ghosts are a figment of overactive imaginations.”

“Somebody was talking and it sure wasn’t me,” said Southpaw, poking his chest with his thumb.

“All kinds of strange phenomena occur in mountains,” observed Finn. “Sound carries differently because of the manner in which it bounces off rock. Perhaps you did hear someone but they’re higher up and their voices simply drifted down.” 

“Whatever caused it better not try to sneak into our camp tonight,” Southpaw said in a loud voice. “I shoot before asking questions and I’m meaner than a grizzly bear without coffee in the morning.”

Finn suppressed a laugh, then yelled, “You heard him! Ghosts beware!” 

“Beware,” echoed in the still night air for what seemed several minutes. 

With the fire casting light about, Finn noticed the rabbit tightly clenched in Southpaw’s fist. “I see you’ve got supper.”

Southpaw looked down and felt his face prickle in embarrassment. He went to the back of the wagon and was soon busy skinning the rabbit. Once supper was impaled on an aspen spit, the smell of roasting rabbit had both men salivating in anticipation.

*
“You know the legend about Spirit Lake?” Southpaw asked around a mouthful of rabbit.

Finn shook his head. “Is it about treasure?” 

“I suppose you could say that,” Southpaw answered, licking the grease from his lips. “Long time ago, long before whites came to this area, there was a young warrior among the Ute name of Wakara. He went on a spirit quest in hopes of learning where to find gold left behind by the Spanish so he could trade for horses.”

Leaning forward, elbow propped on a knee, Finn asked, “Did the gods tell him?”

Southpaw ran a finger under his nose as he sniffed and said, “Nope. He was mighty disappointed about it. On his way home, he stopped to pick some berries and was surprised to meet up with a lone Shoshone maiden. They didn’t speak the same language, so they talked with hand signs.”

“So they fell in love and lived happily ever after,” said Finn with a touch of sarcasm.

“Not exactly. See, their respective people wouldn’t have been pleased with their marriage and . . . .”

“A Romeo and Juliet story, is it?” asked Finn in a tone that implied he was no longer interested.

Southpaw cleared his throat. “And since the two figured they’d only meet with disapproval, they asked the Great Spirit to bless their union. They set up camp beside Spirit Lake and Wakara found an elk skeleton nearby. You see, the elk are very sacred to the Ute and Shoshone. Wakara made a necklace for his bride from some of the elk bones and she was pleased as punch. She promised to always wear it.”

“How romantic,” observed Finn with a snort.

Southpaw scowled across the fire at his companion before resuming the story. “Since they couldn’t live off love, Wakara went hunting. It took him several days to scare up some game but he returned with enough for them to live off for a couple of weeks. When he got back to Spirit Lake, his wife was nowhere to be found. There weren’t even any footprints around that might indicate some rival Indians had taken her. All of a sudden like, Wakara sees a huge, white elk come out from the middle of the lake with his wife’s necklace around its neck. The elk walked on past him and Wakara followed it for three days.”

“Let me guess,” said Finn. “It finally turned from an elk into a beautiful woman and the lovers were reunited. Then they lived happily ever after.”

Clearing his throat, Southpaw asked, “You want me to finish this story or not?”

Finn nodded.

“The elk finally reached a cave and walked inside. When Wakara stepped in, he was surprised that the elk was gone.”

“Let me guess! It was immediately eaten by a spirit bear. Or maybe it was just a hallucination.”

Southpaw threw the leg bone he’d been chewing on into the fire. “See if I tell you about the gold.”

Finn stopped laughing and cleared his throat. “I apologize. Please, continue.”

Southpaw sighed and nodded his head. “Well all right. Wakara made a torch and once he got it lit, he nearly died of shock at being inside a solid gold cave. There was an old man in there, said he was the keeper of the place and the Great Spirit must have sent Wakara as his replacement. Before Wakara could answer, the old man up and died. Well, Wakara decided he’d go on back to Spirit Lake on the chance his pretty wife was still there but found he couldn’t take more than one step outside of the cave without breaking out into vile blisters.”

Finn absently rubbed his arms.

“Seemed Wakara’s prayers had been answered but he was stuck in the cave forever. Stories I’ve heard from prospectors is anyone who goes inside the cave is tested by Wakara to determine if the man is his successor. Folks who’ve failed the test come out of the cave raving lunatics.” Southpaw shrugged a shoulder. “Far as I know, no one has passed the test.”

After a brief moment of silence, Finn asked, “That’s it? A solid gold cave that turns people into lunatics? Who’d you hear that load of poppycock from?”

“I talked to a man who’d been tested. Met him in Barstow a couple of years ago. He stopped raving after he had a few beers under his belt. He told me about Wakara but I can’t say I’ve ever been interested in spending the rest of my life in a solid gold cave.”

“Some story that is,” scoffed Finn. “First you make the tale out to be a retelling of Romeo and Juliet. Then it becomes nonsensical. Finally, it’s as if the Indian becomes King Midas, doomed to be surrounded by treasure he can’t enjoy.” Finn tossed the small bones on his plate into the fire. “I don’t know why you’re trying to throw me off the trail of the Mine of Lost Souls, but that’s where I’m headed tomorrow. You’re welcome to come with me if you’d like or you can wait here. Either way, I’m going to prove that legend is just that. A ghost story people tell as a morality tale.”

“The moral being . . . ?” asked Southpaw.

“Greed. The moral is greed is a curse, not some cave in a mountainside that may or may not contain gold. People want to get rich easily, much like that Wakara in your story. He wanted riches but his god gave it to him in a roundabout way and with a price.” Finn stood and stretched for a moment. “All I want to do is prove what my Uncle Daniel set out to do—the Mine of Lost Souls is simply a legend, nothing more.”

Southpaw looked up at the inky black sky and said, “I suppose we’d best get some sleep. Morning’ll be here before you know it.”

Finn climbed into the back of the wagon and made a crude bed from a few sacks. Southpaw banked the fire and lay down beside it, adding a few more pieces of wood as a coyote’s mournful call echoed off the rocks. Somebody had to keep an eye peeled for ghosts hunting gold.

*
The morning sun rudely woke Southpaw and he tried to block it out by draping an arm over his eyes. When that didn’t work, he rolled onto his side, yawned, and shook his head. He finally sat up and his nose was disappointed by the lack of coffee aroma. 

He slowly clambered to his feet and stretched his arms wide. He’d expected Finn to be up and about, excited as a chipmunk with the first crop of acorns to collect. 

Southpaw lumbered around to the back of the wagon, saying, “Rise and shine,” to his companion. Reaching the back, he yawned and stretched again. His mouth remained wide open in surprise when he saw the wagon was empty.

“That fool,” muttered Southpaw as he grabbed up his gun belt. His eyebrows rose in another surprise when he saw his gun was missing. 

“Finn!” he yelled, but the call only echoed off the rocks. 

The horse was also gone but the tracks would be easy enough to follow. 

Grumpy without his coffee, Southpaw set out after his companion. He grumbled under his breath as he stumbled on loose rock and was scraped by a few bushes. 

After several hours of trudging in the rising heat, Southpaw sent up a silent prayer upon finding a small creek. He lay down and splashed cool water onto the back of his neck before cupping some up to drink.If only I’d brought the canteen.

Picking up the horse’s trail again, he cursed himself for being such a deep sleeper. 

Stopping for another rest, Southpaw squatted to study the prints before him. A set of boot prints was alongside the shod hoof prints. He cocked his head and traced the outline of the horse shoes. “Finn must be riding and that voice I heard last night must be with him. Interested in a legend my foot.” Southpaw shook his head in regret at falling for such a story.

There’d been no need for his suspicion to be aroused when he’d chased those desperadoes off. For all he knew, Daniel and Finn had been robbed and would have been left for dead. 

That map wasn’t torn in two for safe keeping. Finn must have used it as a bargaining chip with those outlaws. I bet he offered to split the treasure with ‘em if they let him live. Maybe they’d changed their minds when I arrived.

He adjusted his hat and again followed the trail. 

When the sun was directly overhead, Southpaw took shelter in the shade offered by a stand of aspen. He sat down with his back against a tree and stretched out his legs. “Sure wish I’d paid better attention to that map,” he grumbled. “Didn’t seem important at the time.”

Footsteps caught his ear and Southpaw instinctively reached for his pistol. He swallowed hard as he remembered its absence. Pressing his back against the tree, he tightly shut his eyes and hoped for the best. 

A snort and puff of air against his face caused Southpaw to open his eyes. A young elk stood before him, its nose practically against his own. The two spent a moment looking deep into each other’s eyes, both sets of orbs colored with disbelief. After another snort, the elk turned and ambled off. 

I’m not a believer in signs but that was a sure one or I’m not left handed.

He regained his feet and resumed following the trail.

By late afternoon, he saw there were two sets of boot prints walking beside the horse. Maybe they think they can make better time if they walk.

He continued to trudge, his feet growing sore from blisters. 

Southpaw stopped to lean against a rock and fan his face with his hat. Two voices drifted to his ear and he looked around to determine where the bodies they belonged to could be.

He jammed his hat back onto his sweaty brow and tried to creep through the rocks and brush. The voices argued without regard to anyone who might be within earshot. 

Finally reaching a spot from which he could spy upon the voices, his eyebrows shot up in surprise at the sight of Finn holding two pistols on the outlaw. Looks like there’s a treasure after all.

The outlaw who’d stolen the telescope stood before the entrance of a cave and anger colored his face a deep maroon. He shook his fist in Finn’s face.

“You said we’d split it fifty-fifty. Why are you going back on our bargain, you little weasel?”

“I never promised,” answered Finn as he waved one of the guns. “Besides, I’m the brains of this outfit. If I hadn’t coaxed that story from that old man, you’d still be stealing pennies from children and old women. Now load those sacks real gentle-like on the horse.”

“Then what? Are you going to push me off a cliff? Shoot me? What’s your story going to be, weasel?”

“If you don’t start loading, I’ll shoot you right now.”

The other man scowled but obediently reached for one of the sacks. 

A slight breeze lifted the dust and tickled Southpaw’s nose. He pinched his nostrils together and shut his eyes tight to keep a sneeze from escaping.

Thunder rumbled in the distance as the sky darkened.

“You can’t make it down from this mountain when the sun’s down,” said the outlaw. “We might as well take shelter in the cave ‘til morning.”

“If you don’t get those sacks on that horse, I’m going to turn you into a pack animal,” growled Finn.

The horse shifted under the weight of the gold and tried to take several steps back. Finn shoved one pistol into his waistband and grabbed up the reins to keep the horse from stranding him on the mountain.

Releasing his nose, Southpaw sighed in relief.

A sneeze blasted forth, alerting Finn and his companion to an intruder in their midst.

“Come out with your hands up!” ordered Finn.

Figuring discretion was the better part of valor, Southpaw slowly emerged from his hiding place.

“You?” asked Finn and the other man at the same time.

“I figured you were up to no good last night,” said Southpaw. “If you’d really researched the legends of these mountains, you would’ve heard of Wakara.”

“The devil’s in the details,” said Finn as he unbuckled his belt and tossed it to his partner. “Secure his hands then use your belt on his ankles.” 

“Why should I help you?”

A bullet kicked up the dirt between the man’s boots. 

He did as told and stepped away from Southpaw.

Finn cocked the gun and leveled it. “I hereby dissolve our partnership.”

The hair on the back of Southpaw’s neck stood up as a flash burst forth from the cave. Finn looked over his shoulder and turned as white as a freshly laundered sheet. 

An army of conquistadors marched forth, swords held ready for battle. Those without armor had gaping holes in their chests, as if their hearts had been ripped out.

Southpaw clasped his bound hands against his nose, shut his eyes tight, and whispered a prayer for salvation. 

A pistol clattered to the ground. 

Gunshots and screams mingled with swords slashing through the air.

Wetness splashed across Southpaw’s cheek and he prayed it was nothing more than rain.

Howling gusts of wind swept over the mountain. Southpaw’s prayers turned to whimpers.

A bright flash. 

Silence. 

Southpaw trembled in fear but dared to crack open one eye. Dark stains circled his wrists but they were no longer bound. He rolled over and deeply inhaled the dust-scented air. I’m not dead. Thank you, Lord.

He unfastened the belt holding his ankles and clumsily regained his feet. He retrieved his gun, shoving it into his waistband. Bile rose in his throat as he took in his surroundings.

Blood speckled the dust and rocks. Smoldering ground marked where Finn and the other man received justice. 

A scrape against rock startled Southpaw and he drew his gun. “Whew! You’re a right pleasant sight.”

The elk snorted and twitched an ear before heading to the cave. Reaching the entrance, the animal transformed into a Shoshone woman. She turned and smiled at Southpaw before fading from sight.

Eager to escape, he picked his way down the mountain and to safety. 

“How’d you get here?”

The horse snorted. Southpaw looked up the mountain, looming in the deepening twilight. 

“I’m not the superstitious sort, but we’d best get on out of here.” The horse nodded its head.

“No one will ever believe this,” Southpaw muttered before urging the horse to make tracks.

*

“That’s it? That’s the end?”

Joe tossed the book across the room. 
Adam picked it up and casually flipped through the pages. 

“Mind if I borrow it?” he asked, admiring the cover.

Joe waved a hand by way of permission.

Adam tucked the book into his jacket pocket as he exited the house. Reaching Sport, he tightened the cinch before mounting up.

Ben, walking from the barn to the house, waved at his eldest. Adam pulled Sport up.

“Remember,” said Ben, “you’re babysitting Peggy while Laura and Will are out of town. No scary stories or letting Peggy stay up past her bedtime.”

“Yes, sir.” Adam tipped his hat by way of good-bye and headed for the road. 

His eyes sparkled with mischief as he patted his pocket. What happened on the Lazy C when Will and Laura were out of town stayed on the Lazy C. A smile crept across Adam’s face as he gave Sport his head and headed for a rendezvous with a little girl who loved fantastical tales of lost treasures and ghosts.

The End
September 2012