“This map is probably two hundred and fifty, mebbe three hundred years old,” he said flatly. “It was the cause of a lot of ugly history a few centuries ago.”
“Why?”
Autry sighed, handing it back. “Golden dreams and ugly realities. Let’s get back to town, and I’ll tell you what I know.”
People were still milling about the street, and when they saw the party of outlanders alive and ambulatory, they shuffled away, muttering and mumbling.
“Hell of a chamber of commerce you’ve got here,” Mildred commented.
Autry led them to the tavern, fetched a jug of a concoction he called White Mule and sat at the largest table in the room. When everyone was seated, holding brimming mugs, he asked, “Have any of you ever heard of Coronado?”
Only Doc and Mildred nodded.
“Francisco Vasquez Coronado,” Doc said, “provincial governor of Mexico and Texas, explorer, plunderer and, some would say, genocidal monster.”
Autry stared wide-eyed at Doc. “You know more about him than I do. All I know are the legends, the campfire tales that have been passed down from generation to generation.”
“Let’s hear them,” Krysty suggested.
“Over six hundred years ago, during one of Coronado’s expeditions, he heard about the Seven Cities of Cibola. These were supposed to be Native American treasure cities, scattered all over the West and Southwest. According to legend, they were so full of gold, silver and precious gems that sunlight was reflected off them for miles around. Coronado and a company of conquistadors set out to find these cities.”
“There’s a similar legend in Central America,” Mildred said. Since she had minored in American Indian history at her university, she knew quite a few obscure facts about aboriginal cultures. “Tales of the city of El Dorado have circulated for centuries.”
“At any rate,” Autry continued, “months passed and the conquistadors were decimated by Indian attacks, disease and exposure. Some believed Coronado traveled beyond the Yellowstone, deep into Utah. He found nothing and returned to Mexico, a defeated man.”
“However, the legend of the Seven Cities persisted, due mainly to one of Coronado’s soldiers who’d committed their route to paper. According to the soldier, they had indeed found the location of one of the cities, but they were driven back by an army of Indians before they laid eyes on it. During the early days of colonization of this territory, the map and the story wouldn’t have been given any credence whatsoever if some of the Sioux groups hadn’t enjoyed visiting the Franciscan missions, flaunting ornaments fashioned from gold and silver.”
“In the mid-1700s, French explorer de Varennes chanced upon the map while staying at the mission near the Sweetwater River. He made a copy of the mapin French, of courseand went to Norleans, intent on gathering men and materials to mount a major expedition. As the story goes, the man died and the map was thought to be lost.”
“What happened to the original copy, the one in the mission?” J.B. asked.
“Crazy Horse burned down the mission in the 1870s,” Autry answered. “It was probably destroyed.”
Ryan flicked the gold pieces on the table with a fingertip. “Like you said, campfire stories.”
“Perhaps,” Autry replied. “But your map is obviously very old. It may be a copy of de Varennes’s copy, but it definitely shows the route from the Yellowstone, across the Washakie Basin where we are, toward mountains that can only be the Wind River Range.”
“If you’ve identified the landmarks,” Mildred said, “then why are the mountains labeled ‘mountains of mystery’?”
Reluctantly Autry said, “Aside from the stories about the Seven Cities of Cibola, there are old Indian legends about hidden places in the Wind River and Medicine Bow Range. Medicine spots, they’re called, doorways to the other side. If these power points, these doorways, are sealed off, Indians believe their souls will wander for eternity. In these hidden places, in valleys and mountain peaks, dwell the ghosts of the First People, the prehuman ancestors of the Indian.”
Pausing long enough to swallow a mouthful of liquor, Autry added, “And rich veins of gold are also supposed to be there. To this day some of the Lakota and Cheyenne wear gold ornaments and trade them here for goods. What you have there doesn’t look like raw, stream-panned ore. Looks to me like it was hacked from a molded ingot.”
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