I had the name of being a rough man, and that came of the troubles I’d seen, and the fact that I’d come out of them winning instead of losing. This was a time of bitter war and struggle, for the Indian gave up his hunting grounds reluctantly, and even those of us in sympathy with him were compelled to fight, because they could not always distinguish between friends and enemies. Of course, it wasn’t only the white man fighting the Indian, for the Indians were constantly at war with each other.
Now I drifted north, holding to the high ridges, where I rode just below the crest, out of sight yet high enough to ride easy and keep a wide view of the country. When I saw dust, I drew up and got down and waited until it had gone out of sight, for though it might be white men raising the dust, I’d no reason to think they would be friendly.
All the time, my mind was being busy trying to remember all I’d heard of the Rabbit Ears, and the one thing I kept coming back to was a story I’d heard trailside down on the Neuces seven or eight years back.
The story was already old, and the man who told it to me was a Mexican from across the Rio Grande. He had hailed my camp from out of the night, and I told him to come in. That was brush country, and rougher than a cob; every other man an outlaw or a renegade hiding out from the Davis police.
John Wesley Hardin was on the dodge then, and Bill Longley, just to name two. Up in northeast Texas Cullen Baker was dead, or at least they said they had killed him, and he never showed up around after that. All these men were refugees from the Davis police.
I had stepped back in the shadows to let that Mex come in, and he came politely, with his hands up. He was an oldish man, but dapper and mighty elegant still. His boots were dusty, and although he had tried to brush himself off there was traildust on him. “Senor?”
Well, I stepped out of the brush. By and large I’d found Mexicans the salt of the earth, and many a time when on the dodge the only thing that kept me alive was a bait of frijoles and tortillas at some Mexican sheep camp.
“Come in and set,” I said. “There’s coffee ready and beans in the pot.”
So we ate, and then he rolled him a smoke and we yarned the night away. He was afoot … he didn’t say how or why, and in those days a body didn’t ask questions. It happened I had an extra horse, a paint pony, pretty as a picture. A few days before that pony had been ridden by a mighty handsome young Comanche with bad judgment. He was riding loose, hunting for some action, and when he saw me he exercised that bad judgment … he decided I was easy pickings and fell in on my trail. Only I was keeping an eye on my back trail and when I saw I was followed I circled arround and hunched down close to the trail to see who it was.
When I saw it was a Comanche with two fresh scalps, I stepped out and spoke to him. He turned as if he was shot and started to lift his rifle, which was his second case of bad judgment, for I only figured to set him afoot so he couldn’t follow me any longer.
He put hand to that rifle and I shot him through the brisket, emptying the paint pony’s saddle like there’d never been anything there. The Comanche was game; he came up fighting, so I let him have another one, caught up the pony, and left out of the country.
“You need a horse,” I said to the Mexican, “you take that one. The Comanche who owned him won’t be hunting him.”
“Gracias, senor.” He spoke simply, yet with feeling, and he had a right. In that country at that time the only folks he was apt to meet would more than likely finish him off for his guns or whatever else he might have.
We drank more coffee and talked, and then at the last he said, “Amigo, I have no money. I cannot pay for the horse.”
“He is yours, think nothing of it.”
“My grandfather,” he said, “used to drive mules on the Santa Fe Trail.”
Well, now. That was an interesting bit of information if I’d been interested in his grandfather, which I wasn’t, or in the Santa Fe Trail, which I’d seen my ownself.
“It was there he nearly lost his life. He was of a pack train for Nathan Hume.”
It all came back to me now, and I recalled as if it had been last night, us sitting by the fire and him telling me about that pack train. They had come from Santa Fe, and were crossing the plains, bound for Independence, Missouri, or some such place, and they had been making good time until they were hit by a war party of Kiowas.
They were strung out too far, and they didn’t have much chance. A few of them gathering around Nathan Hume himself, among them my Mexican friend’s grandfather, bunched up and made a retreating fight of it back to the Rabbit Ears Mountain, where they dug in for a stand.
They were wiped out … all but that Mexican, who found a hole and crawled into it. The Kiowas scalped and mutilated the bodies after robbing them of everything worth having, and then rode off a-running. After a bit that Mex came out and hoofed it back to Santa Fe.
When he got back he was warned to lie low, that the governor had sent a detachment of soldiers after Hume, and that if he were found he would be arrested. Nathan Hume had been smuggling gold secretly mined in the San Juans. So this Mexican smuggled himself out of town on a borrowed mule and then joined a train headed for Mexico City. He had friends there, and he planned to get some help and return, for he was sure he knew where the gold was … and was sure the Indians had not found it.
The trouble was, shortly after arriving in Mexico he was thrown from a horse. His back was broken and he never walked again. He knew where three hundred pounds of gold was hidden, and he couldn’t do a thing about it.
This was the story that was told to me by the Mex to whom I’d given a horse.
“Did you ever give thought to hunting that gold?” I’d asked him.
“Of course, senor, but”—he shrugged—”I had a difficulty in Taos … a matter of a senorita … and I was followed to Las Vegas. I killed a man, senor, a man with many brothers and cousins and uncles.”
He put his cigarette in the fire and smiled. “I like life, senor, and I am a man who is content with a little now and another time. If I went north I might find the gold. I might also find a grave, and the odds for the latter are best. If you want the gold it is yours, senor.”
“Any idea where it is?”
“There’s a box canyon back of Rabbit Ears. It was there they made their stand … the bones of the mules might be there still.
“There was a pool of water there, covered with a green moss or scum, and beyond the pool a hole under a boulder. The gold was hidden in the hole, rocks tumbled over it, and with a broken gun Nathan Hume chipped a cross on the boulder. You should find it.”
The next morning we parted, and once in the saddle he held out his hand to me and we shook hands. “Be careful, senor, and ask no questions. The Mexicans who mined the gold had sons and grandsons, and they know that Nathan Hume’s mule train did not get to Missouri … they might even have spoken to the Indians.”
It was not the first trailside story I’d heard of buried gold or lost mines. Such stories were told and retold all up and down the country, although this was the first time I’d heard this one. But I kept it in mind, and planned to take a look for myself sometime. Only things kept happening.
In Serbin, a town of Wendish folk in Texas where I’d had friends, I killed a carpetbagger and was thrown in jail for it. But my Wendish friends found a way to help me escape and left my horse where I could find it. I joined up with a trail herd headed for the Kansas towns, but I was a man wanted by the law.