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June 23, 2015

The Spaniard’s Gold: Part 8

Grace raised her hands in quiet surrender. Eric’s normally calm features were pulled low into a scowl. His eyes were wild, like she had never seen. His posture was straighter; his movements more confident. The shy, bookish graduate student was gone.

“You’re really too trusting, Doctor Yun,” he said. He was wrong. Grace didn’t trust anybody. It had cost her too much. But she was willing to give people the benefit of the doubt when they seemed to prove no threat — and perhaps she would have to rethink that, too.

“I’ve certainly learned my lesson,” she replied, careful to speak softly so as not to provoke his trigger finger. “That’s the last time I let someone sit in the back of a pickup truck with nothing but the contents of my backpack to occupy them.”

Eric smirked, but it was a smile devoid of any joy. His eyes flashed to the cave entrance. Ingram and Sam had come down the hill into the mouth of the cavern.

“Stop right there!” he barked. Ingram skidded to a halt less gracefully than Sam due to the greater momentum of his weight and muscle. “Hands on your heads!”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Ingram said. He did not raise his hands. “The nerd is holding us up?”

“I said hands on your head,” Eric said in a harsh tone that seemed to scrape the roof of the cave like fingernails. “I’ve heard quite enough from you this trip.”

“Unbelievable,” Ingram muttered, rolling his eyes, as he placed his hands on his head. Grace couldn’t tell if he thought it was unbelievable that Eric had turned on them or if it was unbelievable that he hadn’t been the one to double-cross them.

“This is going to reflect poorly on you in front of the dissertation committee,” Grace said sarcastically. Eric didn’t respond to the taunt. Silently, he held up a gleaming golden coin. The light of Grace’s headlamp illuminated the profile of the king of Spain and the raised Latin words surrounding it.

“Excellent work, Doctor Yun,” Eric said. She couldn’t tell if he was mocking or sincere. “You have found what has eluded generals, treasure hunters and archaeologists for a hundred and seventy years. I could’ve done it alone, of course. I found your slot canyon easily enough. But it was your obsession that got us here in the end.”

The boot prints at the slot canyon had been Eric’s. It was starting to make sense now. Grace glanced around the cave floor. Twenty or so golden coins glinted under a thin layer of red sand all around them.

“The lost treasure of Juan Rivera,” he went on, savoring the way his voice echoed in the cave. “You’re looking at over $50,000 lying on the ground. And you led me right to it.”

Grace was getting tired of this. Nearly a decade of research thrown in her face. She clenched her fists as she waited to hear what he was going to do now. He could kill them to cover his tracks, but if that was his plan, he would’ve done it already. Plus, people would report them missing and Sam’s truck would only take a day or two to locate. Not much of a head start. He could also keep them with him until he was safely away, but they were three people against one and Eric was smart enough to know that the odds of the tables turning grew the longer they were together. That left just one liable option: Leave them in the desert.

“Doctor Yun, if you would do the honors of gathering up my loot,” he said. Grace sighed and reluctantly started to gathering coins one by one. It was even worse to feel the weight of the coins in her hand and know that were about to disappear again. As she was collecting the worn coins from the sand, she caught something out of the corner of her eye. There was another chamber behind Eric. She doubted that he’d had enough time to search that far before she arrived.

“Oil man, I’m going to need your keys. Toss them onto the ground where Doctor Yun can get them for me.”

Sam retrieved his keys from where they hung on a carabiner from his wide leather belt and tossed them underhand to Grace. Eric dropped his backpack on the ground at Grace’s feet. According to his instructions, she placed the coins and the keys in the pack and zipped it up.

“You’re good, kid,” Ingram said. “You look like you’ve done this sorta deal before.”

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” Eric hissed. Ingram shrugged.

“I’m trying to compliment you. Very well executed. To a tee,” the large man went on. Out of the corner of her eye, Grace could see him reaching for something behind his back. It looked like a hilt of a knife. “Who are you selling to?”

“Be quiet,” Eric growled.

“I’m serious,” Ingram babbled on. The knife was out now and held tight against the small of his back, ready to strike. “Bit of advice: Don’t sell to Ngora. He promises a good price, but he usually ends up having his bodyguards try to kill you once he has the artifact.”

“Drop the knife,” Eric said, raising the gun and sighting down the barrel to Ingram’s head. The smuggler froze. “Loosen your grip and let it drop to the ground or so help me, I will fill you with lead.”

Ingram sighed and let his Bowie knife clatter to the sandstone. It echoed off the walls and ceilings in the silence that followed. Pulled on his back and carefully made his way to the mouth of the cave. Never letting them see his back and instructing them not to turn to face him, he retrieved the knife and stuck it in his belt.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” he said. “If I see one of you following me, I won’t hesitate to kill you. If you just remain here until after I’ve gone, we’ll all get to live long happy lives.”

By this point, Eric’s voice was dropping off behind them. Grace waited until his footsteps had faded before she started breathing normally again. Ingram turned to follow Eric, but Sam stopped him.

“Let him go,” Sam said with a smile. “I never liked that truck anyway. The insurance will cover me.”

“No one’s ever stolen from me,” Ingram said. He looked like defeated. “I can’t believe we let that little weasel escape with the treasure.”

“That wasn’t the treasure,” Grace said. Both men stopped and looked at her quizzically. She had their attention now. “That’s just what they dropped along the way. Shall we get the real treasure?”

She started to walk deeper into the cave, around the bend she spotted earlier, into the bowels of Ragged Mountain. The natural cave ended and the man-made cave began. It was rough hewn from the bedrock and pickaxe marks scored the tunnel from top to bottom. Barely five feet tall, even Grace had to bend down to fit.

“Why do they never design these things with me in mind?” Ingram complained.

The mine continued for thirty feet, sloping ever downward. Finally, it leveled off and widened. Quartz glittered and refracted the light from their headlamps — wide veins spaced every few inches. At their feet lay five large wooden chests. Grace reached in her pack and retrieved a fine brush. Gingerly, she brushed away the centuries of dust and sand. Monsoon rains over successive years had seeped through the porous rock above and dripped onto the chests, leaving gaping holes where rot had eaten away at the wood. The chests were secured with heavy, corroded steel locks.

“Aright, we’ve got to be delicate. These are over a century and a half old, so they’re going to be very brittle,” she said.

Before she had a chance to explain her plan, Ingram was at her side. With a swift downward kick, the lock cracked off, taking much of the wooden plank with it. The gold inside spilled out onto the ground. Yet it was not a rush of coins, but rather a clatter of golden plates and crosses.

“This isn’t Rivera’s gold,” Sam said, kneeling to inspect an intricate crucifix of solid gold.

“This is Rivera’s gold alright,” Grace said, examining a small, delicate chalice with a hand-polished shine that reflected her face like a mirror as she put the puzzle pieces together. “Why else would priests risk their lives to get it out of Santa Fe. Rivera and his son must’ve given all of his gold to the church. Perhaps over many years.”

“And so, when the Army captain found Eduardo Rivera’s home stripped of all its gold…” Sam went on.

“It’s likely that it had been empty for months or years,” Grace finished the thought.

“You think he would just give away his whole inheritance?” Ingram asked incredulously. He would never do a thing like that, Grace was sure.

“Living in your father’s shadow can do strange things to a person,” she replied, handing him the chalice. “Maybe he felt remorse for the way the early colonists had treated Native tribes.”

“Or maybe he was trying to buy influence in the most powerful organization in Spanish America — the church,” Ingram mused.

“We’ll probably never know,” Grace said. “The question is, what should we do with it?”

“We should walk away from it and forget we ever found it,” Sam said, handing the chalice back to her.

“Don’t be crazy, man! This is worth a fortune!” Ingram bellowed.

“The pursuit of this gold has caused enough pain. Today, we almost died for it. I hate to think what more it could do if the world was reminded of its existence. As far as I’m concerned, it’s done enough damage. At the end of the day, gold is just a shiny rock.”

Grace nodded. She could understand that point of view. The blood of generations were on this gold. It was ironic that something so many people had suffered and died to produce was now in the form of sacred objects.

“I can’t let you sell this, Ingram,” Grace finally said. “Not even the portion I promised to you. Sam’s right. It would be immoral to let any of this loose on the black market. More lives would be lost. It has to be studied and then given to a museum so that it can do something positive. What do guys you say?”

“I think I could be okay with that,” Sam said.

Ingram was looking at his reflection in a golden offering plate; no doubt dreaming of the luxuries he was planning to buy with his cut of the treasure. He set it down and folded his arms.

“Do these museums pay a finder’s fee at least?”

“I’ll see what we can do,” Grace said. Ingram screwed up his ruddy face to think about it for a moment and then nodded his ascent. “Which way to the nearest road, Sam?”

“Probably about five miles north,” he said. “Do you think Eric will be waiting for us?”

“If he’s anything like me, he’s in a real hurry to sell and get out of the country,” Ingram said, shaking his head. “I’m sure he’s high-tailing it to Salt Lake as fast as he can go.”

“If we’re lucky, we’ll hitch a ride and be in the nearest town with a pay phone in five or six hours. Probably too late to stop him,” Grace said. “But at least we can safeguard what’s here.”

“We’d better start hiking before it gets too late,” Sam said. He and Ingram turned to leave. Grace lingered for a moment on the lines in the rock left by the miners, on the hinges of the wooden chests built by the mission, on the finely crafted censer that used to be a Spanish coin. She smiled.

“Try to keep up, doctor,” Ingram yelled from farther up the tunnel.

“Don’t you worry about me,” she said. She started up out of the cave. She wasn’t about to fall behind. Already, he mind was racing onward to the next challenge. Who knew what else lay hidden under the earth, just waiting for someone to rediscover it?

The End.

— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer in Tacoma, WA. If you liked this story, please share it with a friend. We’ll resume our regularly scheduled blogging later this week. Thanks for reading The Spaniard’s Gold!
June 17, 2015

The Spaniard’s Gold: Part 7

The truck rumbled up neglected dirt roads into the remote Henry Mountains of southern Utah. It was the kind of place easily overlooked. Bullet holes pierced the dated, weathered road signs that only listed the town of Hanksville, over 35 miles away. Twisted juniper trees clung to the loose dirt of the mountains, where they waited for the rains to come. They came over a ridge and beheld three peaks: Mt. Pennell, the Horn, and Ragged Mountain.

“The Navajo call these the mountains whose name is missing,” Eric said. He was still in the bed of the truck, but more alert now. One arm leaned in through the open window and he leaned over between Ingram and Grace. He seemed to be chatting more to make up for lost time. “They were the last mountain range in the contiguous U.S. to be mapped. No Europeans made it this far until John Wesley Powell in the 1870s.”

“I liked it better when you weren’t talking,” Ingram said, rolling his eyes. But Eric was in full scholar mode. Grace understood the young man’s excitement. For most of an archaeologist’s career, they dug in the library; combing through archives and records. It wasn’t everyday that your esoteric field became useful in the real world. Eric’s encyclopedic knowledge of early Southwest history and cultures was finally of use.

“Possibly the first Europeans,” Grace corrected. “Nineteenth century explorers had a penchant for adding flourish to their tales. All of these places were known to Native peoples long before Powell. And I’m willing to bet this region was well documented by Spanish colonists. They were here for over three hundred years before the United States came on the scene. We just rediscover what was once common knowledge and is now lost. That’s all archaeology is.”

Sam veered off the road. Over bumps and dips, he steered laser-fixed to the north, until they reached the foothills of the southernmost peak. Finally, he jammed the brakes and the truck ground to a halt.

“I came here a few years ago looking for my great-grandfather’s mysterious white men,” Sam explained as they all climbed out and looked around at the vast, high desert. He paused and pointed. A bison was standing downhill from them, less than 20 yards away. It was chewing on a mouthful of dry wild grass and watching them with large black eyes. Others were scatted down the hill into a shallow depression of land where enough water collected to support the grass.

“My family was here to hunt them at the time,” Sam continued. “So, it makes sense that he would’ve encountered the priests here. They would also have known that the Americans didn’t know about these mountains.”

“A perfect hiding place — one your enemy doesn’t know exists,” Ingram observed. Grace nodded.

“Okay, so if you were Juan Rivera and you were charged with bringing gold back to your empire, where would you look first?” Grace asked somewhat rhetorically.

They surveyed the mountain range before them. Sparse and rocky and unspoiled. Grace squinted into the afternoon sunlight, which was rapidly fading as a new wave of monsoon storms marched northward toward them. Then, Grace noticed something. A pockmarked ridge at the base of the furthest peak, a few miles northeast of them.

“What about there?” she asked. Sam went back to his truck and returned with a pair of binoculars. He looked through them and handed them over to her. Under magnification, she saw what looked like a number of small, shallow caves in the rock face. No roads led there. They would have to off-road and hike a ways to reach it.

“Fortune favors the bold, gentlemen,” she said. “Let’s see if we can beat the storm.”

“What’s the rush?” Sam asked. “Your track record with thunderstorms doesn’t inspire confidence.”

“We may not be the only ones after Juan Rivera’s gold,” Grace said. “I, for one, don’t want to get there second.”

* * *

It was early evening when they arrived at the ridge at the base of Ragged Mountain. Grace broke out the headlamps and handed them out. They spread out to cover more ground. Each one was assigned a handful of caves and was to report back every fifteen minutes.

Grace went off on her own. The first two caves she checked were dead-ends. They were short and ended after just a few feet. She came back to the group, empty-handed. Ingram was there, having already surveyed his section. Sam was walking back. But Eric was missing.

“Eric?!” Grace called. “Are you alright?!”

There was no answer. Remembering the flash flood that had nearly swept the young man away, she worried that he must be in danger. A number of scenarios rolled through her head as she ran in the direction she’d sent him fifteen minutes earlier. A cave-in. A mountain lion. A fall. A snake bite.

Sam and Ingram were in pursuit, but she was faster, and quickly left them behind. She scrambled down an embankment that led toward a cave. A real cave that looked from the outside to have significant depth. It was shielding on three sides, so you would have to approach it from just the right angle to even see it.

She did not notice the pickaxe marks on the walls as her headlamp swept from side to side over the mouth of the cave.

“Eric!” she yelled. The echo took several seconds to find the back of the cave and reverberate back. “Are you in there?!”

“Don’t come in,” came his response. It was low and calm; very unlike the grad student’s usual voice. It was close and cloaked in the darkness of the cave. “You won’t like what you find.”

Ignoring his warning, Grace stepped inside. Her headlamp found Eric standing ten feet inside the shadowy cave, at a boundary between what looked like a natural rock formation and a deliberately carved tunnel that extended farther back. The lanky, bespectacled grad student was uninjured.

But he was holding Grace’s gun and its barrel was pointed directly at her…

To Be Concluded.

— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer in Tacoma, WA. If you liked this installment, tell me all about it on Twitter. The Spaniard’s Gold will conclude with Part 8 later this week. In the meantime, you can get caught up here:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
June 11, 2015

The Spaniard’s Gold: Part 6

Grace was entranced by the coin in Sam’s hand. It was definitely gold. It might be a simple Sacajawea dollar — but then again it might be part of the Rivera fortune, she thought. She needed to see it up close. Gingerly, she opened the door. He didn’t seem to notice. Ever so carefully, she stepped down into the hard sand compacted from years of footsteps. The grains crunched under her bare foot.

Instantly, the coin was gone. As deftly as a magician makes a quarter disappear, it had vanished from sight. Sam tried to look startled, but she could read in his eyes that he had been listening for hours.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked. No need to be too direct.

“It’s a nice night to be alone with your thoughts,” he said. She walked over and sat down, cross-legged next to him, but not to near. Gazing up, she saw thousands of stars glittering. The horizon was dark in all directions. The nearest town was too far away and too small to pollute the night sky.

“You couldn’t pick a better spot for it,” she said. “Hundreds of constellations; all with their own stories…you could spend a lifetime recalling each one.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Sam said, looking down.

“Why’s that?”

“I grew up in Salt Lake City. Not too many stars there,” he said. “My mother didn’t know the stories or the language, so she couldn’t pass any of it down. I’m only just now teaching myself, to be honest.” He picked up a handful of sand and let it run through his fingers. “Besides, I’m more interested in what’s under the ground than in what’s above it.”

“That makes two of us,” Grace said, nodding. She sensed a kindred spirit in him; a hunger to understand the people who came before them. So, she decided to switch tactics. “Where did you get the coin, Sam?”

“What coin?” he asked. He was totally nonchalant, but she didn’t let him avert his eyes.

“I’m not going to take it from you,” she said. “Did you find it when you were exploring for oil near here?”

Sam was quiet for a while. Grace waited. Silence didn’t bother her. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision about her.

“Family heirloom, actually,” he said. “But I don’t know much about it.”

“Can I see it?” she said. He hesitated for a just a moment, then produced the coin from behind the elbow he was propped up on. He held it up between his thumb and index finger. Moonlight cascaded over it. Grace leaned in close to get a good look.

“It’s an eight escudo piece,” she said. “A coin minted by the Spanish in the Americas.”

Carefully, she took it from him. She lightly traced the words and images on the coin as she examined it. It was dated 1805 and was struck with the image of Charles IV of Spain in a powdered wig. It was heavily weathered and had obviously been exposed to the rigors of the elements rather than spending the centuries in the hands of a collector. She could barely contain her excitement.

“How long has this coin been in your family?” she asked as she handed it back. He tucked it away again.

“As long as anyone can remember,” he said. That wasn’t helpful information and he knew it, because he went on, “But my mother told me once that she remembered her grandfather telling her a story about a group of white men passing through who gave this to a member of our family in exchange for directions to a cave nearby.”

Grace processed this. It lined up with her theory about the priests headed back to one of the old Spanish mines to hide the Rivera fortune.

“You’re not here by accident, are you, Sam?” she asked pointedly. He smirked.

“Only partly,” he said. “The company wanted someone who already knew the area. It seemed like a good opportunity to revisit some cousins and see if I could track down that cave. I don’t suppose you’re here by chance, either.”

“I think we have a better chance at success if we pool our resources,” she replied, not bothering to answer. He probably figured it out when he plucked them from the flash flood. “You know the land. I know the history. I’ve been studying what became of Juan Rivera’s gold for the last ten years.”

“And if we find it?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“The Spanish had no right to take it. If we find it, I’d like for it to go back to my lab for analysis and then to a good museum for everyone to enjoy. Do we have a deal?”

“We’ll see,” he said as he shook her hand.

* * *

The next morning, Grace sat in the front seat of Sam’s truck as they rumbled down the washboard roads of Southern Utah with her feet on the dashboard and a dogeared leather folio open on her lap. Ingram was squeezed awkwardly in the middle seat while Eric slept in the bed of the truck.

Grace was reviewing the journals of a U.S. Army Captain from Massachusetts who marched into New Mexico with General Kearny in the late summer of 1846.

Not a shot was fired as we marched into Santa Fe. The streets were deserted, but everywhere I could feel the eyes of the townspeople upon us from the windows of their homes. Colonel Price dispatched me and my company of 40 men to spread out and capture the large ranch estates of the richest and most powerful citizens. My men and I arrived at the adobe house of one Eduardo Rivera, whom we were told was a leading member of the community. We entered the home to find it stripped of all its gold and silver. The old man had even cut off the buttons of his shirt and hidden them away.

Grace shuffled her papers and pulled out her map with different areas circled. With the red pencil she used for grading, she drew an X through the circle around the mine they had explored the previous day.

“I think our best bet is north, in the Henry Mountains in the foothills of Mt. Pennell or Ragged Mountain,” she said. “We know the Spanish were here during Rivera’s expedition and we know it’s remote, so anything hidden there has a good chance of being undisturbed.”

“I don’t see why we need to be dividing the loot any further, Dr. Yun,” Ingram grumbled. He had remained largely silent since Grace had announced that Sam was joining their party. “We could’ve easily overpowered him if we needed the truck.”

“I didn’t think it needed to come to that,” Grace said, shaking her head. “But if we need anything overpowered, I’ll let you know.”

Up ahead, a range of mountains rose out of the surrounding desert. She imagined that if she was in the shoes of the priests charged with hiding the treasure from the Army of the West, this would look like the perfect place. In her gut, she had a feeling that they were close.

To Be Continued.

— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer, photographer, and history buff living in Tacoma, WA. You can follow him on Twitter. Thanks for reading!

Get caught up on this story:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
June 6, 2015

The Spaniard’s Gold: Part 5

The rushing flood waters threatened to tear Grace from the branch. She glanced upstream and saw Ingram coming toward her, propelled by the current. She reached out one hand and caught his before he was swept father down the canyon. Barely, she caught his wrist and dug her nails into the fabric of his plaid shirt.

She looked back to the mysterious man at the top of the ravine. He was Native American, with black hair that was swept into a long ponytail, a grey button-down and dusty blue jeans. He was straining to hold them both. He gritted his teeth and leaned back to counter their combined weight.

Ingram wasn’t going to wait. He swung an arm up to grip the branch above Grace’s grip. He shook off her grasp of his other arm and pulled himself straight up, hand over hand, until he could reach a scraggly bush at the top, about five five feet above the water. With a grunt that she could hear over the thunderous crash of water around her, Ingram scrambled up to dry ground. He rested on his hands and knees and coughed.

“Can you climb up?!” the man with her life in his hands called down. He couldn’t hold much longer and Ingram wasn’t offering to help. Grace nodded. She was tired from fighting the current, but a wave of adrenaline was starting to boil in her blood.

“Wait!” she yelled. “Where’s Eric?” She had almost forgotten about her grad student. But he was here because of her. She was responsible for him. She scanned the furious torrent of rust and foam colored water that rushed down the canyon. He was nowhere to be seen.

She was about to start climbing up when she caught sight of a figure downstream. He was perfectly still, letting the current take him away without a fight. Without a second thought, she let go of the branch and started to swim toward Eric.

“Leave him! Leave him!” Ingram yelled. But she was gone, plunging headlong into the flood. Soon, she reached him and managed to hook his arm through one of the straps in her pack. With the other strap in her hand, she towed him diagonally downstream to the shore.

The walls of the wash dropped there where previous floods had whittled them down. The stranger and Ingram were waiting there to drag them out. Back on solid ground, the strange man tended to Eric while Grace leaned against a rock to catch her breath.

“That was stupid, Dr. Yun,” Ingram whispered to her. “We almost lost your treasure forever. I can’t find it alone and we definitely don’t need the kid slowing us down.”

“That’s not how I work,” Grace said between labored breaths. “It isn’t worth finding that badly.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Ingram said. “In my business, the successful diggers are the ones who are willing to leave men behind. Sacrificed in the service of history, you might say. Surely you can appreciate that.”

Grace didn’t have time to respond.The man was standing over her with a look of concern on his face.

“We’ve got to get you out of the rain,” he said simply. He helped her to her feet and guided them up to higher ground, where a pale blue pickup truck was parked. They crammed into the cab and he started to drive over the expanse of sage brush and creosote. It was miles of silent driving before they hit a primitive dirt road — two tire tracks that cut shallow depressions into the desert sand.

“Hell of a place for a day hike,” the man said.

“Yes, well, the guidebook didn’t say anything about flash floods,” Grace said. She didn’t want to give away too much information. Ingram was right about one thing. A man in pursuit of gold was a dangerous thing.

“You’re lucky I came along,” he replied. They were. Grace wondered if that was a coincidence or…

“What were you doing out here?” Ingram asked. He exchange a glance with Grace. Maybe he was the man who was following them.

“Geological survey,” he said. “I’m working for an oil company that owns the drilling rights to this area. Sam Greyeyes.”

“Dr. Grace Yun,” Grace answered. It seemed rude not to at least do the courtesy of telling the man who’d just saved their lives her name. Ingram did not respond. Eric was still staring, wide-eyed out the passenger window.

“What are you a doctor of, Dr. Yun?” Sam asked. Was this starting to feel like an interrogation or was it just her own paranoia?

“Archaeology,” she replied. Ingram scowled at her, but she couldn’t see how lying about her profession would help them.

“Ah, so you’re stealing all the broken pottery my ancestors threw away,” Sam said. She caught a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“Something like that. Are you a member of the local tribe, then?”

“Southern Ute,” he said proudly. “For as long as anyone can remember. I grew up around here. I can assure you that all the pottery has already been found.”

“We think there might be more,” Grace said. She didn’t mind telling him that they were looking, but she decided against informing him about the treasure they were after. “Maybe some in good condition that were hidden away when European settlers came through.”

“You cannot hide anything from a white man if he has set his mind on taking it,” Sam said. Grace thought she saw him steal a glance toward Ingram and Eric. Eric seemed to be coming out his shock, drawn out by the conversation. They were all quiet for a while until Eric spoke up.

“The oil company is no better than the homesteaders or the Spanish before them,” he said. His ethical mind was gathering steam. “Don’t you think you have a conflict of interest working with them?”

Sam shrugged and kept his eyes on the road.

“We’ve all got to make a living somehow,” he said. The storm had passed. Its black clouds were off to the north, beyond the high mesas. Lightning crackled, but it was too far away for the sound of thunder to reach them. Sam made a left turn down another narrow desert road. It wasn’t long before they reached a solitary Airstream trailer. Late afternoon sunlight glinted off its aluminum exterior.

“You can stay with me tonight and then we’ll get you back to your car…or wherever you want to go tomorrow,” Sam said. There was no room for argument. Grace was glad for the break, although she was anxious to get back on the trail.

Sam said very little for the rest of the evening. He made a quick dish of sausage and potatoes and they ate while exchanging pleasantries about the beauty of the desert and the history of the Southern Ute tribe in this corner of Utah. As night fell, Sam rolled a sleeping bag out for himself in the sand outside the trailer and offered them the trailer for the night. Ingram refused and instead opted to sleep in the bed of the pickup, squeezed among Sam’s surveying equipment.

Grace laid awake in the back of the trailer while Eric slept sprawled on the bench seat in the galley. She laid awake working on a puzzle in her mind. Fleeing the advancing American Army, where would a band of farmers and priests hide their gold? California was an obvious destination, except that the U.S. Navy had already blockaded every city along the coast. Hemmed in on the west from California and on the east from Texas, their only option would be to head north, into the forbidding American interior. Even after three hundred years, much of the lands of Utah and Colorado were untamed wilderness. With those odds, Grace suspected they would go somewhere they knew — perhaps back to the original mine to wait out the war.

Her mind was racing. She needed some fresh air to clear her head so she could rest and be ready to resume the search. As she cracked open the door, she saw Sam resting on an elbow, lit by moonlight. He was looking at something in the palm of his hand. Something small and round that glimmered like gold.

To Be Continued.

— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer, photographer, and history buff living in Tacoma, WA. You can follow him on Twitter. Thanks for reading!

Get caught up on this story:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
June 1, 2015

The Spaniard’s Gold: Part 4

The wash twisted and dug deeper into the surrounding desert rock. Grace had increased the pace. Her feet pounded the fine sand, causing a shower of dust to billow up with each step. She could feel raindrops seep through her light clothing. Gathering winds started to blow.

“What are we looking for?” Ingram yelled. “Doctor Yun?”

“A cave!” she yelled back. “A priest with the Rivera expedition later wrote that they found a small cave north of Glen Canyon where they struck gold.”

“Did he say how far north? Any landmarks?”

“No, he wasn’t more specific. He clearly didn’t want anyone else to find it.” Grace was scanning the crumbling sides of the wash. Her dark brown eyes darted up and down each side, searching for a place where a landslide might’ve sealed off a small gold mine.”

She stopped suddenly and knelt in the sand. Gingerly, she lifted a small crystalline rock no bigger than a golf ball. It was translucent white.

“Quartz,” Eric said, having caught up. “It’s often found near veins of gold.”

Grace met the young man’s gaze. He his arms were crossed, a sure sign that he was still upset with her for allowing part of the treasure to be funneled into the black market. But his eyes suggested that he was still curious. That was good. They would need his help. As a student of archaeology, he specialized in the American Southwest and was more versed into the literature of this area than she was. She hoped his curiosity would keep him from abandoning the search.

“Got any theories you’d like to share, Eric?” Grace prodded. He looked away for a moment.

“We’re probably looking for a natural cave rather than a mine,” he finally said. “Rivera would’ve been traveling in a small band with perhaps a dozen Ute slaves. They wouldn’t have had the manpower to dig anything extensive, even if it is only sandstone. Most likely, they were led to a cave that the Utes already knew about from collecting quartz.”

“So, we’re looking for someplace where a lot of running water would cut into the stone,” Grace said, nodding as she placed the piece of quartz in her backpack. “Let’s keep going this way.”

“Don’t you think we ought to get to higher ground?” Ingram said. He eyed the black clouds that had overtaken them and were now stretching all the way to the flat-topped mesas to several miles north. The rain was light, but in the distance they could see huge curtains of water stretching down from the sky. Lightning flashed on the tower of an oil rig on the horizon. A cloudburst could hit them at any moment. “We’re just as likely to run across a flash flood as a cave if we keep heading this way.”

“We’ll be quick about it,” Grace said. She started to hike up the wash again. Eric followed. Ingram knelt to take a handful of fine sand. It was at least a foot deep here, indicating that floods had been pulverizing rocks here for hundreds of thousands of years. Shaking his head, he started after them.

The wash narrowed as they continued. It twisted around a bend and there they saw a small opening in the rocks; little more than a large crack. Grace turned to the men. Her eyes flashed with excitement.

“Alright, gentlemen,” she said. “In and out. It’s probably not very deep, so we’ll get as much info as we can in five minutes and then we hightail it out of here. Got it?”

They nodded. Grace retrieved a flashlight from her pack and squeezed inside. The opening was only about two feet across and the ceiling was only about five feet. She only had to duck an inch to get inside, but Eric and Ingram had a progressively harder time fitting through the low, tight entrance.

The inside of the cave was cool and dry. The beam of the flashlight played over the far wall, where several almost perfectly straight lines of white quartz cut through the red rock. They were thin like strands of hair, except for one, which was three inches across.

Grace took a step forward. She scanned the ceiling, which was littered with fractures.

“Ice could be forming in these cracks, making them wider over millions of years,” Eric said. His voice was soft, but the cave reflected his words so he sounded like he was speaking from all directions at once. “Dissolved mineral would be deposited every winter and every monsoon season, laying down thin sheets of quartz.”

“And gold?” Ingram asked. His skepticism reverberated.

“And gold,” Eric confirmed. He fuddled with his glasses. Grace stepped closer to the back wall of the cave. It was only about ten feet back from the entrance. From that distance, it looked undisturbed. Until she stepped closer.

“We’re not the first ones to find this,” she said. Her fingers alighted on the rock. Eric and Ingram came close to see what she was talking about. There, in the rock, were short parallel lines. Hundreds of them, scoring the rock from top to bottom, but mostly concentrated around the vein of quartz.

“I’ll be damned,” Ingram said. He, too reached out to touch the indentations. “Could this be modern?”

“I don’t think so,” Grace said. She was inches away from the rock wall, examining it with the practiced eye of a scientist. “They’re too irregular for modern machinery. This was carved out with by hand, with pickaxes.”

“It could still be from 19th century gold miners,” Eric said. “Some prospectors made it this far during the Colorado Gold Rush.”

“It’s possible,” she conceded. Any evidence of who was mining here was long since washed away. She scratched the surface of the exposed quartz vein and shone the flashlight onto her fingernails. They glittered with tiny flecks of gold dust.

“Doctor,” Ingram said. His tone was not one of awe, which surprised her. She would’ve thought that he of all people would be thrilled by the discovery of gold. She turned to see what the problem was.

Ingram, too tall to make it all the way to the back of the cave, was standing about four feet closer to the entrance. Water was beginning to pool around his feet. It was time to leave. She stashed her flashlight in a pocket and nodded to him. Ingram turned on his heel and bent low to get out.

Ingram got caught several times while squeezing through the entrance. The dark water was rising quickly inside.

“Come on!” Eric yelled.

“Give me a second,” Ingram growled. His pack had shifted across his back, making him two wide to push through. They were going to be trapped. Grace grabbed Ingram’s backpack and tried to pull it off him, but the top of the frame was wedged against the ceiling and wouldn’t budge. So, instead, she rammed her shoulder into his side.

“Watch it!” he said. “I’d like to keep my organs, thank you!”

She ignored his protest and threw her shoulder under his ribcage a second time. This time, there was a scraping sound. A small cloud of sand fell from the ceiling as the pack came free. Ingram tumbled out. Grace motioned for Eric to climb out next. By the time she got outside, the water was over her ankles and rushing fast downstream.

Eric tried to climb the steep wall of the wash, but the brittle rock wouldn’t support his weight. Chunks of stone came free and he dropped back into the water.

“Back the way we came!” Grace yelled. She took one last look at the cave before she started to run. The water continued to rise. Ingram’s foot came down on a slick rock and he slipped, plunging headfirst into the building torrent. Grace hauled him to his feet.

“No time for a swim,” she said. The dark brown water was up to her calves now, then her knees. It was rushing quickly, coming down off the mesa. Each time her foot landed, she could feel the tug of the current.

The swift water swept Eric off his feet. He crashed into Grace and she lost her footing. Ingram tried to grab them but lost his balance in the process. All three were at the mercy of the flood waters. The water tossed them against rocks and resisted their attempts to grab onto anything. It occurred to Grace as she struggled to keep her face above the churning water that they were going to die here. No one would ever know.

“Grab the branch!” a voice yelled. “Grab the branch!”

Maybe it was a desperate illusion concocted by her panicking brain, but Grace thought she saw a branch dangling into the water ahead of her. Mirage or not, it was worth the chance. She reached out and grabbed it. She coughed and blinked the water out her eyes. A man was standing above her with the opposite end of the branch firmly grasped in his hands.

To Be Continued.

— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer and former desert dweller living in Tacoma, WA. You can find him on Twitter.

The Spaniard’s Gold: Part 1
The Spaniard’s Gold: Part 2
The Spaniard’s Gold: Part 3
May 29, 2015

The Spaniard’s Gold: Part 3

Grace was sunburned before midday. She could feel the heat coursing over her skin, from her scalp to her shins. She was dressed for the desert in a long-sleeved white shirt that breathed and loose khaki pants, but the sun seemed to penetrate her weaknesses. A hat would’ve been an excellent idea, she thought.

Ingram was sweating profusely through his dark clothes and was draining more than his share of their water rations. It seemed to flow straight from his mouth to his pores. The skin of his face broke out in freckles.

Eric was the only one who seemed unfazed. In shorts, a t-shirt, and a hat that was far too wide for his head, he kept his steady pace without complaining. Grace was impressed. She had taken the grad student for a bookish type who was unprepared for the rigors of the wilderness, but he was holding up well. Even Ingram stopped berating him for slowing them down.

“I was in Syria last year,” Ingram said as they trudged on through the sand and brush. “I thought I was going to die of heat exhaustion. But that was nothing.”

“At least Rivera had horses,” Eric chimed in. “They didn’t have to walk.”

“Be thankful I didn’t make you take the kayaks with us,” Grace said. She understood their discomfort, but it was better to travel on foot, off the grid. Especially if someone else was after the gold that was surely hidden nearby. “What were you doing in Syria, Ingram?”

The big man chuckled at the naivete of the question.

“There are a lot of rare antiquities caught in the fighting there,” he said. “Whole ancient cities under threat of destruction. I went to help preserve valuable artifacts.”

“And I’m guessing it wasn’t for the benefit of a museum,” Grace said. She shouldn’t have been surprised. It was his skill as a smuggler that got him referred to her by an acquaintance. He laughed again.

“A museum couldn’t afford my fee,” he said.

“But a professor at a small liberal arts college can?” Eric asked. He stopped at the crest of a large rock outcropping. “How does that work.”

“We made an arrangement,” Ingram said.

“You’re letting him have some of the gold, aren’t you?” Eric said, eyes narrowed.

“Eric, please,” Grace said. She could tell where he was going with this.

“That is so blatantly unethical!” he went on. “It isn’t yours to give away.”

“You’re right. It isn’t,” she conceded. She placed her hands on her hips. “But sometimes the process of discovery is messy. And sometimes you have to compromise your ideals to keep an artifact from falling into the wrong hands.”

“I can’t believe it,” Eric said. “I can’t believe you’d just use it as a bargaining tool to get some thug —”

“Watch it, kid,” Ingram growled. His hand was on the hilt of the bowie knife.

“I’m sorry,” Grace said. “That’s the way it is. Now, we’ve got a lot of ground to cover. We need to keep moving. Alright?”

Eric didn’t say anything. He just hefted his pack a little higher and started to walk after them. Grace was sorry to let him down, but she of all people didn’t belong on a pedestal. It was better to tear that image down.

The fell into a silent march. After an hour or so, they came across a wash. It was early summer and there was no water in it, but the signs of water were all around. Thicker, greener brush clung to the gravelly floor of the wash, awaiting the promised return of the rain like a messiah. Grace surmised that Rivera would follow the path of water and so should they. She was hot and her throat begged for water, but she pressed on. The two men kept up as best they could.

By late afternoon, black clouds were forming on the southern horizon and advancing toward them.

“I thought this place was supposed to be a desert,” Ingram said, breaking the silence. Grace turned to look.

“It’s a little early for the monsoons,” she said. The clouds spanned nearly the entire width of the southern sky. Fast winds at high altitude propelled them forward. She could smell moisture on the wind — it was sweet with the scent of wet sand. “Anyway, we should probably find some shelter before it gets here.”

She consulted her maps. The place she had circled with faded pencil was close. Within a mile or two. She hated to abandon the search, but even she had to bow to the power of nature.

“Let’s follow the wash for a while more,” she said. “I’m sure there’s a place to wait out the storm up ahead.”

Neither Ingram nor Eric had the strength to argue. They fell in step behind her, even as the first rain drops began to dot the sand.

To Be Continued.

— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer in Tacoma, WA. His fiction has appeared in Creative Colloquy. You can follow him here and on Twitter.

The Spaniard’s Gold: Part 1
The Spaniard’s Gold: Part 2
May 28, 2015

The Spaniard’s Gold: Part 2

Grace awoke early. In the grey twilight, she knelt by he carved cross and traced its lines with her fingers. She tried to imagine the Spanish explorers carving this with chisels and hammers in this remote corner of the desert canyons. Why take the time? What was important about this spot? She had spent five years asking that question and was no closer to an answer.

“Do you think it’ll talk if you stare at it long enough, doctor?” Ingram said. Grace didn’t know he had been watching. She turned to face him, her thin fingers still resting on the sandstone.

“I was here five years ago,” she said. “We were exploring the side canyons of Lake Powell, looking for signs of ancient Native American settlements, when I spotted the cross in murky water. The water level was twelve feet higher then. We were in full scuba gear and didn’t have the time to investigate further. I’ve waited a long time to touch it with my bare hands.”

“So, does it mean they buried the treasure here?” Ingram asked. “Should we start digging?”

“No, we aren’t quite there yet,” she replied. She wandered over to her kayak and pulled a granola bar from a dry bag. “This is a symbol of the Rivera Expedition and the Franciscan missionaries who went.”

“Rivera?” he asked. Grace took another bite of her granola bar. She had hired him with the stipulation that he couldn’t ask about what they were after. With the expedition underway, it was time to take him into her confidence, even though her gut told her not to trust him. She decided to give him the bullet points as opposed to the full lecture.

“Juan Maria Antonia Rivera was a Spanish trapper living in New Spain in the 18th century. In 1765, the Spanish Empire was desperate to solidify its hold on North America. To do that, it needed precious metals. So, the governor of Santa Fe sent Rivera and a small party of Spaniards and Navajo slaves on a mission to map southern Utah and Colorado — and to search for gold and silver.”

“Did he find any?” he asked. She had his attention now. He always seemed to pay more attention when riches entered the discussion. This didn’t surprise her, given his reputation.

“Officially, no,” she said. “He is remembered as the first European to see the Colorado River, but accounts say that he never found any silver or gold. But when he returned from his second expedition, he received a special commendation from the governor and homesteaded a huge ranch north of Santa Fe. His descendants were massively wealthy.”

“So…the gold is in New Mexico,” Ingram said.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “You see, in 1847, during the Mexican-American War, a young Texan colonel was sent into Santa Fe to raid the old Spanish pueblos. The Rivera Family House was emptied of its gold; stripped from floor to rafters. The fortune disappeared.”

“Where did it go?” Ingram asked, after he’d digested the story.

“That’s the fun part,” she said with a smirk. “That’s where we become a part of history. Because we’re going to find it. Starting here.”

“It’s a long shot,” he said.

“You’re getting paid either way, Ingram. But if you’re not willing to take the risk…”

He furrowed his deep brow. She munched her granola bar. The sun was rising now and Eric was stirring in his sleeping bag. A beam of light crept over the lip of the opening to the cave above their heads.

“How much gold are we talking about?” he asked.

“More than you’ve ever seen,” she said. “I promise you.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said. “I’ve seen a whole lot.”

Calmly, she unrolled her dry bag and started to transfer its contents to a back country pack: a folding shovel for digs, a brush, a notebook for observations, a pair of binoculars, a set of maps, a homemade first aid kit, food and water, and finally a small handgun. She quickly wrapped the gun in a jacket, but not before Ingram had caught sight of the weapon. She liked to be prepared and she had her reasons.

She crossed to Eric and nudged him awake. He yawned and fumbled around for his glasses, which were resting on a small rock nearby.

“Time to get going,” Grace said. “We have a lot of ground to cover today.”

“Wait, we’re going on foot?” Eric asked. He found his glasses and was dusting them off with his faded amusement park t-shirt.

“The nearest road is forty miles away,” she said as she hefted her pack on her back. “A car wouldn’t be able to navigate this territory. Besides, this is how the Spanish did it.”

She started to climb a small cascade of rocks from an earlier slide up into the opening that lead out of the cave. Ingram checked his knife and grabbed his pack before following.

“We’re not even going to stop for breakfast?” Eric said as he got untangled from his sleeping bag and began to rush around gathering his supplies.

Grace was in no mood to slow down. They were on the trail of one of America’s oldest lost treasures. She hadn’t felt this optimistic in years. The trail was hot; just waiting for someone to who could follow it.

“Almost there,” she grunted as she reached for a hand hold. The sandstone was smooth from years of monsoon rain gushing down this channel into the cave. Erosion had left her with very little to hang onto. Finally, she managed to haul herself up and out of the hole onto the desert floor.

She sat on the edge, panting for a few moments. The sun was barely up and already she could feel its heat simmering in the air. Ingram climbed out and stood to survey the land around them. All red rocks, sand and sagebrush as far as you could see. Grace turned to offer her hand to help Eric up when she saw it.

There was a clear boot print in the sand next to the entrance to the secluded cave. It was fresh. A wind storm had swept through here two weeks ago, so someone had been here recently. Grace’s mind reeled. No one else knew about this place.

“We should hurry,” she said. “We’re not alone.”

To Be Continued.

— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer in Tacoma, WA. Read Part 1 here! You can follow him on Twitter at @jonnyeberle. Thanks for reading!
May 25, 2015

The Spaniard’s Gold: Part 1

Grace paddled slowly as they entered the slot canyon. Walls of sandstone rose on either side of the flotilla of three kayaks. The sloshing of their paddles echoed.

“Are you sure this is the one, Dr. Yun?” Eric called from the back. He placed his paddle across his lap and adjusted his glasses to keep them from slipping down his nose. There were thousands of canyons in Lake Powell. Every year, as the water level dropped, more and more emerged. It was impossible to know all of them. But Grace seemed to understand the web of waterways and their secrets.

“This is the one,” she replied. She quickened her stroke, disturbing the glassy surface of the water.

“Try to keep up,” Ingram said. He twisted his thick neck to glare at the scrawny grad student. Ingram was almost too bulky to fit in his kayak — a large man with a red beard and icy blue eyes that cut like knives. He increased his pace to follow Grace around the bend in the canyon, leaving Eric in his wake.

The slot canyon continued to snake its way through the desert. The three kayakers continued in silence as the sun dipped low and cast curtains of blood-red light across the water. As they went, the canyon’s walls began to close in. The channel narrowed and narrowed.

“This feels like a dead end,” Ingram grumbled. “We are no closer to the treasure and we’ve wasted two days getting here.”

“If you’re willing to give up that easily, I suggest you turn back,” Grace said. Her voice was cool like the waters. “There won’t be another opportunity.”

“I’m not letting you out of my sight,” Ingram said. “Not until I see it with my own eyes.”

“There will be plenty to see, don’t you worry,” she said. They followed another turn, scraping the bow and the stern of their kayaks as they squeezed through the passage. “It’ll be worth it.”

Darkness fell. It was some time before moonlight spilled into their canyon enough to see the way ahead. The canyon appeared to come to an end. It was too tight to get through.

“Come on, boys,” Grace goaded them. She set her paddle down lengthwise on the kayak and used her hands to push the kayak through the slit of rock. The sides of her kayak shrieked and groaned as they scraped by. Ingram and Eric waited incredulously. Soon, Grace was lost in the shadows.

“Well, no sense stopping now, is there?” Eric asked. Following his teacher’s method, he placed his hands on either wall of the canyon and pushed himself into the crack. Ingram followed.

On the other side was a cavern of stone. It was huge, with smooth walls that formed an almost perfect dome. On the far side was a ledge ten feet wide. Above it, pale white moonlight shone through an opening to the surface.

By the time Eric and Ingram were through, Grace was already at the ledge, securing her kayak to the rock with rope. Skillfully, she climbed out and scrambled up onto dry land. The two men soon joined her.

“Flashlight,” she said. Eric fumbled for one in the many bulging pockets of his vest. Finally, he pulled the penlight free from a wad of extra socks and handed it to her. She twisted it and her features were suddenly lit in the darkness of the cave.

She began to scan the walls, until the circle of light fell on a small carving. She smirked, as if knowing where it was all along and knelt down beside it. It was worn by the years, but the symbols were still easy to identify: a cross with two hands bearing wounds to the palms.

“Those are Christian symbols, Dr. Yun,” Eric said.

“That’s B-level deduction, Eric,” she chastised him. “Let’s aim for at least an A-minus.”

“Well, I, uh,” he stumbled. “Missionaries. Spanish missionaries were in this area in the mid-18th century.”

“Much better,” Grace said, giving her student a pat on the back.

“That’s the coat of arms of the Franciscan Order, to be specific,” Ingram said. His gruff voice echoed in the chamber. “Which means they came from the missions near Sante Fe.”

“Very good,” Grace said. She studied it with her eyes. And when that was not enough, she reached out and traced its smooth edges with her fingers.

Eric looked at Ingram, totally stupefied.

“Since when do you know history?”

“You thought I was just here to be the muscle, did you?”

“It’s a miracle it survived,” Grace interrupted. She didn’t have time for squabbling. “It’s been underwater for half a century.”

“So, we start digging now?” Ingram said, a wild look creeping into his eyes.

“No, the treasure isn’t here,” she said, waving her hand dismissively.

“Then why in the hell are we here?” Ingram demanded. He looked like the dog who’d just had his treat snatched away.

“This is a signpost,” Grace said. She tossed the flashlight to him and went back to start unloading the kayaks. “It means we’re on the right road.”

“How long is his going to take?” he asked, still fuming.

Grace stopped and looked at him with her own piercing, dark gaze. “I honestly don’t know,” she said. “I’ve been at it for ten years. But when we do find it, I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

Ingram didn’t say much after that. They set up camp and soon Grace and Eric were asleep. Only Ingram remained awake, twirling a sharp Bowie knife in his hand and watching the glint of moonlight over its blade…

To Be Continued.

— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer in Tacoma, WA. You can follow him on Twitter here.
June 8, 2015

Some Like It Hot

The fans have been running non-stop for over an hour and it’s still sweltering in the house. It’s hot in Tacoma. The famously rainy Pacific Northwest hasn’t given up any appreciable precipitation in weeks.

The lawn is yellow and crispy under my shoes. I throw up the windows at night; clamp them shut again each morning. It feels good to be warm, but my plants are thirsty. It costs money to water and it’s all by hand, with a hose or a watering can.

The house is sizzling. So much so that my computer overheated and shut off while I was trying to write the next installment of The Spaniard’s Gold. It will have to wait until tomorrow, when the air is cool.

Until then, I soak in the coolness of the night like twilight water into the brittle roots of dry grass and wait for the rain.

— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer in Tacoma, WA. Growing up in the high desert of northern Arizona, he learned a few things about surviving without rain. You can find him on Twitter.