Gold Envy

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Gold Envy

Book excerpt

Prologue

There were some who came to La Dura, or to where they thought La Dura should be, with copies of the Jesuit maps and codes ... they failed.

            Many others came with different maps, different codes, or with nothing at all except the fever for gold and treasure ... they too failed.

      Records have been kept since the forties and we know that each year at least three-thousand Americans cross the border in search of La Dura, and that fifteen hundred never return.

The brutal terrain, Indians, bandits, the drug cartels, illness, murder, and the inability to live off the land ... endless dead-ends ... false trails ... just a few of the reasons for failure.

            The famous and the infamous have searched for La Dura. The lucky ones are those who returned to the border empty-handed. The others ... well, their stories are lost forever, bleaching with their bones under the warm Mexican sun in some unchartered canyon.

            There are many who believe the gold will never be found and that the iron door that guards the treasure house of La Dura has been buried, far beyond the reach of any metal detector, by earthquakes of past centuries.

There is the story that the Apaches have told since La Dura became a dream. It is said that somewhere there is a gold chain and on that chain hangs a Medallion that was made from the gold of La Dura. It shows a beautiful dove trying to rise in flight to escape a striking rattlesnake. Could the legend be true? Could this Medallion be the key to the world's greatest known treasure?

            Is the Medallion, if truly there ever was a Medallion, somewhere with the bones of the padres, who were massacred during the great Indian revolt, or did it ever really exist?

            There is a story told around campfires on both sides of the border of a Medallion, coated with dust, that hung forgotten in a pawnshop window in Magdalene. Could it be? The tales are endless and varied, but the one told most often is the story of an old Spanish family who knows where the Medallion is hidden and they have ...

            Ah, a thousand pardons, Señor. You know that so much is legend. Just for a moment, let us suppose this story is fact.                             

We know that the padres were stealing from the King of Spain. Their ancient records show that they had an underground treasure house where tons of gold bars were stored, to be used  for the power and glory of their order. Those records do not lie.

            We do know that these Jesuits invented codes that even today we are unable to decipher, and yet, if one had the Medallion and could locate a true copy of the padre's maps ...

            There was a rumor, a tale told in whispers, a story that exists without hard facts ... one that I first heard in a little cantina somewhere south of Sahuaipa.  A strange story, about a woman and four men who had somehow obtained the lost Medallion and an ancient map; the details are hazy at best. It seems they went into the mountains, and there the trail ended.

            Somewhere in old Mexico, high in the trackless Sierra Madre, far beyond the reach of all known high-tech equipment, the greatest treasure of all awaits discovery.        

            Who really knows? The legend, it must be a dream, yet I hear it. I have heard it many times before. In the hush before the dawn, at high noon when the desert is hot and still, or when fever racks my body and sweat drenches me like summer rain. 

            It comes at sunset ... very soft.  Like the faint echo of a long-forgotten mission bell. It comes on the wind from the mountains and whispers to me as it plays through the mesquite and chaparral.         "Come, come to La Dura ... come to the gold of La Dura."

            You see, something deep inside tells me it is not a dream.

            It can't be a dream.  

            Ah, but who really knows, Señor?

            Maybe, you will find La Dura.           

Or maybe, it will be me.

Chapter One - 1987

            In this remote place, the mist of early morning was slow to rise, hiding for a time behind the distant mountains. On three sides, the thick growth of mesquite was creeping in on the clearing that once housed a small Catholic mission. In the background, bougainvillea spilled over crumbling adobe walls. Two saddled horses were tied to the one remaining door of the old mission. The horse's breath made small clouds of vapor in the cold morning air.

            Hot coals held a battered coffee pot. A man squatted beside the coals, smoking a thin cigar and taking frequent sips from the tin cup that held the steaming liquid. A black, low-crowned hat the Mexicans call a tejano put his face in shadow. He wore a black jacket that was showing age and a great deal of dust from desert riding. A clean white shirt was tucked into faded jeans that tapered down hard legs into worn, handcrafted boots. Around his waist was a gun belt and on his right hip hung a .45-caliber Colt with a well-oiled grip.

            He changed his position and tilted his hat so that the feeble rays of the sun could touch his face. In his veins ran the blood of Spanish Dons. His hawk-like nose, clear brown eyes, and olive complexion complimented his even white teeth. Underneath the band of the hat, the black hair was shot with gray. The deep lines in his face contrasted his well- muscled body.

            His name was Francisco Ropero. A Renaissance man whose family emigrated from Spain some two-hundred years before and built a cattle empire in what was now southern Arizona. Although he was taught the cattle business by his grandfather and father, and was attentive to their teachings, his heart and mind were filled with thoughts of high adventure and stories of treasure to be had for the taking. Now, danger and possible death were tracking his every move, and the border and safety were a long twelve hours away.

            Flipping the butt of his cigar into the coals, he called in a soft voice, “Niño, wake up!"

            Near, where the horses were tied, was a small body wrapped in a blanket.

            Suddenly, the head of a young Mexican boy popped up. "Forgive me, Señor. How did I sleep so long?"

            Ropero laughed softly. "When one is young, one can sleep, the sleep of the saints. Come, have some coffee and biscuits."

            The boy scrambled out of his blanket, rolled it up, and came to the campfire. He was dressed in a loose-fitting Mexican wedding shirt, faded jeans, and dark brown boots. In his face was a blend of the Indians who once ruled this land, mixed with the bloodlines of some long forgotten Conquistador. "If my father knew I was spending my life sleeping, he would never let me go with you again."

            The boy dug into the sack of biscuits as Ropero poured coffee into an extra tin cup.

            "Jesus, I promise not to tell if you won't."

            Taking the cup from Ropero, he squatted by the fire, biting into his biscuit.

            Ropero seemed thoughtful. His eyes were troubled and he measured each word slowly as he spoke. Jesus stopped eating and listened carefully.

            "Jesus, you are still a boy, a boy of only eleven years, but I am going to give you the responsibility of a man."

            Reaching inside his shirt pocket, Ropero pulled out a gold chain. Attached to the chain was what appeared to be a locket or a medallion. It flashed in the sunlight as Ropero cupped it in his hands and showed it to Jesus.

            "This is the Medallion of the lost La Dura. As you have heard in story and song, this is the key to the greatest known treasure in the entire world."

            Jesus’ eyes were dazzled by the Medallion sparkling in the sun. Carved in the gold was a beautiful dove, rising on the wing to escape the deadly fangs of a striking rattlesnake. The boy felt a shiver go up his spine as Ropero continued.

            "I don't know why, because I have found no evidence, but I think we’re being followed. If this is true, the reason is the Medallion and this envelope."

            From the inner pocket of his jacket he took out a sealed envelope made of heavy parchment. "Your father has been at our ranch since the day he was born. We grew up together. Your grandfather helped my grandfather drive cattle from Texas to stock our ranch back in pioneer days. The lives of our families are intertwined forever, amigo. That is why I am putting this in your care."

            The boy was wide-eyed, shaking his head. He didn't want to hear this kind of talk. "Oh Señor, do not speak of possible trouble. We are only one day away from the border.  The time of great adventures is past history. We are in a modern world."

            "Jesus, listen to me and listen well. It could be the year five thousand but in this part of Mexico, time has stood still. The clocks stopped somewhere back in the 16th century.   Remember the little mission where I left you while I went to the mountains?  Nothing had changed. It would have been the same in the time of Cortez. The old Padre is living the same way other padres did centuries ago. Trust me, Jesus, the old fears, the legends, and the lost La Dura are real ... very real."

            Jesus shook his head, not wanting to believe what he was hearing, but Ropero pressed on.   

                        "My intuition tells me something is wrong, I know it. Now, here is what you’re to do, and no questions, comprende?"    He placed the chain with the Mmedallion over the head and around the neck of the boy, Ropero then handed him the parchment envelope containing the map.

            If anything happens to me, or if I tell you, you’re to ride for the border as hard and as fast as possible. Don't hesitate and don't look back. Put the Medallion away until my daughter is grown, then give it to her. It will be my legacy. The best thing I could ever leave her."

            Jesus buttoned his shirt to hide the Medallion.

            "Momento, patron, your daughter is only a month old. What would she know of La Dura?"

            A smile played at the corner of Ropero's mouth as the memory of his infant daughter flashed through his mind. "That is now, Jesus. Someday she will be a woman, a beautiful woman, and the ranch, the cattle, and La Dura will be hers."

            Rising, they threw the remains of their coffee on the coals and Jesus kicked dirt on the fire, then put the map in his saddlebag. Ropero went to his horse and put the empty coffee pot, sack of biscuits, and the cups into his bedroll and cinched it tight behind his saddle.

            "This is why it is so important that you make the border should we have trouble. If I don't make it, you will be there to guide her in the years when she needs help. As you know, her mother died giving her life, so she has only you and I to lean on … and at least one of us must be there."

            A reflective mood came over him and for a few seconds, he rubbed his horse's ear. "This evening we'll cross the desert and be home."

            He vaulted into the saddle and a few seconds later Jesus mounted his horse and they headed north toward the border.

Chapter Two

            The country was rugged. Deep canyons, narrow trails and a great deal of undergrowth made the going slow. By mid-day, sweat drenched the faces of the riders. Breaking through the trees, they rode down an incline ending at a rippling stream.

            They dismounted and led their horses where they could drink while standing in the deep shade of old trees that lined the bank. Both Ropero and Jesus got their fill of the cold, clear water and munched on biscuits Ropero had pulled from the sack in his bedroll. Wiping his face on his coat sleeve, he pointed to a canyon opening fifty yards on the far side of the stream.

            "If there is to be trouble, it will happen here. The canyon up ahead has walls so narrow that you can almost reach out and touch the sides as you ride through. It runs for about two miles. But once we break out on the far side, we'll come down onto the desert and the ride to the border should be easy."

            "Maybe we can ride to Sahuaipa and rent a Jeep and drive to the border?"  

            Ropero laughed at the thought.  They filled their canteens and made sure the saddles were cinched tight. No breeze moved the leaves and one had to strain to hear the soft murmur of the stream. It was as if the whole world were watching and waiting—waiting for something to happen.

            Slowly, they mounted their horses and moved through the stream, stopping a few feet from the mouth of the canyon, whose towering walls seemed to reach to the sky.

            "Here's the way we’ll handle this. We're going to ride like hell through this place. You go first and I'll follow. Just remember that if anything should happen, don't come back. Don't even look back. Just ride as hard and as fast as you can until you cross the border. Vaya con dios."

Chapter Three

            Jesus slapped his mount and hastened away at a gallop. Ropero waited, maybe five seconds, and then drove his horse forward. At full speed, they hit the narrow canyon, whose towering walls nearly blotted out the sun. They were halfway through when a rifle shot rang out.

            Ropero's horse stumbled and went down. Throwing himself clear, he rolled and came up with the big Colt in his hand. He saw Jesus stop and turn back as another shot ricocheted off the canyon wall. "

            "Ride, Jesus, ride!"

            A rifle bullet kicked up sand and rock at the feet of Jesus’ horse. It panicked and reared, but Jesus got it under control, turned, and raced through the canyon toward the border.

            As Ropero watched, Jesus vanished. A bullet ripped through his left shoulder, spinning him around. He dove into the underbrush. Blood was seeping from the wound. He scrambled to his knees as a hail of bullets hit the trees and rocks where he had been standing. Pushing to his feet, he was racing for cover when a greasy gunman stepped from behind a tree.

            "Far enough, señor!"

            Like a well-oiled machine, the Colt leveled in Ropero's hand and his bullet tore open the gunman's throat; blood spurted from a gaping wound. The rifle dropped from his fingers and the light of life died in his eyes as he pitched forward.

            Ropero sprinted for the other side of the trail as he heard the feet of runners and horses crashing through the bushes and undergrowth.  As he dove behind a rock, a bullet entered his leg and he rolled beyond his intended cover.

            Two gunmen stepped into the clearing. One smiled as he raised his rifle. Ropero made the grin permanent as he shot him between the eyes, and then pumped two shots into his friend. Ropero looked at his bloody thigh and started crawling toward higher cover when he saw a man on horseback about to break through the bushes.

       The Colt whipped into firing position, but before he could squeeze the shot off, a man materialized behind him, swinging his rifle like a club. It caught Ropero on the side of his head. His sight was shattered into a million fragments.

            He managed to make out the dim shape of a rider who had dismounted and was coming toward him. He tried to raise his gun hand, but the dim shape kicked the gun away.

Before he sank into a deep black hole, Ropero realized that this man was wearing silver-buckled leggings of soft leather with fancy silver spurs. The man was busy grinding one of those spurs into Ropero's empty gun hand, causing his blood to make wild designs as it ran off his fingertips.