Life's Little Mysteries

By D.D. Darwin

This is a collection of stories that will take you searching for gold in the desolate desert. Seeking ghosts from the past who want you to pay a debt long past due. Then you can become a king who fights ancient corruption and hatred that challenges his honor and genuine love.

But for those of you who want a more modern twist where money, drugs, and sex are the villain, there is that. So remember gold, ghosts, and murder just for you. The best of systems are flawed, especially those contrived by man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798891571341

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Life's Little Mysteries

D.D. Darwin

Copyright © 2024 D.D. Darwin

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2024

ISBN 979-8-89157-119-8 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-89157-134-1 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

To Dellaine, my beloved daughter

Cactus Gold

A Visit Home

The Legend

A Dirty Deal Dealt

A Damn Poor Place to Die

The Dead Don't Give Up Easily

No Going Back

The Debt

Death Comes in Silk Stockings

A Drive up the Coast

The Call of the Giants

Gray Is as Bright as It Gets

Kings

The Union

The Afterglow

Darkness Descends

Death Comes Knocking

A New Day

The Dawn of Truth

The Meeting

The Crusade

An Ending for the Romantics Among Us

Head Crash

No Place to Die

Going Fishing

The Phone Call

Fiesta

Justice

Who Defends the Victims?

The Turnaround

It Is True About a Tiger's Stripes

Returned from Exile

Evil Must Be Stopped

Jerome

In Their Innocence They Do Protest

History for Sale

Putting Things in Order

Renovation

Amateurs Will Be Amateurs

Trapped

Like Hell They Will!

The Search

Seek and Ye Shall Find

The Dig

Death Message

Ambush

The Perfect Lay, Says She

The Threat

The Bust

What Goes Around

Was There a Link?

End of the Road

The Hounds Cut a New Trail

Preparation of a Sequel

About the Author

To Dellaine, my beloved daughter

Cactus Gold

You found the treasure. But is it worth your valued friend's life?

Dramatis Personae

Dad—relentless searcher

Cactus—old hound dog

Mom—loving partner

Me—just me, the son

Old John—lost soul

Father McCall—church historian

Father Killian—replaced Father McCall

July 1987

A Visit Home

Why in hell would anyone in his right mind and of his own free will come into this godforsaken country? Those were my thoughts as I looked across the tortuous topography. Arid wastelands surrounded us. The landscape appeared to grow larger in expanse each time we reached another hilltop. I had the impression that it was alive and just waiting for the chance to ambush the unwary or foolhardy adventurer.

There was not a single tree in sight. Nothing existed but sagebrush, sand, and the boiling sun. All that abounded was hostile. Even the air we were breathing tried to suffocate us. Without warning, our battered, rust-eaten World War II jeep slammed into a pothole. With the simultaneous wrenching of my spine and shock of the collision, I let out a groan. And to realize this was the good road made things even more depressing. We were heading in a southeasterly direction on California State highway 60. I should say the we of which I speak were my dad, Cactus, and me. You will hear more about them in a minute.

It had been years since I had last been down this way. Still, from what I could see, little had changed and nothing for the better. I knew that if we continued in this direction, we'd soon pass through Hopkins Wells, just another desert berg. A road sign flashed past: Hopkins Wells, 3 miles.

We never got there. For just a mile later, Dad, without even taking time to slow, cranked our escape from a junkyard hard right. Anyone who has ever driven an old Jeep knows it lacks a good center of gravity. It certainly is not one of their more endearing characteristics. It skittered and bucked then corrected itself as we hurtled onto a rut-worn, rock-strewn dirt track.

The sudden departure from relatively good pavement to pothole heaven surprised the hell out of me. Holy shit, Pop! I yelled. Thinking I was about to be tossed from the vehicle, I grabbed the front window brace and hung on. This was a masochist's dream come true. Never once did Dad let up on the gas to compensate for the worsening conditions. We just charged on, heading due south toward Graham Pass. Had I been a bit more alert, the change in direction would have been expected. This was the only way you could go between the Chuchawalla and Palo Verde Mountains. I clearly recall studying the way that stretched out for miles before us. I've always been fascinated by the optical illusions, especially of a road dwindling toward the horizon into a sea of shimmering, searing heat waves.

Pop shifted down from fourth to third gear, causing the Jeep to lurch. We had begun the climb up toward a mountain gap. The route became noticeably fainter as we entered the pass. By the time we had gone through the divide and began dropping down the other side, the track ceased to exist. With only our questionable good sense to guide us, we continued diving deeper into the vast wasteland.

To the north that lay directly behind us was oblivion. All signs of life were obliterated by a mile-long billowing dust storm born from the wheels of our rolling junker. Directly ahead lay Miltas Wash and beyond that the Chocolate Mountains—our destination.

To this day, it strikes me odd that anyone would name this place after such a desirable confection. After all, this most certainly was not the Land of Milk and Honey. I completed my survey of what lay to the east and the west. In a nutshell, there was nothing, nothing but thousands of square miles of nothing. Just more parched hills constructed of sandstone and shale covered with heavy clumps of scrub brush, cactus, and native somethings. Oh yes, and all that beauty being crowned by the continuously rising temperature.

Now I've been known to stretch the truth a might when telling a story—only to make a point, mind you. Yet it's no exaggeration to say I had been stuck in that Jeep so long that my ass, to this day, is permanently in the shape of a bucket seat. If that wasn't bad enough, there was more. The ever-present monotonous drone of rotting convertible canvas top pealing on the metal crossbars. This was as close to medieval torture as I ever cared to get. Yes, if by now you've gathered I wasn't pleased with my situation, you're right.

It was over this din and racket that I heard my father speak for the first time in several hours. As I looked toward him, I realized he was talking to himself more so than addressing me. This is it! This'll be the trip I've been wait'n' for! His voice was strong and positive. A subtle smile spread over his leathery, suntanned face.

How is it you can know a person (my dad) your entire life yet seldom take the time to see what he looks like? On a scale of one to ten, he would score a four or five in appearance. His stubby beard shone salt and peppery. While the hair atop his head gave evidence of thinning, this emphasized his receding hairline. Pop's facial structure was too thin to be oval yet not thin enough to be a hatchet face. His nose took a slight jog to the right from some mishap in the 1930s while he served in the CCC projects. Still, for all that, the single most striking feature was his sparkling pale-blue eyes that were accented by his chestnut-brown skin. One more thing, somewhere, somehow from the time we had left his home several hours before, a metaphysical change had taken place. Years appeared to drop from his appearance. No longer was he an old man but a man filled with vitality, boundless strength, and as I was to find out, incredible endurance.

I was twenty-five years his junior, and yet, it seemed as though he never tired. It was always I who suggested we take a break. However, what truly put the finishing touches to this portrait was this entire bundle of life, energy, and endurance was packaged not in a giant of a man but a five-foot-five, 137-pound sixty-year-old being.

Yep, here we were again, blundering off into the armpit of desolation. And as always, pop just knew this would be the trip—he'd find El Tegray.

This absurd quest had been going on for years. He had dedicated his life to locating the legendary fortune in raw gold. Yet I was convinced there was something even more important out here in this hellhole, something none of us, except possibly Mom, understood. It made no sense for a man to return time and again to this isolation where he was surrounded by danger and continually forced to test his self-reliance every waking moment.

We had been cooped up in this vehicle for better than five hours. Finally, Dad brought the Old Leaping Lizard to an abrupt halt. Our telltale dust trail continued forward even though we had stopped. The flying dirt rushed over us, coating our sweaty bodies with a light gritty film. We both pried our stiff and jostled forms from the tattered, sweat-stained seats. Lord! It felt good to wrench myself out of that dilapidated seat. All I wanted to do was rub circulation back into the cheeks of my dead butt. Even though Pop didn't say anything, I could see he was also glad to have stopped. While I did a few deep knee bends, Dad stretched then scratched his back on the windshield post like a bear using a tree. Then he meandered to the rear of the Jeep and tossed open the tailgate. This make of Jeep didn't have a tailgate, but Pop had devised one by cutting the old body and putting hinges on it, all for the sake of a dog.

In a low, loving tone, he began to coax, Come on, old feller, come on…time to water the shrubs. Let's go, old man…well, dang ya. Then in mocked harshness, he snapped, Damn you, ya lazy flea-ridden cur, get out of there. Someday I'm going to be going home alone. Now get down, ya old fart! It was hopeless. Regardless how much he'd cajole and scolded, there was just no way of getting Old Cactus to move his aging bones from atop our sleeping bags. Dad stood there a moment more, staring at the dog and shaking his head. All right, have it your way, buddy, you generally do. Pop then reached in and scratched the broad head resting on a haversack.

Undoubtedly, Cactus was Dad's oldest and most faithful companion. There'd be no pedigree found on this mutt. He was strictly the product of a backyard fence jumper and an all-too-willing bitch. And I can guarantee he sure as hell would never win a prize for good looks or confirmation. His black-and-white coat was shaggy and unkempt. Glory marks covered his broad head and muzzle. This dog had carried the title mongrel to new heights.

For those who didn't know better, they might have said that rangy critter was Dad's most prized possession. But during the many long nights alone, the superficial mantle of ownership had melted away in a thousand campfires, being replaced by the mutual understanding and personal affection found between two old friends.

Finally, somewhat condescendingly, Cactus allowed Dad to lift him from his bed to the ground. Once down, he stretched and rolled over on his back. He regained his feet and trotted off to sniff the bushes and leave his mark in local history.

What a team we made, an old man with more grit than good sense, a son who never liked the damn desert, and a cantankerous, half-blind geriatric cur. Why was I here? Guilt, I felt compelled to come along in an effort to make up for all the time I'd failed to spend with my father. How could such an expedition fail?

Dad came around the Jeep to where I was leaning against the fender. With his left hand on my shoulder, he began pointing with the right. Son, do you see that hog back to the west? My eyes followed his index finger in the general direction. Well, sir, that's where we're headed. That'll be our base camp, and should we care to get there before dark, best we get mov'n.

Three of us climbed back into Charger (Pop's name for the Jeep). He settled down in his seat, resting his hands on the steering wheel. He gazed off into the blight that lay ahead. I began to speak but didn't. There are times you don't intrude on a person's thoughts. His stare was transfixed on that point of land to the west.

It was the stare of a dreamer, a man who contemplated the success that had eluded him all these years. His barren mistress had again enticed him to return to search for victory. And as had happened so many times before, I was swept into his wild fantasy.

By the time we reached our destination, the long gray fingers of dusk were creeping across the desert's valley floor. We parked Charger at the mouth of a ravine that ran parallel to the base of our next objective. Above us some, eighty to a hundred feet, was the crown of the hogback. A sandstone and shale ridge thrust its ragged, boulder-covered top into the evening winds. It was an easy climb if you ignored the constant slipping on loose shale and gravel. All in all, we moved the equipment up to the site quickly.

Once on top, I cleared away a place for us to throw the ground cloth and sleeping bags. Dad proceeded to build a firepit. He placed it to the side and a bit behind an overhanging lip of a larger boulder. Hey, Dad, this spot's leveler—you want to build the pit over here?

No thanks, you've been away for a while. Remember that we ain't alone out here. An open fire shows a good piece in this country. I don't much care for uninvited guests. He was right. I had forgotten we weren't carrying our weapons merely to shoot snakes. It was time to start thinking again in terms of security or, even more likely, survival.

Still, all such thoughts vanished from my mind with the first few traces of a friendly cook fire and the simultaneous arrival of Cactus. He refused to join us until now when all the work had been completed. In many ways, he reminded me of my children. The hound sauntered over near the fire, flopped down, and looked up at dad as though asking, Well, where's my dinner?

Pop fussed about, pulling a few things from a haversack. Then in his mock old prospector's voice asked, Well, youngblood, what'er it be, beans and wieners or franks and beans? I chose the latter. It didn't matter what he cooked; I was starved. Everything tasted just fine, especially the flour biscuits and coffee, even though they were liberally seasoned with flying ashes and fine-grained sand. As always, Pop fixed enough victuals for twice our number, but it never went to waste. Son, any scraps you have left, put back in the skillet for Cactus. With the mention of his name, the old pup raised his head and began wagging his tail. That was the closest thing to what I would call excitement he had shown all day.

Be sure to sand-wash your plate, then hand me your coffee cup. I complied. Dad poured a big, long shot of his next-to-best friend, Old Mr. Barley Corn, into each of our cups. No sense taking a chance that dinner may not settle, right? I saw no reason to argue with the man. I grinned, took the cup, and then settled on my sleeping bag, resting my back against the boulder. There is something compelling when you're out in such country that causes you to look skyward. It was black, the sort of blackness only found in a raw, primitive land.

There wasn't a single light to be seen anywhere on the horizon. Even our little fire appeared intimidated by the heavy blanket of night. Besides the crackling of the fire and Cactus licking the skillet clean, there wasn't another single civilized noise to detract from this imposing land.

Slowly, a few early stars presented themselves for review, while a low-moaning desert wind blew around the boulder, whipping the cook fire flame into bizarre reflections. Again I began to study my father. It was strange; I not only hadn't looked at Dad, but I didn't have a clue who that man was. For that matter, I had no idea what the thoughts were that made him his own person. Dad was just Dad.

I had been gone from home several years at this time, having undergone the normal things that remove you from parental influence—first the university, followed by a stint in the military. Actually, it was those years and the experiences I gained what made me realize just how little I knew about this man. It's true I spent most of my life living with him as my father, but hell, everyone knows one's parents aren't real people.

What did I know about this man sprawled beside me sipping a Coffee Royale? He was of English and black Irish descent. He had worked as a laborer his entire life, having failed to complete the fifth-grade schooling. What else? He had sired four children via the only woman he'd ever loved. Moreover, together they worked and struggled, making it possible for each of their offspring to obtain the knowledge and training necessary to pursue his or her own dreams.

And now that Mom was gone, what about him? What did he have left? A few memories, his kids scattered to the four corners of the earth, and a small ramshackle ranch in the desert. And of course, there was the old dog. Then there was a son that had stopped off at home between the end of military duty and the beginning of a new civil engineering career. A job that would undoubtedly take me away to some godforsaken spot. Sure seemed a small reward for all the time, sweat, and strain Mom and he had put into caring for us. Still, if that were true, why in the hell did he always appear so damn happy?

Son. His voice was hesitant. Son, I just wanted to say I'm sure pleased you decided to spend some time with me… The words hung heavy; Pop never was much for expressing his feelings. I looked at him, but he was staring into the fire's orange and blue flames. Rising to my feet, I walked over to the fire, squatted down, and took hold of the coffeepot handle. The thick black liquid ran into my cup. I then pivoted to face him. Lord, he looked old. More coffee, Dad?

Sure. Hit me again.

The Legend

Iunderstood what Dad had tried to convey. To break the tension, I changed the topic. Dad, as I recall, haven't you searched this area before?

Pop quickly seized the opportunity to get back to a more comfortable situation. Yep, he replied.

Then I don't understand why again.

Simple. I've recently found I've been misinterpreting a pair of the map symbols.

That surprised me for I knew how much time he'd spent studying that legend and map. How'd you find out you were wrong? As a matter of fact, tell me the story of how you came about having the map. This I knew would meet with approval for Pop did love to tell that story.

He lay there thinking a moment then pulled himself up into a sitting position. After another sip of coffee, he emitted a low, sharp whistle. Cactus, who was curled up by the fire, raised his head and looked at Dad. With a hint of displeasure, he rose and moved slowly over to Pop's side, where he plopped down and curled up in a ball, clearly in the same way he had done before on an endless number of nights.

Slowly he began, Well, your mother and I came by the map just by happenstance. There was an elderly gent who had been out bumming around the country most of his life. Well, sir, as circumstances would have it, when he got into our neck of the woods, he ran into a bit of trouble. It seems that he'd been caught just as he was fixin' a chicken dinner. The only problem was, when caught, he was still in Old Man Taylor's henhouse. At any rate, there he was—he had no money to pay for his foul deed, and being a stranger in town, no one inclined to help him.

He took a sip of coffee, then continued. "It was about a week later that I got wind of the story. It was mentioned that the feller was still locked up. So your mom and I decided to get him out if he would promise to come and lend a hand for sixty days in payment of bail. It worked out real well for everyone. The sheriff didn't like feeding him, he just wanted out, and I surely needed the help.

"At first, Old John—that's what we called him—kept to himself, retiring each night directly after supper. He slept in the small shed back of the barn. Hell, you remember that place, don't you? At any rate, it wasn't long before he gained confidence in the fact we weren't goin' to pry into his affairs, and he relaxed. Soon, he became not only a good hand but also a trusted friend.

"John never did talk much about his past. Still, he made it clear he was grateful for the opportunity we'd afforded him. He felt at home with us. And in those last years, he was able to stop wandering and settle down.

"It was that awful winter in forty-eight, on a night cold enough to freeze the proverbial balls off a brass monkey, that John's old ticker gave out. He passed on quiet—at any rate, that's what the doc said. But hell, what does he know?

After the burial, we went back home and began cleaning up his room. It didn't take a whole hell of a lot of work or time. I mean, how much time does it take to strip a set of sheets from a single bed and clean out two drawers? One drawer held a half a dozen T-shirts and some underwear and the other a couple or three pairs of work pants. His work shirts and coat hung on a hook on the back of the door. We'd about wrapped up when your mother, looking for something to put his clothes in, came across an old footlocker under the bed. There were a few books and a manila envelope.

He hesitated, sizing the envelope with his hands. "It must have been somewhere around 8½ × 11. The peculiar thing was he'd received it via General Delivery just a couple of months before he died. We opened it and found four or five photographs of a woman and two children. Each picture had been taken when the kids were at different ages. Then there were his discharge papers, a newspaper clipping, and the old map.

"We never did learn if the pictures were of his wife and family or a daughter or just what. But whoever it was, I guess, had sent him the package at his request. John's discharge papers showed he'd spent a fair amount of time in the South Pacific during the war. And the clipping was announcing the opening of a new insurance company.

We speculated it might have been his business. He was an educated man—you could tell. Then of course, there was the map. Although we weren't precisely sure that's what it was. It was old, faded, and the symbols were hard to figure out. In fact, we might have forgotten all about it then and there, had it not been for another smaller envelope. We found it in one of the books. John had addressed it to Mom and me. The first part was thanking us. It was the second part that led back to the map.

Pop stopped. He took a deep breath, yet another sip of what was now cold coffee, and scratched Cactus's belly. The pause was long enough to permit him to reconstruct the letter in his mind's eye. He then returned to the story. "It started off by telling of how he'd been in the war, and he talked about an old asshole buddy, an Indian fella from Arizona. They served together beginning with the first wave landing on Guadalcanal right through to Iwo Jima. John rambled a bit, but the meat of it was that those two were thicker than blood. Then one morning, a tree-burst rained shrapnel down on them, tearing both of them all to hell, but before John's buddy died, he passed on the map and its legend.

"He spent sixteen months recuperating at the naval hospital in San Diego. Upon returning home, John still was in possession of the map. But he'd lost the legend. Like most other things we collect and attach sentimental value to, John carefully filed the map and forgot it. The time had come for him to settle down and pick up the life he'd left years earlier.

"There was no discussion about that period of his life. So just what went wrong or why John took to the road I can't say. But I remember well the closing part of his letter. It went…

Time now weights heavy for me. It heralds the end; even worse, it accents the extreme degree of failure my life in its totality represents.

I'm departing this world little better than I entered it. I leave no estate nor any heritage. I've contributed little or nothing to the welfare of my fellow man or myself. I have especially failed those called family and friends, all of whom are but gray shadows of my past. It is this dismal existence I shall soon depart. And I leave with nothing but regret and relief. So I have nothing to offer you folk but my heartfelt thanks and a piece of my former life. One day, I hope this map will provide you the riches and personal freedom you so rightly deserve. If personal failure could be measured as it is possible to measure success, I would have achieved an all-time record.

The letter wasn't signed. That led us to think he planned on writing more. But for John, time had run out. It was an all-powerful sad letter. It must be awful to reach the end of your days only to find you're being pushed into the hereafter by bad feelings and worse memories. Pop stopped speaking and gulped down the last cold dregs in his cup. Any more Java left, son? I again refilled his cup. He cupped both hands around the metal container, absorbing the radiated warmth. Then he continued.

As you know, your mother and I weren't much on being joiners or for socializing in the town. We mostly stuck to raising you kids and going occasionally camping or fishing. Still, after studying the map, we decided it might be fun to see how much we could learn about the damn fool scrap of paper. Ya know, sort of a hobby we could enjoy together. He hesitated then chuckled. We had no idea just how deep we'd get involved. If we had, we may never have started.

Just then, Cactus abruptly awoke as he was being gnawed by some pesky parasite. With years of practice, he took quick aim, arched his hind leg up and over his shoulder, and laid the varmint to rest. Damn dog! Dad spoke harshly. Keep those fleas to yourself. Cactus looked up lovingly at Dad, struggled to his feet, and trotted off into the night. A few minutes later, he returned, resuming his spot next to his partner, and lowered his head, waiting for a pat.

I fed the fire a couple of sticks of mesquite. Once more, everyone was comfortable and awaited sleep to come. That is, the dog and I were. But it was quite evident that Dad (by the way he was tossing and turning) was still ready for more jawing. Now that I look back on it, maybe I'd relish the chance to talk to someone if all I had for company was my dog.

I rolled over on my left side, facing him. Dad, why do you believe this treasure is out here? Hell, there ain't a sign that shows there ever existed—man, mission, or mine. It is odd; I don't recall a time he wasn't caught up in the hunt. Yet this was the first time I'd ever asked this question.

He scratched his chin, looked down at me as though he was looking over the top of old granny glasses, and then mused. Ummm…yah. On the surface, all of the evidence would support your opinion. Yet let's take a moment to look at the matter from another point of view. Let's just see how smart a feller ya are and how good that fancy educated mind of yours is at remembering some California history.

I must admit I got defensive really quick. Oh no. You're not going to sucker this kid into matching wits with you when it comes to history. Hell, all you've done for the past thirty years is study that crap.

He gave me one of those proverbial shit-eating grins. Son, you've hurt my feelings. Nonetheless, let me refresh your memory. I certainly wouldn't want to insult your intelligence. For the purpose of our discussion, we'll start back about 1541. That was when Coronado blazed a path across the great Southwest. He brought with him three hundred Spaniards and one thousand Indians. They drove one hundred extra horses, herds of swine and sheep. Although he never found the Seven Cities of Cibola, it is recorded in his diaries he collected and stashed nearly sixty million dollars in gold somewhere in southwest Texas.

Pop's eyes gleamed. His speech was a bit more rapid and carried a hint of excitement. "Hell, son, look at the case of the Twin Silver Mines. In 1736, in the Province of Pinerial Alta, which was then Arizona and Sonora combined, two of the richest silver mines ever known were found. By what…oh hell, what's his name? Oh, Bolas de Plata and Planchas De Plater or something near to that. At any rate, we know those mines existed. Why? Because the king of Spain, on May 28, 1741, designated a large area of land surrounding the mines as a Criadero De Plata—some dang thing about a ‘creation place.'

"It was his move to hoard the entire fined for the crown, namely himself. Had he not become so greedy and stuck with the normal cut—he'd got one-fifth—he would have been a whole lot better off.

For it was a cinch he wasn't going to personally work the mines. As it turned out, once it was decided that no one but the crown was going to benefit, the discoverers lost interest. Then the Indian raids came—actually, retaliation attacks. The Spaniards brought the whole thing on themselves by enslaving the tribes and committing untold atrocities. Most of the explorers were killed including the men who found the load. It wasn't long, as those things happen, the mines vanished from men's minds and entered the realm of legends.

By now, Dad was in high gear. He began packing his pipe that told me there'd be little sleep this night. So I, too, got up, poked the burning embers back to life, and set another pot of coffee to boil.

Let there be no misunderstanding that old fox could spin a hell of a good yarn. I don't know—maybe it was his tone of voice, the collection of detail, or his enthusiasm. Something drew you in until your imagination was fueled. Before Pop was done, he'd have you seeing long lines of armor-clad Spaniards riding across the plains. You'd be cheering the Indians on to take their revenge on the soldiers and missionaries, those godly men who preached the word of Christ while hoarding gold. I settled back, eager to listen.

He took a long draw from his pipe and then slowly exhaled. A blue-gray cloud of heavy smoke rose about his head and drifted eastward on the night wind. "It's man's greed or the fear of greed that has caused many a fine lode to be lost. First, they steal from one another, often killing to keep their secret. Next, they hide the ill-begotten loot, trying to make sure others don't take it from them. Seldom, if ever, has a wealthy find brought happiness. The price these men pay is the ultimate in worry and pain.

Still, it's only in these barren, desolate lands where you can win and win big. You must gamble everything, including your life. In fact, that is exactly what happened to the El Tegray Lode. Men bet everything they had and lost somewhere in this region. He waved his hand before him. Exists partially, maybe even totally, buried an old mission and the remains of a Spanish outpost, an outpost whose sole job was to guard a vast fortune.

I interrupted, "Now, wait a minute. What do you mean, somewhere in this region is a buried mission? Hell, Pop, you've spent years, your entire life, prowling this country. And to the best of my knowledge, you haven't found as much as