"Won't you come in and visit awhile?" she asked, in her low cultured voice.
"That is my intention," I assured her, "to visit and to chat."
As soon as we were comfortably seated in her sunny livingroom, I said, "Won't you tell me something about the early days of the Rio Grande valley? (I told her I was writing about Picacho Mountain and treasure hunting.)
"Certainly," was the gracious reply. "For I love to talk about the early days. Also to recall how thrilled I was when I first saw this Great Southwest. But, then, I was only thirteen The world looks pretty rosy at that age."
"Indeed it does," I agreed. "What year was that?"
"The year of 1885 was when we moved up the valley from El Paso and I first saw Picacho Mountain.
"Father told me, since time unknown, men have lost their lives, searching for gold. Some of the old-timers in this vicinity firmly believe there is many a buried treasure in the caves of our mountains, waiting to be unearthed by men.
"There are current stories about hidden by the early Spanish Explorers; gold hidden by outlaws, and by Indians. We all know that the story of a find is much like a chain letter--the more it circulates the larger it grows, until finally we begin to question its verity. Take El Picacho, or Picacho Peak, for instance.
"I see it this moment from my north window, clearly etched against the blue of the sky. Not so very long ago, two young men while exploring Picacho, unearthed a brass pot filled with coins. By the time the discovery had been relayed from one person to another, the money found, had become a fortune. When I asked one old-timer if the cache, or treasure was very large, he exclaimed, 'Large! I'll say it was. The sheriff had to protect it with an armed guard till the truck arrived.'"