After we settled in, I asked her, "Won't you tell me something about the early days of the Rio Grande valley?" "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. The year of 1885," she continued,"we lived in El Paso for a few months; then we came up the valley. My father was a cattleman. And my little mother, who was considered quite a beauty at that time, was the first school teacher between El Paso and Las Cruces."
"The old West is a never-to-be-forgotten epoch in my life. To be absolutely frank I don't want to forget it, for I was very happy. The old West was spectacular, but picturesque. My early impressions of cowboys with jingling spurs, and Mexicans with gay sarapes are still very vivid."
"Do you happen to know any Indian stories?"
"Well, a certain old-timer by name Frank Birch, was alone in his cabin. It was night, and rather late, when two Indians knocked at his door. Birch knew the Indians so invited them in and gave them some wine. Shortly the wine influenced the Indians to talk, and I suppose they felt that they owed the white man something for his hospitality, so they told him that they would repay him by leading him to the Horseskull mine.
"Concealing his eagerness to be gone at once, Birch, gave the Indians all the wine they could drink, telling them that he would be packed and ready to start by daybreak. The snores of the two drunken Indians, wrapped in their blankets on the cabin floor, was the only sound that broke the midnight stillness of the room. Birch was still up, but sitting quietly in a chair, thinking of the Horseskull Mine, whose location no white man know. The Indians had guarded the secret well.
"True to his word, birch had his mules packed, and ready to leave by daybreak. The Indians, however, were not quite so drunk, and not overly-anxious to go. For during the night it had rained, and the morning was dark and misty."
"Which way did they go?" I inquired.
"Due south, then west; they were headed toward Mt. Riley--north of El Paso. Their progress was slow, for the roads were rough, and the weather had changed. In fact it was so cold that they thought they would freeze before reaching their destination. And the Indians, although still in the lead, had grown sullen and reticent, and by the time they reached the mine had changed their minds, deciding not to betray their tribe by divulging their secret of the `Horseskull' to the white man."
"Then what happened?" I asked.
"Well, to begin, they camped for the night, but suffered from the extreme cold weather. And the following morning, when Birch awoke, he made a dreadful discovery. The pack mules with all of their provisions were gone; also one of the Indians, whom he had grave reasons to suspect had cut the ropes, released the mules, then beaten a hasty retreat back to town. Taking the other Indian with him, Birch went in search of the mules, and brought them back to camp. But exposure and lack of food had weakened him to such an extent that the Indian grew alarmed, and offered to return to town for help."
"Of course he succeeded," I observed.
"Yes. The Indian found Birchs' partner, who took a party of men and set out to rescue his friend. Upon arriving in camp, however, they found Birch almost beyond the help of man; and the mules, rebelling, had nawed their own ropes and strayed away again."
"Was Birch revived?" I inquired.
"Yes, to such an extent that he took all of the men, except his partner, and went in search of the run-away-mules."
"Did they find them?" was my next question.
"Yes. But upon returning to camp they found something else."
"The Horseskull Mine!" I exclaimed.
"No! The dead body of the man they had left in camp."
Since time unknown, men have lost their lives, searching for gold. From birth the Indian was a ferret, ever looking and finding treasures overlooked by the white man. Some of the old-timers in this vicinity firmly believe, that there is many a buried treasure in the caves of our mountains, waiting to be unearthed by men.
There are current stories about treasure 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."