by Anya Seton
“Perhaps you should leave the trunk for another day?” she said to Amanda. “Come down again with me now.”
“Oh, no thanks,” said the girl. “I’ve got to get that suit out now I’m here, and see if there’s anything else useful.”
Ainsi-soit-il, thought Calise. It is not for me to interfere. “Then come later, chérie,” she said. “If you still wish to speak with me....I will help you,” she added with a certain grave emphasis, “in any way I can.”
“Oh, yes,” said Amanda gratefully. But she did not go back to Calise that day.
When her hostess had gone, Amanda glanced without interest around the room; a typical servant’s bedroom of the eighties, oilcloth and varnished wood, an iron cot, washstand and straight chairs. It must have suited Dart’s scanty needs very well, she thought, smiling. She pulled the uncovered pillow off the cot, knelt on it, and opened the low trunk.
Inside there was a pile of jumbled clothes, the accumulation of any young man’s life: a pair of moth-eaten Tuxedo pants, a turtle-necked sweater marked Phillips Andover Academy, a tennis racquet with broken strings, an arsenic-green knitted muffler with a note still pinned on it, “For dear little Jonathan from his Aunt Martha, Christmas 1919.” Dart had had an Aunt Martha in Boston, just as she still had an Aunt Amanda, nor had Aunt Martha been any more lavish with useful presents than Aunt Amanda, judging from the ghastly green muffler, thought Amanda, amused, and comforted, too, as reminder of Dart’s Yankee half was always comforting.
She rummaged tenderly amongst the clothing and abstracted the blue suit. She held it up to the light. Not too bad, at least it looked as though it would still fit. Dart hadn’t changed a pound since his college days. Then she discovered a fuzzy spot under one sleeve, she picked at it and it fell apart into a large moth hole. “Oh damn,” she said. Her knowledge of tailoring was sketchy, but she turned the coat over hunting for an extra bit of material which might be used as a patch. And as she stared down at the suit wondering how to salvage it, she had a sudden memory of her father’s closet, crammed full of London-made suits.
How did it happen that the salvaging of a few yards of serge could have become so important? Amanda threw the blue suit on the bed, and continued a desultory search through the trunk.
There wasn’t much else; a few dog-eared textbooks on mining, a pair of sneakers, some class pictures, a University of Arizona pennant, and in the corner of the trunk stuffed partly in a stiffened old raincoat there was a round brownish basket. An Indian basket of some sort, quite small and open at the top. It was a rather dirty fawn color with a zigzag blackish design woven through it. The kind of basket, it seemed to her, that you saw in all the Southwest souvenir shops, and which looked awful when you got them home.
There were several objects in the little basket, and she dumped them into her lap. There was a skin pouch with a drawstring, and inside it some yellow powder, there were four gray feathers, a piece of horn, a sinew on which were strung shells and beads, and a thin coppery disk. Some child’s playthings, she thought. There were tiny pictures and tracings scratched on the disk. She studied them a moment without enlightenment, then turned the disk over, to see a paper pasted on the back and a note in Dart’s hand, the writing less formed than it was now but still recognizable as his.
It said, “Map to the Lost Pueblo Encantado Mine. Given me by Tanosay 1921. But never search.”
Puzzled, she examined again the copper disk, then let it fall to her lap. She investigated the basket once more and found that there were several sheets of thin yellowed paper wedged on the bottom. These proved to be covered with writing in a different hand, and she read some sentences before she realized that they must have been written by Dart’s father, Professor Dartland.
“Notes on the Pueblo Encantado” said the heading, and next to it in penciled parenthesis “(might work up for magazine article some day).” Then the small sharp handwriting continued in ink. “There exists here in this Southwestern land an inordinate amount of myths and legends referring to so-called ‘Lost Mines’ and buried treasure. I believe the majority of these lost mines to be as illusory and illusive as the various forms of ignis fatuus—(will-o’-the wisp, Jack o’lights, foxfire, etc.) which are popularly supposed to guide the gold seeker to the exact location.
“None the less, during years of enfeebled health and partial confinement to a desert home in Arizona, the study of these legends has furnished me with an agreeable hobby.
“The mass of fact, fancy, rumor and perennial hope which has attached itself to the more famous of the Lost Mines such as ‘Lost Dutchman,’ ‘Tayopa,’ ‘Lost Adams Diggings,’ etc., is already so ponderous that one is restrained from adding to it any additional weight.
“There has, however, come to my notice under rather unusual circumstances the tale of still another and quite unknown lost mine which I venture to believe may present features of general interest. It is in a sense a prototype for the genre, including as it does the traditional trimmings, i.e., Early Spanish discovery, Apache hostility, complete inaccessibility, the reputed existence of a map, and, of course, a gold-bearing vein of incredible richness. These, it must be admitted, are standard ingredients, but others compounded in this legend are not. If, indeed, it be only a legend, I must confess to moments of credulity.
“The mine to which I refer is called ‘El Pueblo Encantado’ (The Enchanted City) and was so named by a Franciscan friar circa 1798. He, as far as I have been able to ascertain, was the only white man ever to find it and survive. The Apaches, particularly the Coyotero tribe, have apparent knowledge of the mine, as we shall see later.
“Through the kindness of a colleague at the University of Mexico, I have been able to procure from their archives a copy of the Franciscan missionary’s report, also that of his superior at the mission church of San Xavier del Bac near Tucson. The Ms. is in poor condition and some of the Spanish undecipherable, but the following is an approximate paraphrase.”
Amanda looked up from the notes, vaguely amused by the Professor’s scholarly and cautious preamble. She thought of finishing them later sometime, but the sun was still high and there was no reason to start back yet, anyway. She settled more comfortably on the pillow, lit a cigarette, and continued.
“In the spring of 1798, two Franciscan missionaries, Fathers Gonzales and Rodriguez, set out North from San Xavier toward the Hopi country. They crossed the Salinas (Salt) River and thereafter lost their way in ‘very terrible mountains’ many days north of Los Cuatros Hermanos (which I can only suppose to be the Four Peaks Mountain in the Mazatzal Range). They wandered for days in a malpais of volcanic country, starving and desperate for water which finally gave out completely.
“The narrative here is very unclear, but in some way they went through a doorway (portal) in a cliffside, and found themselves in a completely hidden box-canyon.
“High on the opposite side of the canyon they saw a ‘little city in stone’ built in a cave, and near it a waterfall. The waterfall and a rabbit, which they shot, momentarily revived them. The next morning they investigated the cliff dwelling, which was, of course, deserted and seems to have inspired both men with a great and strange fear. They report that it glowed in the night ‘like an enchantment,’ Father Gonzales, the survivor, says in the narrative. They persisted, however, and holding their crucifixes in front of them, they explored the dead city and the depths of a cave behind it. Here there were corpses (probably mummies—Father Gonzales says ‘Los Muertos’), and here also at the back of the cave they were stunned to see a wall of glittering gold.”
Amanda sat up straight, frowning down at the notes. She reread the last paragraphs and her breathing quickened. She tamped out her unfinished cigarette and bent closer to the Professor’s increasingly cramped writing.
“The two padres thought at first that this golden wall was an evil hallucination, but they picked off some free gold with their fingernails and knives. They were then seized with a frenzy of jubilation (frenési alborozad
o) and sang a Te Deum in the cave, for the glory of the Church which would profit by these riches. One gathers that they had less sanctified emotions as well, for Father Gonzales finishes his account cryptically, ‘While we were in the cave by the wall of gold, the devil came and prompted us to violent thoughts of hideous attraction.’
“This is the end of the Gonzales narrative. The rest is added by his superior at the Mission. Father Gonzales was found alone in September four months later by friendly Pima Indians. He was wandering half crazed by the banks of the Salinas probably not far from the site of the present town of Mesa. They brought him back to the Mission where he dictated a coherent story as far as the above point, beyond which he could add little. His mind was obviously affected by his sufferings, and he died soon after. He did say in response to repeated questionings that Father Rodriguez, his companion, had been mysteriously killed near the ‘enchanted city’ and as they were crossing the box-canyon. Shot by ‘an arrow from the skies.’ And thereafter Gonzales had little recollection of how he got out of the mountains or down to the river, where the Pimas found him. But his pouch was filled with gold flakes and chunks of gold-bearing quartz richer than any yet discovered.
“Gonzales endeavored to make a map but it later proved to be of no use whatsoever, and two expeditions sent forth after his death never even found any of the markings which he said he had seen along the way, and both ended disastrously in the hands of hostile Indians.
“The Superior finished his own account by saying that were it not for the evidence of the gold brought back by the unfortunate missionary, one would think this tale of enchanted cities, glittering walls, and caves of the Dead was but the miserable phantasms of dementia, and that in fact even the evidence of the gold might have some more logical explanation.
“This cynicism from an eighteenth-century Spanish padre it would be well to emulate, and if I persist in the story of the Lost Pueblo Encantado, it is for the purpose of presenting further angles. These comprise archeology, geology, and the history of the Apache Indians and may therefore have a slightly more scientific turn.
“Perhaps I should first explain...”
That was all. The notes stopped. Amanda stood up, first dumping all the little objects back in the basket except the copper disk, this she held in one hand while she stood by the window and reread Professor Dartland’s notes from beginning to end in the waning light.
Her heart beat fast, and she was suffused by a warm, delicious excitement. Dart would know the rest of the story, this copper disk almost proved that, for when Professor Dartland had said “reputed existence of a map” he did not then know of this disk so carefully labeled in Dart’s firm boyish hand. Besides Professor Dartland had died in 1919, the disk was dated 1921. She examined the tracings on it again but they were nothing but a jumble of wavy lines, circles, and little triangles. She put the disk and notes carefully in the basket, flung the blue suit over her arm and ran down the hall to the back stairway. No thought now of calling again on Mrs. Cunningham, no thought of any delay. She was in a fever to see Dart and question him. She’d walk up to the mine, catch him as he came out, ride back home with him. She let herself out the back door and ran down the trail and through the ghost town, and up to the mine road. It was five o’clock and growing dusk; ordinarily the loneliness of the unfamiliar mountain road would have daunted her, but she climbed the mile at top speed, lugging the suit and the basket without noticing them, while her mind caressed with fascination the story of Father Gonzales’ discovery.
She had been to the mine office with Dart and had thought the group of dingy frame buildings very ugly, but she was glad to see their lights now, and intent only on finding Dart, she forgot mine etiquette and ran up the steps into the building.
She burst into the general office and was brought up short by the astonished faces of the two men inside. Luther Mablett sat at his desk smoking a cigar, and he had been talking to a sallow middle-aged man with a knobby head who was lounging on the corner of the desk. This was Tiger Burton, the day-shift boss, though Amanda did not know it, and Dart had been the subject of their conversation.
Mablett’s bull face flushed vermilion up to his tight yellow-white curls, he rose clumsily to his feet. Burton got off the desk, he had little eyes like dull onyx, and they fixed themselves on Amanda’s face, unwinking as a lizard’s.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry!” Amanda cried. “I thought Dart’d be here, I could ride down with him.”
“Oh—sure,” said Mablett breathing hard, but recovering. “He’s still underground, far as I know. Er ... Mrs. Dartland, meet Mr. Burton—shift boss.”
“How do you do.” Amanda held out her hand and Burton shook it with alacrity, revealing a few tobacco-stained teeth and many black gaps in an ingratiating smile. “’S a pleasure,” he said.
Amanda like most people received from Tiger Burton an impression of nonentity. She perceived only a meager sweaty little man with nondescript features, a semi-bald head partially concealed by lank wisps of dark hair, and a colorless mouth compressed to an expression of nervous affability. Mablett’s toady, she thought, vaguely remembering something Dart had said, and she dismissed him in favor of propitiating the enemy she knew of.
“Mr. Mablett, would I be an awful nuisance....I mean could I wait someplace for Dart? You see, I was at Mrs. Cunningham’s going through Dart’s trunk for a suit—” she pointed to it apologetically, “and I was so near here, I thought I could get a ride down. I know women don’t come to the mine, please forgive me.” She instinctively concealed the basket under the edge of the suit but Burton’s hooded eyes had seen it, and at once recognized it for Apache. He effaced himself in the corner of the room and rolled himself a cigarette.
Amanda followed her breathless explanation with a widening of shining blue eyes and her most brilliant smile, to which Mablett was not unreceptive. Dartland was an insubordinate bastard and a hell of a nuisance, but there was no special quarrel with Mrs. Dartland.
His bulging eyes softened. “Sure. Sure. You can wait on the porch. There’s a bench. The men won’t bother you none. Day shift’s all gone home ... By the way did you say you’d seen that crazy old Cunningham dame?”
“Why, yes,” said Amanda, still smiling.
“What’s she like?” asked Mablett curiously. “I’ve never seen her but they say she’s batty as a March hare, sees ghosts and stuff. Weren’t you scared?”
“No....” Amanda was startled. She thought back to her visit with Calise. It seemed a very long time ago, the impression of it nearly effaced by the far stronger excitement which had followed. “She seemed very pleasant,” Amanda added uncertainly.
“Well, you want to watch out who you mix up with, a beautiful girl like you,” said Mablett with heavy gallantry. “Lots of queer characters in a place like this.” He winked and chuckled.
Amanda laughed. “I guess there are.” She gave him a small coquettish nod and went outside on the porch. He wasn’t so bad, she thought, once you got him away from Lydia. If Dart would only use a little tact, jolly him along. Or far better yet, get away from the whole stupid mess. Her fingers closed tight on the edge of the basket. She sat down on the bench, and after a cautious look around, she lit a cigarette. She gazed down the canyon towards the lights of the mill and waited impatiently.
Inside the office, Burton spoke from the corner. “Nice-looking little bit of tail.”
“Yeah,” said Mablett. “She ain’t so bad.” He frowned down at the chief engineer’s report on his desk. The samplings weren’t running any better.
“He seen Tyson again, Lute?” Burton spoke casually, his expressionless eyes fixed on the ceiling.
The superintendent hunched his shoulders in sudden irritation. “Jesus, I don’t know. I don’t think so. Whatever he wanted on them two visits don’t seem to’ve got him anything. But the old man won’t talk.”
Burton shifted his feet and took a drag on his cigarette. “Like we was saying, Lute, when she busted in—you
ought to get rid of him. Sneaking around behind your back, making you look like a fool with the men...”
Mablett’s chair scraped back, he twisted his thick neck and glowered at his shift boss. “You know God-damn well I can’t get rid of him just like that. He ain’t done nothing out of the way lately, anyhow. Nothing to put your finger on.”
In Mablett’s slow brain, the familiar baffled anger which this subject caused him exploded in a new direction. He rocked his head from side to side—“You keep harping and harping. He don’t interfere with you none, you act like you was superintendent here. What’s the matter with you anyway, Tiger? You been drinking?”
Burton came out of his corner, he put his small hairy hand on his chief’s arm. “Why, no, Lute,” he said mildly. “I don’t mean for to bother you. I just don’t like Apaches, they’ll get you every time, if you don’t get ’em first.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Mablett shook off the hand. “That again. You’re nuts on that subject.”
Mablett’s reactions were simple and he had insensibly become accustomed to accepting the opinions and flattery of his shift boss, but he was not an utter fool. Much as he disliked Dart he could not picture him as a treacherous physical menace, moreover Tiger’s obsession was getting to be a bore. Dartland was only a quarter-breed after all, and they’d got rid of the other Indian boys.
“You stick to your own job, Tiger—” he said gruffly, “and let me do the worrying.”
“Sure, Lute.... That ventilating pipe on the seven hundred blew loose again, we’ll have to patch it ... like you said.”
Tiger knew when he had gone too far. He had plans, but they could wait, wait until everything worked just right. Nor did they need co-operation from this big stupid hulk. An accident, of course. Wipe out the Indian without mercy, like the Indians had wiped his mother out, but no fist fights, no sudden murderous rage like there’d been with that Cleve in the deserted stope. This Indian must be wiped out without anyone knowing how, because besides being an Indian he was mine foreman. And when that job was open, one of the shift bosses would be next in line. There’d be no trouble about which one, if the whole thing was handled just right. He smiled down in answer to a statement of Mablett’s.
