Red Gold

by Robert D Kidera

  I moved the desk lamp closer, turned it on, and bent over to get a better look at what I had. The faux-front of attached books concealed a battered tin box that sat inside the area where the pages of the books had been cut out.

  Someone had destroyed ten volumes of a unique and valuable historical work. My anger at this was overpowered by a desire to find out why Aunt Nellie would have done such a thing.

  The tin itself stood ten inches tall, was about a foot and a half wide, and another foot from front to back. Its dull gray surface showed remarkably little dust. A padlock prevented me from opening it, but as I studied the keyhole, I took out the hide-a-key I’d found under the desk earlier. It fit.

  A thick yellow envelope lay inside. Written across its face, in what I recognized as Aunt Nellie’s hand, were two underlined words: Uncle Jimmy.

  Her words referred to James A. McKenna— prospector, writer, Aunt Nellie’s uncle, and my great-grand uncle. A mythic figure in my family.

  I wanted to know more.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  7:15 p.m.

  I emptied the contents of the yellow envelope onto the desk: three smaller envelopes and two small photographs in wooden frames. A journal bound in black leather and a commercially printed hardback rested in the bottom of the tin. I placed them on top of the desk beside the envelopes.

  The first photo was one taken of me when I was in my early teens. Hope and confidence radiated from my blue eyes. The memory was clear. I’d visited Aunt Nellie on my way to Philmont Boy Scout Camp and she’d bought a new Polaroid camera just to take my picture.

  The second photograph was much older, a formal portrait of an elderly man. An inscription on the back read “Deming, N.M., July 1929.” The man’s thin, white hair grew straight back and he sported a large, bristly mustache, waxed to a flourish on each end. His big, sad eyes suggested that life had toughened him.

  I stood both photos on the desktop in front of all the others, and picked up the remaining objects from the box.

  The front cover of the small hardback book, Black Range Tales, featured a drawing of a rundown frontier hotel. The author’s name: James A. McKenna, my great-grand uncle.

  Opening it carefully, I read the personal dedication, written in a shaky hand on the inside front cover:

  To my dearest niece Nellie Mae, whose kindness and care sustains me through my twilight. May this book of stories give you many hours of enjoyment. May it delight you, and lead you west to the land I have loved for so long.

  Uncle Jimmy

  To which had been added underneath, in Aunt Nellie’s handwriting:

  A fine, old gentleman, part of the golden time.

  The book was a first edition, published by Rio Grande Press in 1936.

  I looked again at my picture on the desktop. Gabriel James McKenna. James. My father’s name was Michael James McKenna, and my grandfather J.J. was really John James McKenna. All named after Uncle Jimmy?

  Before I could examine the other contents of the tin, Carmen arrived balancing a large pizza and a six-pack of brew. I helped her in and we sat down to eat, but I couldn’t stop talking about all my discoveries. Especially, when it came to James A. McKenna.

  “I want to know more about this man. I don’t recall that my father ever talked about him.”

  “I’d like to know more, too. After we solve the Ramos killing, perhaps I could help you rattle around in your family closet?”

  “Sure, why not? Can I get you another beer?” I popped a second for myself. I didn’t have the heart to tell her how bad the pizza was.

  “Not right now. We’ve had what might be our first break in the Ramos killing.” She extracted a small notepad from her purse. “A report came in after I called you this afternoon. A pair of campers found an abandoned car near Grants, sixty-five miles west along I-40. State troopers responded and found a Plymouth Horizon, New Mexico plate ARF-386. The keys were in the ignition. A woman’s body was stuffed in the trunk.”

  “Who is she?”

  “We hope you can shed some light on that.” She pulled a cellphone out of her jeans, punched a few keys, and then aimed the lit screen at me. “Recognize her?”

  The low-resolution image was small, but there was no doubt in my mind. A baggy-faced woman lay curled up in the car’s trunk. She looked only slightly worse than when she’d slammed the door in my face back on Ybarra Place. One of her eyes was missing, but the scowl remained.

  “That’s her,” I said. “The woman I told you about.”

  “You sure?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  Carmen excused herself and made a call from the living room. While she talked, I cleaned up, popped another beer, and brought it with me into the library. Carmen came back but took no notice of the photos, books, and letters I’d left spread on the desk.

  “The dead woman is—or, was—Millie Singleton. Out on parole after she did time for passing bad checks. Two priors; one for aggravated assault. Also served time back in the late 1990s for meth distribution.”

  “That ugly face get her killed?”

  “Perhaps her services, whatever they might be, were no longer required. Or she had a falling-out with an accomplice. Anyway, I’m now officially on this case. I’ve been assigned to check for any connections between the Ramos killing and the attempt on your life. I report to Detective Lieutenant Sam Archuleta. If he’s on a case that means it’s been given top priority. Anything you say to me now is on the record.”

  “I’ll help in any way I can.”

  “I know, Gabe. We can arrange for you to make another statement about this woman down at the station. You may also need to formally ID her as the person you saw at the murder scene. You okay with that?”

  “Anything to advance your career.” I smiled.

  “I assume that lame attempt at humor was to cover up the fact that you’re scared.”

  “Shows?”

  “That’s okay. Cautious is smart.” She walked over to the desk, picked up the two photos from the box that were closest to her, and examined them. Front and back.

  “The guy in the old photo is James A. McKenna. He was my great-grand uncle. That’s me in the other one, forty years ago.”

  She put the photos back on the desktop. “Love those blue eyes.”

  I opened the three small envelopes. The postmark on the first read “January 31, 1940:Deming, New Mexico.” It was addressed to Miss Nellie Mae McKenna, 7006 Beauregard Street, St. Petersburg, Florida. The envelope contained a one-page letter:

  Dear Nellie Mae,

  Thank you for inviting me to come and live with you. Since Holy Cross Sanatorium burned down in the big brush fire last month, I am left alone, an old man with nowhere to go. Sister Foley said she will take care of my travel arrangements and will put me on the train. I hate to leave my beloved New Mexico, but look ahead to the comfort of your care. I will see you soon. Thank you, my dear.

  Uncle Jimmy

  “This places them both in Florida just before the War,” I said. “He’s then in his late-eighties at least, and she would have been in her twenties.”

  Carmen pointed to the second envelope. “What’s in the next one?”

  I opened it and slid out a long, slim, scroll-like piece of paper adorned with James McKenna’s handwriting:

  “Interesting. It says ‘Open in the event of my death.’ ”

  I read the letter out loud:

  My Dear Nellie Mae, I

  appreciate the fact that you took

  me in. I know I was an old man and it

  must not have been easy for you. Moving from

  New Mexico to St. Petersburg at the

  age of eighty-nine was a trial, but your hearth

  and home were such a comfort to me! My love and

  gratitude are yours always. I ask you to put

  me at the top of your prayer list as I face the end. It

  was a long and dangerous time for me out in

  New Mexico, especially when I almost
died in the

  recent devastating and tragic winter fire

  at Holy Cross Sanatorium. Guess I was lucky and

  could’ve done worse. At least I didn’t slip on the ice!

  Uncle Jimmy

  St. Petersburg, Florida

  November 6, 1941

  P.S. Remember my last words to you!

  “Something isn’t right here,” I said. “He thanks her for taking him in, something he already put in writing in the first letter.”

  Carmen shrugged. “I bet he thanked her many times—after all, he lived with her his last few years.”

  I tapped my finger on the document. “But why write it down again? ‘Open in the event of my death.’ Why keep this note from her while he was alive?”

  “Let me take a look at that.”

  I gave it to her and slugged the rest of my beer.

  She reread the entire note quietly to herself, and then looked up at me. “Could be he was just forgetful, not totally competent. But no, his prose is too clear, it’s even flowery compared to the first letter.”

  “And why did he say she should pay attention to his last words?”

  “Was it a reference to this letter or to something else he may have said to her in person?” she said, expanding the puzzle even more. “I wouldn’t try to read a lot into this. It doesn’t say much.”

  “No, I’m not going to let go of this. Might do some library and online research once my computer and other things arrive from New York.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Friday.”

  Carmen looked down at the desktop. “One envelope left. With a wax seal no less.”

  “The seal is cracked. Probably when Aunt Nellie opened it.”

  The wax crumbled when I touched it and a neatly folded document slid out. “A Last Will and Testament . . . wait, there’s something more in here.” I pulled out a half sheet of yellowed paper.

  The handwriting was shaky and difficult to read:

  My Dearest Nellie Mae,

  You should know that I have made enemies during my life. Be on your guard that they do not cheat you out of this inheritance! I believe our secret will be safe with you. Young Chato is to be trusted, but trust no one else! His father, Jose, and I, protected our secret for many years and now his son does the same. Chato knows much. I must be careful what I say and how I say it, but I know you are clever and strong-willed. Take care of everything with Chato’s help. Our secret becomes yours now.

  Uncle Jimmy

  “Any date on that?” Carmen said.

  “No, but it could have been written about the same time he wrote his will.”

  “You mean this?” She handed me the final document. I read it aloud:

  LAST WILL & TESTAMENT of JAMES A. McKENNA

  I, James A. McKenna, being of sound mind, hereby declare the following to be my Last Will and Testament:

  I bequeath all of my sheep to the use and care of Juan Jose Ramos, who goes by the name of Chato.

  I also grant him use of my barn and pen, and grazing rights on my land so that he may prosper. In addition, I leave him a monthly wage of $100.00 in exchange for his labor and supervision of my Catron County property.

  I leave all of my remaining estate and all my other earthly possessions to my niece, Nellie Mae McKenna, of St. Petersburg, Florida. Included in this bequest is my property in Catron County, New Mexico, my main cabin thereon and all of its contents, as well as all animals and machinery, except those as noted above.

  These things are left to her with the understanding that she shall move to New Mexico and maintain ownership of them.

  James A. McKenna

  Witnessed by: Emilio Archuleta

  On this date: October 4, 1935

  “Ramos,” Carmen said, after I had finished. “Maybe this Chato Ramos was related to the murdered Ricardo Ramos?”

  “Could just be a coincidence. It’s a common Hispanic surname.”

  “My ass.”

  “I need to check it out in any case,” I said. “I wonder, is there something down in Catron County that could be motive for murder?”

  Carmen shook her head. “How does it all fit together?”

  Sitting at the desk, I gathered all the documents and arranged them in chronological order.

  “Maybe Chato can tell us,” I said.

  “You think he’s still alive?”

  I shrugged. “That Will was written more than seventy-five-years ago. But suppose he was just a kid, maybe in his early teens? After all, Uncle Jimmy refers to him as ‘young Chato.’ He’d be ancient now, of course, if he’s still alive. But Aunt Nellie’s bank account shows she paid for a caretaker at the ranch right up until her death.” I folded the Will and put it back in its envelope. “One thing’s for sure.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Once my belongings arrive from New York, I’m going to drive down to Catron County and find out. Maybe this weekend.”

  Carmen touched my forearm. “I’m alone this weekend, and off duty. Let me come with you.”

  Carmen left for the night shift a few minutes later. I had the rest of this evening to myself.

  The doctor had warned me to go easy mixing booze with any of my painkillers, so I resolved to sip my drinks. I carried the first one with me to the library window and looked out at a couple of young cottonwoods as they bent in the April wind. A billow of wind-borne dust and sand raced by like it had somewhere important to go.

  I closed the blinds, returned to the desk, and rested my beer within reach. The black leather binding on the handwritten journal showed little sign of wear. A folded paper tucked between the front cover and the first page was written in Aunt Nellie’s hand and dated January 9, 1942, two months after James McKenna’s death:

  To the Ramos and McKenna family heirs:

  Uncle Jimmy was a natural storyteller; hell, you could say he was walking history all by himself. He first came to New Mexico as a young man, and knew pretty much everything that happened in the Southwest from that time until his final days under my care in Florida.

  Six years ago, in 1936, Uncle Jimmy gathered his stories and gave the world his “Black Range Tales.” The copy he gave me remains a cherished possession and always will. But Jimmy and Jose left so much more to their families.

  Uncle Jimmy wrote and spoke about many of the famous legends of the Old Southwest. But there was one he left out of his book: the legend of the Lost Adams gold.

  What you are about to read is for the eyes and ears of the McKenna and Ramos families ONLY. Should this story ever see the light of day, there will be bloodshed, sure.

  My heart beat faster. I hurried to the refrigerator and brought the remaining cans of Carmen’s beer back to the library. Adjusting the lamp, I took a deep breath and opened to the first page of James A. McKenna’s journal.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Red Gold

  What Happened to the Lost Adams/Apache Gold

  By James A. McKenna

  I write this story so that future generations of the McKenna and Ramos families will know the truth and appreciate what they have.

  An Introduction:

  I first heard of the Adams Diggings back in 1877, when I came west, having left Pennsylvania and an ordinary life behind in search of gold. Guess you might say I’ve had the fever all my life long and I have not been alone in that.

  In me, as in so many other seekers of treasure, life’s blessings of marriage, home and family never took root. For most of us, the dream of finding gold dried up. I knew many a man who drifted off into pursuits less chancy. Some just disappeared. I was one of the lucky few, and the favors God has shown me I now pass along to my kin.

  I am an old man now and have been witness to much change. The Black Range country I love so much bears scant resemblance these days to the land I first entered as a young man. My life changed too, and forever, in 1921.

  Now, as my kin, your life will change as well when you learn our secret.

  The Fir
st Day

  July 16, 1921

  Jose and I woke up early, as the sun rose over Blue Mesa. We were ten days out of Kingston and four days behind schedule, on account of heavy summer rains.

  Straight ahead, Alamocita Creek poured forth runoff from the previous night’s thunderstorm. In all the years we two had made our summer explorations, it had never been so wet. But the lust for gold takes hold of a man and cannot be washed away.

  Beyond the swollen creek lay our destination, the Bell and D-Cross mountains. For nearly forty years, I had systematically explored those parts of New Mexico where the Lost Adams gold might be found. I knew the stories and I knew the land, and I felt I knew where to look.

  For the past few years, I had made my journeys with Jose Maria Ramos, a young hired hand from my home in Kingston. The older I grew, the more I relied on his help. By 1921, I was nearly seventy years old, old enough to be Jose’s grandfather. But we were also friends, and would remain so until his untimely death.

  We had five hard miles to travel that day, by my reckoning. Our journey would be slow, as it was on the previous afternoon when Jose’s horse took a bad stone bruise to its right front hoof. That happened back in Dog Springs Canyon, when we passed between the Datil and Gallinas mountains.

  Before starting out for our intended prospecting site, we began the day with a breakfast of jerky, hardtack and water. Our horses drank from the rushing waters of the creek and grazed the grasses on its banks.

  I knew we might be in trouble right after we crossed the Alamocita. Three bright flashes of light burst from the side of Bell Mountain. I turned back to Jose in time to catch three flashes of light a mile or so behind us, in answer to the first three flashes. Watched from the mountain and followed from behind, I knew how a bear caught in leg irons must feel.

  Jose didn’t need to be told. He took the old Sharps 50 I’d given him out of its scabbard and cradled it in his arms, as I did with my Remington 8. The maps I’d studied the previous night showed a canyon at the base of Bell Mountain, so we urged our horses and our pack mule in its direction. It was our only possible shelter.