The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
Copyright 2008
The first attempt at writing…
Preface
This is a story written in journal format. In keeping with today’s times, I used the ‘blog’
technique to enter the daily episodes. For the most part, the distance between days and
the posted time of entry match the events in the story. Most of the off-hand details
concerning events or places are true. If you were to research, say, my comments on the
movie Get Smart, you would find that I blogged about seeing the movie on the day it
actually opened in theaters. (I did see it at that time, and my comments are genuine.)
If you ever get to Marfa, there is a Food Shark, a Brown Recluse diner, and many other
places I have mentioned in the story. I speak well of every one of them, so I hope they
don’t mind. If they complain, I’ll change something.
The trick is to determine what is real and what is not! The plausibility of the story is
what makes it an interesting read.
Have fun with it and let me know what you think.
- Doug
+++++++++++
1
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
June 18 – 12:19 AM
When is bad news good news and how can you tell?
Let’s settle this at the start. I am not a trained writer; grammar is a gift that rarely presents
itself under my Christmas tree. However, after 47 years on the planet, I manage to convey
my thoughts in a manner that most understand. Sometimes there is a bit of thinking that
has to take place first; and often patience isn't just a virtue, it becomes a necessity. If you
are one of those people my fellow instructors would call a sharpshooter, suck it up and
find another blog to criticize. I'm writing this blog because I retired from one job and
accidentally acquired a new adventure by way of inheritance. What better time to journal
what certainly will be one of the more interesting chapters in my life.
Just when you thought you had done everything you had set out to do, God chuckles. I
guess that's why he is God, and I am not.
I have spent 21 years working at my uncle's company. The work was physical, sometimes
not too safe, and 800 mg Motrin was everyone's friend. The old-timers, lifers as they are
called, said that you will know when its time to go - it is the day you show up for work
and you just don't want to be there anymore. The job hasn't changed, you have. That day
came to me a few months ago and before too long, I had hours of leisure with no
timeclock to punch. Thank goodness the Oceanview fishing pier had finished their
renovations. I had a new base of operations.
Until my friendly neighborhood letter carrier brought me the small yellow padded
envelope. Inside was a key and a beer coaster. The key was a small brass one, like the
kind you would use to open a safety deposit box in a bank. Now that looked interesting!
Then there was the coaster. A Modelo beer coaster, made of third rate cardboard, and
slightly used. Don't ask. I don't know. I did know that this package had something to do
with the recent passing of a different uncle; I had been given a heads up from a lawyer in
Texas that I should be on the lookout for a padded envelope with my part of the estate.
This was the "lost" uncle, Bud, who had disappeared for over a decade as a result of some
family issue that was never shared with us kids. And now I have his key and a beer
coaster. Did I mention that I don't drink beer?
The lawyer said that I had a choice to either claim the estate or deny the claim and let the
fine state of Texas take possession. Now I like Texas; I grew up there. But they certainly
don't need whatever is in that safety deposit box. They have enough already. I had the
address from the envelope, although it seemed cryptic. Written in the upper left corner
was the name "old Pecos," accompanied by the address of sorts - "The Brown Recluse,
San Antonio St., Marfa, Tx." With no job, a small monthly pension, and lousy luck at
fishing, I came to the conclusion that I must take this to its conclusion, whatever and
wherever that may be.
2
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
So I start this blog as I finish packing the truck. (Not that I have much to pack. I saw the
world with my last job, so I am used to packing light.) I have dinner planned with the
kids, we are going to the Mexican place by the grocery store down the street, That place
has meaning to us, and no I don't feel like sharing. I start driving tomorrow. Should take
me a few days or so, depending on weather and coffee. No guarantee that I'll blog daily,
in fact it just isn't going to happen. We'll see what happens when it happens.
Until next time...
June 18 – 10:45 PM
Road trips aren’t as fun as they used to be…
So much for an exotic trip across half the nation. I decided to use the lesser traveled
roads vice the interstate system whenever possible. See the real America, I thought. I
could write a book, Take prize winning photos. Wrong. Really, really wrong. This may
have been a tactical error of mental misperception. Just because the road name doesn't
start with an "I" doesn't mean it isn't used much. Do not even try cruise control on
Highway 17 going south through eastern North Carolina...
Four hours into the trip, after having dodged logging trucks, slow moving farm
equipment, and one wide-load Mack truck hauling half of a double wide trailer, I decided
it was time to stop and recalculate options. I found a small, Rockwellian town called New
Bern, located deep in the heart of eastern North Carolina. The lady at the coffee shop
said "Welcome to North Cack-o-lackey, hun..." Must have something to do with the
cemetery across the street. This was the local version of the anti-Starbucks coffee shop.
No hip, retro decor. No reissues of classic jazz or folk music for sale on the counter. Just
a plain, old fashioned counter with a two fancy coffee machines. Just enough to satisfy
the tourists who arrive by yacht, boating down the Intercoastal Waterway, which
connects to the little harbor formed by the Neuse River. (New Bern even has a band
gazebo at their waterside park.) By the way - it is pronounced "noose" as in "hanging
from a."
Back to the coffee shop. As I sat in one of the overstuffed chairs, reading the weekly to
catch up on who won the best of show award at the 4-H exhibit at the fairgrounds, I
noticed a rodeo clown at the counter, ordering a latte (skim milk, please.) I don't do
drugs, but I have read Hunter S. Thompson. If this were Vegas, I would have to start
looking for my lawyer... and watching out for lizards. I can't let this one go by, so I ask
the clown a question that isn't really in question format - "Nice outfit, I didn't realize a
rodeo was in town..." I know, I know, it's not a question, but I watch NASCAR every
week and the so-called reporters do the same thing when they interview a driver after the
race. "So, Junior, turn four on lap 237. What can you tell us?"
Clown, turns out, is actually just part of a local theater production. He is a retired
professional musician and conductor who likes to take part in one or two productions a
year, plus an annual stint as an actor at the "Ghost Walk" every October. Quite the
3
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
character. And I thought New Bern was more famous as the birthplace of Pepsi. That
local landmark is just down the street, but looks to be quite the tourist trap. I'll stick with
drinking coffee with the faux rodeo clown. After a discussion that went from the history
of New Bern (did you know that Babe Ruth used a house in New Bern as a place to stay
when he went hunting?) to a story about how, as an associate conductor, clown was
reprimanded for conducting better than his boss. Just because it's "North Cack-o-lackey"
doesn't mean there aren't ego problems. I was pretty sure I could not work well with this
boss, either. Maybe in a different life, after all - I am on a mission.
Okay, so I miscalculated on having miscalculated. Highway 17 may be slow, and
certainly somewhat risky, but here lies America. How many rodeo clowns do you know
that hang out by the Interstate? Don't answer that...
Tomorrow the goal is South Caroli, I mean South Cack-o-lackey. Beaufort is supposed
to be right out of a postcard. But there are stories of ghosts, legends of voodoo, and a
large talking frog.
June 19 – 11:14 PM
May need to turn around – life is becoming stranger than fiction.
Okay, so I thought dodging a herd of pigs in New Bern was a bit out of the norm,
especially with the rodeo clowns "riding herd" while zipping around on Vespas. But now
I have finally arrived in Beaufort, South Carolina. No one here has said "cack-o-lackey"
yet, so I will be a Roman.
To belay any debate, there are indeed several towns in the South named Beaufort. The
one in North Carolina is pronounced "bow-fort," while the one I am currently standing
upon is pronounced "bee-you-fort."
The day has been long; I don't relish getting back into the truck tomorrow. This post will
be short. Deal with it.
The actual trip down 17 was boring. I stopped for gas. Spent a little time listening to the
local guy telling me about the Low Country, as this area is known. Here's a safety tip - if
someone asks you if you want bald pee-nuts, just say no. ("bald," meaning boiled.) A
second safety tip - apparently the waters around Hilton Head and Beaufort are known for
fabulous shrimp in the early Fall. Unfortunately, it's not Fall. It's a few days before
Summer. Now the waters are known for the spawning hammerhead shark. Who knew?
So I pulled into the revitalized downtown area, restored to look rustic, yet not too
dilapidated. Quite quaint I suppose. My B & B was somewhere overlooking the marina
and it was getting dark. Rule number three has always been to set in before dark, so I had
to get moving. I pulled over and parked by the boat ramp, got out of the truck and started
to look around. That's when I heard some very excited splashing in the waters off the
seawall.
4
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
Looking over the wall, I saw two boys, in a small boat - probably a 12 footer - drifting by
slowly. They saw me and quickly started to throw me a line, assuming I knew that they
needed help. I grabbed at the line, missing it of course. Catching it would have been way
too easy. Whatever, I jumped feet first into the muck and grabbed the rope and started
back to the wall. I was very lucky the tide had already started to drop, leaving about
twenty feet of mud - which had to be better than twenty feet of water. Hammerheads,
remember?
Looping the rope around the trailer hitch on the truck, I started to pull their boat toward
the muck. Once the boat was securely stuck, the boys jumped out of the boat and
climbed over the wall to join me. They had been fishing by a bridge at which point they
lost their anchor somewhere in the pilings. The leader of this gang of two, Andy, said
that everything was fine until they ran out of gas. Now they were drifting down river,
toward the open water. Things were not looking good. But for now, they could live to
tell the tale, and more importantly live to fish another day.
It is very dark now. Heat lightning is starting to flare in the skies over the harbor area. It
is now that I finally see the B & B. A classic looking, true southern plantation home. I
start up the walk and am abruptly met by the lady of the house. No mud encrusted
stranger is walking in the front door, to be sure. To the side! Now I know where the term
"mud room" came into being.
Southern hospitality has always been the subject of many a movie, but tonight I saw it up
close and personal. The lady of the house brought me into the mud room and hosed me
down. Yes, hosed. With a garden hose. Water and everything. She then did a quick
turnabout and left the room saying the robe on the hook was mine to use and to leave the
clothes in the washtub. Again, when in Rome...???
The room was worth the money. (That's a story for a different day.) Suffice to say I have
never been in a hotel where not only chocolate is left on the pillow, but a mojito is left on
the nightstand. That is...until now!
Until next time. It is after five, isn't it?
June 20 – 11:20 PM
Get Smart rocks!
So I don't know exactly how it happened, but when I went downstairs for breakfast, my
clothes from yesterday were not only clean, but neatly folded on a sideboard by the
entrance to the dining area.
Today was a day of rest. Did a little sightseeing. Stayed away from fishing. That whole
boat / shark thing... Went by the park where a local television show was being produced.
5
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
Starred a giant frog named Binya Binya. Whole story line is aimed at preserving the
Gullah culture. Quite the interesting story, though not known at all outside of the
Lowcountry. You should check it out. They say just north of here is the heart of the
American voodoo scene. I opted to be a tourist, instead.
Came across the Chocolate Tree (www.thechocolatetree.us) where the ladies sell some of
the best homemade chocolates you have ever tasted. Look it up online and order you
some! Hollywood film companies order quite often, ever since the place was discovered
during the filming of The Big Chill. Yes, the house is just down the street. Ask a local
where Pigeon Point is and you will end up at "the house." Same place The Great Santini
was filmed. Now the film Forest Gump used some of the area for footage of the shrimp
episodes. Remember the boat hitting the dock? Just down the way.
Speaking of films, I needed some non-historical, no drama required entertainment, so I
went to the movies. Saw Get Smart. I won't spoil it, but it was awesome! It rocked, as
my daughter would say - and she's an MD! Do not go expecting to see the winner from
Cannes, no - it probably won't be nominated for anything, with the possible exception of
special effects. But for sheer entertainment - worth every penny. And Agent 99 has
taken her role to a new level. Jennifer Garner would be proud!
Wow...and I mean Wow!
Tomorrow - can I get to Vicksburg?
June 21 – 11:20 PM
Meridian looks good & looks can be deceiving.
Tried for a 700 mile run to Vicksburg but just ran out of gas, figuratively not literally, at
Meridian. I mean, after all, Meridian looks to be a nice place. Why not? There is a
Juneteenth celebration is tonight downtown, but I am pulling a pass on that one. Would
rather relax at the Holiday Inn Express and watch the Busch race (Milwaukee) on ESPN
in HD. You know that I am tired when I don't even try an analogy to the Holiday Inn
Express commercials. And yes, I know it's the Nationwide series now, but it's still Busch
to me.
Not sure if I want to stop in Vicksburg now. I need to focus on the mission at hand. I am
moving to Texas. Why? Because of a non-descript envelope with a key and an old beer
coaster (used, remember?) There seems to be a higher purpose driving this adventure,
but I am not quite sure what it is yet. Maybe Vicksburg could give me a clue? While a
Vespa-riding rodeo clown herding piggies may seem strange to you, I don't think it is a
clue to anything, except to watch out where you step in New Bern maybe. (I have had
much more weirdness in my life, but that's for a different day.)
No out of body experiences today. I was hoping to visit McCraven House in Vicksburg,
reportedly the most haunted house in Mississippi. That would have been cool. I did,
however, stop by a farmer's market while driving through Georgia and observed a facet
6
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
of human behavior that stood out as unfortunate, yet typical. There was a Brunswick
Stew contest in progress; many competitors cooking huge amounts of stew in cast iron
cauldrons big enough to hide in, stirring with canoe paddles. Everything was nice and
friendly until the judges picked the winner. "Unkol" Chuck (www.unkolchucks.com)
won by a large margin...until the crowd realized he was from Brunswick County,
Virginia. Apparently there is not much love lost between folks from Brunswick County,
Virginia and Brunswick, Georgia. Bad words were said, tempers flared. It's just chicken
stew, people! I had some. I thought Unkol Chuck's was the best, too. Everyone else's
stew had an overpowering smoky flavor and often two or more kinds of squirrel. Unkol
Chuck's stew was smooth and tasty on the front end with a little kick on the back end.
Chuck remained calm, actually seemed kind of oblivious to the hoopla. Contest was
over, people ate his stew and said they liked it. That is all Chuck really wanted. His
collected demeanor actually made the absurdity of the crowd reaction more one-sided. So
looks really can be deceiving, I guess - and maybe I should have driven the extra 200
miles to Vicksburg.
Disclaimer: I make my comments based on observations of a small group of people who
may or may not have been Meridians. Thusly, to be fair, I cannot hold Meridian
responsible for Brunswick Stew hooligans. The town does look nice, the people in the
grocery store were friendly. Please don't send nasty notes. And don't judge food by the
birthplace of the chef. That's just not right. And you know it.
Race is starting. I'm done.
June 22 – 8:03 PM
Gussie Nell and Strawberry – or was it the Gator sauce.
Drove through Vicksburg; no stopping. The ghost house will have to wait for the return
trip. Must press on before gas prices get any higher.
Stopped for lunch in Bossier City, next to Shreveport. Saw a billboard for Uncle Henry's
BBQ and the nav system said it wasn't too far off the path. I will say this: try the BBQ
sandwich on the cheese bread...but forget the Gator Sauce. Tasted great at the time, but
listen to what happened later. I only attribute the next events to the gator sauce because I
really can't explain (nor do I want to be able to explain) what I think happened.
So I was on my way to Dallas, using the middle route of I-20. (The southern route would
be I-10; the northern route comes down through Arkansas, I-35 I think.) Just before
Kilgore, I see a blue 150 pulled off to the side of the road, complete with little old lady
trying to get the spare tire out from underneath the back of the bed. I know the location
well, my stepside has the same deal. It's a pain.
Of course I stop; what kind of a cad do you think I am?
7
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
The lady may be old, but she seemed to have plenty of spunk. I would bet that this type
of lady actually hopes muggers choose her as a victim so that she can get some good buttkicking happening. But I digress. She told me her name was Gussie. Gussie Nell. She
was on her way to her stable when the tire gave up the ghost. In the back of the short-bed
Ford was a crate of apples and a box of carrots; probably bought at one of the many
farmer's markets I had passed today. Northeast Texas may not look like much, but they
do alright when it comes to farming.
The spare was secured, all is well. Then Gussie starts the engine and it sounded like it
hadn't had oil since 1993. Again, not a cad, so I suggested that I drive to the stable so that
she can feed the horse and then call the truckstop for a wrecker and a ride home. Gussie
insisted on driving her truck, but said that I could follow if I was that concerned, I was, so
I did.
We reached the stable, where a beautiful brown horse came out to greet us. This feeding
process must have been a ritual for the horse. She went right over to the truck and started
in on the carrots. I helped Gussie unload the supplies and asked her if she needed help
getting back to the truckstop or if she needed my cell phone. She gave me the strangest
look, as if I had missed the whole conversation. Whatever; just trying to be nice. Gussie
Nell thanked me for my kindness, commenting that she has had many a flat tire with her
old truck yet I was the first person that stopped to offer help. The conversation had that
'we're done now' tone, so I wished her well, gave the horse a pat on the head and then got
back in my truck.
As I was driving away, I looked back in the mirror and saw Gussie and the horse
returning to the stable. Good deed for the day has been accomplished. Now on to
Kilgore, about another ten miles or so. When I stopped for gas at the Interstate Truck
Plaza, I asked the lady at the counter if she knew of Gussie Nell and if they could keep an
eye out for the truck, which should be coming in for service in the morning.
I got the same look from counter-lady as I got from Gussie. Somewhere I am missing the
joke.
After a tossing and turning night of sleep at the Best Western, I could only attribute my
unsettled stomach to the gator sauce. Write that down, 86 the sauce next time. At least the
continental breakfast was good. I love the part where you can make your own waffles.
Whoever thought of that one was a genius.
Time to check out, get through Dallas and see how far down the road I get before
nightfall. Rule number three applies. As I settle the bill at the hotel, the manager brings
me an envelope. "Mr. Parker, this was left for you last night. The lady said it was not
urgent, so we decided to wait until this morning to find you. My apologies if we erred."
Okay, two items of interest. One: the only girl I knew here was Gussie Nell. Two: the
envelope had my name on the front - "Bic Parker." The part that concerned me was that I
8
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
told Gussie my first name, but not my last name. Maybe the clerk wrote it on the
envelope. (I'm going with that for now.) I opened the envelope and sure enough, it was a
thank you note from Gussie Nell. She asked if I could stop by the stable; had something
important for me to take on my trip. "Essential," the note said. Who was I to argue?
As I approached the stable, the scene took a dramatic turn into the "weird universe." The
stable was not as I had last seen it. Not at all. Like Gussie's truck engine sounded, the
stable looked. No lights, no power. Broken window pane. Shrubs overgrown. The whole
place looked abandoned, and it looked like it had been abandoned right after Gussie Nell
last took her truck in for an oil change. I called her name, looked all around - nothing. I
did find the truck, stuck in a bog behind the paddock. This truck had to be same one, but
it clearly had been taking a mud bath for years. I didn't sign on for this kind of freakshow. I started looking for the guy in the dark suit, explaining to the camera about my
trip to...the Twilight Zone. Time to hit the gas and get out before anything else happens. I
am not going to mention this to anyone. Who'd believe it anyway?
As I came into view of the paved road, a horse blocked the last part of the dirt road,
forcing me to stop and create a rather large cloud of dust. It's the horse from last night. A
casual observer would say that the horse and I were playing "who's going to blink first?"
I turned off the engine, got out of the truck and called for the horse to come. Maybe this
was like an old TV show, where the horse is going to lead me to the well where Gussie is
trapped. Like that is going to happen, right?
The horse stopped in front of the truck, gave me a quick 'ney' and started walking towards
the paved road. Took me a bit to catch up, and then I saw the trailer. No Gussie, no sign
of life at the stable, yet here was this horse who seemed to know me - and a working
horse trailer. The trailer looks old, but serviceable. The plates are dated 1994. Plain
white paint job. Fresh hay inside. If my life had theme music, this is the part where the
low strings start to spread from unisons into dissonances. If the violins start playing, I'm
looking for my gun under the front seat of the truck.
The horse stepped into the trailer and turned her head, giving me a snort. She was trying
to tell me something. What message? I had no idea. Upon closer inspection, I found the
second letter. "Please accept Strawberry as a gift for your kindness. She needs a good
home. I am no longer able to care for her as I once did and I know you will do right by
her. One day I will come visit. Don't worry, I'll find you. - G.N.D."
Great. Now I have a horse and a strange lady who says she will "find me." And what's
with the 'D?'
Texas Department of Motor Vehicles opens tomorrow. I guess I'll stay in Kilgore one
more day until I can get the trailer plate updated. The clerk at the Best Western offered
to watch over the trailer and Strawberry. She seemed kind of honored. She also seemed
to know Strawberry, but turned white as a ghost when I asked her for details concerning
Gussie Nell. All I could get out of her was that "everyone knows about Gussie and
Strawberry." I couldn't help but notice that the clerk said 'knows about Gussie' rather than
9
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
'knows Gussie.'
At least the horse likes me. Mr. Ed she's not, but the way things have been going, I
wouldn't be surprised if it turns out this horse can talk.
I'll save that test for tomorrow. No more gator sauce. Ever.
June 24 – 10:03 PM
Anyone speak horse? Anyone? Anyone?
While I thought I would be able to write a post about my experience at the DMV, getting
the trailer plates was actually fairly uneventful. Fill out the form, pay the money, screw
on the plate.
Whole evolution took about ten minutes. Try doing anything in a big city DMV in less
than an hour. There have been times it took me ten minutes just to get the ticket needed.
But on to more important things. A few miles shy of Dallas, I came to the realization that
a real, living horse was in the trailer behind my truck. The gator sauce surely must be out
of my system, and yet there was still this quadrupedic equine holding its' head out the
little window as we drove down the road. Kinda like a dog I guess, but taller.
When you get to Dallas, you hit the standard big city loop highway, in this case 635,
more commonly known as the LBJ Freeway. You have to go north or south, your
choice. Not really a Hobson's choice, but not too far from it. I noticed a sign for the
Mesquite rodeo, with directions to go south. I had a fifty-fifty chance I guess. I'm sure
there were corporate coffee shacks in either direction, but how many of them had
facilities for a horse? As luck, maybe fate, would have it, I went south towards Balch
Springs and saw a little store off to the side of the road. Not just any store, but a store
with a statue of a life-sized horse, rearing up on its’ hind legs. Junior's Tack and
Saddlery.
The store was stereotypically Texan. Walk in the door and you see a bull's head, with
horns of course, staring you in the face from its mount on the opposing wall. To the right
is a mini-store dedicated to hats. Boots off to the left. Jeans ahead, veer left. Bridles,
saddles and other tack ahead on the right. A sign on the wall said it all, however. "Hay
in back, beer on tap." I picked out a hat; standard white straw, simple band, very low
key; Resistol. I already wore boots, so that left saddles and bridles - the technical stuff I
really didn't know much about.
Hoping I had bought exactly what I needed, and not more, I left Junior's with plenty of
leather, a good bit of hay, and a new hat. With any luck, a real cowboy won't see me or
worse yet, talk to me.
Spent the night at a rest stop off the interstate, just on the western side of Fort Worth.
Plenty of room for Strawberry to trot around, eat some grass. No one seemed to think
10
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
anything was out of the ordinary. After a pleasant night relaxing my 6 foot frame on the 5
foot bench seat of my truck, morning showed its face by way of a too bright sun, shining
into the rearview mirror, reflecting right into my closed eyelids. Sleeping in the truck cab
was uncomfortable, but it was better than sleeping in the trailer. Better smelling, at least.
Took the horse out of the trailer, time to stretch the legs. Regrettably, no one told
Strawberry that she needed to eventually get back in the trailer. I am sure the kind folks
who were "resting" on their way to grandma's undoubtedly had a good laugh at my
expense. All I could hear was the voice from Spongebob saying 'two hours later...'
For whatever reason, Strawberry got back into the trailer. Almost like she was waiting for
the time to be just right. The horse had a plan, I just hadn't a clue what it is, for I don't
speak horse. Maybe there's a Barnes and Noble nearby where I can get a Horse for
Dummies book.
Onward into the flat, featureless, mind-numbing expanse known as West Texas.
June 25 – 10:24 PM
Weiner Schnitzel to go, please.
We, that would be the horse and I, finally got moving around an hour past sunrise, 7:30
or so. Should make it to Marfa tomorrow, barring any more silliness.
Stopped in Abilene for lunch. The lady at the last truck stop recommended I try
something different, German food. Now I know that there is a significant German
population near San Antonio, but who knew those guys made it this far west?
So off to the Deutchslander Freshwater Catfish Company. That's a no-kidder. Google it.
Actually, they don't have a website, so don't bother. Just stop by when you find yourself
driving down 20. You will have to make a little jog south of Abilene to the town of
Buffalo Gap, but it is only about 15 minutes by car. Order the deep fried catfish, head to
tail. They did remove the guts, but that was about it. Lightly breaded, comes with potato
salad (what else in a Germanic restaurant?) and iced tea. Actually a good deal at $4.99.
No blue plate, but I can live without. Thank goodness there is no national food television
personality nearby with a couple of twenties...
After lunch, I went to the trailer to check on Strawberry. Door was open, horse was
gone. Just a bit of panic, people!
Heard the familiar ney and such around the back of the cafe. I found our friend
Strawberry, befriending the German chefs, who obliged by feeding her fresh oats and
veggies. They kept calling her "Bahardo" for some reason. Must be German-Spanish for
piggie, for this horse can really chow down.
11
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
After lunch, we actually made some distance. Big Spring, Texas. Now we are starting to
get away from the flat land. Strawberry is perking up. She actually seems happy to be on
the trip now. Maybe it was the German food?
Big Spring looked like a good place to stop for the night. Unfortunately, since most
hotels don't consider a horse to be a small pet, our options were rather limited. Time for
another spectacular night at the KOA, which isn't really bad. Some are good, some not
quite so. This seemed to be on the right side of the bell curve. The office was clean, the
clerk friendly. The office had a little megaphone-type speaker mounted above the door.
Music was varied, a little bit of everything. I left for our campsite listening to the theme
to Midnight Cowboy. That was 1970?
Bahardo?
I am going to check that out next time I get my laptop to a Starbucks.
June 29 – 5:25 PM
Don’t ask for whom the Food Shark comes, it comes for thee.
Okay, it has been a few days and quite a bit has happened; I'll do a quick recap and end
with the plan of the week.
Strawberry and I made it to Marfa without any more problems. No lodging "in" town
that allows horses, but everyone I met was nice enough to invite me to stay on their
property. No one actually invited me to stay at their home, but at least I could park
somewhere and let the horse roam about. Texas may be famous for southern hospitality,
but they obviously didn't just fall off the turnip truck, either.
Not knowing who was who, or any background on my uncle, I let on that I was a novice
backpacker, heading into the Davis Mountains for a few weeks of hiking. This happens
more than one could imagine, apparently. Just ask the rescue squad that gets called out
weekly to find people just like me. Of course, I was not really interested in exploring the
mountains, at least not yet. I have plenty of time. All I really wanted to do was check out
the town and clear my brain of any prejudices. This place has a certain karma, I think we
are meant to be here.
Speaking of wrong perceptions, take, for example, the Brown Recluse. This whole trip
had me thinking that the Brown Recluse was some sort of biker bar gone bad. Lawless,
dirty, fights on the hour, money or drugs or both wagered on games of pool. Wrong
answer, it turns out. If you want decent waffles and a strong cup of coffee, the Brown
Recluse is the place to be. Until a little past noon, when it closes. The last time there was
trouble at the Brown Recluse was when they ran out of maple syrup.
I have eaten there twice. Just want people to get used to me before I start asking about
"Old Pecos." They don't serve beer at the Brown Recluse, so I am not sure how the
12
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
Modelo beer coaster fits in yet. But like I said, I have time.
For those of you that remember the TV show "Northern Exposure," this is the true life,
far west Texas version. They have more than one art gallery, including a large
establishment at an old Army fort. When I say large, I mean that the art pieces are large,
very, very large. The size of 198 mm cannons. Then there is the film festival. Probably
trying to create a tie-in to the fact that James Dean, Rock Hudson and Elizabeth Taylor
filmed Giant here many years ago. Marfa doesn't have a moose wandering the streets,
but it does have Buddy the dog.
Buddy the dog is the mascot of the Food Shark. Since we arrived at dusk, the few places
to eat were closed. Two exceptions were bars, but I'll check those out later. Set in before
dark, they say (rule 3) for best of luck, so finding a place to stay took priority over good
eats. Then I saw the Food Shark. A reconditioned, old panel truck, painted gray, with a
bright red door and a matching red AC unit on top, the Food Shark was sort of a mobile
gourmet restaurant.
Most of my ideas about the dusty, old cow town of Marfa had been smashed. And here
was another, going down, down, down. Expecting tacos or some other kind of Tex-Mex
food typically served at a national chain near you, I was enthralled by the Food Shark's
specialty, the "Marfalafel." This was Mediterranean meets Mexico for a cuisine
showdown. Medi-Mex is what I am calling it. Buddy the dog stands watch over the cash
register, but somehow I don't think crime is an issue here.
Well, enough rambling. The plan for this week is to make contact with Old Pecos and
find out what the key opens. See you next week. Strawberry says hi.
July 2 – 10:28 PM
Did he really say “Banjo player in a Mini Cooper?”
So I realize that I last posted it would be a week before the next entry. Didn't quite work
out that way, but I think you will understand why when I explain more about today's
horseback high-jinx.
Strawberry needed to get a good workout; too much grazing, not enough exercise. It was
still early morning when she came to my army surplus GP tent (command tent for those
of you who are sticklers for correct details.) The tent was old, smelled kind of bad, and
was a bit worn in spots. Then again, I may have just described me... The tent, with the
optional cot, was an immense improvement over the bench seat of my pickup truck, so
you won't hear me complaining. Well, time to get back on task. Strawberry not only
showed up at the tent, she pulled on the window tie, opening the flap and allowing bright
west Texas sunshine into the tent. Who needs an alarm clock, anyway?
After playing 20 questions with a horse, I got a very positive reaction when I asked if she
wanted to go out for a ride. The first 19 questions resulted in absolutely no response from
13
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
Strawberry. To a casual observer, the horse looked like the best straight man ever. I
managed to master the art of looking the fool. Enough self-deprecation, time to pack the
saddle bags!
One hour later, we are sauntering into the Davis Mountains, mirroring the scenic drive so
popular with tourists on holiday. I had the advantage of being able to go a bit slower,
enabling me to see more than those flying by in their H3 gas suckers. Though we always
had to keep an eye out for snakes, Strawberry and I were having a good time. I'm still not
a cowboy, but I have the look at least. The high desert mountains are very majestic,
almost ethereal at times. Sights, sounds, smells - all new to me. The horse seemed to be
fine following the road (we were always about 20 feet off the road, for safety) but around
lunchtime, she took a left turn and started up a draw. A draw, for those interested, is the
v-shaped cut between two outcroppings of a hill. Basically, make a fist. Pretend that your
knuckle is part of a mountain's ridge line. The space between your closed fingers would
be the draw. Typically a draw will be formed from water running down the hill. They
can be easy to climb, sometimes not, and almost always will have brush to contend with.
The problem is that brush is food for some animals and cover for others. I wasn't looking
forward to finding a snake or carnivore lurking about. It was lunchtime after all.
We get to the top of the draw and start ambling along the ridge. There, next to a Japanese
red maple tree, was an old, very thin man, probably in his 70s, kneeling down over a
small campfire. He had a small, black cook pot, probably cast iron, suspended over the
low fire by means of what were probably well-used tent stakes made of oak or rock
maple. Whatever he had cooking inside the pot smelled absolutely savory. We exchanged
greetings, but he seemed more interested in speaking with the horse.
His name was L.B. Powell. He explained that people referred to him as L.B. for short,
and since no one here knew what the L.B. stood for, he didn't feel like telling anyone. He
was not a local, but a transplant from the northeast, Buffalo up in New York to be exact.
Now how does someone from the snowy north end up in the high Chihuahuan desert?
Turns out that the Marfa town council had decided to develop the tourist industry by
creating an artist's haven, similar to Santa Fe, emphasizing the fine arts such as painting
and sculpting. There was also a one-man crusade for an increase in performance art; that
came from a retired math teacher, also a transplant, this one from Massachusetts.
The math teacher took an old abandoned storefront and rehabilitated it into a small,
natural food, vegetarian cafe. He installed a small stage, just big enough for about two
chairs, and put up two railroad lanterns - flanking the stage - for ambiance. Once the cafe
was ready to open, Joe (the math teacher) went to Austin to look for the right musicians
to book for his new venue, and that is when he came across L.B. Powell, who was
playing a cappella arrangements of Bach cello and viola suites on his clarinet.
L.B. heard the pitch from Joe and agreed to play the next weekend. That was three years
ago, and he hasn't left. I guess I forgot to tell you - L.B. is really a sax man. His mission
in life is to prove that Sun Ra and John Coltrane were connected musically and
spiritually. L.B., you see, is very into "being one" with the earth. He understood my
14
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
reluctance to give credence to his belief system and said I would understand
"eventually." He told me to stop by the cafe this Friday evening and I would most
certainly enjoy the music. Out of habit, I asked the name of the club, forgetting that
Marfa just isn't that big. "Schillinger's" he said. "It's the only free-form jazz club in
town. Don't worry, you'll find it."
At this point, he seemed done speaking and Strawberry seemed ready to go back to the
campsite. I guess I'm just the passenger on this trip... I still had no idea what was cooking
in that pot. As I was leaving, I just had to ask how a free-form jazz club could financially
make it here in small town America. "It just does." Then L.B. mentioned that it may look
out of place, but stranger things have happened. I racked my brain trying to think of
something more strange than third-stream jazz in west Texas, but had no success,
although the rodeo clowns came close. Then L.B. threw out a one-liner he just had to
have been saving for just such an occasion. "A banjo player in a Mini Cooper, now that's
something you wouldn't expect here. Big city maybe, but not here." How could I argue
with that logic???
July 6 – 9:03 PM
Happy birthday, America! Please pass the napkins.
Well, here it is, Sunday night and I’m watching Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom on
television. It’s not the real version, it’s the modern edition. Whales are in the spotlight
today. It doesn’t really count, however, unless Jim is wrestling the alligator while Marlin
Perkins relaxes in the helicopter overhead, relating how Jim’s life-threatening battle
somehow relates to my need for life insurance. Ask someone over 40.
So, you ask, if I’m living in a tent down the road at a campsite fit for horses, how can I be
watching television? Well, like Windows, I have had some major upgrades in the last
few days. Hopefully it will turn out to be more of a Firefox improvement rather than a
Vista one. Let me start on the evening of the third…
While eating at Borunda’s Bar and Grill, the chef – Pancho (really his name, honest)
started to give me the once over, trying to determine why I had stayed in town longer
than the average tourist. He somehow knew that I had alternative plans and, the café
being one of the social “hubs” of Marfa, Pancho was probably asked by curious yet nonconfrontational denizens to investigate. Gossip lives everywhere I suppose, even on the
outskirts of the modern frontier of far west Texas.
I figured now was as good a time as any to start telling my story, to a point. I don’t play
poker, but I have worked with many decent players and as such have learned that it is
sometimes wise to conceal at least a few cards in your hand. When prompted by Pancho,
I related that I had been asked by a friend to meet someone named Pecos, but only knew
that he lived here in Marfa.
Pancho seemed relieved with the simplicity of my story. Pecos, he said, is the local Post
Office guy. He comes from El Paso on Tuesdays and stays through Fridays, delivering
15
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
the Marfa mail and taking care of the rural routes from Presidio to Alpine. I think that
Pancho assumed I was here to pick up a package from Pecos, not that I already had the
parcel.
As if on cue, another man came up to me and started asking me about my plans. Turns
out it was the preacher-man from the Methodist church. Locals called him Padre, which
would be Spanish for “father,” a term normally relegated to Catholic priests. Seeing that
the nearest Catholic parish facility was 60 miles away at Fort Davis, the Padre said he
gave up trying to convince everyone that his given name of Alex would be just fine. No
reason to stand on ceremony all the way out here in Marfa.
When Alex found out that I had no specific timetable for work or travel, he offered me a
deal that must have truly come from heaven. In exchange for basic maintenance and
cleaning duties at the church, I could stay in one of the lower bunk rooms. The church
has facilities for weary travelers (and perhaps a safe harbor for those in need of one,)
which includes a shower and a washing machine. When I mentioned Strawberry, the
good Padre retorted that the church was a bit on the old side and as such included a livery
stable of sorts, used back in the day when people traveled to church by horseback. At
least this Methodist church had made the transition from the circuit rider process, and for
that I am thankful…
So I now have a roof over my head, electricity, running water, and a hot shower daily.
Can it get much better?
The townsfolk must surely be thankful, too.
The Fourth of July came and went. There was a decent-sized celebration; a few
fireworks, some gunfire into the air by ranch hands who had started early, if you know
what I mean, and of course the barbeque contest. Everyone had to tell me about the
informal rivalry that exists between Marfa and the nearby “town” of Terlingua. Once
upon a time apparently, Marfa was technically part of the area known as Terlingua. Had
something to do with the quicksilver, or cinnabar mines that were prevalent in the mid to
late 1800’s. Marfa decided to incorporate, Terlingua took pride in remaining just an
“area.”
Then Frank Tolbert, Willie Nelson, and Waylon Jennings made Terlingua famous for the
now well known World Chili Cook-off, held every November. Marfa has the ghost
lights, but that fame comes and goes whenever the UFO craze becomes popular. The
chili contest is yearly. Marfa had to do something.
To the regret of the cows that call Marfa home, barbeque became the mantra of Marfa,
with a Fourth of July contest being the centerpiece for the renewed tourism effort. I,
being the new guy, was asked to help judge. Thank goodness there was no gator sauce…
It all tasted good to me, so I picked plate number 7, for no real reason other than I had
started to feel a bit too full to think from plates 8 to 19. Who had the alka-seltzer
concession? The other judges liked number 7 also, so I had accidentally picked what the
16
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
others considered to be the best tasting barbeque. This gave me instant credibility among
the old-timers. And that credibility may come in handy at a later point, I figure.
The little kids wanted to ride Strawberry, which made for a great afternoon, None of the
men wanted to ride for some reason. They actually looked a bit scared.
That brings me to today. Church service was at noon, which gave me a few hours to clean
up the churchyard from yesterday’s town party. The service was a standard, traditional
Wesley-oriented Methodist service. Good sermon; at least Alex went beyond the “three
points and a poem” method used by so many clergy. And, while I am certainly not the
seminarian, I could not help but notice that there was no emphasis on the patriotic holiday
during the service. We did pray for the local and national leaders, and of course prayed
for the safety of those traveling and away from family (meaning those in the armed
forces) and for those who serve here at home, perhaps meaning police and firefighters,
But, much to my joy, we neither marched the flags into the church nor sang a multitude
of hymn-Americana. Before anyone gets upset, let me explain that we did have a
patriotic ceremony, songs included, on the Fourth, at the barbeque festival. The good
padre said the churchyard was a fine focal point for community events, including the
honoring of our free country. He also has made it clear that a worship service is a time to
worship God, and not the secular world. Alex later mentioned that there were people in
the past who had terrible heartburn about his paradigm of church-state separation, but
they all went to the Presbyterian church once they found out he wasn’t going to change.
Haven’t seen L.B. in a while. I am interested to find out his take on all of this. Still
would like to find out what he was cooking, too.
Tomorrow – need to spend a bit of time fixing some long-neglected items at the church.
Strawberry needs a good ride. I need to keep an eye out on the post office, too. People tell
me that when the flag goes up the pole, “Old Pecos” is in town. But that’s for Tuesday.
So as they say here in Texas – we are fixin’ to start a whole ‘nother story!
July 8 – 6:18 AM
If three is bad, what happens with four?
Sunrise is a daily event here in Marfa, usually occurring in the eastern part of the sky. I
don’t make a habit of looking for it too often, as 8 or 9 seems like a better time to get
moving into the day. This day, however, is different. Let me start with yesterday, as
much as I remember of it, at least.
I did a few hours of churchyard maintenance in the mid-morning. As you may guess, a
stable has an inherent odor that is caused by the residents… I am sure you understand so
let us move on. After a snack at the Food Shark and a fairly one-sided conversation with
Buddy the dog, I ran into Mr. Powell. He was a storyteller if he was anything, and he
spun some wild tales about the mountains in the area. Plenty of Indian legend, ghosts,
and a story about an old trading post gone bad. I think he was trying to pull my leg to see
17
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
how gullible an out-of-towner could be, so I feigned interest but did think they were
marvelous stories nonetheless.
When given the chance, I finally asked L.B. about the cookpot he had working by the red
maple up in the hills. His tone took a dramatic turn, from whimsical to serious, almost
pompous. “That, my friend, was a tea kettle. Pu-erh tea in the making.” I suppose I
should have given “pu-erh” more reverence, but being a tea neophyte I simply asked if
that was a local tea, perhaps grown in the area.
L.B. went on to tell me that the story of pu-erh tea, one of the original teas from China, is
long and full of mysticism, but that the important things to remember are that you only
make it using water from the springs high in the mountains, preferably by the red maples,
and that you don’t drink too much. “One cup serves well to cure indigestion; two a
hangover. Three cups and you will enter a new land, one that can save you… or ... well,
let's just say you don't want to go there. Unless you just absolutely have to…”
He went on to say that there was one more important bit of advice, as if the “don't want to
go there” part wasn’t important enough. L.B. has his tea delivered through a private
Internet service, the deliveryman being a Greek man of Puerto Rican descent. “Always
tip the delivery guy, but don’t ask him for any details. Sometimes there are things best
left not known.” When I prompted him for the delivery guys name, just in the off chance
I should meet him or possibly even order tea from him, he replied “Santos Patripianos,
but people here just call him S.P.” This was serious to him, but all I could think about
was people starting to call me "B.P." the friend of L.B. who gets his tea from S.P. I think
I will stick with my given name. It's certainly not too long, and it is only one more letter
than what these guys use. How hard can it be?
The rest of the day, and evening, are pretty much lost. I awoke this morning, leaning
against the Food Shark. From the evidence that remained, I guess L.B. and I must have
imbibed in some pu-erh tea. Buddy the dog dutifully stood watch the entire night, and
now was sleeping with his head in my lap.
Did you know that dogs can snore?
July 9 – 6:18 AM
Stay away from the USPS van on Fridays…
I notice that I have a new habit of posting in the early morning. I didn’t plan on this, it
just sort of started happening. Perhaps it’s the clean air or maybe the more relaxed
lifestyle or could it be the herds of cows, going about their business, mooing incessantly.
Worse than roosters, I tell you.
After my little tea party yesterday, I had what amounted to a hangover, or at least the
traditional look of one. I did manage to make it back to the church, where I knew I
needed to check on Strawberry. Arriving at the stable, I met one of the local law
18
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
enforcement guys, a Ranger, as in Texas, not Park. He was accompanied by his own
steed, whose saddle bags were weighed down with overnight gear and more than one
canteen.
“You look like two days of bad road.” I assumed the Ranger had been referring to me,
not Strawberry. I explained that I must have had something to eat or drink yesterday that
did not agree with me, a reasonable excuse if ever there was one. He laughed, saying that
this was not the first time he has seen the result of a pu-erh tea soiree. He knew L.B.;
apparently this happens to all new residents, without exception. Must be some sort of
initiation, I suggested. More like a test, he replied.
I asked the Ranger if he was headed out, off the beaten path, since he was carrying a
bedroll and enough supplies for two or three days. He said that actually, he had just been
“out there,” looking for another lost tourist. Marfa gets many types of seasonal tourists,
but gold prospectors show up weekly, he explained. They get lost weekly, too, which is
fine until their wives call the Ranger station asking for help. If it were up to him, he’d
leave them to fend for themselves. No gold up there, anyway, at least not the rock kind.
This guy had a sort of no-nonsense, true American cowboy attitude, with a touch of
Marine thrown in for good measure. Barrel-chested, high and tight haircut with a closely
cropped flattop, small but noticeable scar along one cheek, close to the corner of the
mouth. Interrogations back at the Ranger hut must not be a pleasant experience with this
one.
The Ranger wished me luck on my journey as he started to lead his horse into his trailer
parked next to the churchyard. Funny, I didn’t notice that trailer when I first got to the
paddock, but then again, I did look like two days of bad road, which must somehow
affect the eye-brain connection. As he closed the door to the horse trailer, I just had to
ask him two things: first, what was his name and second, did he know old Pecos the
mailman. “Ranger Edison, Charles Edison, but people call me Charlie. And yes, I know
Pecos.” He didn’t wait for me to clarify that I wanted a bit more information about Pecos;
Charlie knew that I had to learn how to phrase my questions better and this was lesson
number one in the west Texas school of hard knocks.
Ranger Edison, Charlie that is, fired up his beaten up, faded gold, slightly rusty flare-side
pickup truck, complete with shovel (blade up) mounted in back, directly behind the
passenger seat side of the rear window. The shovel looked like a rancher’s version of a
radio antenna. Lurching forward, the truck seemed to gather that it had a trailer now and
slowly inched forward until momentum was gained. Charlie gave me a small salute,
touching the brim of his gray Stetson, and in a cloud of dust left the churchyard.
Clearly, I would have to keep my wits about me. There is much to see here in Marfa, and
much that isn’t seen.
I spent the rest of the day working at the church. The good padre said that summer rains
in the mountains would eventually cause the groundwater level to rise here in Marfa,
meaning the basement level of the church building would start to have seepage through
19
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
cracks in the foundation. Since I sleep at this low level, this can not be a good thing.
Pump maintenance, the padre replied, is the key to success and a dry summer. So began
the workday, and it was work – all day. I asked about finding Pecos, to which the reply
was to wait until Thursday. Pecos had weekly delivery deadlines, imposed by the Postal
Service. He would be done by Thursday afternoon, where I could find him at the Food
Shark. If deliveries went long, he could be found at the Brown Recluse on Friday
mornings, eating huevos rancheros before his long ride back to El Paso. Now that would
be a mail truck to stay out of…
July 10 – 11:46 PM
How exactly does one stand ‘fast?’
So Thursday has finally arrived, possibly the apex of my trip. I know, I lead a life not
quite worthy of a Lifetime documentary, but onward to the post office!
Marfa, specifically downtown Marfa, is relatively easy to negotiate. Just look around. If
you can see it, it’s there. If you don’t see it, it ain’t. Just past Borunda’s, next to the
Laundromat, is the Marfa Government Center. Sounds impressive, doesn’t it! A
converted mini-mall (wishful thinking of a novice real estate developer back in the 70s)
the government center has several small offices. The storefront office is the post office;
just inside the “grand hall” - the Ranger office. Homeland Security has the back offices.
The Border Patrol guys are certain that herds of terrorists will be coming across the
border any day now. The locals don’t seem to think border crossers are an issue. One told
me earlier that the high desert will decide who makes it across, so who are they to
interfere?
The flag is flying outside the Post Office; thusly Pecos must be in town today. Of course,
as I approach, I start to think about the fact that it’s a federal building. The flag should be
flying every Monday through Friday, regardless of the postman’s location. Hey, it’s
Marfa. Who can tell what’s normal anyway??
Inside the Post Office is the clerk. He doesn’t look old, probably in his mid thirties. He is
sorting probably 15 or so letters; there are a handful of brown, wrapped packages on the
counter. A stack of Selective Service registration forms are neatly stacked off to the side.
The clerk turns to the front as if to ask the question he verbalizes by rote daily, to the
point he doesn’t realize he has even said it. When he sees me, he realizes that I am not
there to tell him how many stamps I would like to purchase.
“Mr. Parker.” He spoke the name as if he was perturbed that I had not arrived months
earlier. Maybe he had bad gator sauce, too? I acknowledged that he is indeed correct
and ask if he is “Pecos” though I see his name clearly on his black nametag. Pleasantries
aside now, Mr. Pecos asks if I have the key. I produce the envelope and open the flap and
reach in. “Stand fast; I need to lock the door.” All of a sudden I start to calculate how far
it is to the Ranger office and could they hear me if I started to yell?
20
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
The Post Office now officially closed, Pecos motions for me to come back to the
processing room, where the private lockboxes are kept. Pointing to one of the smaller
boxes, Pecos takes out his master key ring; it probably has fifty keys on it. The key ring is
lashed to his belt with olive green “parachute” cord. He puts one key in the top lock and
now it must be my turn to manipulate the second lock, just below the key Pecos was still
holding. No matter what we find in this box, it is evident that Mr. Pecos dos not want to
stray too far away.
Inserting the key I have toted halfway across this great nation of ours, the lock makes that
distinctive click, caused by the rarely used tumbler mechanisms falling into perfect
alignment. Pulling the box towards us, and this alone takes a good bit of gumption, Pecos
and I can now see the contents. It’s another yellow, padded envelope. Like the envelope
that started this whole journey, this one is also addressed to … me? The address contains
the correlating box number, yet my uncle’s name only is in the upper left corner. At
some point before he passed, Bud sent me this envelope, hoping that I would have
already acted on the clues presented in the parcel sent earlier.
“Well, open it up! While we’re young…” Pecos seems to have a renewed energy, and a
bit of impatience. I carefully step away from the box, slowly as not to arouse suspicion,
but far enough away that Pecos will have difficulty getting to me since he is still
connected to the lock box by way of his belt-fed keychain. Rule one applies – no matter
what they say, “they” are never to be trusted. I deftly use my old stag handled pocket
knife to open the envelope. This is my favorite knife, a gift from my best friend, given to
me years ago.
Inside, a set of legal papers… and another beer coaster, also slightly used. Since this
coaster is also a Modelo, I place my edition on the table to compare. Put side by side, the
coasters not only advertise Modelo beer in stereo, the background graphics show a
complete mountain range with a hawk diving toward a mountain pass just off the center
of the coaster. This may be another clue. Pecos studies the coasters with intensity, then
remembers the legal papers.
It appears that I am now the legal owner of the New Eckenforde Brewery, located in
Folsom Gap, Texas, ‘to include all property, structures, equipment and stock located
herein, including land and mineral.’ Hmmmm….
“I have to return the mail truck to the city tonight, but I can be back in the morning. It’s
been awhile since I have been up to Folsom Gap, but we should make it in a few hours.
You can’t get there from here, ‘less you have a horse or a decent mule.” All of a sudden
it seems that Mr. Pecos is the frontier expert. Maybe he bought his tack at Juniors, too?
July 12 – 7:49 AM
Maybe he should have ordered decaf?
21
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
Yesterday, Friday as you would call it, found me eating breakfast at the Brown Recluse. I
didn’t pack up the horse for the trip to Folsom Gap due to the fact that it was raining and
I didn’t feel like slogging up into the mountains on what would certainly be washed-out
animal trails. No reason to die on a Friday, better to leave that task to some other time.
Pecos hadn’t arrived yet, and I was glad. He had that, I don’t know, ambition I guess that
could or would develop into obsession. There was obviously something at Folsom Gap
that he wanted. Pecos knew “it” was somewhere nearby and he must have been waiting a
long time for me to show up to finally get to the clue. He seems to be a one-dimensional
thinker. All we really know is that there is, or was a brewery of sorts and it’s in Folsom
Gap. The two Modelo coasters form what could be a clue, but there is nothing definitive.
Yet Pecos has his mind set – we must get to Folsom Gap and we must get there soon.
I have only seen hot coffee spilled intentionally on someone once, and it was in a movie
as I recall. Friday at the café made twice. The server, who also appeared to be the
manager, perhaps owner of the Brown Recluse, was having an issue with one of the
customers at the counter. Sal, short for Sally I suppose, basically accused the gentleman
sitting at the counter of being a pig and promptly gave him the coffee he requested. She
stated in a voice intentionally loud enough for all to hear that “since your pants are so hot,
they wouldn’t mind a bit of coffee to start the day off right.” You can imagine the result
and you would be correct. Not pretty. I made a mental note to always tip 20 percent, or
order a soft drink – never coffee.
After the hobbling man left, probably to go to the doc in the box down the road, I noticed
a Ranger speaking to Sal. This was not Charlie; it was a tall, thin Ranger who had a
permanent countenance of meanness about him. It was assault and battery I suppose. In
spite of his scowl, he and Sal both laughed and the conversation was over, no handcuffs,
no lectures. There must have been more to the story. As a wise man once told me, it is
often better to stay away from matters of the heart, unless it’s yours… I don’t need to
know.
The Ranger, Gilbert according to his nameplate fashioned to his uniform shirt (precisely
centered on his left breast pocket, one eighth of an inch above the highest point of the
seam and parallel to the floor) saw me sitting there, watching the mini-drama unfold. He
came over, asked if he could sit and join me, and then did so before I had a chance to
answer. He was armed, in a fashion, so who was I to refuse?
Gilbert asked if I was waiting on Pecos to arrive from El Paso. When I explained the
events at the post office and the travel plan for the day, Ranger Gilbert interjected that
those plans may need to change. First, Gilbert informed me that Pecos would not be
arriving in Marfa today. The highway from El Paso had a mud and rockslide early this
morning due to rains up in the Sierra Diablo range.
[Teachable moment: There are many mountain ranges in Far West Texas; remember that
this area actually connects to the Rockies. The Davis Mountains are the best known, due
to the fact that Big Bend National Park traverses them. There are numerous other smaller
22
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
ranges, but two of the more notable ones in this area are the Sierra Viejo range and the
Sierra Diablo range. Loosely translated, that would be the ‘ancient land’ and the ‘devil’s
land’ respectively. Now back to the story…]
Gilbert had a call come in on his radio. Domestic disturbance at the trailer park. Why is
it always the trailer park? The Ranger commented that it was probably Ted, the man who
was doing the hot java dance a little while ago. To make a long story short, Sal and Ted
‘were’ an item, had been for quite some time, that is until Sal discovered Ted with one of
the stable hands from the same camp area where I had first stayed. There was more than a
full moon showing when Sal made the discovery on Thursday night. Sal informed Ted
that if he liked stables so much, he should just go ahead and sleep there, too. She then
went home and summarily threw what few possessions Ted had left at her house out onto
the lawn, and then started the sprinkler system. Always water at night they say; helps
keep the grass from burning in the hot, daytime sun! Friday morning came and Ted,
being a man and not thinking things through at all, came to a public place to apologize
and work things out. “I’ll just sit at the counter, drink some coffee, and apologize to Sal.
That’ll fix it!” I am sure the short circuiting mental process didn’t go much farther than
that.
The results were, well, let’s just say it pays to read the little warning now printed on
coffee cups. Indeed, the contents are hot. Be careful, you could get ‘burned.’
Gilbert had to leave, announcing that “this one will end up with someone staying at the
graybar hotel.” He asked me to stop by the Ranger office late in the day. He had more
information about Folsom Gap that I would be interested in hearing. As he walked out
the door, I noticed that my first suspicion was correct. Gilbert was armed, alright, but not
with a firearm. The Texas Ranger wore a k-bar fighting knife, sheath hanging from his
belt.
My breakfast sandwich, aptly named the Marfa Gut Buster, was cold now. It had looked
delicious when it arrived – a half pound beef patty, full slice of raw onion, two pieces of
bacon, cheese and a fried egg on top, all stuck between two pieces of homemade
sourdough. There was a microwave, but I would have to ask Sal to heat it up. This may
not be the best time…
July 13 – 12:11 AM
Time to switch to plastic flatware…
By the time I had left the Brown Recluse, the storm front had arrived and a light rain was
falling. Returning to the church, I made the rounds – first check on Strawberry then the
water line in the basement. So far so good on both counts. I did find two new residents in
the stable, however. Goats. Two of them. One male, one not. The good padre had
performed a wedding ceremony and the young couple compensated him for his efforts
with these animals. Why use money? No one needs money. Goats are much better.
After some thought, goats actually may be better. True, the tax people will argue that the
23
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
padre should declare the value of the goats on the next 1040, but goats are like cows.
Their value maintains, perhaps even increases with the milk and cheese potential. If that
doesn’t work out, there may be little goats, kids I suppose. A last ditch effort to acquire
worth from these animals could be to declare these two goats a “herd.” Now sell one and
then let the government know that you have voluntarily reduced your herd by fifty
percent and then file for an efficient ranching subsidy. At this point, my attorney would
say that while I am entitled to my opinion, please do not consider my comments legal
advice and to be sure to consult your own CPA for qualified exemption advice.
I waited until later in the afternoon before I ventured out again. At 4 pm or so I saw the
Ranger’s four-wheel drive Jeep pulling into the diagonal parking spaces in front of the
government center and decided to chance making it to my 48th year and walk in to speak
with Gilbert.
Gilbert was sitting at his desk, gray Stetson hang on a hook directly below the jackelope
on the wall. While he did not look up from the paperwork he was reading, Gilbert
managed to say hello and commanded me to sit down in one of the leather-bound chairs
in front of his desk. I looked at the various items nailed up to the office walls and realized
that this was no ordinary person. Gilbert had spent time in the Marines, a Vietnam vet
judging by the plaques. He was a drill instructor (not a drill sergeant; that’s an Army
term) and a helicopter door gunner. Gilbert also had a shadow plaque on top of the
bookshelf. These were typically given at retirement. The plaque had the usual verbage,
such as ‘For outstanding service, etc.’ plus an inset space where his ribbons and shooting
badges were displayed. Gilbert was quite the Marine. I won’t get into detail about all of
his military awards, but suffice to say that he was shot down twice and was still around to
talk about it. Typical of many war veterans, when asked to elaborate, Gilbert probably
won’t say anything. Nothing at all. Nada. With his ever unfriendly expression, I would
take the hint.
“The judge will love this one. Ten bucks says that she’ll get off with a warning and some
community service.” I was confused. I had thought Gilbert had been called out to pick up
the two-timing java junkie. As it turns out, the person arrested was the female stable
hand. She found out that Ted had not told Sal the “truth.” Now remember, “truth” is a
word that has caused wars to start. While I am all for it, sometimes I think civilization
may have fared better had we not invented the word. I don’t have a solution for the
problem, but I am working on it. Someone was supposed to tell someone else that their
relationship was over. Now we know what happens when one crosses a woman scorned,
and Ted has two girls after his butt now.
The Ranger explained that he, too expected to find Ted in the wrong, but upon entering
the trailer, Gilbert witnessed the young lady stabbing Ted in the backside with a dinner
fork as he was quickly climbing out a side window. This would be a class four
misdemeanor, with special circumstances. Special circumstance is a term applied to
domestic violence cases involving deadly weapons. Fork? Whatever. Normally means
mandatory family counseling. Marfa doesn’t have anyone qualified to handle this
requirement, so the judge consistently assigns community service. This translates into
24
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
picking up trash at the park campsites. The judge feels that if dysfunctional couples see
happy families on vacation, then they would be motivated to make lifestyle changes for
the better. Has the judge ever seen a family on vacation? The first few days are always
nice, but then every semblance of good order and discipline vanishes. It’s a miracle that
families go on vacation at all.
When asked why she was stabbing Ted with a fork, Lydia (the stable hand) stated that
she had to hurry since he was climbing out the window and the fork was the first thing
she could find. Not much remorse there.
Gilbert figured that the judge will consider the extenuating circumstances and give Lydia
the benefit of the doubt. The fact that the judge is Sal’s uncle would have nothing to do
with it. Putting the arrest report down, the Ranger focused his attention on me. I am not
sure I like that idea, but then again, I don’t get a say in this matter. And where is his gun?
“No matter what happens, and trust who you want, but I would stay away from Pecos, or
at least keep one eye on him and watch him like a hawk with the other.” This is not good
news; I need Pecos to tell me where Folsom Gap is located. Feigning ignorance, which
wasn’t far off the mark, I asked Gilbert the reasoning behind his statement.
“Here’s the short version. A tourist got lost up in the Sierra Diablo Range, close to
Folsom Gap. Another Ranger took his horse up into the hills and tried to retrace the route
used by the tourist. There was a special interest in this lost traveler due to the fact that
she was an old grandmother, a teacher of sorts, visiting the area on vacation during the
summer break.”
Gilbert hesitated. This was obviously bringing back long hidden emotions that really
ought to have remained locked away. Slowly, he went on. “The elderly lady and her
horse were caught in a sinkhole within a box canyon, cornered by two brown bears. The
bears were unusually agitated and they probably smelled the fear. As fate would have it,
the Ranger arrived in time to rappel down into the sinkhole to get between the woman
and the bears.”
“Now this next part is my own opinion. I will never be able to prove anything in court,
but I know what happened. What we do know is that your friend Mr. Pecos rode into
Marfa saying that he thought he saw the two riding back to Marfa, together. Since it did
not look unusual, Pecos did not stop to offer help, or so he said.”
At this point, Gilbert is standing up, pacing around the office until he gets to a picture of
two Rangers on horseback somewhere out past the town. This must have been a picture
of himself and the missing Ranger.
Taking his knife out of the sheath, Gilbert slams it into the oak desktop, point first. I
instinctively move back in my chair, thinking that will keep me alive when Gilbert snaps.
I can see the headlines now: ‘Ranger goes berserk, stabs one person…thirty times.’
25
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
“They never arrived. We searched for weeks. Then one day, a lone horse walked into
town, stopping at the government center. It was the lady’s horse. No rider.”
“This must have been a special horse, since she turned around and started walking back
up into the hills. By the time we found them, it was too late. The Ranger had killed the
bears with his knife, but a problem remained - they had no water and they were stuck in
the sinkhole.
They most likely died of dehydration, which is one of the worst ways to go around here.”
Clearly, Gilbert felt that Pecos did indeed see the two travelers, probably caught in the
sinkhole, but did nothing to help them. Gilbert mentioned something about Pecos and his
obsessions costing two lives and then reiterated that I should keep my wits about me if I
am to travel with him.
I thanked Gilbert for the hospitality and the advice. On my way out of his office, I
stopped by the picture that seemed to be his favorite. The two Rangers in the picture
looked true to the image the Texas Rangers have cultivated over the past 150 years.
Solid cowboys, integrity-bound lawmen. Neither one wore side arms, they both had
knives. One was definitely Gilbert, I recognized the k-bar; the other must have been his
partner. “That was Charlie, one of the best Rangers that Texas has ever had.”
Gilbert had been watching me, somehow knowing that I would need to know that crucial
bit of information.
July 13 – 6:12 PM
Respect your elders, junior. We have canes…
The rain had stopped but the mud continued to be an ornery obstacle to travelers. Marfa
has many paved roads, but not enough sidewalks, at least in the areas I wanted to
traverse. I felt the need for some unbiased, historical background on the events related by
Gilbert so I decided to find the old-timers. Every town has them. They usually sit
around the barbershop or the cafe, sometimes the firehouse. These are the guys that form
social clubs like the ROMEO club. I ran into one of those clubs in North Carolina once.
When I asked the man in charge what ROMEO stood for - he mad a snide remark about
me being under sixty, then spelled the acronym out for me: Retired Old Men Eating Out.
And that is no tall tale.
Seeing the fire station, I noticed the fire fighters washing the town's only fire truck, a
pumper/tanker. Nothing unusual about that, happens at fire stations worldwide. If I had
a new red truck, I would keep it clean and shiny, too! Off to the side of the driveway was
a red oak picnic table, around which sat three geezers, canes dutifully stacked in a tripod
formation off to the side. The "old guys!" Certainly I could get my background
information from these men. The youngest looked to be about seventy, the oldest ninety. Of course, I am a terrible judge of age, especially women's ages. I would make a
terrible bouncer.
26
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
As I approached, the men made room for me at the table and invited me to "have a sit."
Offering me a beer, I declined saying that I really didn't drink beer often, feigning allergy.
The senior member of this trio opened a cooler, conveniently placed underneath the table,
somewhat out of sight from passersby, and pulled out a bottle and set it in front of me.
"This ain't no regular beer, this is German ale. It's been brewed the same way for over
150 years." It was a bottle of New Eckenforde Ale.
I have found the right spot.
Trying to keep my story short and to the point, I entertained the gentlemen with only the
salient and pertinent details. Packages, names, horses, gator sauce, L.B., Buddy the dog,
tea, Charlie, Gilbert, Pecos and now the story of the lost tourist. It was a three beer story.
Four if you were listening. I ended with my quest, more like a plea I suppose. "What
does all of this mean?"
Junior took the ball and started off. "Let me tell you a little about the history of this area,
back when Texas had just become a Republic." He went on to tell a story of a border
trading post, run by a man who traded on both sides of the war and both sides of the law.
He had started out as a scalp hunter, hired by the Mexican government, whose job it was
to stir up trouble with the Apache and the Comancheros. Mexico, understandably, did
not like Texas gaining its' independence; however it was more concerned with the
Manifest Destiny philosophy of the United States. If Mexico could keep the Anglos out
of Texas, or at least east of the frontier "line of protection" running north-south through
the midpoint of the Republic, then Mexico had a chance to regain control of the land.
The scalp hunter had married a wealthy senorita and decided to settle down and become a
successful, honest businessman by selling guns and alcohol to the Indians, along with
selling dry goods to the settlers moving west along the Trans-Pecos Trail. He needed the
cooperation of the local Indian tribes, so he invited them over for a feast, complete with
German beer brought down from the hills by mountain men, wanting those same dry
goods. The next morning, after the fiesta, the trading post owner discovered that the
Indians had stolen all of his horses. He had to do something or the Indians would know
that they could walk all over him whenever they wanted.
He invited the tribal leaders over for another fiesta, to show that there were no hard
feelings and it must have simply been a misunderstanding. Excusing himself from the
main room at the end of the evening, he signaled to one of his nearby men. The Indians
found out the hard way that he had several cannons aimed directly at the fiesta room.
There were few survivors. The owner let those lucky few go back to their tribal areas to
report what had happened. After this horrific event, the tribes left the trading post alone,
except for actual business transactions. The Indians came to regard the post as an “evil”
spot.
27
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
The mountain men kept bringing in furs, deer and goat meats, and of course the German
beer. With these goods, they also brought tales of the hard working Germans who had
found a valley up in the hills, a valley where their Bavarian grain could grow fast and
often, usually a short Winter season and a longer Spring to Summer season. No one ever
messed with the Germans, not bandits, not Indians, no one, for they were the keepers of
the brewing secrets.
While it was a wonderful tale, and I left out the part of the headless horseman, and that
can be for another day perhaps, I had to ask just how this related to Marfa and to Pecos.
Junior looked at Middler, who in turn spoke to Senior. "Just like a punk; should we take
him?" I think they were serious. And they way things have been going around here, I
don't think I want to chance it...
Middler took over. "Times being what they were, no one had any real currency. Some
Mexican Pesos floated around, some US gold coinage once a blue moon, but mostly
business was done on the barter system. The mountain men paid for their purchases with
the furs, etc. but they often used small bags of gold dust, panned from the streams way up
in the hills. The trading post kept all of this ore, melting the dust into small ingots. The
1850's version of the 401k plan."
Senior continued. "Gold, or better said - the desire for gold, makes a man do things he
would never dream of doing elsewhere. The owner had the gold, others wanted it. No
one knows who exactly who shot him, but he was found dead in his chair - in the same
refurbished room that had been blown to bits years earlier. There went the secret. At that
point, no one knew where the gold had been stashed.
Now the senora eventually remarried. Unfortunately, one of her sons from the first
husband thought that the new husband - now owner of the trading post - had assassinated
his father. The son took revenge, rightly or wrongly, by killing the second husband.
Still, no one could find the gold. Pop me another beer and I'll get to where everything
links up."
I will have to admit, the German ale did have a smooth bite to it. I gave the senior the
last one in the cooler and hoped that he could wrap this up in under an hour. I wanted to
get to the Food Shark before it closed.
"The Germans had their little village up in the hills, named it Folsom Gap. Word
eventually got around that they had retrieved the gold and had hidden it in a mine nearby.
As secrets tend to not be, people started coming from all over, trying to find the gold.
Violence was common place. The Rangers had to step in on more than one occasion.
Pecos seems to have heard about the legends. Your uncle Bud worked up in the brewery,
but he was one of the few people who cared not for the gold. He did mention that there
was something bigger to contend with, but that it was more of a spiritual confrontation.
The best person to learn about Bud's concerns is an old man named L.B."
28
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
I mentioned that I had met L.B. and would have to get back to him about this new
information. I thanked the trio for the stories and most importantly for the beer. I did not
want to reveal all of the cards in my hand, particularly the part about me being the new
owner of the brewery. That can be a later conversation. At least now I know what Pecos
is all fired up about. Gold.
I think that Bud must have known this, also. He probably figured that Pecos would
somehow be connected to, or cause, his death and also intercept the letters sent by the
attorney. Now to find L.B. and unravel the plan that my uncle had started into motion...
July 17 – 12:11 AM
It’s all about form – good form. Accept no substitutes.
Today is Wednesday. The reddish brown mud has finally dried into clay. The rocks and
gravel have dried fairly quickly, but the mud underneath is still unstable. So, what looks
good enough to step upon is in reality not. Travel is not impossible, you just have to be
careful. I have decided that I can no longer wait for Pecos and I get the tack ready for
Strawberry. E-gads, I hope I am not motivated by the prospect of gold…
I have two saddle bags already packed. I anticipate that this could be a several day
evolution, so I lash the blanket roll wrapped with my all-purpose poncho liner to the back
of the saddle. Last, and certainly not least, are four skins of water. Can’t have too much
of that stuff. We lost a man in the desert once. Actually, it wasn’t anyone from my team,
but same division. Numerous stupid mistakes contributed to the young man’s death, and
there were many lessons learned. Now that I think of it, they were probably lessons that
had been learned in years prior but were forgotten due to complacency. Some comfort to
the lad’s parents.
I won’t go into the details, someone else has undoubtedly already done this, but he
wandered through the high desert trying to reach the lights he had seen on the horizon.
The young man had not received much desert survival training, so he did not understand
that distances are extremely hard to judge in the flat, featureless terrain. He perished
after 39 days of traveling on foot, mostly at night. Investigators determined that he
actually died of dehydration caused by a combination of reduced water intake (he had
been rationing) and increased food intake. In other words, when he ate what would turn
out to be his last small meal, the digestive process took the last bit of essential water from
his vital organs. His body was found miles from where he had last been seen; he had
accomplished an almost Herculean feat of tenacity. He died less than 200 yards from a
highway.
Packing water is important.
Strawberry and I set out from the church grounds, heading west-southwest towards the
base of the Sierra Viejo. I don’t know exactly where I am going, but I figure there must
be some kind of trail or FM road leading to Folsom Gap. I mean, if the post office
delivers there, you have to be able to get to it. Wouldn’t you think?
29
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
We get to the El Paso highway without difficulty. I see what looks like a jeep trail leading
up into the hills; that just has to be way. I see no other viable alternative. After two
hours of moving through ever increasing brush and low lying mesquite trees, I now
understand the purpose of chaps. I did find it interesting that Strawberry seemed to walk
where there was just enough room for her, but not quite enough for my legs. So much for
man’s best friend. Wait, that’s dogs. Where’s Buddy when you need him?
Now at the base of the hill, I see that the grade is too steep for me to ride. It’s going to be
a long walk up a gravel trail rising at about 50 degrees. Looking up the trail, I get a
sudden shudder. Memories of Japan. No, not when a friend of mine and I tried to jog up
to the first station on Mt. Fuji. This memory was of a lesser known hill. The Porkchop,
as we had named it. Not as steep as what lay ahead of me, but still exacting effort.
The Porkchop was more infamous for the halfway point. By the time you reached the
halfway mark, you were reduced to a posture more commonly seen by those walking in a
rain. Most of us had our heads down, just trying to keep pressing up the Porkchop. If
you were to look up, you took the chance that you would see you were nowhere near the
top. This was a mental gate that would close faster than beer flowed on Gate Two Street.
The diabolical twist of the Porkchop is that the halfway point levels off a bit. Remember,
you are looking down, so all you know is that the hill has gone away. Time to catch your
breath. You look up. Now you see that you have only gone halfway. It normally takes a
person three or four tries before they make the entire Porkchop run in one go. There is no
shame in walking the rest of the hill; just don’t turn around and give up. Very bad form.
Strawberry doesn’t want to start up the hill. Absolutely refuses. I dismount and take the
reins. Remember, there is no shame in walking up the hill. We just can’t turn around
once we start. I may not be up on my formal manners, after all, I only recently learned
that I eat using the continental style, but form – good form, is essential. Without good
form, there is chaos. Even the pirates had good form.
My trusty, four legged companion is steadfast, however. I try everything to get her up
the hill. She won’t even start. Fine. I’ll go up the stupid hill and she will eventually
follow me. After all, I am the hand that feeds…
This is where the part about lessons learned but forgotten returns to my mind. As my
black bull hide boots hit the gravel patch, I remembered the part about dry gravel resting
on wet clay. By the time I stopped sliding, I ended up within a foot of where I had started.
Strawberry had not moved. She simply lowered her head down to my level… and
slobbered on me. Fine, you were right. I was wrong. Happy??
You know, I recall passing a new art gallery earlier today. The hill can wait another day.
It isn’t going away, to be sure. Buddy, where are you?
30
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
July 17 – 11:54 PM
Yardbird on a raft to go…
Marfa is a town on the precipice of a magnificent renaissance. Art galleries, film
festivals, a jazz club, a boutique coffee house that serves excellent waffles. What small
town wouldn’t want a craft brewery in its’ own backyard to bring elegance and
sophistication? Almost everyone I have met here so far is excited about the prospect of
big city culture integrating with the small town ambiance.
One exception would be the owner of a small gallery called The Magic Flea. An old
man, perhaps a septuagenarian of Hispanic or Native American descent, Bartamus
Goodwin seemed to have a genuine disdain for all things modern. His art gallery, which I
had passed earlier in the day, was an old adobe tribal house, likely Apache. Originally
built to house many generations of an extended family, The Magic Flea utilized natural
light when possible, kerosene lanterns when necessary. There was no running water.
Bartamus greeted me with skepticism, saying I probably expected to see either amateur
water colors painted by the Ladies Club, or at worst a single glass case full of poorly
made, fake turquoise jewelry with “genuine Native American” labels hot glued onto the
packaging. And I thought I had trouble with presupposition.
I assured him that I simply wanted to see whatever he may have on display, out of
curiosity. While many of the newer galleries had imported artworks from outside of the
area, I wanted to see what was cultivated from within the bounds of the Trans-Pecos.
Bartamus let me pass through the front opening and we entered into the main hall.
There were several display cases lining the walls. Carefully arranged inside these cases
were a plethora of arrowheads, several sets of old spurs, and an entire section on pottery
and leather goods. An inside doorway, sans door, led to a second room, probably the
original kitchen. This particular room had two workbenches, along with a wall-mounted
pegboard complete with a set of old hand tools hanging in good order. I asked what was
made here, to which Bartamus replied “cheap leather goods for the tourists.” I guess outof-towners were the antithesis of his desired hermitic existence, yet the veritable elixir of
his financial livelihood. There was a stack of labels off to the side…
A low rumbling, mechanical sounding commotion started wafting through the front
doorway. It was the Food Shark. It stopped across the street, next to the old telegraph
office, which now served as the area’s only lawyer’s office. I really should stop by and
see him one of these days, especially concerning the deed. Bartamus abruptly stopped in
mid sentence, saying it was “time to get chow.” For an older gentleman, he moved rather
quickly, beating me to the van much like a small child running to the ice cream truck. At
least there was no insipid music blaring from a megaphone style speaker on top of the
truck.
Bartamus ordered yakisoba, a Japanese noodle dish. “Okinawan,” he replied when I
asked specifically. I suppose I should have known. “They live longer than us. Must
31
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
know something we don’t.” Well, I must admit, I think he may be onto something with
that logic, but all I really wanted was the twice baked chicken on toast, drizzled with
Ranch dressing. One of my newly acquired favorites. Not sure how these dishes fit into
the Medi-Mex theme, but I was hungry after my little adventure earlier in the day.
As Bartamus and I started to return to The Magic Flea, we had a third party tag along.
Buddy the dog decided it was time for a nap, and he wanted the nice cool shade found
inside Bartamus’ gallery. After looking around, stepping on my foot and then barking
twice, the dog went straight through the main room, past the converted kitchen and up
some old, dilapidated wood stairs to the second floor. Really, this was the roof with a few
adobe rooms added after the original construction, from all appearances. Buddy carefully
chose a room and summarily collapsed inside. You could probably hear the snoring in El
Paso.
“Now we have a di-lemma,” Bartamus said, intentionally elongating the word. “How
so?” I replied, truly confused at this point.
“Buddy has chosen your destiny.”
July 19 – 10:15 PM
No, not the flan!
The problem with writing a quasi daily journal, or blog in this case, is that spare time is
constantly in short supply. The vicious circle runs something like this: the more you do
creates more that you can write, but the more you do also takes away the time you need
in which to write it. Sometimes, you just get “too dang tired.”
Reviewing my last entry, and realizing that I need to proofread a little better, I see that I
left off with Buddy the dog somehow “choosing” my destiny while on his way to a
catnap. This brings up an interesting question: do dogs catnap? But I digress…
After the owner of The Magic Flea, one mister Bartamus Goodwin, told me that a dog
has somehow determined the future, that is to say my future, I had to press him for more
details. That was not a statement that could be left hanging overnight. Instead of directly
answering my question, he turned the conversation around and asked me a question. “So,
how exactly did you end up in Marfa, Texas? It ain’t exactly listed in many tourist
books.” A valid question, I suppose. I related the call from the lawyer telling me that my
lost uncle had died, then mentioned that I had received a padded envelope from Pecos.
Bartamus interrupted at that point, asking rather impatiently about the contents of the
package.
“A key and an old beer coaster, why do you ask?”
“The beer coaster, was it a Modelo?”
32
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
This is getting a bit too spooky, even for me. “You know,” I replied, “I can never get a
straight answer out of anyone in this town.” (Time for the bluff) “Tell me what’s going
on here or I’m packing the truck.”
Bartamus looked at me and called. “Alright, this is what I will tell you. And you can
leave if you want, but you will find yourself here again, eventually. You will not have a
choice in the matter.”
“I believe you have seen another beer coaster, a match to the one you received in the
mail. Is that correct?”
Now the only two things I trust around here are Strawberry and Buddy, and I am starting
to have my doubts about the dog. Regardless, I made the command decision to tell
Bartamus the story of the mailbox, Pecos and the second coaster.
“Did you compare the two?”
“The coasters?” I replied, “Why, yes. Pecos and I put them together and saw that it
formed a picture of one of the mountain ranges.”
“Nothing else, a tree perhaps? Maybe an animal?” Bartamus was fishing for something,
but he certainly seemed to know that there was more to the story.
Throwing the bone, I told him that we had seen a bird. “The hawk!” he exclaimed. “That,
amigo mio, is a very important tidbit of information.” Bartamus quickly found a scrap of
paper and hastily sketched out a rendition of the same mountain range, as if he had seen
the coasters himself.
“Tell me, was this it? The mountains you saw?” After I confirmed his suspicion, I felt it
unwise to show him the location of the hawk.
Bartamus must have sensed my distrust of where this conversation was going. “You don’t
need to tell where the hawk was pointing. For me, it is not important.”
Prophetically, he ended our conversation with the following statement: “Come back
tomorrow, after services. I think I have two items upstairs that will not only interest you
greatly, but should answer many of the questions you haven’t thought to ask yet.”
“Besides, you should hurry before the church burns down.”
“Excuse me? Did you say ‘burn’ down? How in the world can you tell if the church is
going to burn down?”
“No magic needed,” he replied, as if I had already asked about his psychic abilities. “I
can smell the chorizo burning and I now see black smoke coming out of the chimney.
Look for yourself, amigo.”
33
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
Sure enough, I saw the smoke and now that he mentioned it, I could smell something akin
to burned shoes. The good padre must be trying to cook again. Where’s Unkol Chuck
when you need him?
“If you hurry, you can catch a ride on the fire truck..”
I did beat the fire truck, but not by much. The chorizo had the look and smell of scrapple
gone bad. Scrapple, for those unacquainted, is made from “the rest” of the pig. It is a true
insult to bacon. Suffice to say, the chorizo is no more. I can see the commercial now:
“Come to our after-church social and eat chorizo! Cooked extra crispy on the outside and
overdone on the inside, just like mom used to make!”
My mother’s cooking can be the subject of another story, but I will say that many have
eaten her cooking and have gone on to lead normal lives.
Although I had been there once already, I offered to buy the Padre some dinner at the
Food Shark. Santos had made a delivery during the culinary commotion at the church,
and word had spread fast. He had brought, among other things, several five gallon tubs
of ice cream. Since I had no room left for another entrée, not even a mini-Marfalafel, I
opted for dessert. “Mint chocolate chip, please.”
Why should ordering an ice cream be an uneventful task? Nothing else in this silly town
seemed to go smoothly…
The young lady at the ‘order here’ window was probably about 18 and just out of high
school – related in some way to the owners of the Food Shark. An overly cheerful girl,
almost too happy in a way, certainly not possessing enough t.o.e. to be jaded by all of
these stories about gold and Germans and such, she asked “cup, cone or stick?”
Et tu Brute?
“Stick.” This will be interesting to watch. How can it not? Then I thought about it.
Maybe she’ll fling the scoop of ice cream at me, hoping it will ‘stick’ to my shirt. A
small town practical joke, perhaps?
Appearances are almost always deceiving. The Food Shark once again proved this
maxim to be true. Kaisey, the counter girl, carefully carved out a perfect sphere of mint
chocolate chip ice cream. She then unceremoniously jabbed a popsicle stick into the
midsection of the scoop. While holding the stick with her left hand, Kaisey donned a
protective glove for her right hand and opened a small compartment in the wall-mounted
freezer.
Liquid nitrogen! Kaisey dipped the ice cream into the smoking liquid and counted to ten.
“Now it’s done!” she exclaimed, lifting the smoldering dairy treat from the nitro tank. By
34
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
the time I had a good grasp of the stick, the nitrogen had almost all evaporated. The first
bite was awesome! I have never had ice cream so cold in my entire life.
“Makes the ice cream last longer in the heat,” Kaisey replied. She knew I had never seen
such a thing before and felt the need to explain, for which I was glad. This will make
excellent cocktail party trivia someday.
As I was leaving, a tourist came up to the window and asked if they had flan. Flan, for
those who are wondering, is a Tex-Mex custard that, once cooked, is inverted on the
plate, exposing the honey base. “Flan?” Everyone in the area seemed to stop in their
tracks. Flan, apparently, is not available. Probably never has been.
“We just don’t serve flan here, sir. You’ll have to go Alpine for that. The Food Shark
only serves quality food.”
I thought she was going for the fork.
As we were leaving, Kaisey came running towards us. “You’re the guy living in the
church basement, right?”
Well, it’s good to be famous for something I suppose.
“Yes. Is there some problem?”
“No, not at all. S.P. left you a package,” she said, handing me a small box, wrapped in
brown butcher paper. “The flan guy got me so riled up, I almost forgot all ‘bout it!”
Opening the parcel, I see a small leather pouch, tied shut with a leather cord. Looked like
an old boot lace. I think Kaisey was more excited than we were. “What in the world is
that?” she asked. I knew immediately, from the smell.
“Tea.”
+++++++++++
Now we are caught up with the events of yesterday. Today started with a traffic jam.
Yes, in Marfa.
Apparently, a ‘new’ light has been spotted among the mystery lights and this event has
drawn the attention of a traveling band of UFO fans, who happened to be on their way to
Roswell, New Mexico. Where else would these people be heading? Besides, Area 51 is
much farther away.
The day went south from there… back to the Magic Flea.
(note: if you really need to know – t.o.e. is an acronym. Time on Earth.)
35
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
July 26 – 12:44 AM
Existentialistic Japanese red maple trees?
I know, it’s been too long. Had to help out at the Ranger office. Turns out I am the only
person in town with experience troubleshooting old military radios, PRC-77s to be
precise. But let me back up the story just a skosh.
Seems that Pecos has not reported to the main postal distribution center in El Paso. He
told his wife he was going to work, left the trailer and drove away. After a few hours
beyond his normal show time at the center, the supervisor sent a part-time flex employee
to cover his route. That must have been the substitute delivery person I had seen earlier.
There was no follow-up as this apparently happens quite often in the rural route division.
A few days later, however, the official missing persons report was filed. The Ranger
from Presidio found an abandoned truck off the beaten path, just past the Visitor Center
at the western edge of the national park. The text message received at the Marfa office
was succinct and to the point. “Missing person’s vehicle found by Leaton. Occupant
missing. Start standard search pattern. Look for buzzards.”
I was on my way to the Magic Flea when Gilbert flagged me down. He asked if I knew
anything about radios, guessing correctly that I had used a few in a previous life. Gilbert
explained that there was a missing person somewhere out in the high desert and time was
running short. He had gassed up a four-wheel drive, gray Land Cruiser, complete with
rack of blue lights on the roof, and was about done packing his survival gear. Rangers out
in the rural parts of Texas often worked alone, using their radios to call other first
responders as needed for backup. Such was the case here in Marfa.
The problem was that geography worked against the radio signal. Gilbert would have to
set up temporary relay towers in order to keep his own signal unbroken. As long as he
could reach the office, the repeater would kick in and send his signal to the main office in
El Paso. A dedicated telecom satellite over Marfa would solve the problem, but at least
for the foreseeable future, this wasn’t in the cards. I was glad to see the base station unit
was a PRC-77, a standard issue military radio used since the Vietnam War. I asked
Gilbert if he had spare batteries and a “field repair kit.” “Batteries in the drawer; pencils
in the coffee cup.” Pencils, more specifically their erasers, were the best tools for
cleaning the battery contacts inside the radio. Tarnished metal was the number one cause
of reduced signal effectiveness. Just ‘erase’ a bit of the discolored metal and the signal
strength grows and grows.
The radio sat on a side desk. There was no frame to be seen, meaning there was no plan
to strap it on my back, for which my lower lumbar was thankful… My job was simply to
keep the radio set on ‘relay’ and watch the analog meters. If the meters showed
diminished signal strength, I was to get out the eraser. No talking on my part. This was
36
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
just ‘Plan B.’ That’s not one of my three basic rules for life, but if there was a number
four, having a plan B would be in the running.
After several hours of fruitless searching, the paths being used by Gilbert and by the other
Ranger crossed somewhere near Alpine. No luck. There were some tracks early in the
search, by the old ruins behind the Visitor Center, but nothing more. Once the two
Rangers were on the outskirts of Alpine, they focused on the mountain range due west.
This was the Sierra Diablo Range.
Seeing a good-sized circle of vultures flying near the tallest peak, Gilbert announced that
the search was being called off. “The tourists picked a good day to stop and look at the
lights…”
Gilbert and his fellow Ranger thanked me for watching the base station, then loaded up
the vehicle and started toward the El Paso Highway. As the truck started to pull away, Gil
(we are on a more informal basis, at least I am hoping…yeah, right, like that will ever
happen) asks if I want a ride back to the church. I decline, saying that I am actually
heading to the Magic Flea. “Old man Bartamus is one of the good ones, a good egg. Be
glad he has allowed you into his world. Not everyone can make that claim.” Always good
to know that you are hanging out with the ‘right’ crowd. Mom would be proud…
There were a few non-local types poking around the front room at the Magic Flea. They
had bought some ‘authentic Western artifacts,’ probably didn’t see the workshop in the
next room. Whatever…it’ll make a good story to tell the folks at the coffee machine at
work. “Look, Bill, this here is a genuine Texas arrowhead, made out of red agate!”
Hopefully no one will know that red agate is mainly found around the Great Lakes
region, nowhere around here. You can get the same thing from a number of places
online…
Bartamus ushered the tourists out by mentioning that the hotel on the main drag was the
actual hotel where Rock Hudson and Elizabeth Taylor stayed years ago when they filmed
here. The missus was particularly excited about the mention of Rock Hudson.
Hmmm…we’ll save that one for another time. An aside…Most people tend to believe
what they think they should believe; they buy dream catchers made with artificial
feathers and think they are artifacts used centuries ago. On the other hand, true, original
thinkers, “A” brains as my high school English teacher called them, believe in what they
see or can prove, or in what they think to be. These innovators take no quarter in what
popular opinion may be.
Back to the events at hand.
Bartamus led me to the second floor, where he quickly opened the door to the same room
that Buddy had taken his impromptu nap. There were wooden footlockers stacked up
against the wall, plus a few framed photos hanging on the wall. “Tell me, Bic, do any of
these photos look familiar?”
37
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
The left center photo, a full color print that had been enlarged to 32 by 40, was a beautiful
shot of the ridgeline where I had met L.B. The red maple was the focal point, bordered
on each side by two distinctly different rock outcroppings, both about a mile or so away
from the maple. “Yes,” I replied, “I am fairly sure I have been here before.”
“Yes, indeed.” Bartamus lifted the frame off of the wall hook and started downstairs.
“More customers. Come on. You can help.”
We ambled on down the stairs where sure enough there was a group of ladies wearing red
hats. A cult? Probably not; no tambourines. Bartamus told me to try to sell them more
arrowheads or maybe a leather handbag or two. “Be sure to show them the photo, but for
heaven’s sake, don’t sell it.”
“Hello ladies, what brings you to Marfa today?” The leader, a woman clearly in her
seventies, announced as if she were trying to impress the fashion and style editor across
the street, that they were there to ‘soak up some of the local flavor and grace the various
galleries.’ Well said, I thought, for a “C” brain. No disrespect intended, but one must
remember that the mark of “C” is considered average, and average thinkers tend to go
with the flow. Followers all, even the leaders. The leaders, you see, stay the leader by
being at the front edge of the followers, going where they want to go anyway. In essence,
the leader doesn’t lead at all, he or she is just in front of the mob being pushed.
Something akin to being the front car in a NASCAR bump draft scenario at Daytona.
I asked them their opinion of the photo. Not wanting to give undue influence, I said
nothing of the photo’s content.
“It lacks dimension,” one of the more learned ladies announced. Following suit, the
others agreed, one saying that the bare ridgeline needed something. Trying to move the
conversation along past the lemming stage, I asked for an example of what may have
helped achieve the missing dimension.
“Well, the center hilltop is nicely framed by the two cliffs in the background, but there is
an open space that just begs for something, anything. Put a horse up there grazing,
perhaps some foliage, a nice mound of flowers maybe?”
Could she not see the Japanese red maple tree? They took turns pointing around it,
through it, and on top of it, but not one of these red hated ladies mentioned even the mere
existence of the red maple tree so prominently displayed. This, amigos, was a clue.
Bartamus had silently approached us from the rear. “Learn anything new?” The
lemming in charge took the bait, saying the frame was worth more than the photo, but the
Indian artifacts were “sublime.” If “C” is average, that means there are people on the left
side of the bell curve, right?
38
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
Bartamus gave them a deal on arrowheads and dream catchers so they would move along
to the next stop on their mini tour, wherever that may be. Once they were gone, I asked
“You want to tell me what exactly is going on?”
“You have discovered the first true fact of homo sapienistic existence. There are people
who can see only what appears to be seen, and then there are those who see what is truly
there to see.” True fact? Again, a redundancy.
“I have one more item for you. This one you can keep. Consider it a gift, please!”
Going upstairs again, he opens one of the wooden footlockers and wipes away the dried
straw. Like the red maple, I had seen this, too. A small cast iron tea kettle.
July 30 – 11:34 PM
Name a food better than corn dogs… Aha! You couldn’t, could you?
Most of us gaijin would not have expected the high, arid desert to be a tree-free
rainforest, but apparently tropical storm Darla didn’t get the memo. Three inches of rain
according to the Weather Channel. This becomes important a bit later…
Obviously, travel off the paved road came to a halt this week. Still no sign of old Pecos.
Most here in Marfa have written him off as another prospector who has unfortunately
perished while chasing a silly legend about hidden gold. This from the same folks who
sell t-shirts to tourists who come from around the world looking for the ghost lights. I
guess everything is silly unless you can make a buck from it. I don’t know them, but I
am sure he has a family that isn’t as dismissive of the whole affair.
While Strawberry enjoyed the nice, dry stable, I labored in the church basement keeping
the pump going. I had thought the foundation was cracked at the floor line, the usual spot
for buildings of this age and construction. With the constant rain, however, we could see
water seeping in from the ceiling line along the eastern wall. Alex (the padre’s real
name, remember?) thought it looked more like one of those fountains where the water
gently flows over the rocks, creating a peaceful and serene aura. I didn’t think it was
quite that charming. My bed was sitting on a set old railroad ties, giving it less than a
dollar bill’s length of clearance above the floor. No waterbed jokes, please.
Once the sump pump looked stable, we went back upstairs and had a dinner worthy of the
finest five-star restaurants. Take a dinner plate and three corn dogs, Fletchers as if there
were any other kind, and arrange the pups into a triangle, sticks out naturally. Spritz the
dogs with yellow mustard, then cover with shredded Colby jack cheese and a handful of
diced Vidalia onion. Now for the gourmet part – spoon a goodly amount of chili on top.
I prefer Wolf brand chili. “Howdy neighbor! How long’s it been since you had some
“Wuff” bran’ chili? Well, that’s too long!” Sorry, shameless plug using the catchphrase
from the 1960’s era television commercial.
39
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
A little rotating nuclear technology applied to the dish and you have yourself some of the
finest cuisine this side of the Tum’s factory.
I should make this for the crew on the Jefferson, next time they have a steel beach party.
At one time I had considered a career as a ship’s chef. The nearest vessel that was hiring
at the time was the Jefferson, a research ship belonging to the National Oceanic and
Atmospheric Administration. It is moored in Norfolk, Virginia, about 200 yards across
the water from PETA’s international headquarters. I always thought it would be good
and neighborly to invite them over to the ship when the crew threw parties on the fantail,
part of the ship commonly referred to as the steel beach. We could roast a pig, have a
chili cook-off, plenty of meat on sticks. The possibilities are endless! I’ll make a note to
do that at some point.
As we were finishing off our fine dinner with a sumptuous desert of cherry-filled Pop
tarts, I looked out the window in time to see L.B. riding his Trek hybrid 21-speed toward
Schillinger’s. With no shortage of spare time right now, I thought it may behoove me to
pay a visit to the patron saint of pentatonic scales to get more insight concerning the
unusual events that happened down at the Magic Flea.
Still in gastronomic awe concerning the Pop tarts? Consider this: fruit filled pastries such
as these have 8 grams of protein and 40% of your daily requirement of Vitamins A and
B6, niacin and iron. See? Healthy stuff those Pop tarts.
Hey, if I can see Japanese red maple trees that may or may not exist, I can certainly
justify Pop tarts as good and healthy food!
As I was walking out the side door of the main church building, I saw an old school bus
drive into town. It looked like the Partridge Family bus on crack. In a puff of smoke, the
bus pulled around the back side of Schillenger’s. Maybe a band has been booked to
play? There wasn’t much of a stage as I recall. I’ll definitely have to check this out. Not
to mention, they must be having a taco festival or something today.
Whatever it was cooking at the club, it most assuredly smelled better than the chorizo last
burned at the church.
August 1 – 10:04 PM
If a bus runs on Canola, what happens to its’ cholesterol?
Oregon is more than the name of a state, it is also the name of a musical group. Normally
associated with so-called New Age music, the members of Oregon actually have been
playing together for many, many years – long before John Tesh or Yanni became
“professional musicians.” However, economics being the way they are, and grants from
the NEA harder and harder to acquire, the members of the group had a choice – join the
Republican Party and become defense contractors and retire wealthy or sell out to the
marketing folks and join the three-chord, no form, no lyrics, vamp-style music genre and
40
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
retire….wealthy. It was either that or sell reeds at the local strip mall music store, and
there were plenty of folks holding their DMA’s in one hand, writing the receipt for a set
of guitar strings in the other already working at those places. I’m glad ‘ol Bic Parker
didn’t fall into the school music trap when he was a kid, getting crazy ideas of how he
could form an R & B band and play the club and hotel circuit for, oh…three years or so.
No sir, not me. No telling where I would have ended up…
L.B. came strolling up the walk, seeing me eye the band tour bus. “Now that’s something
you don’t smell every day, is it?”
Not sure exactly to what L.B. was referring, I answered with a nondescript grunt of
concurrence.
L.B. went on, rolling his eyes, knowing that I really didn’t have a clue as to what he was
talking about, saying “These boys did pretty well for themselves, seeing that they did all
the engine work in the parking lot of an auto parts store. Now they tour the country for
free!”
“Free?” I asked. “How so?”
“Used vegetable oil. You see, they did a gig with Willie last year and he taught ‘em how
to convert their bus engine to use an alternative fuel. Now the band pulls into town, eats
at the local diner, and then offers to take all of the used cooking oil off their hands - for
free. The diner saves money since it doesn’t have to dispose of the oil, and the band gets
enough fuel to make it to the next town.”
Ah, so that was the smell – it’s not a taco festival, just internal combustion. Hmm, maybe
they are onto something. Or maybe they are just on something. I don’t know, I just now
placed eyes on the bus, I haven’t even met the band yet.
L.B. offered me a backstage pass to which I wondered exactly where backstage was at
Schillenger’s. The stage only holds two people, and if you go “backstage” you end up by
the dumpster next to the taco bus.
“Sure, why not,” I replied. I used to be a big fan of Oregon back in the mid seventies.
This will be fun. I’m sure they will play the New Age stuff, but maybe they will
enlighten the crowd with something from their bygone, drumset-less era. I could hear the
bass clarinet warming up as we entered the club. All manner of ethnic percussion
instruments were being set up on stands, with the obligatory tap-tap-tap to make sure they
sound the same today as they did yesterday.
As I write this, I realize that I really don’t like the word “ethnic.” To me it implies
arrogance. In common usage, we tend to equate “ethnic” things with that which belongs
to a different nationality or race from our own. It is often used demeaningly, as in it’s not
like ours so it must be less good. Thusly, if something ethnic (theirs) is not as good as
41
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
what is not ethnic (ours), then our stuff must be better than theirs. And if our stuff is
better, then we must be better, too. Arrogance, I tell you. Now, back to the story…
The concert was incredible. Even the oboe and English horn work was worthy of the
highest accolades. I’m sorry, but it takes years to get proficient on most instruments,
particularly the double reeds. Paul, the wind player, had only gotten better since I last
heard him in ’78. If you don’t know the group, go get a pre-1985 CD and take a listen.
The newer cuts aren’t bad, but the early ones still had that Edgar Winter influence. I’d
say download tunes to your Ipod, but I haven’t joined that phase of technology yet.
Heck, I’m just now learning how to blog!
After the show, L.B. and I walked over to the Food Shark for some after-the-concert
reflection and two Marfalafels.
“Listen Bic, we need to have a chat.”
August 4 – 12:13 AM
And so the adventure begins?
I awoke this morning with not only less answers than yesterday, but actually more
questions.
Church service was fine, although the padre mentioned that he hears voices on occasion.
During his sermon, he put in a personal story concerning professional wrestling, and
actually managed to tie it all together in a meaningful way. I should give a call to the
Bishop and ask that he stay longer than the usual three years, but the good preacher wants
to keep a low profile.
When pressed for his future plans, Alex replied “For reasons I cannot say, it is very
important that I stay here in Marfa for the next year or two. Once things settle down, if all
is well, I’ll ask to be appointed elsewhere. But for now…”
What exactly did he mean ‘once things settle down?’ and ‘if?’ I am not sure I like the
way this conversation is going.
Of course, it doesn’t help that L.B. told me that I was on the brink of a personal
adventure that may very well kill me, or worse – not kill me. I would have written about
it last night, but my brain was in overdrive, trying to process everything. Since you
weren’t there, let me recap:
(apologies to Miss Kaisey, who has already heard this story…)
The world according to L.B. is one where there are two basic entities, one being opposite
of the other. Hot and cold, big and small, good and bad, you get the picture. He
explained that the bible shows this concept almost from the beginning. God and the
42
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
serpent, Cain and Abel, Noah and everyone else. While God may be the creator and
certainly the omnipotent being over all else, what people forget, in the exact words of
L.B. “is that the devil hasn’t exactly gone away – he is just hiding, coming around in
forms we would never expect.”
“We don’t have time to debate predestination, fate, or free-will son. Time is running
short. Have you spoken to Gilbert recently?”
“Not since he was looking for that lost tourist a while ago,” I replied. L.B., normally soft
spoken in nature, with an almost Buddhist-like countenance and attitude, had acquired a
seriousness normally reserved for commanders faced with tactical decisions under the
intense pressure of immanent attack.
“I’ll spell it out for you, then. They never have found Pecos, and that’s not a good thing.
Not a good thing at all, I tell you.” Well duh, of course that wouldn’t be a good thing.
The man could be lying out there hurt somewhere. And if there is any chance he is still
alive, hopefully the search is still ongoing.
“Is Pecos up to something? You make it sound like he needs to be stopped or
something…”
L.B. elaborated, with an impatience that was clearly my fault. “You remember the stories
I told you that day we were drinking the tea? The ones about the old trading post, the guy
who was killed? The missing gold?”
I did remember that the tea had an effect on my brain function, much like one shot too
many of drambuie. After a moment of reflection, I did recall that the trading post was not
too far away, down by the border, close to Presidio. Lots of murdered Native Americans,
too. A bad place to be sure.
The gold came from the mountain men. Somehow German beer fit into the story, but at
this point I needed some definite clarification.
L.B. was at the ready. “Look, it’s not just about the gold. It’s about the power of the
gold. The outpost was built on one the evil spots and the gold absorbed that power. And
what power it has.”
I stopped L.B. at that point. “What exactly do you mean ‘evil spot’ and what power?”
“Just because the Earth was made by God, or whatever name you want to give him,
doesn’t mean that there aren’t bad areas of land. The devil, Satan if you will, truly exists
and he has laid claim to certain lands – mostly out of the way, unforgiving lands, the
trading post being on one of those spots.”
43
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
“Gold was the easiest and most obvious materialistic thing to latch onto, and that Satan
did – with a vengeance. All those people didn’t die for no reason. It was the evil inside
the gold that caused it.”
Now I started to get the picture. “So where is this gold now?”
“That’s been the mystery. The legend is that twenty five years after the gold disappeared,
in 1875, the Army sent an officer, William Shafter, supposedly to map the area. What I
think he was really doing was trying to locate the gold.”
“Did he find it?”
“Well, that’s another part of the mystery. Bill Shafter was an officer of unusually high
moral fiber. An impeccable character, too. Indian scouts that traveled with him said that
he did find the gold, but was not affected by the “power,” as they called it.”
“So what did he do with it?”
“No one knows for sure. And no one knows exactly how many people have tried to find
it, but I do know that once someone gets into the Sierra Diablo range, they tend to
disappear for a while, until the circling buzzards mark the location of the remains. And
there have been a lot of those.”
“How does Pecos figure into this? Is he trying to find the gold, too?”
“Pecos has done something no one else has been able to do, with the exception of your
uncle. He found the location of the last clues leading to the gold. Somewhere in Folsom
Gap.”
“You see, your uncle didn’t find the gold, but he did find out where it was hidden.
Unfortunately in doing so he found that his days were now numbered. The Germans told
him that his fate had been foretold by a traveling salesman who traded European goods
for their beer. I believe you have met him - Santos.”
“Bud knew he would not live to see you in person, so he sent a package to a lawyer,
giving instructions to mail it to you if he were…to…you know, not make it.”
“Anyway, Pecos, being the mailman, discovered the package and put two and two
together. How many beer coasters were in the package you received?”
This is getting scary. “Just one. There was another in the lock box at the post office.”
“Your uncle put two coasters in the package. Pecos tried to deduce the clues from the
package contents, but then decided that ‘you’ were the missing link. He had to get you
here to enable the magic to work. He created the second package, put it in his own lock
box and then put his key into the package you received. It was all a set up.”
44
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
Boy, do I feel the fool. “You had no way of knowing, don’t lose any sleep over that.
Besides, you have a powerful friend on your side.”
“And who is that?” I inquired. “Keep up pal. Good, evil. Hot, cold. Remember any of
that earlier conversation? As contrived as this will sound, this is down to a basic contest
of good against evil. The power of good brought you the horse. The power of good
brought you to Marfa. The power of good took you to the Food Shark so that Buddy
could meet you. Buddy is one of the good guys, just in animal form.”
“Everyone you have met, everything you have done, has been put into place by the
eternal powers to help you stop the plan put into motion by Pecos.”
“Your job, whether you want it or believe it, is to get to Folsom Gap and find the clue
and reach Pecos before he can find the gold.”
“God only knows what will happen if he gets his hands on the gold.”
I need some tea.
August 10 – 1:12 PM
As Willie would say – ‘On the road again!’
Well, greetings and salutations to you if you are still reading my posts. The past five
days have been some of the most boring and uneventful times one could hope for, with
short bursts of exhilarating, near death experiences popping up when you least expect
them.
In traversing some of the most desolate lands on the face of the Earth, there was no way
to post. So sorry, but the choice of taking the laptop or two extra skins of water… I think
you would have made a similar decision. You will have to live with my recollections.
Probably less wordy now than if I had written each day, so smile – it could have been
worse!
By the way, I haven’t defeated evil yet, but am making progress.
It took Strawberry and I two days to reach the ridgeline that supposedly led to Folsom
Gap. Just starting out was a challenge. Folsom Gap was not on any map I could find, so
I asked everyone in town and got two consistently vague answers. Most people said that
Folsom Gap was just another legend perpetuated by the mining companies to lure
prospectors into the hills to look for more gold. The concept was that a prospector would
find a new “vein” and the mining company would buy out the rights. Low cost research,
I guess.
The other answer involved a warning of sorts: don’t eat any snake meat and watch out for
bears. This rang true for a number of reasons. First, I knew that the Native American
45
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
tribes, including those dating back before the modern Apache, considered bear and snake
as ‘evil’ and as such prohibited the consumption of their meat. I also recalled Gilbert’s
story of the grandmother and Ranger getting cornered by two bears. I had no desire to
repeat history.
Figuring it might be a while before I had a decent meal, I stopped by the Food Shark for
one last sandwich on my way out of town. Strawberry liked the idea, too, since Kaisey
fed her fresh carrots and apples every time we stopped by. Nothing like starting a day’s
ride on horseback after eating a plate of pulled chicken barbecue that has been seasoned
with cranberry sauce and Russian salad dressing.
Speaking of Kaisey, she was the person who helped us get going in the right direction.
When she found out we were heading out in search of Folsom Gap, Kaisey mentioned
that her grandfather had spoke of the town often. “Don’t listen to the others,” she said.
“My grandpa told me all about it many times. ‘Follow the maple trees and listen to the
hawk,’ he would say.” Kaisey finished with a more ominous comment of “If it’s meant
for you to be there, you will be.”
As Strawberry and I started down the road towards the highway, I scanned the horizon
looking for the ridgeline that matched the drawings from the Modelo coasters. From
Marfa, there are three sets of mountains jutting upward from the desert floor, the Davis
Mountains, the Sierra Viejo range and then the Sierra Diablo’s. Old Pecos must have had
these skylines memorized, since he knew at a glance where to go once the two coasters
were put side by side. Now we could see it, too. The Sierra Viejo it is.
The first day of travel went by quickly. Strawberry was in good spirit, sometimes
breaking into a trot when the sand beneath her hooves allowed it. We stopped to rest
during the mid-afternoon, when the heat was at its’ most oppressive levels. There were
not many trees offering shade on the desert floor, but there were plenty of boulders.
Boulders stacked upon boulders. Everywhere. When it came time to stop, we found a
cave of sorts, formed by six boulders that look as if a child had stacked them into a
pyramid. After making sure we were not trespassing into any snake’s abode, we took
refuge. By the time it cooled down, the sun had set to the point that it was really dusk, not
quite nightfall yet.
Strawberry made it clear she was done for the day. She found some juicy shrubs to
munch on and then plopped herself down on the cool sand inside our sedimentary condo.
I gave her some water and she put her head down and started to snooze. She looked up at
me once, as if to tell me I should do the same. I knew we would not be safe moving at
night; too many rocks to trip on and many a rain gulley to fall into. Bears hunt at night,
too.
After getting a small fire going at the entrance of our sleeping quarters, I checked the
gear. I had put the gear between us and the doorway in case any wildlife decided to try
and share our cave. The fire would keep most of them away, even when it died down to
46
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
embers. I had my knife at the ready, just in case. Thankfully, either the precautions
worked or they were not needed. Strawberry and I both got our beauty sleep.
The next day, Wednesday if memory serves, found the city boy and his steed moving to
the base of the mountains. The problem I discovered was that the ridgeline looks very
different once you are up close. I picked a trail leading up towards the right, probably a
rut formed by wayward bighorns. Strawberry, on the other hand (or would that be hoof?)
decided that we needed to blaze our own trail up the left side of the hill. The law of
tonnage always wins, and since she outweighed me by at least three quarters of a ton, to
the left we went.
Reaching the top of the hill, I surveyed the area and saw nothing except more hills. I
remember asking Strawberry the rhetorical question “What now, you?” On cue, she
started walking down the ridgeline. This horse knew where she was going; I only hoped
that we had the same destination in mind. At one point, a varmint ran frantically by us,
actually moving beneath Strawberry’s legs and onward down the trail. Then we saw the
hawk.
The field mouse was no match for the hawk. The mouse’s day came to an abrupt end a
few hundred yards in front of us. The hawk, with mouse securely clutched in the talons,
flew directly in front of us and then turned to the right and headed west, almost in a beeline towards the sun. Remembering what Kaisey had said, Strawberry and I knew
without saying that this was a clue. A big clue.
After a few hours of moving along the ridge, I grew to appreciate the fact that we were on
the high ground. All around us were drop-offs and steep draws, many of which seemed
to lead into gnarly-looking scrub. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew I was
getting there quickly and with relative ease.
Folsom Gap was supposed to be in a valley, yet I saw no evidence of any such
geographical feature. Hills begat more hills, higher hills. The ambient temperature had
dropped at least twenty degrees. I threw on a serape. Food and water were still in good
supply at this point, but the sun was on its way down. Time to think about another night
out on the trail. There were no boulders now, though.
Finding a spot with some foliage for Strawberry, we decided to settle in for the evening.
I used my poncho liner as a makeshift tent; the horse was happy to sit by the bushes. We
were too high for the timber rattlers now. I’m wasn’t so sure about the bears. I built a
small fire anyway. The heat felt good, as the temperature continued to fall.
Daybreak would not come soon enough.
August 11 – 1:53 PM
Next trip, don’t forget the coffee filters.
47
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
Thursday morning came early. Strawberry woke me up before the sun had made its’
daily appearance over the greenish-gray hills off to the east. Something had startled her;
she kept looking up into the morning sky. Then I, too, saw what was spooking her.
Meteors were soaring across the sky. Hundreds of them. At this point I remembered that
it was about time for the annual show put on by the Leonid meteors. I had never bothered
to look very closely at them before, but then again, I was never camped out on top of a
mountain, away from the lights of the big city. A great show of the universe in action.
Kind of makes you wonder what goes on up there that we never get to see. Maybe we
just shouldn’t know. Probably better that way…
After seeing all of those celestial chunks of rock burn up in the ionosphere, I realized
something more important. It was cold. See your breath, dread putting on fresh, cold
clothes type of cold. My small campfire had died out hours ago, so flameage became the
first priority.
With no shortage of scrub to help get the fire going, I filled the cast iron teapot with fresh
water from one of the skins. Waiting for the water to heat up for Turkish coffee (I forgot
the filters…) I decided to take a quick look around the perimeter of our hilltop command
center. One hill looked as good as the next hill, so it was going to be a coin toss as to
where to go, unless Strawberry wanted to take the lead again.
The hawk was nowhere to be seen, either. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen any
Japanese red maple trees. At least the coffee was hot. A bit on the crunchy side, too. All
was not lost.
Changing into my last set of fresh clothes, which I had warmed up by laying them out on
a rock next to the fire, I packed the gear and put the bridle and saddle back on
Strawberry. I must admit, she did quite well with a novice cow-dude trying to look like
he knew what he was doing! No kicks, no snorts, no biting, and most impressively, no tail
whipping. No wonder everyone in Kilgore liked this horse!
Strawberry started down the trail, and then down the hill into a draw. The decline started
to get steep. So steep that Strawberry was having a hard time keeping her footing. To be
safe, I dismounted and held the reins loosely, figuring that Strawberry could negotiate the
terrain better without me offsetting her normal center of gravity.
Working our way around the side of the hill, descending ever so slightly, we came to a
box canyon. We were now surrounded by hilltops, with the only way to go being back up
the trail we just traversed. Going back up would not be easy. There was, however, a
stream, probably five or so feet across, rushing down the hill to who knows where,
directly in front of us. A series of rocks, flat boulders to be more precise, could be seen
just below the surface of the water. With no bridge, no convenient log stretching across
the water, and nowhere else to go, the rocks looked to be our only route.
Strawberry simply crossed at a point where the stream was running relatively flat. She
made it look very easy. So easy that I knew I was doomed to at least get quite wet,
48
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
probably fated to a long, cold and soaking wet ride down the hill. Strawberry snorted,
looking directly at me, as if to say ‘come on now, it’s just water. We have to get moving
and we can’t wait all day…’ So I tossed my backpack across the stream, slightly
upstream from my vantage point, into a cluster of large rocks. I had attached a rope to
the pack and had lashed the loose end around my waist, figuring that, assuming I was
going to slip, the pack would catch on the rocks and I could pull myself across using the
rope.
The rope did help me maintain my balance, as I crossed the stream fairly uneventfully.
Cold, wet feet, yes. Cold, wet, tumbling to certain death, no.
I don’t know about you, but I have an aversion to contributing to my own demise…
Moving on down the “trail,” which was not very visible to the untrained eye (my eye, that
is to say) I noticed what looked like a sinkhole. This was no ordinary sinkhole, it was a
mini canyon cut into the plateau of one of the lower hills. Visions of bears and Rangers
started flashing through my brain. Without realizing it, I reached for my knife, just
checking to make sure it was still there.
As we approached the lower plateau, Strawberry came to a halt. Snorting and pounding
her left front hoof into the dirt, she looked like a bull about to charge. Drawing my k-bar
from its’ sheath, I let go of the reins and moved forward. If a bear was in front of me, I
would see it. If one tried to sneak up on me from behind, Strawberry would alert me.
Reaching the edge of the sinkhole, I saw what Strawberry must have known was already
there.
Japanese red maple trees.
August 12 – 1:39 PM
Does anyone else hear the song of the Volga Boatman?
I once had a job where I supervised about 40 or so young adults, aged 18 to 22 on
average. The boss and I, along with about three or four department heads, were in our
early forties or high thirties. There was at least a fifteen year age gap between labor and
management.
As a division foreman, one of my responsibilities was to ensure that everyone showed up,
on time, with the right equipment, and without any pending legal charges from weekend
activities. That last one was always a hit-or-miss part of the gig. Nothing like finding out
that one of the younger guys “might have screwed up” last weekend. It was bad enough
that he thought his girlfriend was now pregnant, and that they were going to have to get
married sooner than they had planned. The bigger issue was the fact that they were going
to have to get hitched prior to her graduating high school. The lad wasn’t so much
worried about the timing of the ceremony as he was the fact that she was also his
stepsister. Apparently, while they were dating, his dad fell in love with her mom and as
49
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
such had their ceremony first. None of them seemed to care that the young girl was
fourteen.
Before I sent the email to the company’s labor union representative, I made a quick call
to the legal department. Fortunately for the young man (and girl,) since they were legal
residents of a particular southern state, as long as both sets of parents gave consent for the
marriage, there would be no charges. That was a banner Monday, let me tell you. Why
bring this up now? To illustrate the point that sometimes you just have to press “send”
even when you know the reaction is going to be unpleasant.
Strawberry and I were faced with such a dilemma. Here was the box canyon, most likely
the one that we were meant to find, hopefully “not” the one where the lost grandmother
and Charlie met their demise. The only way was down into the abyss. I hoped that the
situation wouldn’t turn “unpleasant,” as it eventually did for the young man and his
younger bride.
Slowly scuttling down the embankment, Strawberry snorted – pointing her nose off to the
right side. I knew my horse well enough by now to realize she was trying to tell me
something that I needed to know. Half buried in the sand was a skull and a few random
animal bones. I was no expert, but they looked like bear remains to me. Out of the pot
and into the fire as one could say.
Yes, my knife was out at that point.
Standing fast at the lower base of the canyon, I listened for a few minutes. Hearing no
movement, less the gentle breeze rustling the maple leaves, I decided that there was no
impending danger. Time to do a little recon.
The canyon was not exceptionally big, about the size of a football field. A nice grove of
maple trees covered about half of it. There were no animal trails visible; the bear bones
were at the edge of the tree line. While getting back up the canyon wall would not be
impossible, it would be difficult and time-consuming. I had brought an e-tool, the
colloquial name for an entrenching tool. Basically, an e-tool is a short, folding shovel
that campers can use to dig fire pits or cat holes. I’ll explain the latter some other time, if
you really want to know…
Digging steps out of the canyon wall would allow us to get back to the plateau, but then
we would be faced with a very steep climb and another water crossing. At least here, in
the canyon, we had shade from the trees, a bit of grass for Strawberry, and most likely
water. The trees had to get water from somewhere, and the e-tool could come in handy
digging for it. I had one skin of water left, so I decided to hold off imbibing until we both
were in more desperate straits.
Moving into the grove, I eventually came upon what looked like two wheel ruts, about
five inches wide each and spread apart about six or so feet. The ruts had been overgrown
with low vegetation, so they were not new by any means. Possibly wagon wheel tracks?
50
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
Not sure how a wagon could have found its’ way here to begin with, but I could think of
nothing else that might have made similar marks into the landscape.
The tracks led to the far edge of the grove, right to the northern base of the canyon wall.
Hidden from overhead view, but plainly visible to Strawberry and me, was a timberreinforced entrance to a mine. Hanging on iron railroad spikes that were hammered into
the upright posts on each side of the entrance were two oil lanterns. Save a bit of rust,
these looked to be twins of the lights framing the stage at Schillinger’s. Why not? With
all of the other goings on, why should this surprise me?
The mine entrance was actually quite large. Thinking in terms of modern day vehicles,
you could probably drive one of those big, 26 foot long, yellow rental trucks into the
main “foyer.” Strawberry and I walked inside, carefully listening for bears, snakes, or
any other creepy crawlies. Not a big fan of any of those, to be sure.
Certainly this was a mine shaft. There were abandoned picks and a shovel or two, and a
set of railroad tracks leading deeper into the hillside. Almost as if we had hailed a cab,
Strawberry and I came across a flatbed rail car, plenty big enough for both of us to sit
upon. It had an oil lamp lashed to a front post and a seesaw-like hand pump to get things
moving. Clearly we were meant to be here and for better or worse, take the ride. All I
could hope for was that the track had been finished to the end. The question then,
became…where is the end? And what will we find there?
Ever see one of those Indiana Jones movies, where he goes on the wild ride through the
mineshaft, dodging all manner of things, including bad guys shooting at him? Well, our
ride was nothing of the sort. We could only go as fast as I could pump the darn lever and
with Strawberry watching me and offering no assistance, the only help I received was the
occasional downhill slide of the track. In fact, it seemed as if we were going slightly
uphill most of the way.
I don’t know how far we went, but it was several miles. At least it was cool inside the
shaft. The construction of the shaft had been a major undertaking (bad choice of words?)
since the shaft height maintained a constant dimension, the same as that of the entrance. I
surmised that with the internal dimensions of the shaft and the grandness of the flatbed
railcar, one could have easily have moved large pieces of equipment through the mine.
Now to determine why it was deemed necessary and what became of it all.
About an hour or so into our venture, my arms started to give out. Guess I needed to have
spent more time at the YMCA… when Strawberry noticed the end of the line rapidly
approaching.
I was too busy huffing and puffing, looking down at my boots, just trying to keep the car
moving. The tracks stopped at the mine’s exit. This apparently was just a tunnel and not
a true mine. Either that or a badly placed mine that missed the ore altogether. The
sunlight radiated through the dust we had stirred, signaling the end of our Disney ride.
51
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
The stench of rotting vegetation came wafting into the mine shaft. I was flummoxed.
August 14 – 12:33 PM
Folsom Gap, at last!
The immense expanse of open space was almost too much to take in. Compared to the
confines of the dank tunnel, the brightly lit valley was literally so big that your neck had
to do a slight twist just to see from one side to the other.
This place was different from the land surrounding Marfa. I knew that we had traveled
north for a while, but the journey inside the tunnel could have easily turned us to another
direction. Judging by the cool, crisp temperature and the clusters of pine trees scattered
about the hillside, we must have been at six or seven thousand feet of elevation.
The valley floor extended for a few miles downrange, and held a width that varied from
as little as a mile to as many as four. A small stream bisected the valley, originating
somewhere up in the hills to the east. Complimenting the dark green foliage of the pine
trees was the light golden hue of the grass blanketing the flatland. A bighorn sheep
watched us from the ridge, no doubt serving as a sentry for the watering hole used by all
of the local wildlife.
Strawberry started moving away from the tunnel entrance in the general direction of the
stream. Couldn’t really blame her, she had to have been thirsty. That is when I saw her
true destination. Hidden from view, nestled among the trees were a few cabins and an
old wooden barn. Now that I knew what to look for, I noticed that there were several such
enclaves dispersed throughout the valley.
The barn had the usual double-wide door, plus a standard entranceway off to the side.
Hanging from a railroad spike above the door was a wooden sign. With stained or
painted black letters chiseled into the plank, the sign announced that we had arrived at the
“New Eckenforde Brewery, Folsom Gap Texas.” Home at last?
No sign of any people, however. As a matter of fact, it looked like the place hadn’t seen
a living soul in quite some time. Strawberry was indeed thirsty and a had worked up a
appetite, although I am not sure how since I did all the pumping back in the tunnel, and
she seemed quite content to wine and dine at the stream. I knew we had been brought
here for a reason, and I would not understand that reason unless I found the next clue –
and that meant entering the brewery. Not that there was anyone to explain it to, but I was
the new owner after all.
Inside the barn were two large copper vats, several wooden barrels, and a few hundred
cases of old glass bottles. This had to be vintage brewing and bottling equipment, dating
back to the turn of the 20th century. The office inside was vacant of any paperwork.
There was chart painted onto the interior wall that outlined the proportions of the various
ingredients for the ale. While interesting, I couldn’t see a clue in all of that verbiage.
52
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
Had my uncle really been here? There was no evidence to be found. There was nothing
here to indicate that anyone had been here for years. As I was making an exit, I noticed a
different sign. Painted above the barn doors, on the inside panel, was one of those
motivational messages probably put there to remind the brewers that what went into the
beer was of the utmost importance.
“Remember, goodness comes from pure water that flows gently over the rocks. Look
nowhere else!”
I suppose flowing water would be less contaminated than standing water. Animals, after
all, do more than just drink when they enter a calm pool of water. Hopefully the old
Germans had learned of Pasteurization back when they were fermenting the hops.
Speaking of fermentation, my olfactory senses told me that the foul odor we had first
smelled at the tunnel exit was emanating from the vats. I guess no one had cleaned out
the vats in quite some time.
A quandary then, for if the brewers had not fired up these copper vats in such a long time,
where did those geezers at the fire station get that beer?
While pondering that question, I almost fell flat on my face as I exited out the barn. I
looked around to see if anyone noticed my misstep, just like you would do if you were
walking down a sidewalk and somehow stubbed your foot. There is always someone
watching when these things happen.
I had tripped on a cloth sack lying crumpled on the floor. It was blue with some sort of
emblem on it. Unlike everything else in the barn, this sack was from more modern times.
It had the Postal Service’s iconic eagle stenciled on the side.
Old Pecos had been here.
August 15 – 1:15 PM
It’s four o’clock. Must be time for tea…
Carefully surveying the scene outside the barn, I came to the conclusion that old Pecos
had left. As a matter of fact, I reaffirmed my earlier observation that the so-called ‘town’
of Folsom Gap was indeed deserted, and had been for quite some time.
It was getting late, almost time for an evening meal. Strawberry had found a nice,
comfortable spot in the barn and I suppose I would stretch out for the evening in the
office. There was a wooden stove inside, so at least I could ward off the chilly, night
mountain air.
53
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
I stoked the fire in the stove’s belly and used the last of my potable water for a new batch
of tea. The more tea I drank, the less I would realize how low our food stocks had
become.
As the evening progressed, at about the third cup of tea, I remember looking out the
office window and seeing a light in the cabin down the hill. Could it be that a few
German’s had returned? Or more realistically, are hunters, smugglers or Mexicans using
the abandoned cabins as merely way stations in their own travels?
This was just one of things you had to find out. Common sense be damned, time to get a
moving!
Reaching the cabin, I tried to stay silent in case the occupants were of a nefarious nature.
For those of you that know me, you can already see disaster looming on the horizon,
can’t you? As I slowly stepped to the side of the cabin, almost to the window, my foot
sunk into some sort of mud pit. My leg was encased in liquid clay, up to my knee,
essentially immobilizing me. This was not good. Then I heard the door open.
The bright light of lanterns beamed out the front door, cutting through the now dark aura
of the moonless evening. The man had a pistol in his hand. Thing were getting worse by
the second. I froze, hoping he couldn’t see me.
“One foot or two?”
He must have been talking to me, but I was still hesitant to speak. I did know one thing
though. He was not old Pecos.
“Look feller, you got one foot stuck or are both your feet stuck? I need to know so I can
get the right rope to fetch you out of there.”
I replied that only one foot was stuck and that I appreciated the help getting back on my
feet. A bad guy wouldn’t help a stranger, right? Right?
The man went back into the cabin for a few seconds, and then returned with a stiff lariat
coiled around his arm. “Reach out and grab ahold!”
With a deftness that showed he had done this before, the man threw the line up and to his
right. The lariat went over a tree limb and came to a rest by my left arm. He asked me to
loop the rope around my waist and to securely hold on with my left arm. After doing so,
he pulled on his end of the rope, causing the tree limb to act as a pulley. My left arm
became a focal point for the kinetic energy being applied and as a result – my right foot
came sailing out of the muck. An engineering fete if I ever saw one!
Now that the gig was up, I knew I would have to come clean as to why I was loitering
outside the cabin. Not an easy thing to do when you are covered in mud. Where was the
mud room, anyway…
54
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
“Vindal,” he announced. I stopped at the porch’s first step. “Pardon?” I replied. “My
name. My name is Vindal. Now you are supposed to reply, giving me your name.
That’s how it works, isn’t it?”
Boy, did I feel sheepish at this point. “Yes, of course. Terribly sorry. My name is Bic.
Bic Parker. Thank you again for rescuing me out of that sinkhole Mr. Vindal.”
He grinned, saying his name was just ‘Vindal’ and not mister anything. He had seen me
entering the valley from the tunnel and watched as I explored the brewery. He assumed I
had gone to sleep, so he thought it would be okay to light up his stove.
“That’s funny,” I said, “I looked around quite extensively when we first arrived and the
only living creature I saw was a bighorn sheep up on the ridge. Where were you?”
“You probably saw me and didn’t even know it. That’s not important now. The real
issue is what brings you to Folsom Gap in the first place?”
I explained the short version of the story, trying not to bore Vindal too much.
“So, you re not associated with the man who goes by Pecos, then?”
Assuredly not, I told him. “That’s good. I was glad when he left. He had a bad spirit
about him,” Vindal replied.
After sharing some of his dinner, fried catfish as I recall, I asked Vindal to explain to me
what had happened to the town.
“Not so simple, my friend. First, you see, I am not German. I am English, as in British.
The Germans had to leave on account of the evilness that had swept across this land. I
was summoned to watch over the valley and to look for one who would come bringing
peace and goodness. And here you are!”
Vindal went on to explain that the Germans had farmed the valley for close to 160 years.
In that time they learned from the Indians that there were magical, spiritual plots of land
spread throughout the area. The Indian stories had been passed down for generations
among the tribes and dated back hundreds of years.
The Germans had picked a “good” spot to farm and brew their beer. The enjoyed trading
their crops and such with hunters, other Indians and especially a trading post down by the
border. Unfortunately, the Germans learned too late that the trading post had been built
on one of the “bad” spots.
I knew this story. It had to be the same place. I asked Vindal what happened, then, to the
Germans that caused them to leave.
55
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
The evil spirit grew. More and more people in the towns were affected by it. Crime
increased, greed grew more and more with the advent of the quicksilver and gold mines.
The Germans did not want their valley to succumb to the same fate.
Enthralled, I had to know more!
“The German community had an old grandmother of sorts that was the de facto matriarch
of Folsom Gap. No one knew how old she was, but she seemed to know things that no
one else could fathom. They went to her for advice and she told them that the only way
to stop the evil was to go to the source and find the physical embodiment that the evil
spirit possessed and secure it in a sacred place blessed by God.”
That was a tall order.
“The Germans picked their best men for the job, but the matriarch intervened before they
could set out,” Vindal added. “The matriarch knew that while most would expect a raid
led by men of valor, the task could only be successful if done by one of pure virtue and
innocence. As pure a spirit as could be found, regardless of physical stature. A young
girl was deemed the best choice by the old woman, and no one even thought to challenge
the idea.”
“The girl traveled on horseback to the trading post but found the occupants missing or
dead, and then saw a burlap sack hidden, covered in ashes, in a fireplace. Someone had
figured out that the sack contained the cause of the trouble and tried to burn it. The evil
spirit was too powerful, however. The girl tied the bag to her saddle and, true to the
prophecy, hid the contents in a sacred place.”
Vindal closed with the comment that no one had been able to find the bag since.
“So why do people come looking for it? How do they know about it? And I still don’t
know what happened to everyone here in town?”
I was starting to sound impatient, and that was not my intention. I was just too curious.
Vindal sighed, explaining “Just because the evil has been hidden, doesn’t mean it has lost
all of its’ power. The sack is protected, yes, but the spirit within the sack wants out. The
bad spirit sends its’ influence out across the land, hoping to latch onto someone weak in
moral character. Not necessarily a bad person, jus someone who has let their spiritual
guard down.”
“Those are the people who come looking. Unfortunately, they always meet their doom in
the hills. That is part of the plan. One more way for the evil spirit to control everything.
What makes matters worse,” Vindal continued, “is that once one of these people perishes,
the spirit controls their soul, sending it out into the mountains as a glowing light, trying to
attract more people of similar constitution.”
56
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
That would explain the so-called mystery lights. This whole thing is kinda scary.
Actually, it is way scary.
“So tell me two things. What happened to the Germans, why aren’t you scared, and what
do I have to do with all of this?”
Vindal looked at me. “That’s three things…”
“Whatever. I need some answers!”
“The Germans decided that they would no longer trade in the area. They did not want to
unwittingly cause people to come to Folsom Gap only to fall victim to the spirit. They
eventually left and formed a community over by Abilene… Buffalo Gap as I recall.”
“And you, why are you still here?”
“Hopefully you will have already figured out that everything is not always the way it
seems. I am a Quaker. I have no use for the greed associated with the contents of the
sack. I only wish to keep peace in the valley.”
I didn’t realize that Quakers used pistols.
Vindal explained that keeping the peace sometimes meant being able to use force, but
choosing not to, unless absolutely necessary.
A gun-toting Quaker. That left one item on my to-do list.
“And me? How do I figure into this?”
“Your uncle came along, much as you did, and spent time trying to figure out where the
burlap sack had been hidden. He did solve the mystery but unfortunately, others arrived
looking for the same thing. He realized what was going on, and hid the secret from the
visitors, knowing that if he gave up the location of the sack, the evil could be let loose,
becoming even more powerful. Bud was killed by the evil spirit that came in the form of
two bears. At least his soul didn’t end up like the others.”
“You, amigo mio, are his replacement. Your destiny is to find the sack and guard it. A
warning however, there are only a few people left who know of the sack’s whereabouts.
Many others will try to find it, but they must not.”
“How will I know who is good and who is not, then?”
Vindal closed with the comment “Trust the Behardo. She can tell.”
I turned instinctively to look at the barn, remembering that the German cooks had called
Strawberry by that name weeks earlier.
57
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
When I turned around, Vindal was gone.
I looked around the cabin. No other rooms. I went out the door onto the porch. Nothing
stirring, except the bighorn sheep watching over the valley…
August 16 – 4:32 PM
If lost, just follow your nose to the taco bar…
Saturday morning brought me back to my senses, alert and keen to figure out if anything
that happened yesterday actually did. Or was it the tea again?
The valley was quiet, dew still on the grass, reflected in the morning sunshine. A few
sparrows sprinted around the barn. No sheep in sight. Strawberry was up, taking in a
drink at the stream down by Vindal’s cabin. No sign of Vindal, either.
I walked back into the barn. Same as yesterday, nothing had been disturbed. As I left, I
noticed the overhead sign again. This had to be the clue, but what was the ‘goodness?’
Is it referring to the sack of gold ore that had been supposedly causing all of this trouble
for well over a century now? And the bit about the pure water flowing over the rocks.
That must be referring to a location, but if it is speaking of the stream, that water travels
for miles, mostly over rocks. I guess I could follow the stream to the source; perhaps that
will work.
I should probably make use of Occam’s Razor in a situation such as this. Paraphrased, the
saying can be translated as ‘the simplest answer is often the correct answer.’ I looked at
the sign again. The choice of words in the sign certainly must be important. Maybe I
need to take every word literally, or try to figure out what the sign wasn’t saying? This
wasn’t shaping up to be a simple answer.
If the brewers meant to use clean water from the stream, the sign would have said to do
so, but the sign implied there were at least two types of water. If you have to make a
choice, there has to be at least two things to choose from. The obvious choice is the water
from the stream. I could follow it to its’ source, looking at the rocks for any type of
cache where the gold may be hidden. Bud may have done this, as well as others who
found themselves in such a pickle.
My cynical side tells me that the obvious choice, to ignore the advice of a 14th century
Franciscan friar, that being William of Ockham, is probably the one that leads to
destruction. In other words, if it were that easy, the gold would have been found by now.
No, I needed to consider what other water might fit the bill.
Strawberry returned from the stream, alas, without a sack of gold, but with a full
stomach. I could not say the same for me. I lit the stove and fried up my last slab of
scrabble. I know the stuff is terrible, but I packed it as my last resort, keep from starving,
58
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
no one will want to share it with you, tastes bad but at least it’s calories food stuff.
Regrettably, I had neither tea nor water to wash it down. The irony then hit me. I don’t
really drink beer, but here I stood, next to a brewery – a brewery that had no beer. I
couldn’t drink a bottle even if I wanted one. Time to take a closer look at the stream.
I took my water skins down to the stream and filled them up. I didn’t see any animal
tracks so that reduced the odds of the stream being contaminated. Animals would not
drink from the running, downhill section of the stream, only when the land became level
and the flow slowed down, so as long as I was upstream from the ‘watering hole,’ I was
probably okay. What’s a little dysentery, anyway?
Later I would remember that I could have boiled the water on the stove, but I had already
spoiled the purity of the water skins so it was of little consequence.
I packed the gear, making a decision to follow the stream up the hill, but just to the ridge.
From there I would be able to survey the area better and make a plan. The route didn’t
look too treacherous and would hopefully only take a short time to complete.
A few minutes before nine, we arrived at the top. The stream had yielded no result or
fresh clue. We did find that the stream emanated from what was probably an artesian
spring, pouring out from underneath an outcropping of sandstone rocks. On a positive
note, this helped to ease my mind about the cleanliness of the water that I had used. Not
only was it spring-fed, but it had undergone natural filtration thanks to all of the
subterranean sand.
Looking around, I saw a river winding its way through the hills, heading off to the
northwest. This body of shimmering blue-green liquid was bigger than the Folsom Gap
‘creek.’ This river was easily twenty feet across on the average, at least from the parts I
could see. The current was fast moving; you could see larger rocks in the middle of the
riverbed, water flowing over them, causing eddies or small whirlpools to form.
Reminded me of the whitewater rafting events I used to see on Wide World of Sports.
This river would not be as easy to follow.
A sharp, bright light glinted in my eyes, coming from the northeast. Off in the distance,
but away from the river, was a lodge-like structure. It looked more like a hotel than
anything. People, albeit small from my point of view, could be seen on the deck.
Civilization! I didn’t know who they were, or where they were in relation to Marfa, but
this discovery meant I did not have to return through the tunnel again.
I needed to be able to find Folsom Gap again, and while the tunnel was exciting, the tram
was now at the wrong end, which meant I would be in for a long, dark walk next time. If
I could just key off of the lodge, my next journey could be faster and just a bit less
dangerous. (I am always for ‘less dangerous.’) Pushing a stick into the ground, trying to
create a compass of sorts, I made note of the lodge by placing a small stone in line with
the stick and the structure. To determine north, I took out a water skin and filled my allpurpose coffee/tea mug. I then took a needle from my first aid kit and magnetized it by
59
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
rubbing it along my cell phone battery. Even though there was no reception, I knew that
phone would come in handy eventually!
Placing the magnetized needle carefully in the water, it not only floated but pointed north.
I knew that it was basing its’ movement off of the magnetic pole, not true north, but this
was the best I could do. Marking north with a second stone. I now had an azimuth to
civilization, clean clothes and something to eat besides scrapple.
I placed a sheet of paper down at the base of the stick and marked the two rocks. Once I
was back at the church, I could play connect the dots and draw a triangle. By using
geometry, I could then determine the compass heading to return to Folsom Gap, using
that lodge as a starting point. Thank you Boy Scouts of America. Lord Baden Powell
knew what he was doing when he started that organization, let me tell you!
Three hours later, Strawberry and I strolled up to the Alpine Hunting Lodge and Wildlife
Observation Post. We had made it to the town of Alpine. I knew exactly where we were!
Marfa was only a few hours – down the highway!
Being a hunting lodge, they were used to smelly old geezers (and their horses) returning
from the wild. We were given a place to freshen up, and I bought from clean clothes.
Why wash when you can just buy new? The dining room had a Tex-Mex buffet and of
course I sampled. I noticed the flan. No wonder the Food Shark doesn’t serve it.
By 4:00 PM we had made it back to Marfa. The mystery wasn’t solved, but I feel that we
made progress. Judging by the dark clouds approaching from the south, rain was on the
way. The church basement may not be the Ritz, but at least I would be dry…as long as
the pump held out.
August 16 – 11:47 PM
Remember, only trust the Behardo…
I write this on Saturday, August 16th, just a few minutes before midnight. Normally I
would wait until tomorrow to discuss the events that occurred since the last post, but
something has happened that makes delaying this post simply unacceptable.
Let me give you a quick recap, starting after dinner. The rains indeed started to fall, and
fall with a vengeance they did. If there was ever a time to be out of the mountains, this
was it. The streets of Marfa were deserted with everyone staying inside, waiting the storm
out. There was plenty of lightning off in the distance. If Pecos were still alive, hopefully
he had taken shelter. This was the type of storm that Mother Nature sends once every
few years, kind of like a giant pause button for the entire region.
From the stone bell tower of the church, I could see the Food Shark, windows closed,
under the awning by the library. Even Buddy the dog was nowhere to be seen. Probably
guarding the cash box, I suppose.
60
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
Night was falling and from my perch you could see the soft glow of the various porch
lights in the two subdivisions, those single family, ranch style homes inhabited by young
families that had moved ‘up’ the ladder and off of the actual ranch. There was little
traffic on the highway. The occasional big rig would drive by, probably on the way to El
Paso.
Then I saw the caravan of ten or so campers slowly driving up the scenic route of the
Davis Mountain highway. They stopped at the rest area and, to the best of my limited
visibility, seemed to leave the protected confines of their recreational vehicles only to
huddle into the “Lookout Station.” This was the structure that the Chamber of
Commerce had erected a few years ago in order to serve the tourists who came looking
for the mystery lights.
I went downstairs, to one of the church’s storage closets where I had remembered seeing
a set of binoculars once. Finding the pair, I climbed back up the homemade wooden
ladder to the bell tower. Actually, you had to climb up three different ladders, since there
were platforms at escalating heights, put there to reinforce the tower itself.
Returning to my observation post, and for reasons unknown that I felt the need to do this,
I focused my attention on the tourists. There was much movement back and forth from
the RVs to the Lookout Station. It was almost as if they were moving equipment from
the RVs to the building. Looking beyond the edifice, I then realized what was causing
the excitement.
There were a good fifteen or so “lights” appearing to float randomly at the base of La
Montañosa de la Sierra Diablo. The lights were almost perfectly spherical, all about the
same size, although at this distance it would be near impossible to judge their true size.
The glowing orbs were gold in color, although a few were of a lighter shade, perhaps a
school bus yellow. One was different, however. This light was a dark red, a ‘calculator’
red made popular by the numerical display of the first generation of handheld calculators.
“My guess is that old Pecos has finally perished; like all of the others.”
Alex had come up the ladder to see what I was up to, and in my concentration I had failed
to hear him. Once my heart started beating again, I replied. “Ahhh…excuse me? Did
you say perish?”
“Yes, I think you have seen enough and learned plenty to understand what I said. The
mere fact that you are here and not lost up in the mountains tells me that you indeed were
the chosen person.”
Alex went on. “There have been many who have come, saying that they were meant to
discover the treasure. They had no idea what the treasure really was, what power it had
over them, or what their fate would be. Every time there is a new light, we all know that
another one has died, drawn to their death by the evil hidden in the mountains.”
61
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
I was almost speechless. “So why did I not fall into the same trap? I was out there, just
like Pecos. In fact, I crossed his trail at one point.”
“Did L.B. tell you about the two basic forces that make up existence as we know it? You
know, good and bad, right and wrong. Anything like that ring a bell?”
I told Alex about my last encounter with L.B., to which he commented that I, like all the
rest, started out in the same manner. The difference being that when given choices, I
made the wise decisions. “The legend tells of the spirit world helping the chosen one,
helping to guide him or her through the mountains, helping uncover the clues to the
treasure. That may have happened to you, I don’t know and I don’t need to know.”
“At what point,” Alex asked, “did you decide to come home instead of following clues to
the treasure?”
I explained that once I saw the Alpine hunting lodge, I knew that Strawberry and I could
get fresh food and water. I had reasoned that the treasure could be found later. “That
was the difference. That was the point where you had more moral courage than the
power of greed manifested by the evil spirit. You put your horse above your desire for
gold. You won. That’s why you are here and not out there, probably drowning in a
canyon flood or something.”
“And the treasure, the sack of gold? Is it evil itself or is it just the influence of the spirit
holed up out there somewhere that causes all of this trouble?”
The Padre explained that the gold itself was not cursed. If it could be found then the
“bad” spirit would have just one less piece of ammunition to use in trying to lure people
to their deaths.
While the Padre made for a persuasive argument for finding the gold, all I could think
about was Vindal and his comments about my job being to guard the gold. Then there
was his warning about there being only a few people left who knew of the sack’s
location. Others would try to find it, “but they must not.”
Apparently Alex knew quite a bit about the gold and the various legends, but one thing
for certain, he did not know where the gold was located.
We eventually tired of watching the tourists and returned to the main level of the church.
Alex had to prepare notes for tomorrow’s sermon, something about the bravery of some
guy named Dietrich Bonheoffer. While I was sure that it would be a captivating sermon
topic, I descended to the ‘catacombs’ as I called them, the low level of the church,
checking on the pumps.
The low hum of the pumps could be heard throughout the low level, so I knew they were
working. Now to see if they were keeping up with the water flow.
62
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
The floor in my room looked bone dry, which was a good thing. Last thing I wanted was
incoming waves. There was, however, the matter of water seeping under the door of the
Boy Scout meeting room. The church hadn’t seen Boy Scouts in many years, but the
room was left intact just in case there were enough kids to form a new troop.
I opened the door and saw the floor covered with a layer of liquid, not too deep but
enough that you wouldn’t want to plug in a hair dryer while standing in it. The ground
water had risen due to the storm and water was just pouring into the room from another
one of those cracks at the ceiling joint. Just like before, it reminded me of one of those
‘good karma,’ stress reducing fountains, where the water slowly pours over the rocks
down into a pool.
Then it hit me. This was a stone church and the word stone was synonymous with rock.
“Goodness comes from pure water that flows gently over the rocks. Look nowhere else!”
I grabbed an entrenching tool from the “Camping Locker” on the other side of the room
and pried one of the stones loose. Knowing better than to reach into a dark space here in
west Texas, I shined a flashlight into the newly created cubbyhole.
There was the sack.
I could see a few golden ingots that had spilled out. This was it! The treasure!
Hearing Alex coming down the old wooden stairwell, I quickly replaced the stone. When
he arrived, I was busily trying to install a new pump line to drain the water off of the
floor.
Alex had no idea what had happened and honestly, it was probably better that way.
I think tomorrow will bring sunshine and, for me, a trip to the Food Shark. I think I’ll
bring Strawberry.
For some reason, I don’t think this adventure is over quite yet, for I have a new job now.
I need to guard the treasure.
I’m just not sure from who…
- fin.
63
The Story of Old Pecos and the Cursed Gold
Written by Doug Lutz
64