Legend

by Dane Mccaslin

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

There are a lot of legends about the Arizona desert. One which has kept people flocking there for a century is the tale of the `Lost Dutchman¿ and his goldmine ¿ but nothing has ever been found of Jacob Walz and his mysterious treasure. Until now ¿ 



A student from Phoenix comes across a cache of gold coins and an old journal in the desert ¿ but is it the Dutchman¿s gold, or something a lot more sinister? Soon the young man finds that he¿s stumbled across more than he can handle ¿ a conspiracy spanning decades and continents ¿



Louis Greywolf Bahe, a member of the Navajo nation, works for the state mining inspector and has therefore heard his share of myths involving the Lost Dutchman. Bahe investigates when the cache of gold is found. Together with Will Delgado, his biker gang associate, Bahe tries to track down the gold ¿ and the perpetrators of some pretty nasty crimes ¿ as he realizes that another `Dutchman¿ entirely is wreaking havoc in Arizona ¿

Release date: May 22, 2014

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 250

Sample

Chapter One

Monday, May 18 –  Now you’ve done it, boy.

Somehow, Gran’s voice is the one I hear the most, usually scolding for some unnamed sin I’ve committed. I have to say that she’s right this time: I really have done it! I’m almost afraid to write it down for fear it won’t be true the next time I head out for the site. I’ve grown up listening to tales about the Lost Dutchman and his mythical mine. It’s bread and butter in my house, this story of a gold cache so large it’d keep our entire family out of the poor house. Or at least out of the latest mobile home park we call home and into a fancier zip code. And, Lord knows, I want out. I’m tired of the smirks I see when I have to give my address. It’s like I’ve got a neon sign hanging over my head that’s flashing ‘trailer trash’ in bold red letters. I’m not, you know. Not trash, not scum, not any of those things that I can see in the eyes of those I interact with. They have no idea what my life is like. I’m pretty sure that none of them have a family like mine, an existence that is, on the surface, undesirable. If they could only see past the persona I’ve created for myself. The kicker is, at least in my mind, is that I’m the last person they’ll suspect. I’m surprised my self-proclaimed neon sign hasn’t changed to ‘Slickest Dude in the West’. Cuz that’s exactly how I feel. As slick as the aloe vera gel Mom kept to doctor up our sunburns. And it was so easy. Too easy, really. They’re all going to be sorry when they find out what I’ve discovered. And what I know. I’ve found the real Dutchman. Or at least what he left behind.

‘We’ve got us a live one.’ Arizona Mine Inspector Tim Holt stacks the meeting agendas neatly, tapping the corners square before he places them on the table.

From across the room, Louis Greywolf Bahe grimaces. He’s had a full day already, tracking down the open mine shafts that still dot the desert. The work, hot and dirty and solitary, is necessary in a state whose landscape is pock-marked with failed attempts to find gold. Over the years, innocent hikers and curious children have fallen to their deaths in these ready-made traps. He’s in no mood to deal with another issue. If they keep the meeting brief, he might just get home in time to watch Jimmy Fallon.

The quarterly Board Meeting proceeds as expected. Tim Holt drones on a bit about the latest number of mining permits from wannabe prospectors, those folks whose idea of mining and panning is based on old John Wayne movies and Arizona legend. Bahe finds his mind drifting a bit, waiting for the last call for questions and comments.

‘Before we adjourn, I’ve got something we need to keep an eye on.’ Holt’s voice breaks into Bahe’s thoughts, effectively destroying any hope of catching the opening monologue. Damn it. This had better be good, he thinks, shifting in his chair.

‘We’ve had reports from a handful of ranchers near Kingman that several folks have been asking around about the Lost Dutchman’s Mine.’ He holds up his hands to stop the laughter and groans that accompanies his words. ‘I only mention this because of the amount of activity.’

‘What is it about the Great AZ and nutcases?’ asks Randall Larkin. ‘Did someone hang out the “Loony Tunes Welcome” sign again?’ His words are only half in jest; he claims to come from one of the state’s founding families and he can be a bit proprietorial at times.

The others at the long table laugh at his words. It’s par for the course to have at least one person a year who thinks they can find that legendary horde of gold nuggets. And it’s par for the course to send out Search and Rescue teams to bail out their sorry ass.

Holt reaches down into his briefcase and brings out a sheaf of papers. From where Lou Bahe is sitting, he can see that the edges are curled and the pages have that rolled look, as if someone has carried them in a back pocket.

‘And we have these.’ He tosses the packet down onto the table, its slick surface acting as a launching pad that sends it sliding. Bahe reaches out and grabs it in mid-slide.

The room has fallen preternaturally quiet, a silence that seems as tangible as the pages in his hands. As he scans the top page, his eyes narrow. Looking up, he meets Holt’s gaze.

‘Yep,’ Bahe says. ‘We’ve got us a live one all right.’

Holt nods in agreement, too professional to remind Bahe that he’d said that already. He looks around at the somber faces of the men in the room, pausing to emphasize the seriousness of this.

‘I want everyone to take a look at that,’ he says, nodding toward the papers in Lou Bahe’s hands. ‘It’s not the run-of-the-mill stuff.’ He pauses, clears his throat, rubs one hand over the stubble on his chin. ‘I’d say this is legit.’

The four other men at the table take turns reading, passing the papers around as if they are too hot to handle. And maybe they are, in a metaphorical way. Bahe catches Holt’s eyes, shakes his head. It’s going to be a job to keep this under wraps.

So much for Jimmy Fallon.

Finally, Tim Holt adjourns the meeting. No one gets up. They are mentally digesting the journal entries, because that’s what it is: a journal. A journal that outlines an idea so bizarre that no one quite knows how to take it. And there is another note as well, this one in a different hand: “Found by J. Mackey, who hereby claims this as his own, Signed by his hand this 29th day of May, 2006”.

Finally, Randall Larkin speaks up. His face has a quizzical look, as if someone has asked him to define a word that he really doesn’t understand. But he’ll give it the ol’ college try. That’s the kind of person he is.

‘Is this – I mean, are we thinking that this person’ – here he points his chin at the journal’s addendum – ‘has actually found the mine? The Dutchman?’ Larkin shakes his head as if dislodging the unbelief he feels. ‘That’s crazy.’

Holt nods. It’s definitely not something you hear every day, a declaration that someone has actually discovered the stash hidden away by Old Jacob Walz.

‘I don’t think that’s what it’s talking about.’ They all turn and stare at Louis Bahe.

Someone laughs, a harsh sound that doesn’t convey much in the way of merriment. Trust Bahe to see something the rest aren’t.

Tim Holt’s face is inscrutable, waiting for Bahe to explain. He knows that whatever it is, it won’t be nonsense but will be well thought out, supported by reason.

‘Where did these come from?’ This is directed at Holt, and the rest of the men wait as one for the answer.

‘Some guy out riding his horse. Said he goes looking for unprotected mine shafts because of what happened last year.’

The mood is instantly sober. Each man knows exactly what Tim Holt means: the senseless death of two toddlers, twin boys, led by curiosity to the edge of an abandoned mine. They weren’t discovered missing for over an hour – the babysitter was busy with her Facebook account – and no one even knew the open pit was there.

Randall Larkin’s face reflects his frame of mind. With the corners of his mouth downturned and the shock of unruly hair that caps his head, he looks like a rodeo clown’s caricature.

‘I’m glad that folks are more cognizant now, but all we need is another well-meaning person taking a tumble.’ He turns to Holt.

‘Did this guy say exactly where he was when he found it?’

Tim Holt fishes around in his briefcase once more and brings out a leather notebook, embossed with the Great Seal of Arizona. Ditat Deus, it reads. God Enriches. Flipping it open, he scans for the information.

‘Yep. Says here he was just outside of Superior, headed towards Globe-Miami.’ He consults the notebook again. ‘He figures he was at 33.3°N 110.9°W , near an unmarked road, when he spotted the marker.’

Bahe snorts in disbelief. Someone, maybe the journal’s author, has actually marked the place? Fabulous. He – or she – should’ve just set off flares. How many other folks have already seen it, read the entries, made plans to return? This could be a real-life circus.

Caleb Christensen, the introspective one among them, stirs in his chair. All eyes swivel his way; his movement is tantamount to an announcement.

‘I want to hear what Bahe is thinking,’ he says. A taciturn man, he uses his words economically, choosing to mull things over before making an observation. His family has been here since the late forties, ensconced on land just west of Superior. ‘I want to know why you aren’t buying into the Lost Dutchman theory.’ He speaks directly to Bahe, his calm blue eyes giving nothing away.

Louis Greywolf Bahe pushes his chair back from the table, stretching his legs out in front of him. With arms clasped behind his dark head, he has settled into classic Bahe story mode, ready to expound on things as he sees them. It is usually right on.

‘For one thing, it doesn’t strike me as a smart move, announcing your find with what, a flag of some sort? Obviously it was seen, it wasn’t completely out of sight.’ His eyes move around the table, scanning for opposition. He finds none and continues. ‘What I think is this: we’ve got a red herring of sorts, one with just enough info to steer Joe Blow off the track, make him think it’s all about a gold find.’ He shrugs. ‘At this point, that’s all I have. It’s just a feeling.’

As usual, after Bahe’s pronouncements, skepticism is minimal; after all, his track record is good and they trust his internal compass. Holt reserves comment. He knows that only when there is more to be shared will Bahe will speak further.

‘Earth to Jay! Calling Jay!’ The musical voice of Amanda Peterson can be heard from across the employee cafeteria. Jay Mackey cringes, trying to play invisible in plain sight. What is it with her? She acts as though he were some sort of social project, constantly on his back about ‘self-improvement’ and ‘reinventing one’s self’. His own view? What you see is what you get. Take it or leave it.

‘Hey!’ She is almost panting in her haste to catch up with his long strides. ‘Didn’t you hear me calling you?’ She carries herself with confidence, as if she can’t imagine anyone purposely snubbing her. He gives her a sidelong glance, glimpses her upturned face smiling up at him. As ever, she is perfect.

‘Hey.’ He keeps walking, lengthening each step, forcing her to keep up or back off. She manages to stay alongside him, much to his annoyance.

‘What are you doing for lunch, Jay?’ How she can smile, talk, and practically jog at the same time without breaking sweat is almost impressive. ‘I have two tickets to Paradise.’ She giggles. ‘I mean Paradise Bakery. Get it?’

He manages to control the eye roll. He gets it.

‘Seriously, Jay. I got two coupons in the mail for a free sandwich and cookie with the purchase of a large drink.’ She looks as though she’s offering him the crown jewels.

‘Nah,’ he replies. ‘I’ve got something to do. Have fun though.’ Jay turns abruptly into an open door. He doesn’t look back. If he had, he’d have seen the hurt look on her face.

Thankfully, no one is in there. It’s a conference room, the one reserved for the big bosses, not lowly interns like Amanda and himself. He sinks into one of the chairs – real leather, he thinks, not that stick-to-your-legs vinyl crap that leaves marks – needing some quiet in order to sort out his racing thoughts.

Jay takes out his iPhone, tapping on the app for Google Earth. He’s looking at the area around Superior, past the arboretum and various antique shops that line the road. There’s a little-used track that starts just off the Arizona Trail, an artery that takes hikers from Mexico to Utah, past cliff dwellings and through canyons. He’d found it the day he decided to get outside, away from the city and the Amandas in his life. Just past Alamo Canyon, someone had created a path that seemingly led nowhere. At the time, it felt symbolic to veer off the main trail and take this one. He thanks his lucky stars he did.

Thank God it’s Friday.

Chapter Two

Louis Bahe stares at the television screen, half-listening to the comedic spiel. This guy, he thinks, should find another career. It’s good enough, though, to help him wind down from his day, so he continues to watch and critique, swallowing the cold mineral water he keeps for nights like this.

Something has been playing hide and seek with the edges of his mind, a piece of information he knows he has but can’t quite remember what it is. 1984? Or maybe 1983? A large heist from a Brinks truck in the Los Angeles area, he thinks, or a museum break-in, somewhere in the neighborhood of forty million cool ones.

Bahe ponders this for a few minutes, sipping his drink and swirling the ice cubes gently a. . .