Gordon D. Shirreffs
Mystery of the Haunted Mine
1
The Lure of the Lost Espectro Mine
The Espectro Mountains rose almost impetuously from the desert floor to loom high over the scattered ranches along the southern and western bases of the mountains. The Espectros dominated that lonely part of Arizona as nothing else did. They stood proudly and mysteriously against the blue, cloud-dotted sky of day and loomed dark and brooding at night. They could be seen for many miles in all directions and had been used by travelers as the one outstanding landmark in that isolated land, for the other mountains in the hazy distance were as nothing when compared to the Espectros. They could be seen long before travelers could distinguish any particular features of the great jumbled masses of rock that formed them. When one was near them they seemed almost to lean over, as though to overpower insignificant humans with their ponderous might. Even when one was miles beyond the Espectros, it was difficult not to obey a compelling impulse to turn and look back at them. They had the uncanny power of making people look at them again and again and yet never tire of the view. Still there was a hidden seed of fear that sprouted rapidly within those who looked at them for too long a time. Their very name, given to them by the early Spanish explorers, was an indication of the fear and respect which the brooding mountains had always seemed to instill in those who studied them. The Espectro Mountains — the Ghost Mountains! For they were haunted, as surely as the fears of man could people such places with the ever-restless spirits of the dead.
Gary Cole unsaddled his claybank and placed the saddle on top of the corral rail. His eyes sought the Espectros. He well knew the aura of thralldom, mingled with intense fear and curiosity, that hung over the Espectros like the heat haze of these late summer days. All of his life had been spent within view of the Espectros. The night of his birth the Thunder People had thudded their drums in the rain-streaming canyons of the mountains and had shot their lightning arrows through the dark skies to bathe the Espectros in an eerie bluish light. An old Chiricahua vaquero who was working on the ranch at that time had prophesied that Gary would be held in subjection to the Espectros no matter where he roamed, and that he always would be compelled to come back to them.
Gary leaned on the rail and shoved back his hat. The Espectros were clothed in a smoky-looking haze which distorted and magnified them. It had been a busy summer for Gary, and in two weeks he would be back in high school without having had the chance to explore the Espectros thoroughly. It had been a summer of hard work with little time to play, and the money he had made was not his to keep. It was sorely needed in the Cole household, for Chiricahua Springs Ranch was no longer a paying proposition since Gary's father had become an invalid.
He watched a puff of cloud chase its fleeting shadow down the rugged slopes of the Espectros in a race that would never end. He saw a still-winged hawk hanging almost motionless high over The Needle like a scrap of charred paper pasted against the startling blue of the sky. The naked pinnacle of rock known as The Needle thrust itself up from the harsh slope of a great peak like a warning finger to those who would probe into the secrets of the Espectros. But for those who did venture into the mountains, The Needle was always the starting point. For not only were those mysterious mountains haunted by strange and bloody tales handed down by Apaches, Spaniards, and Americans, but also by the persistent whispered rumors of vast stores of gold and silver left locked within the bosom of the mountains by the legendary Melgosa Brothers, over a hundred years ago.
Gary half closed his eyes. It was almost four o'clock. He looked directly at the sheer rock wall to the right of, and just beyond, the towering finger of The Needle, now fully lighted by the dying sun. Just then Gary heard the old pendulum clock in the Cole living room strike the hour. As the last stroke died away he opened his eyes to stare at the rock wall in the canyon. For a fleeting instant he thought he saw something like a line cut into the rock, but he couldn't be sure whether it was natural or not. Then it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, leaving him with a bitter feeling of disappointment. Swiftly the rock wall became shrouded in shadow until the entire canyon was dark and uninviting.
He turned quickly to walk to the house, and as he did so he saw his father, leaning on his crutches, staring toward the same canyon. Gary turned away; he didn't want to embarrass his father. He picked up his little Winchester saddle gun from its position against the corral rail. It needed a cleaning, for he had killed a rattler that day. Gary had been guiding dudes from a local ranch, and when the rattler had struck savagely at the horse of one of the dudes, Gary had killed it with a shot through the ugly flat head. Now there was a five-dollar bill folded in his shirt pocket — a grateful gift from the sweating dude. Gary had not told him it was the only cartridge in his rifle.
"Gary!" called his mother from the kitchen.
"Yes, Mother?"
"Wash up. We're eating early tonight. Your father and I are going into The Wells tonight to stay with Aunt Marion. Do you want to come with us?"
Gary, a year before that time, would have been only too happy to go to Cottonwood Wells, but he had been a kid then. It just wasn't right for a guy his age to be seen riding into The Wells with his father and mother, no matter how much he loved them.
"Gary?" questioned his mother.
"Well, I was figuring on studying my maps and things, Mother."
"You know them by heart, Gary."
He filled a basin with water, washed quickly, and combed his thick reddish hair. When he walked into the pleasant-smelling kitchen his mother turned to look at him, brushing back a lock of her own thick titian hair. It was a beautiful red against the blue of her eyes and the fairness of her skin. Lucille Hart had been the belle of Cottonwood Wells before she had married Pete Cole just before Pearl Harbor when he was a sergeant in the Marines. Pete Cole had brought home a fine war record, plus a Navy Cross and a piece of steel lodged near his spine which had partially crippled him. A strange event in a branch of Cholla Canyon had crippled him still further and had almost cost him his life.
Gary eyed his pretty mother as he set the table for her. There were dark circles beneath her lovely blue eyes and every day new worry hues appeared on her forehead. "I was hoping you'd go with us this time, Gary," she said a little petulantly. She didn't quite realize her only child was swiftly growing into a man.
Pete Cole came into the kitchen, slid into his chair, and leaned his crutches against the wall. "I'd rather have Gary stay here," he said. "Jim Kermit said he had seen a mountain lion prowling about the wash just east of the ranch. I think Gary had better stay here and keep an eye on the stock, Lucille."
"The stock, Pete?" questioned Lucille. "There's hardly enough to bother with. Now I think…" her voice broke off as she saw the taut look on his face. Pete Cole still liked to think he was a rancher.
Gary busied himself with his food. His father knew well enough why Gary didn't want to go to The Wells with them. It was hardly likely a cougar would be seen around there in the summer, and during daylight hours at that.
"All right, Pete," said Mrs. Cole. She had been through this before. Men always seemed to stick together, even the two she loved and cherished above everything else.
"You're off tomorrow, eh?" asked Gary's father.
"It's Sunday, Dad," said Gary.
Pete Cole fiddled with his knife. "What are you planning to do?"
There was no sense in lying, and besides it wasn't easy to lie to his father. Gary had learned that at an early age. "I thought I'd ride up past The Needle," he said.