The August Featured writer is Gerald E. Sheagren

Please feel free to email Gerald at: geraldsheagren@yahoo.com

BE MY TREASURE
by Gerald E. Sheagren

Kyle Pendergast considered himself to be a professional treasure hunter. 

He’d searched for Blackbeard’s elusive booty off the coast of North Carolina; he’d traipsed Oak Island in Nova Scotia in quest of the treasure of the Knights Templar; he’d beaten the bush in Kanab, Utah, seeking Montezuma’s cache of gold and jewels; he’d even dug for Dutch Schultz’s millions, supposedly buried in an iron box somewhere in the Catskill Mountains. 

So far, his success rate stood at an abysmal zero. He would have been better off metal-detecting sandy beaches in search of lost pocket change.

Kyle’s latest project was finding the fabled Lost Dutchman Mine, rumored to be somewhere in the Superstition Mountains, east of Phoenix. Since hundreds have searched for it without success, did it actually exist?

There was one ominous fact that had to make a person wonder. More than a few hopefuls in quest of the mine turned up dead, under very strange circumstances. If the mine indeed existed, was it really under the protection of a so-called Apache curse?

But Kyle figured he had one super advantage. He’d found a copy of a map, secreted between the pages of a book that had once belonged to his great-granduncle. A great-granduncle, by the way, who had vanished without a trace in mid-July of 1927. The book was at the very bottom of an old steamer trunk that his father was about to donate to the Salvation Army. What a travesty that would have been! 

And the map—old, yellowed and creased—pinpointed, with a small red X, the exact location of the Lost Dutchman Mine. On the back of the map it read in pencil: If I should mysteriously disappear, then the curse is true. Philo J. Pendergast, July 12, 1927. 

Kyle hesitated, a chill running down his back. Then he gathered his wits and smiled. He wouldn’t let superstition get in the way of his this incredible opportunity.

*****

The 4553-foot spire, known as Weaver’s Needle, is the main landmark in the Superstition Mountains of Arizona. As legend has it, the fabled gold mine lies within its shadow. And, unfortunately, it casts a very long shadow over some of the most rugged terrain in the state. The little red X on Philo’s map marked the mine as being a good twelve miles east of the towering Needle.

Kyle hiked along, the glaring sun reminding him of an egg yolk sizzling in his mother’s old cast iron skillet. The surrounding landscape was dry and arid, the color of a biscuit, heavily studded with mesquite, thorn scrub and saguaro cacti. A Gila monster, perhaps two-feet in length, its plump body a patchwork of black and pink, crawled slowly from its burrow and watched Kyle’s passing. A hawk was circling, above. Then suddenly it swooped down, buzzed the ground and flew off with a squirming rabbit in its talons.
Reaching the mountains, he started to climb steadily upwards, passing occasional hikers. At one point, a startled rattlesnake lunged, striking quickly but harmlessly at his right protective gaiter. He was swimming in sweat and his lungs were starting to feel as if they were being scoured with hot sandpaper. Finally, the realization struck him that he would not reach his destination before nightfall. 

He spent an uncomfortable night, huddled beneath an outcropping of rock, keeping his flashlight on, worrying about rattlesnakes and scorpions, and shivering against the cold that nearly always replaced the extreme heat of the day. The distant howling of coyotes provided a night-long serenade.

After gobbling down two nutrition bars, Kyle started out just as the sun was coming up, paint-brushing the horizon with yellow and orange and rosy-pink. The cold was gradually dissipating, ready to relinquish its presence to the heat of day. Volcanic formations loomed all around, their rocky ledges spotted with chaparral and a few scrawny junipers. A golden-tan scorpion, with lobster-like pincers and curved tail, hurried to seek refuge beneath a rock. 

Kyle continued to climb. Only an hour had passed and already he was feeling fatigued and wobbly-legged. He sat on a rock and took out Philo’s map, examining the ultimate guiding landmark. Sure enough, there it was just up ahead: a rock formation that looked very much like a castle. In the map, the red X was right next to it.

Continuing on, he was drawing close to his objective when he heard the ominous gurgling sound. Stopping dead in his tracks, heat-pounding, he slowly looked to his left, spotting a mountain lion poised atop a rock formation. He very nearly pissed his pants. 

The animal looked like it was ready to lunge, its teeth barred; a growl lingering deep within its chest.  Panicked, Kyle slowly drew his hunting knife, nearly swooning at the prospect of having to fight such a big cat and most likely winding up the loser.

And, then, right before Kyle’s horrified eyes, the mountain lion started to fade away, its body disappearing into a swirling bluish-gray mist. The feathery strands of mist began to collect together, slowly taking on the ethereal form of an old, bewhiskered prospector, wearing a slouch hat, raggedy shirt and suspendered trousers. 

Kyle stared wide-eyed, his heart drumming away. “Sweet Jesus; I can’t believe this.”

The old prospector pointed a gnarled finger toward the castle-like rock, then swept the finger around and held it up to Kyle, wigging it in a no-no fashion. Then he quickly vanished, leaving strands of mist to float off in the air.

Did he really see what he thought he did? Kyle stood there, rooted in place. He reached for his emergency flask and brought it to his lips. He greedily sucked in the whiskey and waited for the calm it brought.

I’m having hallucinations, he thought. The sun brings it on. I’ll be all right in a minute.

After only a few moments of indecision, Kyle continued on, doggedly heading for the forbidden rock formation.  He’d come too far to fall for that crap and turn around. Within an hour or so, he was going to be dancing joyfully, looking at either sparkling veins of gold or treasure chests laden with unbelievable riches. 

There was no Apache curse. The skeletal remains of his great-granduncle Philo were probably lying somewhere else in these mountains. Maybe he’d been bitten by a rattlesnake or torn apart by a mountain lion. Hell, maybe he hadn’t brought enough water and died of thirst. The skeletons of poor unfortunates were always turning up in the Superstitions. 

Reaching the magic rock formation, Kyle began to search for some kind of hole or opening, knowing that it would certainly be hidden. Then, with his shoulder against a boulder, he looked to his right, spotting a crevice that was a good ten feet above the ground.

That had to be the entrance! It looked to be about as wide as his shoulders, which would give him ample room if he went in sideways. He’d certainly been in a lot tighter spots in his years of treasure-hunting—way tighter spots. 

Then, with his heart pounding away, Kyle found a suitable foothold and started to climb, his fingers searching for purchase. It was a relatively short distance, but it still required a good amount of balance and litheness. Upon reaching the crevice, he started to ease his way through, sweating bullets, suffering from a bit of claustrophobia.  Maybe twenty feet or so in the crevice grew wider, his nostrils picking up an odor that reminded him of the interior of a long-forgotten root cellar. 

Pulling the flashlight from his pocket, he shined its beam downwards, noting a passageway below. Slowly maneuvering his body into a backwards position, he started to descend. Reaching the underground passageway, he took a deep calming breath and started out, noting the boot prints and slither marks in the chocolate-brown soil. Men had passed this way before, as well as a good amount of snakes.

His heart hitched as he spotted a skull, surrounded by bones and a few strips of decayed clothing. A bit further along there was a nearly intact skeleton, resting in a seated position. The hollow eyes made it appear to be leering, and it still bore strands of brown hair, and the dead man’s shirt and trousers weren’t quite rotted away. Kyle paused, feeling unnerved. 

Why hadn’t these two poor souls gotten out of here, making their way through the crevice to freedom?

Even though he struggled to remain calm, Kyle’s legs started to tremble, and sweat broke out on his forehead. For a few moments, he thought of backtracking, to rejoice in the sunlight and fresh air. But greed won out, prompting him to continue onward, with the hopes of finding riches beyond his wildest dreams. 

Finally, the passageway blossomed into a wide, room-like chamber, and what met Kyle’s flashlight beam nearly caused him to sink to the ground, his heart beating so rapidly that he thought it might explode. 

There, scattered all about were more skeletons, maybe numbering as many as two dozen. Some of them were actually lying across one another. Others had fallen apart into a pile of dry and brittle bones. A few of the skulls still bore ugly patches of decayed skin. One of the skulls attracted his attention by its few surviving strands of long black hair, indicating that the man might have been an Apache. 

Clothing was at various stages of decomposition, as well as boots and shoes and what appeared to be a pair of moccasins. Kyle spotted a few old canteens and lanterns, as well as a good number of rusted handguns, rifles and hunting knives. There were also piles of ashes from many a survival fire. To his shock, he saw that a few of the skulls bore a distinctive bullet hole.

What happened here? Why had all these men stayed here, apparently awaiting their deaths or committing suicide?

By the looks, all of these unfortunate men had perished decades ago, probably some as far back as the 1890s. Kyle froze; standing stock still, as a smaller-sized rattlesnake suddenly appeared, slithering from the empty eye socket of one of the skulls. God only knew how many other rattlers—probably a lot bigger—were journeying about, ready to strike at the least provocation.

Is my great-granduncle, here, amongst this macabre collection of skeletons?

Willing himself to move, Kyle proceeded further along, the cavern-room giving way to a narrower passageway. He passed two more skeletons, and upon reaching a third one, something compelled him to stop and pay a lot more attention. The hairs at the nape of his neck stood on end and a chill coursed down the length of his spine.  

This is Philo. I just know it is.

Kneeling down, he examined the skeleton more closely, noting a few strands of blond hair still attached to the skull; the empty eye sockets and the nasal cavity; the few remaining strips of rotted clothing. A tarantula scurried from beneath Philo’s pelvic bone, quickly disappearing into the surrounding darkness.

His eyes focused on a gold signet ring lying next to the skeleton’s disjointed finger bones. Snatching it up, he was quick to see the initials PJP. Philo Joseph Pendergast! His suspicions were correct! He placed the ring into his pocket, deciding that he’d give it to his father upon returning to Denver.

Standing, Kyle decided to check for what had drawn him here in the first place. He’d seen enough damn skeletons. Walking along, he shined his flashlight along the stratified walls, hoping to discover rich veins of gold but saw nothing. 

Please, please, please, dear Lord; let me find something. I didn’t come all this way for nothing.

After a few hundred yards, he came to a second roomy chamber, with a good dozen more skeletal remains scattered about.

I’m certainly not the first man to discover this mine, that’s for sure. 

Sweeping the chamber slowly with his flashlight, he saw that it was the absolute end of the line. There were no further passageways to explore. No veins of gold! No hidden treasure chests! No jewels or gold ingots! He’d found what he had always found in the past—zip, zero and zilch. 

Cursing, he kicked at one of the skeletons, scattering its brittle bones in every direction.
Angry and depressed, Kyle started his walk back to the crevice, cursing his habitual bad luck. He stopped for a few moments before the skeletal remains of Philo Pendergast.

“Don’t worry, old timer; once I get out of here, it’ll be only the matter of a few days before you’ll be given a decent burial. Then you can finally rest in eternal peace.”

At the news, the skeleton shifted just a might, its brittle ribcage giving way and collapsing.

Sweet Jesus; I must be losing my mind!

Spooked, Kyle started to hurry back to the crevice as fast as his trembling legs could carry him. The best thing he could do, right then, was to get the hell out of there and notify the authorities of his grisly find. Bathed in a cold sweat, he arrived at the crevice, noting that only a weak amount of sunlight was managing to penetrate to the cavern.  

It was only the matter of twenty feet or so to freedom. 

He couldn’t help thinking about how eager he’d been to get here, and, now, he was desperate to leave. Life could be a real trickster at times.

And then the unthinkable happened—as he reached up with both hands to find a suitable grip on the rock-face, his fingertips fairly sizzled from some weird electrical-like current. Stunned, his hair standing on end, every molecule of his body seemingly traumatized, he was flung backwards to land hard on his back. 

Kyle lay on the hard dirt, blinking, trying to remember what in the hell had happened. He struggled to his feet, parts of his body still twitching from the voltage he’d been hit with. His fingertips felt as though he’d placed them into a frying pan loaded with sizzling-hot grease. Looking down, he noted with shock that their skin had been burnt away. 

Oh, man, what am I going to do? If I try once more, will it happen again?

Picking up a stone, he tossed it at the rock-face, jumping back in fright when it struck, igniting a crackling streak of light that very much resembled a bolt of lightning.

Shit! Why didn’t this happen when I was coming in?

Fumbling out the cellphone from a pocket of his survival vest, he noted to his dismay that there was no connection. Of course there wouldn’t be, not way down here.

And that’s when Kyle started to scream, with the terrible realization that no one was ever going to hear him.

Gerald E. Sheagren is a 68-year-old retiree, who lives in the historic town of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, along with his wife Sharon and three cats.  He’s a transplant from Connecticut and enjoys reading, engaging in political debates and studying history.  He writes everything from historical and inspirational stories to westerns, science fiction and romances. He has a particular fondness for horror and crime.

Some of Gerald’s stories have appeared in such publications as Blood Moon Rising, Cemetery Moon, Writers’ Journal, Hardboiled and Noir Nation. A 300-word-contest story is scheduled for publication this summer in Story Emporium.