Enter, if you will, May , 3 1887.
20 minutes to high noon, sun blazeing against the floor of the Desert, across the peaks and valleys: dancing were the prickly cactus to silent ripples of heat, waiting patiently for the rain.
Sometimes considered a sacred place by natives who lived so many moons ago, The Superstition Mountains held many secrets. Many a man young and old came dreaming of riches only to meet his maker in this devilish place. Strangely quiet, somehow the desert seemed to Jacob Waltz, more unforgiving than ever before.
The old prospector knew this place well. He was also acutely aware that this would be his final journey out of the mountanous desert.
Dangerous and ...view middle of the document...
And that, he truely hated more than anything.
None the less,
Old Jacob had prepared for this trip. He had taken two mules this time and 2 weeks worth extra grub. He knew he had to bring as much gold ore back as humanly possible. No two ways about it.
It was high noon and near the end of spring. The unusual heat was stealing Jacobs strenth. He knew he and his mules would need to stop and rest as soon as they got to the end of the tricky switchback trail. There, they would find a much cooler valley with a small stream and a few trees. "Yup, gonna get me some rest down yonder, ya hear, you stubborn old flea bags?", Jacob bellowed at the mules as he coaxed them along.
BREAK??? KEEP WRITING BETWEEN ABOVE AND BELOW....
"Well, that's mighty strange." Old Jacob pulled a rag out of his left pocket and was wiping his forhead as he said, "I havn't head one chirp from a bird all mornin'." Jacob was drenched with sweat. His .
The heat was near unbearable and there was narry a cloud in the sky. To make matters worse, tryin' to handle two mules was more work than he had imagined and packing his precious cargo out of the Superstion Mountains had never, ever been this rough. "I wonder why that would be?" he said aloud to no one, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.
He turned his attention towards the dour duo and spat, "Git on down the damn trail!", his heart pounding in his chest, face shiney
with sweat , he tugged and pulled tryin' to convince the stubborn old mules to do his bidding.
He hadn't noticed until he was halfway to his mine last fall, but the two pack mules had some kind of bad majic goin' on between 'em. No matter what Old Jacob Waltz, wanted them to do as a team, he'd have to scold them and prod them every inch of the way. That's why it took him an extra half a day to get up to his mine and from the looks of it, it was going to cost him even more time to get down out of the mountains. Espcially if he wanted to make it out in one piece.
To top it off, he was a bit on the short side this day. He had awoken to a sour stomach that over the early part of the morning, had turned into a full blown case of the backdoor trotts. He was already a day and a half out from camp so turning back was not an option. Come hell or high water, Old Jacob was determined to keep goin', trotts or not!
All the while, he knew his bad stomach was just another sign that this was his last trip. "But does it have to remind me so often?", Old Jacob grumbled out loud to himself and then to the two cantankerous old mules, "Damned old varmits! Get to movin' or I'll turn ya inside out!".
The pack mules stepped up the pace for all of five, maybe ten feet then, back to slow as molasses.
The poor old fellow was beggining to wonder if he would make it out alive. His stomach ache was bad. Real bad. It seemed like every time he'd finally get the surly duo to cooperate, his belly would start to roil and rumble and sure as daylight, he'd have to halt the pair and head for the...