A rtie tried not to grow frustrated as the day lengthened. Tom backtracked, moved forward, and muttered endlessly. Artie wanted progress, but it seemed like they had anything but that since they set out. By the time the sun sank, spreading darkness over the mountains, Tom had led them nowhere and Sheriff Wright refused to let him lead them in the dark.
Artie couldn’t sleep even when the other men did. Removing himself a small distance so not to disturb anyone, he turned up his lantern before opening his father’s diary. He had read the first few entries before but saw nothing of particular interest beyond his father’s presence in the Superstition Mountains. Fred’s assertions had renewed his interest.
He read on among the daily entries, mostly entries that bemoaned failure and decreasing supplies. Over two weeks in, his father seemed at his wit’s end.
Superstition Mountains, Arizona
Wednesday, October 27th , 1920
I do not have the faintest clue to my whereabouts, except that I am still within the Superstition Mountain range. I have lost my camp and, along with it, half of my remaining supplies. I ought never to have tried any exploration in the dark; my actions were foolhardy and will likely cost my life.
The boys will be fine—they’re old enough to survive without me and will help each other along—but I have no hope of them sending a rescue, as I told no one my true intentions. Anyone who saw me getting supplies or traveling into the mountains could not have recognized me beneath my disguise.
I cannot survive long on what I have with me. Water will run out first, unless I can find a source. I’ve sheltered under some sort of overhanging rock for the night. We shall see what the morning brings, though it is likely to be yet another day of being lost.
I do not recall how long one can survive without water, but I may be learning from experience soon.
Artie frowned in the pale light of the lantern.
Why didn’t he ever tell us where he really went? Why in the world did he keep it a secret?
A coyote howled somewhere in the distance. Artie turned the page.
Superstition Mountains, Arizona
Thursday, October 28th , 1920
Still lost. Losing hope. The Superstition Mountains will be my grave.
Artie’s stomach revolted. If his father could have seen the future… The son shuddered.
The entries continued.
Weaver’s Needle, Superstition Mountains, Arizona
Tuesday, November 2nd , 1920
I have found it! I have found the Lost Dutchman Goldmine!
Artie sat up, rereading the words to make certain he read them correctly. He had. His father’s handwriting continued.
With few supplies to spare, I stumbled upon the entrance to the mine at dusk. Not until morning did I realize what I had discovered.
When I saw the veins of gold in the walls by the glint of the morning sun, I began exploring. It is every bit as wonderful as Jacob Waltz described. I found piles of gold ore, probably mined by old Jacob himself, now just lying there ready for the taking.
I packed as much as I can carry. It is with me now. Enough to do away with any difficulties.
Bob Gilbert said I would never find the mine. I mourn to think that I simply can’t tell him that I have. I can’t prove him wrong. If word gets out that I’ve found the Dutchman, trouble will brew. As things stand, I have to find a way to exchange gold for money in as discreet a manner as possible. No one can know I have it or where I found it.
There is still plenty to be mined. There is still plenty already mined. I can give up any worries about becoming poor ever again.
Artie read the entire entry more than once, his confusion increasing with every perusal.
Dad found the Lost Dutchman Goldmine? Yet, he never told us. Why did he never tell us? His own sons? Did he go back? Is that why he went into the mountains last month?
He continued reading, but the next entries showed little more than his return home and a detailed description of Charles Sinclair’s elaborate plan to exchange his gold for money—if he could only find the right man.
Artie couldn’t understand the need for recording such details, unless it was his father’s way of getting his secrets out, so he could keep them easily in public. His need to confess, dealt with in a diary that he always kept close. As Artie continued reading, one portion eventually stood out.
I saw Myrtle today. Theo still despises her, but he’ll grow used to her in time. One can never quite tell what Artie is thinking. At least, I can’t, and he doesn’t always tell me either.
The boys weren’t with me when I visited today. They never are. Which is just as well. I met Myrtle’s brother.
The man—if you can call him that—is mostly a waste of skin. He does exactly as he’s told. I believe that will make him the ideal individual for helping me with the Dutchman’s gold. Myrtle does not need to know anything about it. I need cash soon. This gold could mark me, though, and I can’t have that. This could be my answer.
Artie stopped reading, closing the book altogether. Myrtle has a brother? Since when? Is he dead?
He tried to recall the wedding; a blur of activity with frequent attempts at cheering up Theo, who hated every second of the festivities. He remembered no brother for Myrtle. No family at all.
I suppose I can ask her about him when I get back. If Dad didn’t detail his death or something in his diary and I read that first.