I'm not going to divulge exactly where, other than to say the West......Because it is not over.
A year before the Civil War, a Southern Planter left Georgia and headed West. He brought all his possessions, including slaves. There were also friends and family. Four wagons were pulled by mules. The possessions included a 'collection' of guns and gold and silver that was garnered from the sale of a plantation.
As they crossed a mountain on a trail/wagon road into a valley, they were attacked and systematicallly harrassed by Apaches. It was approximately 30 miles from the mountain top to the valley floor on a really rough wagon road. They knew there was an Army fort in the valley.
At about the halfway point, with some killed or wounded, They put a slave on a fast horse and sent for help. As he was leaving, the slave heard the men talking about, if it got bad enough, hiding the extra guns and valuables and making a run for it on horses and unharnessed mules.
The slave made it to the fort and rousted the Soldiers and returned with them. This was nearly a thirty mile round-trip, down a mountain and back up it. As the soldiers approached the wagons they heard sporadic gunfire. When in sight, they saw that the people of the train were aparently dead and the indians were in the proccess of ransacking the wagons. A fight ensued and, the indians being surprised, lost a bunch of men. None of the surving indians made off with any loot, only some mules. Upon inspection, there were NO extra firearms OR valuables found as the slave described them having and swore to. A common grave was dug and all bodies, white and indians, were buried on the spot. Horses were hooked to the wagons and they were pulled down the road.
Now....How did I hear this story? We go back to 1964. We had lived in this little town for many years and it was known my Dad had a metal detector (an old squack-box) and had found stuff with it. There was an old (nineties) man who was a part of the town. We saw him often. One day while we were in a resturant, having breakfast, he sits down at our table and starts to talk to my Dad about a deal. He had been searching for a 'treasure' his whole life. It seems his father was stationed at the nearby Fort and was one of the rescue party. His father went up the mountain many times looking for the hidden cache. He was certain no one had found it. I do not know how we had not heard the story before but I later verified it through Army records.
The deal was made. He would get a fifty-fifty split of what we found. He produced a map that was so old, pieces would break off if you did not handle it carefully. My Dad sent me to our truck for a tablet and a copy was made on the spot.
The Wagon road was so rough and washed out, most of our looking was done on foot. We went up four times. On the third trip we found the grave. The ground is hard, red clay and rock there. My Dad got a reading and I did not dig more than three inches before finding a belt buckle, then bones. We did not dig longer than it took to verify that it was a mass grave before quitting and covering everything up. It still gives me the creeps thinking about it.
The last trip up the mountain we went all the way to the top,....finding nothing. My Dad was over sixty and was pretty bunged-up. I guess he thought the 'treasure' would jump out at him. He just gave up.....though it was certainly a needle in a haystack. You have to see the country.
Now, I am well past sixty and I have had all these years to think about what couldn't happen and what had to have happened to those people in that situation. I have a starting point, halfway up the mountain. I have a stopping point, the grave. The old man and my Dad are long gone,....But I own a new quad. I will go back.
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