THE LOST GOLDMINE   

by James von Feldt

It’s cold, cold, cold.  

This is the time of year that it’s usually below zero, so well, what’d you expect?  

And it’s Friday.  

Cousin Ben called and reminded me that the “Men” were meeting at Southfork Diner and not to miss it cause JB Efferin was going to be there.  

The “Men’s Meeting” is an annual meeting of active and inactive volunteer firemen in our county.  It also is open to First Responders and EMT workers too.  Guys from all the small towns show up.  Most Volunteer groups include the boys in their community, so the age ranges from about fourteen to old guys like cousin Ben.

We have a great time when we meet even though it’s only once a year but always in the winter - hopefully in a snow storm.  The rougher the weather the better.

And sure enough, we had twelve inches of snow by noon and talk of more coming.  

The boys from Troy came riding in on new snowmobiles they had obtained for winter emergencies.  Told us they were just trying them out but they were really showing off.   Everybody crowded around in the parking lot as they showed what they could do in the snow.  These were double-tracked machines that can carry injured people where a truck can’t go.  Pretty fancy, but very practical, if you ask me.  Joe Norris told me they saw them in the Fireman Newsletter last summer.    

Most of the other vehicles in the parking lot were four-wheel-drive trucks.  Ben came riding in on his  Allice Chalmers D-17 – whatever works!

The meeting room at Southfork has a huge fireplace and it was blazing both warmth and atmosphere for the meeting.  Most everybody came early to visit and catch up on what was going on.  The meeting lasts overnight so many brought their sleeping bags with them.

In our county, there’s only one school system.  They closed out the small-town schools back in the ’50s,  so, everybody pretty much knows everybody else.  You can hear all about that fiasco in the podcast, The 55’ Dispute.

Dinner was set to start at six and everybody was ready to eat.  Joe-Lynn’s the chef at Southfork.  Once again, he did a great job with the menu and set up a walk-through spread.  Seconds were available as well as fresh cherry pies from the Amish bakery.  

JB Efferin came in late with Shoe Johnson.  The story was that JB rode horseback to Shoe’s place from Go-Springs.  The short-cut bridge was out so it took them longer than anticipated to get to the meeting.

Fire Chief Kelley from our town did the moderator thing - and did a great job too.  He had everybody in stitches with his mule story, then introduced JB.  

JB doesn’t need much of an introduction around these parts.  He is a storyteller and is called on from time to time to re-tell a story as well as to fill us in on what’s happening in Harry Nation.  Go-springs has one foot in Harry Nation.

When everything was ready, the lights were dimmed.  The noise quieted down.

“Larry Dingle,” JB began, “had been in the area for fifty years or so.”

The crowd erupted in a great cheer and clapping.  This was going to be the classic story of the “Lost Gold Mine.”  This story is so popular that treasure maps came out of pockets as soon as JB started, – which caused more laughter.

JB continued, “Dingle was a recluse that had a knack for moon-shining the best liquor in Harry Nation.  He had a mule, a run-down shack, and a few acres of bottomland where he raised corn, rye, and hops.  He rarely came to town and when he did he kept to himself.”

He was tall, skinny had a long beard, and wore hand-made clothes.  They say his eyes stared right through you if you met on the road but he’d never speak a word.  

Legend has it that he ended up a recluse cause his mail-order bride died of the Pox right after the wedding, causing him grief that never left.   

Now, Corn-Tassel-Noisy, a vagabond Indian, round those parts at that time, was the only acquaintance Larry Dingle had or wanted.  It was known that Corn-Tassel would come to town from time to time to trade hootch for supplies.  It was assumed the supplies ended up at Dingle’s shack.

From time-to-time people would report they had spotted Dingle wandering around at night at odd places in Harry Nation - with a pick-ax and shovel over his shoulder, making all kinds of noise that didn’t make any sense.  But he was harmless, they thought and didn’t give it any matter.

Well, It was late fall, back in 99’ when Corn-Tassel-Noisy came to town drunk as a skunk, hollering, yelling, and carrying on something awful.  Corn-Tassel’s English was hardly tolerable and besides that nobody was paying attention until he accidentally scared Ifferam Hocutt’s horse.  

The horse reared throwing Ifferam to the ground.  He was mad.  He accosted Corn-Tassel with loud words and Corn-Tassel yelled back but nobody could understand what he was saying.  He was greatly disturbed Constable Brady said.

Brady broke up the yell-fest.   

Later, Constable Brady said that Corn-Tassel was trying to tell him something but he couldn’t make it out.  In frustration, he hauled Corn-Tassel to jail.  The jail was the back-room at the Dew Drop Inn.

In the morning, Alfie Johnson went to let Corn-Tassel out of jail only to find him lying on the floor dead.  Constable Brady sent for Digger Smith, the town mortician.  

When Digger showed up, he surmised the scene, touched the cold corpse, and mumbled; “Sure nough, he’s dead.”   

“Put him in a box,” Brady said.  “I’ll talk to the mayor about who’ll pay for it.” 

About an hour later Constable Brady was sitting at his desk when Digger and his assistant Murphy threw open the door in a rush.

“You ain't gonna believe this,” Digger yelled, holding out a leather pouch in front of him.

“Believe what?” Brady yelled back as if he was suddenly deaf.

“This,” Digger shouted and poured the contents out of the leather pouch.

A fine black powder with sparkling golden specks streamed down followed by some black lumps.

“Looks like coal, to me,” Brady said.

“Look closer,” Digger said as he brought his face closer to the material on the desk.  

Digger took his knife out and pressed it in the center of a black lump.  The black lump broke apart.  The center of the lump shone like gold.

“Is that what I think it is?” Digger yelled.

“I don’t know,” Brady yelled back as excited as Digger now.

“Found it on Corn-Tassel,” Murphy exclaimed.

“Where’d he get it?” Brady countered.

There was no answer.  Then silence, as they looked at each other, then at the small pile on the desk.

It took about two hours for the original excitement to wear down.  By then Digger, Murphy, and Constable Brady were trying to figure out what to do next.

“Where’d he stay?” Brady said looking at Murphy.

“Nowhere.  He moved around here and there.  Always alone.  Occasionally he’d help Dingle with his still.”

“The Still, - Dingle.”

The words came at the same time.

“Let’s pay Dingle a visit,” Brady said as he got up.

By noon the three riders were tired and not too sure that their journey was a worthwhile venture.  The longer the trip the more doubt pervaded the minds of the three.  Dingle’s reputation for having good whiskey had caused a clear trail to his shack but it was “way deep in the bushes,” as some say.

“What we gonna say?” Digger asked.

“Let me do the talking,” Brady answered.  

The trail led to a clearing.  Dingle’s log shack was stuck partway into a hill about a hundred feet above Bitter-Rum Creek.   Another ram-shackled building, his barn, stood to the side of the shack.  An open meadow went beyond that.

“Anybody home?” yelled Brady.  Nothing stirred except a few chickens in the yard.

Brady yelled another greeting.  

A braying came from the barn.

The three dis-mounted and led their horses toward the barn where there was a hitch.  

“Go check out the shack,” Brady told the others.

Digger and Murphy headed for the shack as Brady opened the barn door wider.  Inside the barn, he found the still, whiskey barrels, and grain bins.  Dingle’s mule was in a stall in the far corner.  In the center, there was a wire contraption next to a table.  Under the wire contraption was a pile of finely sifted coal dust.  An old gunny sack with something in it lay on the table next to a lantern.  On the table, beside the sack, was a short, thin, streak of a gold-colored powder.  As Brady bent over to inspect the powder, he heard anxious yells from the cabin. 

“Brady -Brady, get over here,” Digger was yelling.

Inside the cabin, Digger and Murphy had discovered Dingle’s lifeless body.  He had been shot through the heart at close range.  The inside of the cabin looked as though there had been a terrible fight.  A table had been smashed – broken chair, heating stove turned over; ashes and junk were everywhere. 

“Murphy,” Brady said excitedly.  “Go find Sheriff Garvey.  It may take you all day but find him and bring him back here.  We’re going to wait here until you come.”

Murphey just stood there looking at Digger.  Digger shook his head and pointed back west toward town, “Go.” He said.  

When Murphy was out of sight, Brady and Digger started searching through the debris.  

“What are we lookin for?” Digger asked.

Anything that makes sense, Brady replied.

Bit by bit they turned over every scrap of junk on the floor.  It was in the cast iron heat stove they found gold nuggets.  They were hidden in the ash pan.  The search became more frantic.  Their eyes opened wide.  Their breathing became fast and labored.  On the second pass through the junk Digger exclaimed; ”look at that,” pointing at Dingle lying on the floor.

“What?” Brady replied.

“This.” Digger bent down and pulled what looked like an old book from under the body.  It didn’t have a cover; it was just pages.

“Didn’t know he could read,” Brady muttered.  “What’s in it?”

“Pictures.   It’s about making whiskey.  See here’s pictures of a still and here’s pictures of grain and …”

Digger stood straight up as he turned to the last pages of the book.

“What?” cried Brady anxiously.

“A map.  Look.  A hand-drawn map.  I can make it out.  Here’s the cabin, see. His hand was shaking as he pointed to spots on the map.  You go north to the big bolder there then west to the roads there.  Here’s the Bloomfield courthouse.  Here’s fox river and that ”X” is the gold mine.

“Let me see it,” Brady said.

Digger’s eyes got wider as he clutched the book close to his chest

“Let me see it.” Brady insisted louder this time reaching out to grab the book.

By this time the insanity of Gold Fever had captured both men.  They fought like wild men running at each other like they were tormented.  Punching, biting, smashing with whatever they could get their hands on.  Finally, one lay prostrate, bleeding and senseless on the ground outside the cabin.  The other, still in a daze, gathered up equipment, the mule, his horse, and following the map set out to find the gold mine.

It was late at night when Sheriff Garvey and Murphy arrived.  

Constable Brady was beaten badly.  He had broken bones in his hand and arm as well as a cracked skull and severe concussion.  His vision was damaged.  It took a week of convalescence back at Go-Springs before the whole story came out and the Constable began to think normally again.  The first thing Brady did was make a map by memory.

Digger, however, had disappeared and was never seen again in Go-Springs though about a month later, there was an account of a wild-eyed, madman who passed through Troy Iowa, claiming he had struck gold and was on his way to Chicago.  Nobody paid any mind to him.

JB just stood there.  He had everyone’s attention.  The story was over.  The applause was loud and rowdy.

Finally, Fire Chief Kelley announced that twelve inches of new snow had fallen and some would want to stay the night.

The spell was broken and everyone rushed outside to experience the new-fallen snow.  

Lots of stories were told later that night by the fireplace.   Bruce traded me his Treasure Map for a 92’ ford truck water pump.  The snow was deep and getting deeper.  Ben and I didn’t get home till the next day.

So, that’s it for now

Where the corn grows tall and pigs fly

Take care

All my love

Grampa Jim.