Motherlode
by CS Norwood
©1992, 2026 CS Norwood. All rights reserved.
Travis Danner gave the big line-backed dun a free rein and allowed the horse to pick his way across the loose basalt and patches of gravel and scree that littered the dry wash. Just before the arroyo bent in a blind curve to the left, he reined Dunny into a pocket along the wall. Near the end of the winter months, during the season that some natives called the Corn Planting Moon, relentless rains buffeting the not-too-distant mountains sent torrents of water racing down the slopes and into the gullies and arroyos that zigzagged their way across the desert floor. Carved into the wall of the arroyo by the last flash-flood waters, the pocket Travis rode into provided a welcome resting place for the man and his horse. Canopied by the exposed gnarled roots of a lone mesquite above, it was a place of shadowed coolness. As the season of corn planting was past, he had no fear of floodwater today. Now he could rest and wait for his two brothers in the shadows, out of sight of any roaming Apache bands, although that was unlikely. Not many had been seen in the area for several months now, he’d heard in town. Rumer was they were moving south, heading for strongholds. Still, a man never left caution to rumor out here. Those who did usually met their end unceremoniously and rather quickly. He was a rough man, but a cautious man and he was still here. Though, at forty-one, Travis was beginning to feel his age, mostly while on the ground, but sometimes while still in the saddle. Dunny shifted under him.
“Yer feelin’ it now, ain’t ya old boy?” Man and horse had been partnered for seven years now and been through some tough scrapes together, yet they wore their scars only on the surface. A fairly deep stab wound in Dunny’s neck from a mad cow, and a nick or two from a stray bullet in Travis’ side and on his dally hand were the most visible scars if anyone cared to look hard enough. Travis laid his fingers in the dimple left behind in Dunny’s neck as memories of those wild days rounding up feral cattle in Texas brushland threatened to flood back in. Days of blazing sunrises, sweat, and danger capped off with peaceful moments of beans and flatbread cooked over wilderness campfires. There were cherished memories of Carmen in the border-town cantina, as well.
No time for that now, though. No regrets. Just sore bones for an aging cowboy who knew nothing but the brutally tough and dangerous life of a cowhand who owned nothing but the saddle horse he rode in on. “I still have my bedroll,” he smiled sardonically as he checked his pocket watch—an hour before noon—then pulled out his cigarette makings although he would not smoke out here. The smell of burning tobacco was an obvious tell. He was idle, but his mind wandered on. The future was just that, the rest of the day; tomorrow was always a long way off, and there was nothing more to look forward to than a peaceful night under a starry sky. His thoughts and memories were clouding in on him again. His sigh was audible, and something he rarely did—make sounds in dangerous territory. He needed to think differently or he could bring trouble raining down from where, he didn’t know, but he knew it was never very far away.
He had about half an hour before the telegram said his brothers would meet him at the small seep known as Carson Spring. It was only a mile or so east of where he sat now, and he could cover that distance easily in less than a quarter of an hour. He shifted his seat once again as Dunny shifted his feet, and his thoughts shifted to the man they were coming together to meet.
He had become sort of a legend in these parts. Over in the nearest settlement—despite its small population it carried the rather large moniker of Lyman City—they called him “Hazelnut.” Their uncle, Hazel Daughtry never seemed to mind what folks called him. Travis exhaled slowly, wondering why, after all these years, his brothers had telegraphed him in Carson City to meet them here. The reunion would certainly be nice—but why had Uncle Hazel telegraphed Joel and Reedy, telling them they needed to locate Travis wherever he was and be at Carson Spring at noon on the twenty-fifth of July. Suddenly the gelding’s head shot up and his nostrils flared. Travis had long ago learned to trust his mount’s keen sight and sense of smell. He guessed by Dunny’s ears pricked forward and tense alertness, even before he saw or heard anything, that at least one rider was approaching.
A single stroke along Dunny’s neck signaled stillness and readiness for the trail wise animal as Travis eased his Sharps carbine from its boot. Then the motionless horse and rider waited; whoever was coming up the arroyo was still on the other side of the bend, out of sight. Now Travis heard them, more than one rider was coming. They were moving as quietly as they could, but he could tell by the sound of the horses hooves on the stones, that there were at least two riders, maybe three, but he doubted that, and that they were shod horses; that meant that he wasn’t going to have to face a warrior band in the next few seconds.
Reedy Danner, his youngest brother, rounded the bend first, with Joel riding a dusty bay beside him. Travis made no move but let his two younger brothers ride almost beside him before he spurred the dun’s flanks and exploded him out of the pocket.
Reedy and Joel Danner drew their revolvers simultaneously, almost before a man could blink.
“They still hang a man in these parts, even if it is for shootin’ his own brother, don’t they?” Travis grinned.
Reedy was the first to react. He spurred his horse forward to cover the few short yards to meet his brother.
“Travis! Hang it all, big brother, you sure did give us a start!” He reached across the gap and, grabbing Travis, pulled them both from their horses. The two men landed in a cloud of dust, hugging and laughing.
Joel steadied his own rearing mount as he re-holstered his revolver, then dismounted and crossed to his brothers.
“Darn, Travis! You always did know how to make an entrance,” Joel said as he reached a gauntleted hand to first Travis and then Reedy. “Git up outta that dust, and let’s have a look at yer sorry self.” He extended a hand to Travis who moved just a little slower now than the younger man.
“I been hearin’ all these stories about you, riding the long trails, fightin’ outlaws and leavin’ yer mark ever’where you go, brother!”
Joel and Travis embraced. It had been almost ten years since the three Danner brothers had been together in one place. The last time was at their mother’s funeral.
“Well, Joel, the tall tales about you are runnin’ pretty rampant, too, I’d say. What’s this about you foilin’ that holdup the Wallace’s tried on the Abilene train?” Travis’ broad smile cut his chiseled features—weathered from a hard life in sun and wind.
“T’wern’t nothin’. I was just a little handier than that sorry lot’s all.”
“Nothin’ my eye,” exclaimed Reedy as he slapped another cloud of dust from Travis’ back. “He made the Eastern papers! He’s a hero, Travis! I got some catching up to do to make the same mark’s my brothers’er makin’,” he laughed without rancor.
“Rightly so…about the hero and the catchin’ up, I reckon!” Travis laughed, and the three brothers faced each other quietly, smiling, each trying in his own silence to account for the long years since they had last met.
Travis broke the silence. “Reedy, yer the youngest and still able to move; get those danged horses, will ya?” he commanded as he retrieved his fallen Stetson and slapped it across his chap to loosen the dust.
“Yes, sir, big brother,” Reedy grinned and hurried off.
The three men rode out of the arroyo together, headed east for Carson Spring. All three brothers were strong, lean men, almost equally tall, but Travis was the tallest at two inches over six feet. Reedy was the shortest but not by much. Travis and Joel were dark of hair and skin like their mother, who was Cherokee. The two older brothers favored her in mannerisms as well as looks. They were apt to be taciturn men, their actions often speaking louder than their words. John Danner, their father, a burly man of Scotch-Irish descent, was fairer, but not pale. Reedy inherited his father’s sandy hair and steely-blue eyes, his quick grin, and love of conversation.
“It’s been a lotta years since I laid eyes on Uncle Hazel.”
“Us, too!” Reedy the more talkative of the three said. “Why, Joel and I were sayin’, before you ambushed us, that is, that it’s been nigh onta fifteen years! You heard they’s a rumor he struck it rich last year, didn’t ya, Travis?” Reedy continued without waiting for an answer. “Still won’t come outta them mountains, though. Holed up there too many years now, I reckon, “ Reedy grinned broadly, showing his even white teeth as he motioned to the stark specter of ragged peaks in the near distance. The look of them was almost intimidating. They seemed to have pierced the desert’s tough hide, from its belly out, as if the gut of the earth could no longer contain them. The sight brought silence as do most grandly contrasting visions—the flat desert floor and the stark mountain peaks.
They rode in silence now, as horses stepped softly into the desert sand. A bit clanked occasionally, and Dunny blew dust from his nostrils in their lazy walk. The sounds these quiet men and their horses made were enough to fill the void of the lonely land ahead.
Carson Spring, the place Uncle Hazel was to meet them, lay at the foot of those ragged peaks, nestled in a cottonwood draw. “Let’s step it up brothers,” Joel said, “or we’ll late for our meetin’.” With that, the brothers eased their mounts into a slow gallop.
Apache people called the mountains “ghost “ mountains. They had roamed this land for centuries but usually skirted these particular mountains. They had never been happy about Hazel Daughtry prospecting there, but they had never been able to rout him, either. He was as elusive and ghost-like as one of their ancestors, possessing the ability to fade into the granite that surrounded him. As the years passed and Hazel remained, he became as much a part of the ghost mountains as the rocks themselves. In Lyman City as the cavalry began to chase out the remaining Apache people, leaving only the tough desert marauders to fight for their homes, people began to drop the Ghost Mountain moniker and just call them the “Hazelnuts.”
Hazel paid little attention to what people called them. He cared little for the ways of city folk yet always drew attention when he wandered in with his faithful burro, Biscuit, in tow. His last trip was a little earlier than town’s folk expected. Usually, Hazel’s sparse supplies lasted for months at a time, but this was his second trip in a month.
He was always a curious sight with his battered hat and dusty clothes from the long walk down the mountains and across the miles of desert. His long hair and beard had long ago turned silver-gray, and his face was a deep bronze. His hands were calloused and almost as tough as the rocks he dug. Yet if all this were not the quintessential picture of a grizzled desert prospector, his most striking feature was his eyes. As blue as a crystal mountain lake, they seemed to focus always on something just ahead, even when the merchants in town addressed him directly, he looked at them but focused on something beyond their faces. People started saying that he was always looking at that “sack of gold.” Like his two oldest nephews, sons of his half-sister, he spoke little, procured his rations with gold dust, leaving rumors abounding in his wake.
The last time he came down to Lyman City, however, looking the same as usual in a town that was constantly changing, he did something he had never done before. He went directly to the town telegrapher and sent a message to his youngest nephew at the last place anyone in Lyman City had heard from him, Yuma, Arizona. Hazel penciled the message in hard-pressed scribble and Bartum Bixby sent it clicking off over the wire. As soon as it was gone, Hazel left the office, walked to the hitching rail, tightened the ties on Biscuit’s load and trudged back along the same street he’d walked in on. The entire event caused a stir and Bartum did not hesitate to spread the word that the Danner brothers were coming home. Uncle Hazel needed their help desperately, he had said in the wire.
Immediately, and almost out of thin air, rumor had it that crazy Hazelnut Daughtry had found the motherlode. But this fairytale was just the nugget these seedy characters were waiting for. Crow and Wiley resolved to attend the Danner family reunion. After all, four men travelling together could not simply vanish into thin air like that one crazy old prospector could. They would easily leave a trail large enough for anyone to follow, even a pair of born losers like Crow and Wiley. They rode out of town at sunrise, trailing the Danner brothers who had ridden in the day before and left at first light the next morning—the twenty-fifth of July.
Carson Spring, a small trickle of water this time of year, created a little pool and then ran a hundred yards out into the desert, finally disappearing beneath the scorched sand. The three brothers dismounted and let their horses drink.
“Hotter ‘n hell out here,” Joel dipped his neckerchief in the cool water and wiped his brow. Travis turned his gaze to the surrounding mountain face. At first glance, it appeared impenetrable. His eyes narrowed as he studied the terrain; he could pick out at least two avenues of ascent. One was straight ahead, while the other appeared to be a small deer track farther back up the wash. It wound through some low cottonwoods, disappeared around a rock outcropping, and then reappeared about two hundred feet above before it left the ledge and disappeared altogether. It was the steeper of the two, and the one more exposed to snipers. Travis guessed that Uncle Hazel would come down the closer trail. Flanked by large boulders, it rounded a steep slope and disappeared almost immediately. Certainly, there was always the possibility there were other trails known only to local tribes or Uncle Hazel. These two were only the most obvious from his vantage point.
Some minutes passed without a sound when suddenly, Hazel Doughtry was standing there with them. He seemed to materialize from the rocks behind the spring head. It was so unexpected that even the unscrupulous pair lying in wait to dry gulch them were taken off guard.
“Oh, Lord have mercy! “ Reedy exclaimed as he jumped when he caught sight of the grizzly apparition that was his only uncle. “Where ‘n hell’d you come from?”
“That’s not where I cum from, boy—that might be where I’m headin’, though!”The old man said matter-of-factly, and then chuckled, as if, after ruminating on the idea a moment, he had stumbled on some sort of truth.
“Which one ’er you? I cain’t ‘member.”
“I’m Reedy, Uncle Hazel,” the youngest brother recovered from his fright and extended a damp hand. Travis looked on as the sinewy little prospector shook it in a grasp not unlike the slow closure of a steel vise. He could see Reedy wince. Old Uncle Hazel might be as wiry as a catamount, but he was as strong as a grizzly, Travis thought.
“You look so much like yer Pa … fair like him ’n me. We just let the sun cook us dark, is all. I sure do miss that crazy Irishman,” he said with a hint of sadness in his voice.
“And yer Travis,” he pointed correctly without waiting to be introduced. “Ya got yer Maw’s looks—just like a Cherokee,” he said without rancor, a note of respect in his voice. “You too…”
“Joel…”
“That’s it! Joel! … only not quite’s much like her as yer brother here,” he said.
The re-introductions to his nephews complete, the three brothers stood silently as their uncle looked from one to the other. It was not an uncomfortable silence, however, for these men were, each in his own way, used to the solitary life, a life where a man is most comfortable when the air is still and silent, so he can pick out the voices of the wind and trees, the birds, and animals that surround him, especially the deadliest of all: the two legged variety who wear side arms and carry death in their hearts. Travis, Joel, and Reedy were drifters, working cattle when those jobs were to be had, the odd job of riding shotgun guard on the Butterfield Stage, marshalling for a boom town—the toughest job a man could ask for—or just mending fence for some rancher over in Texas. On a smaller scale, Uncle Hazel was a drifter too.
The old prospector had spent the last twenty years of his life wandering through his Ghost Mountains, always searching up a little higher, or around the next outcropping for his elusive motherlode, always looking somewhere up ahead to fill his sack with gold nuggets.
When Travis finally broke the silence, his voice was just above a whisper, “I think there are two of ’em. Do you know ’em, Uncle?” No one moved but remained as if they were still in conversation.
“I’d lay odds it’s that pair from over Lyman City way. I kinda expected they’d show up at this here at our reunion,” Hazel replied. “They’re out there about fifty yards, crawling along that gully. Can you boys take ‘em?”
“What’s say we just send ’em packin’ before we get down to business?” Joel asked. “When I drop my hat…”
Travis nodded.
By the time Joel’s hat touched the ground, the three brothers had drawn their pistols and wheeled in unison toward their targets. After their lightning draw, the thunder of exploding guns came as bullets split the desert air and bit into the rim of the gully, sending pieces of gravel showering atop the crouching figures of Crow and Wiley. The two ne’r-do-wells ducked and scurried back along the ever deepening channel as they dodged the rain of bullets that followed their course. The scoundrels reached their already frantic horses, mounted, and whipped them out of the gully into a hasty retreat. The four men by the spring laughed at the retreating figures.
“Fine work boys. Ya sent ’em packin’ pronto without nary a drop a blood spilt here taday.” Uncle Hazel laughed and practically danced in his glee.
“Now that we’ve taken care of those hombres, Uncle, just what is this reunion all about?” Travis asked the old man as he reloaded, then holstered the Colt.
The prospector looked at the face of each nephew in turn, eyeing them closely. He studied the men before him until Travis noticed a change in his uncle’s eyes. One moment he had been carefully gaging each one, and the next it was as if he was looking right through them to something a little beyond the point where they stood.
“Common, boys!” Hazel broke the spell and suddenly erupted into motion. He waved them to follow, and almost before they could move, disappeared among the same rocks he had sprung from earlier. As the brothers looked on in amazement, Uncle Hazel re-emerged from behind the rocks climbing up the near trail that Travis had spotted.
“We best hurry before he disappears again!” Joel said.
They collected their horses’ reins quickly and led off single file up the narrow trail, first Joel, then Reedy. Travis brought up the rear, his eyes constantly surveying the trail behind until he was certain they were not followed by anyone.
For the next hour they climbed a narrow path, switching back on itself through intricate turns and loops around boulders, precipitously clinging jack pines and tough manzanita thickets. Travis studied the trail behind him at each turn, marking his route, but it would not be an easy backtrail; it was traveled little and not well defined. A man could become hopelessly lost up here with what appeared to be only one way out. False trails lead to shear ledges that dropped off into thin air, the desert floor hundreds of feet below. This was a dangerous place to get lost in, he realized.
They had entered a strangely different world here, where the wind blew down through hidden copes of trees, whispering in a rustling sough as it passed. The air became cooler and seemed fresher as they climbed.
Desert floor sage, tumbleweed, and prickly pear, were replaced by yucca and juniper and then by the red tangle of manzanita thickets. While tenacious jack pines clung to the rocky ledges, taller cottonwoods mingled with longleaf pines in ever thickening forests. The foursome eventually left the mountain’s face and followed the trail that entered into the heart of these ghostly mountains. Now they began a gradual descent. Trees, protected from the harsh environs of the mountain face, grew taller here. Presently, they entered the forest, remounted, and after another hour of riding along a more or less horizontal path, suddenly rode out onto a clearing beside a small lake. The change took everyone by surprise, except, of course, Uncle Hazel, who continued his headlong journey. Not once had he spoken, nor, for that matter, stopped to rest, since they left the desert floor.
Travis, Joel, and Reedy pulled their horses to a halt for a quick breather. Each leaned forward on his saddle horn while taking in the panorama.
The water was crystal clear and reflected the color of the intensely blue sky. Above, the cry of a hunting eagle caught their attention as it soared, talons first, to the lake’s surface lifting off with his evening meal, a mountain trout.
The lake was about a quarter of a mile long and twice that at its widest point, Travis speculated. He inhaled deeply of the sweet pine and faint pungent odor of fish. It was one of the most beautiful sights he had ever seen. Surrounded first by a border of tall reeds and lush grasses, then by towering pines and white oaks, the entire view was capped off by a backdrop of rocky mountain peaks. This is what paradise looks like, he thought. A man could rest his weary bones in peace in a place like this.
“Where’d he go?” Reedy broke the spell the tired trio had slipped into.
“Dang it all!” Joel cursed lifting the reins as his horse stepped forward. “Whoa, now! I’ll be hanged if that uncle of ours ain’t the real ghost in these here mountains!”
“Beats anything I ever saw,” added Travis as he picked up his own reins.
“Common, boys!” The shout skipped across the lake. It was Uncle Hazel. He was waving and calling them from the far side.
“Well, this is it! My home, boys! Pull up a chair. I suppose yer wonderin’ why l sent you that there telegram, ain’t ya?” They had entered a stout roomy log cabin, well hidden among the trees, about a hundred yards from the lake’s shore.
There were plenty of split oak chairs around the fireplace for a man who lived alone. Reedy remarked on this.
“Got nothin’ ta do in my spare time, boy. I’m gettin’ old. Give up minin’ last F’brary. Got blasted cold up here! I figured no Injuns—nobody gonna come after me all the way up here. So, I settled in, thought about you boys, and built ya some chairs for when ya comed visitin’.”
Uncle Hazel finished with a self-satisfied smile for each of his nephews.
“What, exactly, did you get us all the way up here visitin’ for Uncle Hazel?” Travis straddled a chair, leaning forward to cross his arms over the back. He was bone weary. It had been a long day’s ride, not to mention the long mountain climb afoot, and he was in the mood for some answers. “And who were those two we had to run off back yonder at the spring?”
“Oh!” He waved Travis’ questions off in characteristic style. “Them’s just that pesky old Jim Crow and Jeb Wiley. They’re the sorry pair a varmints been tryin’ ta trail me ta my digs over two year now. I expected they’d get wind of my telegram pretty quick and follow you boys ta the spring. Ya handled ’em just like I knew ya would. Just like I ’member yer Ma taught ya! ‘Ain’t no need ta kill ’em when you can scare ’em ta death!’ she’d say.” Remembering his half-sister’s words seemed to tickle Uncle Hazel.
“What’s this deal?” Joel’s voice held its own edge of weariness and impatience. “You didn’t get us all the way up here to just stop some two-bit claim jumpers. Gotta be somethin’ more to this, Uncle Hazel.”
Hazel got up, took a can of coffee from a shelf, and carefully poured a measure into the coffeepot. He ladled in some water, moved to the crane on the fireplace and swung the pot over the fire he had poked back into life when he first entered his cabin. Having done all this in silence, he tuned to face his kin.
“I found it.”
“Found what?”
“The motherlode.”
The brothers straighten their tired backs, all attention now.
“You mean…” Reedy began.
“I mean, boys. I’m a tired old man. I been up here, alone, nigh onta twenty year now, and I’ve hammered and picked and dug on about ever’ square inch a these consarned mountains. I’ve fought off claim jumpers, and Apache braves fer the right ta stay here. I’ve learned how ta pretty-near be a phantom ta survive. I staked a legal claim on ever’ inch of it, and me and the Apache bands, and the U.S. government have kept everyone else off’n my claim up until now. And it’s just been this past F’brary that I discovered it. After all these years … ” He stopped. His voice choking, he wiped a tear from his eye as his three nephews sat in respectful silence.
“After all these years a diggin’ an scratching in this heat n cold, I have finally found my motherlode, and I want you boys—my onliest kin—ta inherit it…”
“Gold!” Reedy exclaimed. “Brothers! We’re gonna be rich!”
“Yer gonna be rich, all right. “Uncle Hazel continued. “But it ain’t gold I’m talkin’ about…”
“What? What are you talkin’ about?” chorused the three.
“But you said you found the motherlode, Uncle Hazel? Ain’t there no gold up here?” Reedy asked, puzzled.
“Ah, sure,” Uncle Hazel waved, “they’s plenty a gold—gold dust, an little veins a gold all over these here mountains. There may even be a motherlode vein running beneath that lake out yonder…but it’d cost ya a king’s ransom ta dig ’er up! No, boy, the motherlode I’m leavin’ with ya is worth more’n any a my puny little digs a gold.”
“Here,” Uncle Hazel walked to the fireplace and carefully removed one of the stones along its base. He reached into a hollow space in the stones and pulled out a sheaf of papers.
“This, boys…this is my motherlode.” He held the sheaf up high to emphasize his point. “It’s the reason I been up here fer all these years, and I didn’t even figure it all out till F’brary this year!”
He handed the papers to Travis first.
“Why, these are deeds, Uncle Hazel.” Travis appearing a bit confused, looked the papers over quickly then handed them to Joel.
“Don’t ya see it? Ever time I cum across a new little vein a gold, er panned enough dust outta that stream up yonder behind the cabin, the one that feeds the lake, I’d pack up old Biscuit ’n go down ta Lyman City an buy me a legal deed ta some more a these here mountains. Nobody down there wanted the land. They just wanted the gold they thought’s in it. But nobody’d risk comin’ up here cause a the Apache raiders, and ghost superstitions, n danger n lonesomeness ’er what not.”
“You’re saying you own a deed to these mountains?” Travis wanted this thing clarified. It was beginning to slowly dawn on him exactly what his uncle was offering them.
“Yep,” Uncle Hazel replied proudly, “ever blasted wonderful inch. Don’t ya see how ironical it is? It took me twenty consarned years bustin’ my back a lookin’ under rocks to see what was all surroundin’ me all the time, boys…These mountains are my motherlode! These mountains are why I stayed, t’wern’t the gold at’ll! I could’a picked up stakes n gone somewhere’s else to find a better claim, but I never could leave here, and I wasn’t figuring out why when my pannin’ and diggin’ was only providin’ me deeds n grub. Then one day it come to me all of a sudden like. I was sittin’ where you boys parked yer horses earlier, and I saw it…and it was purest gold…and it was paradise, boys…” His voice trailed off.
“And it’s all yours from today on. There’s enough gold up here ta give ya a grubstake, but if it’s a place to call yer own ya been lookin’ for, well don’t look nowhere’s else. Build ya a couple more cabins, find ya each a good wife, raise ya some young’uns n live out yer lives in peace, but don’t go chasin’ no pots o’ gold. Nothin’ll make ya any richer or make ya any happier than what I’m givin’ ya right here, right now if ya’ll have it.”
The boys sat in silence, but Travis knew there was nothing except these mountains left for him. This was what he was looking for—what he had longed for. He would ride for his own brand now and perhaps ride down to see if Carmen was still at the cantina.
“But now,” Uncle Hazel slapped his hands on the table then continued as he began hefting packs loaded with flour, salted venison, and coffee. “…now I’m too old to protect it anymore, it’s bigger’n and tougher’n me. So, that’s why I’m leavin’ the whole shebang ta you boys—my only livin’ kin. That last paper there,” he pointed to a large, clean legal document in Joel’s hand, “that’s my last will an testament there. Leave’s the whole shebang to you and Joel and Travis ta divey up how-some-ever you see fit,” he addressed Travis.
“Guard ’er well nephews! Remember, they’ll always be somebody’ll think they can just waltz right up here an take ’er away from ya. I tested you boys today… set ’er up so’s that pair could follow ya easy, wanted ta see how ya’d handle yerselves anybody comes claim jumpin’ after yer gold dust…well, my guess is they’ll be fryin’ in hell’s fryin’ pan afore they know what hit ’em!” He laughed as he raised the wooden latch on his door. “And I want my only livin’ relations to have it all! By the way, that trail out’s a might tricky. I wouldn’t try ’er tonight…if ya get my drift.”
As he opened the door, the cool night air rushed in to stir the flames in the fireplace. An owl hooted in the trees close by and somewhere off in the distance a lone wolf called for his mate.
“Wait a minute! Where’re you headed for Uncle Hazel?” Travis called after his uncle as the old man stepped through the doorway.
“Oh,” Uncle Hazel waved again, “Me ’n ole Biscuit, we’re just headin’ out to check on the motherlode.”
And with that, the old prospector gathered the lead of his little burro, turned away, and disappeared into the shadows one last time … or so goes the legend of the motherlode.
THE END