IN HELL'S CAÑON
Adventurous prospectors who have followed the perilous trails over the Cabinet Mountains have, as a matter of course, heard of the Lost Lead, but only he who is a total stranger to fear has penetrated the chaotic wilderness of Hell's Cañon, and thus come suddenly upon the Grave of Gold. Four rude granite posts, connected by heavy log chains, enclose the spot. On the face of the giant bowlder that stands guard over the few square feet of sacred earth is carved:
THE LOST LEAD.
LOUIS GILBERT.
1860-1891.
This inscription marks the loneliest, yet richest, grave in the world.
Late in the spring of 1889, Louis Gilbert left his home in Kentucky for a visit to his uncle's mine in the Northwest. He had lung trouble, and the doctor had ordered an outdoor life. While his health improved, he became infected with another ailment, perhaps the only one to be caught at that altitude—the gold fever. Miners were his only associates, the talk was all of lodes, leads and drifts, and the only communication with the outside world was by the train of pack mules that carried the heavy ore sacks down the winding trail. So it was not surprising that his walks took the character of prospecting tours, and carried him farther and farther from camp. Late in October, when his visit was nearly over, he started with three days' food for a last trip, into new territory. From a conical mountain top about ten miles west of the mine, he had looked over a lower range of summits to a great expanse of wild and broken country that he had never explored.
The weather was like summer when he started, but thirty-six hours later, on the evening of the second day, a fierce snowstorm set in. By midnight, the first blizzard of the season was raging through the mountains. On the third day the storm still howled furiously, but searching parties were sent out with a faint hope of finding the young prospector before the trails became entirely impassable. In the dim twilight of the afternoon they returned one by one, almost worn out, convinced that the body of the missing man would not be found till the warm winds of spring should melt away the drifts. Yet, as a humane precaution, lights were kept burning all night in cabin windows, and, guided by one of them, Louis Gilbert staggered into camp and fell like a dead man before the messroom door. He was taken from the snow, wrapped in blankets and laid before a blazing fire. When he showed signs of life he was given hot drinks and put to bed. His prospector's belt dropped to the floor like lead, and when opened was found to be stuffed with nuggets of virgin gold.
In the fever that followed, Gilbert talked deliriously of his long struggle through the blinding drifts, hungry, cold and aching for the sleep which would mean death, yet forcing himself onward with the blizzard at his back as his only guide. The amazing richness of his find had given him the strength that saved his life.
Finally he opened his eyes with the old look and told in detail the story of his wonderful discovery. On the east side of a stream, in a cañon so terribly wild and broken that it was almost impassable, he had found the gold on the very surface of a ledge.
Filling his belt, he had started to blaze his way back, when the storm came down with frightful violence. The rest of the journey was simply a horrible nightmare.
As nothing could be done while the snow lasted, Gilbert returned to Kentucky for the winter, yet could think of nothing but his discovery. He had found a fortune, had even put his hands upon it, and knew it was his whenever he could stake off his claim and take possession. He spent his time in making a chart of the stream he had followed on which he set down every detail he could recall of the eastern bank, along which he had travelled.
Early the following spring he was back at his uncle's mine, waiting impatiently for the snow to melt and be carried away by the swollen streams. Finally, after a tedious delay, he set out with a small party of miners all eager to have a hand in locating the rich prospect.
"Hell's Cañon!" exclaimed the foreman, as, skirting Cone Top Mountain, Gilbert pointed out the way. One of the men, a Mexican, declined to go any farther with the party, and the foreman explained to the wondering Gilbert:
"The Mexicans give Hell's Cañon a wide berth. They say that one of them found a big treasure there, and then lost it and his life in some uncanny way. They found his bones though, next summer. Knew 'em by his divining rod, that he clung to even in death."
On the second day Gilbert and his companions found the stream, which fought its way among the upturned rocks, cavernous gorges and fallen logs. At the sight of it Gilbert eagerly led the search along the east bank, and every spot was carefully searched. But the bowlder, the two dead trees—every other characteristic landmark on Gilbert's chart—could not be found. All search was vain. The map was not that of the locality they were in—as Gilbert himself was obliged to admit.
During that summer Gilbert led out four other searching parties, but never got any nearer the lost lead. Then he again went South for the winter. When he next returned it was with a flushed cheek that contrasted horribly with his pale, pinched look and steadily failing strength. In spite of all disappointments, he was still hopeful, and to humor him his uncle's miners occasionally made excursions into the maze of peaks and gulches.
One morning, late in the season, Gilbert asked for one more chance to solve the mystery of Hell's Cañon. He had had a dream, he said enthusiastically, that this time he would be successful. The miners did not put much faith in dreams, but, for his uncle's sake, and because it was recalled that this was the second anniversary of the great discovery, they made up a party and started out in the usual direction. Although they moved slowly, the young man's feebleness increased until it became necessary to carry him on a litter made of boughs. This delayed them even more, and it was late on the third day before they reached the stream. At the sight of the dashing water, Gilbert's strength appeared to rally, and, sitting up, he directed them to cross to the west bank. At this strange order the bearers exchanged significant glances and called the rest of the party. They all believed that with a brief return of physical strength the young man's mind had broken down. The one point on which he had always been most positive—that the vein was on the eastern bank of the stream—he had now abandoned. It was evident to them that the lost lead would never be found.
But it was time to camp for the night, and the west bank was much more sheltered. With much difficulty, bracing themselves against the stones, they carried the litter across the swift current. Selecting a site sheltered by a huge bowlder, the men sent in advance to pitch camp began with picks to clear a spot for the tent. With a ring that could not be mistaken the steel struck the rock. The men gave a great cheer. Gilbert raised himself on his litter when it was brought up, and gazed excitedly at the great bowlder and its surroundings, which had come to him so vividly in that prophetic death-dream—his last on earth.
"The Lost Lead!" he cried in a triumphant tone, and then adding in a weak voice, "Bury me here, boys," he sank back—dead.
Spring freshets had changed the torrent's course, and the east bank had become the west!
They buried Louis Gilbert with the treasure he had never possessed, and while the rich mine became known in financial circles as "The Lost Lead," yet old miners themselves speak of it only as "The Grave of Gold."