carrying provisions, had stampeded—
losing their lives in the forked flames
that roared down upon them, whipped
by a savage nor-wester. Only by the
skin of their teeth had they escaped
being burned to a crisp in the holo-
caust. From now on the Lost Lemon
Mine acquired a new name—The
Hoodooed Mine.

Still undefeated, the priest organ-
ized another expedition the following
summer. Lemon, who seemed to have
regained his sanity, climbed into the
saddle, and led the party. But prox-
imity to the place of tragic memories
again unsettled his addled brain and
the men were forced, again, to turn
and take him back. From Tobacco

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Page Forty-four

Plains Bill went to his brother’s ranch
in Texas, where he lived for many
years, having lucid intervals at times,
but haunted always by the sinister
curse of the hoodooed mine.

Others Take Up Search

Disgusted, the priest gave up the
search for the lost mine, only to see it
avidly taken up by scores of others:
One of these was Jim Nelson, a
member of the first Lemon party. But
a tireless summer search, with pre-
datory bands of inquisitive Stoneys
hovering ever on their flanks, failed
to reveal the secret of the hidden
hoard.

Finally the wiry figure of the old
buffalo hunter and Indian trader, La-
fayette French, swung from his buck-
skin mount before the Emerson
House on the squalid main street of
Tobacco Plains. “I’m goin’ to find
the secret of that thar gold Lemon
an’ Blackjack found, if it takes me
the rest o’ my born days,” he told a
bunch of cowpunchers and hunters
over numerous shots of red-eye
whiskey in the square-fronted Grizzly
Bear saloon. To a friend, French
showed a faded pen-and-ink sketch-
map marked with mountain ranges,
and streams wandering in serpentine
lines. At the head of a three-forked
creek was a cross and, against it, the
magic legend: “Gold!”

“That thar map,’ he growled
through his beard, “was made by Bill
Lemon. I went down an’ seen him at
his brother’s ranch in the Texas Pan-
handle. And that thar mark,” he
placed a gnarled finger on the cross,
“is where Blackjack made his strike
the richest thing this side o’ the
Rockies. That’s why I shook the dust
o’ Fort Benton off my moccasins an’
high-tailed it up here.”

True to his words, for the next
fifteen years Lafayette French de-
voted himself unswervingly to his self-
imposed task. His first trip was far
from auspicious. In the vastness of the
hills he was overtaken by some strange
malady, and dragged himself back to
Tobacco Plains—more dead than
alive.

Recovering, the old veteran went
about his work methodically. He spent
months with the survivors of previous
expeditions that had searched for the
lost mine. One of them he hired to

accompany him with his pack outfit,

to Crow’s Nest Lake in order to
identify some of the landmarks in the
district traveled by Lemon’s first ex-
pedition. He kept La Nouse and his
band of half-breed hunters all one
winter in order to check up, when
spring came, the spot where Lemon
and Blackjack had parted with them
the year of the murder.
Indians Act as Guides

Rounding up Calf Child and a
number of his Stoney tribesmen, he

fed them the greater part of another
winter at Lee’s ranch on Pincher
Creek. In the spring he drove twenty-
five sleek horses and a similar number
of fat cattle into the pasture. “Those
will be yours,” he gazed into the in-
scrutable eyes of Calf Child, “the
moment you show me the place where
Blackjack was buried.”

With a guttural “A-ah!” Calf Child
tossed his long braids over his
shoulder and agreed to guide the de-
lighted trader to the spot. Pack-horses
were laden down with supplies, guns,
axes and ammunition, and the party
set out in high spirits. This time they
were going to dig up the gleaming
gold that, so far, had eluded every-
one! But the second night out some
superstitious terror took possession of
the red man. Despite all arguments
and persuasion he refused to move a
step farther. Again the expedition was
abandoned.

It was some time later when French
made another bargain with the In-
dian. Calf Child and his band were
trekking across the prairies towards
the tepees of the tribe at Morley when
French tackled him. Finally the In-
dian agreed to camp at George Sage’s
place—an abandoned ranch on the
middle fork of the High River—till
French could get George Emerson to
join him. Again Calf Child was per-
suaded to conduct them to the murder
spot. That night the Indian died
suddenly in convulsions.

Convinced that it was the result of
“bad medicine’ worked on him
through his intention to betray the
secret of his tribe, his people placed
his body on a cayuse-hauled travois
and carried it fearfully back to the
encampment. The very night of their
return to Morley Calf Child’s son-in-
law died in the same mysterious
manner—another manifestation, ac-
cording to the superstitious Stoneys,
of the wrath of the Wahcondah!

Secret Dies With Him

The hoodoo that had haunted
French continued to dog his footsteps
to the very last. In a fire of mysterious
origin that turned the Emerson House
into a blazing inferno he suffered
terrible burns. On the same evening
he’d written a letter to a friend at
Fort Benton and posted it at the
Bar-U Ranch. Evidently. he was in a
state of great exaltation and excite-
ment. He had at last, he said, located
IT, and was going to High River in a
couple of days to tell him everything
and enlist his aid. But when he did
arrive there he was unable to utter a
word and died without recovering his
speech. If he’d actually succeeded in
solving the mystery he’d spent so many
years trying to unravel, then his secret
died with him.

Numerous attempts have since been
made to re-locate the hoodooed mine,

THE SHOULDER STRAP