a furnace to melt down his gold. I imagine he shoveled it, panned it, amalgamated it with quicksilver. From what Juan said there was no force of water for hydraulic mining. Nowadays they would use a steam shovel. But that does not matter. Kenyon found only one portion of his hill was gold-bearing, the rest valueless conglomerate. He stored up the gold for shipment and, when he found he had come to the end of his treasure, he prepared to ship it to Pioche, in wagons, guarded—but not guarded heavily enough. They made for Pioche Gap, where the railroad now runs. And a Mexican band, hiding in ambush, swooped down upon the treasure train. In that band was Juan Mendoza, fifteen or so years of age, a man grown by Mexican standards, old enough to aim and fire a rifle.
"They killed Kenyon. They shot down the guards before many of them knew what had happened, firing from the cliffs. And they carried off the gold, westward, to their hiding place. Juan described it to me as a canyon rising from the desert, with painted cliffs that were shaped like churches. He regarded it with superstitious awe. To him it was sacrilege to bring stolen gold, won by murder, to such a place. He believed the rock forms were actual ruins, that they would be cursed for their action. Remember this superstition of his.
"But the others, older, more callous, laughed at him. There was water there and feed for their horses, many caves in which to hide and, if necessary, defend themselves. They had provisions stored there. There were women. It was their fortress.
