Lost Mines. The Breyfogle and Others
The most famous lost mine in the Death Valley area is the Lost
Breyfogle. There are many versions of the legend, but all agree that
somewhere in the bowels of those rugged mountains is a colossal mass of
gold, which Jacob Breyfogle found and lost.
Jacob Breyfogle was a prospector who roamed the country around Pioche
and Austin, Nevada, with infrequent excursions into the Death valley
area. He traveled alone.
Indian George, Hungry Bill, and Panamint Tom saw Breyfogle several times
in the country around Stovepipe Wells, but they could never trace him to
his claim. When followed, George said, Breyfogle would step off the
trail and completely disappear. Once George told me about trailing him
into the Funeral Range. He pointed to the bare mountain. “Him there, me
see. Pretty quick—” He paused, puckered his lips. “Whoop—no see.”
Breyfogle left a crude map of his course. All lost mines must have a
map. Conspicuous on this map are the Death Valley Buttes which are
landmarks. Because he was seen so much here, it was assumed that his
operations were in the low foothills. I have seen a rough copy of this
map made from the original in possession of “Wildrose” Frank Kennedy’s
squaw, Lizzie.
Breyfogle presumably coming from his mine, was accosted near Stovepipe
Wells by Panamint Tom, Hungry Bill, and a young buck related to them,
known as Johnny. Hungry Bill, from habit, begged for food. Breyfogle
refused, explaining that he had but a morsel and several hard days’
journey before him. On his burro he had a small sack of ore. When
Breyfogle left, Hungry Bill said, “Him no good.”
Incited by Hungry Bill and possible loot, the Indians followed Breyfogle
for three or four days across the range. Hungry Bill stopped en route,
sent the younger Indians ahead. At Stump Springs east of Shoshone,
Breyfogle was eating his dinner when the Indians sneaked out of the
brush and scalped him, took what they wished of his possessions and left
him for dead.
Ash Meadows Charlie, a chief of the Indians in that area confided to
Herman Jones that he had witnessed this assault. This happened on the
Yundt Ranch, or as it is better known, the Manse Ranch. Yundt and Aaron
Winters accidentally came upon Breyfogle unconscious on the ground. The
scalp wound was fly-blown. They had a mule team and light wagon and
hurried to San Bernardino with the wounded man. The ore, a chocolate
quartz, was thrown into the wagon.
“I saw some of it at Phi Lee’s home, the Resting Spring Ranch,” Shorty
Harris said. “It was the richest ore I ever saw. Fifty pounds yielded
nearly $6000.”
Breyfogle recovered, but thereafter was regarded as slightly “off.” He
returned to Austin, Nevada, and the story followed.
Wildrose (Frank) Kennedy, an experienced mining man obtained a copy of
Breyfogle’s map and combed the country around the buttes in an effort to
locate the mine. Kennedy had the aid of the Indians and was able to
obtain, through his squaw Lizzie, such information as Indians had about
the going and coming of the elusive Breyfogle.
“Some believe the ore came from around Daylight Springs,” Shorty said,
“but old Lizzie’s map had no mark to indicate Daylight Springs. But it
does show the buttes and the only buttes in Death Valley are those above
Stovepipe Wells.
“Kennedy interested Henry E. Findley, an old time Colorado sheriff and
Clarence Nyman, for years a prospector for Coleman and Smith (the
Pacific Borax Company). They induced Mat Cullen, a rich Salt Lake mining
man, to leave his business and come out. They made three trips into the
valley, looking for that gold. It’s there somewhere.”
At Austin, Breyfogle was outfitted several times to relocate the
property, but when he reached the lower elevation of the valley, he
seemed to suffer some aberration which would end the trip. His last
grubstaker was not so considerate. He told Breyfogle that if he didn’t
find the mine promptly he’d make a sieve of him and was about to do it
when a companion named Atchison intervened and saved his life. Shortly
afterward, Breyfogle died from the old wound.
Indian George, repeating a story told him by Panamint Tom, once told me
that Tom had traced Breyfogle to the mine and after Breyfogle’s death
went back and secured some of the ore. Tom guarded his secret. He
covered the opening with stone and leaving, walked backwards,
obliterating his tracks with a greasewood brush. Later when Tom returned
prepared to get the gold he found that a cloudburst had filled the
canyon with boulders, gravel and silt, removing every landmark and
Breyfogle’s mine was lost again.
“Some day maybe,” George said, “big rain come and wash um out.”
Among the freighters of the early days was John Delameter who believed
the Breyfogle was in the lower Panamint. Delameter operated a 20 mule
team freighting service between Daggett and points in both Death Valley
and Panamint Valley. He told me that he found Breyfogle down in the road
about twenty-eight miles south of Ballarat with a wound in his leg.
Breyfogle had come into the Panamint from Pioche, Nevada, and said he
had been attacked by Indians, his horses stolen, while working on his
claim which he located merely with a gesture toward the mountains.
Subsequently Delameter made several vain efforts to locate the property,
but like most lost mines it continues to be lost. But for years it was
good bait for a grubstake and served both the convincing liar and the
honest prospector.
Nearly all old timers had a version of the Lost Breyfogle differing in
details but all agreeing on the chocolate quartz and its richness.
That Breyfogle really lost a valuable mine there can be little doubt,
but since he is authentically traced from the northern end of Death
Valley to the southern, and since the chocolate quartz is found in many
places of that area, one who cares to look for it must cover a large
territory.
One mine that had never been found turned up in a way as amazing as most
of them are lost.
At Pioche, Nevada, an assayer was suspected of giving greater values to
samples than they merited. It is known as the “come on.”
In order to trap the suspect, a prospector broke off a piece of old
grindstone and ordered an assay. “If he gives that any value, it’s proof
enough he’s a crook,” he told his friends.
Proof of guilt came with the assayer’s report. The grindstone was
incredibly rich in silver, it said.
“We’ve got the goods on him now,” the outraged prospector announced and
it was decided to give the assayer a coat of tar and feathers. Wiser
counsel was accepted, however, and it was decided to give him no more
business. The fellow was faced with the alternative of starving or
leaving the country, when he learned the reason of the boycott.
Conscious of no error in his work, he made another and more careful
assay. This time the samples yielded even higher values.
It was agreed by all mining engineers of that day that rock like the
samples never carried silver or gold. But the assayer knew his furnace
hadn’t lied and he couldn’t believe grindstone makers were mixing silver
with sand to make the stones. So he traced the grindstone to the quarry
it came from. The result was the Silver King, one of the richest silver
mines.
THE LOST GUNSIGHT. The first lost mine in Death Valley, preceding that
of Breyfogle’s by four or five years, was the Gunsight.
A survivor of the Jayhawkers or the Bennett-Arcane party of ’49 (it is
not clear to which he belonged) after escaping death in the valley, saw
a deer or antelope and on the point of starvation, took his gun from its
strap to shoot the animal. Seeing that the sight had been lost, he
picked up a thin piece of shale and wedged it in the sight slot. Later
he took the weapon to a gunsmith who removed the makeshift sight and
upon examination found it to be almost pure silver. “Where I picked it
up,” said the owner, “there was a mountain of it.”
So begins the history of the Lost Gunsight and the story spread as
stories will, until ten years later it reached the ears of Dr. Darwin
French of Oroville, previously mentioned. The doctor became excited and
in the spring of 1860 organized a party to locate the fabulous mountain
of silver. Though he searched bravely he failed to find it. However, he
brought back the first authentic account of what others with a flair for
lost mines could expect in the way of weather, topography, Indians,
edible game, vegetation, and water. On this trip, however, he discovered
silver in the Coso Range.
The following year, 1861, Dr. S. G. George who had been with the French
party, decided he could find the Lost Gunsight and organized an
expedition which crossed Panamint Valley, explored Wild Rose Canyon and
reached the highest spot in Death Valley. But Dr. George’s valiant
efforts were no luckier than those of Dr. French.
William Manly, author of “Death Valley in Forty-Nine” also tried but
gained only another tragic experience and came nearer losing his life
than he did with the Forty-Niners. Lost and without water and beaten to
his knees, he was deserted by companions and escaped death by a miracle.
How many have lost their lives trying to find the Gunsight no one knows.
There are scores of sunken mounds on lonely mesas which an old timer
will explain tersely: “He was looking for the Gunsight.”
Dr. French, after his failure, pursued another and even more intriguing
lost mine. With a ready ear for tales of treasure, he heard of a tribe
of Indians in the Death Valley area who were making bullets for their
rifles out of gold. Accordingly he organized another party to find the
gold.
For eleven months Dr. French and his hand-picked comrades combed the
country. The gold they found would have loaded no gun, but you may add
the Lost Bullet to your list of lost mines. A member of this party was
John Searles, for whom Searles’ Lake is named.
Because early prospectors searched for Breyfogle’s lost mine throughout
the region where he was found scalped, an interesting digression is not
amiss.
A few miles east of Shoshone, there is a Gunsight mine named, of course,
by the discoverer in the hope that he’d found the one so long lost. It
adjoins the Noonday and was a valuable property which belonged to Dr. L.
D. Godshall of Victorville.
The Noonday produced five million dollars and was operated until silver
and lead took a price dive. A 12 mile railroad was built from Tecopa to
haul the ore. The steel rails were later hauled away and the ties went
into construction of desert homes, sheds, fences, and firewood. For
years the two properties could have been bought for what-have-you.
Then came Pearl Harbor and a young Kentuckian, Buford Davis, looking
around for lead or any essential ores that Uncle Sam could use, dropped
off at Shoshone. Charles Brown told him of the Gunsight and the Noonday.
Davis inspected the properties, bought them for a relatively small down
payment. He chose to begin operations on the Noonday and sent Ernie
Huhn, an experienced miner to deepen the shaft.
“Honest to God,” Ernie told me, “I hadn’t dug a foot when I turned up
the prettiest vein of lead I’d ever seen.”
In the next six years the Noonday produced approximately a gross of nine
million dollars and a net of probably six million dollars.
These figures were given me by Don Kempfer, mining engineer and Shoshone
resident, from estimates which he believed accurate.
In 1947 with the rich rewards attained but as yet unenjoyed, Buford
Davis made a hurried airplane trip to Salt Lake. Returning, he was only
a few moments from a safe landing when the plane crashed and all aboard
were killed.
Today, (1950) the property belongs to Anaconda and is considered one of
its most valuable mines.
For those interested in lost mines I offer the list that follows. (The
names are my own.)
THE LOST CHINAMAN: When John Searles was struggling to make a living out
of the ooze that is called Searles’ Lake he had a mule skinner known as
Salty Bill Parkinson—a fearless, hard-bitten individual who was the Paul
Bunyan of Death Valley teamsters.
While loading a wagon with borax, Salty Bill and Searles noticed a man
staggering down from the Slate Range. They decided he was supercharged
with desert likker and paid scant attention as he wobbled across the
flat from the base of the range. A moment later he fell at their feet.
They saw then that he was a Chinaman; that his tongue was swollen, his
eyes red and sunken; that he clutched at his throat in a vain effort to
speak. He could make no intelligible sound and lapsed into
unconsciousness. They thought he had died and was left on their hands
for burial.
Salty Bill afterwards stated that he’d said to Searles: “‘Fremont,
Carson, or the Mormons old Bill Williams, for whom Bill Williams River,
Bill Williams Mountain, and the town of Williams, Arizona, are named was
at Resting Springs. He’ll spoil in an hour. I’ll go for a shovel while
you choose a place to plant him.’ I’d actually turned to go when Searles
called me back.” Searles had seen some sign of life and after removing a
canvas bag strapped to his body they took him to a nearby shed, gave him
a few spoonfuls of water and eventually he was restored to
consciousness. He lay in a semi-stupor all the afternoon and was
obsessed with the idea that he was going to die. His chief concern was
to get to Mojave so that he could take a stage for a seaport and die in
China or failing, arrange for the burial of his bones with those of his
ancestors.
He had been working at Old Harmony Borax Works, picking cotton-ball
borax with other Chinese employed by the company, but tiring of abuse by
a tough boss, he’d asked for his wages and walked out. Some Piutes told
him of a short cut across the Panamint and this he took.
En route he picked up a piece of rich float, stuck it into his bag.
Farther on his journey he ran out of water and became hopelessly lost.
He managed to reach the Slate Range, however, and from the summit saw
Searles’ Lake. Though in no condition to stand the rough trip to Mojave
he begged to be sent there and yielding finally, Salty Bill, ready to
leave with his load, threw the Chinaman on his wagon and started on his
trip.
Before reaching Mojave, the Chinaman’s condition became worse and Salty
Bill stopped the team in answer to his yells. The canvas sack lay
alongside the stricken Chinaman and reaching for it, he brought out a
lump of ore.
“Never in my life,” said Salty Bill, “have I seen ore like that.”
The Chinaman gave the ore to Salty, thanked him for his friendly
treatment, told him that at a place in the Panamint where “the Big
Timber pitches down into a steep canyon,” he had found the float. Again
he expressed his belief that he was going to die and exacted a promise
from Salty that if death came before reaching Mojave, Salty would see
that his remains be shipped to China, adding that any Chinaman in Mojave
would provide money if needed. “You find the gold and keep it,” he told
Salty. “For me—no good. No can....”
The journey was completed and Salty learned that the Chinaman did die at
Mojave and that a countryman there saw that the remains were sent to the
Flowery Kingdom.
Salty Bill showed the ore to John Searles and Searles, usually
indifferent to yarns of hidden ledges, was even more excited than Salty.
For four or five years the two men made trips in search of the place
where Big Timber pitches into a canyon. After these, other tireless
prospectors sought the elusive ledge but the Lost Chinaman is still
lost.
THE LOST WAGON. Jim Hurley went to Parker, Arizona. Broke, he wanted
quick money and was looking for placer. The storekeeper was a friend of
Jim and had previously staked him.
“I’m looking for a place to wash out some gold, but I’ve no money and no
grub....”
Jim was told of a butte on the Colorado Desert. “It’s good placer ground
and you ought to pan a few dollars without much trouble....” He provided
Jim with bacon and beans and feed for his burros.
Jim set out, found the butte, but no gold and decided to try a new
location. On the way out he saw behind some bushes an old wagon that
seemed to be half buried in blow sand. Thinking it would be a good
feeding place for his burros, he went over. On the ground nearby he saw
the bleached skeleton of a man. He threw aside a half-rotted tarpaulin
in the wagon bed and discovered fifteen sacks of ore.
It was obvious that the wagon had stood there for a long time. He
examined the ore and saw that it was rich and of a peculiar color. He
loaded the ore on his burros, returned to Parker and sent it to the
smelter. He received in return, $1800. Losing no time, Jim returned to
find the source of the ore and though for the next five years he looked
at intervals for a quartz to match that found in the wagon, he could
find nothing that even resembled it. Where it came from no prospector on
the desert would even venture an opinion, but all declared they had seen
no quartz of that peculiar color and all of them knew the country from
Mexico to Nevada.
But Jim added to his store an adventure and a memory and there is no
treasure in this life richer than a memory.
THE LOST GOLLER. This, I believe, is a lost mine that really exists and
though the location has been prospected from the days of Dr. Darwin
French in 1860, none have looked for it except the one who lost it in
1850. He was John Goller, who came to California with the Jayhawkers.
Goller was a blacksmith and wagon maker and was the first American to
establish such a business in the pueblo of Los Angeles. After convincing
the native Californian that his spoke-wheel wagon would function as
effectively as the rounded slabs of wood, the only vehicles then used,
he made a comfortable fortune and no one in the pueblo had a reputation
for better character.
Crossing the Panamint, Goller, though strong and husky, became separated
from his companions and barely escaped with his life. Coming down a
Panamint canyon he found some gold nuggets and filled his pockets with
them. After crossing Panamint Valley and the Slate Range, he was found
by Mexican vaqueros of Don Ignacio del Valle, owner of the great Camulos
Rancho. After his recovery he proceeded to Los Angeles. In showing the
nuggets to friends he said, “I could have filled a wagon with them.”
Goller, because of his means was soon able to take vacations which were
devoted to looking for the lost location, and though he searched for
years he found no more nuggets. Finally he found a canyon which he
believed might have been the site, but no wagon load of nuggets.
John Goller was a solid, clear-thinking man—not the type to chase the
rainbow. Gold is known to exist in the canyon and some mines have been
operated with varying success, but none have been outstanding. It is
quite possible that cloudbursts for which the Panamint is noted washed
Goller’s gold away or buried it under an avalanche of rock, dirt, and
gravel. Manly, with his forgivable inclination to error refers to Goller
as Galler and discounts the story.
“Some day,” said Dr. Samuel Slocum, a man who made a fortune in gold,
“somebody will find a fabulously rich mine in that canyon.” It is
located about 12 miles south of Ballarat and is called Goler canyon—one
of the l’s in Goller’s name having been dropped.
THE LOST SPOOK. A spiritualist with tuberculosis came to Ballarat and
employed an Indian known as Joe Button as packer and guide. He told Joe
to lead him to the driest spot in the country. Joe took him into the
Cottonwood Range and left him. The invalid remained for several weeks,
returned to Ballarat en route to San Bernardino, presumably for
supplies. He was reticent as to his luck but he had several small sacks
filled with ore and in his haste to catch the stage, dropped a piece of
quartz from a loosely tied sack. It was almost solid gold and weighed
eight ounces.
While in San Bernardino he died. His relatives sold the remaining ore,
which yielded $7200. They tried to find the claim but failed.
Shorty Harris heard of it months afterward and looked up Joe Button.
With his own burros, Joe’s pack horses, and an Indian known as Ignacio,
he set out. Cloudbursts had washed out the previous trails, filled
gulches, levelled hills and so transformed the country that the Indian
was unable to find any trace of his previous course; gave up the hunt
and turned back.
Shorty cached his supplies and with the meager description Joe could
give him, searched for weeks. At last he came upon a camp where he
discovered a collection of pamphlets dealing with the occult, but no
trails. It was apparent that these had been destroyed by floods and for
two months Shorty searched for the diggings. A brush pile aroused his
suspicions and removing it, he found the hole. “The ore had Uncle Sam’s
eagle all over it,” Shorty said, “and the world was mine.”
“I returned to my camp, started spending the money. A million dollars
for a rest home for old worn-out prospectors. Fifty thousand a year for
all my pals....”
Shorty ate his supper, spread his blankets and went to sleep with his
dream. In the middle of the night he awoke. Something was running over
his blanket. He raised up and in the moonlight recognized the only thing
on earth he was afraid of—the “hydrophobic skunk.”
“I started packing right now,” Shorty said, “and walked out. There’s a
mine there and whoever wants it can have it. I don’t.”
THE LOST CANYON has some evidence of reality. Jack Allen, a miner and
prospector of almost superhuman endurance, got drunk at Skidoo and
filled with remorse and shame the morning after, decided to leave and
seek a job at the Keane Wonder Mine, about 40 miles northeast across
Death Valley. To save distance, Allen took a short cut over Sheep
Mountain and in going through a canyon he picked up a piece of quartz
and seeing a fleck of color, he broke it. Excited by its apparent
richness he filled his pockets, noted his bearings and went on his way.
When he reached the Keane Wonder he took the ore to Joe McGilliland, the
company’s assayer, who became more excited than the finder. “I’ll put it
in the button for half,” Joe said.
Allen agreed. The assay showed values as high as $20,000 to the ton. He
closed his office and ran out to find Jack working in the mine. “Chuck
this job,” he cried. “Go back to that claim quick as you can. Get your
monuments up and record the notices.”
Jack Allen bought a burro, loaded his supplies and went back only to
discover that a cloudburst had destroyed all his landmarks.
Both Shorty Harris and “Bob” Eichbaum, who established Stove Pipe Wells
resort, considered this the best chance among all the legends of lost
mines. It is wild, rough, and largely virgin country and because of that
the hardiest prospectors always passed it by.
THE LOST JOHNNIE. An Indian known as Johnnie used to come into York’s
store at Ballarat about once a month with gold in bullion form. He would
sell it to York or trade it for supplies. Frequently he had credits
amounting to a thousand or more dollars.
Other Indians soon learned of Johnnie’s mine and would trail him when he
left town, but none were able to outsmart him. That it was near Arastre
Spring was generally believed. Upon one occasion Johnnie was seen
leaving the old arastre and disappear in the canyon. Immediately
evidence that the arastre had been used within the hour was discovered.
For years no prospector worked in that region without keeping his eyes
peeled for Johnnie’s bonanza.