Back in the early ’40’s the main camp of McCulloch’s rangers was
located in Hamilton’s Valley on the Colorado. From this point they
scouted far and wide against hostile Indians. While two of the rangers
were out on one such scouting expedition, their horses got away during
the night, and in attempting to find them next morning they got lost
themselves in a dense fog that enveloped the hills and valleys. They
wandered all day in a vain attempt to regain their camp. It was hot
summer, in a time of long drouth, and they were in a region utterly
devoid of water. When night came they lay down, suffering from hunger
and thirst. The next morning they struck out early, hoping to “find
themselves” before the heat of the day came on, or at least to find
some water. But though they climbed many rugged hills to view the land,
every prospect was desolate and unfamiliar.
At length, from the summit of a low range of hills, they discovered a
narrow green valley, and down it, by a line of green trees, they traced
the course of a mountain brook. Descending, they soon stood on the
banks of a stream of clear water, which danced over a pebbly bottom of
fine, almost pure white gravel, with here and there shallow pools
sparkling under the noon-day sun. Here they rested and refreshed
themselves, lying flat upon the margin and taking long draughts of the
crystal waters.
As one of the rangers, after the first pangs of his thirst were
satisfied, lay looking into the sparkling waters, he was startled to
discover that the entire bottom was strewn with minute shining
particles. Calling to his companion, he said: “We have lost our horses,
saddles, and guns, but here is something better. Here is gold, gold,
world without end!” The particles, which were as thick among the sand
and gravel as if sown by the handful, were yellow like gold and of the
size of very coarse corn bran.
Before leaving the place, the rangers gathered a quantity of the yellow
particles and tied them up in a handkerchief. On their way out they
stopped to rest high up on the western shoulder of a long, rugged hill.
Here they discovered in the fork of a stunted live oak tree an ancient
rust-eaten pick, its handle gone, and one end so encased in the growth
of the tree that the pick could not be removed. The other end pointed
toward the head of the little stream they had left. Then they realized
that they were not the first to have discovered the gold mine, but that
some prospector, overtaken perhaps by sudden death, had left his mark.
Late in the afternoon the scouts saw looming in the distance Packsaddle
Mountain on the Llano, and from this well-known landmark they found
their bearings and were soon safely back in McCulloch’s camp at
Hamilton’s Valley.
Later they exhibited their bandana of gold in the village of San
Marcos. A man there versed in the subject of minerals pronounced it
virgin gold and said that it was what miners knew as “drift gold,”
which had been washed downstream from a mother lode. That mother lode,
he said, might be miles away, but wherever it was it must be
exceedingly rich. On many a long tramp and ride in after years the
rangers sought the golden pool, but they never found it again. The mute
finger of the old pick on the mountain side perhaps still points to the
spot where the lost mine may be found, and the grim hills of the Llano
country still stand silent guard over the secret of their hidden
wealth.