[This legendary “Cave of Montezuma” is in Mexico, but so persistent and
numerous are rumors of it across the border in Texas that I do not
hesitate to include it among Texas legends. Mr. Gay knows many legends,
and he has told me that he has often heard Texans mention Montezuma’s
Cave; I myself have heard of it from treasure hunters in Texas. Indeed,
legend has placed an Aztec cave, presumably Montezuma’s, in Texas. I am
indebted to Mr. W. D. Notley, superintendent of public schools at Del
Rio, for the following account:
On the south edge of Del Rio there is a mound of considerable size
called Sugar Loaf. Legend has it that it was built by the Aztecs and
stored with treasures. In the troublesome times that followed the
conquest by the Spanish, the Aztecs built an acequia (irrigation ditch)
around it, or alongside it, so as to cut off entrance through the
subterranean passage that once led to the great storehouse.—Editor.]
I have at last learned one complete version of the legend of the
Montezuma Cave. It cost me seven hours’ hard work, a delay of
twenty-four hours in getting home, a deal of cheap drink, a headache,
and the suspicion of my relatives; but the man who told me the story
was alone worth the price. He is a broken-down newspaper man, “whose
story is the story of every man that ever went down into Mexico. It is
the story of a coward, the story of a man with a yellow streak down his
back.” I was sitting on the plaza at Juarez, absorbed in a religious
dance of the Festival, which was being held in front of the cathedral
by people dressed as Indians, when Alec Martin came strolling along and
sat down beside me. He was a colorless blond, white-faced, and rather
small of figure, his neat dress falling into untidiness. His pale blue
eyes were supplemented with powerful shell-rimmed spectacles, and as
they continued to watch the dancers, I asked him how he liked the
dancing. “But you should see the Festival of la Cruz Verde, at Tepic,”
he replied without turning his head. From this auspicious beginning, we
drifted into conversation, and he told me the legend of the Cathedral
de la Cruz Verde. It is a simple story, such as, he explained, overruns
Mexico. Observing that he wore no overcoat, although the day was cold,
and that he shivered at frequent intervals, I suggested a hot Tom and
Jerry. He was not slow in accepting, and since I had begun to find his
company excellent, I suggested another, and then a glass of Bordeaux as
a lid. He seemed quite shame-faced about not paying for the drinks, and
somehow I believed him when he told me that, whatever he was at
present, he had been a gentleman at one time.
He could not stay away from the subject of Mexico for long at a time,
and since he continued to tell me legends, I asked him for the one
about the Montezuma Cave. The liquor that he had taken in the course of
the day had begun to affect him, but he would not say anything about
the Montezuma Cave except that it had broken him. Presently he insisted
that he take me to a bar up next to the Market, where he had credit. I
went with him, and we began to drink sotol, which is said to be a fiery
liquor, but which I found no worse than red whiskey. But whenever I
asked him for the particulars of his story, he would say: “But that is
not the important thing; a drink is all that matters.” In the course of
time, however, he became thoroughly inebriated, as he confessed to me
in a precise, though sometimes uncertain voice. Finally, while my
relatives waited in El Paso and my train left without me, he told his
story and the legend of the Montezuma Cave. This is the legend that he
told me.
When Montezuma was killed by Cortez at the City of Mexico, the room
full of gold that had been offered as a ransom for Montezuma was too
heavy for Cortez to carry with him in his flight to the coast.
Montezuma had foreseen this, and before his death had ordered that the
gold be stored safely, where it could lie without danger until his tree
fell and he came back to save his people. The Aztec generals, having
seen the lack of respect for their gods that the Spaniards had shown,
were afraid to bury the treasure in the tomb of Montezuma, and instead
had it taken to a cave in the mountains. This cave was at the end of a
long canyon, a mere crack in the rock only a few feet wide, although
the walls were hundreds of feet high. At the mouth the canyon was
twelve feet wide, but it became narrower toward the cave, until there
was not passage for a man, unless he crawled on his belly for the last
few hundred yards. The Indians worshiped the cave as a shrine after the
treasure of Montezuma had been stored there, and made pilgrimages to
it, although none but priests were allowed to enter the cave itself.
The guardians disposed of unwelcome visitors by dropping rocks on them
as they wormed up the narrow canyon.
After the Aztecs perished as a nation, the cave was in Yaqui territory,
what was called the Sonora Mountains, and the Yaquis continued to guard
the shrine. Renegades and half-breeds sometimes whispered the story of
the cave to the Spaniards, but since none of the men who went to hunt
for it ever returned, the story became a legend.
Some hundreds of years later, a very drunk Mexican told the story to
Martin, who remembered it the next day. At that time he was a
correspondent to certain American newspapers, and when he told the
story to two of his friends, they wanted to go after the treasure
immediately. The Mexican agreed to go with them, and claimed to know
where the cave was, having seen the canyon for himself. The expedition
was so carefully planned and executed that the little party camped
within a few miles of the cave without being discovered by the Indians.
That night they went into the cave, taking water and food enough to
last them the following day. The next night they came out safely, each
carrying about one hundred and fifty pounds of gold. Their good fortune
did not desert them, and they were out of Yaqui country before the loss
was discovered. When they arrived at the City, they cashed the gold for
forty thousand dollars apiece, and for some months lived in great
state.
Then, having spent all of their fortune, they decided to return to the
Montezuma Cave and to bring out a little more this time. This gold was
to be invested, so that each could live off his interest. As they had
done before, they camped a few miles from the mouth of the canyon, and
entered the cave at night. The next night they started out of the
canyon, but as they stepped out on the plain in front of the canyon,
they were taken quietly in charge by the Yaquis, who had watched them
from the time that they had first come into the country. The Mexican
was sacrificed to the old gods, for he was part Indian and had betrayed
the secret of the cave, but the Americans were first tortured and then
kept about the camp as slaves. In a few weeks two of them died. Martin
finally escaped, but not until he was broken physically.
From that day on, his bad luck had followed him. He had come back to El
Paso, on his way to Mexico, but on the morning that he arrived, he had
broken the mirror in his room and the friends that he had expected did
not arrive. His savings had gradually dribbled away, until he had sold
his watch and pawned his overcoat, with winter almost at hand.
When the story was finished, Martin added, somewhat lamely: “This
Mexico has broken me; it’s made a bum and a drunkard out of me, but I
love it. I can’t stay away from it. I’ve been out of it fifteen months
this time, and now I’m going into it again.”