In 1884, a man by the name of Neil Ford was prospecting in the Mogollon Mountains of southwest New Mexico. He'd heard this tale of Adams Diggings - along with several others - but believed them all to be one and the same, only with different names.

All were supposedly located in western New Mexico. All had remarkably similar settings, including a portal through rock walls into a secluded valley. All men were said to have erected cabins on the sites, and all finds resulted in the finders being chased off by hostile Indians. Without exception, the surviving discoverers told of a bonanza in remaining riches, just waiting for the taking.

Several times, this man Ford had gone north, searching for The Lost Diggings. In all cases except one, he returned empty-handed. That particular time brought in a few dollars, but another trip to the same spot produced all of nothing.

Down here, Ford's prospecting hadn't turned up much - barely enough to keep himself alive - but that's about the way things went, it seemed. The mountains around the dry, little town of Mogollon had been picked clean for some time, and he'd been thinking about making another try for the legendary Lost Gold.

With the exception of the war years, this man Neil - or Buck, as he was called - had been a drifting prospector, miner, hunter, scout, or teamster, depending on his needs. Of these, he liked prospecting the most, preferring the solitary lifestyle; but in actuality was best at scout. Although he'd never been a cowboy, proper, he did want a ranch of his own someday.

A Confederate veteran, he'd been a boy when the war started, but a boy grows up fast when there's war all around him. '63 was a bad year for the South - the beginning of the end. Witnessing first-hand the savage cruelty Americans inflicted on other Americans, he lied about his age, enlisted, and proved to be the finest shot in the company.

As for the war itself, everyone could see the writing on the wall, but he, as the others, chose to disregard it.

Two years later, Lee couldn't ignore it any longer. When the general capitulated, young-man-but-older-than-his-years Neil Ford returned to a defeated, impoverished South. Like the others, he attempted to swallow the bitter pill. But he simply couldn't stomach the terms forced on the people by the hordes of greedy, corrupt carpetbaggers. So it came down to this: either turn into a modern-day Robin Hood and eventually be hung, or take Horace Greeley's advice. Fortunately, he chose the latter, and headed west.

Nowadays, folks would probably describe him as tall, with dark hair that usually needed cutting. Dark eyes peered at you from the shade of his hat, taking in everything, yet seemingly relaxed. Good-natured, he seemed fairly educated, and enjoyed good conversation. The war? He preferred not to talk about it.


Down there in the Mogollons, one day it just happened. A week of bending over - shoveling, sluicing, panning - had produced nothing more than a backache, and he'd been thinking about The Lost Diggin's the whole time. Hell, if he was going to work for gold, he may as well do it where there was at least some chance of success, small as it may be.

And so he packed up and headed north, bound once again for the fabled Lost Gold. It was early in the year, and he'd have plenty of time to search.

Looking around him, the heights were, in a way, hard to leave. Here, the land looked more like the high country of Colorado instead of New Mexico. This was due to the elevation of the three dominant peaks: Bearwallow, Whitewater Baldy, and another with the name of Mogollon Baldy, the latter two poking up just shy of eleven thousand feet.

Down in the lower elevations, it was dry and dusty, supporting only juniper, pinon, alder, and scrub oak. The middle elevations were populated by ponderosa pine, but up here, it was a whole different world.

Steep and rugged, cold streams ran past fallen trees in the canyons, and the mountains (you couldn't call them hills) were completely covered in huge pine, fir, and blue spruce. Beaver ponds flooded parts of the canyon floors with their cold, dark water, and snow was common in patches except for only several months of the year. It was always cold at night.

Oh well, Buck thought, work is rarely where one desires it. "Come on, you mules...."

Striking north, he reached the Middle Fork of the Gila near Loco Mountain. Following it the rest of the day, he camped a short distance back from the river. He was at home here, in the wild country. There was always danger, but in his way of thinking, danger was an accepted part of life.

This night, the risk wouldn't come from the Apache. Luckily, they didn't believe in night fighting. It would be from wild animals, most likely wolves or bears, and so he kept his fire up - animals having an instinctive fear of fire. Naturally, there was always the chance of renegades. They often preyed on miners or prospectors, when they could find them. Easy pickings, usually.

But this? This was living. Let the meek dwell in their protected towns and cities. The Builders, the other meek called themselves. Well, they could build their settlements, and feel secure inside them. He would live with wild nature, where a man is a man or he dies, simple as that. No laws to fall back on, no courts to back you up, just yourself, and that's the way he liked it.

As he contemplated, the smoke from his crackling fire lifted into the darkness, blocking the stars with its path. A soft wind stirred the tops of hundred-and-fifty foot pines around him, and a far-off wolf called into the night.

"They can have their cities," he said into the fire. Rolling in his blankets, he looked towards the wolf sound and smiled....


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