Dutchman and the Devil: The Lost Story
74 pages

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74 pages

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For as long as I can remember, treasure hunters have been captivated by accounts of the Dutchman Jacob Waltz's life and the whereabouts of his hidden gold mine. Can any tale be more compelling than that long unsolved mystery of millions of dollars of gold lost deep in the Superstition Mountains?

Yes - the REAL story, that will keep you on the edge of your seat!

In Dutchman and the Devil: The Lost Story I examine the tangled trail of truth and fiction that is Waltz's legacy and tell the tale of a man - and his shadowy undiscovered partner - who cheat, connive, manipulate, and murder their way through the wicked old west, leaving a trail of blood, bodies and broken promises that over the years have been lost in the wake of the commonly accepted family friendly legend.

Friends who got a whiff of this story couldn't wait for the next chapter of the spectacular spaghetti western that sprang from my typewriter.

Be among the first to read my story of the Dutchman and the Devil - but cross your heart and promise not to reveal its startling secret.



Publié par
Date de parution 26 février 2013
Nombre de lectures 0
EAN13 9781456612887
Langue English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0298€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.


Dutchman and the Devil:
The Lost Story

Pat Parish

Copyright 2013 Pat Parish,
All rights reserved.
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-1288-7
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
My Dutchman book began when I was an aspiring illustrator studying with master artist David J. Passalacqua. It came to fruition with the invaluable help of author, columnist, and master teacher Chris Benguhe.
The layout and design were done by Dawn Crichton, who took my text and drawings and turned them into a beautiful book.
Special thanks to my friend and neighbor Johanna Kirk for her unflagging interest and support, as well as her patient proofreading of my seemingly endless early revisions. And, of course, thanks to my official proofreader RaeAnne Marsh, who not only dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s, but took the book to the next level.
If it were not for the optimistic support of my family and friends, this book could easily have remained in the realm of a work-in-process. My deepest thanks to Ken Mulholland, Susan Parish, Jim Hsu, Dave Parish, Sara Peebles, Megan Parish, Tonya Parish, Ingrid Klinkhart, John Theodore, Joan Kimura, Deborah Slater, Cattryn Somers, Carsten Wilms, Liz Stover, Deirdre Wallace, Ruth Herman, Susan Jaramillo, Kelli Glancey, Dalia Kaplan, Carolyn Musgrove, M.G. Enderle, Sally Boyd, Chris Boyd, Ed Darley.
A treasury of information was provided by archivists and librarians of the following institutions: Gerry Giordano and Kathleen Garcia in the Arizona Room, Gladys Mahoney in the Rare Book Room, and Elaine Meyers in the young peoples’ department at Burton Barr Central Library (Phoenix, AZ); Diane Bane and Keenan Murray in the Reference Library at the Arizona Mining and Mineral Museum (Phoenix, AZ — now closed); the Phoenix Museum of History (now part of the Arizona Science Center); David Tatum at the Arizona Historical Society Library and Archives (Phoenix, AZ, and Tucson, AZ); Clay Worst at the Superstition Mountain Lost Dutchman Museum (Apache Junction, AZ); Arizona Museum of Natural History Mine Display (Mesa, AZ); and Sharlot Hall Museum (Prescott, AZ).
Helen Corbin’s books The Curse of the Dutchman’s Gold and The Bible on the Lost Dutchman Gold Mine and Jacob Waltz led me to T.E. Glover’s books The Lost Dutchman Mine of Jacob Waltz, Part 1: The Golden Dream , and Part 2: The Holmes Manuscript .
And finally, thanks to Clay Worst, who generously gave me an afternoon of his time to share memories of his friend Brownie Holmes, whose father was an acquaintance of the Dutchman.

To K.M.
The Fight

Jacob Waltz was a big man, but two years in the army living on meager rations had turned him into a giant scarecrow of a man. Slightly embarrassed by his emaciated look, he had grown his bristly black beard out in full to hide his gauntness as much as he could. Ecstatic to be home in one piece, he walked with a bounce in his step, enjoying the late afternoon sun as it shone through towering Linden trees that lined his path. The spicy scent of German sausages and sauerkraut filled the air. After two years of army food, he was ready for a pint of lager and a platter of Otto’s sausages. He grinned, thinking how good it was to be home, with a steady job and enough money for a good meal.
Reaching Otto’s Biergarten, Waltz pulled off his workman’s cap and stooped to keep from hitting his head on the threshold.
The bar was empty except for a dapper young man in a well-tailored suit, who sat by himself at the end of Otto’s gleaming oak bar. He glanced dismissively at Waltz, adjusted his paisley silk tie, and went back to studying his reflection in the ornate mirror behind the bar.
The entrance to the biergarten was open, and Waltz could see Otto wiping tables, getting ready for the evening’s Oktoberfest celebrations. He raised his voice and called out, “How about some service in here?”
Otto came in, wiping his hands on a sparkling white bar apron. His look of impatience changed to a huge grin as he greeted Waltz with a bear hug. “Welcome home, lad,” Otto said. “It’s good to have you back.”
Releasing Waltz and stepping back, Otto examined Waltz from head to toe and shouted, “Hilda! Our Waltz is home from the army an’ they’ve been starving the lad. Bring him a plate of our finest sausage!” Then, without asking, Otto drew two tankards of lager, placed one in front of Waltz, and raised the other. “Prosit, my boy,” he said, and they both drank.
Two minutes later, Otto’s wife Hilda appeared with a huge platter piled high with white sausages, sweet mustard, boiled potatoes, and sauerkraut. She set it down in front of Waltz, put her hands on her ample hips, and beamed with pleasure as he shoveled the steaming food into his mouth.
When his belly was full, Waltz reached into his vest and pulled out his coin purse.
“Your money’s no good here,” Otto said. “You were our son’s best friend, an’ you tried to save him when our truck turned over an’ crushed him. You tried to save him when other men didn’t even try.”
“Johann was my friend,” Waltz replied. “I only tried to do what was right.”
“That’s not true,” Hilda said. “I don’t know where you found the strength to lift that wagon off his legs. An’ you stayed beside him until he died. That makes you a hero, in my eyes.”
Waltz was silent as he remembered that sunlit October afternoon so long ago. He and Johann had been unloading beer barrels for Otto, joking as they worked. In his mind’s eye, Waltz saw the barrels shift and the cumbersome wagon begin to tilt. He shuddered, remembering his helplessness as the wagon fell on Johann, pinning his legs under its weight. And he remembered the tremendous strain of lifting the wagon as Otto pulled his son from under it, and the sickening sight of Johann’s crushed body. Too moved to speak, Waltz patted Hilda’s hand, nodded to Otto, and started home.
Lost in memories, Waltz failed to notice three men following him. As he turned down a deserted street, two of the men closed in and grabbed his arms and held him as their leader stepped in front of Waltz and spat, “Thought you could steal my job, did you?”
Spittle from the man’s lips sprayed Waltz’s face, and his sour, whiskey-laden breath made Waltz turn his face away.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” the man spat, grabbing Waltz’s hair and pulling his head back. “You stole my job an’ you’re going to pay for it,” he snarled, driving his fist into Waltz’s unprotected belly.
Waltz gasped and would have fallen, but the two men holding his arms jerked him upright, dragged him into the alley, and threw him to the ground. Two stout sticks lay beside the wall, ready for the thugs to pick up and thrash Waltz repeatedly and violently until he passed out. Only then did they reach into his pocket and take hold of his wallet.
This attempt caused Waltz to try to fight back, but the thugs saw him move. Mercilessly, they stomped on his hands and kicked his ribs with their steel-toed work boots until he passed out again. To make sure he stayed down, one of his attackers kept his boot on Waltz’s belly until they’d emptied his wallet and stuffed his money into their own pockets.
As a parting gesture, they covered his motionless body with garbage.
An hour later, Waltz opened his eyes and struggled to stand, but could not. He felt like he’d been run over by a runaway horse. Helpless, he stood at the alley’s edge hoping for a Good Samaritan to appear, but no one came to this part of town after dark if they could avoid it.
A policeman passed, but Waltz knew better than to ask him for help — the way he looked and smelled, he’d be arrested for vagrancy and thrown in jail.
As he waited for the policeman’s steps to fade, Waltz saw the sticks his attackers had beaten him with. One of those sticks would make a good crutch.
Gradually, his strength started to return. What time was it? The moon was not yet overhead. It must be before midnight, he decided. Otto’s place would still be open. He could go back to Otto’s.
Each staggering step shot arrows of pain through his battered body. As Waltz turned the corner, he heard the oom-pah-pah of a polka band and saw Otto’s lights. His last thought, as he reached Otto’s porch and sank into oblivion, was, “Otto will help me.”
Otto’s last customers went home at midnight. If any of them saw Waltz, they assumed he’d had too much lager and left him to sleep it off.
With no idea Waltz was lying helpless on his porch, Otto went about the business of closing, humming quietly as he emptied ashtrays and put chairs neatly at their tables. He always enjoyed the quiet after the evening’s crush of merrymakers. The last of his rituals was to make sure his door was securely fastened. And as he stood testing his lock, Otto heard a noise outside, a whimper like an injured animal.
Too softhearted to ignore it, Otto undid the lock, peeked out, and found Waltz collapsed beside his porch, his face and clothing covered with blood. Looking more closely, Otto saw Waltz’s hands were swollen, and bruises were darkening on his face.
“Mein Gott!” Otto exclaimed, although Waltz couldn’t hear him, “You look like you were run over by a beer wagon.”
Otto’s familiar voice was enough to rouse Waltz. After a moment, Waltz looked up through swollen eyes and whispered, “I’m all right, Otto. Nothing to worry about — just tripped on some trash in the alley.”
Relieved to see Waltz conscious, Otto ran to the bar, grabbed a bottle of schnapps, and came back. Kneeling down, he raised Waltz’s head and helped him take a sip of the fiery liquid.
Waltz drank, sputtered, and drank again. So did Otto. After a few minutes, Waltz was able to sta

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