David Golemon: Legend

When Father Corinth arrived at the small outpost with a rank of Pizarro's personal guard, the man was still alive, only he waited for the priest on his deathbed. For hours the lone survivor of the expedition spoke softly with Corinth. The priest listened, never interrupting, while he examined the soldier's wounds and nursed him through the strange sickness. As the man spoke, gasping in inner pain and getting weaker with each word he managed to hiss out through clenched teeth, he reached into his tunic and withdrew two small objects. One was a large golden nugget. The other was a strange green mineral, a chalklike substance imbedded in stone. It was strangely warm to the touch. The soldier pulled Corinth close to him, close enough that the priest could feel his high temperature rising from his face. A dire warning was conveyed by the dying man, barely audible and with fetid breath. Father Corinth wore a handsome cross that was plated with gold not only for beauty but to give its cheap metal base more strength. It was of a sort the church frowned upon as being arrogant, but it was a ceremonial gift his late mother had given to him on the day he took his vows. It was very beautifully engraved and far too large, and she had spent every ounce of her meager savings to present him with it. Corinth took the cross from around his neck and removed the bottom portion. The inside of the pendant was hollow, and he easily slid the small mineral samples into it. He put the end back on the cross and placed it around his neck.

It was long after sunup when Father Corinth finally emerged from the small hut, and with him he carried the book.

"How is he, Father?" one of the soldiers asked. "Is there any news of our friends, is Captain Padilla still alive?"

"The soldier is dead. His name was Ivan Torrez."

"Lieutenant Torrez? We know this man; he looked nothing like him," another soldier said. Many of the soldierly escort had gathered to hear the priest.

"The plague will change a man's features so you would not even recognize your own brother."

The men stepped away in fear. That one word was enough to weaken their knees and make the brave conquerors cringe; they had no idea, but this was another fatal disease entirely.

"What of the expedition, Father? Did he give a location of their whereabouts?"

"Captain Padilla and his men will stay where they are. Get your men ready to break camp, and bury Lieutenant Torrez deep. Honor him; he was a brave man," he said as he bowed his head and crossed himself. The Padilla diary, which contained the unholy route the doomed expedition had charted, was clutched tightly to his chest.

He slowly moved away from the stunned men. The priest knew he would have to either destroy the diary and the map that would again fire the greed of man to follow Padilla's direction, or bury them so deep no one could ever find them. The diary was the only proof of what wonders the captain had found under the falls of that lost lagoon but, because of men like Francisco Pizarro, the contents must never see the light of day. For only death could come to those that ventured into that dark lagoon, and Father Corinth would take it upon himself to make sure the pope sided with his decision.

A few months before the death of Francisco Pizarro, the general ordered one last expedition sent out to try to trace the route of Captain Padilla's ill-fated journey. The Spaniards found only helmets, rusted armor, rotted clothing, and broken swords on a path that stretched for thirty miles along the Amazon, which was clear evidence of a running battle with an enemy that had since disappeared into the jungle. The trail leading to the deep tributary that led to that dark and beautiful lagoon was never found. As for the men of Padilla's brave band, the search party never found a trace of them or the gold they had sought. Pizarro, in what little time remained to him, would continue to lust for El Dorado. But in the end, another generation of explorers and adventurers would have to do the searching.

Rumors of the lost expedition of Captain Padilla would filter down through the years and even a few old artifacts turned up from time to time as the jungle begrudgingly gave up her digested secrets. Whatever lived in that forgotten lagoon would wait patiently for men to come into its realm once again.

Captain Myles Keogh was at the head of troops C, I, and L as they made for the river. Captain Yates had gone with troops E and F to support his assault on the village at a point called Deep Coulee. God only knew the situation with Reno and his companies, and Captain Benteen was still off reconnoitering to the south. He figured Benteen would miss the engagement altogether.

Keogh's orders had been simple: cross the river and attack the northern end of the village. A hundred yards from the edge of the riverbank, they quickly discovered to their horror that what they thought was the end of the enormous Indian encampment was actually its middle. The burly Irish captain called a halt to the charge just as a hundred hostiles came over the top of the riverbank to mix with the already confused column. Amid the initial assault he turned and spurred his large mount back in the direction of the low-slung hills, followed by all three companies. He had failed to see that, downriver, another band of Cheyenne led by the warrior Lame White Man had already swarmed across Medicine Tail Coulee and rushed forward unseen. Keogh belatedly saw that the hostiles had anticipated his retreat route east and cut it off.

As he gave the command to turn south, his companies were hit suddenly from the side of a hill that had hidden another group of Cheyenne. Keogh pulled violently on his reins, but not before six of his troopers in the lead had continued headlong into the advancing ranks of hostiles. The attacking Indians drove his men and their mounts to the ground in a frenzied attack that quickly hid their slaughter in a rising dust cloud. The captain immediately signaled for his three companies to turn to the north, hoping to squeeze his units in between the attacking groups, but immediately saw that there was no clear path away from the Cheyenne assault. To continue going forward would only guarantee being picked off piecemeal, so in the madness of the moment and dictated by their predicament, he ordered his men to dismount — a command of last resort for a cavalry unit, because it would take away the only advantage they had, the quickness of horse. But Keogh had no choice. He remembered a successful dismounted defense at Gettysburg thirteen years before under General Buford; they would hold until relief could come.

As the remains of companies I, L, and C dismounted, arrows and bullets began to find their deadly mark. Keogh pulled his army Colt revolver and started issuing orders to fort up behind whatever they could find. Horses were shot as men threw themselves behind their bulk for protection. Keogh sat tall and purposely in the saddle and fired deliberately at the swarming horde of warriors. He hoped he could inspire his men to gather the courage they would need this dark day. The hostiles were now attacking en masse, no tactic involved other than strike and fall back. Every time they came forward the Indians would leave at least ten of his men either dead or dying.

"Captain, shouldn't we try and reach the general?" his aide called out.

"One spot's as good as the other today; we'll all be eating supper at the same table tonight," he said loudly in his Irish brogue as he fired two quick shots and then jumped from his horse.

Keogh had no hope for relief as he saw farther down the hill that Captain Yates and his men were also in headlong flight. At that point the captain hadn't seen Custer among them; the dust had started to obscure his view. The captain fired his last round at a warrior who could not have been more than thirteen, sending him back three feet when the bullet struck his chest.