He cursed loudly, but found that on this solo expedition, no one was listening. A tall but stocky man, his cursed as his pointed pegleg was not suited to soft earth.

Gone were his glory days as a renowned fur trapper, a legend among mountain men. Now, as the fur trade withered like the desert flora in summer, his moral compass had warped, sending him on a desperate quest for a different kind of treasure. Once a man of standing, Pegleg had devolved into a predator of opportunity— he had evolved into an opportunistic predator – snatching Native children for sale to Mexican haciendas one day, masterminding brazen horse thieveries the next. The scents of desiccated sagebrush and parched river mud filled the air, mingling with the smell of his own sweat-soaked determination.

Years prior, in the shadowed crags of the western slopes of the Rockies, an arrow sent his way from an ill-disposed Ute warrior had found its mark in his right calf. The arrow point shattered his bone. Pegleg didn’t know what offense he had given, but it must have been grave. The painted warrior gave him a long look, turned his horse, and rode off, disappearing into the dust. A nasty infection soon set in. Frontier medicine being more myth than reality, Pegleg decided he had to act or die. The grizzled mountain man took multiple swigs of whiskey and did what needed to be done — with a raspy and rusty skinning knife and grim resolve, he sawed away to remove the leg below the knee. God, the pain, whiskey or not. He passed out from the agony. Laying on the scrubby slope was where a band of Shoshone hunters found him, half-dead. Throwing him over the back of a horse, they took him a few miles back to their camp. There, Shoshone women chewed roots and berries and covered the infected wound with their alchemy of tepid spit. Recovered but forever altered, Pegleg had to get ambulatory or not survive. One of the younger women showed kindness perhaps attracted by his lanky body and piercing blue eyes. She hacked a branch off a cottonwood, a gnarly and twisted skeleton of wood tree limb, and cut it to fit the space left by Pegleg’s lower leg and foot. Slowly shortening the stick of wood to its perfect length, she fashioned a series of buffalo skin straps. The woman attached his new leg to his stump with an elaborate web of leather straps, as intricate as the life he now led.

Pegleg had trapped enough beaver, otter, and muskrat to fetch a handy price in the far-off pueblo of Los Angeles. But he better get moving as summer was almost upon this benighted land and he didn’t want to get caught out in this hellscape when the temperatures soared. Packing his freshly acquired pelts onto a makeshift raft of logs hewn from trees than lined the banks of the river, he navigated the 40-mile water journey down the Santa Maria, eventually merging into the Bill Williams River. The mountain man “Old Bill” Williams was quite a legend in the southwest and even had the river named after him. Bill and Pegleg would eventually run the largest horse thief operation in Alta California. After about 40 miles floating down the tributaries, Pegleg reached the larger, deceptively serene Colorado River. Another 60 miles or so down the Colorado would get him to his jumping off point at a landing he was familiar with, as he often acquired supplies there. 

Reaching the landing at midday, Pegleg stood on the banks of the sprawling Colorado River at the location of the primitive trading post. The old trader who owned the post eyed him cautiously, startled by his new leg, but chose not to remark on it. The unspoken agreement between them was that no past sins mattered — only the commerce of the present. Hearing of Pegleg’s plans to get to Pueblo Los Angeles, he thought the man was foolish to attempt the harrowing 200-mile trip across unforgiving desert to the coast but kept his reservations to himself. Crazy people do crazy things, he figured.

For a handful of coins and promises of future trade, Pegleg became the new owner of two mules. Belle, with her speckled gray coat, seemed like a creature sculpted from a storm cloud. Daisy, with her shimmering reddish-brown hue, carried the warmth of a desert sunset. Chosen by Pegleg for their apparent sturdiness and gentle nature, these animals would be his companions and lifelines through the grueling trek that lay ahead.

His eyes narrowing as he scrutinized the crudely sketched map that he'd traded for a flask of whiskey back in St. Louis. His objective was clear: cross the unforgiving expanse of the Mojave Desert to the west through the labyrinthine passages of the Chocolate Mountains and the mazes of the Anza Borrego Badlands to reach Los Angeles, where his cache of valuable pelts would fetch a handsome price. He took one last glance at the cool emerald, green waters of the Colorado River, so out of place in this blistering hellscape.

Pegleg plotted his journey to the Pueblo of the Angels, a daunting 200-mile slog through some of the most punishing landscapes of North America. Each mule was laden with packs filled to the brim with beaver and other pelts, cured jerky, as much water as the animals could bear, and a few casks of whiskey. Pegleg approached the two mules, ran a calloused hand through their manes, and mumbled some reassuring words. Their eyes met his for a moment, as if understanding the perilous journey that lay ahead. Paradoxically, he loved animals yet trapped creatures for their pelts. The mules nudged each other nervously. 

He adjusted the leather straps of his wooden leg and took the lead, steering Belle and Daisy west toward the uncharted lands of the Mojave. Each step brought him deeper into an ever-changing tableau of desolation. The Chocolate Mountains loomed ahead like a broken wall—a barrier of jagged rocks and dry riverbeds that he would need to negotiate. deep-set fatigue, and the undeniable feeling that his body was consuming itself from the inside out.

 The trail first led him through the twisting, convoluted routes of the Chocolate Mountains, a place where nature seemed to conspire against human intrusion. The labyrinthine canyons offered no mercy, trapping the heat like a kiln, the air shimmering and obscuring any trace of a navigable path.

Emerging from the mountains, the next leg of his expedition would be an even harsher trial—the arid, relentless flatness of the Salton Trough. Midway across the Trough, Pegleg realized his initial calculations had been overly optimistic. Supplies were now critical. Belle and Daisy had lost weight, their coats no longer shiny, but dull and matted. Their once perky ears drooped as their steps became increasingly unsteady. Pegleg himself felt the warning sign: dizziness. This dreary, expansive wasteland of the Salton Trough seemed to stretch to eternity, a sea of sand and dust as inhospitable as the surface of another planet. The heat was relentless, the wind a constant, abrasive companion. However, the coastal range mountains were visible in the distance, shrouded in mist. It was here that his mettle, as well as Belle's and Daisy's, was truly tested. Their strengths waned, mouths dry, spirits flagging under the ceaseless sun and scouring winds. The old coot at the trading post assured Pegleg that water would be hard to come by until he reached the Anza Borrego Badlands where ciénagas could be found. The wetland areas occupy some valley bottoms in the Badlands, the trading post proprietor had assured Pegleg. The water is sometimes alkaline, but mostly drinkable he had said and sketched a crude map to the location of several of the springs.

Finally, he and the mules arrived at the Anza Borrego Badlands—a fractured, arid wasteland that tested the limits of even the most seasoned explorers. The landscape was a chaotic quilt of eroded hills, dry arroyos, and caves carved out of the soft sediment, its colors a dizzying array of ochre, sienna, and bone white. For the first time, Pegleg admitted to himself that he had lost his way. The canyons closed in on him like a maze with no exit. The Badlands were a jigsaw puzzle with no edge pieces, a labyrinth that defied logic and instinct. 

As he tethered the mules to a stunted, half-dead Palo Verde tree, he realized he would have to climb one of these godforsaken hoodoos to get his bearings for the trip ahead. Pegleg took a deep breath, gathering himself for the arduous climb that awaited him, made worse by having only one reliable leg. His parched lips cracked into a determined smile. "Just a bit longer, old friends," he whispered to Belle and Daisy, "We'll find our way." He chose the tallest of a trio of hills to climb. They rose like ancient pyramids, silent and enigmatic, towering above the desert floor. Breaking the pyramid illusion were their apparent flat tops. 

What lay ahead was an ascent that would either offer him a way forward or lead him deeper into a maze from which there was no escape.

Pegleg took a deep breath, gathering himself for the arduous climb that awaited him. His parched lips cracked into a determined smile. "Just a bit longer, old friends," he whispered to Belle and Daisy, "We'll find our way."

Unbeknownst to him, the climb up the hill would not only test his physical and mental fortitude but also lead him to a discovery that would capture the imagination of adventurers for generations to come.

Summoning the last reserves of his strength and resilience, Pegleg began his climb on the highest of the three hillocks, a rise of land that dominated the Badlands like a leviathan of earth and stone. As he approached the base, he could see the shifting, sandy soil, like a sea of sediment frozen in time, its layered strata recording epochs of geological history. A labyrinth of canyons and gullies sprawled beneath it, each holding the secret to a forgotten epoch. His first step onto the slope sent a cascade of sediment slipping down, a foreshadowing of the struggle to come.

With each step of his climb, his wooden pegleg sank into the soft ground, making it more akin to wading through quicksand than climbing. A cloud of fine sand particles rose with every footfall, settling on his pants and coating his single boot in a fine, grainy layer. His pegleg sank deeper with each step, stubbornly resisting extraction and turning the climb into a series of labored pulls.

The sediment was softer on some portions of the hill—a mixture of clay and silt that had eroded over millennia. Every footfall sank, shifting beneath him like waterlogged soil. He used his peg leg as an anchor, but its pointed wooden end was ill-suited for this kind of terrain. Each step became an ordeal of balance and exertion as he had to extract the leg from the enveloping soil, leaving a sequence of uneven divots in his wake.

Sweat streamed down his furrowed brow, stinging his eyes and matting his already disheveled beard. His breaths were shallow, coming in parched gasps as if the air had been stripped of all its moisture. Halfway up the hill, he stumbled, his pegleg sinking deeper than before. He fell forward, catching himself on his palms, which immediately became coated in the grainy sediment. The grit chafed against his skin, each particle a minor irritant that contributed to his growing frustration.

Summoning what strength he had left, Pegleg lunged upwards, gaining purchase with his one good leg. With a final heave, he pulled himself over the crest and onto the hill's plateau. His body gave way, and he collapsed, sprawled out and undone, upon the flat, unforgiving surface of the summit.

The barren summit displayed a panorama of gritty sand and parched stone, what lay before him was something wholly unexpected—a flat plateau scattered with black rocks, their shapes uniform and oddly symmetrical, like a collection of dark celestial bodies.

Crawling more than walking, he moved onto the plateau, his boots making a muted crunch on the rock-strewn surface. His pegleg, free of the constraints of loose sediment, found firmer footing here. The rocks were peculiar, unlike any he had ever seen. Each was about the size of a thumbnail, black as pitch, yet incredibly dense. They covered the plateau like a dark constellation spread against a sandy sky.

As he bent to examine one, the harsh desert sun caught a facet of the stone, sending a fleeting glint of gold shimmering across its surface. The sight stunned him. His fingers gingerly picked up one of the rocks, turning it over and examining it closely. It was heavier than it looked, its density apparent the moment he lifted it. He had seen corroded copper and manganese before, ores that turned black from exposure to the elements. But these rocks felt different, their substance imbued with a weight and texture that spoke of something far more valuable.

For a long moment, he knelt there, motionless, as if surrendering himself to the desert. The sun, in its zenith now, scorched his already bronzed skin. His lungs heaved, clawing for breath as he stared skyward. He could feel the heat seep into his bones, baking him onto a ground paved with black pebbles that seemed to absorb the sun’s fire and multiply it. His lips were cracked, and his tongue felt like a slab of dried leather. He needed water, but even the thought of reaching for his canteen seemed to require an insurmountable effort.

As he knelt there, teetering on the edge of despair, his eyes flicked sideways. Sunlight danced on the surface of the black pebbles surrounding him, casting odd, golden glints that shimmered in the heat. Intrigued, he reached out and took hold of one. It was surprisingly heavy for its size. He examine the black pebble more closely, turned it over, examining it in his rough, calloused palm. It wasn't just the weight that seemed peculiar; there was a lustrous gleam in places where the black coating had chipped away.

Pegleg shook his head. "Can't be gold," he murmured to himself. "Gold don't turn black. Must be copper or some such." Still, he was intrigued. A handful of rocks found a new home in the leather pouch at his belt—a keepsake, perhaps, or something worth a few coins if it proved to be ore.

Slowly, Pegleg pushed himself upright, teetering unsteadily on his peg leg. He took a moment to regain his composure, steadying his shaking hands on his knees. With newfound clarity, he looked out towards what he guessed was the northwest. He saw a path—no more than a suggestion, really, in the wrinkles and folds of the land. It was a way out of this maze, a trail that would lead him through the periphery of these unforgiving badlands.

Taking one last gaze at the hilltop that had offered him both struggle and revelation, Pegleg carefully made his way back down, each step a tiny victory. When he reached the bottom, he found Belle and Daisy, their heads hanging low, eyes filled with a docile kind of suffering. He patted them both, his touch gentle but hurried. "Not much further now, girls," he whispered, untying their reins. "Not much further."

And so, fortified by a new sense of direction and the inexplicable hope that lay in a handful of mysterious black pebbles, Pegleg Smith and his weary companions ventured forth once more, leaving behind a hilltop that would stir the imaginations and fuel the fantasies of countless treasure seekers for generations to come.

Thus, under the endless sky of the Anza Borrego Badlands, Pegleg and his trusty mules disappeared into the mists of history.