"The Baited Claim":
I had always dreamed of striking it rich on my own, away from the crowds and the bosses. So when I heard about the old claims up in the Andes, near a forgotten valley in northern Peru, I packed my gear and headed out. It was just me, my pan, a shovel, and enough supplies to last a month. The road ended at a dusty trail, and from there, I hiked deeper into the hills, following a faded map I'd bought from a shop in Lima. The spot I picked was perfect— a narrow stream cutting through rocky ground, with signs of old diggings all around. I set up my tent by the water, staked my claim with a simple marker, and got to work right away.
The first few days went smooth. I sifted through the gravel, pulling out flecks of gold that sparkled in the sunlight. It wasn't a fortune, but it was enough to keep me going. One afternoon, as I was rinsing my pan, I spotted a figure coming down the opposite bank. He was a local man, maybe in his forties, carrying a backpack and a pickaxe. He waved and called out in Spanish, "Hola, amigo! You find anything good here?"
I stood up, wiping my hands on my pants. "A little," I replied in my basic Spanish. "Just starting out. You work these parts too?"
He crossed the stream on some stepping stones and came over, grinning wide. His name was Luis, he said. He lived in a village a few hours walk away and prospected on the side when the farm work slowed. "This valley has gold, but it's tricky," he told me, squatting down to look at my pan. "You need to know the right spots. I can show you one, if you share what you find."
We talked for a while. He seemed friendly enough, sharing stories about big hauls he'd heard of in the old days. I offered him some coffee from my pot, and he accepted, sitting on a rock while we drank. "Be careful out here alone," he said, his eyes scanning the hills. "Sometimes men come from the cities, looking to take what's not theirs. But you seem smart. Stick to your claim, and you'll be fine."
I nodded, feeling a bit easier with company nearby. Before he left, he promised to check back in a couple days with that tip on a better vein. "Don't work too late," he added with a laugh. "The nights get long."
That evening, I cooked beans over my small fire and turned in early. Sleep came quick, but around midnight, I woke to the sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel nearby. I sat up in my tent, listening hard. It was probably just an animal, I thought, but my hand reached for the flashlight anyway. The beam cut through the dark, showing nothing but empty rocks. I lay back down, telling myself it was nothing.
The next morning, I found footprints around my camp—boot prints, fresh and deep. They circled the tent but didn't go inside. Luis, maybe? I shook it off and got back to panning. By midday, I had a small vial half full of gold dust. That's when Luis returned, this time with another man trailing behind him. "This is my cousin, Pedro," Luis said, introducing the newcomer. Pedro was younger, stocky, with a scar across his cheek. He didn't smile much, just nodded and stared at my setup.
"We brought you something," Luis said, pulling out a bottle of rum from his pack. "To celebrate your luck." We sat and shared it, the talk turning to the gold again. Pedro spoke up for the first time, his voice low. "You know, this stream used to belong to my family. We worked it before the big companies came. But now, anyone can try."
I felt a twinge of unease but kept it light. "I'm not taking much. Just enough for me."
Luis clapped me on the back. "That's the spirit. Hey, Pedro found a spot upstream. Richer than this. Come see it tomorrow. We'll go together."
I agreed, though something in Pedro's eyes made me hesitate. They left after an hour, and I watched them disappear up the trail. That night, the footsteps came again, closer this time. I grabbed my knife and peered out, but saw only shadows moving in the distance—two figures, whispering. My pulse raced as I ducked back inside, barricading the flap with my pack. They didn't approach, but I didn't sleep much after that.
Dawn broke, and I packed light for the trip upstream. Luis and Pedro were waiting when I reached the meeting spot. "Ready for the big find?" Luis asked, his grin as wide as ever.
We hiked for what felt like hours, the path narrowing into thick brush and jagged rocks. Pedro led the way, silent, while Luis chatted about old legends of miners who vanished with their gold. "Some say they got lost," he said. "Others say they met bad luck with worse men."
Finally, we stopped at a clearing by a deeper pool in the stream. The water ran clearer here, and sure enough, as Pedro demonstrated with his pan, yellow flecks swirled up easy. "See? Told you," Luis said. We worked side by side for a bit, pulling out more than I'd seen before. But as the sun climbed higher, Pedro stood and stretched. "We should mark this as ours now," he muttered to Luis in quick Spanish.
I caught the words and looked up. "What do you mean?"
Luis laughed it off. "Just talking business, amigo. Partnerships make it safer out here."
But Pedro wasn't laughing. He stepped closer, his hand resting on a machete at his belt. "This claim is too good for one man. You share, or you go."
My mouth went dry. "I don't want trouble. I can leave some gold and head out."
Pedro shook his head. "No. All of it. And the spot stays with us."
Luis tried to calm things, but his eyes darted nervously. "Easy, Pedro. He's a friend."
Then, from the trees behind us, two more men emerged—rough-looking, with rifles slung over their shoulders. They weren't there for panning. One of them, a tall guy with a bandana, spoke first. "Luis said you had a nice setup. Time to join up or clear out."
I backed away slowly, my mind racing. "I don't want to join anything. I'll just go back to my camp and pack up."
The tall one smirked. "Too late for that. We don't like lone wolves sniffing around our hills."
Pedro nodded to the others, and they fanned out, blocking the path back. Luis looked torn, muttering, "I didn't mean for this. They made me bring you here."
The realization hit me like a punch—they'd been watching my camp, the footprints were theirs, and Luis had been the bait. I turned to run, but the brush was thick, and Pedro lunged, grabbing my arm. I twisted free, elbowing him hard in the ribs. He grunted and swung the machete, the blade whistling past my shoulder.
"Get him!" the tall one yelled, and they all closed in. I bolted into the undergrowth, branches whipping my face as I scrambled up a slope. Behind me, I heard them crashing through, cursing and shouting. "You can't run far, gringo! We'll find you!"
My lungs burned as I climbed higher, slipping on loose rocks. I hid behind a boulder, pressing flat against the ground. Their voices echoed close—too close. "Split up," Pedro ordered. "He can't have gone far."
One of them passed within feet of my spot, his boots crunching leaves. I held my breath, knife gripped tight in my hand. He paused, sniffing the air like he sensed something, then moved on. Minutes dragged like hours. When the sounds faded, I crept out and circled back down, heart hammering in my ears.
But they weren't done. As I neared the stream, shots rang out—crack, crack—from across the water. Bullets chipped the rocks near my feet. I dove into the shallows, the cold water soaking me through. Swimming low, I made it to the other bank and ran for my camp, grabbing my pack on the fly. No time to take the tent. Just the gold vial and essentials.
Night fell as I pushed on, the trail twisting through ravines. Every snap of a twig made me spin around, expecting them. Around a bend, I heard voices again—low, arguing. I ducked into a crevice and waited. It was the tall one and another. "Luis messed up," the tall one said. "Should have just taken him quiet."
The other replied, "We'll get the gringo tomorrow. No one escapes the valley."
They passed, and I slipped away in the opposite direction, hiking through the dark until my legs gave out. I found a shallow cave and huddled inside, knife ready. The whole night, I replayed it—the friendly chat, the hidden rifles, Pedro's scar twisting in anger. What if they found me? What if Luis circled back with more lies?
By morning, I was moving again, aiming for the main road. But halfway there, I spotted smoke rising from ahead—my camp. They'd burned it, the flames licking the sky. No sign of them, but I knew they were close. I veered off the path, cutting through unmapped terrain, thorns tearing at my skin.
Hours later, exhausted and cut up, I stumbled onto the dirt road. A truck rumbled by, and I flagged it down, babbling about men with guns. The driver, an old farmer, believed me enough to speed to the nearest town. At the police station, I told my story, showing the gold vial as proof. They nodded, saying it happens too often—illegal crews fighting for every speck.
They sent a patrol back, but by then, the men were gone. The ashes of my camp were all that remained. I flew out the next day, vowing never to chase gold again. But even now, in the city, I check the locks twice and listen for footsteps at night. Those hills hold more than treasure—they hold men who'll kill for it, and they'll never stop hunting.
"River of Bones":
I had always dreamed of striking it rich, so in the summer of 1932, I packed my gear and convinced my friend Jack to join me on a trip to the Nahanni Valley. We both figured the remote rivers up there held enough gold to change our lives. Jack was a sturdy guy, good with a rifle and always quick to laugh off worries. We loaded our canoe with pans, picks, food supplies, and a couple of tents, then set off from Fort Simpson. The journey took days, paddling against the current, but we talked the whole way about what we'd do with our fortune.
"Think we'll find nuggets big as fists?" Jack asked one afternoon as we pulled the canoe ashore for a break.
I nodded. "If the stories are right, yeah. But we have to watch out for claim jumpers. Folks say this place draws all kinds."
He chuckled. "Long as we stick together, we'll be fine."
We reached a spot near Deadmen Valley, as some called it, and set up camp by a bend in the river. The water ran clear over gravel beds, perfect for panning. We spent the first few days sifting through sediment, finding flecks here and there—enough to keep our hopes up. Evenings, we'd sit by the fire, cooking beans and fish, sharing tales we'd heard back in town.
One night, Jack brought up the old rumors. "You know about those McLeod brothers? Went missing years ago, then turned up without heads."
I shrugged it off. "Probably animals got to them after they died from hunger or cold. Don't let it spook you."
But he leaned in closer. "And that Swiss fellow, Jorgenson. Cabin burned, him decapitated right outside. Folks whisper it's someone guarding the gold, picking off prospectors one by one."
"Superstition," I said, poking the fire. "We're here for gold, not ghost stories."
The next day, we hiked upstream to scout a new spot. That's when we found the first sign something was wrong. An old camp, abandoned, with rusted pans scattered around. In the dirt, half-buried, lay bones—human bones, picked clean. Jack knelt down and poked at them with a stick.
"Look at this," he muttered. "Skull's missing. Just like the tales."
My mouth went dry. "Could be anything. Let's keep moving."
We panned farther up, but the find stuck with us. That night, as we lay in our tents, I heard it—soft footsteps crunching leaves outside. I sat up, listening. The steps circled the camp, slow and deliberate.
"Jack," I whispered. "You awake?"
"Yeah," he replied from his tent. "Heard that too. Stay quiet."
The footsteps stopped near my flap. I gripped my knife, barely breathing. After a long minute, they faded away. In the morning, we checked around. Boot prints in the mud, larger than ours.
"Someone's out here," Jack said, his voice low. "Watching us."
We decided to arm ourselves better, keeping rifles close. But the gold kept us going—we found a decent vein that day, pocketing small nuggets. Excitement pushed the fear aside for a bit.
"See? Worth it," Jack said, holding up a shiny piece. "This could be our ticket out."
Two nights later, the footsteps returned. This time, closer, and I heard breathing—heavy, like a man trying to stay silent. I bolted up and grabbed my rifle.
"Who's there?" I called out.
No answer. Jack emerged from his tent, weapon ready. We scanned the darkness, but saw nothing.
"Must be a drifter," he whispered. "Trying to scare us off our claim."
We built the fire higher and took turns standing watch. Sleep came hard after that.
The following morning, Jack went to check our traps while I panned. He was gone longer than usual. Hours passed. I called his name, but only echoes came back. Worry built inside me like a knot tightening.
"Jack!" I shouted again, hiking up the trail he'd taken.
That's when I smelled smoke. Ahead, a thin plume rose from the trees. I ran toward it, rifle in hand. What I found made my blood run cold—an old cabin, charred black, still smoldering. The door hung open. Inside, amid the ashes, lay a body. Jack's body. His head was gone, severed clean at the neck. Blood soaked the floorboards. His rifle lay beside him, unfired.
I stumbled back, retching. Panic flooded me. Who did this? Why? I spun around, expecting attack. The woods seemed to close in, every shadow hiding eyes.
Then I heard it—branches snapping nearby. Footsteps, heavy and fast, coming my way. I ran, crashing through underbrush, heart racing in my ears. Behind me, the pursuit grew louder. A voice growled, low and menacing.
"Get back here! That gold's mine!"
I glanced over my shoulder. A figure—tall, bearded, axe in hand—charged after me. His eyes burned with madness. I recognized the build from the boot prints.
I dodged trees, leaping over roots, heading for the river. My lungs burned, but I pushed on. The canoe was my only chance. The man gained ground, his boots pounding the earth.
"You saw too much!" he yelled.
I reached the bank, shoved the canoe into the water, and jumped in. Paddling frantically downstream, I heard him splash in after me, but the current pulled me away. His curses faded as the river bent.
I didn't stop until miles later, beaching at a trading post. Told the Mounties everything. They searched, but found no trace of the killer. Just more bones in that valley. I never went back. The gold stayed there, but so did the horror. Every night, I hear those footsteps circling, waiting.
"Vanished in Palmerville":
I had been mates with Bruce for years, ever since we bonded over metal detectors and the thrill of finding a nugget in the dirt. Kevin and Tremain were part of our little group too, all of us keen on getting away from the city noise to chase gold in the far north. We picked Palmerville Station because we heard the Palmer River still held some promise, even if it meant dealing with the vast emptiness of that cattle property. It stretched over a thousand square kilometers, with rough tracks cutting through scrub and dry gullies, far from any town. Cairns was hours away by road, and out there, phone signals were a joke unless you had a satellite setup.
We rolled in on the eighth of July, parking our vehicles in a hidden spot down a creek bed. No one wanted trouble with the owners, Stephen and Dianne. We'd run into them before on other trips—sharp words, glares that lingered too long. They ran the place like their personal kingdom, and prospectors like us weren't welcome. "Let's keep low," I said to the lads as we unloaded our gear. "Set up camp quick and stay out of sight."
Bruce grinned, patting his dog Red on the head. "Yeah, Dan. We'll be ghosts. Red here will sniff out the gold before anyone spots us." Kevin nodded, slinging his detector over his shoulder. "Just stick to the riverbed. No need to wander near the homestead." Tremain chuckled. "As long as we find something shiny, I'm good."
That night around the fire, we talked plans. Bruce sketched a rough map on the ground with a stick. "Tomorrow, we spread out along the Palmer. I'll take the upstream gully—looks promising from the old reports." I agreed, but something nagged at me. The quiet out there was absolute, broken only by the occasional rustle in the bushes. We turned in early, detectors charged, picks ready.
Next morning, around seven-thirty, we headed out. The sun was up, but the gullies kept things shaded. We fanned out, each with our tools. I was about a hundred meters downstream from Bruce, sweeping my detector slow and steady. The beeps were faint, nothing exciting yet. Kevin was further off, Tremain on the other side.
Around ten, I heard an engine. Distant at first, then closer—a vehicle rumbling along the track above the gully. I crouched behind a boulder, peering up. It was their tan Toyota ute, the one we'd seen before. Stephen at the wheel, Dianne beside him. My pulse quickened. Why were they here now?
The ute stopped near where Bruce was working. I could see him from my spot, bent over his detector, headphones on, oblivious. Dianne pointed down into the gully, right at him. She said something to Stephen—I couldn't hear the words, but her tone was sharp, urgent. She got out, reached into the back seat, and pulled out what looked like a rifle. Long barrel, scoped. She pumped it once, up and down, like chambering a round.
I ducked lower, breath caught. "No," I whispered to myself. "Just drive on." But they didn't. A crack echoed through the air—a gunshot, clear and loud. Birds scattered from the trees. I flattened against the ground, mind racing. Was that a warning shot? Or...
Minutes dragged. Ten, maybe fifteen. The engine idled, then revved. Another shot rang out, sharper this time. I waited, counting breaths, until the ute's noise faded away upstream.
I stayed put for what felt like forever, ears straining. No more sounds. Finally, I crept back toward camp, sticking to cover. Tremain beat me there, face pale. "Dan, you hear that?" he asked, voice low.
"Yeah. Two shots. Saw the ute—Stephen and Dianne."
Kevin stumbled in soon after, out of breath. "I heard it too. Sounded like something heavy got tossed in the back before the second one."
We looked at each other. "Where's Bruce?" I said.
His dog Red was at camp, whining, tail low. But no Bruce. His vehicle was locked, satellite phone inside. We had no keys—Bruce carried them. "He wouldn't leave Red," Kevin said. "Something's wrong."
We searched the gully where I'd seen him last. His detector lay abandoned, pick nearby. No sign of him. Footprints mixed with tire tracks. "They took him," Tremain muttered. "Those shots..."
I felt a wave of dread. The outback stretched endless around us, no help in sight. "We can't stay here," I said. "I'll ride back to Maytown, get my truck. You two wait."
The ride was tense, every bump jolting me. What if they came back? What if they saw me? At my place, I grabbed the Nissan and sped back. By then, Kevin and Tremain had packed what they could. We left a note on Bruce's windscreen: "Bruce, if you see this, we're heading to town. Call us."
Back at my property, we tried calling the homestead. Tremain dialed first, left a message. "Hey, this is Tremain. We were out by the river, heard shots. Bruce is missing. If he's with you, tell him to call. Otherwise, we're getting the cops."
No answer. I tried again, same thing. Kevin phoned a mutual mate, Bruce Parker, who knew the owners. "Tell them we heard gunfire," Kevin said. "Ask if they've seen Bruce."
Parker called, left his own message. Still nothing. By seven, we couldn't wait. Tremain and I drove to Laura Police, spilled everything. "Our mate's gone," I told the officer. "We saw the Strubers' ute, heard shots right where he was."
The search started next day. Cops swarmed the station, questioned Stephen and Dianne. They claimed they hadn't seen anyone, hadn't fired a gun in days. But we knew better. The place was declared a crime scene—divers in the river, bikes on the tracks, volunteers combing the scrub.
Days turned to weeks. No Bruce. His body never turned up, but the evidence piled: our statements matched, forensics on the ute hinted at something. They arrested the pair, charged them with murder. Trial was brutal—us testifying, reliving it. Jury convicted them in 2015. Life sentences.
But knowing doesn't erase the fear. Out there in the gullies, I still hear those shots in my dreams. The way Dianne handled that rifle, cold and deliberate. We went for gold, but found something darker—people who saw us as intruders, worth erasing. Bruce's dog Red lives with me now, a reminder. I don't prospect anymore. The outback's too vast, too easy to vanish in.