ROBERT JONES ANDTHE TEMPLE OF LOOT
Even 76 years later, Fort Huachuca’s golden mystery endures
“The military would find much better ways to use a few tons of gold than burying it in desert. And a much more secure storage area than a hole in the ground.” STEPHEN GREGORY FORT HUACHUCA MUSEUM ARCHIVIST, ON THE LEGEND OF THE “JONES GOLD”
With nothing to do on a quiet summer Sunday evening long ago, Pvt. Robert Jones headed into the desert foothills with no destination in mind.
He returned with a story that’s still told 76 years later. As with many tales that stand the test of time, it involves fate, mystery and untold riches. And it started with a walk. In 1941, it was not uncommon for businesses to turn away African-Americans. So it was in Sierra Vista, a small southern Arizona town just outside the gates of Fort Huachuca.
On that Sunday evening in June, Jones and a fellow soldier headed toward a canyon about 2 miles from the barracks. They followed the sandy bed of a small creek, skirting relatively thick vegetation rarely found in the desert.
Walking about 10 feet in front of his friend, Jones felt the soft earth give slightly with each step. Until it gave way altogether.
Jones dropped like a stone, he would later recall to those who questioned his story.
That fall also dropped him into Arizona lore.
From the moment he hit a dirt floor about 30 feet down, his life would never be the same. He didn’t know it yet, but he landed in a place that would consume his thoughts during his remaining years, even follow him to his death.
But at the moment of impact, Jones wanted just one thing — to get out. Scrabbling at the steep rocky wall, his fingers slid in search of a ledge. Had he been able to find purchase on the steep wall, scrambling out as fast as he fell in, perhaps everything would have been different.
Instead, as his friend frantically looked for vines large enough to support Jones’ sizable frame, the private noted a curious patch of darkness along a far wall. He walked toward it, hands out. Fingers disappeared into the blackness and encountered a smooth, oddly shaped stone, cold to the touch, like some sort of metal.
As far as what truly happened next, it depends on whom — and what — you believe.
Arizona’s legendary lost gold
Legends of lost gold have long been part of Arizona history. Stories abound of riches buried by Spanish explorers or Native Americans, as well as tales of precious ore pulled from mines whose locations remain a mystery.
There are those who still trudge into the Superstition Mountains with shovels slung across their backs and gold on their minds. Yet after more than a century, the Lost Dutchman Mine is more tangible as a campfire tale than as a trove of gold.
It’s only logical, then, that the fateful fall of Pvt. Robert Jones would spark another story of unimaginable riches.
The difference is that Jones’ alleged discovery has been well-documented, from a breathless and inconclusive narrative in Life magazine to a sizable archive at Fort Huachuca.
Stephen Gregory, museum archivist for the military installation, still fields questions about the “Jones Gold.” While little known outside the treasure-seeking community, the mystery remains a staple of lost-gold websites. Visitors want to hear more about the neat rows of ingots found in a subterranean chamber than about the discoverer.
Some share theories of how a large cache of gold wound up in a remote desert canyon. It was buried by bandit-fearing miners, they say, or hidden centuries ago by Jesuits who were doing more than proselytizing to Native Americans.
Gregory’s favorite hypothesis has Jones stumbling onto a hidden stockpile of Army gold.
“The military would find much better ways to use a few tons of gold than burying it in desert,” Gregory said. “And a much more secure storage area than a hole in the ground.”
If visitors arrive with metal detectors, Gregory tells them politely but firmly that any attempt to seek treasure on federal ground is strictly prohibited for a host of reasons, both military and environmental. He tells them of the exhaustive, well-documented searches conducted with everything from heavy machinery to high-tech probes. All that’s been uncovered, Gregory says, has been the holes in Jones’ stories.
Not that his explanations erase a telltale glint in their eyes, because gold tends to bring out the believer in anyone.
An unexpected visitor
On Jan. 21, 1959, a day that started with below-freezing temperatures, Robert Jones plunged a shovel again and again into a hole growing slowly relative to his effort. Still he attacked, sure that each scoop of sand and dirt brought him closer to the treasure he’d left behind.
The day before, he’d dropped into Fort Huachuca much the way he’d dropped into that hole almost 18 years prior — out of nowhere.
Jones had brought with him two friends from his hometown of Dallas, as well as a fantastical story cobbled from memory of an underground chamber containing gold bars stacked 4 feet high and 20 feet long — at least 5 tons, perhaps even as much as 10 tons, based on Jones’ measurements.
Jones told officers he’d marked the spot with a particular stone and was hoping to dig up the chamber he’d buried years ago so it would remain his secret.
Given permission to explore as well as a guard to accompany him, Jones led his two friends into the canyon until he came to the spot he could never forget. With picks and shovels, the three dug in earnest, getting just 6 feet down by the end of the day.
Noticing the lack of progress, a sympathetic (if unconvinced) colonel offered a bulldozer, which was put to work the following day. Eldridge Bacon joined Jones and watched as the machine gouged a 12- to 15-foot-deep crater, about halfway to the depth of the chamber.
Digging stopped when water filled the hole. With no signs of the shaft or the chamber, Bacon ordered the bulldozer operator to fill in the hole. He told Jones further digging could jeopardize the base’s water supply.
That should have been the end of the story. But gold doesn’t let go so easily.
Fourteen months later, the entire nation knew the story of Robert Jones and his elusive gold.
Story goes viral, 1959-style
When a persistent Jones convinced Fort Huachuca officials to dig again in September 1959, the enterprise was witnessed by Robert Wallace of Life magazine, a popular and respected weekly.
Wallace told the tale from the start, journeying with Jones back to 1941, when the soldier disappeared into the earth and emerged into a very different timeline, his life divided: before the gold, and after the gold.
Jones told the reporter that he returned alone to the shaft an hour or so after his accidental discovery. This time, he came prepared with rope and measuring tape, as well as a $3 flashlight he’d purchased from the post exchange.
Jones followed the beam into the chamber, noting its rocky ceiling. With tape measure in hand, he methodically mapped out his surroundings. The shaft was 32 feet deep, dropping into a 6-footlong tunnel leading to a chamber 6 feet high, 15 feet wide and 20 feet long.
The ingots, the soldier told Wallace, appeared grayish in color and were surprisingly heavy. Jones said he saw a golden throne at the back of the chamber, a wooden chest at its base.
Jones said he used a hatchet to cleave a hunk off one of the bars. He eventually took the sample to an assayer in Douglas, who paid Jones $890 based on gold prices at the time (roughly $35.50 an ounce, meaning the sample weighed around 25 ounces). The assayer would deny the transaction ever took place — not surprising, since private sales of gold were prohibited at the time.
Jones recalled telling just a few friends of his discovery, but word of the treasure spread quickly, gathering more doubters than believers.
Still, according to the Life magazine story, his elation turned to paranoia and fear as weeks passed. In the early 1940s, society rarely treated an African-American with dignity and respect. How would it respond to an African-American claiming a vast fortune of buried gold?
A year after he was swallowed by the earth, and knowing his time at Fort Huachuca was nearing an end, Jones returned to the canyon. He told the Life reporter he filled the gap with dirt and rocks. He carved his initials into a large stone and placed it close to the narrow opening, an X marking a spot he’d never forget.
For nearly 18 years, the gold was no more than the stuff of stories told over drinks and at family gatherings back home in Dallas. Yet it retained its hold on Jones, who often asked those with cars if they would drive him to Sierra Vista. In January 1959, a friend finally said yes, leading to Jones’ first, and certainly not last, foray to unearth the elusive cache.
Most would have given up once they saw a bulldozer strike nothing but water. Even if the gold were there, it would be nearly impossible to reach.
Jones remained as stubborn as his dream. He returned in June 1959, according to the account in Life magazine. Moving into a hotel 50 miles away in Douglas, he’d knock on Fort Huachuca’s gates as often as three times a week, pleading for another shot.
The lure of gold was too powerful to ignore.
Hope and disappointment
On Sept. 17, 1959, a small crowd gathered on a clear, seasonably cool day to watch a 6-inch-wide, 1,800-pound drill bit twist through grudging earth. As it sunk inch by hard-won inch, Robert Jones watched quietly, confidently.
Because this time, the Army brought in the big guns.
Jones’ story found a sympathetic ear in Col. Eldridge Bacon, Fort Huachuca’s inspector general. Bacon enlisted the help of a local contractor who supplied the heavy machinery necessary to carve a pit at least 32 feet down.
Before the first scoop of dirt was removed, however, workers set up a welldrilling rig and sank the bit to see what they were up against.
It descended inch by inch, hitting just 8 feet the first day. When drilling resumed the next day, progress remained slow but steady. It hit 12 feet, then 13.
Suddenly the drill spun faster, dropping 5 feet before thudding against solid ground.
According to entries in Bacon’s journal, drill-rig operators had never seen anything like it. The bit hit an inexplicable void in the earth. If the drill had plunged through Jones’ chamber, it was much shallower than he’d reported. But it was an encouraging sign. Drilling continued, but the bit soon ground to a halt against an impenetrable rock shelf.
But that sudden drop — a sliver of optimism in the pursuit of a fairy tale — fueled digging for the next two weeks.
Water bubbled into the pit at 12 feet down, turning dirt into a pasty muck. As pumps went to work, experts believed the void had been carved by Mother Nature rather than by those seeking to hide gold. But it was too late to stop now, if millions of dollars of gold was just 20 feet away.
On Oct. 1, metal buckets scraped bedrock. The hole had reached 26 feet, tantalizingly short of the goal.
Workers again called for the drill. As a growing number of local and national reporters watched, the bit fought through solid rock.
It reached 30 feet, then 32. Still it attacked, pulverizing the stone below. Thirty-four feet. Thirty-six. Four feet past the target, and nothing. Crews tried another spot, and another, and another, according to historical records. Four holes were drilled. In each case, the results were the same.
Either Jones’ calculations were off, or he was lying. Only one option remained. At 1:30 p.m. on Oct. 2, crews dropped 30 sticks of dynamite among the four test holes, hooked the explosives to a detonator and stood back.
All the blast revealed were thick layers of quartzite and disappointment.
Even as Jones pleaded for more time, officials decided enough was enough.
At 3:50 p.m., they called off the dig and ordered the hole be filled. In his journal, Bacon noted further attempts would be “uneconomical.”
The Army estimated it had spent $1,100 of taxpayers’ money on the enterprise, according to an Arizona Republic story at the time.
The Life reporter noted that Jones stayed in southeastern Arizona for another two months before returning to Dallas.
In the meantime, the story said, Bacon did some exploring of his own and found holes in Jones’ war record. The soldier had neither fought overseas, as he had claimed, nor been shot. Still, the colonel believed the story of the gold was solid.
Life described one more visit the colonel made to the canyon, months later, when few traces of the dig remained. He noticed a small hole and tiny footprints, the makings of a childhood adventure.
He had no idea the adventure was not yet over. The Jones Gold would be heard from again, its grip on the imagination as firm as ever.
A rich vein of precious lore
Liz Nicklus has met many treasure hunters. They walk into the Superstition Mountain Museum with riches on their minds, if not shovels in their trucks.
They come seeking the Lost Dutchman gold mine, the mother lode of precious lore. It’s an enticing tale of treasure maps, stone tablets and unexplained deaths that still lures visitors to the museum, set at the base of the Superstition Mountains, the fabled home to the mine. The hunt for gold transcends time, the stories gaining power as years pass, becoming fabled myths rather than honest narratives.
“Every day, someone comes in asking about the mine,” said Nicklus, the museum’s executive director. “They even come with their own theories. It’s interesting how the story still grips people.”
The power of the tale of the mine and its namesake, Jacob Waltz (who actually was German), is seen along the museum’s shelves. The Superstition has one of the most extensive collections of Lost Dutchman books and archive material, according to George Johnston, the museum’s president emeritus.
Books and articles are still written; as with stories before, they brim with clues and maps and legends. Yet they yield no answer to the Lost Dutchman riddle.
“We don’t judge on whether the legend is true or not,” Johnston said of the museum’s collection of Dutchman-related writings. “We judge the story — if it’s readable, if it makes sense. We take no position on if the story’s fake.”
The staying power of the Dutchman Mine is not lost on Greg Davis, a founding member of the museum who has
been collecting books, stories and archives related to lost mines and treasure hunting. His collection occupies a 1,000-square-foot addition to his Tempe home.
The possibility of instant riches captivates people today as much as it did when Howard Carter first peered into King Tut’s tomb in 1922.
“It fires up a person’s imagination, their interest,” Davis said. “Everyone you talk to says the same thing: ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to find a treasure?’ ”
He knows the story of the Jones Gold and the tons of ingots claimed to be hidden within a chamber carved from the earth. Davis typically withholds his opinion on such claims, not wanting to spoil the allure of losttreasure tales.
But he does say this about Jones’ alleged find: “You know what that much gold would do to a metal detector? Make it chime like Big Ben.”
In 1975, professional treasure hunters descended upon Huachuca Canyon with gold-seeking weapons far more formidable than metal detectors. What they found would put one question to rest, but reveal others.
A final hunt
On a cool, dry spring day in 1975, specialists began to stake out a search grid along the canyon’s undulating terrain.
Over the next few weeks, crews from Quest Exploration Corp. plumbed the subterranean depths with cuttingedge instruments designed to find anomalies.
Quest’s president, Charles Kenworthy, knew well the story of Robert Jones and his lost gold. He’d read the story in Life and other magazines.
Kenworthy believed Huachuca Canyon would provide the perfect test for his company’s newly developed electronic search tools.
Since the Life story, the area had refused to divulge its secrets through two more attempts to reveal them.
In October 1962, permission was granted for a third attempt. A Prescott construction company was hired to provide $10,000 worth of work. By the time the money ran out in March 1963, the monthlong dig had unearthed nothing but rocks and further doubt.
A fourth attempt was undertaken in 1968 by a Chicago mining company. The unsuccessful effort earned only a brief mention in the Fort Huachuca archives.
The Army considered the case closed. A year later, Jones died in Dallas; his dream died with him. Or so it seemed. Kenworthy convinced the base’s leadership to give it one more shot. On May 17, 1975, workers spread out with metal detectors and resistivity meters, precisely mapping what lay beneath.
With that chart in hand, workers deployed Quest’s secret weapon, a microgravity meter that would reveal voids (less gravity) and dense metals (more gravity).
The maps and readings were fed to a computer at California’s Stanford Research Institute, an acclaimed science facility that 20 years earlier had been hired by Roy Disney to find a home for his brother Walt’s planned theme park.
Physicist Roger Vickers pored over the results and found something that backed up Jones’ claims — a 38-foot, angled shaft to a “chamber-shaped anomaly” 20 feet wide, 8 feet 9 inches high and 30 feet long.
There was just one problem: It was filled with silt and other material.
Kenworthy surmised this was indeed the chamber Jones fell into 34 years before, and that it likely was flooded when the Army detonated 30 sticks of dynamite in a failed attempt to reveal it.
Vickers went over the data in detail. He concluded that “neither the surface nor the drill hole data give any indication that a cavity such as the one described by Private Jones exists within the area surveyed,” according to the final report.
As far as the Army was concerned, the search for the Jones Gold had officially come to an end.
Not everyone agreed.
Leaving his mark
It’s been more than 76 years since Robert Jones fell into his destiny. And just like his gold, his story takes some digging to find.
Yet once a month, maybe twice, Stephen Gregory will hear from a curious treasure hunter, a sign the tale has surfaced on a lost-treasure website or message thread.
They’ll ask about the alleged treasure, if it might be OK if they poked around.
Gregory politely tells them it’s not. Various ordinances prohibit such poking around on federal land, for reasons ranging from damaging the local ecosystem to potential liability.
If they are insistent, Gregory may mention they could apply for the necessary permits, which would include sharing any finds with the U.S. Treasury. He’d follow up with how the government is disinclined to issue such permits, and certainly would not allow digging on a military base, particularly one that’s already hosted five such attempts.
As far as Gregory and Fort Huachuca officials are concerned, the gold doesn’t exist and never did.
Gregory is, however, willing to speculate. After his initial time in the 25th Infantry, Jones worked as a stonecutter on base. He assisted on several projects for the Works Progress Administration and left his initials in his work.
Gregory said Jones’ name or initials have been found at five points around the base, most notably the “Robert Jones Dallas Texas 1943” found along the top of a wall.
Perhaps, Gregory said, the gold story was just another way for Jones to leave his mark.
“And look, more than 70 years later, we’re still talking about him,” Gregory said. “Mission accomplished.”