The coaches traveled about 120 miles each twenty-four hours, with stops at twenty miles apart. Bad weather, choking dust, marauding Indians, poor food, overturned coaches, continuous lurching and clattering, and an all-too-closeness with fellow passengers soon eliminated anybody’s romantic notions about traveling by stage. Occasionally a distraught passenger would leap stark raving mad from a stagecoach and run away into the wilderness, never to be seen again.
The area surrounding Mascot Canyon was overgrown with broom bushes, desert willow, cholla, agave, hackberry and chokecherry bushes, black and white oak trees, satol [sic], Arizona sycamores and rosinweed. Narrow winding trails angled away from the main road leading into the hills where people searched for firewood, hunted, or busied themselves after 1914 in more clandestine activities such as operating bootleg stills. Canyon wrens flicked through the razor-sharp bear grass, hawks whistled and banked in the sky, deer, bobcat and javelina scattered noiselessly – their wild mountain disturbed by human activity. Prior to this only small prospect and mining claims dotted the Dos Cabezas hills.
The mine was not a producer. It never was. They knew it had been a front, and yet, there was always that possibility, however slim, that a bonanza strike would be made.
On May 3, 1935, a cross was planted by a traveling Franciscan missionary who led his followers up the rugged hill overlooking Dos Cabezas during El Dia de la Santa Cruz celebration.
An old railroad bed, old railroad ties, crumbling adobe. A cemetery on a gentle slope and a cross on one high hill. A few rusted vehicles. These constitute the ghost town visible from the public thoroughfare. (More is hidden away on private property, inaccessible to the public.) The other side of the story, also visible, is to be seen in the modest, well-kept homes of oldtimers or newcomers. A ghost town is a very peaceful place to live. I like it pretty well myself.