He investigated the latter hint first. He was rewarded at once. “Guadiva” was a small lake located in the extinct volcanic cone of Mt. Veneza, beyond the upper Cordilleras. It was remarkable chiefly for a tradition which mentions this as one of the hiding places of a supposed vast treasure thrown away by the Chibcas that it might escape the hands of Quesada.
Starting with this, Wilson began a more detailed search through the literature bearing upon these South American tribes, Spanish conquest, and English treasure hunting. He was surprised to find a great deal of information. Almost without exception, however, this particular treasure which had sent Quesada to his 94 grave a pauper, which had lured from quiet England Raleigh, Drake, and Leigh was thought to be a myth. The hours passed and Wilson knew nothing of their passing. It was eight o’clock before he paused once more to summarize the result of his reading. In the light of the key which lay before him, the possibilities took away his breath. His quick imagination spanned the gaps in the narrative until he had a picture before his eyes that savored of the Arabian Nights. It was a glittering quest––this which had tempted so many men, for the prize was greater than Cortez had sought among the Aztecs, or Pizarro in his bloody conquest of the Incas.
He saw many thousands of the faithful Chibcas, most powerful of all the tribes upon the Alta plain, which lies a green level between the heights of the white summits of the Andes, toiling up the barren lava sides of Mount Veneza to where, locked in its gray cone, lies the lake of Guadiva. He saw this lake smiling back at the blue sky, its waters clear as the mountain air which ripples across its surface. The lake of Guadiva! How many bronzed men had whispered this name and then dropped upon their knees in prayer. To Quesada it was just a mirror of blue with unsearchable depths, but he lived to learn how much more it meant to the lithe bronze men.
For while the great world beyond was fighting through the rumbling centuries over its Christ, its Buddha, its Mahomet, a line of other men plodded the stubborn path to this beloved spot, their shoulders bent 95 beneath their presents, and made their prayer and offered their gifts to the Gilded Man who lived below the waters. A tenth, more often a half, of all the richness of the plains of Alta was offered there in tribute to him who was their god. He had blessed these people generously, and mighty was their offering. Upon a single feast day, tradition had it, a hundred mules with tinkling silver bells followed the high priest, in scarlet robes, to the tiny cone, their sharp feet clawing the lava road, their strong backs aching beneath the precious burden. This was then transferred to rafts and gay barges by men blindfolded by the priests and taken to the secret spot which lay above the sunken shrine. The worshipers knelt in prayer beneath the uplifted arms of their pious leaders, then raised high their golden bowls. For a moment they glinted in the sun, then flashed a mellow path beneath the waves which leaped to meet them. Jewels, rarer than any Roman conquerors found, here kissed the sun as they were tossed high, then mingled with the crystal lake like falling stars.
Here it was that Quesada, the adventurous Spaniard, had sought this treasure. He organized a horde of gold-lustful minions and descended upon the Chibcas. The latter were not by nature fighters, but they stood their ground for their god, and fought like demons. Quesada forcing his way over their bleeding bodies, killing even the women who had armed themselves with knives, pressed up the rocky trail to where the tiny lake lay as peaceful as a sleeping child. With hands 96 upon his hips, he gazed into the waters and smiled. Then he gave his orders and for many weeks the eager soldiers dug and sweated in the sun under the direction of the shrewdest engineers of the age in the attempt to drain the lake. An outlet was finally made and the lake sunk foot by foot while the trusting folk below made their prayers and waited. The answer came. One day when Quesada saw the treasure almost within his grasp, there was a mighty rumbling, a crash of falling stone, and behold! an avalanche of granite raged down, killing many of the soldiers, routing the rest, and filled in the man-made channel. Quesada ordered with fierce oath, but not a man would return to the work. He was forced to retreat, and died in poverty and shame.
The years rolled on and still the tributes sank beneath the waves. Now and then some hardy traveler returned with a tale of the unlimited wealth that was going to waste. One such, driven over the seas, came to Raleigh and reported that he had seen, in a single procession forming to climb the hill, treasure packed upon mules to the value of one hundred thousand English pounds.
“There were diamonds,” so ran the chronicle, “larger than a man’s thumb and of a clearness surpassing anything even among the crown jewels. I saw also topaz, sapphires, garnets, turquoises, and opals––all of a beauty greater than any I ever before saw. As for gold, it seems of no value whatever, so generously did they heave it into the lake.”
Leigh sought three years and came back empty handed, but more convinced than ever that the treasure existed. Many of the Spaniards who swooped down upon the Chibcas did not return empty handed, although they failed to find the source of the El Dorado. They saw many strange customs which proved that gold in abundance was located somewhere within this small area. They saw the chiefs of the tribes cover themselves each morning with resin and then sprinkle powdered gold over their bodies until they looked as though in golden armor. This was washed off at sunset, after the evening prayer to the burning planet which they believed to be the source of all their wealth. At their death their graves were lined with jewels. The Spanish governors who later looted these tombs recovered enormous amounts; one grave yielding $18,000, another $20,000 in gold strips, and still another $65,000 in emeralds, gold chains, arrows, and other implements of beaten gold.
But the greatest incentive to the search had always been the detailed account left by Fray Pedro Simon, who for twenty years lived among these tribes as missionary, preceding Valverde, known as the Priest of the Hills.