The Ghostly Guardians of the Desert

It’s Coahuila, northern Mexico, somewhere out near Guerrero, where the land is flatter than a busted tire, the nights are ink-black, and the occasional coyote's howling could chill a tequila-swilling cowboy to his boots. And there I am, standing outside, heart pounding, a few shivers creeping up my spine, waiting for a strange spectacle that defies reason, logic, and every conceivable form of sanity: the mysterious lights of Coahuila.

I’m not talking about some gentle, celestial glow that makes poets weep or a sweet reminder of a million Hollywood sci-fi movies. These lights are something else, something that seems to seep out from the fabric of the night itself, something with a dreadful, inexplicable urgency. When the lights first appear, the air grows colder, your breath hangs heavier, and every instinct in your bones says, “Run. Leave.” But no one ever does, not me, not the other stunned witnesses. Instead, we just stand there, rooted in place, mesmerized and horrified at the same time, like moths who’ve flown a bit too close to the flame but can’t quite bring themselves to pull back.

Every time someone gasped and shouted, “Look! The lights! They’re back!” I felt an involuntary shiver shake me to my core. These weren’t just ordinary lights. No, that would be too simple, too reasonable. They flickered, like the last embers of a dying fire, flashing on and off in some ghostly rhythm that seemed more alive than anything I’d seen before. This wasn’t a steady glow, no gentle fade in or out. They pulsed, ebbing and flowing, like a heartbeat, crawling across the horizon, each spark fighting for survival.

An endless, sprawling landscape, a place so devoid of features it could be a canvas waiting for a mad artist to paint something nightmarish upon it. There are no hills, no mountains, nothing at all to obstruct the view of the horizon. The Coahuila desert seems to stretch on forever, an infinite stage for this bizarre light show. And, of course, they always appear in winter, when the shrubs and trees are stripped bare, their skeletal forms casting eerie shadows in the moonlight. These desolate months seem to bring the lights to life, the darkness holding an almost sinister clarity, like a stage set for something terrible to unfold.

This all takes place from the Casa Grande of the Hacienda La Candelaria, an old manor named after my paternal great-grandmother, the kind of sprawling, slightly decaying structure that looks like it was meant to withstand a siege or a small army. It’s the sort of place that holds secrets, where walls could tell stories if only they could talk. Downstairs, there’s a kitchen, a dining room, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a pantry—each room furnished with sturdy pieces that seem to have existed for as long as the desert itself. Upstairs, there’s a balcony where we watch the world go by, along with an enormous bedroom that could double as a military barracks. And why shouldn’t it? My grandfather, a proud general of the Mexican army, built it to his exacting standards, perhaps dreaming of the day he might need to house half the troops.

This house, with its thick walls and timeless architecture, feels like a fortress against the oddities outside. And yet, when the lights start their nightly pilgrimage, even this great mansion seems insignificant, almost flimsy, as if it too might succumb to whatever eldritch power animates those flashing phantoms.

The night is still. Not quiet—no, that would imply peace, tranquility. This night is simply holding its breath, a strange, heavy stillness punctuated only by the distant calls of coyotes, the occasional hoot of an owl, and the murmurs of our little group of onlookers, huddled together on the balcony like passengers on a sinking ship. Then, out of nowhere, the lights appear, like a long, glittering snake slithering through the night, gliding over the flat landscape in a ghostly procession.

They move as if along an invisible path, weaving in and out of view, each flicker echoing some ancient rhythm, a soundless hymn to the mysteries of the desert. And there they go, marching in single file, floating just above the ground. There’s no rhyme or reason to their movement, no pattern that a rational mind can discern. They pulse, fade, and return, winding their way slowly across the desert floor. For what purpose, I can only guess, but the effect is mesmerizing. As I watch, my mind races through the explanations: spirits of the long-dead, campfire tales come to life, tricks of the light, anything to make sense of what I’m seeing.

But then, just as suddenly as they appeared, they vanish. One moment, they’re there, the next, they’re gone, swallowed by the darkness without so much as a trace. No final flicker, no lingering glow. Just… gone.

The crowd stands there in silence, as if the lights have cast a spell over us all, transforming us into statues. It’s an eerie moment of shared disbelief, an understanding that we’ve all just witnessed something profoundly strange and possibly a touch sinister. These aren’t tourists snapping photos or thrill-seekers looking for a cheap scare. We’re family, friends, locals—people who grew up here, who know this land and its stories. And yet, every one of us is as frozen as a deer caught in headlights.

In that shared silence, an odd sense of unity rises. We’re bound by this experience, this otherworldly moment in which the ordinary laws of the universe seem to unravel. The lights disappear, but the questions linger: Are they spirits of long-lost travelers? Are they echoes of some ancient ritual? Or is it all just a trick of the desert, a mirage for those brave or foolish enough to look?

The Phantom Fortune of the Spanish Treasurer

But let's get back to the dusty, sunbaked Mexican hacienda, a roaring campfire, and a cook named Máximo spinning tales with a gleam in his eye and a cigarette dangling from his lips. Máximo, who had worked for years at the Hacienda La Candelaria, knew the land, knew its people, and—most intriguingly—knew its stories. Gathered around that fire, we all leaned in, wide-eyed and eager, as he told us the legend of the lights and the treasure, an ancient tale of betrayal, wealth, and death set against the vast, unforgiving plains of Coahuila.

Máximo had a way of telling stories that could capture anyone’s attention. Even those who scoffed at ghostly tales or legends found themselves hanging on every word. And this was no ordinary fireside ghost story. According to Máximo, the strange lights that flickered across the desert weren’t mere tricks of the eye. They were, in fact, the spectral remains of a royalist military column escorting a treasure—“the royal box”—and its ill-fated keepers across the desert, never quite making it to their destination, forever bound to retrace their path. A treasure bound in legend, shimmering close, yet just out of reach.

To understand this ghostly caravan, we must first go back to the days when Mexico was caught in the fever of revolution, when Spaniards were as popular as a hangover at a wedding. Picture January 8, 1811. The revolutionary army had just triumphed in Saltillo, Coahuila. The bells rang, the crowds cheered, and among the panic-stricken loyalists was Manuel Royuela, Royal Treasurer of the Spanish Order of Charles III, a man responsible for safeguarding the treasure of the Spanish crown.

Royuela, along with his family and an escort of royalist soldiers, made a hasty escape, planning to cross into Texas to avoid the marauding insurgents. It was a desperate move, a frantic dash northward, and Royuela’s convoy was rumored to be guarding an unimaginable fortune—nearly three hundred thousand pesos in the form of “the royal box.” If that figure doesn’t make you sit up, allow me to assure you: it was enough to fund a small army or a very lavish retirement on a private Caribbean island. Either way, this was a sum that could turn a man’s head.

As they made their way through Coahuila, they stopped at San Juan Bautista del Río Grande (today’s Guerrero, Coahuila) to rest, as many weary travelers did. But unbeknownst to Royuela, they’d walked straight into a trap. Vito Alessio Robles, an esteemed historian, wrote about what happened next in hair-raising detail: Salvador Carrasco, the local judge, and Antonio Griego, the commander of the town’s military forces, were lying in wait, itching to relieve Royuela of his burden.

They’d laid their plans well. They’d even managed to corrupt most of the soldiers in Royuela’s escort, who, undoubtedly lured by the treasure, threw in their lot with the townsfolk rather than with their royalist employers. And on January 16, as Royuela’s caravan prepared to set off once more, they were ambushed by Carrasco, Griego, and a crowd of locals, hungry for the treasure. Blood was spilled in the ensuing melee. Ensign Elguézabal, a sergeant, a merchant, and the treasury officer were killed as the people of San Juan Bautista seized the royal box for themselves.

Here’s where the story takes a deliciously dark twist, because after that bloody ambush, the treasure vanished. It’s as if it sank into the sands of Coahuila, swallowed by the desert, never to be seen again. And while the official record gives us the basics of the ambush, the whereabouts of the treasure are maddeningly absent.

Naturally, we all asked Máximo the burning question: “So, what happened to the treasure?” But Máximo, wise in the ways of campfire storytelling, only chuckled, stoking the fire as he gave his maddeningly simple reply: “I have no idea.” In that frustratingly cryptic tone that only a true storyteller can pull off, Máximo told us that the treasure was as elusive as a mirage. Those who knew where it lay never lived long enough to retrieve it, and those who were left behind only had hints and to follow. It became a tale passed from one generation to the next, an eternal hunt for a hidden prize that always lay just out of reach.

But the rumors didn’t stop. Over the years, tales circulated that “his people” (probably a sly reference to the descendants of the original ambushers) had tried to find the treasure. They dug, and dug, and dug, but for every hole they made, the treasure only seemed to sink deeper into legend. The desert seemed determined to keep its secret.

The legend of the lost royal treasure spread far and wide. Cowboys who roamed the desert, rough men who normally scoffed at superstition, would suddenly find themselves silenced by the mere mention of the treasure. They, too, had heard the stories. Some had even tried their luck digging around the old ambush site, following what scant clues had filtered down through the generations. And every single one of them had come up empty-handed, as if the desert itself was guarding its prize, warding off intruders with eerie lights and the uneasy feeling of being watched.

Days, months, even years went by with one dig after another, and the desert remained silent, indifferent. Over time, those who knew of the treasure’s exact location died, leaving behind only rumors and fragmented stories for the curious and the desperate. Every so often, another foolhardy adventurer would head into the desert, spade in hand, determined to find the legendary box of royalist gold. And every time, they’d return empty-handed, convinced that the desert itself had conspired against them.

The Iron Will of Doña Victoriana

Imagine a land so vast and barren that most people would sooner eat their hat than try to eke out a living there. Now, imagine a woman with a mind as iron-clad as a general’s, who looked out over that land and thought, “Yes, this will do nicely.” That woman was Doña Victoriana Coleta Elizondo, a force of nature who not only mothered a family dynasty but drilled into them the grit, industry, and sheer audacity that would one day fuel a revolution.

I first heard about Doña Victoriana during one of those chilly winter gatherings around the campfire, where stories about ghosts, treasures, and family legends were traded like rare coins. And while her story might not be as flashy as buried ingots or phantom soldiers, believe me, it’s as remarkable as they come. She was no ordinary woman. She was the daughter and niece of the very men who captured the revolutionary Father Hidalgo at Acatita de Baján. Her descendants included one of Mexico’s most notable figures: Francisco I. Madero, the man who went on to lead the Mexican Revolution and eventually serve as President. But it was Victoriana, this indomitable matriarch, who laid the foundation of his resilience and determination.

Victoriana had little time for frills or nonsense. Her philosophy, it seemed, was that children needed to be kept busy, constantly, industriously, and preferably with some backbreaking labor that would make their bones ache and their minds sharpen. This wasn’t a woman who sent her children off to play in the fields. Oh no. She had them digging holes.

Yes, holes.

And not just one or two holes, mind you, but countless holes. Each day, Evaristo and his siblings would be sent out to dig, a task as Sisyphean as it sounds. Dig a hole, fill it up, and dig again. Over and over. It was a routine, a ritual that shaped their young minds and bodies, and, if Victoriana had her way, would ward off the “dangerous idleness” that plagued lesser families. She saw hard work as a protective measure, and in her view, every shovelful of dirt brought them closer to resilience and fortitude.

In later years, I stumbled upon an article from the Indianapolis Star, dated February 24, 1913, that painted a fascinating picture of Doña Victoriana’s influence on her family, especially her grandson Francisco I. Madero. The article, titled “Madero Dedicated His Life to Mexico,” celebrated Francisco’s accomplishments and traced his industriousness back to Victoriana’s relentless, hands-on parenting style. In an era of severe poverty, she was determined to arm her children with the only weapon she had at her disposal: work. Her son, Evaristo, managed only nine months of formal schooling, learning to form letters by drawing them with a stick in the dust of his adobe-floored hut. Yet Victoriana’s grueling drills instilled in him an unshakeable determination that became the very cornerstone of the Madero family’s success.

Here’s where the story gets truly intriguing. For years, I thought these hole-digging exercises were just Victoriana’s way of keeping her children’s hands busy. But, over time, I started to wonder: was there more to it? Why, of all things, did she insist on digging? It seemed oddly specific, as if the act itself was a ritual steeped in something deeper than just discipline.

Then, I met Nino Guevara, a local historian and something of a treasure trove of Coahuila folklore. Nino let me in on a secret that cast Doña Victoriana’s methods in a whole new light. According to him, stories had circulated for generations about soldiers burying a treasure somewhere in Coahuila’s desert—coins, silver ingots, enough wealth to set up an entire kingdom. Apparently, during a particular campaign, a group of soldiers, under orders from their commanding officers, dug an enormous pit in which they buried carts laden with treasure. Once they’d finished their labor, the soldiers were, in Nino’s words, “decimated.” In other words, the poor sods were executed on the spot and buried alongside the treasure they’d just concealed, sealing the secret in blood and sand.

Was it possible, Nino suggested, that Victoriana had heard these rumors? Could her insistence on digging be more than just a means to build character? Was she, perhaps, searching for that legendary stash, or at least trying to condition her children to endure the labor required to unearth it?

The more I dug (pun absolutely intended) into this family history, the clearer it became that the Madero fortune, and indeed the revolutionary spirit of Francisco I. Madero, wasn’t just the result of chance or luck. It was a legacy, instilled by a woman whose sheer determination was nothing short of legendary. Her descendants didn’t inherit wealth, connections, or titles. They inherited a mindset—a philosophy that saw labor not as drudgery but as a sacred calling.

When I had the chance to sit down with Francisco José Madero González, a descendant of Victoriana and former interim governor of Coahuila, we spoke at length about this remarkable ancestor of his. He laughed when I mentioned her drilling her children with endless digging. Yes, he said, she had her eccentricities, but her belief in hard work was absolute. She knew that whatever success the Maderos found in life would come from their own sweat and determination, not from some mythical inheritance. That was her legacy, and she passed it on with the fervor of a true zealot.

And as we spoke, I found myself almost able to picture her: a no-nonsense matriarch, her face lined by the unforgiving desert sun, urging her children on with a steely glint in her eye. I could imagine her looking at the vast, desolate land around her and seeing not barrenness but potential—potential that could only be realized by grit, resolve, and relentless work.

Gold in the Ground, Riches in the Blood

You can imagine my surprise—sitting across from the direct descendant of Doña Victoriana herself, being handed the key to one of Coahuila’s most tantalizing mysteries. There I was, in Villa Unión, a place so dry that the only thing thirstier than the land is the never-ending local appetite for stories. And what a story this one is: Doña Victoriana, once steeped in poverty, suddenly transformed her family’s fortunes through, you guessed it, treasure. Yes, real treasure—gold ingots, no less.

Now, you might be thinking, “Surely, that can’t be true.” But this wasn’t just a campfire tale spun over mezcal. No, this was confirmed by Mrs. Lydia Rocha, a sharp and knowledgeable woman who, along with her husband, penned Glorious Past, Forgotten Present, a history of Villa Unión. According to her and the tales handed down by generations, Doña Victoriana’s fortune wasn’t conjured from thin air or hard labor alone. It was, as it turns out, treasure-fueled. She’d discovered the fabled stash of insurgent gold, the legendary fortune that had eluded so many over the years.

Let’s rewind a bit. Doña Victoriana wasn’t just some wealthy widow or the lady of the manor sipping tea on a veranda. She was born in the dirt, lived in the dirt, and made her family’s fortune digging holes in the dirt. This was a woman of bone-deep resilience, whose family were among the very captors of Father Hidalgo, the leader of Mexico’s independence movement. Her story began in poverty—grim, grinding poverty of the sort that makes the grit in your teeth feel like a permanent fixture. Yet somehow, she brought her children up as if they were already aristocrats. She gave them the gift of work, yes, but also of vision.

Legend has it that Victoriana had her brood digging holes long before they ever had a peso to their name. And while most would assume she just liked a bit of backbreaking labor to keep the family fit, some whispered that she was actually searching for the famed “royal treasure”—a collection of gold ingots supposedly buried by royalist soldiers retreating north with the Spanish treasury. For years, the soldiers’ ghosts were said to wander the desert sands near Guerrero, Coahuila, like a mournful apparition, glinting in the night, forever unable to complete their fateful journey to Texas.

And then, like magic—or fate—the Maderos and the Elizondos came into wealth. Not just a bit of luck here or there, but real wealth. It was as if the heavens opened, and suddenly the desert started pouring gold.

The timeline, frankly, is delicious. One minute, the family is scratching at the earth, struggling to make ends meet. The next, they are buying land, horses, and cattle. Ranches sprung up out of nowhere, and the family who had once counted their pennies began sending their children to the finest schools, not just in Mexico but abroad. Suddenly, they were trading with the United States, mingling in exclusive circles, rubbing shoulders with the political elite.

It was as if Coahuila itself couldn’t believe the reversal in the family’s fortunes. Even Lydia Rocha, recounting the tale, seemed to marvel at how perfectly the pieces of this historical puzzle fit together. Doña Victoriana’s sudden rise from pauper to patroness didn’t seem coincidental. The family didn’t just survive the desert—they thrived, they expanded, and they prospered. The names of her descendants read like a who’s who of Mexican business, ranching, and even politics. From Guerrero to the halls of power, the family forged a dynasty that would one day include none other than Francisco I. Madero, the man who became President of Mexico and helped ignite a revolution.

The wealth didn’t just buy them land and titles; it granted them connections, influence, and power. And this wasn’t just local wealth. The Maderos and Elizondos found themselves tied into trade networks that stretched from Mexico to the United States, their operations becoming the stuff of frontier legend. Men and women who once scrabbled to put tortillas on the table were now trading goods across borders, mingling in exclusive circles, and rubbing elbows with the elite.

But the family fortune wasn’t just material. Victoriana had instilled in her children a relentless work ethic, a sense that everything they did had to be earned, even if they were digging into fortune itself. And for generations to come, the family would retain that spirit. They didn’t sit idle with their newfound wealth; they built upon it, making connections, securing business opportunities, and yes, even carving out a place in the Mexican political sphere.

In the stories handed down, it’s clear that Victoriana’s descendants revered her for more than her money. She had a vision—one that saw the vast, arid lands of Coahuila as ripe with possibility, not scarcity. The family’s leap into prosperity wasn’t just luck or happenstance. It was the culmination of grit, of tireless work, and, perhaps, a fair bit of tenacity in prying open the desert’s hidden secrets.

But here’s the twist, because of course, a story like this needs one. To this day, residents around Guerrero swear they can see the lights—ghostly apparitions of that fabled procession of royalist soldiers, the poor devils who never made it to Texas with the Spanish treasury. The tale goes that on clear nights, especially in the chilly dark of winter, strange lights appear, glowing softly, moving in a line as if marching across the desert sands. People say they are the souls of those soldiers, forever bound to protect the treasure they buried and lost, unable to rest because of the betrayal they suffered and the gold they couldn’t deliver.

It’s hard not to wonder if Doña Victoriana herself might be part of that eternal procession. After all, she spent her life digging in the very same sands, almost as if she, too, were chasing something just beyond her reach. And it’s equally tempting to think that maybe, just maybe, she joined those ghostly soldiers, taking her place among the phantoms guarding the wealth she’d claimed.

Today is All Saints’ Day, and tomorrow will be All Souls’ Day—a time for honoring those who have passed, for remembering the dead, both known and unknown. As I think of Doña Victoriana and those soldiers wandering the desert, I can’t help but feel a strange sort of reverence. These weren’t figures of wealth and grandeur; they were people who struggled, who fought, and who ultimately lost their lives for a cause, whether it was the royalist soldiers guarding a treasury or Victoriana fighting for her family’s survival.

The people of Guerrero light candles and say prayers for the souls of those long-forgotten soldiers, hoping, perhaps, to grant them the peace they never found in life. Maybe, in some way, they’re praying for Victoriana too. She may not need it, mind you, having claimed her victory in life and stamped her name on history. But there’s something fitting in joining our voices to the prayers for those restless souls, for the soldiers who never completed their mission, and for the woman who reaped their treasure.

In the end, Victoriana lived up to her name; she was, as it turned out, victorious. Hers was a legacy of fortitude, of unyielding strength, of triumph over a barren land that most would see as nothing but endless hardship. And in the lights that still flicker across the desert night, in the myths of buried gold and undying spirits, she and her legacy live on, intertwined with the sands, the stars, and the endless mystery of Coahuila’s forgotten past.

In-text Citation: (Alicia del Río Herrera, 2021, pp. 50-53)