The Treasure of the Damned

In the rather dreadful year of 1870, a time when misfortune seemed to hang in the air like smoke from an unattended fire, two unlikely travelers arrived in a place so forgotten by the world that it barely had a name: Las Vacas. The first of the pair was Don Agapito Coyote, a man who, in later years, would go down in the local chronicles as a figure of almost mythical proportions. The other was Don Manuelito Llanos, a man whose illustriousness, if any, was entirely lost to the sands of history. His most notable quality, other than a name that rolled off the tongue like a lazy afternoon breeze, was his companion, a sharp, quick-witted black lad from San Luis Potosí who had the unenviable role of being Agapito's lackey.

Picture them now, riding into town on donkeys so tired they resembled more of a child's neglected toy than actual animals. These creatures plodded down the nameless streets, their hooves barely making a sound on the dusty ground. Las Vacas, or more specifically the neighborhood of Las Chimeneas, was a place so old it seemed to belong more to the land than the people who lived there. Its history was rich with whispers of the Spanish mining their fortunes in the form of gold and silver, turning their findings into wealth amid the towering chimneys that gave the area its name. Las Chimeneas had been the epicenter of a bygone rush, the silver washed in the banks of the Las Vacas stream like it was nothing more than glittering riverbed sand.

But those days were gone, leaving behind a ghost town populated more by stories than people. A lone house stood before them, a grim relic of a family that had been unceremoniously taken by death a few years prior. The sort of house that looked like it could eat you alive if you stared at it too long. And in they went, our brave (or perhaps simply foolish) duo, through the old iron gate that creaked louder than a politician trying to cover up a scandal. A woman’s voice called out from one of the nearby houses, “Who is it?”—as if anyone cared. Agapito answered with the dry, definitive “I” of a man who either had nothing to lose or simply wasn’t very interested in conversation. They passed into the wide hall, their steps echoed by the creaking wooden floorboards, dust swirling around them like the ghosts of better days.

No sooner had they stepped inside than a pair of bats, presumably the long-time owners of this dilapidated abode, made a hasty exit through the door our travelers had kindly left open. And just like that, the cold February night greeted them with a chill that seemed to penetrate their very bones. You know the sort of cold I’m talking about—the kind that makes you want to reconsider every decision you’ve ever made, particularly the one that landed you in this godforsaken place. Candles still hung in the windows of the neighboring houses, casting long shadows that danced and flickered, as if mocking the newcomers for their naivety.

The house itself was a disaster, but it was dry, and after a bit of exploring, they decided it would do for the night. It wasn’t the Hilton, but then again, they weren’t exactly high-paying guests. In fact, they weren't paying guests at all. A few days passed, during which our two vagabonds found themselves oddly content, perhaps because no one had asked them for rent. Whether it was due to laziness or a genuine lack of better options, they settled in, eking out a living in what was quite possibly the worst room and board arrangement in all of Mexico. And for a while, it was quiet.

Too quiet.

One night, when the stillness had grown so thick you could have cut it with a knife, something finally happened. Manuelito, normally not one to panic, ran out of his room as if the very devil himself was hot on his heels. He burst into Don Agapito’s room to find his esteemed leader sprawled on the floor, looking rather worse for wear. After some effort, Manuelito managed to bring Agapito back from whatever abyss he had fallen into. Once revived, Agapito, his face still pale as the moonlight outside, began to recount his harrowing tale.

“Look, Manuelito,” he began, still shaking like a wet dog, “I was just about to settle in for the night when I started hearing this buzzing sound, like wasps, right behind the curtains. So, naturally, I went to investigate. And there, behind the curtains, I saw it—a shadow. But not just any shadow—a charro dressed all in black. I tried to pray, but my words turned to ice in my mouth. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t think. Then, just as I was about to pass out, the charro raised one of his arms and motioned for me to come closer. There was this wind, Manuelito, I swear, like nothing I’ve ever felt before. The curtains blew violently, and then—nothing. The next thing I remember is you shaking me awake.”

Manuelito, not one to be outdone in a tale of terror, had his own story to share.

“Well, Don Agapito, you weren’t the only one with unwanted company. Just as I was about to turn out my lamp, a voice came from the corner of my room. It kept saying, ‘Come, come closer, come closer.’ Now, I may not be the brightest candle in the window, but even I know when to leave well enough alone. But there was no one there—just a voice, disembodied and sinister. Then, out of nowhere, a black shadow with eyes that glowed like embers darted across the room. I lost sight of it for a moment, but the voice, oh, that voice, it spoke again, this time from the window. I turned and there, outside, I saw it. A charro. On horseback. Just standing there, watching me.”

The room fell silent as the two men stared at each other, the gravity of their shared experience settling in like a thick fog. There was no explanation, no rationalization that could make sense of what they had witnessed. This was something far beyond the realm of the living, something ancient and dark that lingered in the shadows of Las Vacas. The question now wasn’t whether they had seen it. The question was whether it would let them leave.

Treasure and Terror in the Corral

Now, you have to understand, by this point, Manuelito and Don Agapito had become something of a fixture in the small settlement of Las Chimeneas. Weeks had passed, and they’d managed to ingratiate themselves with the locals, making friends, sharing dinners, and eventually striking up a working agreement with the owner of the Chimeneas ranch. The deal? They’d toil away on the land, and when the harvest came in, they’d split it fifty-fifty. A fair deal by any stretch of the imagination, but you know as well as I do that fair deals are never quite enough for men with their eyes set on fortune.

After one such evening of hearty food and perhaps a bit too much tequila, Don Agapito turned to his faithful lackey, Manuelito, and let slip a nugget of information that would set the stage for their latest adventure. “You know,” Agapito began, “yesterday I had a little chat with Don Pantaleón.” Now, Don Pantaleón was one of those local characters who seemed to have a story for every occasion, the kind of man who you’re never quite sure is lying or just hopelessly delusional. But, as with all good stories, it’s best to suspend disbelief for a moment.

Agapito continued, “I told him what happened to us that night. You know, when the Black Charro appeared, all mysterious-like, in the middle of the night. And wouldn’t you know it? Don Pantaleón says that the Charro shows up every Friday night, like clockwork, right behind the house, near that corral.” Now, if this were me, this would be the point where I’d start looking for the quickest way out of town, but not our boys, oh no. You see, Don Pantaleón had more to say. According to him, the Charro wasn’t just some ghostly figure out for a midnight ride. No, no. He was guarding something. Something valuable. A treasure.

And here’s where things get juicy.

Pantaleón had seen it with his own eyes, or so he claimed. A whitish-blue light, glowing faintly behind the house. But every time someone got close, that Charro would appear, sending them running for the hills, pants soiled, hearts racing, the whole bit. According to local lore, this wasn’t just any treasure. This was Spanish treasure—bars of silver, no less. Loot from the old mines that had once made Las Chimeneas the envy of the region. You see, back in the day, the Spaniards would smelt their precious metals in the galleries by the streams, washing the silver down like it was so much dirt, only for it to be lost in time.

“Of course,” Agapito said, “no one knows if this is all true. It’s just talk, after all. But one thing’s for sure, Manuelito—there’s something there. We saw the Charro ourselves, didn’t we? So why not go after the treasure?”

Now, let’s pause for a second. This is where the rational mind kicks in and says, “Hang on, Agapito. The last time we saw this Charro, it nearly scared the life out of you. Do we really want to go poking around, stirring up the ghostly pot?” But rational thought is for the cautious. Don Agapito was many things, but cautious was not one of them.

So, the plan was set. They’d go after the treasure. And, as all good treasure hunters know, the first thing you need—apart from a shovel and a healthy disregard for personal safety—is a spiritualist. Yes, that’s right. If you’re going to dig up a centuries-old, potentially cursed fortune, you’re going to need someone who knows how to handle the supernatural. And, just as important, you need San Ignacio rods. What are those, you ask? Frankly, I have no idea. But according to Don Pantaleón, they were essential for the task at hand, a bit like those divining rods you see people use when they’re trying to find water, only in this case, they were meant to locate silver. Or gold. Or the restless soul of a dead Spaniard. It’s all a bit vague, really.

Weeks passed as Manuelito and Agapito made preparations for their grand venture. They scoured the surrounding areas, spoke to every questionable character in town, and worked tirelessly to find their spiritualist and those San Ignacio rods. But, as you might imagine, things didn’t go entirely to plan. You see, the longer they stayed in Las Chimeneas, the more frequent the strange occurrences became. Every night, it seemed, there was something new. A shadow darting across the window. A whisper from an empty room. The occasional appearance of—you guessed it—the Black Charro, riding silently through the night like some grim sentinel, keeping watch over his buried hoard.

By now, any sane person would have packed up, left town, and written the whole thing off as a fever dream. But not our intrepid duo. No, they were committed. In fact, with each passing day, Agapito became more convinced that they were getting closer to the treasure. All they needed was the right tools, and maybe a dash of luck, to unearth the wealth that had eluded everyone else. And let’s be honest, the more you’re haunted by some spectral horseman, the more you start to think that maybe—just maybe—there’s something he’s guarding after all.

But of course, the scares kept coming, and the closer they got to starting their search, the more sinister things became. It’s one thing to be spooked by a shadow or startled by a creaking door. But when the full force of whatever supernatural force lived on that land started making its presence known, well, that was a different story entirely. And here’s the kicker: Don Pantaleón wasn’t the only one with a tale to tell. Word had it that others, long before our dynamic duo, had tried their hand at unearthing the treasure. And those who didn’t flee in terror? Well, they didn’t live to tell the tale.

But treasure is treasure, and for men like Don Agapito and Manuelito, it’s the ultimate goal. Haunted or not, they were determined to find out just what lay beneath the surface of Las Chimeneas. So, with spirits high (though not necessarily in the good way), they continued their preparations, even as the Black Charro’s shadow loomed ever larger over their every move.

The Spirit of the Chimeneas

In most cases, when someone casually suggests you light a few candles and summon spirits to get directions to buried treasure, you’d probably politely decline and head for the nearest exit. But not Don Agapito Coyote. No, when you’re on a quest for hidden riches, rationality and self-preservation take a backseat to blind optimism and whatever dodgy folklore you can cling to.

So, after much faffing about, they’d finally secured the legendary San Ignacio rods. Now, I don’t know much about these rods, but based on their importance, I’m going to assume they’re the mystical equivalent of a metal detector in a cowboy hat. And of course, no treasure hunt involving ghostly apparitions would be complete without the services of a spiritualist. Enter Melquiades—a man with a name that sounds like he should be conjuring thunderstorms, not spirits.

Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Manuelito and Don Agapito weren’t just bumbling into this. Oh no. They had a plan, and a rather ridiculous one at that. Over dinner, as the sun dipped below the horizon and they nursed whatever passed for a stiff drink in those parts, Agapito laid out his grand scheme. “Manuelito,” he began, “tomorrow’s the big day. Melquiades is coming over to have a chat with our uninvited ghostly guest.”

And what a plan it was. You see, Melquiades had insisted on a few essentials for his séance. First, a table. Well, that’s simple enough. But wait—there’s more! Candles, but not just any candles, mind you. They had to be blue and white, because apparently ghosts have a very particular taste in ambiance. And a glass of water, because if you’re going to summon spirits, why not stay hydrated?

Now, you might think this is all a bit far-fetched, but Don Agapito was adamant that this was how they were going to get the job done. And as if the whole idea of ghostly directions wasn’t ludicrous enough, there was a schedule to keep. Melquiades had said that their best chance of finding the treasure would be during Holy Week. Yes, you read that right. Apparently, during this sacred time, mischievous spirits are too busy taking time off to properly interfere with treasure hunters. Convenient, isn’t it?

So, off they went, full of hope, tequila, and a truly alarming lack of self-awareness. On Friday, just as the shadows of evening stretched long across the land, Melquiades arrived at the old house where our two heroes were staying. He had the air of a man who was either about to perform an exorcism or sell you a used car—completely confident, but in that unsettling way that makes you wonder if you’re making a terrible mistake.

“Right, Agapito,” he said, as if he’d done this a thousand times before. “Show me the room where you’ve set up the candles and water, and let’s get this séance started.”

So they shuffled into the room, which was as old and decrepit as you’d expect, the kind of place where even the furniture seemed to groan under the weight of its own haunted history. Agapito, Manuelito, and Melquiades took their places, sitting in creaky wooden chairs that seemed like they might give out at any moment. The scene was set—candles flickering, water glass shimmering, and Melquiades ready to communicate with the other side like a ghostly Google Maps.

Now, I wasn’t there (thankfully), but if I had to guess, I’d say Melquiades probably started with the usual mumbo-jumbo. He began praying, muttering in front of the candles, invoking spirits as if he were placing an order for take-out. “Come on, spirits. Give us a sign,” he probably said, while Manuelito and Agapito sat in tense silence, waiting for something—anything—to happen.

And then, just like that, things started to go awry. A wind blew through the room, rattling the curtains, making the flames of the candles dance dangerously close to going out. “It’s happening!” Melquiades declared, as though he’d just predicted a football result. “The spirits are here! And they’re… heavy?”

I don’t know what a heavy spirit feels like, but from what happened next, it couldn’t have been good. The room filled with a cold wind, the kind that chills you right down to the bone. The glass in one of the windows shattered without warning, and the curtains flailed about like they had a mind of their own. At this point, if I were Agapito or Manuelito, I’d have seriously reconsidered my life choices. But not Melquiades. No, this was his moment.

Rising slowly from his kneeling position, his eyes still closed as though he were in a trance, Melquiades staggered out of the room and into the night. Agapito and Manuelito followed, no doubt wondering what fresh madness was about to unfold. Outside, the moonlight was so bright it almost seemed like day. The stars twinkled with a cold, indifferent clarity, while Melquiades wandered around the land like a man possessed—or more accurately, a man who’d misplaced his keys and was now muttering to himself in a mix of prayers and gibberish.

Round and round he went, making unintelligible noises, stopping occasionally to wave his hands as if conducting an invisible orchestra. It was all rather theatrical, to be honest. But then again, isn’t that half the point of these things? After a few minutes of this bizarre dance, he finally stopped, looked skyward, and proclaimed, “That’s it! The spirits have spoken.”

Now, this is the part where things get really interesting. Back in the room, Melquiades dropped to his knees once more, mumbling a quick Our Father and a Hail Mary for good measure. Suddenly, he leapt to his feet, eyes wide open, wild hair disheveled, and delivered the big news: “Agapito, I’ve spoken to the spirits. They are in possession of the treasure.”

At this point, I imagine Manuelito’s mouth must have dropped open. They’d done it. Or rather, they were about to. Melquiades had just confirmed that the spirits were the keyholders to the vast fortune buried beneath their feet. Of course, there was still the small matter of actually finding it—and, you know, dealing with the fact that they were now in direct negotiation with otherworldly beings. But hey, what’s a little ghostly confrontation when there’s treasure on the line?

As the evening drew to a close, there was no doubt left in Agapito’s mind. This was it. The culmination of weeks of whispers, rumors, and eerie encounters. The spirits had spoken, the treasure was real, and they were one step closer to unearthing the riches of the Chimeneas.

A Ghostly Gold Rush

So, Melquiades returns, looking as pleased as punch, with what is possibly the creepiest set of instructions I’ve ever heard. It seems the treasure isn’t just buried gold or silver; no, it comes with its own spiritual caretaker, a bit like hiring a butler for eternity—only this one wants to be buried properly before you can get your hands on his stash.

According to the spirits, the treasure is buried in the centre of the corral, but before our hapless treasure hunters can reach it, they’ll have to dig through ashes—because nothing says “welcome to your treasure” like a grim layer of someone’s former remains—and then the bones of the deceased himself. And here’s the catch: the spirit of the Black Charro, the very one that’s been haunting their nights, demands that they make a little promise.

You see, the Charro isn’t your run-of-the-mill ghost; he’s a stickler for tradition. He wants a mass in his honor and his bones buried in the nearby cemetery. Fair enough, right? If I’d been haunting a dusty old corral for centuries, I’d want a bit of closure too. But this isn’t just about honoring the dead. There’s more. Other spirits—likely the ones Manuelito and Agapito have been hearing in the dead of night—are apparently just there for the ride. They’re hanging around, creating mischief, but they don’t have a claim to the treasure. Nope, that privilege belongs solely to the Charro, and he’s not letting anyone walk away with it until his bones are properly laid to rest.

Once they’ve dug up the bones, one of them—probably poor Manuelito, because let’s face it, he’s been the sidekick in this whole fiasco—has to take the bones to the cemetery and bury them. Only after that can the treasure be unearthed. Sounds simple enough, right? I mean, what’s a bit of grave digging and bone transport between friends? But no, it doesn’t end there. The Charro himself is supposed to make a grand appearance while they’re digging, at which point he’ll spell out exactly what needs to be done, sealing the deal with the living and the dead in one final, ghostly negotiation.

Melquiades, ever the professional, adds a cherry on top of this supernatural sundae by saying, “I’ve already marked the spot where the treasure is buried.” How convenient. But wait—there’s a twist! Turns out he was slightly off last time. The exact spot is just to one side of where he marked last week. Classic, isn’t it? You’d think the spirits would be more precise, but I suppose even in the afterlife, measurements are subject to human error.

Still, Melquiades isn’t leaving them to fend for themselves completely. Oh no, he comes fully prepared, like the spiritual Bear Grylls of treasure hunts. Out comes an ixtle bag (because apparently, everything mystical must come from a bag made of cactus fibre) and from it, he produces a blessed candle and a jar of holy water. These, it seems, are essential tools for grave robbing—or rather, grave assisting, in this case.

“This candle is blessed,” he explains, as though handing over the keys to a brand-new Ferrari. “Before you start digging, light it, and as for this bottle—well, it’s holy water. You sprinkle it in the shape of a cross, say an Our Father, a Creed, and this Prayer of the Treasure, which I’ll kindly leave for you.” You can almost hear the weight of the seriousness in his voice, the solemnity of his instructions as though they were discussing launching a space shuttle, not rummaging through a corral for ghostly bones and shiny coins.

Then, with all the authority of someone who knows exactly what he’s talking about (even though it’s clear no one really does), Melquiades declares, “This is the end of my work. It’ll be fifty pesos, and when you find the treasure, don’t forget to reward me.”

Of course. Nothing like an upfront fee with the promise of a tip once they’ve unearthed the buried riches. But Melquiades isn’t just about the money. Oh no. He leaves them with one final, chilling warning—“Remember, there must be no envy, or else this treasure will turn into pieces of coal.”

Ah yes, envy. The great destroyer of friendships, fortunes, and in this case, fabulous buried treasures. Because apparently, in this strange world of spectral negotiations, haunted corrals, and blessed candles, the most dangerous thing isn’t the Charro, or the bones, or the potential for failure—it’s greed. Too much of it, and their glorious piles of gold will turn to useless chunks of coal, leaving Agapito and Manuelito with nothing but the smell of burnt dreams and the ashes of disappointment.

But who cares about that, right? Our two heroes are undeterred. With the moon shining down, and with Melquiades’ peculiar guidance tucked safely away, they’re poised on the edge of greatness—or disaster, depending on how well they follow the instructions. The rods of San Ignacio will guide them, the holy water will protect them, and the blessed candle will light the way. What could possibly go wrong?

Next Monday arrives, and so does Melquiades, ready for the final act in this supernatural theatre. The moonlight bathes the scene in an eerie glow as Melquiades holds the San Ignacio rods like a divining rod for destiny. “Here it is,” he declares, pointing confidently at the spot, just slightly off from his earlier guess. “This is where the treasure is buried.”

Agapito and Manuelito stand there, tools in hand, gazing at the ground beneath them, knowing full well they’re about to embark on a journey that will either make them legends or laughingstocks.

But before they can even think about striking the first blow into the earth, the words of Melquiades echo in their heads: No envy. Because if they can keep that under control—if they can work together, keep their wits about them, and somehow negotiate with the ghostly Charro—they might just pull it off.

Or, you know, they’ll end up with a pile of coal and a great story to tell down at the local tavern. Either way, it’ll be one for the books.

The Devil's Dig

Midnight on Holy Thursday, the perfect time for a good old-fashioned dig in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by ghosts, strange voices, and a supernatural Black Charro on horseback. You know, the usual.

Now, this isn’t your average, run-of-the-mill, Indiana Jones-style treasure hunt. No, no, this one comes with spiritual obligations, a cursed corpse, and enough bizarre occurrences to make you question whether you’re in reality or some twisted fever dream. But let’s back up a bit—because this is where things really start to get interesting.

So, there they were, our two heroes, Manuelito and Agapito Coyote, armed with nothing but a shovel, a sack, and a whole lot of blind faith. They set out under the moonlight, creeping like conspirators into the corral where the Black Charro had marked his post for eternity. It’s Holy Thursday, just before dawn on Friday, the absolute peak time for digging up old bones, obviously. Manuelito takes the lead, shovelling away at the earth, and after what feels like an eternity, he hits something. Not treasure—no, that would be far too simple—but ashes, a grim reminder that whatever lay beneath wasn’t going to be your standard chest of pirate gold.

And then it happens. The presence. The Charro. A shadowy figure lurking on the edge of the hole, his voice muffled and otherworldly, speaking directly to Manuel. This is no ordinary haunting, folks. The Charro has demands: they want the money? Fine. But first, they’ve got to dig out his bones and haul them off to the cemetery for a proper burial. Oh, and don’t forget the mass. Even in death, it seems, paperwork and rituals are unavoidable.

Manuel, clearly braver than he’s ever been, simply nods and gets on with it, while poor Agapito is doing his best tortoise impression, curling up with his head between his knees, presumably trying to pretend this is all just a bad dream.

But Manuel is nothing if not determined. He keeps digging, eventually striking what can only be described as the jackpot of macabre discoveries—the Charro’s bones. And what do you do when you find the skeletal remains of a haunted figure? You shovel them into a jute sack, obviously, because that’s what normal people do in these situations.

“Wake up,” Manuel says to Agapito, as casually as if he’s announcing breakfast. “Here are the bones. You get in and keep digging.” And with that, Manuelito heads off to the cemetery, sack of bones slung over his shoulder, off to fulfil his end of the ghostly bargain.

Meanwhile, Agapito is left alone in the hole, sweating bullets despite the cool early morning air. Manuel returns, having successfully buried the bones and said the necessary prayers, ready to continue the treasure hunt. Agapito, though, has hit a snag—quite literally. The stench from the well is unbearable, so bad that he’s had to burn the earth just to keep going.

But they press on. The Charro, never one to miss out on the theatrics, suddenly reappears, this time jumping over the well on horseback, his ghostly figure casting long shadows in the dim moonlight. If that wasn’t unsettling enough, a symphony of chains dragging fills the air, ranch dogs howling in the distance as the Charro circles them like a dark omen.

Manuelito, ever the resourceful sidekick, starts splashing holy water in every direction, while Agapito continues to dig, scraping at the earth as if their lives—and maybe their sanity—depend on it.

Suddenly, Agapito’s pickaxe strikes something solid. “It’s hard, Manuel! There’s a box here—quick, light me up!” And there it is: the treasure. After all the ghostly appearances, the digging, and the smell of death, they’ve finally found what they’ve been searching for. A box, creaking as the boards give way, revealing a haul of coins and rectangular metal pieces—treasure, in all its glory. Agapito can barely contain his excitement, his smile silent but unmistakable.

With their prize in hand, they fill their jute sacks and bury all evidence of their dig—the boards, the shovel, even the very tools that helped them reach the treasure are discarded like the remnants of a crime scene. And under the cloak of night, they slip back to the old house, load up their rested horses, and make their exit—vanishing into the shadows like thieves in the night.

And that’s it. The next morning, the sun rises on Las Chimeneas to find it eerily silent. The house that once housed the duo now stands empty. Gone are Manuelito and Agapito, leaving behind only a few scattered belongings and the embers of their last fire. But the evidence of their activities remains: the half-open well, the telltale signs of disturbed earth.

Naturally, people come looking for them. After all, two men don’t just disappear without a trace—unless, of course, they’ve just struck gold. And struck gold they have, according to the locals who piece together the story. The well tells the tale. The whispers of treasure hunters who dug through ashes and bones, guided by spirits and the promise of untold riches.

But here's the best part: the hauntings stop. The Black Charro, who once roamed the corral and filled the night with eerie noises, is now at rest. The blue flames that once flickered in the night, signaling the presence of something otherworldly, are snuffed out for good. The house that once creaked with the weight of restless spirits is now still, the specters finally satisfied with their proper burial and the mass that was promised to them.

What happened to Agapito and Manuelito? Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? Some say they took the treasure and fled to parts unknown, living out their days in luxury far from the haunted lands of Las Chimeneas. Others whisper that maybe, just maybe, they didn’t escape after all—that the Charro had one final trick up his sleeve. But those are just rumors, the kind of stories that fuel the imagination on a quiet night.

What we do know is that the Black Charro stopped his moonlit rounds. No more shadows, no more voices. The treasure is gone, the ghosts are at peace, and the legend of Agapito and Manuelito is all that remains. Whether they found fortune or fell victim to their greed, only fate—and maybe the Charro himself—will ever truly know.

As for the rest of us? Well, let’s just say that if you ever find yourself out on an old ranch, under the full moon, and you hear the faint clink of coins or the distant sound of a horse’s hooves... you might want to think twice before you start digging.

In-text Citation: (Medina Zapata , 2021, pp. 11-17)