ODDS ‘N SODS — Egg theft at Twelve Apostles mine

In the late 1940s, I was engaged in a prospecting venture in southern Mexico to find out if there was any of the reputed 40-kg silver ore left in the old Twelve Apostles mine. The mine was reached by a 4-hour mule back ride from the railroad.

There was an adit drift on the vein with 200 metres to go to reach the old workings, a 20-tonne flotation plant, a 4-room adobe house for living quarters and assaying plus a woman who would come in by the day to do the cooking.

I contracted the drift work, had steel at first until we got a 110-horsepower compressor. The drift rock ran about 500 grams per tonne and every so often, I would make a mill run to get some cash coming in.

Concentrate was sacked and packed out to the railroad, 100 kg to a mule, 60 kg to a burro. The mule skinner was called Eusebio, a big fellow with a handlebar moustache.

The cook had some hens which laid their eggs in the bushes beside the trail in front of the house. One day, she said to me, “We have no eggs, but I know who stole them.”

“Let me have the hypodermic needle from the medicine kit and I’ll fix that no-good Eusebio,” the assayer said. “I’ll need six eggs from the basket as well.” He took the eggs and injected each one with iodine. Then he placed the eggs at strategic spots where Eusebio would be sure to see them as he passed by.

At about 10 o’clock, the sound of mule bells signalled that a concentrate shipment was on its way. Soon Eusebio passed with a cheery, “Good morning,” and the sound of the bells faded away as the mule train went on up the hill. After about 20 minutes, there was the sound of heavy sandaled feet pounding down the trail and a breathless Eusebio came bursting into the kitchen saying, “Help me. I’ve been poisoned.”

On Eusebio’s moustache and lips were stains of a brilliant yellow brown. “Sit down here, Eusebio,” I said. “Take this ipecac to make you throw up. The cook will make you plenty of hot tea and you will feel better.”

Eusebio did as he was told. Within the hour, he had recovered enough to rejoin his mules. We had no trouble with our egg supply thereafter. Edward Knight, a prospector, lives in Windsor, Vt.