Blood Brothers

By Chaz Mann

Frank and Tucker are at it again in the third installment of the Frank Travers Series. This time, the two best friends find themselves in Denver, Colorado, and, of course, in trouble again.
After surviving a short, though torturous, stay at a local prison, the two men are recruited by the head of a small but elite detective agency. The agency, familiar with the impressive background of both men, and with the backing of the governor, offers to ‘convince’ the local sheriff to drop all charges against the pair if the two men agree to join the preeminent detective agency. Faced with a possible life sentence or hanging for a crime they didn’t commit, the duo agrees. Their first assignment: track down and neutralize a band of the most notorious horse thieves, cattle rustlers, and killers in the state of Colorado. No easy task for a traveled veteran let alone a couple of novices. Nevertheless, the pair traverses the width and breadth of Colorado, facing a daunting gauntlet of challenges that will test their grit, shrewdness, and courage. Based on a true story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chaz Mann
• Release date: Oct 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370710560

Chaz Mann

Chaz Mann has worked in the real estate, manufacturing, oil refining, retail, and insurance industries. He is an avid reader of multiple genres. He has earned an A.S. in Business and Industrial Management as well as a B.S. in Speech Communication. He currently resides in Fort Worth, Texas, with his lovely wife of many years, Marie.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Spring, 1868

Not far from Denver, Colorado

A blinding flash followed by a huge explosion ripped through the black abyss of the high-ceiling cavern. Stalactites broke away from overhead and crashed to the floor. Frank, Tucker, and Whiplash ran for their lives, ducking and weaving their way through the rock-strewn cave. Running blindly, Tucker’s right foot stepped on a slime-covered rock and slid across its smooth surface as if it was coated with hog grease. His weight shifted, he lost his balance and then tumbled to the hard ground, slamming his back into the rough surface. Frank’s faithful companion— a full grown German shepherd dog—raced to Tucker’s aid with Frank at his heels. Frank dragged his best friend to his feet. Come on, Tuck. No time for dallying around. A roguish smile spanned his sweat-laden, handsome face.

Tucker grunted at Frank’s comment. Hell of a time to be joking around, Frank. Tucker’s eyes spanned the entirety of the cave wondering how they were going to squeeze their way out of this fix. He couldn’t help but smile at his boyhood friend’s attitude toward impending death. Unbidden, his mind flashed back to their years fighting for the Confederacy in the War Between the States and their stint in a Union Prisoner-of-War camp after the fall of Petersburg at the end of the conflict. Even in those trying time, Frank’s devil-may-care attitude never wavered. One might think Frank harbored a death wish or just didn’t care what happened to him, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. His best friend held a deep-seated respect and sanctity for life, especially for those he cared about. And if need be, would sacrifice his own life to save theirs. In Tucker’s opinion, Frank was the most selfless man he’d ever known. And Tucker would freely give his life to save Franks.

Whiplash sprinted toward an opening in the cave wall, his four legs pumping wildly. He stopped suddenly and turned back to his master, Frank, and barked loudly.

Can you stand, Tuck? Frank asked, squatting down on his heels. His eyes quickly surveyed the rocky surroundings.

Large chunks of rock broke away from the high-domed ceiling and tumbled toward the floor.

The cave shook violently as dark brown clouds of billowing dust filled the large, open space.

I’m fine, Frank. Let’s get the hell out of here.

Follow Whiplash, he’s found a way out.

They raced toward the gap in the wall.

At that very instant, the cave shuddered and roared, then the entire ceiling gave way and large boulder-sized rocks rained down toward the ground. Falling debris slammed into the earth and broke apart, filling the cave with another layer of blinding dust.

Whiplash didn’t hesitate and darted through the opening. Frank and Tucker followed. Once they were through the opening a deadly silence engulfed them. Frank glanced back through the hole in which they’d escaped. He could barely see through the thick clouds, but what he could discern gave him pause. The spot where they stood only seconds ago was now buried under tons of dirt and rock. Frank turned to his hound.

Thanks, Whiplash. Looks like you’ve saved us yet again. Frank hugged the dog and kissed him on his long muzzle.

That goes double for me, said a grateful Tucker, lavishing affection on their furry savior.

Whiplash’s tail whipped back and forth with enough force to knock over a small child.

Both Frank and Tucker eyed the darkened space. The rock walls, laden with moisture and something Frank didn’t even want to think about, didn’t appear weaken by the explosion that destroyed the other section of the cave. They found themselves in a tunnel-like tubular structure large enough to stand in. Their eyes, adjusting to the darkness, could see down a long, twisting corridor that snaked around a bend and then disappeared. A small stream of murky water wove its way along the rocky floor. A strong stench ran heavy and foul.

Frank and Tucker looked at each other and shared the some thoughts: Is there a way out of here? And if so, how do we find it?

In unison, they turned to Whiplash.

Twenty-four hours earlier: Frank Travers and Tucker Gates were seated at a round, wooden table enjoying their chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, green beans, and sourdough biscuits. Cups of steaming Arbuckle coffee sat next to their plates. Earlier, after learning the eatery allowed dogs, Frank had taken Whiplash back to the kitchen and introduced him to the cook, who was more than happy to feed the hound large portions of tasty scraps he would have normally thrown away. The Peoples Restaurant, located on Blake Street, enjoyed a fine reputation as one of the best eateries in Denver. The tables in the establishment were nicked and scarred from long usage, but to Frank that only attested to the popularity of the place. The food lived up to its reputation: hot, delicious, and plenty of it. The attractive waitresses were competent and did their best to please their customers, who usually tipped well. Of course, there were always those tight-wadded individual who wouldn’t tip even if the food were served on silver platters by half naked servers.

After finishing their meal, Frank beckoned to his and Tucker’s waitress, who immediately rushed to their table. Her eyes ran up and down Frank’s lean body.

The women usually liked Frank, who at five-nine and around one-hundred and sixty pounds, would be considered a very handsome man. His dark skin, longish coal black hair and, deep blue eyes caught the attention of many women; young and old. At twenty-eight year of age, he carried an easy smile in spite of his turbulent past. Tucker, on the other hand, at six-three and in the vicinity of one-hundred-fifty pounds sported a long thin face, large nose, and protruding Adams apple, did not turn many female heads. His sandy brown hair and brown eyes did not attract much attention, either. At twenty-six, he’d accepted the fact that he wasn’t the handsomest of men, and that was fine with him. He maintained a healthy sense of self-confidence and self-assuredness, due partly to his childhood friend’s confidence in him. They’d been best friends for as long as Tucker could remember.

Frank and Tucker had departed Manhattan, Kansas, in the early fall of last year. They’d trekked the four-hundred and some miles to Denver, Colorado, in a little over three weeks. When they arrived, the snow began falling lightly and the temperature slid downward. By the time Old Man Winter made his appearance, snowfall buried the land and the air felt like ice.

They made it through the harsh winter—by far the worse in their lives—by thinking of the coming spring and doing odd jobs to supplement their income. But now, with winter a thing of the past, the sun shined and wildflowers bloomed everywhere.

After tipping their server generously, Frank and Tucker set out to the local watering hole to enjoy a few drink and discuss their plans for the next day.

CHAPTER TWO

Early the next morning, just before the sun breached the horizon, Frank and Tucker sat at the same table as the evening before, enjoying a hearty breakfast of beefsteak, buckwheat pancakes smothered in Vermont syrup, sourdough biscuits and gravy, and of course, Arbuckle coffee.

They’d decided to take a trip to the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, not far away, to see what they could see. They both loved the wide open spaces and those beautiful mountains seemed to beckon them forward.

The City of Denver, located in the South Platte River Valley sat on the western edge of the High Plains just east of the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains. The Denver area, at one time part of the Territory of Kansas, was named after the former Kansas Territorial Governor James W. Denver. The Denver downtown district, situated east of the confluence of Cherry Cheek and the South Platte River, found itself only twelve short miles east of the foothills of the Rocky Mountains.

At the livery, where they’d quartered their horses, Frank slipped the bridle and bit onto his broad-chested bay, then swung first the saddle blanket and then the saddle into place and snugged the cinches down tight.

Tucker followed suit with his cream colored buckskin.

Frank then slipped his 1865 Spencer carbine and Browning double-barreled shotgun into their individual sheaths. Next, he checked his tied-down 1860 Colt Army .44 and lastly, the sharpened edge of his bowie knife. Ready for whatever may come their way, Frank turned to his friend. "Are you ready, amigo?"

Ready as I’ll ever be I reckon, said Tucker, adjusting his tied-down Colt Navy.36 model 1861. He’d already checked his 1866 Winchester rifle. His razor-sharp bowie knife hung in its sheath next to his right hip.

They both mounted up and heeled their mounts into an easy lope toward the awaiting mountains. Whiplash, as usual, raced ahead of the pair.

Frank’s blue eyes sparkled with delight as he rode across the shortgrass prairie. Most of the rolling hills were covered with short grasses, like blue gamma grass and buffalo grass. Soapweed yucca and prickly pear cactus could be seen scattered among the grasses. To the north, they caught glimpses of Clear Creek, a tributary of the South Platte River. Frank had learned late last fall, from an old miner, that the creek was famous as the location of the most intense early mining activity during the Colorado Gold Rush of 1859.

As they rode across the plains Tucker spotted profusions of animal life, including, badgers, cottontail rabbits, jackrabbits, and white-tail deer. An assortment of smaller animals; ground squirrels, pocket gophers, and a wide variety of mice, darted through the shorts grasses.

Look over yonder way, Frank, Tucker said excitedly, pointing to a huge billowing cloud of prairie dust.

Buffalo, Tuck, a huge herd of them, Frank pointed out. His smile spread from ear to ear.

I thought so, Tucker said with reverence in his voice, I’ve never seen so many at one time.

Neither have I, Frank agreed, in awe of the sight of the enormous mangy beasts.

By the time they’d approached the foothills of the Rocky Mountains only two hours had elapsed since their departure from Denver. At that point, they decided to cut north a bit and skirt Clear Creek.

The lower part of the foothills rose out of the grasslands. Frank eyes scanned the hillsides, which were covered with large meadows of grass. Small plants abounded in every direction; goldenrods, larkspur, aster daisy, goldenrod, honeysuckle, and some plants Frank didn’t recognize winked back at him.

After a while, Frank and Tucker decided to give the horses a break, for up ahead the hills grew steeper and more rugged. They let the horses graze while Tucker broke out some cold biscuits and jerked beef. They ate hungrily, enjoying their small but tasty meal. After a short break, both men removed their Stetsons, poured in a portion of water from their canteens and let the bay and buckskin slake their thirst. Then the pair swung up into their saddles, pointed their mounts in a westerly direction, and continued upward toward the rugged open ponderosa woodlands.

The air grew thinner as the boyhood friends realized they were working harder to pull fresh air into their lungs. Frank then realized that they were probably at least six thousand feet above sea level. They climbed higher and higher, weaving their way through ponderosa pine and scattered juniper trees. At times, due to the steepness of the hillsides, they needed to dismount and trail their horses behind them.

On the upper foothills, they watched in amazement as deer and elk seemingly disappeared into the thick patches of scrub oak and then would suddenly reappear. In the distance, they could hear the growl of a mountain lion, probably looking for a short meal of rabbit or rock squirrel, Frank thought. The eerie howl and yips of coyotes floated across the landscape.

A little while later, they spotted a trail that descended the steep hillside and meandered easily toward the far side of the mountain. Then, over a deep chasm, the land opened up before them.

Tucker removed his Stetson and wiped his brow. His eyes ate up the sight before him. Damn, Frank, I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. He paused for a second, then added, It’s absolutely beautiful.

Frank, stunned into silence, could not find the words to describe what his eyes beheld.

A magnificent boxed canyon spread out before them. The mouth of the canyon yawned in a northerly direction while a deep, emerald-green valley carpeted the vast acreage. Wildflowers swayed and danced for as far as the eye could see. Animals, large and small, crossed and crisscrossed the open land. In the far distance, Tucker pointed toward vast rock formations of cliffs and mesas. A fiery sun spilled rays of golden sunlight onto the open valley and the land sparkled. The positioning of the glowing orb lent a red and green hue to the glorious mountainside.

Frank peered down onto the valley floor and noticed something that seemed out of place. He turned to his friend.

Tuck, what are those shapes lying in the valley? he asked, pointing in the direction of the motionless forms. I can’t quite make them out.

Tucker, whose eyesight rivaled that of an adult eagle, glared down into the chasm. Suddenly his face turned from awe to bewilderment and then to a deepening sadness. He looked once again to confirm his initial assessment. He turned toward his best friend, and with deep regret, said, It looks like a family, Frank; a man, a woman and two young children. Then: They all appear dead.

The feeling of euphoria and well-being they both shared that day disappeared like woodsmoke in a heavy storm. They steered their horses down a winding path and slowly descended toward the valley floor. Not a word rose from their mouths. They each knew how the other felt: Saddened and angry.

They reached the valley about two hours later. Whiplash led the way, now leery with the scent of decaying death in the air. Unfortunately, Tucker was right. The mother, father, and two youngsters were dead as dead could be.

Frank and Tucker stepped down from the saddles and strode over to the corpses. Bullet holes riddled the entire family.

Land sakes, Frank, who would do such a thing?

It beats me, pardner. But whoever did this to these folks needs brought to justice and hung from a branch of a cottonwood tree. He pause a split second, then added, And I aim to do just that!

Tucker, nodding his head, had learned long ago that his friend could not stand by and do nothing while injustice reared its ugly head. Frank clung to a deep-seated, visceral sense of right and wrong. And Tucker knew exactly why Frank felt the way he did. Frank’s father, a drunken abuser, was one of the cruelest men Tucker had the misfortune to be acquainted with. Frank’s mother, a slip of a woman, had stood by many times and said nothing while her husband beat a young Frank black and blue. Frank’s brother, the favored child, did little to help his younger brother. Tucker knew that if Ben and Sarah Mills—a kind, loving, and childless couple—hadn’t taken in Frank at a young age, Frank could have easily turned into a mean, cruel, and emotionless hardcase. But the Mills’ showered Frank with love and devotion, and instilled in him a herculean sense of family and justice. Frank considered Ben and Sarah his true parents. Ben had died from an assassin’s bullet while Frank and Tucker were fighting in the Civil War and Sarah had been set up for his murder. But justice prevailed—after Frank and Tuckers intervention—and Sarah now lived happily with her sisters in the state of Ohio. Though Frank’s relationship with his birth mother and brother had improved somewhat, he still carried the scars of his abuse deep in his heart.

Whiplash and I will be at your side, Frank. Whoever did this, he glanced at the dead family, needs to pay up.

Frank walked slowly around the immediate area. From the hoof prints, I’d say at least a half-dozen men rode in here, robbed and killed these folks then hightailed it outta here heading north, out of the canyon.

After burying the dead family and saying a few words over the gravesite, the two men and their dog headed north on a vengeance trail.

They were scarcely a mile from the death site when Whiplash suddenly froze in place. With his head lowered, ears forward, he stared straight ahead. From past experience, Frank and Tucker understood the signs instantly: trouble awaited them in a blind spot not far ahead. They drew their Colt’s… and waited for the shooting to begin.

All of a sudden, a group of outlaws on horseback broke away from their cover and charged toward the friends at blinding speed with rifles and six-shooters ablaze.

Though Frank and Tucker fired into the charging horde, they were no match for the well-armed group. We need to light a shuck outta here, Tucker! They’re too well armed!

In unison, both men spun their horses one-hundred-eighty degrees and spurred their mounts into a hard gallop. Like greased lightning, Whiplash bolted ahead of them, leading the way.

Then a simultaneous thought struck them both: They were headed in the wrong direction. Tucker’s and Frank’s eyes quickly scanned their surrounding as they raced toward the wrong end of the boxed canyon.

Hot lead whistled past their heads, buzzing and screaming like an enraged bee hive. Flame spewed from the outlaws’ rifles and six-shooters as they spurred their horses forward.

Frank and Tucker pushed their horses ever harder, urging them on.

Over there, Tuck! Frank yelled, pointing toward an opening in the mountainside.

I see it! Tucker screamed back.

They raced toward the cave, vaulted from their saddles, and grabbed their weapon. Tucker sprinted toward the cave opening. Frank slapped both horses on their rumps, then spun around and followed Tucker and Whiplash into the cave. They hunkered down behind a large rock and waited for the outlaws to enter… but they never did.

Frank and Tucker could clearly hear the men outside talking:

Mac, grab a couple sticks of dynamite from your saddlebag. No sense wading into that black hole in the wall and riskin’ our lives. We’ll blow the entrance and bury those hombres alive!

I like the way you think, Asher, the man named Mac answered.

The two childhood friends and their loyal hound sprang to their feet and raced deeper into the mountain.

CHAPTER THREE

Present time: Frank and Tucker followed Whiplash into the deep abyss of the mountains. The tunnel shrunk in size as they made their way deeper and deeper into the awaiting void. They’d heard rumors of layered labyrinths of tunnels that twisted and turned in all directions underneath these mountains. Some passageways dead-ended into solid walls of rock while others led to the surface and fresh air. Still others, like an endless maze, led to nowhere except another never-ending shaft, circling and circling into infinity.

The tunnel continued to shrink in size as the men cut through the darkness. Their eyes adjusted fairly well to the dark environment though the passage of time seemed impossible to calculate.

This damn shaft keeps getting smaller and smaller, Frank, Tucker said, stating the obvious. His brow dripped with sweat as the air grew stale and musty.

Frank laughed. Thanks for the tip, old friend. I’ll be sure to make a note of that.

You’re a real funny man, Frank, Tucker couldn’t hide his smile, though he tried. Maybe you should join the circus. That way you could get paid for tickling people’s funny-bone.

Frank padded Tucker on his back. "Maybe I should. At least they would appreciate my wily sense of humor," he joked.

Just as Tucker was about to open his mouth with another retort, his head banged into the ever-shrinking overhead rock ceiling. Ouch! His hat slipped off the sweat laden brow and tumbled into the murky water below, then his foot got tangled in a cropping of rock and he fell forward, his face landing in a puddle of questionable origin.

Helping Tucker to his feet, Frank tried his best to hide his smile but failed miserably, for his friend’s face dripped of mud and slime.

Say one word, Frank, and I swear I’ll shoot you myself, Tucker mused. I swear to God. Then he turned to Whiplash, who just stood there, his tail slapping back and forth. That goes for you too, buddy.

Whiplash turned and trotted ahead of them.

Oh, that’s right, just ignore me.

Frank, unable to contain himself any longer, busted out laughing.

Tucker stood there with a smirk on his face, and then laughed until his eyes watered.

Fifteen minutes later, the pair found themselves on their hands and knees crawling through the ever-tightening space. The humor of moments ago began to evaporate like a drop of water on a hot summer day, replaced with a sense of trepidation and uncertainty.

Would they eventually be forced to backtrack out of the tunnel? Frank wondered, only to travel down another endless corridor that may dead-end into a wall of solid rock? He knew Tucker harbored the same tangle of doubt as he did.

As Frank and Tucker contemplated their dilemma, Whiplash let out a loud bark that echoed over and over in the dark chamber. The pair rounded a bend only to see the dog slip through a small aperture at the end of the tunnel. The opening, small and jagged, afforded enough room to allow the men to squeeze through.

Once through the small gap, they found Whiplash standing next to a medium sized