Doubletree

By Jim Workman

Following the untimely death of their parents, Poke Bodeen and his sister, Mary, packed a few meager possessions, sold the family homestead and move west.

After stopping for supplies in the small community of Doubletree in the Colorado Territory, they camp near the fork of the Trinchera and Rio Grande rivers to rest the stock and make needed repairs. While scouting the area and hunting for fresh meat, Poke is ambushed and left for dead. Upon regaining consciousness, Poke returns to the camp site only to find Mary missing.

Poke follows the trail of the attackers back to the small, sleepy town of Doubletree. When Marys body is discovered, ravaged by buzzards and wild varmints, Bodeen is immediately suspected. He is thrown in jail to await the hangmans noose by an inept Deputy Sheriff Ross Koonce. Only the unexpected return of Sheriff Burlison saves Bodeen from Koonce and an angry, aroused lynch mob.

After viewing the dead womens body and examining an old family daguerreotype and an old weathered wanted poster, Sheriff Burlison informs Bodeen, his sister could have possibly been the notorious outlaw, Arrena Johnson.

Poke also becomes a target. Nevertheless, armed with only a single clue, a faded family photograph, and a blurred vision during the attack, Poke is persistent in his search for Marys killer. During his investigation, Bodeen discovers an ingenious, monstrous plot of rustling and murder. Poke Bodeen is determined to let nothing stand between him and his pursuit for justice.

As the danger and body count escalates, Poke faces the frustrating dilemma of being unable to prove his suspicions and end the malicious betrayals being committed against the residents of the Doubletree community.

Poke is finally able to enlist the aid of a few, a six-gun toting boarding house window, an aging doctor, a wounded deputy, and two lovely ladies, to bring the predators to justice, almost.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781477279076

Jim Workman

Jim Workman was born in Glenwood, Arkansas, October 23, 1932. He is a retired U.S. Army veteran of more than twenty years of service. He saw service as an Artilleryman during the Korean Conflict and as a meteorologist during the Vietnam era. Before entering the he worked at several summer and fall jobs, from the paper mills of Louisiana to the cotton fields of the Pecos River Valley of New Mexico. He worked as a farm laborer and ranch hand along the Red River Valley of North Texas and Southern Oklahoma. After retiring from the military he became as Innkeeper for the World’s largest motel chain before returning to finish his education on the GI Bill. Jim now lives in Fort Smith, Arkansas. He is an avid fan and reader of Western lore, both fiction and non-fiction, he (at the urging of his hardest “critic”, his wife) continues to tell cowboy tales write in his spare time.

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© 2013 by Jim Workman. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/23/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4772-7909-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-7908-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-7907-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012919195

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

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About the Author

1

The doe gazed inquisitively at the still prone figure lying on a nearby sandbar. Her spotted fawn standing beside her nuzzled the crystal clear water of the Rio Grande River. The doe stood rigid, ready to spring to safety at the first sign of danger from the strange unfamiliar object. Finally, satisfied no harm would come to her or her offspring, she ever so slowly lowered her head to drink. But suddenly a slight movement from the silent figure alerted the doe; she leaped agilely into the thick underbrush bordering the river. The spindly legs of her fawn churned desperately to keep abreast of its guardian.

Tearing through the dense underbrush, the two deer didn’t hear the racking cough as the man gave up the river’s water. As the retching subsided, the man raised his head, causing a wave of dizziness. But Jim Bodeen was able to pull himself out of the marsh to stand on wobbly legs before stumbling across the sandbar. He splashed through the shallow slough where the deer had drunk and dropped trembling to the ground. He sat quaking and shivering with his head in his hands waiting for his mind to clear.

Running his fingers through his hair, Jim winced as he encountered a huge lump. The sudden pain triggered a throbbing, as if he had been stomped by a mule. A hazy memory began to take shape. He was on a high bluff overlooking the Trinchera River where it flowed into the Rio Grande. Then he was falling; after the sensation of falling, his memory was only a misty vapor—except for Mary.

Who was Mary? Try as he might, his thoughts were all jumbled up, like weighty fog—floating—weird impressions kept fading in and out. His brain didn’t want to cooperate. He couldn’t think coherently. Vaguely, his mind seemed to clear somewhat. Yes! Mary was his sister. How could he have forgotten her? He hazily recalled leaving her all alone at their campsite, planning to be gone for only a few hours. He splashed water on his face, shaking his head trying to clear his thoughts. Slowly, his thinking began to take focus.

He was planning to scout the river basin looking for a good approach to the other side, and hopefully, bring in some fresh meat. What time was that, he wondered. How long had he been away from camp? I must start back immediately, he thought. Mary must be worried deathly sick wondering what had happened to him.

As his mind began to clear, he remembered it was near noon when he approached the drop off above the bluffs. He recollects scanning the river banks for a trail that would descend the cliffs, and hoping to find a good place to cross the Rio Grande River. The sun was now almost directly overhead. That would mean he had been gone from camp overnight, at the very least, maybe even longer. There was no way he could say what day it was or even where he was at.

Fighting down the sickness in his stomach, he struggled up the east bank of the Rio Grande. At the top, Jim sat down until the nausea passed and his head began to clear. As he tried to orient himself, he rubbed the knot on his head. He could feel dried blood; it was then he realized he had been shot. Suddenly, like a curtain withdrawing, his thoughts became clearer.

Shot? Yes, he remembered now with all simplicity. He had heard the distinctive crack of rifle fire. He had felt a blow to the head, fallen from his horse, and plunged over the cliff to the swirling water of the river below the granite bluffs. He recollects breaking surface momentarily. During that brief moment, there was a flash of something extremely bright and a series of voices.

In the recesses of his mind there was something else he should recall. Seemingly important, whatever it was, it kept escaping to the rear of his thoughts. He just couldn’t grasp it. Even though it kept drifting in and out of focus, it was definitely there. But he could not collect or organize his thoughts for the worrying concern he had for Mary.

Had she heard the rifle shot? Probably not, he thought. He calculated the distance from where he was shot to their camp site, and concluded it was more than a mile. Yet, it was possible for the sound to carry that distance in the thin mountain air. Even if she had heard the sound, she most likely thought it would have come from his rifle—that he had bagged some fresh meat.

Jim got to his feet and looked around; he was a total stranger in this country. But if he had fallen into the river, he would have floated downstream. By following the river upstream, he would surely come upon the granite cliffs where he was shot. Then from there, he could follow his tracks back to their camp. But as Jim gained higher ground, searching for some familiar landmark, he saw nothing he recognized. He soon realized he had drifted farther downstream than he had scouted.

Jim Bodeen trudged wearily northward, keeping the river in sight. Perplexed, his thoughts kept jumping from one image to another. It was difficult to concentrate on one subject for any length of time. It was hard to tell if his head hurt due to the bullet wound or the difficulty in trying to figure out where and what had happened to him. Whatever the case, it was nauseating. With every step he felt like he could vomit more water.

Jim stumbled along, there were so many questions: by whom? Why? He had no enemies, at least none he knew of. Was getting shot an unavoidable accident? Or had there been Indians about? No, he didn’t think so. He hadn’t heard of any Indian activities for quite some time. Then who could be responsible, and why? The more he thought on the possibility of it being an accident or mistaken identity, the more bewildered he became; so much so, that his head throbbed painfully just trying to figure out the probabilities. He just prayed that when he got back to camp, they would be able to make some believable sense out of what happened to him.

Neither he nor Mary where familiar with this area of the country, nor did neither of them know anyone. They hadn’t seen a living soul since leaving the town of Doubletree, a sleepy little ranching community where they had stopped a few days back. The campsite Jim selected to rest their stock, and to make needed repairs, was off the beaten path of travel, completely isolated from view for miles around. His reasoning for scouting the fertile river basin before making a decision was whether to push over the rugged mountain ranges which lie before them, or possibly homestead in the vicinity.

Jim scanned the horizon in hopes of seeing a plume of smoke indicating Mary’s location. But finding nothing to give him hope, he became more apprehensive. It was late in the afternoon before the granite cliffs came into view. With the sight of a familiar landmark his paces increased noticeably.

Other recognizable landmarks also became visible. He stopped momentarily as he crested the rise overlooking the small meadow nestled among giant cottonwoods. He saw no movement, but of course, Mary would have brought the stock in for the night. But seeing the campsite gave a certain rise to Jim’s expectations. Just knowing their camp was under the heavy grove of foliage, he hurried forward.

Once he descended the slope where he had a clearer view, he saw no sign of a camp. At first he thought he might be mistaken as to the location of their camp, but the closer he got to the grove, he knew he was right—this was the correct location. But where was the wagon? Where was Mary? Could she have moved the camp? Everything was gone! Disappeared! Confused, he continued deeper into the grove looking for some tell-tale sign he wasn’t going crazy.

Positive this was the very spot where he had left Mary with the wagon and their belongings, he hurriedly began searching for some indication of her presence. Nothing! There was absolutely nothing to be seen! He ran forward, stopping where he was positive he had parked the wagon. Jim fell to his knees again searching for some—any—indication to prove he wasn’t going mad. But there were no wagon tracks, no animal tracks, no dropping to indicate any living thing had ever passed this way. Gripped with uncertainty, he approached the large stone outcrop where he had dressed out some fish that he had caught their first evening in camp. Nothing! He scratched around on the ground; he couldn’t find any fish scales or any evidence whatsoever to prove he had cleaned fish here.

Mary! He shouted. His voice sounded abnormally loud in the stillness. Nothing but the hushed, gentle breeze playing with the leaves above met his ears.

Mary! He cried at the top of his voice. Again no answer came.

Jim forced himself to stay calm, to think more clearly. He had to think this out, but his head ached so intensely he felt extremely sick. What was happening to him? What had happened to Mary?

God help me, what is going on? He prayed aloud.

Jim began searching diligently for clues to what had occurred during his absence. The fire pit had been completely obliterated and the ground tediously tended to make it appear no fire had ever blackened the ground. He walked the meadow slowly looking for tracks, horse manure, cow paddies, an outline of anything, some clue to the mystery, but found nothing. Their wagon had been heavily loaded, yet he found no depressions cut by the steel-rimmed wheels. He found no betraying marks left by brush being swept over wagon tracks, and not one trace which could be left by a living being. He was becoming incredibly frustrated. The meadow had been so expertly cleared of any evidence that anyone had ever sat under these cottonwoods. If he hadn’t been so positive this was where he left Mary, he could have easily doubted his sanity.

Lord, Mary, where are you? he muttered to himself.

Jim’s steps were heavy as he made his way to the top of the crest of the gray cliffs, which overlooked the Rio Grande River. Here at the cliff where he was shot was where it all began. Maybe this is the place he should start to untangle the mystery of the last few days. But there, also, he found no tracks of any sort to verify he had ever sat his horse while he studied the river basin. Had he ever been here? Was this all a dream or just his imagination?

He leaned over the shear drop, looking into the rapid swirling waters where he had plunged. A short way, perhaps, two hundred yards, the flowing stream of the river gave way from the bluffs, leaving a bank of thick foliage of tangled vines and cattails among other natural flora. There was something about the undergrowth along the river which caused him uneasiness, but the light was as such that he couldn’t make out the details which caused the disquieting. He would check it out tomorrow when the light was better.

It was nearly full dark by the time he returned to the meadow. It was already getting rather chilly. It would be cold tonight, but a fire was out of the question; besides, he had no way to make a fire. He couldn’t remember when he had been so tired, hungry, and just downright discouraged with life. Trying to forget the misery of the day, he made his way down to the Trinchera. He found a place where he could belly down and drink his fill on an empty stomach.

The full moon hung slightly east of its zenith as Jim sat dejectedly on the bank of the Trinchera with his back against a giant oak. He pressed his hands to his throbbing temples and rotated as if it would help to clear away the blending questions pounding inside his head. Sleep would not come.

* * *

The soft glow of the waning moon which lay on the western rim of the horizon, cast long eerie shadows across the quiet meadow. Two men walked their mounts silently and slowly into the dying moonlight from the depth of the murky tree line. Jim became instantly alert as the rubbing of the saddle leather reached his ears. He raised himself from the small depression where he had taken refuge from the bitter night air. Sheets of low lying fog lacing the meadow along the riverbank masked the movements of the two intruders.

Slowly, the two blurred figures came into view. The two rode quietly around the meadow before continuing toward the gray bluffs. Only the barely audible sounds of rubbing leather betrayed their presence. Jim reached for his six-gun before remembering its loss. He didn’t move, but watched the two figures until they begin to fade into the murkiness of the faraway fog bank. They could be range cowboys who happened to be riding by—but at this time of night? Probably not, he thought.

Jim considered hailing the two men, but not being sure of their intentions thought it prudent to wait. Keeping to the shadows of the trees lining Trinchera River, he kept pace with the two comparatively easily. He wouldn’t be any help to Mary or himself if he were caught and possibly gunned down, so he kept well to the rear and off to one side in order to prevent detection.

Before they reached the crest of the cliff, the riders stopped twice to listen, as though they suspected they were being followed. Jim could make out the low tone of voices each time before they continued, but was unable to distinguish what was being said. Cautiously, he worked his way as close as possible and still was relatively safe from being caught. If he could just get close enough to overhear their conversation, he might pick up some information which would eventually lead him to Mary.

There was one very distinguishing sound which Jim heard in the still mountain air. A sound he was not likely to forget. One of the men had a nervous mannerism of clearing his throat frequently, in a very unusual tendency Jim would easily remember.

After a short conversation, the taller of the two dismounted and walked toward Jim. Filled with anxiety Jim lay breathlessly still, thinking he may have been discovered. But the man passed within twenty feet of his position and disappeared down the crest toward the area where Jim noted the heavy foliage area earlier that afternoon.

Jim worked his way noiselessly along the edge of the drop-off to within earshot of the remaining man holding the horses. He considered the possibility of trying to overpower the individual and wait for his partner to return. But it was a gamble he didn’t feel he could take with Mary’s life at stake. The likelihood of them leading him to Mary was far greater than him trying to force them to talk. Secondly, the only weapon he had at hand was a small pocketknife, which would be of little use against their guns.

It wasn’t long before the man who disappeared came back up the trail, mumbling to himself. Jim was now close enough to overhear anything the two said. He was extremely apprehensive, and reluctantly, would bide his time and see what developed.

Well? the man holding the horses asked.

Ain’t anything to worry about, the other answered. It’s just like I told the boss. Nobody will ever know what happened here. When I do something, I do it right.

Then let’s get the hell out of here, his confederate drawled. This place gives me the willies.

He was now positive the two were involved in the disappearance of his sister and their property.

Jim remained in his position of concealment, even though the temptation to confront the two was exceptionally overpowering. His better judgment cautioned him not act in haste. In the half-light of dawn, Jim unwillingly watched the men ride down the mountain and out of sight. He would pick up their trail at first light and follow them to hell and back if necessary.

It was well daylight by the time the two men were out of sight; Jim was at the bottom of the cliff. Jim was horrified by what he might find, but there was only one way to find out. Working his way along the river bank, he came upon what he first thought to be an old rockslide. But on a closer inspection, he found that was not the case. The soil and muck were fairly fresh. It was readily apparent the high bank above had recently been dislodged. Anxiously, he started pulling branches, limbs, and brush away from the large amount of debris which was mixed in the slide. He soon recognized the charred remains of what had once been his covered wagon. Filled with apprehension, Jim worked feverishly clearing away the remaining debris.

What hadn’t been carried away or burned was buried under the rockslide. Among the heavy, charred remaining timbers of the wagon, Jim found pieces of burnt horse collars, harnesses, harness buckles, trace chains and cooking utensils, but little else. There was no sign of Mary’s belongings or that she ever existed.

Relieved he hadn’t discovered Mary’s body, Jim returned to what was left of the heavy wagon bed which was only scorched and blackened by the fire. He soon found the particular thick oak beam he was looking for. He began digging earnestly with the small pocketknife and the edge of a large harness buckle. Extracting a small tin container from its hiding place, he checked the contents. Inside on top of some currency, was a family daguerreotype of him with other members of his family, which was produced years earlier. Jim placed the picture in his shirt pocket, and tossed the tin into the river. Watching the tiny box float out of sight down the swirling water, he wondered what other memories might lay at the bottom of the river.

It was near noon when Jim finished the climb back to the top of the bluff. Looking in the direction the two men had taken, he experienced another flash of something he believed he should remember. He tried to focus his mind on the glint of light. Was it a light? Was it something he saw just before hitting the water or afterwards, or as he hit water? He couldn’t remember anything distinctly. Maybe it was just his imagination. It’s surely not important or he would remember what it was. Whatever it was, it escaped him.

Jim turned his thoughts to tracking the two men. He had