Travelin’ Partners

By Mike Dotson

Buried Confederate treasure, a suspicious death and the fate of a little girls birthright conspire to lure a drifting cowhand on an unwanted journey through postCivil War Texas. It is a journey marked by danger, death, and mystery. At the terminus awaits an old foe, a new love, and unimaginable riches.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Dec 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781490814896

Mike Dotson

A lifelong fan of the American West and a native Texan, Mike Dotson has worked in the insurance industry for more than twenty years, has served as a ranch manager, and is an enthusiastic horseman and a voracious reader of history. A father of three, he currently lives in Keller, Texas, with his wife, Lynn; their two dogs; nine setting hens; and a small flock of goats. Everything he has been or will be he owes to Jesus Christ.

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Prologue

I N THE SUMMER OF 1861, West Point graduate Henry H. Sibley, formerly Major Sibley of the United States Army, paid a call on Jefferson Davis, President of the Confederate States of America. Sibley – Louisiana-born, 44 years old, stocky, wind burned, with a drooping mustache – offered his services to the new president in the effort to establish a new nation. He had served for years in the southwest and along the Rio Bravo, or Rio Grande, and desired to serve his new country in the same locale. Davis was pleased. Sibley could be just the man to gain control of that far flung part of his country, opening the way to annex the adjacent Mexican states of Chihuahua, Sonora and Baja California, by treaty or con quest.

Unfortunately, Davis had no arms, munitions or money to offer, but only a commission as a brigadier general in the Army of the CSA, and the authority to carry out his mission of subduing the New Mexico territory. Sibley was industrious and enterprising, and was able to raise three mounted regiments in Texas by year’s end, with which he set out for El Paso, the jumping off point of his expedition.

One recruit, a big man, dark and handsome, saw this as an opportunity for not only serving his cause, but himself. Charming and competent, he quickly rose in rank to captain, gaining the confidence of his new commander and something else: the freedom to confiscate private property under the mantle of his new commission.

Unknown to Sibley, as the young officer raised money, arms and munitions, he also managed to raise his future social status by skimming gold from the CSA coffers, and cleverly arranging a black market trade network by which arms were sold through intermediaries to the Comanche Indians and slave trading Comancheros.

When word came down that the troop was moving, at long last, to El Paso to begin their campaign, the dashing and enterprising Captain knew that his trade was at an end, and moved to wrap up the loose ends of his business. Ruthlessly, he killed the intermediaries, or arranged to have them killed, so that no trail would be traceable to him if he were ever suspected of wrongdoing.

Near a creek bottom north of Fort Davis, a young lieutenant who served as quartermaster braced the Captain, having found discrepancies in the books kept during the procurement process. Without remorse, the lieutenant was killed, run through with his own sword, and hastily buried in a grove of old cottonwoods near the creek. Not far from there, the Captain buried his cache of gold, precious stones and cash, fearing a larger inquest and search resulting from the disappearance of the young quartermaster officer. He removed the heavy canvas bags from the false bottom of one of the wagons, and under cover of darkness, stashed them in a copse of rocks near their camp.

He would return someday following the Confederacy’s victory, and claim the treasure so he could live in style in Charleston, Atlanta, or Richmond, an important citizen of the new nation.

Chapter 1

Texas, 1887

W ORD CAME TO ME OF Brian’s death by way of telegram while I was in San Antone, aiming to shake the dust off my boots a might. It had been many moons since I slept beneath a roof, and I was hankering to spend some time in one of the town’s finer establishments. I aimed to soak up somebody’s cooking other than mine and just lay up a while. I had three month’s wages saved up. My first stop was to get some store bought clothes. I bought some tan colored trousers, a dark blue shirt and a tan leather vest. I topped it off with a dark brown felt hat and even bought me a new pair of calfskin boots. That cost about half of a month’s wages, but it seemed worth it to me. All my life I had known nothing but hard work, and I figured I had this c oming.

Turns out I was wrong, because just the second evening of my stay, while I was dining in the Menger Hotel, the waiter brought a runner from the telegraph office with a note from Becky Quinn in Fort Davis telling me that I was named as the guardian for little Molly Flanagan and executor of the estate in Brian’s will. Why in tarnation Brian did a darn fool thing like naming a drifting cowpoke as guardian of his little girl and executor of his estate, I’ll never know. All I did know is I now had a job to do, and honor demanded that I do it as best I could. If this weren’t reason enough for concern, the last line of the telegram was:

There are parties who would rather not see you arrive in Fort Davis.

I went upstairs to my room and glanced longingly at the tall, soft feather bed where I slept the night before. I sure had looked forward to spending a few more nights here but alas, I had new concerns. What was happening in that high desert country? Who could possibly be out to get me, and for what reason? How did Becky Quinn know where to locate me, anyhow, and could she be trusted? I had no reason to doubt it, but I decided I should move cautiously until I could get the lay of the land. Chances were if she knew I was in San Antone, others with unfavorable intentions did, too. I hung my holster over the headboard, loosened the thong on the hammer of the pistol, and propped a chair under the door knob, just in case some wayward soul decided to pay me an unannounced visit while I was sleeping.

On the dresser was a pitcher of fresh water and a bowl for washing. I stripped to the waist and splashed the cool water on my face and upper body, then took one of the thick towels in the top drawer and dried myself. As I did, I looked at myself in the mirror. Looking back at me was a tall, dark complected man with a shock of black hair and dark brown eyes. A bushy black mustache covered my upper lip, and it was beginning to be peppered by flecks of gray, as were my temples. What was I beyond that visage that gazed out from the ground glass? Was I just a strong lad with broad shoulders and unusually big hands, destined to a life of obscure and back-breaking work? Somehow I did not want to accept that possibility, but what evidence had I to the contrary? Moreover, why had I been chosen to tend to matters of which I had no real interest or business being involved in? What unseen forces were driving me to that desert ranch, compelling me to become embroiled in what could be a dangerous and potentially deadly situation?

I am a Travis, Ezekiel being my given name, although folks have always called me Zeke. My mother gave me the name, being as she was partial to that particular Old Testament prophet. He was the one who was given marvelous visions by the Lord, and I guess Ma had in mind something similar for me. I don’t know, but somehow I suspect she didn’t have punching cows and traipsing over the countryside in mind, although Ma always said I had a romantic side to me. What is romance, but a devotion to one’s ideals that goes beyond all reason and against one’s better judgment? When it comes to love of wild country, good horses, and the taste of the trail, I reckon you could call me romantic, for I cannot bring myself to part with any of these. I was bred for the wild and lonely places, and even in my growing up years in Texas, I was more comfortable with a secluded stream or pasture full of cows than with folks. Many was the time my folks would be hunting me, only to find that I had slipped off to be alone with my thoughts. It’s not that I don’t cotton to folks, it’s just that I have a hard time putting the things of my heart into words that would make sense to anybody. I can generally hold my own with the best of them given a fence to build, or a herd to drive, or a horse to gentle.

Lost in such thoughts I drifted off, only to find myself suddenly awake, eyes wide open in the inky black darkness. Had it been a noise, or just a notion from some innate awareness of danger that aroused me from my slumber? I sat up in bed, silently pulling the Colt Russian .44 from its holster as I did, listening like a stalked wild animal. What time was it? From my window, which faced east, I could see no graying of the sky to indicate it was nigh onto daylight. I could see the San Antonio River quietly snaking below, glistening with starlight. A slight breeze stirred the thin curtains over the open window, and I could feel it caressing me gently. I glanced toward the door and from the corner of my eye, noticed a subtle change in the faint light coming from the window. Was that a slight scraping of a boot on the small veranda outside the window, or just my imagination? No, definitely it was a noise… someone was outside my open window!

The way the bed was situated, there was no way I could be seen from that vantage point, so I slipped from between the sheets being careful not to make any noise and crouched to the side of the window. Just then, the long barrel of what appeared to be a Colt Dragoon poked through the curtains, pointed at the bed. Quick as lightning, I grabbed that barrel and pulled in and down which caused the holder to stumble over the sill. As he fell into the room, his hat was knocked from his head and he said, What the… just before I crowned him with the business end of the Russian. He sprawled onto the floor and groaned, grabbing the top of his bruised skull.

Right about then, I realized my welcome in San Antone was plumb worn out. Much as I’d of liked to have had a little conversation with that fellow writhing on my bedroom floor, my hunch was that he wasn’t alone. If I was right, there would be another somewhere within the building, likely skulking around the hallway. My saddlebags were already packed as I aimed to pull out at first light anyhow, so all I had to do was slip into my traveling duds and find a way out of this mess. I tied my boots together and slung them over my shoulder, then eased the chair from beneath the doorknob. I cracked the door open and peered into the dimly lit hallway. From my room to the stairwell, I had to go around two blind corners. I had stuffed the Dragoon into my saddlebags, and had the Russian in my left hand.

I was fortunate in that the light cast by the lamps shone in such a way that anyone hiding around the first corner would have cast a very pronounced shadow. This boiled it down to the second corner, which was just a few feet from the top of the staircase leading to the lobby. As I crept near the corner, I caught a faint whiff of stale sweat and tobacco smoke. So, this was it. I considered my options. It was likely that a night clerk was on duty in the lobby, and I had no wish to see an innocent person get mixed up in this and hurt. It came to me that I needed to create an edge, and I had just what I needed hanging over my shoulder. Switching the pistol to my right hand, I took the saddlebags in my left, swung them back for momentum and let it fly so that they landed with a thud just past the corner. That ruffian that was waiting there took the bait and swung the butt of his pistol at the bag as it cleared the corner. The momentum of his swing carried him full into the hallway and I reached out, taken him by his belt and sort of helped him face first into the opposite wall. He slid down that wall like a sack of spuds. I reached down for my saddlebags, slipped on my boots and calmly proceeded down the stairs. At the landing where the staircase turned, I met the night clerk, who demanded, What’s going on here? What was that noise?!

Somebody slipped and I think they hit their head, I commented as I proceeded quickly out the front door.

At the livery, I saddled and bridled J.R., and stepped up, moving out at a canter. The bay seemed happy to be moving, never having learned to like stable life. He rolled his eyes and turned his head to sniff me, anxious to be in the open. We were a lot alike in that way, both creatures of the out-of-the-way places. That bay horse had a smooth lope, but his trot would jar your eye teeth loose. He was upright in the shoulder, had a too thick neck and a grouchy attitude, but I wouldn’t trade him for all the tea in China. He was one to depend on, whether you needed to rope a bull in the pasture or just cover some ground traveling.

I rode west, roughly following the route of the old Chihuahua Trail. In the last part of the 18th century, silver mined near Chihuahua, Mexico, was brought over a route leading though the Chihuahuan Desert, crossing the Rio Grande at Presidio del Norte. From there, it proceeded to Leon Water Hole and the present site of Fort Stockton, on to Horsehead Crossing, Pecos Crossing and eastward to San Antone. That trail runs through some mighty rough country, and the Comanche were still a threat. Backtracking that trail, I had not in mind silver or riches, but how I was going to get to Fort Davis without being dry-gulched or having my hair lifted by some renegade.

I reflected on the events that had gotten me into this predicament. Some folks like to talk of chivalry, and a person on the outside looking in might say that is what drove me to act as I had. I don’t think of myself in those terms, but only as doing what is needful and right according to my convictions. As is the case in so many predicaments common to man, there was a girl involved. In this instance, the girl was a freckle-faced, red-headed eight year old named Molly Flanagan. Molly’s father, Brian, had been a friend of mine since childhood. We grew up together in the breaks of the Red River, nigh onto the border between Texas and the Nation. We fought with and for each other, schooled together, rode horses and roped and rounded-up together, hunted and fished almost constantly, even went to camp meetings together with our folks. Brian’s pa was right over the pond from Ireland, and a fine figure of a man he was. His name was Angus, and I always thought the name was apt, for he had the build and constitution of a bull. Tall with a broad and deep chest, he was the strongest man I have ever known, his great natural strength honed while laying track for the railroad. He had a great shock of auburn hair, and a deep, resonant voice that sounded like the wind blowing over the mouth of a great cavern. He told us tales of his days of wanderlust that made two young boys long to seek their own destiny.

Brian Flanagan and I just naturally sort of kept crossing each other’s paths, cleaving and parting like the blades of a scissor. We wrangled for the same outfit in Wyoming, drove freight together in Kansas and Colorado and fought Indians in the New Mexico Territory. After a while, Brian was lassoed by a beautiful young lady from St. Louis named Angelica. They settled a small ranch near Fort Davis in west Texas, and had a baby girl, Molly.

They started small, with a handful of mixed breed heifers, and an old longhorn bull. Gradually, their holdings increased until the Rafter A (so named because of Angelica) covered more than 30 sections of high mountain desert. Brian was always an admirer of things of great quality, and the home he built for his girls was no exception. It started as a two room stone and cedar structure set on the flanks of a mountain, looking south over a valley that stretched from the front porch to Mexico, or so it seemed. A grove of oaks provided respite from the ever-present sun, and a small but gin-clear stream flowed below the house. A low porch surrounded the house on three sides, and this served as more than just a place to rest in the cool shade. It also was a place to dry fruits and vegetables, keep ollas of clean water cool for the occupants’ use, and a functional defense perimeter in the event of attack by hostile Comanche. Down slope from the house was a swell in the ground that would discourage a full-out frontal attack. In back, a sheer bluff that no horse could traverse and on which a man would be a sitting duck. Like everything Brian did, this house was built with care and forethought. The heavy-hewn timbers were fitted together, with nary a nail to be seen, and the rock was cut and fit without benefit or need of mortar. Lower down was a small bunkhouse of the same construction, as well as a stable and corrals.

While Brian was building a home and family, all I had to show for my efforts were a well-worn cavalry saddle, a beat up old Henry rifle and what few belongings I could stuff into my saddlebags. I had to admit, it was a sorry lot for nearly two decades of hard labor and yet I had within me a strange contentment. Inside I knew that one day I would find just the right place to settle and build something lasting; it’s just that the day had yet to come. For now, the smell of cedar as the sun lifted an eyebrow over the high up hills, bacon on the fire, and the creak of saddle leather was enough for me.

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I stood in the oak grove on a bitter February day when the sky was the color of bullet lead, looking at a fresh dug grave. It was a closed casket ceremony, and I was just as glad, wanting to remember Angelica as she had been in life. Regardless of the care a man puts into building this life, everything can come unraveled in a mighty short time. After Angelica died in childbirth, the wind sort of went out of Brian’s sails. I saw him once after this, whilst we stood over the grave in the oaks behind the ranch house. Something had changed in Brian. Now nearing 40 years of age, he had the graying temples and carriage of a man of means. Oh, the laugh lines still crowded the corners of his eyes, but there were some deep furrows on his brow, too. The laughter that used to dance in his sky-blue eyes was gone, just as dead as his beloved wife.

There was something else, too. I knew Brian to be a man of faith, although he was no Bible thumper. However, the chain of recent events had seemed to embitter him, and there was an edge when he spoke. I grappled with a way to help him, but could only offer a feeble I’m sorry. Figuring he just needed time and a little room, I left my disconsolate friend and now felt as though my leaving may have contributed to the tragedy that was to transpire.

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As near as I could determine, Brian Flanagan’s mental state continued to deteriorate. He began to drink heavily, spending more time in the local tavern than taking care of ranch business. He had friends who tried to help, including Becky Quinn, the local schoolteacher. If it weren’t for her, little Molly would have