Mantee: The Lone Panther

By James B. Riverton

Ryan Mantee is one incredibly smart and adventuresome fellow, a true Western hero, almost a superhero. The man can do it, and do it right! Enjoy a good many rounds of drinking, gambling, romance and barfights as Ryan Mantee comes to call in post-Civil War-era Virginia City, Texas. Observe some shifty goings-on amongst the townspeople, the constabulary and Mantee. Learn what really went down with the James Gang, and let the spirit of this story transport you back in time to an era when life itself was much less complex, but the rules of engagement and honor amongst men were taken much more seriously.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James B. Riverton
• Release date: Nov 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463994733

James B. Riverton

James B. Riverton is a man of mystery and has been described by some as being "the most famous man you've never met." A reluctant author who spent his youth on a journey of personal discovery, hiding in plain sight. The author was born in San Francisco, Calif. Raised in Texas, Europe and the Middle East while living on an oil tanker part- time, at the age of eight, traveling from England, and France, transporting crude oil from the Middle East to those countries, with his parents. Endless days and nights tramping along at five knots, back and forth. The author learned to swim in the Suez Canal while waiting to transit the canal, traveled through the ruins of Europe and Middle East observing the destruction from the Second World War first hand. He learned to communicate in different countries, sometimes with gestures and good cheer by sharing Hershey Bars with the local children to make friends. At the age of 17 the author joined the Navy to see the rest of the world and especially the Far East. Serving during the 1960's he served three tours of duty during the conflict in Indochina, seeing much of the Far East, and learning about the culture and the people. One of the highlights of his service was meeting President John F. Kennedy, a month before his death, prior deploying to the Far East while aboard the aircraft carrier USS Oriskany, CVA-34. Upon discharge, the author traveled, working overseas construction for Brown and Root, dealing cards in Las Vegas, bartending, waiting on tables in various exclusive resorts, working as a Assistant General Manager in Vail, Colorado. In his travels during this period the author met and served movie actors, Senators, President Gerald Ford, and a host of characters of all walks of life. A graduate of Stephen F. Austin, with a BFA, the author wrote a few screen play outlines, and unpublished stage plays, but never found the time, or the desire to try writing novels. However, he did find the courage to pursue the love of his life, and after five years was successful, at the age of 37, to finally marry, starting a family. Over the next years he entered the world of Real Estate, selling homes, starting home building companies and developing land for residential use. This career of boom and bust carried his family from Texas to Washington, DC and back. Up and down, through thick and thin surviving roiling markets. During slim times finding alternate ways to support a growing family by starting up a successful pre-paid phone card and ad promotional business. Learning one of the most important lessons in life, raising children and learning how to be a father. Always, in the back of his mind remained the ultimate personal challenge, of writing a book, not for recognition, but to see if he could. During the 2008 financial collapse it seemed writing a book would maintain ones sanity. One book turned into a completed series, then more books, to the point that the next challenge was to publish this growing disease gumming up his personal computer. Someone explained writing a book was only 20 to 50% of the effort, the rest was sitting here inputting a personal bio and figuring out that it takes a whale of an effort to publish a book. All he can say is that after all he has seen, and experienced in life, that this is the most taxing thing he has ever attempted, and his hat is off to anyone that has ever contended with this process, let alone become successful. My only goal in life in the end has been to write, and it has become a joy to me. If one person reads anything that I write, and enjoys it, for whatever reason, then I have found success with this part of my life. If anyone can bring laughter or ethos into another's life, if only briefly, then what more can you ask for, except for a winning lottery ticket. My winning ticket has been family and friends, seeing the sun rise each day, thanking the main man for a great life and the passion to finally tell some stories. The author currently lives in Texas, and spends his quality time in the Hill Country and Houston with his wife, friends, family, and his German Shepherd, Yogi.

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Mantee

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such permissions should be addressed to [e-mail]

Smashwords edition © 2019 by James B. Riverton

Published by Lucky Lamb Publications and Donald H. Dildy

This book is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places, and incidents

are products of the author's imagination,

or are used fictitiously.

Cover art designed by Clarity Book Cover Designs

Prologue

Ryan Mantee. Quarter Comanche, equal parts Irish and French. Raised in Central Texas by a French ex-Legionnaire father and an Irish-Comanche mother. Fought in the Civil War as a scout for Quantrill’s Raiders and rode with the James and Dalton gangs after the war, until a disagreement lead to his leaving and heading out West to seek his fortune in the Comstock. Superior with his fists, a knife, and especially quick on the draw. Six feet up, one hundred and eighty-five pounds of pure hellcat, in a fight or in the bed. Only hangs with whores and dancehall girls. Has no home, lives on the road with his bedroll and his horse Dusty, a cross between a Mustang and an English Hunter Jumper. Has a flat sliver belt buckle with a small Ivory skull in the middle, a Colt .45 Low Rider in a plain weatherworn holster, and a deer handle Texas Bowie knife on his left side. He carries a Winchester rifle, and a short double barrel ten-gauge shotgun. He generally wears a full length canvas raincoat, a leather vest, and buckskin pants stuck into a pair of mid-length riding boots. A bandana around his neck, and a weather-beaten tan Stetson made in Chicago that has a small rattlesnake band around it, folded over into a rope where he has hidden ten one hundred dollar bills.

He has a raw boned, high cheeked, sharp nosed face which has weathered the many storms of his life. His eyes are a deep blue that darken when he is angry. He drinks his whiskey straight, rye. He makes his money playing poker and hiring out his talents. He tried to make it as a gold miner in California and as a miner in the Comstock, but he always bought the wrong play, and finally gave up trying to dig his fortune out of the ground. Whatever money he did make had gotten spent on whores and whiskey. He didn’t chew or smoke, and rarely smiled, except when he got angry.

Then he was a killer.

Chapter One

Rip Taylor strutted through the swinging doors of the McCormick Saloon, all six foot three of him, his escort of ranch hands bunched up with him, eager for a drink and maybe a poke if their boss’s son felt like it. Rip weighed about two hundred-plus pounds and was wearing his in-town duds. A black leather short coat, white satin shirt, opened to show his hairy upper chest, and rawhide tan leather riding pants tucked into his brand new knee-length black leather boots from St. Louis. His black felt Stetson hat had a pure silver band around it. He carried twin revolvers, with pearl handles on two side holsters, a huge silver belt buckle on his weathered gun belt. Two dance hall gals immediately grabbed his arms, begging him to buy them drinks, while his five men seeped around him, presenting themselves to any extra women. There were none for them, though, only for Rip.

The Saloon was packed. Saturday night in Virginia City, the Comstock was pumping out ore, cattle, and anything else that could make money, to be shipped out on the Union Pacific Railroad. A small band backed up a tinny piano player playing for a ragged chorus line of dancehall girls high-kicking for the crowd of hooting and hollering drunken cowboys and miners. Two fights had broken out, and the bouncers were trying to restore order. That was impossible, it was Saturday night and all the steam of frustration was pouring out. Red Eye Whiskey, cut by pure grain alcohol to make a profit, was running wild, adding fuel to the passions and anger. The smell of smoke and sweat soared up into the rafters, filling both the saloon and the second floor landing that surrounded the main room. An immaculately dressed Bart Collins leaned on the banister, watching the mob below. Another good night for his establishment. The Faro tables were raking in the silver dust and whatever cash he had advanced against future profits for selected miners and cattlemen. Harvard educated son of a rich family back east, Collins had fled after an unfortunate dispute resulting in the death of a leading citizen’s son. The Civil War had interrupted his escape, and cost him his right arm, but it had not affected his mind. He was brilliant, especially when it came to making money from the vices and weaknesses of his fellow man.

Rip moved to the long forty-foot bar, filled two deep of drinking men. They moved out of Rip’s way, parting, making a spot for him, out of either fear or respect, possibly both. The two bar girls were hanging on Rip’s arm as though their wagon had just come in. His men flowed in behind him, pushing some of the customers out of the way, they bellied up to the bar and pounded it with their palms, demanding service. They were in high spirits, laughing after a hard week of work chasing and branding cattle during the roundup season.

Rip observed his image in the back bar mirror through the haze of the smoke. His new hat was beautiful, and he certainly cut a fine figure, so there was no way she wouldn’t give in to him tonight. She was a legend of the West, one of the few women allowed to play poker heads up with the men in the private poker chambers of the saloons. He had brought two thousand dollars to play with tonight, and if his stepfather found out he would be in serious trouble, especially if he lost.

Ryan Mantee was staring at his second shot of rye, reflecting again on his life, at least his life up until now, to date. He was a mixed breed of a man, his mother a half breed of Comanche and Irish, his father a former French Foreign Legionnaire who had drifted to Texas with Stephen F. Austin and the first American settlers into what was then Spanish Tejas. His father had traded with the Comanche, a dangerous occupation, selling tobacco and small trinkets. He had met Mantee’s mother, eldest daughter of the band’s leader, and had fallen in love at first sight. He fought another Comanche brave for her in a knife fight. They had settled in the Comanche territory of central Texas, his father raising horses and a few cattle, his mother raising three children. His father had fought with Sam Houston at San Jacinto against the Mexican Army and been granted land concessions near what became Bandera and Hondo, Texas. Texas had entered United States in 1845, starting a war with Mexico. His father fought with the American Army in the Mexican War of 1845 as a Texas Ranger. Ryan was born in 1846, the third child. He had two older sisters who tortured him until he was big enough to defend himself. His father taught him to ride, hunt, shoot, fish, and fight with a knife, and he learned to operate a ranch as he grew towards manhood. He had loved his father and mother, and hated his sisters for constantly torturing him. His mother taught him the ways of the Comanche, and Ryan had spent time with his Comanche grandfather, a bandleader, learning the ways of tracking and surviving in the wild. He loved the Comanche way of life, complete freedom from the back of a horse. By the time he was fifteen he could wrestle with the strongest braves, and outride anyone. His father taught him how to shoot a pistol and rifle, and spent time telling him stories of his time in Northern Africa, stationed in isolated garrisons, of marching through the burning desert sands, of the fierce tribal natives who could go days without water. Paris, and finally America and the journey to Texas. He loved hearing of his father’s experiences in the Mexican War, the Battle of Buena Vista where he was wounded, ending his career as a Texas Ranger.

Life had been good until the Civil War, that battle between the states that began heating up. Slavery was not a big issue in Texas, no one had the money to own slaves and anyone that had come to Texas and survived didn’t deserve to be a slave, but Texas was entering the fight anyway. Although old by anyone’s standard, his father was given a commission and marched off to fight at the first battle of Manassas in someplace called Virginia. His father was killed in that battle and it had broken his mother’s heart. Ryan was grief stricken too, at the concept that his father was gone forever. His mother had traveled to see her father, the noble war leader Eagle Eye, and had taken Ryan’s two sisters with her. Ryan stayed behind to work the small ranch, to care for the small herd of longhorns, horses, goats, chickens and the few dairy cows. He never saw his mother or sisters again.

Somewhere along the trail they had been attacked, raped, and murdered by bandits. Who had done it was never discovered. In a period of a few short months he had lost his entire family. Bitter, he became angry and restless, soon after he sold the ranch to a neighbor for less than it was worth.

He drifted to Bandera, Texas, and then hired on to drive cattle up north for the King Ranch. The South wanted independence to rule their own destiny, but Texas was flush with prime beef, something scarce in both the North and the South. The only problem was getting the cattle north through Comanche territory and the other lawless lands between Texas and the new railroad in Kansas.

Ryan became the outrider and scout for the cattle drive, communicating with the native Comanche bands and other native tribes. He spent his life sleeping on the ground each night, his mind alert, and his eyes peeled. He met the James brothers in Lawrence, Kansas, at a turkey shoot. All of them were young, including some of the James boy’s cousins, friends like the Younger brothers and the Dalton’s.

As a by-product of the outdoor gatherings, horse racing, pistol and rifle target shooting were betting opportunities. If you could throw a Bowie knife you would find a challenge. Ryan was excellent in all of the various games, first taught to handle weapons by a French Foreign Legionnaire, then taught how to ride a wild Mustang, to track game, to survive and live in the wilderness on his wits alone. He had learned the art of boxing from his French father, and wrestling from his Comanche grandfather and uncles.

The combination of skills marked Ryan as a standalone entity, so fast with his revolver, and a crack shot with a rifle and semi-sawed off twelve-gauge double-barrel shotgun. His custom made Bowie knife with a deer handle was his trademark. It had been a gift to his father from James Bowie, who had died at the Alamo during Texas’ War of Independence. Legend had it that his father and James Bowie had fought a knife fight over water rights on their adjoining properties. Neither man could prevail, and amazed each other’s skill with a knife they became lifelong friends. Ryan had been given the knife upon his thirteenth birthday, marking him a man in his father’s eyes. In the Comanche nation he became known as Lone Panther, for his ability to live as one with the land and its people, respecting the Great Spirit in the sky.

Ryan and Jesse James, along with his brother Frank, became friends. When the Civil War was beginning Jesse and Frank had a local man from Kansas recruit him for scouting duties for his militia group. The cattle drives had been slowed by endless attacks from bandits and various groups representing either the North or the South. Kansas became bloodstained ground leading up to the Civil War. The local man appointed himself a Colonel in the Confederate Army. He named his command Quantrill’s Raiders.

To most, Quantrill was a bandit, a man after his own personal gain. To the young men who rode with him, including Ryan, he was a Robin Hood, and they were his loyal, jolly band of merry men. Ryan rode point for the Raiders, and became the scout who maintained relations with selected farmers and traders. Quantrill called him the original one-man band.

It all was a lot of fun until Lawrence, Kansas. Quantrill raided the town and burned it to the ground. Ryan stood in his stirrups on a slight rise overlooking the town and watched innocent people being killed and burned alive, and it made him sick. They had been confronted by a six hundred-man Union Calvary battalion sent to the town’s aid. They ambushed the battalion, two hundred wild six-gun-toting maniacs, each man riding with their reins in their mouths, firing revolvers with both hands, each horseman with at least eight fully loaded weapons. No Union soldier survived the onslaught.

Ryan turned his horse away and resigned as scout. Quantrill was furious, but Ryan’s