Outlaws denned up in the hills on the south and the east continued to harass hapless travelers, most especially between Kimbleville and Menard, as well as at a high cliff east of town called ‘Robbers’ Roost’. Thieves and rustlers stole cattle from ranchers but left the townsfolk alone. Sometimes, Indians were blamed for cattle and horses they stole.
“I can smell town,” Jacob told his father as he and Alfie scrambled from the back of the wagon to sit beside Joe. “Them apples smell so good.”
“Those apples, boy,” Joe corrected.
“Yes, Sir.”
The wagon rounded the curve at the edge of the village. The twins’ part-wolf dog that Morgan gave them barked at another dog at the first house near a huge mulberry tree where they gathered berries last season.
“Do you want an apple?” Joe reached deep into his breeches pocket and pulled out two buffalo nickels. “Buy you one. Don’t ever want to catch either one of you pickin’ up a white man’s peelin’s like you two did last week. It was embarrassing. If you boys are hungry for something, tell Papa and we’ll see about it.”
“Papa,” Alfie told him somberly. “I like Texas better than Larkspur Plantation. Don’t have to mind Mr. Ben any more. Nobody except you and Mama.”
“Freedom is a wonderful thing, my sons. But remember this… you boys still have to mind your manners to the white folks. Say ‘yes, Sir’ and ‘no Ma’m’ and ‘please’ like your Mama Lucy taught you. You got that? I won’t put up with sassiness to grown folks no matter what color they be. Being free is one thing. Being a fool is another. I got to deal with these people. We’re black folks in a white folk’s world. Every time we get close to ’em they move back like they’re afraid black will rub off.” Joe held the reins with one hand and patted his sons on the back with the other. “It won’t change. Not in my lifetime, maybe not in yours. Now listen to me. Hear your Papa and hear me good, my sons. To stay free, find your own place in the world. Work for your own selves. Don’t work for whites. Study hard in Mama Lucy’s school. Someday, we’ll send you to college if the Good Bein’ is willing. Only way to beat a white man is to outsmart him.”
Joe halted the mules in front of the Cattlemen’s Saloon. Sam Morris came out to examine the cargo followed by Si Woolsey and Lavell Silver.
“Heard you got some home-brewed whiskey.” Morris remarked.
“Yes, Sir. Best batch I’ve made according to the soldiers. Never drink it myself.”
“No? Must not be too good,” Morris replied dryly.
Joe grinned. “Fact is, it’s so good that I’m afraid if I did more than taste it when it’s done, I’d hole up somewhere with a bottle and wouldn’t get my work done.” He sauntered around the wagon and pulled back the canvas sheet that covered it. “Troops from the fort keep me drained. Can’t seem to make enough to meet the demand. But, since I was coming in anyhow, figured I’d bring in a sample. Kind of proud of this batch.”
The bartender lifted a jug to his lips and took a long swig. The elixir went down smooth, but Sam wasn’t about to let on. “I’ve tasted better but it’s not too bad. What’s your askin’ price?”
“Been gettin’ six bits a gallon.”
“Six bits! What you got in it, boy, diamond dust?”
Joe’s jaw flexed but he kept the anger that welled inside well in check. He straightened to his full height and looked Sam Morris straight in the eye, never changing expression. He placed his hands on the twins’ shoulders. “These here are my boys, Mr. Morris, Alfie and Jacob. They’re not nearly as tall as their papa. Won’t be long before you can call them men.”
The bartender caught the drift, his face flushed. It was not his intention to anger the big black man. He wanted that load of liquor, and he wanted it cheap. He continued to dicker about the price.
“You got this all wrong, Mr. Morris.” Joe replaced the canvas over the jars. “I’m not tryin’ to push this off on you. No, Sir, I’m not. If you don’t like my brew and you don’t want any, it’s a free country. Just come in for supplies anyhow.” A natural born salesman, Floyd wasn’t the least worried about selling the product. Word of the delectable concoction had spread through the hill country. Scab Town had two saloons. There was another in Fort McKavett, and yet another at the Sutler’s store, and a well-worn trail cross-country from Kimbleville brought drifters through Floyd’s place. The way Joe figured it, good whiskey brought a better price when it was in short supply.
Joe was still upset about being called boy. The man trying to Jew him down on the price didn’t help matters. “Come to think of it, I oughten to brought this load in. Been sellin’ so good, reckon I’m not getting near enough for it. This load just went up to a dollar six bits a jug.”
“What! Joe, that’s highway robbery. Ain’t never paid that kinda money for homemade brew.”
Joe grinned. “Nobody in these parts got a recipe good as the one old Rufus and Mose passed on to me back in Mississippi either. I’m not even tryin’ to sell it, let alone force it on folks. Don’t need the money that bad. Next batch I bring into town will be two dollars a gallon. That’s my prerogative.”
Finally realizing that every time he opened his mouth that man was going up on the price, Morris quit dickering. “I just work here,” he muttered. “Four bits would be top money for any brew short of commercial, but let me taste it one more time, Joe.”
“Tell you what I’m gonna do,” Sam said with reluctance. “I’ll take it on myself and buy all you have here. If the bosses don’t like it, I’ll take it home and drink it myself.” It was still dirt cheap for good whiskey. He planned on doing a little skimming. He’d pour it into empty commercial bottles and peddle it over the bar.
“Miss Dayme! Miss Dayme!” Jacob yelled as he and his brother chased after her wagon.
“Alfie! Jacob!” Dayme beamed at the familiar faces as she climbed down from the buckboard to embrace them. “How wonderful to see you. Where is your…?”
“Yonder.” Alfie took off running as fast as he could to inform his father. “Papa!” he yelled in a panting breath. “Look! It’s Miss Dayme!”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “You know her?”
“She was my teacher back in Mississippi. Excuse me, gentlemen.” He hurried to her wagon. “You wait until my Lucy hears you live out here. She’ll be pawin’ at the door to get out there. I heard about the massacre at the Wooford Ranch, but Lord a-mercy, I didn’t dream you were kin to those folks. If ever you need my help, just send somebody to fetch me.”
His mind was full of questions as was Dayme’s. He knew she and Benjamin were more than just friends. It had been obvious in the woman’s eyes whenever the two were together. He filled her in about the colored folks at Larkspur after she left. Dayme was interested in his account of their journey west and glad that the family had continued self-education and that Lucy was teaching others to read and write, as well.
Joe was curious, so curious that finally he blurted, “Mr. Farrington out here, too? You two get married?”
“No,” Dayme replied softly. “You’ve seen Benjamin since I have. Last account, he was going back to Harvard. Did he?”
“Yes’m. We pulled out of Larkspur just before Christmas after the cotton was sold before he come back for the holidays.”
“I’m married now, Josephus…uh, Joe. Married Morgan Edwards. Remember Morgan?” She extended her left hand showing her gold wedding band. “His folks still live in Vicksburg. You know, he was Benjamin’s boyhood friend. His father raised quarter horses.”
Joe nodded. “I remember. Golly, I figured he died in the war.”
“We have two little boys now…Daniel Lee and Alexander.”
“Really? Twins like me?”
Dayme laughed and shook her head. “No, they’re not twins, but there’s only three month’s difference in their ages.” She didn’t explain.
Joe had a puzzled expression as he watched her wagon disappear down the slope to the low water crossing. “How can that be”, he muttered to himself
. “Now, how can that be?”
Chapter 25
The discovery last summer of the small natural cave hidden in the maze of trees and vines, plus some intriguing and puzzling Spanish signs on nearby rocks and trees whetted Morgan’s curiosity. He decided to delve deeper into the history of the region to find out the meaning of the symbols. He traveled to Guadalajara and Mexico City’s archives, researching the Conquistador’s expeditions into the Texas Hill Country and their mining operations near the San Saba River.
The librarian, a lovely señorita by the name of Maria, dusted the old manuscripts. She was charmed by Morgan’s enthusiastic dimpled smile. His hands trembled with excitement when he found some of the same symbols he had found on the hilltop and their meaning in the ancient volumes.
Maria took Morgan to meet her father who told him about an old man named Constada who lived in the Sierra Madres. Morgan spoke no Spanish so Maria served as interpreter and guide through the rugged mountains. The aged Mexican lived alone in a rundown shack. He said legends of the treasure were handed down in his family. He claimed an Aztec ancestor was one of the mule drivers who hauled bars of gold and silver smelted in the Texas Hill Country near the San Saba River. Another relative, he said, was a dowser for the expedition.
“The Spaniards built a mission near the river,” Constada told them in a quavering voice. “Soldiers were stationed to protect the treasure.”
There were some twenty-eight mines in the vicinity, Morgan learned. About half of them were gold mines. Morgan spent almost two weeks with Constada, learning to use the instruments he purchased from him, dowsing rods made of copper. One was a dowser for hollow places. Another was for finding water. There was also a slender pair of jointed copper Spanish needles, as well as a circular instrument. Both were locators for finding gold and silver and other precious metals. He returned home armed not only with the ancient instruments but with renewed hope of finding buried treasure.
He no longer followed the false trail through the village and northwest of the mission. Instead, he went over the mountain from the cabin, always to the same starting point… the markers above the cave. In three years of searching, Morgan had uncovered no precious metal. But fortified with the newly obtained knowledge of the meaning of many of the symbols, he was positive that the hunch he explained to Dayme that dismal September evening would prove correct. In his opinion, the treasure map was indeed a mirror drawing. He didn’t spend much time in town anymore. He dropped by the saloon from time to time for a beer but not nearly as often as before. Villagers were convinced that Morgan spent most of his time working the T-Cross Ranch. For the most part, this was true. He prospected only when there wasn’t pressing work to be done that the wranglers couldn’t handle.
Morgan sounded no fanfares about his suspicions, that at least one mine was south of the river. He told no one, not even Dayme. Nobody knew where he searched. He kept it all to himself.
“Morgan is obsessed with finding that silver mine,” Dayme told Erika as she waved goodbye to her husband. She didn’t expect that he would ever find any treasure, and yet she encouraged him. “This may be your lucky day,” she called cheerfully. “Good Luck!”
The man had searched out a couple of other caves in the surrounding hills after he found the first one. He found an underground stream once but could find no evidence to connect it to the map or treasure. He abandoned spelunking after the trip to Mexico. He decided it was a waste of valuable time now that he had the instruments. He kept returning to the mountain edge above the cave bearing Jim Bowie’s name. He was convinced that the cave was one of the keys to the puzzle. It had to be, he reasoned, to fit the pattern drawn on the old treasure map. Somewhere on the mesa was a horseshoe rock formation.
Riding south over the mountain, Morgan quickly tucked the exposed rods into his gear, for he saw another rider approaching. The man had cut through the countryside from Bear Creek. Both men stopped their mounts and exchanged handshakes. Morgan knew the man. He was a rancher.
“You lookin’ for the Lost Bowie Mine way over here?”
Morgan laughed and shook his head. “I’m headed for Teacup Mountain.”
“Then, what are you doin’ with that pick?”
Morgan reached back behind the saddle and patted the pick with fondness. “Ought to know me better than that, Frank. I wouldn’t be caught dead without my pick. Might see something interesting to pick at along the way.”
Frank Caswell spit tobacco juice and wiped his bushy black beard with a forearm. “You prospectors are all alike. Got gold spots in front of your eyes. Way I see it,” he drawled, “gold walks around on all fours all over my rangeland. Gotta see it’s got grass and a good water supply, round ’em up, castrate ’em, dope ticks and screwworms. Then, drive ’em to market through hell-made weather.” He chuckled. “No, Morgan, you’re not gonna find it all in one big pile. Takes sweat and hard work for a man to get rich.”
Morgan was visibly irritated. “I work cattle, too. You ought to try prospecting sometime, fellow. Any man who finds a treasure cache will damn sure earn it.”
“If you ask me," Caswell said with an air of grandeur. “It’s a big fairy tale. Hear tell that Jim Bowie was quite a braggart.” He snorted with disgust. “You’re wastin’ your time huntin’ for a will-of-the-wisp. Like I said….”
“I don’t recall asking for your advice or opinion,” Morgan interrupted evenly. His velvet brown eyes were perturbed because the man was implying that he was not only lazy but stupid, as well. “Any failure can make it with a ton of his wife’s money behind his operation. What was it you did before you married Caroline, Frank? Somebody told me you was a saddle tramp.”
Caswell grumbled, “No sense arguing with a man dead set in his ways.” He spurred his mount and continued on his way.
Morgan continued riding toward Teacup Mountain, instead of taking the usual route back and forth across the hill even though it was out of the way because he felt eyes on his back. Therefore, he veered farther east. Certainly, he wanted no man to know the real reason he was on that particular mountain on land leased by the railroad. He crossed the Kimbleville road and went a good half-mile before circling back. That was the day, that particular August day in 1869 that Morgan found the long-sought-for horseshoe shaped rock formation on the way back to the starting point.
It was just one of dozens of journeys around the prickly pear, algarita berry bushes, bear grass and oak thickets on the mesa. Only this time, he headed to the cave from a more easterly direction. His eyes widened in surprise when the rock suddenly loomed before him. It was in a flat clearing in plain open sight. He pulled up sharply on the reins, and for a long moment he sat in the saddle in a state of near shock. He thanked God for Frank Caswell who caused him to go that way.
The rock was four to five feet tall, and there was water bubbling at the water-worn base. He scooped a handful of cool, crystal clear spring water and drank. He was jubilant. “This is the landmark!” he exclaimed. “Whoopee! The one so many prospectors have searched for in vain for so many years!”
Examining the curves of the rock, he concluded that at some time in the distant past, running water had worn and smoothed the stone although it was now a pool of seeping water. “Well, I’ll be darned,” he marveled. “This could have been a small waterfall!” Excitement mounted, causing his scalp to tingle when he found a clearly chiseled snake in a nearby rock and another with an arrow. A tree in a nearby thicket had definite grafts and imbedded rocks containing iron ore under its bark. Morgan had learned from Constada in the Sierra Madres that Spaniards cut the taproot of marker trees so they would remain small throughout the centuries. Other signs were deliberately twisted branches. There was definitely ore somewhere in the area. Then again, the Conquistadors were a crafty lot. Certain signs could be a plant, a false sign for unauthorized treasure seekers. Those not-so-holy Franciscan monks were said to have gained the confidence of the friendly childlike Lipan-Apaches under the guise of religion. They were eas
ily enslaved to work the mines. Constada told Morgan that Indian children with the purest minds were used to work the Spanish needles. Once they found treasure, the children were executed so they could not reveal the location. False trails were carefully marked, some leading nowhere. Others led to insignificant planted ore.
There was no direct evidence of a waterfall’s path from the rock formation. The terrain was fairly level all around it. Morgan wondered aloud, “Could the Indians have filled the river bed crevice with soil and rocks, somehow stopping the flow?” He walked to the edge of the mountain, following the trail of his imaginary river to a deep ravine leading to a dry draw lines with pecan trees. He studied it with his field glass. “But, of course!” He observed the native pecan trees. “Those babies don’t grow wild anywhere except on the banks of a river. This tributary was Jim Bowie’s river marked on the map…not the San Saba as we know it.”
He concluded that the township of what was now Menard could have been in the distant past in the fork of the San Saba River and the tributary river that, at one time, flowed down the Hollow. “The Hollow still comes down during heavy rains and joins the San Saba east of town. Why didn’t I realize it before? It’s not all rainfall. I caught a tiny two inch catfish in my hands in that hollow and gave it to Dayme,” he mumbled. “She still has it in a bowl. She named it ‘Oscar’. Fish don’t roll off mountains.” Just exactly how or at what point the Indians changed the river’s course to hide the mine, he decided, was immaterial. For all he knew, it could have been dammed up and filled in where water now seeped or altered upriver nearer its source by a diverting underground tunnel. Perhaps a Los Moras Creek tributary had been diverted at a fork. All sorts of possibilities traversed his mind. “It doesn’t matter,” he whispered. “I’ve found Jim Bowie’s river indicated on the treasure map, and that is all that matters.”
Child of the River Page 26