by Frank Felton
“This is the place. It matches all the criteria,” said Snively.
“Yes, sir. The sharp bend in the Gabriel to our west. Three-hundred sixty degree view of the river valley,” replied Brooker.
“Blackland soil. A clear demarcation of the sandy loam just to the east.”
“Under that tree. That’s got to be the well.”
“I’m guessing they put a perimeter wall beginning with that steep drop off the north face, then ran it back, maybe 200 paces off the west side here.”
“That tree would have been right in the center of the walls. It would have grown well with all the water coming up, spilled around the central point of the village as they carried it out.”
“Reckon’ that tree is a hundred, maybe 120 years old?”
“Could be.”
“Well, then, shall we give her a dig?”
“I reckon’. Ain’t gonna dig itself.”
Certain of their find, they began to dig the well early on a hot summer day. They began to uncover pottery and other artifacts. Yet after six feet, they met the resistance of rocks and gravel.
“I don’t think we’re on top of it. This fill is too natural.”
“Are you sure? Should we try other side?” replied the impatient Brooker.
“I think we’ll have better luck.”
Begrudgingly, Brooker took his shovel and moved the operation west of the tree. He’d wasted half a day in the wrong spot. This time he encountered less resistance. The softer dirt made easy digging, being a mixture of blackland soil, gravel and sand. Within two hours he dug to almost 10 feet below the surface. Yet the hot Texas sun made even the simplest tasks exhausting. The pair made conversation to pass the time.
“You know, I never asked, but what do you intend to do if we do find this treasure?” asked Snively.
“Well, truth be told, I owe quite a bit of money. Suppose I’ll pay that off.”
“To whom?”
“Oh, just a few folks. Here and there.”
What Brooker failed to mention, is that he had a bounty on his life. Seems he had gotten in a tiff with a former partner he worked with. He’d stolen money and left town. The partner was connected to a gang of outlaw gunmen. Sooner or later, they would find him. He had no intention of paying it back, or of ever being caught. He planned to take the money and get as far from Texas as possible. It was only a matter of time before his luck ran out, or his partner discovered his true past.
“What about you?” asked Brooker.
“Me? I don’t know. Well, I suppose I’ll drink and gamble most of it. Maybe get married.”
“Yes sir, that’s what I’m talking about.”
Snively wasn’t telling the truth either. In fact, he was a somewhat religious man, and didn’t drink. Aside from a friendly card game, he was also unlikely to gamble. He planned to tithe at least 10 percent to the church, and use the rest to fund his next hunt. While tithing was directed by the Bible, he also felt it gave him the requisite luck necessary in his line of work.
Hunting treasure was his passion in life. Brooker was merely hired muscle for this job. Snively did all the thinking, the research, and all the planning. He’d come up empty so many times before that it was proving difficult to find someone willing to go along with his odysseys.
As the sun dropped below the horizon and the digging continued, the two men became silent as they unearthed a skeleton. Soon after, a second outline of bones came into view. Snively was now certain; the legend held two bodies were thrown in with the treasure. It was unclear if this was done ceremoniously, or to make a quick burial while under attack. Regardless, Snively handled the remains delicately, intending to give them a proper burial.
Digging came to a halt as the pair struck a hard object. The skeletons gave way to a small chest, wrapped in worn leather. Within the chest were numerous items faded beyond recognition and marred by ages in the damp soil. One of the items, a cotton sackcloth, was filled with coins. When scratched away, the grime and mildew gave way to a shiny, metallic surface. The coins were made of gold. The sack weighed almost five kilograms, worth over six million in today’s dollars. This was the treasure he’d long sought.
Satisfied with the day’s effort, the two men hunkered down for the night, near exhaustion. They would continue digging in the morning, as the Legend also spoke of a golden Cross. Snively’s partner took the first lookout shift, always cautious of who might be on his trail. Once sure that Snively was asleep, Brooker became possessed of a consuming greed.
As a coyote howled in the distance, Brooker thrust his dagger into the throat of his partner, killing Snively in cold blood. His mouth open, but unable to speak, Snively’s eyes met those of his murderer. His tense body soon went limp, as the spirit loosened grip with his body. Breath still escaped his lungs when Brooker hurriedly dragged his body into the well; along with the skeletons and all other traces of their presence.
He covered the hole with lose dirt, and made his escape to the west, stealing Snively’s horse and belongings as well. Brooker ventured to cross the San Gabriel River at the El Camino Real to make his way north to Oklahoma. The river crossing was just a mile from the site of the mission. The El Camino was a Spanish trail for tradesmen, somewhat similar to the Silk Road of the Orient. In modern times, the crossing has become known as Apache Pass. Recent rains made the river nearly impassable, yet Brooker did not have time to spare. He debated camping for the night, but paranoia consumed him. He pressed forward, forcing his horse into the stream. He was only 40 feet from freedom.
But the ghost of Snively was already on patrol.
As the murderer attempted to cross, his horse lost footing. It careened over the now hidden bank, spilling its rider into the breach. The sackcloth of gold, now wet, began to tear, and the gold coins were soon to be lost. Brooker’s greed empowered him to risk life, and it was that price he would soon pay. With one hand on the reins, he held on desperately to the bag of gold with his other. As the raging waters pulled the horse under, Brooker loosened his grip. It began to pull him under as well.
He struggled helplessly. Water began to weigh down his clothing. His head would soon be barely above the water. He felt the sackcloth slipping free from his hand. Now faced with losing his treasure, his greed was replaced by terror, as the reality of his impending death dawned on him. He finally let go, and used both hands in a desperate attempt to remain afloat. The swirling waters of the San Gabriel would not abide. Within seconds, it swallowed him whole.
The man, nor the treasure, was ever seen again. The gold is now spread over many miles in the muddy silt of the mighty San Gabriel River. The ghost of Snively continues to haunt the land in which he was murdered. His presence noted by nothing more than a floating lantern. It traverses the pecan groves of the San Gabriel River bottom on moonless nights. Those who get too close, often meet with peril.
Or so legend would have it.
PART 1
They have a moral tendency which renders them jewels of inestimable value. - Reverend Dr. George Oliver (1782-1867)
1. Arise
September, 2007, Milam County, Texas
He awoke to the sound of birds. They slowly chirped their way into his cerebral cortex. The sound began as a faint echo in the distance and eventually drew to a crescendo. Soon after, a more jarring noise broke him free from the subconscious. Thoughts of fantasy gave way to reality – the reality that his nightmares had not gone away.
It was a sweet sound of silence which now welcomed him to this new day, as surely as the sirens of the Odyssey. Aided by an almost motionless and serene background, it was a setting to which he was completely unaccustomed. It took a few seconds to realize he was in fact no longer dreaming. A few moments earlier, his nightmare reached a fevered pitch, as he relived the death of his close friend. The explosion of the fighter jet still reverberated in his mind, when he was pried from sleep by the sound of an airplane passing over his house.
Sometimes the mind sets a pace to re
ality. Other times, they are completely at odds. Today, Troy Benson’s mind would re-harmonize to reality, and he would begin a path to a deeper understanding of just exactly what the hell had gone wrong in his life. His path to redemption would begin with the most basic human need—a good night’s sleep.
He hadn’t slept this well in quite some time, but he was now awake. He was far from the hustle of his previous career, where the prescription for success meant incessant fatigue and the daily grind. He was now in the country, more than 10 miles from the nearest town, and completely isolated from human existence.
He no longer had a career. There were no deadlines to meet, no reports to write, and no tasks to be completed. Perhaps even more, there were no mortar shells in the distance, screaming jet engines, nor warning alarms to trigger a sense of panic. Sounds of war were far removed, and in this moment of life, he felt completely at peace.
He shuttered his eyes for just a moment, to take it all in.
Out of habit, he was unable to keep his eyes shut. He was too excitable to stay motionless for very long. He harbored a quiet fear that there soon would be a knock at the door, or worse, the duty officer’s screaming baritone might yell his name with orders to rise and shine. Either of those was bad enough, but what he feared most was the simple, piercing sound of the alert call. It was nothing fancy, just a simple tone telling on-call pilots to man your jet, and prepare for war.
As a pilot, he was ice cold; the latest in a line of men who could harmonize to the resonance of any machine. He was surgical in his approach to the study of flight, with an intricate knowledge of weapon systems and performance characteristics in advanced fighter aircraft. He meticulously reviewed intelligence reports. There was never a mission he undertook in which he did not prepare extensively. If there was ever a question to be asked, the other pilots came to him.
So it is said that if you know your enemies and know yourself, you can win a hundred battles without a single loss. - Sun Tzu
Add to the mix his genetic predisposition for risk taking, and you have a man who Daedalus might call his own. Having grown up an orphan, he never depended on others and his leadership abilities crystallized into a reputation for true grit. Some say he lacked empathy. He could drive or fly anything, or at least he could in his own mind. Men would follow him.
He became one of the youngest pilots to ever win the Air Force Cross:
‘The President of the United States of America, authorized by Title 10, Section 8742, United States Code, takes pleasure in presenting the Air Force Cross to First Lieutenant Troy Benson, United States Air Force, for extraordinary heroism in military operations against enemy forces while serving as an A-10 Pilot with the 81st Fighter Squadron, during Operation Iraqi Freedom on 15 December 2003. On that date, Lieutenant Benson was the flight lead on Shack 54, a two-ship of A-10s tasked for search and rescue alert at a forward operating location. While en route, he received tasking to provide aerial cover for a Combat Control team whose helicopter had been shot down the night before. During the next six hours he would lead his flight through three aerial refuelings, and three hours of intensive searching deep inside enemy territory. He risked his life as he had to fly at a mere 500 feet in order to pinpoint the survivor's location. When three enemy trucks appeared to be heading toward the team, Lieutenant Benson destroyed two vehicles and directed his wingman to destroy the other, thus securing the rescue. It was his superior airmanship and his masterful techniques at orchestration that made this rescue happen. Through his extraordinary heroism, superb airmanship, and aggressiveness in the face of the enemy, Lieutenant Benson reflected the highest credit upon himself and the United States Air Force.’
No matter how many times he was called to do it, taking life had never been easy. “Old guys” in the unit, men seldom older than 40, had seen action in Desert Storm. Now lieutenant colonels, these men were line officers in the first Gulf War and all too familiar with Saddam Hussein’s antics. Troy had watched the battle unfold on television as a kid in junior high. Those old guys often would regale newbies with their war stories, as the dominant American power drove Iraqis out of Kuwait, losing fewer lives to the enemy than were murdered in Chicago during the same time period.
It was the first time in history a viewer at home could watch a war unfold in almost real-time, watching a laser-guided bomb find its target through a smokestack, or an open window, leaving only a screen of static as recognition that it had fulfilled its mighty deed. He was no longer in junior high. He was by then Lieutenant Benson, A-10 flight lead, and knew firsthand that death and destruction lurked behind the static screen.
Blood and gore were redacted from the video feeds released to the media, all part of the carefully choreographed optics relayed to the public. Regardless, he never once second guessed his duty to kill. He took a vow, an oath, to defend his country against all enemies, and he held an unquestioning loyalty to the unified chain of command. Besides, at this stage in his life, the enemy was easy to spot, and Saddam Hussein was no doubt an enemy. Troy was a well-trained agent of death, sent by the country he loved and to whom he owed his allegiance.
It was a country which would soon betray him.
~~~
These thoughts of war dissipated for the moment. His body was awake, yet his mind did not want to leave behind the wonderful feeling of sleep. A moment of levity filled his soul. As his consciousness became more firm, gone too were the sounds of steel bars slamming shut for the night and echoing down the prison hallway. Even should they return, his mind was once again his own, and reassured him that those surreptitious thoughts were only flashbacks to a life behind.
At times, that nightmare was replaced by another. When it visited, a slight chill came over him, as the frigid embrace of the Reaper pulled him ever so delicately down; down to the depths of Lake Zernek. The blood left his body at an alarming rate and the feeling of panic was replaced with a gentle euphoria as the freezing waters numbed his body. His breath ran low, and rather than fight, he simply gave in. He did not struggle; because by now he’d entered a lucid state of mind – and he knows how this nightmare ends.
Over the past six months, as the nightmares recurred, he’d manage to preempt their arrival from time to time. There is no more liberating feeling than a dream which you can control with your thoughts. Yet, he liked how this one ended, so he would let it play out – clutched from the grip of death by modern-day super heroes who wore the uniform of his country. Despite the ensuing aftermath, he owed his life to those men who pulled him from the depths. How does one repay that debt? A year in prison without any formal charges makes for a handsome down payment.
Tired of resting, he lumbered down the cabin stairs, step by step, grasping the hand rail so as to not lose his footing. Waking from a deep, rapid-eye-movement-state of slumber suddenly can give one a spinning head. His grandfather built this house many years ago. The patriarch had suddenly become a bachelor upon being served with divorce papers. It should not have been a surprise to the elder Benson, but it was. Benson men throughout history have been the type which can readily spout the genus of a particular tree, yet haven’t the first clue how to identify a forest.
As such, this house was gifted with all the necessities of a 35-year-old bachelor. Situated next to a river, it stood two stories tall to prevent damage from flooding. The aforementioned hand railings on the stairs were to ensure safe passage for a drunken 35-year-old man, who might find himself more likely than not intoxicated on a Saturday night. Whether drunk or half-asleep, they came in handy.
He squinted as he neared the screen door. The early morning sun beamed directly into his face. A cool breeze found its way to his nostrils, and he soon breathed in the scent of the morning dew, tinged with the sharp fragrance of wild onion. Refreshment filled his body, and he let out a long and lung-filling yawn, raising his hands over his head, stretching his arms until he could almost touch the sky. It had to be one of the greatest feelings in the world – as sublime as the feeling of ma
x throttle in a twin-engine fighter, or the smell of jet fuel in the morning.
Those were the things about his former life he missed. Those years were gone. He fell from grace in a world in which he had been in total control, but today, he would have reason to feel good again. It was no superficial pleasure. It was his first morning as a free man in well over a year. It was a day that would change his perception of life as he knows it.
~~~
It all went south with a court-martial held in his honor. The legal proceeding was for an act in which he exercised command authority as a commissioned officer and flight lead, in combat. He was supported by his direct chain of command, which came to his defense. He was not alone in the belief that he was completely justified, but he was left to dry by political actors who demanded a fall guy. The act, while it saved many lives, went against the orders of that fateful day. The mission went badly, and when it did, one of his best friends lost his life. Troy nearly did as well. Thirty million dollars in military hardware was lost.
Someone had to pay. The tribunal needed a scapegoat, a decoy to detract the masses from other goings on in the 24-hour political news cycle. In other circumstances, Troy might have been lauded a hero, but on this day, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. A genuine American citizen and patriot was thrown to the hounds by his own country.
He would eventually forgive, but he would never be able to forget the wounds left by an institution that once held his unwavering loyalty. The only iota of goodness which survived that day belonged to Troy Benson himself. For his troubles, his professional life would be completely destroyed. A moral crisis ensued which would cause him to question some very basic truths; even his own existence. Once wounded, he fell victim to a cascade of bad decisions. It would take a good deal of time to heal. The road to regain his compass would be long and difficult, yet it would set him on path to true virtue and morality.
