Henry Taylor Millard

Prologue

Travis’ letter, as it is known to the People of Texas and should be to all Americans in the world, is emblematic of the power of the written word. It represents all we hold honorable from a time when twenty-six-year-old William Barret Travis inspired the creation of a new nation with his mighty pen and sword in hand. Travis City, Texas, recognizes a citizen in their small town each February 24th, the date of the document, to read The Letter at high noon on the town square. It has been read by teachers, bankers, cowboys, welders, secretaries, students, nurses, and even a few politicians have been selected for the honor. Each one has stood where it began by proclamation of the city council in 1886, the fiftieth anniversary of The Letter. The Letter is engraved in granite in the town square and printed copies are posted in the schools, courthouse, and churches. It is omnipresent in the town.

It is said history is written by the victors, but it is also told by the ones that sacrificed their all. The martyrs with Travis inspired others beyond their graves, dug by their killers. Each one was a volunteer and could have left at any time, or never come at all, but they stood beside Travis until the last man fell. Their immeasurable sacrifice created the Republic of Texas less than two months later. In Travis City, The Letter is taught in fourth grade Texas history and again to seniors in high school. It is emblazoned on the hearts of the citizens of Travis City, and if you ask any of them, they will proudly say, The Letter never leaves them.

I am besieged. . . 

Chapter 1

March 1989 Travis City, Texas

A nameless compact sedan with a missing hubcap pushed north against the darkness of the Central Texas landscape on a warm spring night. The kind of car no one notices in the kind of place no one notices. A long stretch of black highway interrupted occasionally by the twin white eyes of oncoming cars and trucks interrupting the void. Who were these people out at three thirty in the morning, and why were they there? Some are working to take care of a family, some are lovers that abandon their senses to see each other, and some are evil, using the darkness to hide their sins. 

………………..

Debbie greeted Karla with her usual tired smile at Don’s Quick Stop. Debbie had been on her shift since eleven last night and was happy to see some help. Karla was the cook for the store’s deli. She arrived at four thirty to get the breakfast prep going. Debbie and Karla were first cousins and grew up seven miles east of the of the interstate in Travis City, Texas, a town of 6,419 at last census of 1980, about the same population as the last four times the count was done. Debbie was twenty-three and single and described herself as chubby. Karla was twenty-seven and married with a young son and described Debbie as butter butt in a cute loving way reserved for close friends.

“I gotta go take the garbage out. I had no chance all night since that idiot Marvin didn’t show up or call. Guess Don will fire his lazy butt, and I hope he does,” Debbie grabbed a handful of black plastic garbage bags from under the counter as she stomped out the front doors toward the gas pumps. There were four trash cans under the fluorescent lit canopy stationed between the pumps that she needed to pull out the full bags and replace with fresh ones. Insects buzzed above her against the unnaturally bright lights. Don demanded all the trash cans be emptied and in the dumpster before the trash truck came each morning. She gathered the four bags with various amounts of empty beer cans, soda bottles, snack bags, Whataburger sacks smelling of strong onion, and baby diapers. Debbie thought to herself as the odor assaulted her nose, “I will never have kids.”

There was a lone security light casting an eerie green glow in the rear of the store where the steel dumpster sat as Debbie pulled her load across the gravel drive that circled behind the store. She noticed the lid was open and she said to herself, “I thought I saw this closed when I came to work.” The sound of the trash truck could now be heard downshifting as the diesel engine blasted loudly in the quiet early morning—right on time. She quickly tossed the bags in as the truck pulled into the front drive and she scooted to the side. As she turned to walk away, she heard a small weak voice say, “Mama?”

Debbie rushed around the other side of the dumpster to locate the sound. Was it a doll? Was she hearing things, and then again, “Mama?” She peered into the dumpster on her toes to look inside and then she saw the outline of a small leg pushing out from under the black plastic bags. 

The big truck was lined up with the long imposing prongs to pierce the side collars of the steel bin to raise it and shake out the contents into the compactor. Debbie ran frantically waving her arms toward the driver’s door. 

“Mr. Ray! Stop! Stop!” The driver stared down through his window far above her in the tall cab and immediately stopped the truck with the air brakes hissing, and the huge truck lurched to a stop. 
“Come here and help me!” Debbie pleaded, turning, and running to the sound of the child.
The diesel engine slowly coughed and faded to silence as the driver door swung open and the short man exited quickly to the ground and followed her to the dumpster.

“Help me up, Mr. Ray! There’s a baby in here, and it’s alive!” she impatiently pulled herself over the lip of the open trash bin. The man pushed up her ample backside as Debbie pulled her waist balancing against the coarse metal. She leaned in and reached for the little leg and gently pulled it toward her—a body and now hair and face of what looked like a three-year-old girl. Blood was dried and matted against her black hair as Debbie carefully cradled her head.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay; I got ya now,” Debbie spoke sweetly and softly as she pulled her toward her bosom. She lifted her up as high as she could to clear the debris-stained interior wall of the dumpster and rotated as Mr. Ray delicately lowered Debbie and the child to the ground.
“Someone threw a baby away? Oh, my Lord,” the driver’s voice broke as he thought of his own precious children. 

Debbie walked briskly to the front of the store as her mind raced on what to do next. She held the limp body against her and laid the tiny face on her shoulder. The driver walked behind her mumbling a prayer. “Please God, save this child. Please God. I could have killed that child. Oh Lord!” 
Debbie pushed through the glass door and called out to Karla, “Call 911. We just found a baby in the dumpster!”

“What?” Karla darted from behind the deli counter with a ten-inch knife in her hand. “My God! That’s a kid!”   

“Just call 911! We don’t know anything ‘cept we just found her. Looks like she has a bad cut on the side of her head. Hurry!” Debbie ordered her cousin as the bell above the entrance door jingled announcing someone entering. Karla looked at Mr. Ray, and he was visibly shaken.

Debbie could hear her cousin saying the store’s address as she entered the tiny ladies’ room. She sat on the toilet next to the vanity and positioned the child on her right thigh. With her left hand she turned on the water and then pushed the soap dispenser allowing the soft foam to gather in her left hand. She then ran the warming water over her soapy hand and begin to wash the child starting at her bare feet and legs. Debbie just now noticed in the bright light what she was wearing. Faded blue shorts and a pink T-shirt with a simple white flower on the front. Her thin arms and legs showed a few scattered abrasions against her olive skin. 

She gathered more soap and water and cleaned her carefully where the skin was exposed. She reached across the vanity and began aggressively pulling paper towels to dry the washed areas. Karla opened the door and looked at the little dirty bundle sitting on Debbie’s lap. The tiny head lifted up and pitifully said, “Mama.” 

Karla had a plastic bottle of apple juice she opened and placed against the bottom lip of the child. The tiny mouth instinctively opened like a baby bird as she slowly tilted the juice into her mouth. 

………………..

William Barrett Downs III crossed over the cattle guard hearing the familiar rumble from his tires rolling over the spaced pipes below him. He left his house early each weekday morning dressed in a Brooks Brothers suit and silk tie with his Open Road Stetson sitting atop his balding head. Polished handmade black alligator boots looked odd against the cheap plastic floor mat of his ten-year-old Ford F-150. He was six foot and carried more weight than he should, but the suit fit his rounded waist in a good way. At least he thought he looked good. He was teased about his truck by his friends, but he didn’t care. It got him to work and back. Billy, as his childhood friends called him, was fifty-two years old with a circle of thick graying hair against his tanned head and was always clean shaven. 

He was a man of routine. Up by four thirty, out the door by five fifteen, and driving to his bank Monday through Friday. Saturday morning was dedicated to the ranch. He would meet with his long-time foreman and plan the week ahead. Sunday morning was church, lunch with the family, and an afternoon nap.

 The bank had been in his family for three generations. Mr. Downs, as almost everyone addressed him, was a fifth generation Texan. The first of his family came to Texas as part of a Mexican Land Grant in 1830 and later fought the good fight for independence, helping to establish the Republic of Texas. Banking, real estate, ranching, mineral rights, and old money drove his pickup down the driveway to the two-lane highway to turn right when he saw the flashing emergency lights coming from town. 
He waited at his driveway for the swirling red lights to pass, an ambulance. He thought, “probably a wreck,” and then he hoped it was not caused by one of his wandering calves. 

Mr. Downs headed east to town on his daily five-mile drive. He probably could make this trip in his sleep, and some days he seemed to do just that as he would park his truck and not remember the drive in to work. This morning was the same as the thousands before with only the ambulance causing the disturbance in the routine. He made the left turn on Maple Street and another left into the rear parking lot behind the bank. He sat for a moment in the still predawn atmosphere which was suddenly disturbed by the bright headlights of a car turning quickly behind him. He swiftly reached in the glove box and pulled a .45 Colt 1911 pistol and aimed at the driver side window where the car was screeching to a stop next to him. 

“Hey, sum bitch!” the man in the car grinned as he shouted to Mr. Downs through his window. 
“Damn it, Randy! You scared the crap out of me, and you nearly got shot. And, hey sum bitch, to you too.” Mr. Downs chuckled to himself in relief, returning the gun to its safe place. The two always greeted each other that way, when no one that would be offended was around, and had done it so long the reason had been lost over the fifty years of friendship. 

Randy Weyers and Billy Downs grew up together, played little league baseball, high school basketball and football, went fishing and hunting, chased girls, went off to the University of Texas and were roommates for four years, and never had an argument that they could recall. Except the one over Janet, Billy’s wife. They competed and pushed each other to be better. Iron sharpens iron was how Billy’s dad described their relationship. Randy moved to Fort Worth after college and made a pile of money selling oil and gas services and with his wife built a real estate empire. But he always stayed close to Travis City where his mom and dad lived. His siblings had also moved away so caring for the aging parents usually fell to Randy. Randy was about six two—if anyone asked—and fit. He had a thick mustache that was now getting gray as his abundant head of black hair was turning salt and pepper. He was a handsome man in a rugged way with round glasses and round brown eyes. Quick to smile and just as quick to fight when the times called for action. 

“Why didn’t you call me and let me know you were in town?” Billy asked his friend. 
“Sorry about that, but I got a call from Daddy yesterday afternoon, and he said Mom wasn’t breathing, and he had called an ambulance. So, I tell Vickie, ‘I got to go, now!’ You know, thinking the worst. I take her fastest car and haul ass down here making funeral arrangements in my head as I drove. Well, I get to the hospital and turns out she was breathing. He just can’t hear!” 

Billy starts laughing as they are both still sitting in their vehicles. “Come on in. Dawn gets the coffee ready the night before, so all I got to do is turn it on.”

The two friends made their way to the back door, and Billy began the process of turning off the alarm system to enter the old building. He walked the brick walled corridor flipping on lights as he went as Randy followed behind. The break room was on the left side, and they entered to find the coffee pot ready to go. Billy pushed the red button and heard the familiar sound of water heating.
“Well, is your Mom okay?” Billy asked as he leaned against the counter waiting for the brewing process to finish. 

“Yes and no. She was breathing, of course, but she did have very low blood pressure, 60 over 30. Turns out she needed to go to the hospital, so kind of a blessing. Should be just fine with some meds adjusted.”
The aroma of coffee filled the little room quickly as both men stared at the stainless pot awaiting the hot stream of brown morning nectar. The pot filled quickly, and each poured themselves a white mug of black coffee.  

“Let’s go to my office and solve the world’s problems,”  Billy said as he headed out of the room.

William Barrett Downs the Third’s office was his father’s before him and his grandfather’s before that. The room was large and traditional, and the entry sat in the rear of the room with the desk at the other end. The kind of space that evoked stability and wealth. A table accompanied by four Chippendale chairs with padded cloth seats of green, blue, and red stripes looking like a fraternity member’s tie, encircled a polished five-foot round wood table at the entrance of the room. The paintings on the walls were of Texas bluebonnets and Hereford bulls posing against a backdrop of lush green pastures. Black and white photos of men in Fedoras posing for pictures in front of the bank building established the affluent history. One of the photos had handwritten names above each head, with 1,2,3, the first three William Barrett Downs’s when Billy was about two years old. A color photo from 1978, when the bank was remodeled, looked a bit too modern in the mix with men in colorful wide ties and plaid suits. A younger Billy, with long sideburns, stood next to his father with a proud smile of accomplishment. The rich wood paneled walls rose ten feet to ornate dentil crown molding. The deep blue wool carpeting softened and silenced the steps of heavy boots of cattleman needing a short loan and high heels of attractive ladies selling check stock and computers. Twin chandeliers balanced over the rectangle shaped room creating odd slivers of light and shadows on the wood walls. 

A heavy brown leather sofa covered with cracks caused by the weight of countless farmers, ranchers, businessmen, or anyone needing money had left a bit of their dreams in that cowhide. Two upholstered navy wingback chairs on each side sat angled toward a rough-hewn coffee table made of an antique barn door with a few neatly fanned magazines about cows and finance and Texas. An imposing eight-foot by six-foot mahogany desk created a barricade between the banker and his guests. An aged brown leather swivel chair sat between the center of the desk and the matching credenza and hutch that reached to the ten-foot ceiling and was the eight-foot width of the desk. To the right of the desk, in the corner, stood a stained wood hat rack where Billy hung his Stetson each morning.

 The tabletop of the credenza was the same height as the desk and two-feet deep. Above were open compartments of various sizes. Family photos, diplomas, snapshots of dove hunts with friends, Billy holding a large redfish and grinning in a floppy hat. A photo of a whitetail buck lay on the ground with a rifle laid across the trophy’s body and a smiling Billy holding up antlers. In the lower right corner was a University of Texas football helmet sitting on a wooden base with 1963 National Champions embossed on a brass plaque. The large desk was a bit cluttered with legal sized note pads of handwritten scrawl that even he had a hard time deciphering. Several neat piles of manilla folders with colored tabs and typed names with crooked sticky notes in yellow and green lined the desk. 

A silver frame with an eight-by-ten photo of his wife, Janet taken on her fortieth birthday, sat on the front right corner facing his chair. It was his favorite picture of her. It was a candid moment of her sitting on their back porch in her gardening clothes, hair messed up by wind and sweat. On a day when most people want attention for a milestone day, she had preferred to plant flowers and stay home. He saw everything good about her in that natural, unposed photo, and she hated that was the one he chose for his desk. She would say, “I look awful. Please throw that thing away.” It was three days after the photo when she fell. 

This was Mr. Downs sanctuary, protected from the outside world of disappointing family members and sickness. He could control the world that lived in this room. He was the boss of this space. People looked up to him and respected him and maybe feared him. He loved the person he was in this room. What a rare gift, he had thought so many times before. 

Randy sat on the navy wingback chair to the right and placed his cup on the coffee table. Billy sat in his chair and held the cup with both hands in front of his chin to smell the aroma of the brew.
“I wonder what the ambulance was about?” Billy pondered aloud, still wondering if it was part of his herd causing the morning disruption.