Who the Hell Are You?: A Mystery of the Old West

By Robert J Gossett

A young man is found in a box car, unconscious, with no

memory of his name or how he got wounded. He soon gets

tired of being asked who the hell are you? Follow him as he

searches for his identity. Also enjoy meeting some interesting

people whose lives become entwined with his.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456720292

Robert J Gossett

Gossett lived in San Antonio for thirty years and traveled the State extensively selling steel products. Many ranchers were his customers, and became his friends. During his travels he made many friends who were more than willing to share their experiences, and stories they had heard, with him. One of these friends was a retired Texas Ranger, and some of his adventures,he shared, are included in this book. Though Gossett now lives in Kenosha Wisconsin, he maintains his memberships in the American Legion Alamo Post #2, and The Texas Library Association. He also stays in contact with many of his Texas friends.

Book preview

Chapter 1

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The Mystery Begins in Houston

He was in a semiconscious state when he felt his body decelerating, and then stopping. He was roused completely awake when he felt someone shaking him and asking, Who the hell are you?

He replied, I don’t know. Where am I?

When his eyes cleared, he saw it was a railroad cop asking, What are you doing in here?

I wish I knew, he replied.

Well, whoever you are, get your ass out of here and off of railroad property.

Looking around, he saw he was in a box car. He repeated, Where am I?

You are in a Southern Pacific box car in the Houston, Texas, switching yard, came the answer.

What in the hell am I doing here? he asked.

That’s what I want to know, too, the cop said.

Still groggy, he struggled to his feet and for the first time looked at himself. He saw western boots with spurs, dirty jeans, and a western shirt with blood spots on the front and shoulders. Some blood had also made its way to the front of his jeans. He also saw he was wearing a tied-down, hand-tooled holster, but no pistol. The cartridge belt supporting the holster had cartridge loops but no cartridges.

The cop, sounding louder and meaner told him, Get out of this car or I’ll hit you on the head with my night stick! With the cop’s assistance, he managed to climb down from the box car. He was still so dizzy he could hardly stand.

The cop told him, Boy, you had better go see a doctor. You have a nasty bump on top of your head, and another one on your forehead that has been bleeding.

He staggered and almost fell, but the cop supported him. Then he said, I’m sorry, but I don’t know who I am or where I came from. I can’t remember how I got here or what happened to me.

With that, the cop’s tone softened and he said, I guess I believe you. Jump in my wagon and I’ll take you to see a doctor.

The boy reached in his jeans pockets and felt nothing. I guess I have no money to pay a doctor.

OK then, I’ll take you to the sheriff’s office.

Fine with me, the boy said.

By the way, I am Sergeant Mike Murphy of the Southern Pacific Railroad Police. Are you sure you don’t know your name?

Sorry, but I can’t remember a damned thing.

Murphy drove the boy to the sheriff’s office and helped him get inside and seated on a chair. Bill Tilden, the sheriff, greeted Mike warmly, as an old friend would.

Bill, I found this kid I a box car in the switching yard, Mike explained. He says he can’t remember his name or what happened to him. Tilden took a closer look at the boy as he said, This kid needs a doctor.

I know, Murphy replied, but he says he hasn’t got any money to pay for a doctor.

What do you want me to do with him? Tilden asked.

I don’t know, but I thought you might help him somehow, Mike replied.

Well, I can always arrest him for vagrancy, and that will get the county to pay for a doctor, and some food for him, Tilden explained.

Mike interrupted, But won’t he need a name?

OK--we’ll give him one. He is obviously from Texas and was found on Southern Pacific property, so we’ll call him Tex Pacific.

Very original, Murphy laughingly agreed. Then the sheriff barked an order to a deputy lounging in a corner of the room.

Go fetch Doc Adams and pronto.

The deputy took off. The boy had said nothing. Tilden then said to him, You are lucky Murphy found you. He is a good, kind-hearted man. If some of those other railroad cops had found you, they would have thumped another knot on your head and put you in another box car headed out of town.

The boy finally spoke. Thank you both for being kind to me. I appreciate it. I will find a way to repay you.

Son, I am going to have to lock you in a cell, but I’ll keep you separated from the other inmates, Tilden said.

After he was locked in and resting on a cot, the sheriff and Murphy took turns going through a large stack of wanted posters. Tilden explained, That tied-down holster might mean he is some kind of gunman, or even a bounty hunter; ever since the war ended there have been plenty of young men hanging around with nothing else to do but try to make some easy money by killing a wanted man.

Murphy replied, Yeah—I have seen them too.

They were still going through the posters when Doc Adams arrived and was taken to the boy in the cell by the deputy. Doc examined the boy and asked him, Who beat the hell out of you?

I wish I knew, sir, but I can’t remember who I am, where I came from, or what happened to me. The boy thought, At least he didn’t say, ‘Who the hell are you?’

The doctor said, Well, in addition to the obvious damage, you also have two broken ribs, and you’re lucky one of them didn’t put a hole in your heart. It looks like someone put the boot to you while you were down.

Will I be OK, Doc? he asked.

I think so, but you’re going to have to stay off of your feet for at least a week, then take it easy another week, Doc Adams told him. You have a serious concussion, which is why your memory is gone.

Will it come back? he asked.

More than likely it will, in a week or so, but in some cases it never does.

Oh shit, the boy said.

Well, I have bandaged up your wounds and wrapped your ribs, and I’ll be back to see you in a day or so, but you are going to hurt for quite a spell, the doctor explained. Can’t you remember anything at all?

Well, I vaguely think I remember seeing lights—sometimes only one, but sometimes three or four, and they were moving.

That’s probably from the concussion, but maybe that is the start of your memory coming back. See you in a couple of days. Now you rest! And he left.

After Doc Adams left, Murphy told Tilden, His clothes are a mess. I think I have some at home that will fit him. I’ll drive them by tomorrow morning so he can change, and I’ll take those home and have my wife launder them.

Why the interest in this kid, Murph? Tildon asked.

Well, he is almost the same age as my oldest boy who was killed in that damned, stupid war. The clothes I’ll bring him belonged to Mike Jr.

You are a good man, Murph, Bill said.

See you tomorrow Sheriff, Mike said and went home.

When the door between the cell and the office was closed, one of the men in the cell next to his asked, Hey kid, who in the hell are you to get all of that attention?

The kid responded, Everyone asks me that, and I wish I knew who the hell I am! The sheriff gave me a name of Tex Pacific, so I guess that’s who I am now.

Yeah, sure, came the response.

The next morning, as promised, Murphy showed up with a clean change of clothes. He told Tex, Clean yourself up, then change into these. Give me the dirty ones, and I’ll have my wife wash them for you.

Tex replied, Thank you, sir, and changed after washing. Why are you being so nice to me? he asked.

Murphy responded, I guess you remind me of my boy who was killed in a skirmish with Yankees in Oklahoma. He was about your age and your size. We were lucky to get his body back. Some of his fellow soldiers brought him home, and we buried him in the family cemetery on the ranch next to my mom and daddy.

I’m sorry, Tex answered.

Anything else I can do for you? Murph asked.

"Yes, please find out who I am and where I came from! I am so tired of people asking me, ‘Who the hell are you?’ Tex pleaded.

Murphy answered him, I’ll try, but I don’t know how to go about doing that. I’ll check these bloody clothes after they are washed and see if we can get a clue from them. Otherwise we’ll just have to wait until you get your memory back . . . if it does come back.

Murphy left the cell block with the dirty clothes and asked the sheriff on the way out, Any luck with the wanted posters?

Not yet, but I have some more to go through.

Murphy told him, I just have a gut feeling you won’t find him there. I’ll come by on the way to work in the morning and see if there is any news.

Bye, Murph.

Adios. And Murphy