Finding Robert Martin Sloan

Ted, Kenidee, and I slogged through the grass, scaring up hundreds of grasshoppers and dozens of birds.
It was over 100 degrees, but flowers still bloomed on this rich prairie land, including ones with intriguing names such as Chinese lantern, St. Catherine’s lace, and Redwhisker clammyweed.
We were hiking near the Kiowa National Grasslands about five miles south of Clayton, NM, hoping to find Robert Martin Sloan.
Ted’s granddad, George Guthrie Sloan, penned a brief autobiography, opening with the words: “I was born at Crowell, Foard County, TX, on the 7th day of May 1888 to Robert Martin Sloan and Mary Ellen King. I had seven brothers and two sisters. When I was between two and three years old, we moved to a ranch called Hackberry and lived there until my mother died on the 30th of May 1893.
“I then went to live with my oldest brother, Richard, and his wife.... The same year my mother died my father lost all his cattle ...so [he] went to work for a large cattle company near there named the Weatherspoon Cattle Company.”
Ted’s granddad detailed the rest of the adventures of his long life, but that was the very last mention of his father. We knew, however, that Robert Sloan eventually moved to the Evans Ranch near Clayton to work for his brother-in-law, John W. Evans. He died at age 82 of a heart attack and is buried in the ranch cemetery.
This was the second time we’d come through New Mexico on our way home from visiting family in Kansas and Missouri. This time, Ted wanted to find his great-granddad’s burial site. His brother had tried to find the cemetery some years earlier, but didn’t have any luck, so on his advice, we started the search at the mortuary.
After we called Michael Hass, the funeral director, he came to the mortuary, unlocked the door, and ushered us into the waiting room. “We’re looking for Robert Martin Sloan’s grave.”
Ted shook hands with the tall, bearded mortician. “He died in 1926, and we know he was buried in the Evans Ranch Cemetery.”
Michael opened the door to his office. “My dad began managing this funeral home in 1974,” he said, “and around that time a lady named June Lofgreen went around to all the little cemeteries in the county and documented the graves. She was a Mormon.”
He pulled back a chair in front of his computer and gestured for us to have a seat. “So, she was really into genealogy. Honestly, I’m not sure where most of the cemeteries are, but we scanned all of her information.”
He booted up the computer and paused as he looked through the files. Finally, he said, “Here’s the one on the Evans Ranch Cemetery. I’ll print it off for you.” He waited for the printer and then came around the desk with the documents.
He and Ted looked through them together. “Her directions seem fairly specific,” Michael said, “Evans Ranch Cemetery S23/ 24N-35E. 5 mi. S on Hwy 18 (402); turn E then through gate; NE for 2 mi. She also lists who’s buried in the cemetery.”
Ted shuffled the papers. “Here’s Robert Martin Sloan, and this is his sister, Sarah Evans and her husband. These are probably her children from her first marriage.” He finally looked up from the documents. “We really appreciate this and your time,” he said. “What do we owe you?”
“Nothing,” Michael said. “I hope you find your great-granddad.”
We drove the five miles south of town, located a gate, and spotted a pickup chugging toward us through the prairie grass on a two-track dirt road. After the rancher came through the gate, he stopped, rolled down his window, and asked, “You guys need help?”
After Ted explained our quest, the man said, “Well, I’ll be d*****. Never seen a cemetery on my place, but I’ll give you the number for the man who owns some of the land. I don’t think he’ll mind if you go looking for your grandpa.” He gave Ted the number, wished him luck, and drove off.
Ted called the rancher and received permission to look around on his property even though he, too, had never seen a cemetery.
We drove through the gate, carefully closing it behind us, and out onto the grasslands. After Ted pulled up the Gaia map on his phone, we walked to four old homesteads with crumbled rock buildings, trees, and broken windmills, but we didn’t find any evidence of a cemetery.
Did I mention it was hot, and the grasshoppers looked like aliens?
Finally, we meandered near a beautiful prairie stream, Perico Creek, where we found evidence of a homestead with an old foundation and broken glass. Though we scoured the surroundings, we couldn’t find a graveyard. “Maybe the cows knocked over the headstones,” I said. “If they were old, they might have broken to pieces.”
Ted nodded, and, since it was getting late, we walked to our SUV and drove back across the pasture, closing the gate behind us, but I knew my husband. If anyone could find Robert Martin Sloan, he could.
– To Be Continued