Finding Robert Martin Sloan Part II

“Our ancestors dwell within us, as living psychic forces, shaping our thoughts, our dreams, and even our destinies.”  Carl Jung
Ted, Kenidee, and I walked across the New Mexican prairieland, looking for Robert Martin Sloan, Ted’s great-granddad, buried in the Evans Ranch Cemetery.
June Lofgreen’s 1970 directions, 5 mi. S on Hwy 18 (402); turn E then through gate: NE for 2 mi., seemed specific enough until we started hiking from old homestead to old homestead. It was like finding the proverbial needle, especially since we didn’t know if the cemetery had survived.
Finally, we gave up, returned to our vehicle, and drove back to the highway, discussing how our interpretation of those seemingly exact directions could have taken us off track. The next day we needed to start toward home.
Once we returned to Blanding, my hubby began the detective work, following every possible lead.
He gathered all the information he could from Family Search. He called the Herzstein Memorial Museum in Clayton to find out if the director knew anything. She’d never heard of Evans Ranch, but said we could meet with her when we came to Clayton again.
He contacted June Lofgreen’s children, but they didn’t know anything. He scrutinized Google Earth and called the Cottonwood Cattle Company whose land overlapped the old Evans Ranch.
The owner had never heard of the ranch either and didn’t know of any cemetery on her property, but said her neighbor might. She promised to call her.
A week later, Ted received a text from the neighbor, Denise Brown (not her real name to protect her privacy), saying she did, in fact, have a small cemetery on her property. It was his first real lead.
About that same time, my aunt Helen’s condition worsened, and I received a text that she’d passed away. I was happy for her and sad for me as we made the trip back to Plainville, Kansas to celebrate her life.
It was a tremendous sendoff, and I had the feeling that my totally unique auntie was smiling — if not grinning — from heaven.
Immediately after the funeral dinner, Ted headed our SUV toward Clayton, five-and-a-half hours away. After we settled into our motel room, he texted Denise and set a time when we could meet the next day, after church for us, after the US Tennis Open Tournament for her.
At the appointed time on Sunday, we drove south from Clayton and met her at the gate into the pasture. We climbed out of our vehicle at the same time she hopped out of her pickup. 
Wearing jeans and a t-shirt, she looked about our age with short, iron gray hair and an athletic build. She gave us both a firm handshake as she and Ted chatted about the tournament.
“I’ve lived here all of my life,” Denise finally said, “except for the time when I worked in Omaha.
“My dad and uncle owned the land originally, about 2,000 acres. After my uncle died, his family sold his portion to the cattle company, but I still own this part. We’ve never known anything about who’s buried in the old cemetery.”
Ted opened the gate, and she climbed back into her truck. We followed her through that gate, and another, and then she cut directly across the pasture and stopped. Sure enough, a tiny graveyard had been laid out, not far from Perico Creek.
Although a huge yucca dominated the cemetery, it had a cement floor with five fairly modern headstones. Another headstone lay outside the cemetery in thick grass with the words, George Iness Horn, June 13, 1901 to Jan 9, 1902.
A small metal plaque hung outside the cemetery on the opposite side, Emit Coleman Pinkston, 1906-1907. In barely discernable letters, we made out EVANS etched on metal and cemented into the cemetery’s border.
We found Ted’s great-aunt, Sarah E. Evans, 1847-1943, along with her husband, J.W Evans, 1844-1911, another son from her previous marriage to Thomas Horne and possibly her grandson.
Then, we found the one we’d been searching for — Robert Sloan, 1843-1926, the only words engraved on a simple granite headstone.
Robert Martin Sloan had been lost physically, but even more, he seemed a missing link in the family chain.
Ted’s great-grandmother, Mary Ellen King, died when his granddad was four.
In his autobiography, George Guthrie Sloan wrote that his dad went to work for the Weatherspoon Cattle Company, and he went to live with an older brother. That was the last time he mentioned his dad.
I’d wondered why Robert Martin Sloan never returned to see how his children were doing. Since he didn’t leave any journals, we’ll never know, but he never remarried and never had any more children.
According to a newspaper article dated April 2, 1926 and titled, “‘Uncle Bob’ Sloan passed away from a heart attack,” he was a Civil War veteran and worked for the Charlie Springer Cattle Company for 20 years before moving to the Evans Ranch to help his sister and her husband.
“‘Uncle Bob’ Sloan... a pioneer of this country, and a man loved by all... was a strong, honest, sincere man,” the journalist stated, “so full of human kindness and sympathy that all those who knew him were attached to him by the most enduring ties of friendship and respect.”
After Ted and I finished taking photos, Denise climbed into the back of her pickup and snapped an overview picture.
She didn’t say, but I had the notion she was happy to meet a descendant from the family interred in the mysterious cemetery.
After she jumped down, we shook hands. Without her help, we never would have found Robert Martin Sloan, a man full of human kindness and an essential link in Ted’s family legacy.