Concho

By Tom Davy

Concho is a fast-paced adventure story set in the west during its wildest days. Strip away its rough and tumble exterior, though, and you have a proud, honest tale of a young mans quest to find himself. Josh Jacoby, who has just turned 21, has been asked to fill in for the sheriff of Concho, Texas. On his watch, the Barton Gang robs the Concho Bank. The gang is no match for the deputy lawman, though, as he handily out-shoots and outsmarts them. But the town blames Jacoby for the shoot-out instead of praising him. Behind their hostility lies the fear that peace-loving Concho will now be overrun with gunslingers that want to put Jacoby in his place.

As the town turns an ugly cheek to Josh, he decides to sell his ranch and hit the road, vowing never to return. Saying adios to his hot-tempered girlfriend, Josh heads north seeking adventure and a place to call home. On his travels, he takes a job as ramrod to a cattle drive of 7,000-head to Montana. Later in St. Louis, he discovers his skill at gambling and outwits card players during a very lucrative Mississippi riverboat trip. But Josh longs for more, and as he is called back to Concho once again, the questions arise. Can he find what he seeks by going home? Can Concho accept him as he is? Will his girl be waiting?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 23, 2007
• ISBN: 9781462826391

Tom Davy

Tom Davy grew up riding horses for his uncle; showing, breaking and training them. By the time Davy went to the University of Missouri, he had spent a summer on a Montana ranch and had become a wrangler at a Colorado summer camp. His opportunities to talk to horsemen created Davy’s growing interest in the Old West, a passion that has continued despite a busy teaching schedule for 38 years with a coaching career of four sports for 94 seasons. Now, after three college degrees and in retirement, Davy is writing his ideas about westerns.

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Copyright © 2007 by Tom Davy.

Cover and interior design by Tom Davy.

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THRITY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER ONE

Josh Jacoby was up early. He

opened the corral gate and tied it back, ran his team and four saddle horses out of their pen and into the pasture west of the barn. The saddle horses frolicked at their new freedom and good health. The team of blacks trotted to the fresh grass, staying side by side as though they were together in harness as many teams do. Josh watched his animals for a while until they stopped their running, stretched their necks and ate at the tall grass of the west pasture. Josh returned to the ranch house. He called his black and white dog, Chico. The dog was chasing and barking at the horses’ heels, but gave up his game when called to follow Josh toward the house.

In front of the house was tied the cowboy’s mottled buckskin mount, saddled and ready to go. The man went into the house, stripped his shirt and strapped on his money belt before donning a clean, looser fitting shirt to better hide the thick belt. Inside the leather belt was stuffed twenty-eight hundred dollars. Josh had to smile, thinking of the Concho Bank President. When Josh had withdrawn the money from the Jacoby account, he remembered how reluctantly the banker handed the cash over to him. Like a miser, President Carlson thought Josh should keep his money in the bank. Carlson felt the money could draw interest and Josh should forget the foolishness of investing it in cattle and horses. If it were left to Carlson, people should only deposit money and save it. They should never draw out those savings. The bank’s total amount would grow and Carlson could brag, as he often did, on how much money was in his bank.

But Jacoby had other ideas. He had heard of a man, Frank Lewis, in Oklahoma Territory, who had one thousand head of horses of a mustang/thoroughbred cross, all for sale. They boasted of speed, stamina and intelligence. Josh had to see them and, if they looked right, would try to buy a hundred head or whatever he could get with his bankroll. He would drive them home, break them and sell them to the Army, or anyone else who needed horses. After all, horses were a part of his business, his favorite part. Josh had a passion for horses.

In his mind, the cowboy went over his supplies for the trip. He did not want to forget what he needed. There was no need to check his guns as they were always with him and ready for any emergency. That was his habit. There were extra boxes of .44-40’s in his saddlebags, loose ammunition in his shirt and vest pockets. He was ready. The man stepped up on the buckskin with the ease and efficiency of one who had done the task many times. They moved out the three of them; horse, rider and the dog. They headed to the north road from the Texas ranch and then headed for Comanche Crossing, Oklahoma Territory. The dog ran out in front, playing, snorting and looking for a rabbit to chase.

It was early April and the snows had ended, but there was coolness to the westerly winds that blew across the plains of the Panhandle. The sun felt good on the man’s side as his horse moved out with his customary fast walk. Josh had raised the buckskin from a colt, trained him and had ridden him so much that the two knew what the other needed without much command.

They went on up the road and through Red Hill, the first town on their route. The town had a nice, comfortable feel to it. Josh had always thought it would be a good place in which to live. Today, however, he rode straight through. North of Red Hill they hit a crossroad veering to the northeast. The threesome changed course and moved on to a heavier traveled, deeply rutted road. As the day wore on the sun moved over the top of the trio and slid down their backsides. They continued their path toward their destination. The shadows grew long off to the front of the group. They stayed doggedly to the road until the sun started to make its bed in the western sky.

Josh made his camp, finding buffalo chips to start his fire, brushed down his animal while the fire caught and picketed the horse for the night. He started to fry the steak he had carefully wrapped in yellow waxed paper for his first evening meal. Sliding the meat into the hot, smoking pan created such a sizzle and smoke, the cowboy sat back from the fire and slid the pan off the direct flame. He fixed a pot of coffee and added the pot to the edge of the fire. When he finished his meal, he scoured the fry pan with sand and rinsed it with canteen water. The dog gnawed on the bone Josh had leftover from his steak, ignoring the dog food Josh planted on the bottom of his bedroll. As darkness invaded his camp, Josh sat back against a rock and enjoyed the last of his coffee. The dog sprawled between the man and the fire fighting for his corner of the bedroll as the night cooled.

Josh was in the saddle early the next morning. Having only a vague idea where Comanche Crossing was located, Josh decided that he would ask its location when he thought he was getting close to his destination. The day broke similar to the day before, cold and windy. Leaving the road when it dipped to the southeast, Josh tried to stay on a northeasterly course. The ground was soft, muffling the horse’s walk. There was only the light squeak of his saddle leather.

They came to the first river of any size, skirting the bank for a while until the bank showed a break in the sides. Spring floods had subsided, leaving deposits of driftwood from near and far, upriver. There were few trees in this area but plenty of driftwood. Josh wound the horse around a large branch protruding from its log base, headed the horse down the bank and into the water where he stopped the horse, allowing him to drink. He refilled his canteen without dismounting, tasted the water and filled the canteen to the top.

Fumbling in his pocket for his father’s watch, Josh flipped the cover and looked at it by habit. Deep in thought, as he often was, Josh looked at the watch’s dial without the time registering in his mind. He replaced the watch, still not knowing the time, unaware of his watch habit. When the horse started sloshing water with his nose the rider squeezed his knees and they moved on to the far side of the river. Reaching the far side, the dog shook the water from his coat, spraying both the horse and rider as they rode past. Chico, said the man with a complaining voice, but the dog just looked up at Josh and the dog shook again, as though to say it was absolutely necessary to rid his coat of the water.

One week from the time he left his ranch, Josh rode into Comanche Crossing. His trip had been uneventful and a fairly direct route. Josh thought if he left for the Lewis place as soon as he heard about the horse sale, he would have a pretty good pick of the stock. As he looked at the small town of two saloons, general store, barber shop, restaurant and a few houses he figured it was time to ask how to get to the Lewis ranch. He stopped in the first saloon of the two. Once inside, Josh found it to be small, dark and odorous. Only a few cowboy types were inside.

Oh, looking for the Lewis place, eh? said the bartender. Sure you’re not just trying to get a look at Martha Lewis? The bartender had a wry expression on his face.

Why? What are you talking about?

You must be new to these parts, said the bartender, studying Josh’s face as he polished a whiskey glass. Mrs. Lewis’ beauty is legendary around here. She is the best looking thing this side of the Mississippi including horses, any other woman or scenery. She is something, he added with a tilt of his head, remembering the woman. Many a man goes out to their ranch just to get a glimpse of her. She’s not only good looking in every way, if you know what I mean, said the man with a knowing smile, she’s just all woman.

Well, the bartender went on, let’s face it; she has curves in places where other women don’t even have places. But it’s more than that; she’s a person you just like to be around. She laughs a lot, knows how to handle men, she’s friendly, but, he paused, above all, she’s definitely Frank’s woman. Don’t forget that, was the man’s word of advice and warning.

Not wanting to give away the fact he was carrying a large amount of cash on his person, Josh said, I’m just looking for a job handling horses.

Well, old Frank has those – lots of ‘em. Good ones. The bartender took his time getting around to telling Josh how to get to the Lewis ranch. Josh did not push; instead he ordered a beer realizing the bartender was feeling his man out not wanting to send just anybody to what Josh felt was the bartender’s friend’s place. Finally, seeming to grow in trust of Josh, the man got around to giving ranch directions. Josh sloshed down the last of his drink, called to the dog and left.

CHAPTER TWO

It was late morning when Josh

rode past the Comanche Crossing sign to the west of town. He rode about five miles to the dried-up river gully that washed out the road, and turned north as he was directed by the bartender. Three miles later, Josh was on top of a ridge looking down at a large ranch complex. The house had two stories; the barn was the largest Josh had ever seen with several adjoining sheds, bunkhouse and corrals of all sizes in a sprawling design of a stockman’s plan for use. Someday, Josh was saying to himself in admiration. Some day I will have a place like this.

There were no cattle in sight or any horses either, but the corrals were worn free of any grass or weeds. This was definitely a busy working ranch, but where were the men, the cattle and the horses? A thin column of smoke was coming from the chimney. Somebody was home.

As Josh sat his horse on the ridge admiring and studying the layout, he saw three men come around from behind the barn. They were definitely sneaking up to the house. Josh watched and saw there was no way to warn those in the house. He edged his horse to a nearby coulee to partially hide himself from the men closing in on the house.

Inside the house, Martha Lewis was changing her baby’s diaper. She was unaware of the men closing in on the house. Suddenly, one of the men burst through the door. He was tall and lean like any other cowboy. His week-old beard was black and unkempt; his teeth chipped, broken and turning black with decay; two teeth were missing toward the left side of his mouth. He was ugly with ugly ideas on his mind. He spoke with a growling voice, Well, hello Missy, how about you and me having some fun?

He saw the woman’s beautiful face with the bluest eyes the man had ever seen. Her eyes contrasted with ink-black hair that had tumbled strands in natural curls down the side of her face. She had quickly tied her hair in a knot on top of her head when she started her busy day. Her famous figure had obviously returned to its previous form since her pregnancy. She read the lust in the cowboy’s face and instantly became a mother protecting her young and herself. She was ready to fight to the death if need be.

Martha Lewis backed herself to the baby’s crib to make her stand. Reaching behind her for some kind of weapon, her hand found the soaking wet and heavily dirtied diaper she had just changed. Feeling for the end of the diaper, finding it and taking a grip, she swung the diaper at the man’s face as he lunged at her. Her aim was on the mark, blinding the man with ammonia-smelling wetness and planting the whole diaper load of feces on his face. He yelled and cursed while trying to claw his face free of the deposit and spitting noisily to clear his mouth between his yells.

Mrs. Lewis grabbed her newest weapon, a broom, and shoved the end of the handle as hard as she could into the man’s belly forcing him to back up toward the door in his blind fury. She poked the cowboy hard, over and over again. He gasped for air when one of Martha’s jabs hit the man in the groin. Martha Lewis continued to poke the intruder again and again with the end of the broom handle. The cowboy stepped back and fell out the door, stumbling down the steps, landing on his hands and knees on the ground.

Martha Lewis was all over the cowboy like an animal to a kill. She swung the broom with both hands in an arch over her head and crashed it, with all her might, to the back of the man’s head. The broom handle broke with a cracking sound, splintering the woman’s end of the handle into a sharp point as the man swore and threatened what he would do to her. As he turned on his knees to face the woman she ran the man through the guts with her newly formed, primitive, weapon. The wood went all the way through the man’s body to protrude from his back. He collapsed, coughed, gasped and fell to his side and waited to die.

A second man ran up behind Martha Lewis and grabbed her from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist and he hoisting her from the ground. When he lifted her off her feet he found he had a hold of a wildcat. The woman kicked, hit with her elbows, scratched with her nails and hit with her fists, but she did not scream. The man was working her toward the front door of the house when Josh arrived from the other side of the building.

Hold it right there, Josh said. He had his gun in his hand.

Who are you? said the man trying to hold the woman, who had stopped struggling at the sound of Josh’s voice. The man holding her had to hold the woman so tight he had no chance to draw his gun.

The woman made one quick move. She kicked her legs straight out and sat down hard with her arms straight up and slid out of the man’s unsuspecting hands, leaving him wide open for Josh. His hand started for his gun, but Josh already had him dead to rights. Josh fired. His slug hit the man dead center and dropped him.

Josh looked at the woman, who was already on her feet. Get in the house, there’s one more man, somewhere. Josh didn’t have to tell the woman twice. She ran into the house and right to her baby. The boy was fine, but he was crying. Picking him up she started to talk in soothing tones to quiet him. It worked; the baby seemed to know he was safe in his mother’s arms as the noise subsided.

Who are you? she asked.

My name is Jacoby. I’m here to buy some horses. Josh was peering through the nearly closed door for the other man. He had not located the third man in front of the house and figured he had retreated to the barn.

The woman laid her baby back in his bed, went to a .50 caliber Sharps buffalo rifle, which stood in a kitchen corner, and headed to the back window. She opened a cabinet drawer and grabbed a handful of shells, slipping one in the open breach as she kept an eye on the man outside. Josh saw her bring up the gun and rest the heavy barrel on the windowsill, kneel down and adjust the Vernier sights and aim. For the first time, Josh saw the third man through the back window. He was running to get to the barn when the Sharps barked with deafening results inside the house. The baby screamed at the noise.

Josh saw where the slug hit the dirt under the man’s feet, heard the woman eject the empty, slip another shell into the chamber and readjust the sights paying no attention to the screaming baby. The man disappeared behind the barn as the woman waited, patiently. He would have to show himself, soon. They both watched as the third man got on his horse and rode away from the barn and the ranch. Martha Lewis was mad, but cool and steady. She squeezed off another round and scored. The rider fell from his horse hard, landing bunched up in a ball on the ground before his body slid to a prone, flat position. He stayed there without moving. Martha ejected the spent shell, reloaded the rifle and put the smoking gun back in the corner. She sat down hard on a kitchen chair, then got right up and tended to the screaming baby.

Martha Lewis was suddenly struggling with the idea that she had brutally killed two men. The woman for the first time saw the blood on her dress. She was able to fight back tears and seemed to gain strength by looking after her baby boy. The sound of the gun still vibrated from the walls.

For the first time, Josh had a chance to really look at the woman the bartender had told him about. The bartender had not exaggerated her beauty, but she was much more than beautiful. This was some woman. She was the kind of woman Josh wanted to find for himself, but then, maybe this one was unique. He studied her as she patted the baby on his back and whispering sweet nothings in his ear; she quieted him. The baby stopped crying, but his mother continued to hold him tight to her.

"Frank is out with the hands bringing the remuda closer to the buildings. They should be back here later. Why don’t you sit and I’ll get