Concho

Contents

1. The Trip

2. The Colt

3. The Home Front

4. Revenge

5. The Battle

6. The Indians

7. Freedom

8. A New Start

9. Reunion

10. The Cattleman

11. The Entrepreneur

12. Roundup

13. The Hole in the Wall

14. Dream Come True

Epilogue

About the Author

There are so many of my friends and family to whom I owe gratitude for helping to make this book a reality. I would begin with all of those whose names are used as characters in the story. Some are no longer with us, some still are, but each one is written in as characters as my way of honoring and remembering their friendship all of my days. I would also dedicate it to my sister, Marie, and my niece, Sherry, for their toil to edit and give suggestions. Also, I wish to thank Sherry and her son, Jeremy, and my daughter-in-law, Krista, for the cover artwork. Most of all, I dedicate it to my loving wife, Cathy, whose spirit and capacity to find pleasure in every bit of life has inspired me to do the same. Lastly, I dedicate it to friends and family who read the manuscript, made suggestions, and encouraged me to go forward with publishing.

Being involved in pioneer missions for the Southern Baptist Convention in Wyoming, I was often presented with the opportunity to travel back and forth across the state. The fact that I was bi-vocational while pastoring small mission churches provided many different experiences in the outdoors. I worked at whatever was available to provide for my family. I drove school buses, worked on ranches and on farms, cut timber for lumber, etc., etc. All of that, coupled with my love for the outdoors, took me into the back country and wilderness areas all across the state—from the Grand Tetons, Yellowstone park and the Yellowstone River in the north, to the Snowy Range, The Grand Encampment, and the Platte River in the south, from the Devil’s Tower in the east, to the Flaming Gorge in the west.

I worked alongside native Wyoming residents and heard their stories about the pioneer days in the Wyoming territory, how their parents and grandparents came there for a fresh start and carved a life from the harsh, Wyoming terrain. I often made it a point to travel the back roads and trails, exploring places where a human foot rarely fell. I rode and packed horseback along the Continental Divide, from the old ghost town of Battle southward to the Wyoming—Colorado state line.

In all of these different roles, I experienced both the harshness and the beauty of that semi-arid climate. A white-out blizzard with temperatures forty below zero and winds of fifty miles per hour can still claim the life of someone caught unprepared out on the roadways. On the other hand, springtime brings the lush, nutritious, green grass that carpets the foothills like a well-manicured lawn as far as the eye can see. I have visited the old pioneer trails where the hundreds of wagon wheels cut into the rocks and banks, leaving a testimony of the grit and determination that fueled the pioneer movement westward to the shores of the Pacific Ocean.

As I witnessed these things, I often considered the hardships, pain and suffering both physical and emotional, that were endured by those who dared to take on such a challenge. I believe that those years I spent in wild, wonderful Wyoming and the pioneer spirit I witnessed there, inspired a new determination within myself… a determination to enjoy the wonderful life God has blessed me with and to meet, head on, any hardship or challenge that life might bring and consider it a part of the ride that will soon be conquered, no matter what the cost. The number of days of this life is not certain but eternity hereafter is. So, I will enjoy the beauty of God’s creation here while I can but try never to take my eyes off of the horizon that leads into the hereafter.

Somewhere along the way, during those years in Wyoming, a story began to form in my mind. It was a story about a man and his dream to develop a strain of horses that would be perfect to meet the many demands of the American frontier, the hardships that befell his family, and how those difficulties were met and the dream realized.

I hope you enjoy my story.

A story about a boy and a horse on the Wyoming Frontier.

1. The Trip

Jamis Johnson finished tying the latigos around his bedroll and softly looked back at Deborah and Tall standing on the stoop of the little log shack. He covered the distance with a few short strides and smiled as his wife attempted, one more time, to talk him out of going.

Can’t you wait until spring? I don’t feel good about this.

Don’t you worry yourself, Muffin, Jamis countered. I’ll be back ‘fore you know it. Jesse assured me he will be checking in on the two of you every day or two, and he made me promise if you needed anything at all that you would call on him. I’ve gotta be movin’ now, or I won’t make the tradin’ post by dark, and I don’t really want to spend the night out there with the varmints, if you know what I mean.

She knew what he meant. It was his way of protecting his young son from too much information. ‘Varmints’ meant Sioux or Arapaho. She knew her husband too well, and she knew it was no use, but she tried one last time to change his mind. But, don’t you think it would be better to put the trip off ’till the weather settles in the spring?

Deb, we’ve been feedin’ four mares for two winters already with nothin’ to show for it. If we’re ever gonna build a herd, we have to have a stallion. That breeder in Laramie is known to have the best blood this side of the Mississippi. I’ve seen some of his animals, and I have to say, I ain’t never laid eyes on any better. If I wait ’till spring, that means two more winters worth of hay and grain before any foals hit the ground. You know I have to go.

With that, he ruffled his son’s hair and said, You’re the man around here while I’m gone. Make your ma a hand now, and don’t stray too far away from the place.

He pulled Deb close and hugged her for a long minute. He ached to feel her lips against his but wouldn’t dare with the boy looking on. He quickly swung into the saddle, tipped his hat to the lady he loved, waved at his son, and pulled his mount around and nudged him into a long smooth canter down the trail toward the valley.

It was easy going all the way to the post. From there to Laramie would be a different story. He settled into the saddle and let his body move with his mount, and in a few short hours, they had crossed the land he had staked for his ranch and dropped off into the canyon that ran through the Foothills of the Rattlesnakes. There hadn’t been too much Indian activity along this range of mountains for the last few years. However, there were no fences or signs that told them to keep out. Indians went where they darned well pleased, when they darned well pleased, and pretty much did what they felt was right at the time, but the Sioux and Arapaho mostly followed the buffalo and wild horses in this country.

The little ranch lay on the backside of Red Mountain, west of Casper, Wyoming. It was a hard ride over the mountain for supplies, but since the trading post was built over on this side of the mountain about five years ago, life was somewhat easier. He and Deb had put in two hard years working side by side before Tall was born just to get shelter and enough ground in cultivation to help feed them. When the boy was born, it was pretty much a one man operation for a few years. He wouldn’t have it any other way, though. Tall was the son they both had hoped for.

When he was born, he was so long he looked like a well rope. Both he and Deb laughed about it, and then he had said, I think we ought to name him Tall… Tall Johnson.

Deb had giggled and said, Well, I don’t think there is any doubt he’ll live up to his name.

So, that’s what they called him.

Jamis felt a twinge of excitement at the thought that his and Deb’s dream was about to become reality. They had left all the family back in St. Louis almost ten years ago, right after he returned from the war. The war had not been good to him. A man can’t tolerate that much violence without it leaving scars down deep. Deb could see the difference, but he knew it was for his sake she pretended not to notice. She just let on like everything was the same as before he left.

Jamis spent the day hashing and re-hashing everything he needed to get in order before the foals began to come. There was so much work to do and very little time. Eleven months would pass quickly. He must have been buried in his thoughts. Before he realized it, the gelding he called Legs, and for obvious reasons, had brought them within view of the clearing of the trading post. He slowed him to a walk to let him cool down before they reached the stable. He pulled the saddle and blanket off, swung them over a rack, and reached for some straw to rub Legs down.

He handed the reins and two bits to the stable attendant and said, Give him a measure of grain and all the hay he wants. He’s got a hard day ahead of him again tomorrow.

Jamis woke with the crowing of a rooster somewhere out near the stable. Dawn had just begun to invade the small valley when he once again pulled himself into the saddle. He had spent more restless nights, but he just couldn’t remember when. Legs apparently had rested well, for a slight touch of the heel broke him into his slow canter once again. Having been bred for racing before being purchased by the Cavalry, he could hold this pace all day and hardly break a sweat.

Jamis and Legs went back a long way. He was able to keep him after the war, and even though he was getting on in years for a horse, he could put many a good mount to shame when it came to covering the ground. However, along about high noon, the terrain became much more of a challenge for him and for his man. The country from here to the Rock River Stage Stop would tax both their wits… Legs’ just to stay saddle side up and Jamis’ to keep his scalp.

Being careful not to silhouette himself against the skyline, he spent the next two days cautiously working around and through the canyons and hills until he finally came to a long, open prairie that seemed to stretch on for an eternity. The stage depot was half a day’s ride from here, and then it was another hard day’s ride across open country to Laramie. There was hardly any cover of any kind other than sagebrush and the shallow washes left by the occasional cloudburst. It didn’t rain in this semi-arid climate very often, but once in a blue moon, the sky would open up and pour down.

When Jamis reached the stage depot, he found it abandoned. He supposed that one of two things had made the attendant decide to vacate the premises—either the Indians began frequent raids, or he thought better about trying to survive the winter out here alone.

The door was ajar, so he went inside and rummaged through the piles of cans and sacks lying around. He found some coffee that hadn’t been torn open and vowed to stop in when someone was home and pay a fair price for it. The Indian sign around the place looked fairly old, so he built a fire in the stove and after putting Legs away in the stable, cooked him up a good meal with hot coffee to warm his bones. He decided not to risk getting a surprise visit while he slept, so he retrieved Legs and led him a half mile or so out into the hills and found cover for the night.

Jamis finished off a piece of jerky as the sun, peeking over the mountains to the east, overtook dawn. He reached into his saddlebag and lifted his binoculars to his eyes. He was thankful he had these. They were U. S. Cavalry issue, dispensed only to scouts and officers, and they were the best available. He slowly and methodically scoured the plain from one horizon to the other. Finally, content that there was nothing moving except the small herds of antelope scattered here and there, he carefully picked a route through a slight depression and moved out, stopping every quarter mile or so and repeating the process.

There had been no sign of any human all day, and Jamis had about decided all of his precaution was unnecessary when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement. In one single motion he pulled up, leaned down against Leg’s neck, and slid to the ground. It wasn’t just the movement that alarmed him but the hair standing up on the back of his neck. He rarely got that sensation, and when he did, more often than not, there was reason for alarm.

Sure enough, as he glassed the plain to the east, he discovered half a dozen braves slowly working their way up through a little draw. However, they seemed to be intent on something other than him. He moved the glasses in the direction they appeared to be heading, and almost hidden by a small knoll was a little band of mustangs. He knew there was a small lake to the south and east, which was probably the reason they were hanging here. The horses hadn’t spotted their company yet, and it was obvious that was the way the braves wanted to keep it.

Fortunately, the sun was getting low and worked in his favor since he was between the Indians and the western sky. Jamis was glad it wasn’t the other way around or things would have been considerably different, he was sure. This hunting party was looking for mounts, not scalps, but they had been known to mix the two. Replacing the field glasses in his bag, he moved closer in front of Legs and began rubbing his nose to keep his attention. Legs loved people, and so it was easy keeping him occupied.

One step at a time, he moved in front of the tallest clump of sagebrush he could find and became part of the landscape. They stood motionless for what seemed like eternity, but in reality was probably less than an hour, for it was still well before sundown when the braves made their move. Quickly forming a half circle, they charged the herd, and luckily the mustangs bolted to the east. Jamis waited a few minutes and stepped into the stirrup.

Okay, boy, he muttered to his mount, I know it’s already been a long day’s work, but now is the time to make tracks. If we can make it to the Laramie River by dark, we can coast the rest of the way.

The headwaters of the Laramie were in the range of mountains just north and east of where Jamis intercepted it, but by the time it got this far, it had already cut a fair-sized trail. Jamis reached the rim of the canyon, followed it until he came to a game trail, and eased Legs down toward the river. The moon was full, and the sky was clear. Legs was still moving along easily, so rather than bed down, Jamis decided to get as close to the settlement as possible before stopping to rest.

When the moon began slipping toward the west, he located a shelf a good way up from the river’s edge where there was a clump of cottonwoods. He hobbled Legs where he could enjoy what was left of the summer’s grass and bedded down for a few hours sleep.

Being down in the canyon floor, Jamis hadn’t been able to see very much of the sky the night before. The clouds must have moved in shortly after he stopped for the night. He awoke to a gray sky and a chill in the air that warned him of more to come. He had hoped the first storm would hold off ’till he got back home.

He made a quick breakfast from the last of his cold sourdough biscuits and some elk jerky and gave Legs a double handful of grain from the small canvas bag he kept rolled up in his bedroll. He deserved a reward for the day before. He had been too tired to pamper him the night before, so he broke off a handful of grass and used it to rub Legs down before he threw the saddle on. Shortly after they set out, they ran into a trail along the river, and then a little farther along, the trail grew to wagon ruts. The first homestead was a welcomed sight. It meant they were back to civilization, at least somewhat.

2. The Colt

It was still early afternoon when Jamis rode into Laramie. He pulled up at the livery stable and arranged for Legs to be well attended while he took care of himself. A bath, a shave, and maybe even a haircut sounded like a much needed treat. He inquired of the livery man about the whereabouts of a horse breeder in the area and learned exactly what he had hoped.

George Gray had about the only notable breeding operation in these parts. Headquarters for his place was southwest of town and across the river just a few miles. Jamis wanted to buy a few extras while he had more than one store to choose from, and he also wanted to not have to be in any hurry when he finally got to look over available stallions at Gray’s place. So, he decided to take the afternoon to relax and enjoy some time out of the saddle before he had to start the long trek home. The weather was still unsettled. It looked as if anything could happen. Jamis thought maybe this spell would pass on over, and he could make it home before anything else brewed.

He stopped into Dave’s Mercantile and, after scanning the merchandise for a moment, spied what he was looking for. He made his way to the far back corner where there were kitchen utensils and began studying a large cook stove. The attendant came over and asked if he could be of help.

Jamis answered, Well, I don’t know. I would be interested in the likes of one of these cook stoves if I had a way to get it to my place up north and east of here.

How far north and east? the attendant inquired.

Do you know where the new tradin’ post is up in the Rattlesnakes?

Yes, as a matter of fact, we send a wagon up that way about once a month, if we can hire enough outriders to make sure it can get through. We won’t make another trip until next spring now, though. You get caught in a storm in the spring, you can wait ’till it gets better, but you get caught in one this time of year, and it likely won’t get better ’till spring.

The attendant laughed at his own remark, and Jamis noticed his belly bouncing up and down, and smiled to himself. He had the fleeting thought that it surely wouldn’t be him on the wagon or he would shuck about a hundred pounds of that jelly.

How much for the stove and the freight cost to the post?

Sixteen bucks ought to cover it. The price on the stove is fifteen, and I figure another dollar would be fair.

Jamis pulled a small leather bag from his shirt pocket and asked, Can you take that in gold dust?

Sure, the attendant replied. Like they say, it’s good as gold. With that, he let out a bellar you could have heard back to the livery stable.

Jamis handed him the bag, and the attendant led the way to the front counter where he weighed out enough dust to cover the cost and wrote Jamis’ name on a ticket to ship with the stove.

Just check with the post up there a month or so after good thaw next spring, he said.

Jamis thanked him and walked out onto the boardwalk and turned toward the barber shop as he replaced the bag in his pocket for safekeeping. All the time, he was thinking about how he would have to build on to the cabin just to have room for that giant wood burning cook stove.

The gold dust was partially an added bonus he got for trapping beaver and muskrat. The tiny pieces of gold, being the heaviest particles in the silt of the streambeds, would work their way downward through the pelt to collect against the skin of the animals. Jamis had designed a small sluice box just large enough to hold a pelt. He could place the box underneath a trough he had rigged to catch water from the tiny falls on the creek next to the cabin. The water would wash the gold dust out of the pelt to become trapped