Old Dogs
Ron Schwab
Contents
Also by Ron Schwab
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
About the Author
Free Download
Also by Ron Schwab
The Law Wranglers
Deal with the Devil
Mouth of Hell
The Last Hunt
Summer’s Child
Adam’s First Wife
Escape from El Gato
Peyote Spirits
The Coyote Saga
Night of the Coyote
Return of the Coyote
Twilight of the Coyote
The Lockes
Last Will
Medicine Wheel
Hell’s Fire
The Blood Hounds
The Blood Hounds
No Man’s Land
Looking for Trouble
Sioux Sunrise
Paint the Hills Red
Grit
Cut Nose
The Long Walk
OLD DOGS
by Ron Schwab
Uplands Press
Omaha, Nebraska
www.UplandsPress.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Ron Schwab
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews—without written permission from its publisher.
ISBN-13: 978-1-943421-51-0
To my sister, Lana Schwab Criner.
“There is no friend like a sister in calm or stormy weather.”
—Christina Rossetti
Chapter One
Jack Wills sat in the sturdy rocking chair perched on the roofed veranda that ran along the entire front of the two-story limestone house, one foot propped up against the oak railing. The porch rail was chipped and worn from years of service as more footrest than hand support for Lucky Five Ranch headquarters occupants and their visitors. The house stood alone, save for the outback privy, on a low butte overlooking the employee residences, outbuildings, corrals, and other structures vital to ranching operations.
The flat top of the butte stretched slightly more than seventy yards with the house located at the east end and a growing cemetery to the west where several of the original Spanish residents rested along with cowhands or relatives of those who had worked the land over the years. Jack had no relatives planted there, not if a man only counted blood kin, anyhow. He was the last of his line. Nonetheless, he took the path that veered off the walkway to the cemetery tract weekly to visit the place and keep it weeded and clean. The native grasses he let grow, but he saw it as his job to fight the buckbrush, cedars, and thistles that were always trying to move in and take over.
The butte’s summit lay less than ten feet above the lower ranch yard, but the house had been strategically located on high ground years back as a defensive measure against Comanches, Kiowas, and other raiders. From the south side of the butte, a rocky slope dropped gradually to the lower building site, and flat limestone rocks had been used to construct a solid stairway and a walkway to the veranda.
Sundown would not turn down the heat of a blazing Texas sun for several hours yet, but the porch roof offered plenty of shade, especially since the front faced southeast. Jack reached down and raked his fingers lazily through Thor’s silky hair. The dog slept soundly on the two-layer cowhide rug next to the chair. The big coal-black dog of indeterminate breed, like his master, had given up rabbit hunting and was content these days to let somebody else search out meals for him. Most of the time, he ordered beef.
Jack lifted the telescope to his eye again and focused on the dust swirl down the North Concho River valley he had been following for a spell. It was a rider, pushing the horse beyond good sense. He could not say he had not done the same with a Comanche war party on his tail but never when his life was not at stake. He did not see anyone chasing this rider. Whoever it was would hit the fork in the trail soon, turn left to Tess Wyman’s small spread or rein right to the Lucky Five. If the rider headed for Tess’s, he would send one of the hands over to be certain she did not have trouble riding in. On second thought, he might just ride over himself. He was past due to pay Tess a social call.
“What the hell you looking at out there? I don’t see nothing.” It was his longtime friend and saddle partner, Rudolph Kilgore, who was seated in another rocking chair on the opposite side of Thor.
“What do you think spyglasses are for, Rudy? They let a man see things he’d otherwise miss.”
“So, what are you seeing?”
“A rider moving fast. Just hit the fork. Looks like we got company for supper.”
“Maybe they ain’t friendly.”
“We’ll find out in about ten minutes. I’ll go warn Josephina that she and Consuelo should plan on another guest.” He lifted his legs off the railing and eased out of the rocker, careful not to jar his back. Once he got to moving, he would be fine. Nothing he could do about spending most of his seventy years in the saddle or all those nights sleeping on the hard ground. The lead slug still nested near his lower backbone did not help a whole lot either.
Rudy called after him, “Jack, is Jordy eating with us tonight?”
“Yeah, he said he would be up. Just got back with a crew rounding up strays.”
“What?”
Jack did not repeat his reply and entered the house. Jordy was Jordan Jackson, a twenty-five-year-old cowhand, who had been raised by Jack since the age of ten and lived in the house when he was at ranch headquarters, which generally was less than half the time. Rudy called the young cowhand a working fool who didn’t know when to call it
