Rio Concho

by Jim Wilson

Rio Concho lay some twenty miles northwest of San Angelo. The wagon road made its way through the low hills and mesquite flats with the only respite being where it crossed the North Concho River about halfway between the two towns.

The only travelers on the road were two horsemen. The older of the two, riding a big dun gelding, was Dave Allison, a man in his late forties with prematurely graying hair. His partner, younger by 20 years and sitting on a nice bay gelding, was Tom Allred. Both men wore white shirts and dark vests. Each had a revolver on his hip and a carbine in their saddle scabbard. One might mistaken them for father and son ranchers. They weren’t.

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