The Diary of Jerrod Bently, J.W. Osborn [the false prince series TXT] 📗

THE DIARY OF JERROD BENTLY
“The Cattle Drive”

Copyright© JWO-Sept 26,2008


The year was 1875. The great American Civil War had been over for a decade. As the nation healed, people moved on, looking for a better life. Some made their way honestly while others blazed their names across the pages of history with feats of heroism or just plain foolishness. There were the James boys. Frank and Jesse who, people talk about even today, more than a hundred years since they robbed the Union trains , The Daltons, Billy the Kid, just to name a few. Then, there was one Jerrod Adam Bently. My great great-grandfather. To the golden history of the Old West, he was rather insignificant. Time would not remember him at all, except for two gravestones on a windswept hillside near Austin Texas.
Time has wiped the names and dates nearly away, but I could still read the impressions, J.A. Bentley and beside him, Samantha Ann Bently, beloved wife and cowgirl. I have thought many times about how wonderful it would be to be able to talk to these people and hear their story told as it really happened. Instead I heard it from my grandparents and parents. Every little girl born to our family wanted to grow up to be a cow girl like great great grandma “Sam.” Even me. When I look out into the pastures that roll across a hundred acres behind my house and see my horses grazing and I think of Sam Dodge-Bently and know that the blood line they all share came from her sorrel stallion named Trouble and a chestnut Indian pony called Desert Rose. Legacy raises his head. He is such a proud stallion with a diamond shaped mark in the center of his forehead. I named him for what he is “Trouble’s Legacy.” He is a grand champion barrel racer, and like his great great-grandfather, he is a deep red sorrel. Horses are and have been our life, a family tradition, handed down from one generation to another.
When I was cleaning out my parent’s house after they moved to the local retirement village I found a treasure in an old wooden box at the back of the closet in a spare bedroom. Antique shoes, an old leather bridle and bit and an old diary. It was between the dusty, dry leather covers of that very old hand written book that I found myself stepping into the misty past, the past that belonged to my Great great-grandfather, Jerrod Adam Bently. I sat down on the floor of that empty room and began to read the faded ink lines written in his hand and I was transported to a different time and place.

Kellie Bentley-Owens
1982


GRANTS CREEK, NORTHERN TEXAS 1875


Scrub Pot was a man the cowboys called a “strange duck.” He was said to be Blackfoot, but he looked more Mexican to me. He had a temper too, especially if anyone criticized his cooking or tried to interfere with that paint horse of his. He was a tall man, maybe six foot three, with shoulders like a buffalo and dark weathered skin. His black eyes held a wise expression and he wore his long dark and grey streaked hair in a long thick braid that fell down his back. He was a powerful man to say the least of him. He had few belongings stashed in the company chuck wagon. A bed roll, a bible, a shot gun and an unopened bottle of whiskey. It seemed that unopened bottle, and the spirited black and white gelding he rode were his prize possessions. I did not know if Scrub Pot could read or not, but he kept his bible close by and that bottle of whiskey locked in a small trunk. He had little to say other than a grunt every now and then. Yes, he was a “strange duck” but there was something about him that would strike the fear of God into a man, or calm the most panicked of horses. Maybe cooking for this rough bunch of men and keeping them fed three times a day was a cover? From what I saw, after getting off the stage two days ago, I could tell my aspiration for gainful employment was going to be more that just a job, it was going to be a great adventure. One thousand long horn cattle grazed a few miles outside of town of Grant’s Creek on the Hinkley Ranch, there were forty horses, give or take a few stabled at the local livery, fifteen men and Scrub Pot with his two mules, the chuck wagon and the wild-eyed paint horse hitched to the back.

Angus Watson was trail boss. It was said that he was the best man to take this herd to market and never would he let anyone forget it. As a horseman, no one could rival him. He was too good, except for Sam Dodge and I think he might have been a little worried about that young wrangler stealing his thunder. He was a commanding presence at six foot six, with red hair that curled around his forehead, and his eyes were a strange shade of blue green. He came to Texas from the Scottish Highlands. Rumor had it that he had left his home land hurriedly after too many scrapes and scandals with English rule and law. His thick Scottish burr when he spoke was a little annoying at first, but when he talked, everyone listened, except Scrub Pot. Watson appeared to have all the qualities of a good leader, but did he know cattle? Horses were his friends, the wilder the horse, the better Watson liked it, but that saddle he rode in was not like anything I’d ever seen before. It was no cowboy saddle. There was no horn to tie off a wild fighting steer. However, Watson would lead this rag tag bunch of misfits and cowpunchers into
Well. , Let’s say no one knew the future, and leave it at that. Watson and Scrub Pot seemed to be two men no one should cross. They were from two different worlds but had more in common than they knew. A thousand scrawny head of cattle, forty or so horses, give or take a few, and trouble. For a moment I was thinking that may be I should have gotten back on the stage coach that day, and gone on to the nearest railroad stop and headed for California. Moving on was the only choice I had, for what waited for me back in New York was far worse than Scrub Pot’s sour face or the annoying Scottish burr in Angus Watson’s voice.
It was at the Livery Barn, after I got off the stage coach and found a less than desirable hotel room, that I met Sam Dodge. He seemed to be a mite shorter than the other cowboys I’d seen and looked much younger. He was a quiet kind of person, soft spoken and come to think of it and in the short time I had known him, I had never seen him without his hat. He never even removed it when the ladies would pass by, or in church when I saw him there Sunday morning. Oh well, everyone is different I guess, but could that boy ride! I have seen Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show twice, and those riders didn’t have a thing on Sam Dodge. I had no idea that later on “Sam” would turn out to be Samantha and she had EVERYBODY fooled, even me. What little I knew about “Sam” was that he was Watson’s ramrod and in charge of the forty, give or take a few, horses. Yes, this was going to be the best adventure I had ever had in my entire young life.
My name is Bentley, Jerrod Adam Bentley . I was twenty one when I joined up with this pack of ruffians and as green as they come. I was from back East, and the horses I knew there pulled trolleys or were ridden by the police. The closest I’d been to one was at Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. However, necessity is the mother of invention and I knew I’d have to learn about them and how to ride one fast. The alternative was far worse if I elected to go back home. I would be back in New York marrying a girl I had no intention of making “an honest woman of.” It was my former friend, Bart Reed who took advantage of her had then and implicated ME to her father. So I had come to Texas with my freedom, four dollars to my name, and depending on my new found friend “Sam” to teach me the ways of the West.

I stood by the corral watching Sam Dodge working a huge and unruly sorrel. That horse had fire in his eyes and muscles bulging everywhere. He was blowing out of his nostrils like a run away locomotive blows steam. When his swished that long tri colored tail of his, I saw much to my horror, that this horse was a stud. He was haltered, but still he towered over Sam, and he looked mighty displeased too. Sam appeared kind of small there in the center of the corral, but seemed very determined as he pulled that rope so tight I thought it might snap. The more that behemoth pulled, the more Sam dug in his heels and when the sorrel reared up, slashing the air with those hooves, Sam yanked him back down again. I think it kind of surprised that wild bronco. I could see now why Sam had the respect of the crew and Watson. This