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

young wrangler feared nothing, not even that horse he had in hand. Of course, had this been the time that the hat toppled of Sam’s head, I would have thought, “What a gal!” But the time for that had not come yet and no one knew Sam had a secret. The horse suddenly backed up and then bucked , throwing his heels toward the sky. Sam gave no ground. “Are you done yet?”, I heard him holler. That sorrel snorted his response and started yet another tantrum. A few minutes later, Sam had him running around in a circle. I got dizzy watching them, but then slowly the horse began to calm down. Had I been in that corral with them, I would have run for my life. Sam Dodge had guts, that was for sure. The next thing I witnessed from my safe place behind the fence post, was Sam getting that horse calmed down by speaking softly to it. One of the cowboys brought a saddle and I watched him carefully put it on the horse’s back. I was fearful watching this small, soft spoken “cowboy” climb into the saddle once it was cinched in place. I had seen the horses in the wild west show buck, but never like this one. Sam stayed firmly in the saddle and as they passed me on their wild ride around the corral, I saw Sam’s face and there was a smile on it. I was sure my new friend was going to end up at the mortuary. The wild bucking went on for a good fifteen minutes and then all of a sudden, the horse seemed to give up his tantrum and stopped. Sam rode him around at a canter and then a walk and then gingerly dismounted and handed the horse over to Scrub Pot. I watched as he led the sorrel away. I stepped up to the fence rail. “Hey Sam,” I said. “Whose horse is that?” Those brown eyes seemed to sparkle with mischief. “Yours,” Sam replied and then walked away, spurs jingling. I swear I thought I heard a laugh.
There was something about Sam Dodge. “He” had a secret to keep and keep it “he” would. At the time, Sam fit in as one of the boys and no one was the wiser. I had heard of cowgirls, but not one being head wrangler or ramrod on a cattle drive. At least the saddles I saw the cowboys using with their horses had a horn to grab on to and if that sorrel and I were going to be partners, I knew all the way down to my boot heels that I would desperately need that saddle horn in front of me. A little worried, I walked back toward the end of town where the saloon was. Maybe Sam could handle horses like that big sorrel stud, but I was not sure I could, and why was that horse so calm when Scrub Pot took him away? I’d heard that Indians had a way with horses, and maybe I could get on the old man’s good side and he would let me have one of his old mules. There was no turning back, I”d made my decision and no matter what the future held, I was going to become a cow boy, no matter what it took. As I pushed open the swinging doors of “The Painted Pony Saloon,” I glanced up at a huge imposing painting on the wall above the bar. It was an image of a wild-eyed sorrel stallion glaring at me from the dingy canvas. Maybe it was an omen. I needed a drink.

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“You don’t need that.” The voice came from the far end of the bar. “It’s bad stuff, boy.” I squinted into the smoky dimness of the saloon to see Scrub Pot sitting at the far end. “What you need is confidence,” he added.
I believe that was probably the first time I ever heard that old Indian speak.
“What do you mean?”, I asked.
“Exactly what I said,” Scrub Pot replied “Fire water only makes a man’s trouble worse.” For a moment, I thought about what he was saying. “I thought Indians weren’t allowed in Saloons,” I said.
“Some Indians, may be,” Scrub Pot answered.
“What are YOU drinking,” I asked , waiting for him to say whiskey. “Surely that big sorrel put your nerves on edge.”
Scrub Pot laughed, “No horse has ever put my nerves on edge, boy,” he replied “And I am drinking coffee. Will you join me?”
I looked around the saloon. There were several men, some of them familiar. Probably Hinkley’s men, and most were in varying stages of inebriation, and yet here was Scrub Pot, whom I was sure would be dangerously drunk, sipping black coffee. “Why coffee?” I asked.
“Why not?”, he replied as he motioned to the barkeep to bring a second cup. I shook my head, . Would he always answer with a question?”
“You like horses, Jerrod Bently?”, he asked. I did not reply right away as I was still stinging from the look the barkeep gave me as he delivered coffee after he’d been so sure he would be selling whisky instead. “What ?”, I asked. The Indian was sizing me up, I could tell by the way he was looking at me. “I asked if you like horses.” Scrub Pot repeated. His English was far better than I’d imagined, no “me heap big chief, you white eyes.” This man sounded Educated. “Well, I guess I do,” I replied “Since I am going to be driving cattle in a few days, I guess I had better.”
“Stick with Sam, Jerrod Bently,” Scrub Pot said as he finished his coffee, “and you will be riding that big sorrel by tomorrow night.”
“You mean that one I saw him working in the corral earlier?”, I said trying to keep the anxiety out of my voice, “That one that looked like a runaway train under full steam? The one with the white diamond between his eyes? The one that is a stallion?”
“Yes,” Scrub Pot replied stoically.
“That horse is a killer! , “ I stated worriedly “I am going to need a different one.”
“That horse is not a killer, Jerrod Bently. He is special,” Scrub Pot replied “You will see.”
“How do you know?”, I said “All you do is cook for this bunch of drovers.”
“Never be fooled by what a man appears to be Jerrod Bently,” Scrub Pot warned as he rose from the bar stool he’d been sitting on, “And stick with Sam. He’s head wrangler and he’ll teach you all you need to know.” I watched him walk away and wondered, in the weeks to come, would I figure him out? After all he was the first Indian I had ever met and he was NOTHING like what I’d expected. It seemed he had given me some advice. “Stick with Sam.” Well, why not? Sam was head wrangler and may be he could get me a calmer horse, not that red devil I had seen earlier. Scrub Pot’s words seemed to stick to my thoughts as I pushed aside the cup of coffee and ordered a shot of whisky. “Stick with Sam.” All right, I would do it.

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Grants Creek, Texas was not big town. It had a jail, a hotel, where the stage coach stopped, a livery, a saloon, and a general store. After sundown, there was lots of trouble to get into everywhere, and Watson’s crew was finding it all. Women, whiskey, fights and gun play. I figured many of the men would end up dead or in jail before it came time to move the herd on to a distant rail head up in Kansas somewhere. I’d had enough trouble and I decided to mind my own business. One day I would have my revenge on Bart, back in New York. But right now plotting it was not foremost in my thoughts. There were two days left before I would be leaving on my first trail drive and I was worried about how I was going to ride that horse Sam Dodge told me was to be mine. I thought that if I went over to the livery barn, I could try to make friends with that horse, and may be he wouldn’t kill me when the time came for me to get on him. The street was dusty, horse pies everywhere as I picked my way through a maze of people, horses and wagons and headed back toward the corrals. The livery barn was a long low building built of logs and surrounded by fences. Behind them were horses of all kinds, some wore the Hinkley brand, but I was concerned with only with one. I walked through the open door and seeing no one around, I started down the isle of stalls. The horses moved around, snorting and nickering as if telling each other there was a green horn in their barn. There at the end of the row, in a large box stall was that red heathen. He was huge, all muscles and dark brown eyes that looked more human than equine. He had a white diamond on his forehead and it stood out like a light in the dim stable. He looked at me and put his ears