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

out to the Hinkley ranch. The next day we would be heading for Abilene. I would learn much more about horses, riding a cutting horse and cattle as time went on, but that would come later. Right now I was faced with loading wagons, preparing horses and saddles for the long ride ahead. I headed for the saloon to celebrate my victory. For me it was too early for beer, but I also knew I could get coffee there that was better than what was at the hotel. Feeling much better about myself and ready to undertake this adventure, I tied Mud to the hitching rail next to a tall black horse with a fancy saddle on its back and walked into “The Painted Pony.”


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Outlaw or Saint ?


Everybody called him “Doc”. No one knew why. The man used no last name, just wanted to be called “Doc”. He was not the youngest cowboy in the outfit, but not the oldest either. He took his job as foreman of the Hinkley Ranch very seriously and had the respect of his crew. He was not what I would have called a tall man. He was of average height with snow white hair and a neatly trimmed beard to match. His eyes were hazel and spoke of great intellect and his demeanor let anyone who did not know him, see that he was a man well seasoned by life and experience. I’d have to add too, that “Doc” was also a handsome fellow in a roguish sort of way with his cockeyed grin and quick wit. He had the ladies at The Painted Pony charmed and at his beck and call. Everyone speculated that he was a gun fighter laying low where no one would find him. I could believe the rumors, after seeing that pearl handled colt in the fancy holster on his hip. He had Texas written all over him as he sat at the bar enjoying his morning coffee and thoughtfully chewing on the cigar he had been smoking. Yes, Texas was where a m an like him belonged all right. He’d ridden into town from out at the Hinkley place on that coal black horse tied outside. That black was so shiny and slick that you could all most see yourself in its flanks. It was wearing a saddle with more silver on it than I had seen in my life and I imagined that its stride was long and lazy, just like Doc’s drawl when he greeted me. I sat down next to him at the bar.
“Bently,” he said “I remember you.”
“Yes,” I replied “The day I signed up for the cattle drive.”
“You ever been a drover before, boy?” he asked.
“No,” I answered as the barkeep approached.
“You’ll be all right as long as you listen and learn from those around you. Stick with Sam Dodge, he’s young, but he knows what he is doing.”
That was the second person who had offered up that suggestion. What was it about Sam Dodge? I was beginning to think he was a little arrogant myself. Later on, I would find out that I was all wrong about Sam, but that time had not come yet.


Roger Hinkley was a gambler, a liar and an expert at cheating at just about anything. Why nobody had shot him or hung him was a mystery to me, considering all the enemies he had. He was probably in his early fifties , a short, stout man with heavy mutton chop sideburns and beady dark eyes. He just looked greedy. He had come to own The Flying S Ranch as a result of a card game a year earlier and the former owner ended up dead. It had been failing ever since Hinkley took possession of it. Most likely, it was because the man was lazy as a slug and spent more time drunk than he did sober. Had it not been for “Doc” showing up out of no where, things would have been far worse then they all ready were. The ranch had begun to fall into disrepair and Hinkley had to sell off that thousand head of cattle to try to get on his feet again. Either that or sell out. He’d seen Sam Dodge as an easy mark when she’d inquired about purchasing the ranch. That was probably one of the worst mistakes Hinkley would ever make. At least that was what Scrub Pot thought as he stepped down from the chuck wagon. He loved Sam more than his own life and he wanted her to be happy and successful, but The Flying S Ranch with its disrepair and scrawny cattle was not at all what he had in mind for her future. But Scrub Pot knew a secret about the property, and he had kept it for many years. He thought about that very secret as he watched his wagon being loaded. Scrub Pot had walked away before he and Angus Watson locked horns over several wooden boxes filled with sealed glass jars, being put under the wagon seat. “You’ll not be leaving’ my bottling behind,” Watson stated firmly “It came all the way from Edinburgh from my mother’s kitchen. God rest her sainted soul.”
“The heat will cause that red stuff to spoil or explode,” Scrub Pot argued.
“Never,” Watson insisted “T’is boysenberry jam, my favorite and I intend to enjoy it with biscuits.” Scrub Pot merely grunted and walked off. Watson looked after him. “Strange duck,” he muttered as he slipped his boot into the iron and mounted to his English saddle. His tall bay side stepped in protest. Maybe he did not like that saddle. Now, I had no idea what bottling was, nor did I know a thing about boysenberry jam, but later on that would really cause a whole lot of trouble, and I would find my self smack dab in the middle of an unholy mess. By early evening, the wagons were loaded with supplies, the remuda fed and ready, the cattle counted up and we’d be moving out as soon as it was light. The men sat around the fire after dinner discussing how surprised they were at how delicious that stew had been. The meat had to be the best chicken they’d ever eaten and the biscuits were light and fluffy. If that sour faced old Indian they called Scrub Pot could cook like that, this drive would be a good one. Sam Dodge brushed her stallion and smiled to herself as she heard the drovers praising her Grandfather’s cooking. Little did they know, that the chicken they so enjoyed in the stew was really a few choice rattle snakes she and Scrub Pot had caught and butchered earlier that day. She had to snicker to herself as she recalled the many times she had heard it said to never trust and Indian. She sensed a presence long before she heard the foot steps. Her hand quickly went to the brim of her hat, making sure it was secure. “Bently,” she said, without even turning around.
I was surprised. I thought I had been so quiet, yet Sam knew it was me and called me by name. “Yeah,” I answered “How did you know?”
“One of your boot heels is worn down farther than the other and your step is off.”, she replied. I was perplexed, how could Dodge know that? Later I would learn that it was because of her Blackfoot up bringing, but at the time I had no idea about that, or the fact that Sam as really Samantha. “That is a real fine horse,” I commented, “I saw you ride him today and it seemed like the two of you were talking to each other.”
“We were. ,” Sam replied as she set down her brush and picked up the stud’s front foot to pick it. “How are you doing with that grey I assigned to you?”
“Fine,” I replied “We made it out here in one piece. I wanted to thank you for your help today.“
”If you are going to drive cattle, Bently, you need to know how to ride a horse.”, Sam answered as she picked the dirt from the stud’s hoof. “Did you give him a name?”
“Mud”, I replied. “It just came to me.”
“Mud and Trouble,” Dodge commented with a grin “Not good for driving cattle.” For the first time, Sam was joking, when I’d thought he was the most serious “cowboy” on the drive. “We leave at sun up, Bently,” Sam said “be saddled up and ready to go.”
Saddled up? I had not saddled Mud or any horse for that matter. Before I retired that night, I decided I should practice saddling my horse, considering that I’d never done it myself. I had watched Dodge do it many times, so I had the right idea. At least I knew back from front...that horn ALWAYS in front.
Mud was standing in a corral next to the supply wagon and the chuck wagon had been parked. He had been fed and looked like he was napping when I approached him, my borrowed saddle over my shoulder like I had seen the other cowboys. He looked up at me with a calculating look, that said. “Surely you do not intend to put THAT back on me.” I walked up to him to put the saddle on, and he side stepped so quickly, that I nearly lost my balance. Mud trotted to the opposite side of the corral and glared at me. I glanced around yet saw no one. That was good. I did not need an audience. Again I approached Mud, the worn saddle in my arms. . He made a strange whirring sound and trotted off with a determined look on his face. That gray had no intention of letting me put that saddle on him. “Come on Mud,” I said “We have to do this. Tomorrow we have to start becoming partners. “ He pawed at the dirt and made quite a dust