The Diary of Jerrod Bently by J.W. Osborn (large ebook reader TXT) 📕

replied as she quickly braided her long hair and twisted it up onto the top of her head.
“Your masquerade is unwise, granddaughter,” Scrub Pot stated. ”You could get hurt.”
“ I’ve taken care of myself for a long time,” she replied as she jammed her hat on over her hair and tied the strings to secure it, “Watson, the drovers and even Jerrod Bently will never know my true identity until the drive is over and I take possession of my ranch.”
“You won’t do that without a husband, girl.”
“We’ll see about that,” she replied and she stooped to pick up her saddle. “I am going to take Trouble out for a run.”
“Trouble” is a perfect name for that horse,” Scrub Pot replied with a wry grin, “That is what he has been since the day he hit the ground. He is just like you.” The old man then looked up at his granddaughter, his deep and abiding love for her in his tired old eyes. “Sam,” he said “ You know I would kill anyone who tried to harm you.”
“Yes, Grandfather,” she said quietly as she touched the carved bone handle of the Indian knife sheathed and hanging off her belt. “You taught me everything I know about how to protect myself.”
“But are you still any good with that knife?”, he inquired with an all-knowing grin.
Between a breath and the wink of an eye, her knife flew past his ear so close he could feel the rush of air and then heard the quivering sound of the blade as it buried itself in the side of the chuck wagon. Scrub Pot smiled as he rose and retrieved it. “That’s my girl,” he said as he handed it back to her, handle first. “Good night, Grandfather,” Sam said “I’ll be back in a little while.”
He watched her walk away, heading for the stable her saddle slung over her shoulder. Her courage was not unlike the old chiefs of his tribe, the ones he remembered so well, the ones who were now long dead. Scrub Pot returned to his fire and sat down. He had watched over his granddaughter since the day she was born and he would continue that watch until the day he died.


Somehow that night, between the crunch of wagon wheels, drunks, gunfire and horses, I did fall asleep. I woke up just before dawn, thinking about the day ahead of me. I had to meet Dodge for my first encounter with that horse I’d spent the night dreaming about. First he was chasing me, than he was rolling on me and then he was rearing up and Sam Dodge was no where in sight. I got up and went to the wash stand. I poured the stale water from a chipped pitcher into the dusty basin and splashed the cold liquid into my face. It didn’t help. I was still nervous, maybe even a little scared. But I had made up my mind. I was going to ride that horse and come what may. I dressed and pulled on my boots and then left my room. There was little going on in the street as I stepped out onto the board walk in front of the hotel. Most of the windows were still dark and three drunken cowboys were sleeping it off, as they leaned haphazardly against the side of the watering troth at the edge of the dusty street. One snored loudly, while the other two seemed to be dead to the world. I did not envy them, because when this day was over with, we would be heading out of Grants Creek, bound for Abilene. I had no intention of starting out with a hang over like these fellows would have when they finally woke up. I walked away, back toward the livery barn. Maybe I could talk to that horse before Dodge got there and well . . . “maybe” and “if,” are two big words in the English language. I saw Scrub Pot’s wagon where it had been for the last two days, and that big paint of his nickered at me. I had heard the cowboys talking about Scrub Pot’s horse and they all said it was crazy. Even had killed a man. I didn’t like recalling those words when in less than a half an hour I would be getting on a horse called “Trouble.” Summoning up my courage, I headed toward the livery door. There was a lantern burning and the end of the barn and in the dim circle of light I saw Sam Dodge. “You are up early,” he said in his usual quiet way, as I walked in.
“Good morning, ” I responded, hoping my nervousness did not show . . .
“Go see Scrub Pot,” Sam said “ He just made some coffee and I have some things to do before we get started.” The idea of a hot cup of coffee, even Scrub Pot’s was appealing at this hour of the morning. “Thanks,” I said and turned back toward the door.


Scrub Pot was sitting by the fire, in his usual cross-legged pose, a colorful blanket around his shoulders. A large blue, enamel coffee pot sat on a grate over the flames in front of him. “Good morning, Jerrod Bently,” he said “sit down.”
I sat down opposite him. “You will ride today,” he said as he put another handful of sticks in the fire.
“Yes,” I replied.
“You fear that horse. ,” he said as though he was reading my mind.
“I am not very experienced,” I replied. The old Indian poured the coffee and handed me a steaming metal cup. “Never fear the horse, Jerrod Bently,” he said “They can smell fear.”
There suddenly came the familiar sound of a fresh horse pie hitting the ground. “I can smell that,” I said in disgust.
“ That isn’t fear,” Scrub Pot said as a grin crept across his usually stoic face.“That is shit.” We both guffawed as that big paint looked around his shoulder at us as though he was quite pleased with himself. From that morning on, Scrub Pot and I seemed to hit an accord. He talked about horses mostly, and being a scout and a wrangler for the U.S. Calvary. I could tell that there was far more to this old Indian than what he was letting me see, and I hoped to learn more as we became better acquainted. I heard the sound of spurs and knew Sam Dodge had come for me. It was time to sink or swim, live or die and rising to my feet, I figured I was as ready as I would ever be.

The sun was barely up, and the morning air felt heavy and humid. It was going to be one of those brutally hot North Texas days. No wonder Sam wanted to get started early. I followed him to the corral gate. He pulled it open and walked in. “Close it,” Sam said quietly. I did so and secured it. There at the edge of the corral stood “Trouble.” He was under tack, a bit in his mouth and thankfully a good sturdy looking horn on the saddle that sat squarely on his back. He looked like he might be sleeping, until he sensed us near by. That elegant looking head of his came up and he nickered at Sam, I jumped 50 feet into the air. “Relax, Bently,” Sam said “You are going to be fine.”
“Easy for you to say,” I replied, “I saw you break that horse just yesterday.” Sam laughed “He was broke and trained two years ago,” he said “He was mad at me and I had to show him who was the horse and who was the wrangler.”
All I knew was that I was not ready to get on that horse for anything. But I had made the commitment and I would see it through. “Wait here,” Sam said, then he walked away and disappeared into the barn. When he came out, he was leading a tall gray gelding. “This horse has no name,” Sam said “His owner died in some mining accident and I think the two of you might get along. But mind you, Bently, he is what we call a cutting horse.”
Now I was confused. “But you said . . . ” Sam cut me off “I know what I said, Bently. I figured if you had the courage to show up this morning, thinking I was going to put you on my stallion, then I’d know you have what it will take to drive this herd to Abilene.” He handed me the reins. “Now get on.” After a few ill-fated attempts to get into the saddle, I made it. It felt good to be sitting up on the back of that gray. He was tall and handsome and I liked the gentle look he had in his brown eyes. Whatever a cutting horse was, I was sure I’d learn as we went along. I watched Sam mount up on that stud, and hoped that one day I would be as quick and as good at it as he was. Greatly relieved that I was not on that sorrel, I learned to ride that morning. Scrub Pot had been right Sam taught me everything I needed to know. The rest would be up to me and the gray gelding I named “Mud.” I was ready. Watson rounded up all the drovers who weren’t locked up in the Grants Creek jail and gave orders for everyone to move