The Diary of Jerrod Bently by J.W. Osborn (best autobiographies to read .TXT) 📖

off her fingers with a rag. I didn’t push the issue,. She ‘d mentioned us getting married for the first time since Portersville.
“Ely is a good friend” she said as she began to streak her own face with war paint. “So is his brother Floyd.” I let it rest. In less than an hour we would be riding out to deal with Roger Hinkley.

Hinkley made his first worst decision to not meet Sam and me at the bank, the second one was when he decided that he needed a drink to settle his nerves. He could have sworn that earlier that day he had seen two Indians looking at him through the window of his parlor. He’d been in the outhouse too and felt like someone might be outside the closed door, but he could not see through the half moon cut in the door. When he came out he found the moccasin prints in front of the door. Now I will never know how Little Fox and Lillie could move so fast and so silently that he never saw them, but their appearance on the Flying S had had the right effect on Hinkely. If he was afraid of Indians, he was terrified by now.
Wolf Standing had misgivings about giving his youngest son permission to carry this “raid” out, and he had only given it because of Doc and Scrub Pot being involved. He did not want any trouble with the locals as he and his followers and friends had lived in peace with the people of Grants Creek for many years. Doc gave everybody their last minute instructions before we mounted up. I have to say, Sam was impressive dressed like she was in buck skins and war paint, a feathered lance in her hand. She was Blackfoot all right, so question about it. She had Trouble on a single rein, as she led him up to the circle of people gathered around Doc Stevens. “All right,” he stated “Everybody listen up. The only shooting that is going to take place will be into the air. This is just for affect. No shooting at anybody or any of the live stock. We need lots of noise, and Little Fox and Sam will lead the raid. All the time, he talking, he was wiping war paint on his own face and had taken off his hat. “Once we get Hinkley out of the house, I want all of you to ride back to Bear Claw, clean up and act like nothing happened if we get asked. .”
Everyone was in agreement, except Victoria. “Doc,” she said “I don’t have a gun.”
“Don’t need one,” Doc replied “Just ride with me. You will be safe.”
She walked up to him and put her arms around him. “I need your gun, honey,” she said as she carefully reached down and pulled his Colt out of his holster. A second later, she turned and fired over his shoulder , hitting the rusted weathervane on top of Scrub Pot’s cabin. The weathervane clanged and spun wildly with the effect of the bullet. Doc was amazed as he stared at his wife. “Who taught you to shoot like that?”
“Jake Titus,” she said proudly “He felt a woman alone needed to know how to handle a gun.”
“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s but,” he declared.
“You want your gun back, Doc?”, she asked.
“No,” he said “You use it. I have the other one and my rifle.”
Everyone was going for their horses. I was riding Desert Rose tonight, as Mud had thrown a shoe and was in the paddock behind the cabin. We mounted up, Sam on Trouble and me on Rose. That was when she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “I love you, Jerrod,” she whispered and then kicked the stud. He responded with a hot launch into a dead run. I was behind her in seconds, and that mare was matching Trouble stride for stride. It was like flying. I hoped we didn’t lose our feathers by the time we were ready to “raid” Roger Hinkly.
Between Bear Claw and the back forty acres of The Flying S Ranch, there were some odd looking rock formations, and a thick stand of trees by the edge of a large pond. It was by those rocks we were to meet and commence with our plan. Playing on Roger Hinkley’s fears was the only real weapon we needed. Little Fox reported that he and Lillie had left the man with his nerves on edge. Sam and I were the first to arrive, but in the expanse of about half a hour or so, other“raiders” began to trickle in. I looked up at the rocks that rose above us, and that was when I saw him, and I was awestruck by the sight. It was Scrub Pot mounted on his paint. Gone were the dungarees and rusty colored shirt he usually wore and gone was his signature grey hat. He was dressed as a Blackfoot war chief in full regalia , war paint, lance and all. Wakeeze was wearing colorful feathers in his black mane and a single rein came from the corner of his mouth. Around his blue eyes were a series of markings made with war paint. He looked young again, as did his rider. Sam’s dark eyes filled with tears of pride as she gazed up at her grandfather on the ledge above us. I realized how truly special this man was in the way that he had lived his life as a man of God, yet never truly lost his proud heritage to the ways of the new American West. He smiled down at his grand daughter. “Siksika,” he said . Sam wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her deer skin tunic. “Siksika,” she answered. Then he began speaking to us in his native language. Some words I understood, others I didn’t, but when I heard Sam say “Amen” with him I realized they had prayed for safety in the Blackfoot tongue.
“You look like a real warrior, Jerrod Bently,” the old man said “But not quite Blackfoot.”
“Thanks,” I said “That’s a pretty impressive get up you’ve got on, Scrub Pot.”
He laughed. “You see me as I was when I was young,” he said “It was many years ago, and if we are to be convincing, we must have a war chief.”

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There were fifteen of us assembled by the pond. We were a sorry looking mix of real Indian warriors and those like me who were ‘staged” as Victoria called it. Sam was loving every minute of it while Doc and Scrub Pot were giving us our final instructions and again warned us that there would be server consequences if anyone caused injury or real damage to anyone or anything on the ranch. “We just want to get Hinkely out of there,” Doc said “and all it will take is just a little persuasion. There was giggles and laughter among the ranks as he spoke. “ As far as we know, he is alone out there with only the cook.” he added “About a hundred feet behind the ranch house is a garbage pit. That is the only thing we are setting fire to. That ought to get his attention.”
“Sam,” Scrub Pot said “You, Jerrod and Little Fox lead everyone in. Circle the house and make lots of noise. “Can I throw my lance into the dirt in front of the house?”, she asked.
“Nice touch,” Doc replied as he glanced over at his wife, who sat quietly on Fancy, listening and watching all that was going on around her. She was now wearing his other Navy Colt in a leather holster and he smiled. Victoria was full of surprises. He reached into his saddle bag and pulled out a bottle that said “Coal Oil” on the label and walked over to Sam and handed it up to her. “This what you wanted from my cabin?”, he asked. She grinned at him. “Yes,” she replied “Thanks.” I was suddenly horrified. “Sam , No body starts a trash fire with coal oil,” I said.
“Relax, Jerrod,” she said as she pulled the blackened cork out of the bottle and held it out for me to sniff. “It’s water.” I did not dare ask her what it was for, but I had a feeling I would be finding out soon enough.
Scrub Pot was looking at Victoria. She smiled back at him as he eased his horse up along side of her brown and white paint. “You are not convincing, Victoria,” he said.
“What do you mean?”, she asked. He took stock of her deer skin jacket , war paint and all. “It is your hair.” he said “The color is wrong. Put your braids under your hat. “
”Oh,” she said “I never thought of that.” She did as he suggested and pulled her hat down tight. Scrub Pot smiled “Yes, “ he said “That will do the trick.”
Little Fox rode up to Scrub Pot. “For tonight, you are our chief,” he said “Lead us into battle.” And so he would. This was going to be like the wild Indians who performed in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show only this time I was part of it and I was riding a real Indian pony. It had been said of Desert Rose that she was the fastest horse Sam owned. I had well learned that on the few occasions I had been on her back. That mare could fly.
Roger Hinkely had sobered up some, but his foul mood and shouting for the cook to bring him food and more whisky only served to make the old woman angry. “I quit!,” she shouted “I will not work for a lying