A Pair of Second Chances (Ben Jensen Series Book 1) (6 page)

Mirza would bring those weapons. Zlatko and Juka would do the scouting to see where they needed to go.

When all was ready... They would go find Sadik.

Chapter
5

The morning sun, coming through a dirty window found the cowboy still slumped in the chair he'd passed out in the night before. His supper was burnt to a cinder on the now cold stove. A.H. nuzzled Ben's chin trying to wake him. He needed to get outside, and waiting any longer really wasn't an option.

Ben stirred, and slowly awoke to the slobbery licking of the big rangy mutt. "Ga'dam A.H.! quit slobberin' all over me ya bastard! You know I don't like it!" he growled at the dog... rubbing his calloused hand over his head, belying the curses. The dog just wagged his tail and kept slobbering.

Ben finally struggled to his feet. "Ok, Ok, I'll let ya out... you must have to pee awful bad ya big, worthless, flea farm!" he growled as he opened the creaky cabin door. The dog raced outside and watered the weeds in the ranch yard.

He left the door open to the morning air as A.H. got his relief, and went about his usual routine fixing breakfast.

When he was done eating, he sat at the table just drinking his coffee and looking at the mountains through the open door. "Seventy-five thousand dollars, and six weeks to find it." was the thought that kept echoing in his mind. If he could somehow manage to catch that much it'd buy him another year, though he hadn't any idea what he'd actually live on.

He had a couple over two dozen top broodmares up on the mountain... and just short of two dozen foals by their side. He thought he could get maybe three hundred dollars a piece for those colts running 'em through a sale and taking what he could get.

Of the good year he'd started out on, with 100% foal and calf crops, the damn cougars and bears had him down to what he believed was twenty two foals and near as he could tell, something around 90 calves out of the 100 cows he had remaining in his small herd. He might get some compensation from the state for the depredation damage a rancher wasn't allowed to defend himself against... but that was a long, and iffy ordeal.

No... he'd have to collect his foal and calf crop, get the best price he could, then cull either his mare or cow herds, or both, again, to try and make up the difference.

He hated to cut his herd again. It'd sure make producing the mortgage payment next year a hard go... but what choice did he have? All he could do, was all he could do.

A.H. came back in after his morning patrol of the ranch grounds to take up his spot beside the woodstove.

Ben finished his coffee and with a "Well dog... only thing left is to catch 'em, and haul 'em!" he walked out of the cabin and headed toward the barn.

He talked to his horses as he saddled up. "Well Toby, we gotta go catch those pack horses. We gotta ride up and set a camp up on the mountain. I'm needing to round up those mares. Haven't worked 'em in some lil' while. They're likely to be wild as deer. You up to it boss?"

Not surprisingly, the horse just finished his grain in the nosebag hanging on his head, and didn't answer.

With the horse saddled Ben swung up and called to A.H. as he rode out of the yard; "You know the drill flea bag... keep a close eye on this mansion, I'll be back this afternoon... I hope!"

While he had moved his mares to graze higher up on the mountain with the spring thaw, his three pack horses were kept in a pasture lower down. He really didn't have any thought of having difficulty catching them, all he had to do was find 'em first, in that rough country.

He liked putting the mares up high in that rocky country early. Get 'em up high while the colts were still young. It was his belief that those babies, growing up climbing around those high peaks, produced sounder, thinking, more capable working horses. It had its' risks, what with bears, and cats, and now wolves, but he was willing to accept those as a part of producing the best horse. His philosophy seemed to agree with a lot of people; he never seemed to have any real difficulty selling his horses.

Ben rode out some ten miles, crossing a section of National Forest land that lay between his pasture ground and the home ranch. This particular pasture was two sections that ran across the base of the Absaroka mountains and covered the mouths of two narrow valleys that ran back up into the hills.

If he got lucky, he'd pick the right valley first and find those horses quick. He'd left a few cows in this lower pasture back in the spring. They were mostly the hideout, bunch quitters he'd been too drunk to catch when he pushed the main herd, along with the mare band, up to summer graze.

For once, luck was on his side. He'd just started into the first valley when he found his pack horses, standing in the shade of some pines. Stepping down, he ground tied Toby and took the nosebags with their baits of grain off his saddle horn.

Those pack horses knew what a nose bag was and came at a trot to get their reward. In a few minutes they were haltered and tied into a string, with Ben back in the saddle and riding for home.

By three that afternoon he'd returned to the ranch with his string. He loosed the horses in the home corral and set about sorting out a light, spike camp, to go horse hunting. His plan was to be horseback and riding, headed for the high country and his horse herd, when the sun broke over the eastern horizon the next morning.

The rising sun found just that. Ben, Toby, the three, now loaded, pack horses, and a second saddle horse, were five miles up the trail when the first bright streaks of sunlight broke over the horizon.

A.H. was too old to run along any more. He was left with a three day supply of dry food in a bucket, and no shortage of water in the trough. Ben didn't like leaving him, and A.H. didn't like being left behind, but really, he no longer had much urge to go along; and he knew Ben would return.

For the first time, in a long time, daybreak found Ben Jensen sober. There was a down side though. He suffered through the affects of his recent sobriety with a subdued case of the shakes. He fought those with frequent stops and cups of hot coffee from the steel thermos bottle stuffed into a saddle bag. By noon, he and his small string were well up into the hills.

It was in this country he felt as close to whole as he could feel these days. As close to anything that seemed like a church that he could abide. He sat in the sun on a rock outcrop of the mountain, eating the sandwich he'd packed for lunch, as he looked out over the prairie far below. Stretching eastward it faded into the hazy distance, rolling away from the mountains.

His horses grazed the slope behind him. Cinches loosened, pack ropes tied up, his bridle hanging on his saddle horn.

He sat on the rock, on that sunny slope, and smiled. Life might be a misery, but today... he was home... and today... he was a Cowboy! There was nothing else he'd ask for, on this day.

By mid afternoon they had climbed to the set of working corrals where he planned to set his camp. The remainder of the day was spent pitching his tipi, hanging his panniers where the bears couldn't reach, and cutting and splitting enough firewood to carry him through what he hoped would be a very few days, gathering his horses.

He was weary not only from the ride up and the work setting up camp, but from the nagging affects of, not, drinking. Ben turned in early, climbing into his bedroll, soon after sunset.

Ben was an odd drunk. He could choose to not drink... in fact, felt little need to when he was hard at work. It was in the quiet times, down below, amongst the people of the lowlands... that life caught up with him. When the agony of his life grew into too heavy a burden, and the only thing that seemed to lighten the load, or soften the pain, was to fog his brain with the bottle.

Tomorrow would be a day of hard riding. He silently hoped he would find himself still up to the task if it happened to get "western". A smile creased his face as he half hoped that "Western" it would be!

Dawn found him up and burning his breakfast in a cast iron skillet over an open fire. The battered, once enameled, coffee pot sat steaming on a rock beside it.

He squatted beside the fire as the sun brightened the sky. A tin cup of coffee warmied his hands in the chilly, high mountain air. Yes sir! It was mornings like this that kept some small flicker of hope alive in his battered heart. How could you not feel the life that remained, on a morning like this?

Ben wolfed down his eggs and bacon as if he hadn't eaten in a week. He emptied his coffee cup, throwing the dregs into the fire. Standing up he dumped the remains of the pot in the fire, poured a pail of water from the creek behind it, and stirred the embers to make sure they were dead. He sure as hell didn't need the Forest Service after him too!

With the morning routine done, he set about saddling Keno, his second saddle horse, for this days work. Toby had worked hard enough the previous two days, and had earned a rest.

When his watch told him it was 6 a.m., Ben Jensen was another mile up the mountain, tracking his horse herd.

He found a few apple piles, maybe a day old, so he turned and followed the tracks that accompanied them. From what he could tell, the majority of his horses had stuck together. His hope was that his luck would hold and he'd have the pressure from the bank off his back sooner... rather then later.

It would be nice if the mares had stuck together. The few yearlings and two year olds he'd kept would likely hang close to them. He hoped, but he wasn't counting on it.

Ben and Keno rode most of the morning before he spotted the tell tale switch of a horse tail behind some brush, several hundred yards across a park. The horses he was following had shaded up in a little grove of aspen to take a late morning siesta.

Now came the fun. Either those horses would herd along like a good, mountain ranch horse herd, or, they'd be feeling a little feisty, and he'd be in for a run. He was a little surprised when he found his luck still holding.

He circled around to get behind the herd, and started pushing them back toward the working pens where he'd set his camp. Initially, the lead mare made a hard run, a little ways out into the park, making like she'd really crack out and take 'em all on a wild ride. However, just as quickly, she quit her flight and moved easily back up toward the trail when he circled below them.

Late that afternoon he had those horses corralled in the pens. The rest of that day was spent catching a few of the mares he judged to be leaders. They were brushed down and gotten used to being handled again. While Ben worked, the others munched on the grain he'd spread in the rough board feed bunks scattered across the corral.

If he had the cooperation of those lead mares over the next few days, driving the herd back to the home place would be much less of a job.

He hadn't yet collected the whole herd. All the two year olds and yearlings were present and accounted for, but by his count six mares and four colts were still missing. Likely they weren't far from where he'd found the main bunch. It wouldn't surprise him a bit if they came in during the night. Horses didn't like being alone, and these, few as they were, would likely come hunting the herd.

The way his luck had run so far, he had high hopes Lady Luck would continue to smile on him... and, damn if she didn't! That next morning, when he crawled out of his range tipi, he was greeted by the sight of the six missing mares, and 4 with colts, grazing in the meadow outside of his corral.

He pushed the herd into the back pen and closed the middle gate. That allowed him to open the front gate, and push the late comers in on foot. With them caught, he opened the center gate back up to let the herd spread back out into the whole set up.

With all his horses accounted for in one easy day of looking, and no new losses to predators, he was feeling pretty fine. For the first time in a long time he felt, almost, glad to be alive.

That afternoon, he threw the remainder of the baled hay to the herd. He'd hauled it up by truck late in the spring, on the rough old logging road that found its way to the camp. More of a two track; it took half a day for a hay loaded pickup to make the climb.

Ben had cached the bales here, in a rough slabwood lean-to that sided the corral. He'd hauled the hay up knowing he'd need to feed his horses when he rode up to check horses and cows during the summer. To be honest, he'd not done a good job of that, as shown by the amount of hay, still in the shed, this late in the season.

Damn! He could get used to things going right for a change. Even if that didn't allow things to get Western!

In the morning he'd start the drive down off the mountain. He foaled his colts in the barn down at the ranch, rough as it was, in late winter. That put 'em at nearly six months old now. They were tough, mountain bred colts, but it still wouldn't do to push 'em too hard, this young. In the spring, he'd made the drive up in three days. He could make that easy in one day, just riding. Going back down, he'd push 'em in two days. He needed healthy horses and colts to sell, not busted up cripples 'cause he'd got in a hurry. They should still be able to make the ride easy in that time.

He'd make his overnight camp in a grassy park, a couple of miles above the Forest Service campground on Lodgepole creek. That'd make a pretty good drive the first day, and an easy trail going into the ranch the day after.

He should make the run across the Lodgepole just after breakfast time and be at the ranch by noon.

As bleak as his future had seemed when he'd stomped out of the bank, Ben had the growing feeling that maybe, just maybe he could succeed at getting things turned around. He felt like he could actually see a little sunshine trying to break through the clouds. He'd never been much of a quitter. The last few years he'd lived, if poorly, on sheer force of will alone. If Miss Lady Luck would just keep on cutting him a little slack, he'd find a way to make it work. If she'd grant him, just a little bit more. Just let him take a breath.