The 10-Gallon Tale of Alburney Jones

Chapter 11: Sheriff Nick Ryde

Weary and battered, Alburney rode across the endless expanse of the Kansas desert. The hot sun beat down on him, scorching his skin and draining his energy as he clung to the stolen horse that carried him out of the mine. His muscles ached from hours of relentless riding. His mind was foggy and blurred from exhaustion. His clothes were dirty and drenched in his sweat and the blood that leaked from his shoulder earlier. Alburney fought to keep himself awake, but his eyelids grew fatigued.

As the hours stretched on, Alburney's grip on the reins began to falter. His body swayed with the rhythmic movement of the horse beneath him. And then, without warning, his strength finally gave out. The world spun around him as he tumbled from the saddle. The hard desert ground rushed up to meet him. The galloping of hooves was the last sound he heard before he went into a coma.
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Alburney woke up lying on a couch with cool, wet rags soothing his face, his shoulder aching and bandaged. He let out a hoarse cough when he scratched his throat. He tried to sit up, but a sudden wave of dizziness washed over him, causing him to lie back down. Confusion clouded his mind as he struggled to remember how he ended up here. He remembered the scorching sun beating down on him as he rode desperately through the Kansas desert, escaping the horrors of Cobra Jack's mine. And then...darkness.

"My my. Look who's awake. I was worried I picked up a dead man." Alburney turned to see a tall, elderly black man entering the room. The man appeared to be around 60, maybe even older. Years of wisdom and experience showed in his weathered face. His black mustache blended with his gray beard.

"What happened?" Alburney managed to croak out. His throat was drier than the desert he collapsed in.

"You had a heat stroke and passed out. I saw you riding when I was leaving Jetmore." Nick handed him a glass of water.

"Jetmore?"

"You're from the mine up in the mountains, right?"

"How do you know that?"

"I recognize slave collecting clothes when I see 'em. Either that, or you're an undertaker." The man holds his hand out to him. "Nick Ryde. You?"

Alburney cleared his throat and shook Nick's hand firmly. "Alburney Jones," he replied, his voice more audible but still dried out.

"Here's some clothes for you, Alburney. You'll be shadowing me for the day." Alburney squinted his eyes at the man. "What, you think I'mma leave you here by yourself? I don't know you. You don't know me." Nick eyes Alburney's slave clothes. "And until I get to know you, I don't wanna take any chances." He hands him a bar of soap. "I parked your horse out by the barn. I'll be waiting for you. And while you're at it, try to freshen up. Who knows how long you've been at that mine."

Alburney found a basin outside and had a quick wash-up. He splashed water on his face and rinsed the dirt and dust out of his hair and off his body. After drying himself, he slipped into dark canvas pants and a dark blue long-sleeve shirt. He ripped a piece of fabric off his old clothes and tied his hair into a ponytail. He emerged feeling more human. The crisp new clothes fitted tightly on his frame compared to the worn and tattered garments he had worn for the past five years.

As he made his way towards the barn, Alburney couldn't help but admire the beauty of the rugged landscape around Nick's home. The sun cast a golden hue over the valley as it rose over the mountains. Nick was already busy saddling up his horse, a sturdy chestnut mare with a gleam in her eye.

"Well, grab yourself a saddle and strap up."

Alburney entered the barn and picked up a saddle, the leather cool beneath his fingertips. While carrying the saddle, Alburney's gaze wandered around a bit. He took in the sights of the makeshift equipment. From horseshoes hanging on hooks to a treadmill fashioned from old wagon wheels. Whatever job Nick had, it was clear he took it seriously.