The Long Journey Home (28 page)

Read The Long Journey Home Online

Authors: Don Coldsmith

BOOK: The Long Journey Home
12.26Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
E
ven after a highly successful 1915 season, the Miller brothers could not agree on whether, with war appearing imminent, they should place a show on the road. Jess Willard had failed to renew his contract, and instead signed on with the Sells-Floto Circus. There was an urgent need for a new special act. Joe Miller was now the “Miller” part of the show offered that year by the Miller and Arlington Wild West Show Company.
There was a great national push for preparedness in case war did come. Once again, Joe Miller keenly guessed the mood of the public. There must be a way to harness the swelling patriotism and national pride.
Buffalo Bill Cody, still struggling to break out of his tragic bankruptcy and other legal entanglements, was able to sign with the 101, the only major Wild West Show still on the road. Unable to buy into the show, Cody was placed on a salary and percentage contract and worked vigorously to prove his worth.
Meanwhile, in keeping with the Preparedness theme, Joe Miller contacted the War Department to see if he could “borrow” some troops for demonstration purposes. His timing could not have been better. A display of “an Army of Uncle Sam's gallant defenders of Old Glory” must have been a recruiter's dream.
General Hugh Scott, Army chief of staff, ordered several regiments to furnish troops for the road show. With Miller's uncanny sense of timing again apparent, the town of Columbus, New Mexico, was raided by Mexican revolutionary Pancho Villa, killing seventeen Americans. The Army dispatched 5,000 troops to Mexico, followed quickly by General Pershing's punitive expedition to pursue Villa.
The Wild West Show was now the “Buffalo Bill (Himself) and 101 Ranch Wild West Combined, with the Military Pageant of Preparedness.” The show included a reenactment of the Columbus raid, complete with maneuvers by artillery, cavalry, and parade units, with flags flying and patriotism at its highest.
Buffalo Bill seemed to be a good drawing card, and was pleased to be working again with Iron Tail, his old Lakota friend.
 
John Buffalo was uneasy. There was always a ripple of excitement in preparation for the opening show of each season, a thrill of expectation. It had been there, but it was accompanied by an odd feeling that something was not quite right.
One thing that bothered him was the attitude of the Poncas. Many of them had objected to the drilling for oil on Ponca land a few years earlier. They remembered that before his death, Chief White Eagle, who had given his approval, had stated sadly that it had been a mistake. “It will mean great trouble for me, for my people, and for you,” he told E. W. Marland, the oil wildcatter. By this time, it was being whispered that White Eagle's prediction was a curse. There were stories of ghosts, whose eerie cries and wails could be heard on the wind, mingling with the cries of night birds and coyotes … Ghosts of both Indians and cowboys, the Poncas said. There were stories of 101 riders who had disappeared mysteriously. Usually, they were young loners who had run afoul of the Millers.
John put little credence in these stories. The Millers had treated him well. It seemed to him that cowboys who did not get along with the boss usually moved on. Still, he could not account for the Poncas' uneasiness. They felt something ominous. A pall hung over the ranch, and the ghost stories continued. Maybe it would be better when the troupe hit the road for the season … .
 
But the season was marked by sickness. It was a year of disease. Nationwide, there was an epidemic of infantile paralysis, later called “polio.” Influenza was beginning to become serious again. Buffalo Bill Cody's health was deteriorating, though he never missed a performance.
In Philadelphia, Iron Tail fell ill with pneumonia, and was hospitalized. Uncomfortable with the unfamiliar surroundings, the old chief slipped away, bought a one-way ticket to his South Dakota homeland, and boarded the train. He died on the train in Fort Wayne, Indiana, en route home.
The show must go on, and did so in a highly successful twelve days' stand in Brooklyn at the New York Stampede. Among the dignitaries in attendance were former president Theodore Roosevelt and Will Rogers, their old friend from home. Roosevelt pronounced the performance a bully show, and Rogers invited the 101 troupe as his guests to watch his performance as headliner at the Ziegfeld Follies.
 
 
John was still uneasy, off balance. He could not define it: a vague feeling that something was wrong. Maybe he had listened to the Poncas' ghost stories too seriously. Or, maybe he had tried so hard to adopt the white man's ways that he was no longer capable of evaluating such a situation. Among his own people, following their ways, could he have understood? He had been deeply touched, too, by the death of Iron Tail. The old man must have felt something like this uneasiness. Iron Tail's answer was to go home—at least, to make the attempt.
But Iron Tail had had family back in the Black Hills. John Buffalo had none, and nowhere to go. His heart was very heavy.
 
The show was in Chicago when it happened. The title of the performance had been changed for the Chicago run at the request of local politicians. There was a large German-American population, and it was feared that the militaristic Preparedness pageant might offend some. The military emphasis was downgraded for the series of appearances, and the Indian part emphasized. The entire performance was dubbed a
Shan-kive
, which was interpreted as an Indian expression meaning a “good time.”
The mayor, “Big Bill” Thompson, was given a title, Honorary Director General of the
Shan-kive
, and Buffalo Bill was proclaimed Judge Supreme of all rodeo events. Honorary judges included Joe Miller and local dignitaries such as William Pinkerton of the famed detective agency. Once more, John marveled at Joe Miller's ability to evaluate and capitalize on a situation.
In the midst of all the excitement of the Chicago run, John was approached by a 101 employee who had been back to the base in Oklahoma.
“Buffalo! I have a letter for you. Mr. George sent it.”
“Thanks, Slim …”
 
He looked for a private spot to open the letter. It was tattered and water stained, but he was almost certain that he recognized the handwriting. The carefully drawn but clumsy-appearing words were certainly Hebbie's. She had tried to raise the level of her literacy to match his own education.
But now, hope sprang alive in his heart. He could find her now and resume his life. In one of the storage tents, he sat on a rolled canvas and opened the envelope with shaking fingers.
My dearest John …
If you are reading this, then it can mean only one thing. I have left it in another envelope, to be opened in the event of my death.
John Buffalo's moan of anguish could not be heard over the cheers and laughter of the crowd in the arena seats, but it echoed into the darkest recesses of his own soul. He had known for years—how many, now?—that this was the likeliest outcome, but could never have been ready.
He sat silently for a little while, tears streaming down his cheeks. Then he made an effort to read further. He found quickly that it was a useless effort. The envelope—even the letter itself—had been damaged so badly that most of it was illegible. It was torn and water stained, and looked as if someone had tried to paste it back together. If it had not been for a fairly clean area on the outside of the envelope where “101” could be seen, it probably would not have been delivered at all. He could see, toward the bottom of the stained page, a few words, including those most important:” … love you always, Hebbie.”
His eyes brimmed full again, and he turned to the envelope. When and where had this been mailed?
The postmark was smudged, completely undecipherable. He could not read either the date or the location. He looked for a return address, but found none.
There was another roar of approval from the arena as the show continued, but it meant nothing to John. His world was empty. He folded the letter carefully and returned it to the envelope, slipping it into his shirt pocket, and wandered out into the area between the big top and the auxiliary units.
He had to get away … But, to where? He had no place to go. For the past few years, his closest thing to a home had been the headquarters of the Hundred and One. Now he could not go there. There were too many memories.
He thought again of Iron Tail, boarding the train for his beloved Black Hills as his life faded away. John could understand that, but he had no comparable place. Still, the vast open spaces of the West, the lands of big sky and far horizons, seemed desirable to him. He thought of the sunsets he and Hebbie had shared. There were few sunsets worth watching in Chicago or Philadelphia.
I have to get away
, he thought.
Back to where I can stretch my eyes to as far as I can see. I need to be alone, to think, to remember the good times.
He made his way to the dormitory-style sleeping tent and tossed his few belongings into a duffel bag. He was just emerging when the main show concluded and the crowd came pouring out. Joe Miller, on his white stallion, came across the grounds toward the stable at a fast walk.
“Mr. Miller!” John called.
The showman reined aside.
“Yes, John?”
“I'm leaving, sir. A personal matter.”
“I see,” nodded Miller. “Slim said he brought you a letter. Anything we can do?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, stop by the office for your pay. Will you be coming back?”
“I … I'm afraid I don't know, Mr. Miller.”
“Well, there's a place for you at the Hundred and One.”
“Thank you, sir. That means a lot.”
 
He collected his pay and headed for the train depot, with very little idea as to where he'd be going. But he carried his saddle. Wherever he might be, he'd want that option.
T
here was much about the next few months that John could never remember later. Sometimes a fragment of memory would startle him unexpectedly. He would struggle with it. Had it happened at all, or was it merely a disconnected thought that had floated to the surface through the dreamlike haze that hung over him?
He was running … . From the world, from the tragedy and the heartbreak of reality, from a life that no longer seemed worthwhile. Running as in a dream, and with the same futility. He was pursued, and each painfully slow and laborious step brought him no nearer to escape from the nameless, faceless thing that hounded him. Even knowing that one is dreaming, sometimes it is impossible to escape or to waken. The dream goes on and on, the terror drawing nearer yet postponing the attack that will mercifully end the chase.
John's flight from reality was much like that. He was attempting escape from something that, in the end, was within his own heart and could not be evaded. It would be many years before he was able to even begin to understand. Just now, heartbroken, he sat numbly in the railroad coach and listened to the click-clack of the wheels … . It seemed to be the sound and rhythm that marked every change in his life, good or bad. Mostly bad. He could remember few train trips that led to anything but disappointment. The travels on the show train did not count. They were accompanied by work and play and the company of friends. This—the solitary travel in a futile attempt to escape—was completely different. He wanted to scream, to shout a protest at the unfairness of life. He did not do so. His dignity would not allow it. The stoic, emotionless defense
adopted by the red man in the presence of others would have to suffice. He looked at the other passengers, many of them sleeping in the dim light as the train rushed westward. Could any of them possibly understand the extend of his grief?
He thought of Iron Tail, the proud Sioux chief. The old warrior had known he was dying, and had tried to go home to the beloved land of his childhood. Iron Tail had not succeeded in reaching home before he crossed over to the Other Side, but he had made the attempt.
Maybe, thought John,
he, too, was making such an attempt.
He had given little thought to where he should go in his retreat. He had no home, no family. He had merely headed west because it was from there that he had come.
The thought that he, like Iron Tail, was headed home to die weighed heavily on him. His own death would be not from pneumonia, but from a broken heart. He sighed deeply and stared out the window at the vast blackness of the night.
 
Afterward, he could not remember just when and how he had started to drink. It must have been on the train, somewhere crossing Iowa or Nebraska. Probably somebody had offered him a bottle and he had eagerly shelled out the cash that was asked.
It might be thought that whiskey would be hard to obtain. There was a hard-fought campaign in progress to outlaw all alcoholic beverages. The major political parties had refused to meet the question head-on in their official platforms. But there was considerable strength in the Prohibition Party and, even without the right to vote, a great many women carried a great deal of power. The Women's Christian Temperance Union and the Anti-Saloon League were bringing pressure to bear. Public drunkenness—and, in many cases, drinking at all—was considered a disgrace. There was legislation making its way through Congress to completely forbid all production, transportation, and sale of beverage alcohol of any type—beer, wine, whiskey, anything.
Under these circumstances, it would seem that it might have been difficult for John Buffalo to have acquired a drinking problem. But it was not so. When he had money, there always seemed to be someone who had, or could obtain, a bottle. Especially in the West.
In the blur of his memory somewhat later, he could dimly remember a series of dusty western towns. Nebraska, Dakota, Wyoming … Cattle country … People he understood, horses, cowboys …
When he ran out of money, he would acquire enough for a fresh start in one way or another. He no longer had his saddle, and was not certain how he had become separated from it. Maybe he had even left it on the train. If he had that saddle, he might have worked as a cowboy. He might have, anyway,
except that he didn't feel like it. It would have taken more energy and ambition than he had.
It was easier to make a little money by gambling. Gambling games had always been a favorite pastime among his people. This translated well into the card games of the white man. Poker was a favorite, and lent itself well to the flat, emotionless facial expression often relied upon by the Indian.
John Buffalo was an expert at poker. As a student, he had had great success in low-stakes games, naturally frowned upon by the school authorities. At the 101, especially in the winter months, poker was a frequent pastime.
Even in his whiskey-troubled mind, John recognized this as a source of money to continue his habit. He was able to stay sober enough when he needed to, to play a skilled hand, collect a few jackpots, and continue his downhill slide.
There were several small towns, indistinguishable one from another in his memory, where this had happened. That he survived was probably due only to the fact that it was summer, and that the drunken portion of the sequence could take place outdoors. He would waken in a street he did not recognize, and begin the destructive cycle again.
In this way, he found himself in a saloon called Happy Jack's, in a town in Wyoming. He was looking for an opportunity for a poker game, casually pretending to drink, while he watched the other patrons. They were cowboys, men he understood. They were having a good time, joking and visiting. Not really a bunch who afforded a good possibility for a poker game, but men he envied, in a way. They were among friends and were having fun.
The conversation was about the European War. Increasingly, there was a feeling that the United States would be drawn into the war.
“I'm neutral, meself,” a big Irishman was saying. “I don't care who kills the Kaiser, as long as he gets the job done.”
“Now, Tom,” retorted another cowboy, “I heard the Irish have a secret weapon … A new type of square-barreled cannon that shoots bricks.”
“It's true,” said Irish Tom seriously, “but the real showdown is comin'. Wait till we get the Irish Navy after them German U-boats.”
“Irish Navy? Who ever heard of them?” a cowboy scoffed. “Ain't they the sailors who go home for lunch?”
“Yeah,” said another. “Where is this Irish Navy, anyway?”
Irish Tom lowered his tone and looked suspiciously from side to side.
“An' do ye think,” he half-whispered, “that I'd be tellin' you, ye damned German spy?”
There was a roar of laughter, and again, John felt a pang of envy. These were friends, having fun. He was an outsider. It was easy to feel that it was because of the color of his skin. He realized, however, that one of the cowboys in the jovial group was probably an Indian, also. The man was quiet and unassuming … a tall, handsome man. There was nothing to indicate his tribe or nation.
As the group broke up and passed his table, the tall Indian gave him a slight nod of recognition, and John responded with a nod of his own.
 
Autumn came, and cooler weather. John was still in the same general area, drawn by the easygoing atmosphere. He was still a loner, rejecting the temptation to make acquaintances. It might interfere with his gambler's vocation.
He considered applying for work at one of the ranches in the area, but kept postponing the decision. He had done well enough at poker that he still had a small stake. Maybe later.
In early January 1917, he was reading a
Denver
Post newspaper that someone had left in a hotel lobby, and an article caught his eye. It was about the war and quoted Theodore Roosevelt at length. Roosevelt advocated immediate entry into the war, with at least a division of volunteers. Among these would be a brigade of hard-riding, fast-moving cavalry, a new unit of Rough Riders who could breach the vaunted German lines. Once in Germany, they would live off the land, move fast and strike hard, and challenge the Kaiser on his own turf. It should not be hard, Roosevelt speculated, to recruit a few hundred hard-riding cowboys who could handle such a assignment.
John thought for a moment of the gang he knew in the 101 Wild West Show … . Yes, for many of those, this would be an attractive adventure. He laid the paper aside. He had a more pressing problem. He was running short on cash, and needed a poker game.
 
In the same general area, a young cowboy named Tim McCoy, who had a homestead on Owl Creek, had read the same article in the
Denver Post.
He was enthusiastically interested in a project like Roosevelt's.
Somebody needs to do something
, he thought. With the brashness of youth and convinced of his own immortality, he took pen and paper and composed a letter to the former president. He offered to recruit four hundred skilled cowboy riders for the cavalry unit proposed by Roosevelt.
Not having any idea where Roosevelt might live, he assumed that someone in the postal system might know. He addressed the letter to:
The Hon. Theo. Roosevelt
New York City, New York
A couple of weeks later, a rider from the town of Thermopolis, Wyoming, rode into the McCoy homestead. He carried a telegram.
“It looked mighty important,” the rider explained.
There were six words in the telegram:
BULLY FOR YOU! DO PROCEED! ROOSEVELT.
All of this was unknown to John Buffalo, who had found his poker game and was winning. As the game narrowed far into the night, two players kept jockeying for the big win: John and a nondescript drifter with a week's beard and the shoes of a miner. He carried a small pouch of gold dust, and used it sometimes to cover the cash and chips on the table when the betting became heavy.
John did not trust him, but the gold dust appeared real, and John was on a winning streak. The other man won just often enough to stay in.
The hour was late, the game five-card stud. There were five men still at the table, but three were there more from interest than for serious play. They'd bet just enough to keep the game going, and would fold at the first opportunity. The serious players continued to be John and the miner.
The dealer, one of the other three for this hand, dealt a card facedown to each player, and on top of that, another card, faceup. John took a quick look around the table. Nothing much showing: a jack, a couple of low numbers … His own was an eight, the miner's a two, both clubs.
Each player took a careful look at his hole card. Then the bidding began. The player with the jack opened, the miner raised the bet, and one of the others dropped out. John's hole card was a three of hearts. Not much to be proud of.
The dealer tossed cards, faceup, to those still in the game. John drew a three of diamonds. Not bad … With his hole card, a pair of threes.
The miner now had a pair of twos showing, with a new two of diamonds.
The dealer dropped, but would continue to deal to the others. The miner, with the highest hand showing—a pair of twos—opened the betting.
“Ten dollars!”
A high bet for only a pair of twos.
He's pretty proud of that hole card,
thought John. A high face card? Not another two, or the miner would have bet higher before this.
“Call,” said John, tossing a gold piece into the pot.
On the next round, the miner drew an ace, and John another three, this time in spades. He now had three of a kind—a good hand at five-card stud, but it didn't look like much … . A low pair and an eight were all that were showing.
His opponent, with a pair and an ace, seemed overly elated.
John, using his stone-faced stoicism, bet ten. The miner raised twenty, and the third player dropped out.
There was more going on than could be seen as the last card dropped before
each of the two remaining players. Two very small cards: a two of hearts to the miner, and another three for John.
Four of a kind.
Almost a once-in-a-lifetime hand.
Very quickly, he saw that the miner had overlooked that possibility. He was far too excited about his three deuces and an ace.
John looked over the possibilities. Normally, three of a kind was a good hand, but this miner was far too excited. The man could see that John's threes would top those three twos. This bet, then, would be based on the miner's hole card. What would it be? If it happened to be a fourth two, it would account for the man's excitement. Of course, John's four threes would top it.
What could it be? Suddenly it struck him: The hole card must be another ace:
a full house
. Almost nothing beats a full house. A royal flush or a straight flush, both impossible here. Only one other hand could win: four of kind, the hand that was filled by John's fourth three, lying there facedown.

Other books

How to Survive Summer Camp by Jacqueline Wilson
The Barbarian Nurseries by Héctor Tobar
Sorceress (Book 2) by Jim Bernheimer
The Laws of Medicine by Siddhartha Mukherjee
The Siege of Kadenburg by T. E. Ridener
The Hell You Say by Josh Lanyon