Jo heard the announcer’s voice say, “And now one of our own, Logan Smith, comin’ out of chute number six on Man Killer! Watch him go!”
Jo leaned forward, her eyes wide as the gate swung open and the horse seemed to explode. He was a dark brown horse and hit the dirt kicking up a fury. Smith’s head, she saw, was whipped back and forth by the jolt. She found herself holding her breath, wondering how anybody could stay on. It seemed to last a long time, and finally she saw Smith step off the horse and land on his feet, his knees bent. He picked up his hat, which had fallen off, beat it against his leg, then walked back toward them.
“That was a good ride, Logan,” Nels said. “Ort to be at least an eighty-five.”
“Don’t ever try to outguess the judges.” The cowboy turned to Jo and said, “You know, these horses have an easy time. They don’t make ’em buck very often so they’ll stay fresh, then they only have to be on for ten seconds. Wish I had a job that only lasted ten seconds a week and got paid for it.”
“Will you ride any more?”
“Oh sure. Next thing will be the bull riding, if you’d like to wait around.”
Jo did wait around, and if the bareback riding had been rough, the bull riding was worse. The bulls were monstrous Brahmas, and she watched as Logan Smith settled himself and got a grip on the rope that was looped around the animal’s middle like a noose.
“It’s braided flat and has a handhold like the flat handle of a duffel bag,” Nels said. “See there? Then he wraps the free end of the rope across his palm.”
“Those things are awful! They’re so big.”
“They like to stomp a fellow, too. Ain’t no job for weaklings. I tried it myself when I was a younger man, but only once.”
The bull came out of the chute spinning around, and Jo had only time to notice that it was perfect balance that kept Logan on the bull’s back. She found herself counting off the seconds. She gasped when Logan Smith suddenly flew over the bull’s shoulders, did a complete somersault, and landed on his heels. The bull charged him, but two clowns came out waving red cloths in front and distracted the bull as Logan jumped up on the railing. She drew a sigh of relief. When Logan came back, she said, “Do you ever get hurt doing that?”
“Everybody gets hurt in this line of work, Miss Hellinger.”
“Do you ride anything else?”
“Gonna ride the saddle bronc competition. That’s all for today.”
Jo hesitated. “I wonder if you’d mind coming out with me and Nels and having supper. I’d like to interview you.”
“Sure,” Logan smiled. He winked at Nels and said, “Don’t let her get away. I never missed a free meal.”
Two hours later Nels left the two alone at the restaurant, saying, “It’s gettin’ late for an old man.” He reached over and smacked Logan on the shoulder. “You mind your manners with Miss Jo, you hear me?”
“You bet, Nels. Don’t worry about a thing.”
After the old man had left, Jo said, “He’s a fine man, isn’t he?”
“Sure is. I’ve known him since I can remember. He and my dad are good friends.”
They were eating steaks and had almost finished by this time. Logan studied the young woman, then said, “So, you’re a writer?”
“That’s right, and a photographer. I’m getting a story together on the Old West along with pictures. If I do a good job, my editor will take me off those boring society stories. I’m so sick of brides and wedding dresses, I could scream.”
Logan grinned and finished the glass of iced tea. “Well, I hope you make it.” He hesitated, then said, “You know, you ought to talk to my dad if you are writing a story on the Old West.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, he’s part of it. He was an outlaw for a while, almost.”
“You don’t mean it!”
“He doesn’t talk much about it, but he could have gone that way. For a time he was a marshall, though, under Isaac Parker down in Fort Smith. That was before he married and came up here to Montana to become a rancher. But if you want to know the Old West, you ought to come and talk to Dad.”
“I’d love to, but where does he live?”
“Oh, our ranch isn’t more than thirty miles outside of Billings. No trip at all.”
“I usually don’t push myself on people, but if you don’t mind, Mr. Smith, I’d really like to meet your father.”
“Logan’s fine. Why, sure. I’m going back first thing in the morning. Be glad to have you come with me.”
“Oh, you’d have to tell your relatives.”
“No, we got a big old place. Just Mom and Dad and my brother, Frank. He’s seventeen. We’ve got a big old ramblin’ ranch house, and Ma’s starved for female company. Where are you staying?”
“At the Palace Hotel.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven. We’ll get home in time for some of Ma’s good biscuits. They can’t cook anything in these restaurants.” He smiled at her and said, “I’m afraid most of the Wild West is gone, but you’ll like my folks anyhow.”
“I’m sure I will, Logan.”
****
Jo took an instant liking to Mr. and Mrs. Lafayette Smith. But she soon discovered that no one called Logan’s father anything but Lobo. He had carried the name since early manhood. When she had been introduced to him, she thought, Why, that’s what a western outlaw should look like. Lobo Smith, now fifty, was not large, but he still had the strength of a younger man. He had a black patch over his left eye, and the other was the same indigo color of those of his son. His wife, Lanie, was an attractive woman a few years younger, and their other son, Frank, seventeen, two years younger than Logan, had eyes exactly the same color.
For two days Jo enjoyed the Smiths’ hospitality. She particularly delighted in Lobo’s interesting tales of when he served as a marshall for Judge Isaac Parker, the hanging judge. She liked Frank very much, who yearned to be the world’s champion bronc rider. He often complained, “Don’t see why I couldn’t have been born first. Then I could have beat Logan.”
It was on the third day of her visit that Jo discovered another side to Logan Smith. He approached her that morning and said, “I’m going over to do a little tinkering on my airplane. Care to come?”
“You have an airplane?”
“Well, a friend of mine does. We’re sort of partners in it.”
“I’d love to go,” Jo said instantly. “I have to go home tomorrow, but I’ve always been interested in the Wrights and their airplanes.”
After breakfast the two climbed into Logan’s Rio and drove twelve miles over to a small shack that was overshadowed by a large, flat-roofed barn. “We keep the plane in the barn to keep it from blowing away,” Logan said as he brought the Rio to a stop. He jumped out of the car and hollered, “Hey, Rev, come out of there! You’ve got company!”
As Jo got out of the car, she saw the door to the small, weather-beaten shack open. She blinked, for the man who came out was one of the most extraordinary figures she had ever seen. He was six feet, at least, but appeared to be all legs and arms. The first thought that jumped into Jo’s mind was, Why, he’s like a spider! The tall man’s face was very homely. She could only think of his face as being somehow squelched down with a chin very close to the nose, but a pair of merry blue eyes twinkled out at her as he ambled over and nodded.
“Howdy, Logan. Who’s this pretty lady?”
“I’d like for you to meet Miss Josephine Hellinger. She’s a writer from New York. Came to write about the Old West. And this is my friend, Mr. Rev Brown.”
Jo put out her hand and smiled, saying, “I’m very happy to know you.” Her hand was completely swallowed by the enormous paw that seemed to dangle on the end of the long arm of the man. He was very careful, she noticed, not to exert his strength, which must have been considerable considering the size of the hand. She noticed it was hard with calluses and seemed to have endured some hard usage along the way. “I didn’t quite catch your first name. Is it
Rev?”
“Well, my full handle is Revelation.” Brown grinned and said, “That’s right, ma’am. My dad was a nonconformist preacher back in England, where I come from. My father loved the Book of Revelation, so he named me after it.”
“I bet you never run into anybody with a name like yours,” Jo smiled.
“Nope. Had two brothers, though. One named Dedication and one Incarnation.”
Jo laughed out loud. “You’re making that up!”
“No, he’s not! I’ve seen the letters they write,” Logan grinned. “And his sisters. Tell Miss Jo their names, Rev.”
“Incense, Praise, and Blessing. How’s that for a trio?”
“I think it’s delightful. I wish I had a name like that. Incense Hellinger! That beats Josephine all to pieces, doesn’t it?”
“You two come in the house. I’m just brewing some tea.”
Jo stepped inside and was surprised at how neat the inside of the house was. Actually it was much neater than the outside. She sat down and soon had a cup of tea in front of her as Rev Brown sat down across the table from her.
“Have you ever been born again, Miss Hellinger?” he inquired in an interested fashion.
“Why—” Jo broke off, for she had never been asked that question exactly.
“I should have warned you about Rev. He asks everybody the same thing. Rev, I wish you wouldn’t spring your religion on people until they’ve gotten used to you.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be offensive.”
“Oh, it’s all right, Mr. Brown. Or can I call you Rev? Well, yes, I am a Christian.”
“Well, praise God! Here we are, three Christians all together.”
“Rev can quote the whole Book of Revelation by heart, but don’t ask him to do it,” Logan said hastily. “He might just do it.”
Jo found Revelation Brown quite extraordinary. He had been born in England but had left there when he was only a boy. At the age of thirty-six, he appeared to have traveled all over the world. When she asked him about the airplane, she could tell by his smile it was one of his favorite subjects.
“Well, I worked for the Wrights for a little while. I figured I might make my own plane someday, and then when I got out here just about broke, Logan here came up with the cash. So together we’ve been putting together a plane that’s going to make us right proud.”
“I’d love to see it.”
Instantly Revelation Brown stood up. “Come along. We’ll give you a full display.”
They went outside and soon Revelation and Logan had pulled their craft out of the barn. It looked very flimsy to Jo.
“I appreciate Rev’s ability to quote Revelation, but let me tell you, in addition to that, he’s the finest mechanic I’ve ever seen,” Logan said. “He can make any engine run like a watch. Would you like to go up?” he asked abruptly.
“Oh, you mean now?”
“Now is as good a time as any.”
Jo had a sudden idea. “Can I take my camera with me and take some pictures from the air?”
“Take anything you want, lady,” Logan Smith grinned. “It’s a little dangerous, you understand. I’ve piled her up twice already.”
Jo Hellinger shook her hair back. “I wouldn’t get on the Brahma bull, but I’ll get in this airplane.”
“Well, come along, Miss Jo. We’ll give you your first airplane ride, then you’ll have something to write about for that editor back in New York City.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“A War Is No Place for a Woman!”
Restlessly Jo paced back and forth, her head down and her eyes unseeing for the most part. Across from her on the couch, Bedford lay watching her with an alert expression. Finally, however, he sensed there would be no walk forthcoming for a time, so he put his chin down on his paws and watched her through half-hooded eyes.
The afternoon sun was laying pale bars of light across the multicolored carpet of Jo’s living room. Finally, she became aware that the day was almost gone. “I’ve got to do something besides pace the floor,” she muttered. Turning toward the window, she advanced and stared out at the late afternoon traffic. Idly, she named many of the cars that passed by, Maxwells, Studebakers, Packards, Stanleys, and wondered if she ought not to buy one. They were still expensive affairs, rich men’s toys rather than anything else, and she put the idea out of her mind.
With a gesture of impatience, she walked over to the desk backed against the wall and moved books, papers, and photographic chemicals aside and removed the newspaper from the center drawer. Laying it down, she read it avidly, noting the heading, “ ‘The Old West Lives,’ a story by Josephine Hellinger.” Her eyes followed the text she had practically memorized, and she seemed to gloat over the words.
“Well, Ed Kovak can’t say that story wasn’t good! A lot of people called the paper, telling how much they enjoyed it, and some wrote letters, too!”
The thought of letters caused a shift of mind, and she fumbled in the right-hand drawer, extracting an envelope from which she removed a single sheet of paper. She had heard from Logan Smith twice since she had returned, and this letter she had received yesterday intrigued her. Her eyes ran over the text. She noted that his handwriting was strong and masculine in a heavy block style.
Dear Jo,
I received your letter yesterday afternoon and shared it with Revelation. We both appreciated the story you wrote and the part you gave us. You made me out to be quite a hero riding dragons rather than broncs, but it was a good story. Not many writers get the details of rodeoing right, but you did a fine job.
Rev and I have been flying quite a bit, that is I have. It seems he has no talent at all for flying an airplane. As a matter of fact, he’s a terrible automobile driver too. I think there’s something about balance that makes a person able to fly. I’ve always had good balance. I think I could have been a wire walker if I had set my mind to it. In any case, Rev keeps the plane going, and I keep flying it. My folks think it’s a foolish notion, but, Jo, somehow I think it’s more important than just a toy.
I’ve been reading the stories about what’s happening in Europe, and it seems to me that Germany and France are on a collision course. I get the picture of two trains on a single track running with open throttles and the brakes gone. Sooner or later they’re going to collide, and there’s going to be a terrible explosion. When that time comes, I think it’s not going to be a terrible explosion. When that time comes, I think it’s not going to be confined to Europe. Sooner or later it will come to this country as well. When it does, every able-bodied man will have to decide what he’s going to do about it.
I’ve talked to my dad about this, and he doesn’t understand. He says that America is concerned only about America and not what’s happening in Europe, but one day not too far off that won’t be so. Not that I expect to have the Germans knocking on our door anytime soon, but the cause is what’s important, isn’t it? I know that sounds idealistic. Even my mother says I’ve always been a little bit that way. I’ve always liked stories of King Arthur and his court. To tell the truth, which I never have to any living soul, I always saw myself as Sir Galahad rescuing a maiden in distress. That’s something for a hard-headed cowboy to dream about, isn’t it?
Jo read the letter through twice and then put it back in the envelope slowly. A thoughtful look had come into her eyes, and she ran over in her mind the enjoyable times she had spent with Logan Smith. She was accustomed to the hard spirit of New Yorkers, and there was something open about this young man that had impressed her. Replacing the envelope, she slowly rose and went over and sat down on the bed beside Bedford, stroking his head. When she stopped he poked her with his muzzle, and she murmured, “All right. All right. Don’t you ever get enough petting?” She thought for some time of what Logan had said and agreed with it. She herself was not a political analyst, but it didn’t take one of those to know that grave trouble lay ahead for the world. Finally she rose and said, “Do you want to go for a walk?”
“Wuff!”
“Well, come on. We might as well do that and I’ll write Logan when I get back.”
****
The assassination of the archduke in Sarajevo triggered a series of events that echoed like a small explosion, each one a little louder than the other. Americans had difficulty comprehending what was going on, for the United States at that time was an impossibly happy nation. People were prospering, and the common man, at least, was almost totally uninformed about Europe. During the month of July, the New York Yankees and the Cleveland Indians struggled to win the American League pennant, although the Athletics from Philadelphia finally won it. In the prizefighting world, Jack Johnson, the first black champion, had pointed Frank Moran. Eggs were twenty-one cents a dozen, and a good cigar cost a man six cents. And thus America and the world moved ahead, but the sinister forces that were to shake the earth itself could not be withheld. After the assassination of the duke, nations began lining up. Russia, Germany, France, Austria, all were talking of mobilization. None of these nations had any idea what lay ahead of them, for war cannot be tested ahead of time. There had been war since man had first disagreed with other men, but the scale of operations during August 1914 was almost beyond belief. It was incomparably so much greater than any nation had expected. The nations were like small boys with machines who sat behind the controls of a powerful locomotive with no knowledge of how to operate one and no comprehension of the destructive power about to be unleashed.
And so finally in July, Germany carried out the act that was to draw other nations into a world conflict. They demanded passage through Belgium so that they might attack France. There were meetings, and desperate statesmen struggled to do something to stop the juggernaut of war, but on August 3, Germany declared war against France and the die was cast.
****
“I tell you, you can’t do it, Jo!” Ed Kovak shouted. For ten minutes he had been listening with growing impatience to the woman who stood before him, and now he seemed to explode. “You must have lost your mind! In the history of the newspaper business, there has never been a female war correspondent!”
The Flying Cavalier Page 10