The Long Journey Home

by Don Coldsmith

  John sat staring at the page. A few days ago he had been at the top of the world. His life ahead of him, a promising career … Now it was like ashes in his mouth. The worst was not even to his career, but the loss or destruction of the budding romance. The pinnacle of that thrilling episode had been the experience of a lifetime. To have a beautiful woman throw her arms around him with such feeling in a public place was embarrassing. But it was also such an honor … Aiee! But then it was spoiled by the reaction of her parents.

  He still did not understand about that. He had thought that the Langtrys liked and respected him. Their quick withdrawal had confused him completely. What had caused the change? It could be nothing but the scene of affection at the stadium. And that was not even of his own doing.

  “You’re leaving?” Charlie Smith was astonished. “Why?”

  “I don’t know, Charlie. Just a request through the Bureau.”

  “But … Where?”

  “I don’t know. Some school out in Kansas. Haskell, it’s called.”

  “Haskell? I know that one, John. It’s only about a hundred miles from the Cherokee Nation. But … That’s only a two-year school. A junior college! I don’t understand. Maybe Senator Langtry could—”

  Charlie stopped short and the two stared at each other.

  “Yes,” John said sadly. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Because of that little hug on the track the day of the game?”

  “I don’t know, Charlie, but it looks like it. They left early, you know. I had a letter from Jane.”

  “I heard you got a letter,” Charlie said with a smile.

  “Well, it wasn’t good. She’s going to school in England or somewhere. I wrote to her but haven’t heard back.”

  “He’s sending her away?”

  “I guess so.”

  Charlie took a long breath.

  “Whew! Well, damn it, John, you’ve got to face it. The Senator doesn’t want his precious daughter keepin’ company with a savage redskin.”

  John’s temper flared. “It’s not like that, Charlie!” he insisted.

  The Cherokee said nothing for a few moments, and then finally spoke, but more softly. “You know it is, John. I’m sorry. I thought the Senator was different.”

  “But I didn’t think he’d do this, Charlie.”

  “Me, neither.” Charlie sighed deeply. “I guess white men are all alike, after all. They all look alike, you know.”

  It was a wry attempt at humor, a reverse twist to the white man’s impression of the hundreds of Indian cultures. But it was a poor joke, and fell on deaf ears.

  “At least, I can write to her,” John said.

  That, too, proved to be wrong. The next day, John’s letter was returned, unopened. Across the face of the envelope was scrawled in a firm hand: “Return to Sender.”

  His heart was very heavy.

  Only a few days later, John found himself on a train, heading west again. It was different country. His sense of direction was acute, but his knowledge of geography and the political boundaries which had been drawn by the whites was sketchy. Borders, which could not even be seen, seemed a ridiculous concept to John and his friends. Charlie had told the others of a situation in which the white man’s government had awarded adjacent tracts of land to his Cherokee Nation and to the ‘Osages. Through error, the land assignments overlapped, which led to border warfare between the two. And both were right.

  “Huh!” said Little Horse. “Borders are a white man’s disease anyway.”

  “Maybe so,” agreed Charlie. “But our word for ‘Osage’ now translates ‘Nation of Liars.’”

  The others had chuckled, but it was a sour joke.

  The miles slipped behind with the click-click of the wheels on joints in the rails, a bitter reminder of the hope he had felt two years ago on the journey east. He was being exiled. There was no other interpretation. Through no fault of his own … His only crime had been the affection of the Senator’s daughter. Even in that, his own part had been passive. The active role was Jane Langtry’s. It was of little help that she, too, had been banished from home and country. That was a wry twist to the dark jokes played by fate.

  Haskell Indian Institute was located on a flat tract of land south of the town of Lawrence, Kansas. Between the two was the campus of the University of Kansas, perched on a hill. Between this hill, impressively titled Mount Oread, and the Kaw River, sprawled the town of Lawrence. It had been burned by William Quantrill’s Confederate raiders, and some 200 of the residents had been killed during the War Between the States, but Lawrence had now recovered and was rebuilding.

  The area had also suffered from the loss of the riverboat industry, as the navigable rivers were bridged by the railroads. Riverboats which once plied the Kaw, unable to pass under a railroad bridge, had been sold or transferred to companies operating on the upper Missouri. But the town was still well located. The area around the junction of the Kansas (or Kaw) River with the Missouri was the gateway to the rapidly expanding West. Another day’s journey westward from Lawrence would bring a traveler to Topeka, the state capital.

  In the midst of all this expansion, there was a thrust for education. Within easy traveling distance were several colleges and universities, and the whole area was interested in athletic achievement. The strength of young manhood was prized greatly on the still-lusty frontier.

  Within the radius of a day’s train travel were at least eight or nine colleges and universities with strong athletics programs. The University of Kansas, almost within view of Haskell, had a small but growing athletic program.

  “Our toughest rival is Baker University,” said Walter Goingbird, his first new acquaintance. “That’s a Methodist school about twelve miles south of here. We play them in football and baseball. It’s close enough for us to walk over to the game. They walk here, too, when we play here.”

  “Who else does Haskell play?” John asked.

  “Well, the strongest are the church schools,” Walter explained. “There’s a lot of ’em pretty close … . Park College, over on the Missouri side. They’re Presbyterian, and so is the one at C of E—that’s College of Emporia, a bit farther away. We play Washburn at Topeka. Now, that’s a city college. There’s a Baptist University at Ottawa, south of here, beyond Baker … . Town of Ottawa … Then Lane University at Lecompton, between here and Topeka. They’re United Brethren. Let’s see … . Oh, there are state Universities of Missouri and Nebraska. KU, of course. Kansas has an ag college, too, a ways west of Topeka.”

  “And all of these have football?” John asked. “Not just track and field and baseball?”

  “I think maybe so, John. Football’s catchin’ on pretty fast. First game in Kansas was here. Kansas and Baker, about eight years ago, they said.”

  “Who won?”

  “Oh, Baker, of course. They’re the bigger school.”

  Maybe it won’t be so bad, John told himself. Still, he was only half-convinced. And still, he smarted from the rejection and undeserved penalty for the simple infraction of having been born with a red skin.

  By comparison to Carlisle, back in the more civilized part of the country, Haskell was somewhat primitive. But the instruction was good, the athletic program active. That is, within the limits of money for equipment. That had always seemed to be a problem everywhere, even at Springfield College.

  One major difference at Haskell was something he had not foreseen. Many of the student athletes were older—some in their thirties, perhaps even forty years old. He remarked on this to Goingbird, who chuckled and nodded.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “That’s right. There are a lot of men in the plains nations … . Kiowa, Apache, Southern Cheyenne … . Even some Osages, who were sort of caught in between. Some refused to cooperate and stay on reservations, but then later figured they’d have to play along. So, some of them are in school here. They have some pretty wild stories, but it’s hard to get ‘em talkin’.”

  “I’d suppose so,” agreed Jo
hn.

  In age, some of these men were contemporaries of his father. It startled him to realize that some of these older students might conceivably have ridden with Yellow Bull and the others against the cavalry at the Battle of the Greasy Grass, called the Little Bighorn by the whites. Surely not … He dismissed the idea as too unlikely to consider seriously. But … Maybe?

  There was nothing he could do to attempt contact with Jane. His letter had been returned, and there was no point in trying again. He mustered what faith he could, hoping against hope that she would try to contact him.

  SIXTEEN

  John worked hard to gain a place on the football team at Haskell. It was virtually impossible, because the season had started before his arrival, and the team had been chosen. Barring injuries, his place this season would be on Haskell’s bench. The coach was understanding, but was having a fairly good season, and was not likely to make changes in a winning lineup.

  “Be patient, Buffalo,” he said. “Keep on the way you’re doing, and you’ll be in there next season.”

  This concerned John because he realized that he would probably have only one more year of collegiate play. Still, he did enjoy the few times that he was able to enter the game. He worked hard, made some good plays, but was usually placed on the line, with the gritty brute force required at those positions. There was little opportunity to demonstrate his skill at ball handling, broken-field running, or the dropkick which had brought him attention at Carlisle.

  Students were not forbidden to go to town, but it was not encouraged. Many simply saw no reason for it, and preferred to stay “with their own kind,” as the whites put it so quaintly.

  John would just as readily have stayed at the school, but his friend Walter Goingbird was more familiar and more confident among whites. His Cherokee people had been in contact for centuries, and were considered one of the “civilized tribes.”

  “Funny thing, though … They don’t exactly treat us civilized,” said Walter, a twinkle of twisted humor in his eye.

  They were on one of those visits to town in early spring. Walter was explaining how to interpret whether they’d be welcome or not.

  “See that sign in the window of the café?” asked Walt. “Colored people served in sacks only. Now, you have to guess: Do they figure ‘colored’ means just Negro, or does it mean redskins, too? You might even hear ‘red nigger,’” he added.

  They walked on into town. On Massachusetts, a main business street, the buildings were larger and more opulent, displaying a measure of wealth and success. There were cafés and restaurants and stores, and a fine hotel.

  The two students did not intend to eat. Their meals were taken at the school cafeteria, but Walter continued to explain.

  “Now, that sign”—he pointed to one in the window of an upscale restaurant—“We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone … . That means about the same as the other one. You might be served there, but might not.”

  John had no desire to find out.

  A man approached, walking on the flagstone walk from the other direction, apparently headed for the restaurant. There was something familiar about him: the way he walked, the athletic motion in his stride. John was puzzled. How could he know this man, far from any place he had ever been?

  The white man paused, seemed confused. He had appeared to be about to enter the restaurant, but now turned toward the approaching duo.

  “Do I know you?” he asked John, still looking puzzled.

  When he spoke, his voice recalled the connection for John … A game … Yes … Springfield. The demonstration game of “basketball” … This was the man who had—Naismith!

  “Mr. Naismith?” asked John. “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here. But how do I know you? You attend the University?”

  “No, sir. I’m at Haskell.”

  “Oh, yes … You were at Carlisle? Football! Of course. We talked for a moment after the game. Butler, is it?”

  “No, sir. Buffalo. John Buffalo. But … You’re at the university?”

  “Yes, I came as athletic director. But how did you happen to come to Haskell?”

  “A long story, sir …”

  “Forgive my prying. You have another season here?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Well, best of luck to you, son. Not when you play us, of course, eh?”

  All three laughed.

  The rising “eh” on the end of the sentence may have been the last vestige of the coach’s Canadian accent. It went unnoticed by John.

  “And your friend, here?” Naismith asked politely.

  “Oh, yes … Pardon me. This is Walter Goingbird. He’s at Haskell, too.”

  “Yes.” Naismith extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Walter shook hands and nodded a greeting.

  “Good to meet you, sir.”

  “You play ball, too?”

  “A little.”

  “Good … Well, have a good season.” He turned to John with an afterthought. “You were thinking of coaching, weren’t you, Buffalo?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The coach nodded. “Well, stay in touch, eh?”

  “What did he mean, ‘stay in touch,’ John?” Walter asked as they walked on.

  “I don’t know, Walt. I met him when we played Springfield College, and he seemed interested in what I was planning to do. He complimented my play … . I’d had a pretty good game. He seemed interested that I’d thought of coaching.”

  “Maybe he wants to offer you a job!” teased Walter.

  “Quit it, Walt! He’s just being nice.”

  As they walked on, another thought occurred to him.

  “Say, Walt … I just remembered. When we were at Springfield … You know that new game, ‘basketball’? He’s the one who started it. They showed us a demonstration game.”

  “You figure they’ll play it here?” asked Walt.

  “Maybe. He used it for younger students, though, at the Y in Springfield.”

  “A kids’ game?”

  “Pretty much.”

  They headed back toward Haskell.

  But in the back of John’s mind, a thought was forming. He would stay in touch. Maybe he could gain some good advice.

  The letter came several months after his arrival at Haskell. It was an envelope similar to that sent to him by Jane Langtry just before he left Carlisle. He could even imagine that it smelled the same, the faint floral scent of her perfume. But the stamp on the envelope was unfamiliar, and in some foreign denomination. He did not recognize the postmark.

  It was addressed to him, John Buffalo, at Haskell, which was odd. Even more puzzling was the handwriting—a feminine hand, but not that of Jane Langtry. He was certain of that. He had read and reread that brief note until it was nearly worn out from refolding.

  Curious, he opened the envelope. The letter was longer. His heart beat faster as he saw the handwriting. Yes, this was hers … .

  My dearest,

  It has been so hard. I am in Paris, studying here. My father has been so unreasonable in his efforts to keep us apart. I have written you repeatedly, addressing my letters to Carlisle. They are always “returned to sender.” I know not whether they are returned from Carlisle, or whether I am watched here. Maybe, both. I suspect that you may have experienced similar treatment.

  Now I may be more successful. I have a friend here at last, to whom I have confided our problem. I learned, through my brother, that you were transferred (dare I say “banished”?) to Haskell Indian Institute, on the far prairies. I regret, my love, that my family has been the cause of this. There was no wrong on your part. I was far too forward. But, I feel so close to you. And alas, we are being punished for things that have never happened. We have never even kissed.

  But I digress … . My friend, Emily Brighton-Jones, a British schoolmate, has agreed to help. She is sending this letter. You can reply, writing to me, but addressing the envelope to Emily. She will be discreet.


  Oh, my dear … I do hope that you, too, share the uplift of the soul that I experience when I think of you. I feel that surely you must, or I would not feel it so strongly. I have heard that your people are powerfully in tune with things of the spirit. My mother says that this is blasphemy, but I know what I feel. I am also convinced that there will come a time when we can be together. Of this I am certain, no matter how long it takes.

  But I am rambling … . I pray that this effort is successful, so that we can communicate.

  Yours always,

  Jane

  He sat numbly, staring at the letter in his hands. His heart quickened. She had not forgotten. She even seemed to understand the things of the spirit of which she spoke. She was not like other whites, appearing either smugly superior or pitying, or both.

  He questioned his ability to express his feelings as she had done, but he must try. He was confident now that she would understand any deficiencies in his ability to communicate on paper.

  Even so, he rewrote the letter three times before he was satisfied.

  My dear one,

  My heart soared like the eagle to see your letter, and to know that our spirits are one. I am made to think that you do understand.

  My letters, too, have been returned. This, I cannot understand.

  I hope and pray that with the help of your friend Emily, we can talk through letters. I will eagerly await your answer to assure ourselves that this will let us be in contact until we can be together.

  Your obedient servant always,

  John

  He addressed the envelope to Miss Emily Brighton-Jones, sealed it, and then began to wonder … . How much postage? He had decided against a return address. That might alert anyone who was watching Jane Langtry’s mail. However, it would also prevent its return, and he would never know whether the letter had reached her.