The Long Journey Home

by Don Coldsmith

  “I … I see,” muttered John. This was pretty sudden. A job?

  “Mr. Miller, I’m from over near Lawrence, on a borrowed horse. I …”

  “No matter, son. We’ll figger a way to get the horse back, if you’re interested.”

  “Well, I suppose I am. In hearin’ about it, anyhow.”

  “Good! Let’s go talk about it. John, is it?”

  “Yes, sir, John. John Buffalo.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “You’re what?” demanded Naismith. “Leaving?”

  “Considering it,” answered John. “I wanted your advice.”

  “A circus?”

  “Not exactly, Coach. The Miller Brothers, 101 Ranch … Wild West Show. They have some good people. I can’t seem to find a job as a coaching assistant.”

  “Well …” Naismith seemed just a little uneasy about that remark. “You might try it for a season. Working with horses, you say?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m told that I’m good with them. I do have some pretty good luck, I guess.”

  He had decided not to go into too much detail about his “luck” with animals. He had learned caution when talking to whites. Any white man, even one whom he trusted to give good advice. Naismith might have John’s best interests at heart, but there were things that the coach might never be able to accept or understand. Especially about things of the spirit. Somehow, whites seemed to be afraid of things that they didn’t understand. Sometimes it seemed to be mixed up with their religion, as a sort of denial of the obvious presence of the power of the spirit. To think in terms of good or bad luck, however, was acceptable.

  “And they pay well?”

  John paused. Zack Miller hadn’t been very specific about that. It would depend on his skills, the showman had implied, but there were dozens, maybe hundreds of men and women in their employ. The Indians who played a part in the reenactment scenes seemed content. Bill Pickett, a “man of colour,” was obviously pleased at his connection with the Millers and the 101. There seemed to be a general tone of respect for each other on the part of the 101 crew, and this seemed to come from the Millers themselves.

  “Apparently so, sir. No specific figure was mentioned, but their employees seem satisfied and—well—proud to be working there.”

  Naismith nodded. “That’s a good sign. Well, John, I hate to see you abandon the goal of coaching. But you don’t have to leave it permanently. Stay in shape—you’ll probably do that easily. And stay in touch. You have talent. Maybe later, eh?”

  John had the feeling that the coach’s heart was right. It was plain that he, too, realized the overwhelming obstacles that faced a young Indian in the white man’s world. Naismith had made the effort, and would do so again, but some things are not to be. At least, not easily.

  They shook hands warmly and John turned to go.

  “Say, John,” the coach called after him. “You might talk to a fellow who’s doing some coaching. Allen … Forrest Allen. They call him ‘Phog.’ He’s coaching at Haskell as well as at Baker, and has done some work for me. You’ll probably stop by Haskell anyway, eh?”

  “Maybe so.”

  He did stop by to tell the Haskell administration what he was doing, and to tell the coach good-bye. He also asked about Coach Allen.

  “Not here right now, John. He’s based down at Baker. A good man. Coachin’ basketball for us this winter.”

  John smiled. “Naismith still says that’s just a game. But, maybe I can talk to Allen later.”

  “Maybe so … Best of luck with the cowboyin’, John!”

  “Thanks …”

  He did not think it worthwhile to contact Coach Allen now. It would take most of a day, and he had a lot to do. He must explain to Schneebarger what he intended, gather his few belongings, and return to Topeka before the 101 departed. Transportation back to the Ponca country of Oklahoma Territory would be by special train, carrying the entire Wild West Show.

  During the train trip, he was approached by Zack Miller, who motioned him over and slid into the seat beside him.

  “Glad to have you join us,” Miller began. “Buffalo, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. John Buffalo.”

  “Mmm … Got that in a Government school, I reckon. You’re Sioux?”

  “Yes, sir.

  This man seemed to understand, so John decided to elaborate.

  “Once I was Little Bull, son of Yellow Bull,” he added, showing a bit of pride.

  Miller smiled. “That’s good,” he said simply. But John knew that he understood.

  “Well, you see our Show. The ‘Wild West.’ My brother Joe figured that we’d ought to do somethin’ to preserve the cowboy life, the Indian ways, show how to handle stock, work cattle, an’ all. Joe says, ‘Boys ten years old and younger have never seen a genuine Wild West show, and we are going to make it possible for them to see one!’ We have a variety of acts, a bit broader than Cody’s Buffalo Bill show. You’ve seen that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, no matter. What we have is a real workin’ ranch … 110,000 acres. We aim to show folks what a ranch is an’ does, plus the specialty acts. Ridin’, ropin’, tricks, Pickett doin’ his bulldog thing. Gawd, I dunno how he does that! You a friend o’ his?”

  “No, sir, we just met.”

  “Well, he savvies folks purty good, an’ he seems to like you. Anyhow, we’re always lookin’ for new acts, an’ if they come right offa the 101, so much the better. We do have a buffalo herd, but mebbe we’ll get a couple of camels and an elephant or two. But never mind … Tell me about your act.”

  “Well … I really don’t have an act, sir.”

  Miller took a puff on his cigar, blew a cloud of blue smoke, and tapped the ash into the tray on the arm of the seat beside him.

  “But somebody said you tame wild horses. That true?”

  “Maybe, but it ain’t exactly an act, Mr. Miller. I tame ’em ’cause they need tamin’.”

  “No matter. Them steers of Pickett’s don’ really need to be bit on their nose, either. It’s a demonstration … shows what can be done. Now on the wild-horse thing … We can talk about it later. Sounds like I need to watch it. When we get down to the ranch, we’ll run in a couple of range-runnin’ yearlin’s, and you can show me.

  “I can do that,” John agreed.

  “Okay … Meanwhile, you can do some odd-job ranch chores. The boys will show you the bunkhouse an’ get you settled.”

  He started to rise and then paused.

  “You don’t mind playin’ Indian when we take the show out on the road?”

  “No, sir.”

  It was a truthful answer. Not for people who come this close to understanding, he thought.

  The 101 Ranch itself was an experience like no other. It was hard to comprehend its sheer size, and the hundreds of people who were employed in the operation. There was a headquarters complex resembling a small town, with houses, a store, barns and stables and granaries, a running track for horses and arenas for practicing the various acts for the Millers’ shows. The demand for bookings had resulted in the formation of a second troupe, so that the Miller Brothers Wild West Show and Circus could be on tour in separate parts of the country at once. The 101 had its own railroad sidings as well as locomotives and rolling stock. “Headquarters” was still in the White House, the original home of the Miller family, built by George W. Miller, father of the Miller Brothers. Mother Molly Miller still lived there.

  There were vast herds of horses and longhorn cattle, a small buffalo herd, and carefully segregated herds of purebred Angus and Hereford cattle.

  John learned, gradually, that the Millers had conceived the idea for a Wild West Show of this magnitude by attending the World’s Fair in St. Louis, a few years earlier. They had also made some valuable connections there. In 1905, with national media attention, the Millers hosted a gala celebration which drew 65,000 people to the ranch. The national convention of newspaper editors was in attendance, and some thirty trains brought
spectators. President Theodore Roosevelt, already a fan of the concept of the Wild West Show, asked the Governor of Oklahoma Territory to call out the Territorial Militia to help with security and crowd control.

  “Remember Geronimo, the ol’ Apache chief?” asked the cowboy who was showing John around the ranch. “He was here.”

  “I thought he was in jail.”

  “Well, he is, I guess. But the Millers—Mr. Joe, I guess—got permission to bring him for that roundup. They got the chief to shoot a buffalo, and barbecued it for them newspaper folks.”

  “But he must be about eighty,” John protested.

  “Guess so. But he rode in one o’ them horseless carriages. A Locomobile, it were called, I’m thinkin’. Ol’ chief was outa practice … missed a couple o’ shots.”

  “Bow and arrows?”

  “No … A new Winchester. That’d be his last buffalo kill, they said. ‘Course, it was his first, too, you know. Apaches didn’t have buffalo where they lived.” The cowboy chuckled. “But I reckon it shore impressed the crowd. What’s your job goin’ to be, John?”

  “Workin’ with horses, I guess. Not sure yet … This happened purty sudden.”

  “Yep.” Slim nodded. “Zack gets an idea, he moves on it, don’t he? But … Say, you must be the wild-horse tamer! That it?”

  “I guess that’s what Mr. Miller had in mind,” admitted John. “But I really don’t …”

  “Yeah … Indian medicine-tricks. I gotta see this. You’re Sioux, ain’t you?”

  “Yes. Lakota.”

  “We got quite a few Sioux already. Pine Ridge, Rosebud.”

  These were reservations, and John knew his people by their band names: Oglala, Hunkpapa, Brule …

  “Mebbe you’ll know some of ’em.”

  “Not likely …”

  John was having some very strange feelings. Would he have much in common with Lakotas from the reservations, now that he had been detached from his people for several years, and subjected to the white man’s ways? Time would tell.

  Meanwhile, he moved into the bunkhouse with the cowboys. He dressed and acted as the whites did, and felt more at home here than in the cluster of lodges down by the river. He felt an odd pang of guilt, as well as a bit of scorn for those not able to assimilate into a modern world.

  It did not occur to him that perhaps they were taking advantage of a rapidly changing social situation, as were the Millers and their 101 Ranch.

  Of one thing he was certain. On the 101, everyone seemed to be respected for his skills and abilities, not for his race or ethnic background. The Millers employed whites, Mexicans, Negroes, and Indians, treating all with respect not found in most places he had been. Some nonwhites even had considerable status. With some surprise, he learned that the Pickett family had their own home on the 101.

  Maybe this was his own ticket to the future.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Over the next few weeks, John met a lot of people with remarkable talents. It was an atmosphere of unreality, as if most of the hundreds of people in the gigantic ranch operation were playacting, at least part of the time. For some, all of the time. This is not to say that theirs were easy jobs. They developed, practiced, and perfected skills not seen elsewhere, for the purposes of The Show. Trick riders, fancy ropers, marksmen (and women) who could perform amazing stunts with a rifle or pistol. Some spent days and weeks of special training sessions for the purpose of readying an animal performer for a specialty act that would last only a matter of minutes in the arena. A horse that would “play dead” or roll over on command … A dog that would dance on his hind legs, wearing a top hat … The skills involved were largely those of the trainer.

  In other cases, the skills were the result of long years of hard work on the backs of galloping horses. A headstand, a bounce from one side of the horse to the other, touching the ground at both sides, at a full gallop. Perhaps the “suicide drag” stunt … Many of these were young women, who seemed especially agile at this sort of trick riding. There were names which would become well known later as their fame spread. Lucille Mulhall, billed as The Original Cowgirl, could rope as well as any man and better than most, a world champion rodeo performer. Jennie Howard Woodend was another, actually an aristocrat from a wealthy and prominent Eastern family, who preferred the life of the West. She performed as a trick rider and worked maintaining fence for the 101 as “Jane Howard.” Lillian Smith, who was dressed as an Indian and was billed as “Princess Wenona,” outdid even the famous Annie Oakley with her shooting skills. Other veteran women performers were Julie Allen, Edith Tatlinger, and Zack Miller’s wife, Mabel.

  There were always a cadre of young women striving to perfect their skills to the extent that they could become one of the featured acts on The Show. Meanwhile, they worked for pay at ranch jobs alongside the men, who were many times engaged in similar pursuits. But the Millers were quite strict about the impression that their female performers might give to the public. They were never to appear wearing lipstick or rouge, and must dress discreetly, to avoid any impression of the cheap or tawdry.

  Some of the men were working similarly toward becoming feature acts. Most would never become headliners, but there was always a need for large numbers of horsemen. They filled out the cast of hundreds for the reenactments of wagon trains, Indian attacks, cavalry charges, and frontier skirmishes. When the Wild West Show was not on the road, the same riders were carrying out routine ranch jobs, working cattle, branding, and fixing fence. The day-to-day work required to operate the far-flung 101 Ranch with its thousands of cattle and horses demanded a lot of cowboys.

  There was always excitement in the air. The Millers were creative, and seemed to want to try any new innovation that came along. They were always experimenting with new seed crops and the newest farm machinery. This drew the attention of people with like minds, who would drop in unexpectedly just to show the Millers a new machine, or an automobile, driven by steam or kerosene or gasoline.

  The 101 employees seemed to expect to be called on to do each other’s jobs when there was need. Sometimes it seemed that the entire operation was a gigantic play. On John’s first tour with The Show, Zack Miller took him aside.

  “John, would you mind puttin’ on a soldier suit this time? I’ve got plenty of Indians, with the Oglalas and White Eagle’s Poncas, but I need a few more cavalry for the rescue scene.”

  “Sure,” John said quickly.

  “Good!” Zack clapped him on the shoulder. “Go see Tom Mix. He’s got the uniforms.”

  Mix handed him the folded blue trousers and jacket.

  “The hat you’re wearin’ is okay, John. Check the duds back in after the last performance.”

  “Right.”

  “Say, weren’t you an Indian last time?”

  “Still am, I reckon. Zack needed some more soldiers.”

  This sort of thing was expected as the norm. It was not until later that he had time to wonder what Yellow Bull would have thought of his son’s pursuit.

  As he turned away, John noticed a stranger with a bill cap worn backward, carrying an odd-looking black box on a tripod.

  “Who’s that fella?” he asked. “What’s that he’s carryin’?”

  Mix chuckled. “Aw, that’s Will Selig. He’s takin’ movin’ pictures.”

  “Movin’ pictures? How can that be?”

  “You don’t know about movies yet? They’re the comin’ thing. Pictures on a screen, like a lantern-slide show. Special camera an’ all. He turns a crank on the side, there … . Same way when they show it. The crank makes the pictures move. You’d ought to go in town, sometime they’re showin’ one at the opera house.”

  There was little to indicate that in a few years this same Tom Mix would be recognized as “King of the Cowboys,” and that Tom and his horse, Tony, would be the highest-paid act in the rapidly expanding “movie” business.

  “Say, John,” Mix called after him, “weren’t you goin’ to do some kinda horse-tamin’ act?”
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  In the frantic pace of the 101’s activities, that had almost been forgotten.

  “I guess so. Nothin’s been said about it.”

  “Aw, Zack’s busy. Look, I’ll mention it when we get back from the show.”

  “Okay … Thanks, Tom.”

  Looking south across the Salt Fork of the Arkansas River, there could be seen a hill, the highest point around the 101 headquarters. It seemed to call out to John, but it had been weeks before he had the time to ride over and explore. When he did manage to go there, it was worth the wait.

  It was away from the hustle and bustle, a quiet that he had not felt for a long time. He had not realized how much he had missed the chance to be alone with his thoughts. He could see in the distance below him, the beehive activity of the ranch. But here it was quiet, and he could be alone.

  It was not often that his chores and responsibilities around the ranch allowed him to slip away. He was careful not to let it seem that he was a slacker in any way. His duties first, then maybe he’d be able to find an opportunity that drew him to that hilltop.

  On this occasion, it was early autumn. The diverse grasses of the prairie were beginning to turn color, from bright greens to an endless assortment of pinks and yellows and reddish hues. These muted tones of the grasses were accentuated by patches of crimson sumac, and the bright gold of cottonwoods along the watercourses.

  He rode past the Oglala Indians’ camp near the river, crossed to the south side, and headed for the hill. Part way up the slope there was a clump of shrubby sumac, turning scarlet with the changing season. He dismounted to tie the horse, allowing it enough slack to graze on the prairie grass, now curing to standing hay. The animal began to crop the reddish seed heads of turkeyfoot grass, and John made his way on up the hill.