The Long Journey Home

by Don Coldsmith

  The climb was longer than he expected. A rise that appears insignificant from a distance on the prairie may be much more imposing close at hand. Objects are dwarfed by the vast panorama and reach of the land. The eye sees gently rolling grassland, a full half-circle of horizon at one time. One glance encompasses hundreds of square miles, some of which may be quite rugged.

  He reached the top, and stood for a moment, panting to regain his breath. He had thought that he was in fairly good condition, but this activity had used different muscles and motions. He recovered quickly, however, and found a place to sit while he enjoyed the sunset. The rock was warm from the autumn sun and felt good against the slight chill of the south breeze. He wondered idly what sort of winter there might be in this place. It was farther south than he had ever wintered.

  To the north across the Salt Fork, the ranch headquarters sprawled before him, a bustle of activity. He was reminded of an anthill, with its seemingly aimless comings and goings, but all a part of a complicated effort to accomplish some purpose, no matter how obscure.

  There was a movement below him, nearer at hand, and he focused his gaze. A human figure, ascending the hill as he had done … He felt a flash of resentment at the intrusion, but quickly realized that he had no exclusive right to be here. Still, it was unfortunate. He had been enjoying the solitude. There had not been a time since he arrived at the 101 when he had managed to be alone.

  The figure approached, heading straight toward him now. A woman … He had seen her in the practice arena … Trick rider, maybe. She was attractive, in the split riding skirt and embroidered blouse used by many of the girls. In their actual trick riding, her garb would be more like that of the cowboys. The loose, flowing fabric of skirts and blouses would be dangerous as the rider swept across, over, and under the horse and saddle. Even a momentary snag on the saddle horn or on the cantle could interrupt the rhythm and cause a serious accident.

  The girl reached the top and straightened, took a deep breath, and came directly toward him, still breathing hard. John wondered if she had sought him out on purpose.

  “Sorry,” she said between gasps for air. “Didn’t know there was anybody up here, till I saw your horse. Don’t want to bother you.”

  “It’s okay,” John found himself saying, not quite truthfully.

  “Sometimes,” the woman went on, “I jest have to get away. Too many damn’ people.”

  That had been his own motive, he realized, with a bit of surprise. Here was someone who felt as he did.

  “That is true,” he said cautiously. He pointed to a spot on a rock near him. “Sit?” he invited.

  “Thanks.”

  She sat, and both were silent for some time, studying the brilliant colors of the rapidly changing sunset. Orange and gold and purple and red shifted and danced majestically as thin layers of cloud moved and evoked even more colors than can be imagined.

  John began to study the young woman’s reactions to the majestic scene, and was pleased. They were much like his own. He turned more attention to her … .

  She was possibly ten years older than he, rather mannish in her bearing, and tanned by the summer sun. Her hair, tied up in a bun and topped by a flat wide-brimmed hat, was a pleasant medium brown. Her eyes … It took him a little while to determine the color. It was even more difficult because of the changing colors of the sunset. The eyes, too, seemed to shift and change color. He decided that they must be a gray green. Then he wondered why it would matter.

  He thought back … . He had not felt a real attraction to any woman since his world was shattered over the loss of Jane. For him, the blue eyes and golden hair were the pinnacle of feminine attractiveness. Anything less was not worthy of consideration. He might admire a buxom figure or a well-turned ankle, but it was not the same.

  His feelings were similar as he studied this woman. She seemed pleasant, friendly, down-to-earth … . Not unattractive … A sincere smile … One who understood the need to get away from the frenetic rush of people … One who understood …

  “Have you come here often?” she said softly as the shadows deepened on the east slope of the hill.

  “My first time,” he said. “I’ve wanted to. I knew it would be good. Have you been here before?”

  “Yes. It makes the world right.”

  He nodded.

  “I—I don’t know your name … ,” he blurted.

  She laughed, a soft rippling music like clear water over white pebbles.

  “Hebbie,” she said.

  “Hebbie?”

  “‘Fraid so.” She was quiet a moment, and went on in a musing tone. “I was christened Hepzibah. That’s a Bible name, I reckon. But I ain’t wearin’ that. I changed it to Hebbie.”

  She paused and looked at him studiously, possibly with a bit of suspicion.

  “Don’t know why I told you that. Nobody here knows it.”

  She paused again, a twinkle in her eye.

  “If’n anybody turns up knowin’ it, it’s your fault, an’ I’m after your hide!”

  They laughed together.

  “No cause for worry,” he said.

  “I don’t know your name,” she said. “You’re the horse tamer, ain’t you?”

  “People keep tellin’ me that, but we haven’t got around to it yet. But, forgive me … I’m John Buffalo.”

  Hebbie nodded.

  “I’d heard the John part,” she noted.

  “I think I’ve seen you practicin’,” he said. “Trick rider?”

  “Ridin’, ropin’, rifle shot. I’m tryin’ ’em all. But say, it’s uphill when you got all the talent in the world just above you. I prob’ly will never ride an’ rope as good as Lucille, and hey, I thought I was a good shot until I saw Wenona. But they need cowgirls for the parade, and I have to say, it’s excitin’, ain’t it?”

  She paused, seemingly lost in thought.

  “But kinda lonely,” she added softly.

  There was no way to tell her that he felt exactly the same way. The same feelings had brought them both to the top of the hill. Then he realized that there was no need to tell her. She already knew.

  She rose suddenly and extended a hand to him.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s walk.”

  He rose, with Hebbie still holding his hand, and they turned to walk along the flat hilltop. It was perfectly level, a narrow oval half the size of a football field.

  “Look!” she pointed with all the excitement of a child. “The evening star!”

  They stopped, still holding hands, and watched the other stars appear suddenly, one at a time, in the darkening sky.

  And it was good.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Their friendship was something of a surprise to John. He had never before had a woman for a friend. His attachment to Jane Langtry was a romance, but this was different. He was attracted to Hebbie physically, but not to the extent that—

  He sighed. It was not appropriate to try to understand it. It was simply there, a closeness and understanding that had happened without either of them realizing it. He knew without discussion that Hebbie felt much the same. She, too, had been surprised at their immediate sharing of feelings.

  Actually, it was an unlikely relationship. She was half again his age, and their backgrounds had little in common. She did confess to a little Cherokee blood on her mother’s side. There had been a time on the frontier when it was a step up the social ladder to marry into the Cherokee Nation. The thrifty, hardworking Cherokees were far more affluent than the dirt-scrabble whites who were homesteading on the border near them. They never discussed it, but in his heart, John suspected that that infusion of Indian blood helped to establish the union of spirit which had characterized their first meeting.

  Their paths crossed occasionally, in the day-to-day activities of their work. Sometimes, on the rare occasions when nothing much was going on, they rode together, sharing new places, new sights and sounds. They sometimes went to the hill, which was often referred to as
Cowboy Hill, because of its landmark status. Cowboys in the vast open country could see the hill from any direction, as far as thirty miles away. For a rider who might be slightly disoriented on a cloudy or overcast day, it was a reassuring beacon.

  It was a reassurance to the pair of friends who loved to go there, too. In a way, it represented their odd and mismatched friendship. Nothing demanded or expected: just a mutual trust and respect, a solid rock in a world that sometimes seemed to be made of quicksand.

  They talked … About nothing in particular. They still knew little about each other, but enough. They had known that from the first. Neither felt any need to conceal, nor any urge to reveal. And, much of the time they were together, they were communicating in silent trust, without talking.

  “Hebbie, you ever been married?” John asked one Sunday afternoon as they rode.

  She looked at him curiously.

  “Nope. Never found the fella I’d want to inflict that on.”

  They rode in silence for a while, and she spoke again.

  “You?”

  “What?”

  “You … You been married?”

  “No!” he blurted, a bit more emphatically than he intended. “Why?”

  “Nothin’ … You asked me, is all.”

  She was quiet a little while, and then spoke again.

  “Well, it’s not quite true. There was a cowboy. Fella a lot like you, I reckon. We grew up together. Folks all figgered we’d end up married.”

  There was a long silence, and curiosity finally prompted John to speak.

  “So …”

  Hebbie took a deep breath.

  “That damn’ war with Spain. He had to go show what a man he was. Damn’ show-off got hisself killed, is what.”

  “Hebbie … I’m sorry …”

  “It’s okay. I don’t think about it as much as I used to.”

  There was nothing to say, and they rode in silence for a while. Finally she spoke.

  “But thanks for askin’,” she said softly, closing the subject.

  Someday, maybe he could tell her about his own tragedy. But not now.

  “John, Mistah Zack lookin’ for you,” Bill Pickett told him one morning.

  “I do something wrong?” asked John in surprise.

  “Don’t think so. The boys jes’ run in a bunch of range colts. Reckon he wants you to help with ’em.”

  John sought out Zack Miller, who was leaning on a corral fence studying a dozen young horses. They were a mix of yearlings, two- and three-year-olds, and it appeared that they had never been handled. For all practical purposes, they were wild horses. They stood, ears up and nostrils flaring, suspicious, defensive, ready to jump at the slightest sound or movement.

  “Ready to try one of them, John?” Miller asked.

  “Might as well, I guess. Which one?”

  “How about that roan filly?”

  Zack pointed to a well-built two-year-old.

  John studied the animal … . Foxy little ears, pointed in at the tops … Large, wide-set eyes … Intelligent face … Good slope to the shoulder, and a long hip tapering to a low-set tail. A horse his father would have admired.

  “She’s okay,” he said.

  “Where you want her?”

  “The little pen over there. Don’t rope her.”

  “Do that yourself?” asked Zack.

  “Mebbe. Let’s sort of see what happens.”

  They separated the young mare from the others by means of gates and the sorting chute, and into a small circular breaking pen. She exhibited a moment of near-panic at being separated from the others, calling out to her companions. For a moment it appeared that she might try to jump the eight-foot enclosure, but she decided against it.

  Good, thought John. She’s got a little judgment.

  Still alarmed, the young mare circled the pen at a lope, occasionally whinnying to her companions. John waited, watching.

  “Go ahead, John!” called one of the cowboys, laughing.

  “Let him alone!” admonished Zack Miller. “It’s his act!”

  The filly finally settled, slowed, and stopped, watching her tormentors cautiously.

  Now John moved slowly, slid between the horizontal poles into the pen, and rose to his full height. He was carrying a soft cotton rope. He took a step toward her.

  Disturbed by this intrusion, the animal began to run again, circling the arena. John had stepped inside her periphery, and she now followed the fence. Gradually he moved back toward the fence, into her path. She brushed against him, a glancing blow that knocked him off balance for a moment, but he stood fast.

  Show no fear, he reminded himself, but present no danger, either.

  On the next circuit, the filly moved around him without threatening.

  Good … We have an agreement, then?

  The running became less excited and more brief with each episode. He would take a step or two, the filly would run, but not so fast or so far now. He kept crooning softly to her in Lakota. When he finally touched her neck she panicked again for a moment, but stopped and stood after a couple of circuits. The touch had enabled him to obtain a smear of her sweat. He paused and wiped his brow, mixing their scents … . Medicine. He extended his hand and she sniffed curiously.

  See? Our medicine is good together … We do each other no harm …

  Another touch, a pat on the neck and shoulder, an asking of permission, on the level of the spirit. He rubbed gently, and the animal seemed to enjoy it. The ears were an obstacle, but not for long. Soon he was rubbing her ears, tossing the soft rope over and around her neck and across her back.

  He looped the rope around her neck just behind the ears and used it to lead her toward where Miller stood, one foot on the lower rail.

  “That’s about it,” he told the showman. “Want me to go on? Prob’ly better to do it later at another session, but—”

  “No,” said Miller. “I see … Damn! Twenty-three minutes! You could prob’ly halter her now?”

  “Sure. You want—?”

  “No, no,” Miller interrupted. “I see your work. Amazing!”

  Some of the cowboys at the rail began to applaud, and the filly spooked and pulled away. John let her go. This was no time for a confrontation.

  He slipped out between the rails, and Miller met him with a handshake.

  “Great job, John. I want you to go ahead with her training. When will you be riding her?”

  “A few days.”

  “You don’t buck ’em out?”

  “No. Easier not to, I figger.”

  “I see. Well, she’s yours.”

  John wasn’t certain whether it was a gift, or whether the little strawberry roan was to be his assigned 101 mount in the show. He could find out later.

  The boss started away as the onlookers dispersed, but then turned and came back.

  “You realize we can’t use you in the show, John?”

  “But I thought—” I thought that was the whole idea of my being here! he wanted to shout.

  “Then … You mean I’m fired?”

  “What? Christ, no! Where did you get that idea?”

  “You just said—”

  “No … We just can’t use horse tamin’ as an act. Takes too long. Folks pay money to see action. Horse tamin’ is quiet and slow. But no, I still want you ridin’ in the show, and workin’ with horses on the ranch. You’re good, boy. Mebbe as good as they come, with horses. But it ain’t a show act … .”

  He turned away, muttering to himself, “Damn! Twenty-three minutes.”

  Someone approached, and John turned to see Hebbie. Her eyes were sparkling with excitement.

  “I didn’t know you were here, Hebbie,” he mumbled.

  “Wouldn’t have missed it,” she said warmly. “John … Well, you were just wonderful!”

  She gave him a quick little hug and kissed his cheek.

  John blushed crimson.

  “Careful!” he protested. “That’s prob’ly against the rules
or somethin’.”

  “I don’t think so,” she laughed. “And … Tell you what—I don’t care.”

  They looked at the little roan.

  “I heard Zack say she was yours,” Hebbie said. “Reckon he meant to ride for the 101, or to keep?”

  “Don’t know,” admitted John. “He gave Spradley to Bill Pickett, but that’s a different case. Don’t matter much, I reckon. Looks like I’m gonna be here awhile.”

  “That’s good,” she said quickly.

  It sounded as if she thought he might be leaving. She must have heard his conversation with Miller.

  “Well,” he said, “everybody’s got to be someplace, I guess.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  It was autumn now. The leaves on the blackjack oaks were dry and brown, but still hanging on. In past times, these scrub oak thickets had made a good natural windbreak for teepee dwellers. Now, they provided shelter for wintering cattle and horses on open range.

  Most afternoons were still warm and sunny, and John used the good weather to continue the training of the little mare, now called Strawberry.

  The show season was over, except for a regional celebration or two, where the entire troupe would not be required. Usually John was asked to go. He was versatile, able to portray an Indian, a cowboy, a settler with an ox team, or a blue-clad cavalry trooper. There was a general feeling that he was a favorite of Zack Miller’s, and consequently of Tom Mix’s, too. He had spent some time with a visiting young cowboy with a friendly grin and a droll sense of humor. His name was Will Rogers. He was a friend of the Millers, and he did amazing things with a rope. Several of the ropers had taken some lessons from Rogers, including Lucille and Hebbie, as well as Mix, John, and a couple of the other cowboys. John was interested to note that Rogers and Pickett were good friends. They had met, someone said, when both had been performing at Madison Square Garden or somewhere. Rogers, once billed as the “Cherokee Kid,” had traveled and performed in Africa and South America, but was now primarily appearing in New York. He had immense appeal to Easterners, as they looked to the romance and adventure of the West.