The Long Journey Home

by Don Coldsmith

  Some of his stunts were unbelievable.

  “John, get on your horse there, go off thirty yards or so, and ride past here at a fast canter,” suggested Rogers.

  Spinning a rope in each hand, he tossed both as John thundered past on Strawberry, catching the horse in one loop and the rider in the other.

  There was a low sigh of admiration from the gathered crowd, many of whom had remarkable skills themselves. There was little envy in evidence. Rogers was so friendly, likable, and modest that he always left people feeling better about themselves and about the world.

  “John, come to town with us!” said Tom one Saturday evening.

  Some of the boys often rode over to Ponca City, or to Bliss, for a few drinks or to play a few hands of stud poker.

  “No, I’ll stay here,” said John.

  He didn’t care much for drinking, and was always a bit self-conscious about being in public with whites, even cowboys who were his friends.

  “Aw, c’mon, John. It’ll do you good.”

  He didn’t want to appear uncooperative. Maybe it would do him good.

  “Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll get my horse.”

  They rode into the little town of Bliss and tied the horses outside the bar. It was not quite dark, but the mellow light of kerosene lamps gave a warm glow to the room, a welcome. Behind the bar over the mirror was a painting of poor quality, an overweight, scantily clad female with a smile that was more like a leer, as she looked down on the bar.

  The bartender saw John’s glance, and chuckled.

  “She gits to lookin’ better after a few drinks,” he advised.

  The other cowboys roared with laughter.

  John sipped his fiery whiskey slowly, not really enjoying the evening, and wondering why he had bothered to come to town. Maybe after another drink or two … He tossed down the glass and the bartender refilled it promptly.

  He was beginning to feel better, except for the mild buzz in his ears. A poker game was starting over in the corner. Maybe he’d sit in … . He was more comfortable now, ready to relax and have some fun.

  Tom Mix strolled toward that table, but suddenly glanced out the window and stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Oh, Jesus!”

  “What is it?” asked the bartender.

  John was caught up in the general rush to the window. There on the sidewalk in the fading light knelt a heavyset woman in a sunbonnet and a full dark dress. She carried a large handbag, which now lay on the walk beside her.

  “What’s she doin’?” asked someone.

  “She’s prayin’,” said Mix in a hushed tone.

  “What is it?” called the bartender again.

  “It’s bad, that’s what it is.” Mix answered. “That there is Carry Nation!”

  “Oh, damn!” muttered the bartender. “Not here!”

  He began to move quickly, taking an armful of selected bottles from behind and under the bar, and scurrying to the back room with them.

  John was confused.

  “What’s goin’ on?”

  “That there,” said Mix, “is that temperance lady, from across the border in Kansas. We need to get outta here.”

  “But what’s she—?” John was watching through the window fascinated.

  The woman outside had risen now, looming to nearly six feet tall. John stared in amazement as she reached into the handbag to draw forth a large hand ax. Holding it above her head, she charged through the front door. The drinkers scattered like quail, some retreating through a side door, some slipping out the front after the attacker had passed.

  But her target seemed to be not the drinkers, but the bar itself. She rumbled around the right end of the counter while the bartender retreated around the left.

  The hatchet swung in a mighty horizontal arc, smashing a dozen of the bottles on the shelf under the mirror. Glass and assorted liquor showered down over the ample front of her dress, and across the polished surface of the bar itself. The mirror was next.

  “Oh, no!” whimpered the bartender. “The mirror—”

  Silvery shards tinkled to the floor.

  “May this be the fate of the Demon Rum!” thundered the woman.

  Her hatchet swung again, and more demons joined those on the planks. She paused, looking up at the painting as if in doubt. One swing of the ax left a cleft in the blatantly exposed skin of the painting’s brazen woman that was not exactly anatomical.

  The heavy arm descended, and a keg on a stand behind the bar splintered, amber fluid gushing out through the rupture.

  John was still standing openmouthed as the hatchet swung again and again.

  “This to the foes of the Lord!”

  “Come on, John!” one of the 101 cowboys called from the doorway.

  A table crashed over, spilling drinks, cards, and poker chips across the floor. Recovering his senses, John slipped outside. Men were untying horses from the hitch rail and hurriedly climbing aboard to sprint down the street and out of town. He mounted Strawberry quickly.

  There was another crash and the sound of breaking glass from inside.

  “What the hell is goin’ on?” he asked in bewilderment. “Why isn’t she arrested?”

  “She usually is,” said Mix. “That’s what she wants … . Publicity. She’s against drinkin’, even medicinally, I guess. Sheriff’s prob’ly hidin’ out. I wouldn’t want to try to stop her, would you?”

  “But … Where’d she come from?”

  “Up at Medicine Lodge originally, I think. Mebbe she still lives there. They’re dry. ‘Prohibition.’ But she travels all over the country, puttin’ on this act.”

  “You seen her before?”

  “No, but I heard. She’s put a lot of places out o’ business. The law’s usually skeered of her. Reckon we can see why.”

  John nodded agreement. He felt sympathy for the bartender, who was probably also the owner. He was surely ruined now.

  “I heard her first husband was a drunk,” said one of the cowboys.

  “Reckon she’d drive a man to drink!” retorted another. “She shore got my attention.”

  “Want to ride on over to Ponca City?” somebody suggested.

  “Naw, it’d be too late.”

  “She might foller us.”

  The ride back to the 101 was quiet. There was nothing to talk about, now that the excitement was over. The happy anticipation of an evening on the town was forgotten in the grim contrast of the ride home.

  “Damn!” muttered someone. “How’d that ol’ bitch do so much damage so fast?”

  “Really?” asked Hebbie excitedly the next evening when he recounted the adventure. “You saw her?”

  They were sitting on the sun-warmed stone shelf atop the hill, one of their favorite retreats.

  “I sure did. Say, she was somethin’. You wonder about what she’d do to somebody with that hatchet.”

  “But she don’t use it on people, does she?”

  “So they say. Just the Demon Rum, I guess.”

  “John, you usually don’t go drinkin’ with the boys,” she said tentatively.

  “Naw … They sort of talked me into it.” He chuckled. “Really, we didn’t even get started drinkin’, hardly. And when Carry got through, there wasn’t much to drink. I tell you, Hebbie, she scared some pretty tough cowpunchers.”

  “I’m sure of that,” she chuckled.

  They were quiet a little while, watching the fading panorama in the western sky. With the fading sun, the night’s chill came rapidly at this season. She snuggled against him, shivering a little, and he encircled her with an arm. The shared warmth of their bodies was good, and she nuzzled closer.

  The sun’s last rays made highlights on her hair, and he studied her profile. Strong nose and cheekbones, a determined chin … Really, she was a quite attractive woman. As she leaned toward him, her face turned, bringing her full lips nearer his. What was a man to do? He kissed her. It was a warm and sensual kiss, like none he had ever had. Of course, he had litt
le with which to compare and, at the moment, Jane Langtry was the farthest thing from his mind.

  As she turned, into his arms, her breast brushed against his hand, and he instinctively cupped it in his palm. The kiss ended, but the hand remained.

  “Did you really want to do that?” she asked softly.

  “What? This?”

  He gave a gentle squeeze.

  “Yeah. I sort of thought we were just friends.”

  “Well … We are … I mean …”

  He was embarrassed now.

  “It just seemed natural.”

  He started to remove his hand.

  “No, no,” she said. “It’s okay.”

  They sat a little longer, and he kissed her again. There was more passion now. Both were breathing more heavily.

  “Oh, John,” she murmured.

  Then suddenly, she pulled away.

  “Wait a minute … . How old are you, John? Not twenty yet, I’ll bet.”

  “Well, maybe not … I’m not exactly sure. They didn’t keep good records. What the hell are you gettin’ at?”

  “Hmm … Guess I ain’t quite old enough to be your mother. Damn’ sight nearer than I’d like, though. Never mind. I’m just thinkin’ out loud.”

  “But—”

  She placed a finger on his lips.

  “Shh … Don’t talk. Yes, we’re friends, an’ that’s good. But, looks like we’re startin’ somethin’ else here. An’ … Well, I reckon you haven’t had much experience. Gov’ment schools an’ all.”

  “Well, I …” He was embarrassed to admit how really meager his experience actually was. “I can learn, can’t I?” he joked.

  “Sure,” she chuckled. “An’ you don’t mind if I coach you?”

  “Can’t think of anybody I’d rather,” he said. “And we’re still friends.”

  “Oh, well,” Hebbie said. “What the hell … Shut up and kiss me.”

  He did, long and softly and very satisfactorily.

  Finally they came up for air.

  “Wow!” she said, “you don’t need much coachin’. That’s pretty good. No, real good. Now, put your hand here. That’s right … Now, other one here … Oh, yeah, that’s good … Now, kiss me again … .”

  It was a long time before either spoke, and then it was Hebbie again.

  Tears were wet on her face.

  “Oh, John … I’m so glad we found each other.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Maybe it was a mistake last night,” she told him the next day. “Is this goin’ to spoil us as friends?”

  John was caught completely off guard by such a question. He had realized that he was inexperienced, clumsy, probably inadequate in her eyes. Yet, he had gotten the impression that she, too, had been caught up in an ecstatic adventure, where both body and spirit had merged into a magical moment.

  “I … I don’t hardly reckon so,” he said clumsily. “I know I didn’t know much about it, but—”

  “Hush!” she said, laughing and blushing under her tan. “That ain’t what I meant. I was prob’ly takin’ advantage of you.”

  “No, no … You’d never do that, Hebbie.”

  Now the old twinkle was back in her eyes again.

  “Well, I dunno,” she said in mock seriousness. “I might, you know.” She slipped a hand under his elbow and into the crook of his arm as they walked past the paddock.

  “Never can tell,” she added.

  John felt better, though he was still puzzled by the enormity of the situation. He had never felt like this before. This was not the way it was supposed to feel to fall in love. But, if this was not falling in love, what was it? Hebbie was plainly teasing him, implying a hint of things to come. Maybe that was part of it, the teasing and laughing together … Aiee, growing up was such a chore. Especially with no one to really advise him.

  Back among the People, he would have had an advisor. An uncle, according to tradition. But his mother had had no brothers still living, even before he was taken away from the reservation. One of his uncles had been killed in a skirmish with soldiers before Little Bull was born. The other had died of some white man’s illness before he was old enough to remember. Typhoid or pneumonia or something, he supposed.

  His thoughts moved back to the present, and to Hebbie, his friend and now his lover. What was supposed to happen now? Would they be expected to marry? He wasn’t sure. There was no male friend with whom he felt close enough to ask. Some of the cowboys occasionally visited women in town, and on one occasion he had accompanied a couple of them to the bawdy house. He didn’t know what the other cowboys had told the girls, but they had offered to pay for his visit. The whores had teased him about his inexperience. He was at the same time excited, stimulated, and repulsed at the sweaty, heavily perfumed women. This is not as it is supposed to be, he thought. He had been unable to perform.

  Now, here was a totally unexpected situation. A completely satisfying friendship had suddenly blossomed into something else. Into a wildly thrilling, yet warm and satisfying exploration of an entirely new level of relationship. It was something he did not know how to handle.

  The next day, he finally thought of a solution. It was one so simple that he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it sooner. He could ask Hebbie. She was the focus of his puzzlement anyway, as well as his best friend. He’d ask her about it, when occasion offered.

  “Hebbie, I need to ask you about somethin’.”

  It was evening, two days after their experience on the hill. He had encountered her out behind the horse barns, and they were walking together in the twilight. It was growing chilly.

  “Sure. What’s that?”

  “Well, about the other night …”

  “Yeah?”

  Her tone softened with her probing question.

  “I’m not sure what I mean, here,” he went on. “But … Well, what’s supposed to happen now?” he blurted.

  She giggled, and then seemed to realize how serious his question was. Her nervous giggle stopped.

  “What did you want to have happen?”

  “I … I just don’t know, Hebbie. Nobody has ever told me the rules about this.”

  “What do you mean, ‘rules’?”

  “Well, my people have customs. A young man has a teacher … An uncle, maybe, who tells him about love and courtship and marriage and all. I don’t have anybody, and I don’t know your white customs on this.”

  She started to laugh, and then stopped short again.

  “You’re serious!” she said, surprised.

  “Well, of course.”

  “I see … An’ the cowboys ain’t much help, are they?”

  Now she was sympathetic and understanding.

  “They’re friends, but there’s nobody I’m really close to. Nobody who’d know to help me with this. You’re my only real friend.”

  He thought for a moment that there was a tear in the corner of the gray-green eyes. Hebbie smiled, a little sadly.

  “John,” she said seriously, “I’m proud you’d ask me. Now, there prob’ly ain’t rules, like the ones with your people. An’ we’ve maybe broke some, to some white folks’ way of thinkin’. But … Well, we know each other purty good. I guess we don’t have to do anything about this right now. That okay?”

  “If it is with you.”

  She nodded, then shifted the subject. “John, how old are you, really? I asked you before, an’ you ain’t sure, you said, but you got some idea, right?”

  “Sure. Eighteen, maybe, give or take a year.”

  “My Lord! I’m robbin’ the cradle!” Hebbie said, half to herself.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “John,” she said evenly, “you ain’t supposed to ask a woman her age.”

  He was confused.

  “You mean … That’s a white man’s rule or something?”

  Hebbie smiled, perhaps a little cynically.

  “Well, yes. Reckon you could say so.”

  “I’m sorry. I did
n’t know. Among my people, the old women are proud of their many winters.”

  “And among mine, too. But you’re talkin’ old women, John. A young woman ain’t goin’ to cherish her years. Not for a long time.”

  “I see. And you’re a young woman.”

  “I’d hope to tell you! Some days … But never mind. Look … I ain’t goin’ to see my twenties again, but I ain’t quite old enough to be your mother. That close enough?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Okay. An’ there’s some that are gonna look with disfavor on our bein’ together.”

  John bristled indignantly. “That’s no business of theirs!”

  “Exactly! But there’s always some that feel they have to judge everybody else’s doin’s.”

  “That’s their problem!” he said.

  “True. But things go smoother if they don’t have too much to think about.”

  “What are you sayin’, Hebbie?”

  “Just that … Well, you and I know how we feel about one another, but we don’t have to tell the world. So, we just be friends in the open like we been all along.”

  “And things go on the way they are!” he agreed.

  “Sure. With the exception that you an’ I know better. We behave ourselves in public. Okay?”

  Since they were well behind the horse barn, and twilight was deepening, she gave him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  John longed for more and would have held her more closely, but she pushed him away gently.

  “Later,” she promised in a whisper.

  “John!” called Tom Mix, “How’d you like to go to Mexico?”

  John had been gentling a colt in one of the small pens, and paused to look up at the approaching cowboy.

  “Why?”

  “We’re goin! Joe’s takin’ the show to Mexico City. It’s a heap warmer there. We’ll be back by Christmas, though. Want to go along? Usual pay.”

  “Who’s goin’?”

  “Purty near the full troupe. Ropers, riders, some o’ the Indians. Couple of the dancers … I reckon they like strippers even in Mexico.”