The Long Journey Home

by Don Coldsmith

  “Oh, Hebbie!” he moaned in ecstasy.

  He woke with a start. He’d fallen asleep in the seat of the railway coach, and was dreaming. Embarrassed, he took a quick look up and down the aisle of the rocking car, wondering if he’d really spoken aloud.

  Some of the other passengers were drowsing, too. It was hot and dusty. It might have been worse except for the hot breeze generated through the open windows by the train’s motion. A plump middle-aged woman across the aisle was smiling coquettishly at him. He must have said something aloud. Either that, or she was trying to establish a connection. Maybe both. He couldn’t remember what he might have said in his dream, and had no idea whether anyone had heard him. It was a very uncomfortable situation.

  The train slowed. Probably time to take on water. Maybe also a thirty-minute stop for dinner at one of the fine Harvey House restaurants along the rail system. He hoped so. It would help to be able to get out and walk around a bit. But he saw the frequent mandatory stops with a certain amount of impatience. He longed to be back on the 101 with Hebbie.

  There was also the fact that he had not heard from her for some time. He had been traveling, of course, and Hebbie would know that his mail could not be forwarded. However, he had expected that there would be mail held for him at Carlisle. He was uneasy when there was nothing. Several weeks had passed while he was in Europe. Surely, she would have at least had a letter waiting for him. Deep in the back of his mind was an uneasy doubt. He had been away a long time … .

  When he did actually step from the train onto the platform at Bliss, he hoped against hope that she would be there to greet him. He had written her to tell her approximately when he’d arrive. Actually, it would be a slim chance that she would guess which train would carry him back to Oklahoma. Still, it was a disappointment—

  “John? John Buffalo?” called a voice. But it was a male voice.

  He turned.

  “Gus!”

  A team and wagon stood at the loading dock, and the driver was stacking boxes from the platform into the wagon bed. On the side of the wagon was the ever-present logo: 101.

  “Didn’t know you were comin’ back today,” Gus said cheerfully. “Want a ride out to the ranch?”

  “Sure. Thanks, Gus. Can I help you load?”

  “About done, now. Reckon your timing’s as good as ever. You got more baggage?”

  “No, this is it,” John said.

  The cowboy set the last box in the wagon bed, and the two men took their places on the seat. Gus clucked to the team and the horses leaned into their collars for the hour’s drive to the ranch.

  “Well,” said Gus, “we heard all about the Olympics and Jim Thorpe. That must have been some show.”

  “It sure was, Gus. Sometimes I can hardly believe it, even now. How are things on the Hundred an’ One?”

  “Busy! The show’s still on the road, of course. But, damnation, John … Let’s see … You’ve been gone a year, right?”

  “Nearer two.”

  “Oh! Well, there is a lot, then. You mind that some of the show folks were headin’ for warmer winters … South America, even? Well, Joe Miller got the idea of winterin’ in California. Cheaper and a sight easier than here. Joe even bought a house there, moved his family.”

  “Left the 101?”

  “Not really. They live both places, go back and forth with the seasons. But, John, you’d never have expected … There are other outfits—show outfits—winterin’ there. Al G. Barnes’s Circus, an’ the “Two Bills” Wild West … Buffalo Bill and Pawnee Bill, y’know.”

  “They merged?”

  “Yep! Never figgered that, would you? They’re all in sort of the same area. Town called Venice. But say! You remember them movin’-picture folks … Bill Selig an’ them? Well, a bunch of them are out there. I guess the weather’s mild enough they can shoot pictures damn’ near all winter. A bunch of our gang are out there, doin’ that. Tom Mix … Say, you know what a talker an’ show-off he allus was? Well, he shore found his place, with the picture folks. Some of our others, too. Hoot Gibson, Hoxie …”

  “They all quit the 101?”

  “Well, not necessarily. More like the 101 joined them. The Millers, especially Joe, travelin’ back an’ forth, are really into the movin’-picture thing. Partnerin’ in some of the picture work. Now, you see them new log cabins over southwest, there?”

  Gus pointed to some structures in the distance.

  “Yep … What are those?”

  “Just that. Cabins. The movin’-picture business was goin’ on here in the summer an’ in California in the winter. But some of them city folks get a little upset at scorpions an’ rattlers comin’ in their tents. So the Millers built them cabins. Use ’em for scenery, too, for shootin’ the movin’ pictures. ‘Movies,’ they call ‘em now, y’know.”

  “You been to California, Gus?”

  “Sure. A couple of times. We took a whole herd of buffalo, some longhorns, and about thirty of the Indian families and their lodges out there last year, on contract to one of them movie outfits. Horses too, of course.”

  The talkative cowboy was in his element. John longed to ask him about Hebbie, but Gus was too busy in his enthusiasm about the new directions the 101 empire was taking.

  “ … and say! You know about the Tournament of Roses?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, one of them California towns—Pasadena, I think it’s called—has this big parade, celebratin’ that they can grow flowers in the wintertime. They end it up with a big chariot race. Have it on New Year’s Day … . Well, you know how Joe feels about parades. We took damn’ near the whole outfit last time, while you were gone. ‘Course, half the show was already there. But remember Lillie Francis? Great-lookin’ cowgirl! Well, Mel Saunders, the Romanrider, and ol’ Oscar Rixson, the bronc tamer, was both courtin’ her. They all agreed that she’d marry the winner of a horse race they’d have at the Roses thing. Turned out to be a bigger drawin’ card than the chariot race!”

  “Who won?”

  “Mel did. He’s the better horseman, I reckon. But say, what a party we had! They was married next day, and we partied till we put ’em on the train back to the 101 for the honeymoon.”

  Gus paused, lost in thought.

  “Let’s see, now … . George Miller bought a new kind of car—Cadillac, they call it. Always the latest, y’know. Say, you heard about the fire on the show train? Up in Wisconsin … One of the canvas cars caught fire. They stopped near a crick, an’ ol’ Beasley—used to be Princess Wenona’s husband, you ’member, he got a bucket brigade goin’ … . Saved the train, I reckon. But a few days after, they had a wreck. Derailed five cars, killed some of the horses. Had to put some more down, they was hurt so bad. An’ at night, in a storm, with lightnin’ around ’em … pourin’ rain. Purty tough summer, eh? Joe took it purty hard. You know how he is about the livestock. Has a real affection for ’em, hates to see ’em hurt … .

  “Oh, yeah! Talk about a scandal … Zack’s wife, Mabel, ran off. Zack had a detective agency lookin’ for her, wantin’ to serve divorce papers on her … . They found her in Tulsa, we heard, with some fella.”

  Thoughts of Hebbie were floating through John’s mind as Gus recounted the details. Finally he had to ask.

  “How’s Hebbie doin’, Gus? I haven’t heard from her in some time.”

  Gus was silent for a little while, and finally spoke in a solemn voice.

  “I’m sorry, John. I supposed you knew. She ain’t at the 101.”

  “She’s not? What … Where is she?”

  “Well, she got sick. Phthisis, or consumption, or whatever they call it. She was coughin’ a lot. The doctor sent her to one of them sani—Whatever they call ’em, the hospital where folks go with that coughin’.”

  “A sanatorium?”

  “Yep, that’s it! A ‘TB san,’ they called it.”

  “When, Gus?”

  “Well, must have been in July, as I recall … Place out of
state somewhere. She didn’t write you about it?”

  “I’ve been travelin’, Gus.”

  “What … Oh, sure. The Olympics …”

  “Yes, and then we traveled to some exhibition meets. Lord, I didn’t know … . I’d have come back, Gus, if I’d had any idea.”

  “I know you would, John. I’m sorry.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  The letters, two of them, were waiting in the mail room at the ranch, forwarded from Carlisle. By the dates on the cancellations, both had been sent on before he had returned from Europe. He sought a place to be alone … . Behind the horse barns, where they had often met. He tore open the envelopes.

  My dear John,

  By the time you read this, it will be after the Olympics. How I hope for the Americans to do well. They will, with you helping them, and we’ll read about it here. News travels so fast now.

  Things have been good here, though I miss you. Strawberry had her baby, a fine stud colt. He’s sort of mouse colored, what the Mexicans call grulla, but I think he’ll shed off as a blue roan.

  I’ve had a cough for some time, and will go see a doctor in Ponca tomorrow. I’ll mail this then. I miss you a lot, John, and I’ll be glad when we can be together again.

  All my love always,

  Hebbie

  He tore open the other envelope, which was dated in late July.

  My dear John,

  Forgive me for not writing sooner. I was waiting for the doctor’s decisions. He was concerned about my cough, and gave me some medicine, which smelled pretty bad and tasted worse. It didn’t do much good. He said I have what we used to call consumption, and they call it tuber-something now. “T.B … .”

  Some folks go to Arizona or someplace for this, but the doctor says they have special hospitals for it now. Some even get well. But, I wouldn’t want you to catch this from me, so good-bye.

  I will love you forever, John. Don’t try to come to me. If I get well I’ll look you up. Good-bye, John.

  All my love,

  Hebbie

  He sat numbly, sitting on the ground with his back against the barn wall. A dung beetle a few feet away was rolling the ball containing her eggs toward wherever she’d bury it. The burden was three times her size, maybe as big as the laggin’ taw marbles he’d seen kids play with. He’d never understood how such a creature could handle such a weight. But it was nothing compared to the weight that now fell on his heart.

  In the ranch office in the White House, Joe Miller was sympathetic.

  “Yes, I heard about that, John. Too bad, to come home to such a thing from such a triumph as yours. She’s a good woman, too.”

  “I’ve got to find her, Mr. Miller.”

  “Of course. Let’s see … Surely we’ve got some connections with information like this. Let me send a couple of wires … You’ll want to take a train, I suppose. A horse would be pretty slow.”

  “I hadn’t thought—”

  “You need an advance on your pay?”

  “No, sir. I still have a little from my Carlisle job.”

  Miller nodded. “Good. But maybe we should advance a little, just in case. Now … Come back tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll see what’s turned up. Be ready to travel.”

  Joe Miller was true to his word. John had always been amazed at the “connections” the Millers enjoyed. They challenged the world with a confidence that they could do anything, and usually did.

  But not this time. Miller rose from his chair behind the desk as John entered the office. There was a frustrated look on his face as he motioned to John to shut the door. Then he pointed to a chair and seated himself again.

  “John,” he began, “we’re hitting a dead end, here.”

  John’s heart sank, as he found his seat, and Miller continued.

  “Hebbie … I understand that’s short for Hepzibah?”

  “That’s what I was told, sir.”

  “Gawd! Who’d name a defenseless baby somethin’ like that?”

  “She said it’s a Bible name.”

  “That’s no excuse. But let’s go on. There are several states beginning to open these sanatoriums to treat this T.B. I understand it’s quite a problem. I’d heard there was one in Kansas, but I find it’s not even open yet. Several others … But, I can’t find a trace of anyone with the name of Hebbie Schmidt. Hepzibah, either.”

  “She may be using another name,” John said numbly.

  “You know of one she’d use?”

  “No, sir. But she’d change both names if she wanted to disappear. There are a lot of Schmidts, but as you said, Hepzibah or Hebbie would be one folks would remember.”

  “Yes …” Miller hesitated a moment. “We have to consider the possibility that she may be dead, John.”

  “Yes, I know,” John said quietly, his voice husky.

  “But,” Joe Miller went on, “none of the sanatoriums we contacted had any such record. She’s just disappeared.”

  John nodded sadly. “She just doesn’t want to be found, sir. If she’s in one of those places, it’s under another name. She may have changed her name anyway. One thing’s sure: She’s gonna do it her way. She’s tryin’ to save me the pain of takin’ care of her.”

  “I’m sorry, John. If you can think of anything we can do …”

  John took a deep breath.

  “No, sir. I reckon not. If she don’t want to be found, we’re not goin’ to find her. She’s smart, and she’ll cover her tracks.”

  To himself, he held one more thought. Her letter—the second one—stated plainly that if she did survive, “I’ll look you up … .” She wanted to call the shots, and she would.

  But … If she wanted to find him, he’d need to be available. Where would she look first? Here, on the Hundred and One.

  As if in answer to this unspoken thought, Joe Miller spoke again.

  “You’ll stay with us?”

  “Yes, sir … I appreciate your help.”

  “Sorry we can’t do more, John. We’ll keep some feelers out.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Miller.”

  “Glad you’re staying. We’ve got a bunch of two-year-old colts that will need some attention. Keep your mind off things, maybe.”

  “Maybe so.”

  But he knew it wouldn’t help much. However, it would give him a lot of time to think, and remember some of the best years of his life so far, which had been here on the 101.

  With Hebbie …

  FORTY

  Preparations for the 1913 show season were in progress during the winter. The success of the past two seasons had been inspiring to the already-enthusiastic Millers and Edward Arlington, their less-conspicuous partner.

  John was astonished at the change in equipment, facilities, and in organization in the short time he had been gone. The show train now consisted of twenty-eight railway cars, brightly painted and exciting to view. There were eight stock cars for the horses, cattle, and a few buffalo, and fourteen flat cars to carry the extensive equipment, canvas, electric generators for lighting; all the accouterments of the circuslike show. The remaining six cars were for the personnel: Pullman sleepers, which would be their homes for the next six months, beginning in early April.

  It was good to remain busy, but it did not help entirely. John would waken in the night and find it impossible to return to sleep, thinking of Hebbie, not knowing whether she was alive or dead. Sometimes he thought of going to look for her, visiting some of the sanatoriums to try to find her, but he always realized the futility. Besides, he was certain that if and when she recovered, Hebbie would come to him. She had promised. The first place she would look, of course, would be the 101. Even if he was on the road with the show, this would be her contact. He could see no other way.

  He threw himself into the work of taming and training the range-bred colts, readying them for use. An operation the size of the Hundred and One, including all of its far-flung enterprises on the West Coast, required hundreds of horses, not to mention the turnover in cattle �
� Roping calves, steers for wrestling, longhorns for the simulated cattle drives, beef to feed the small army of cowboys, Indians, and headliners.

  Near the corrals where John was working, Bill Pickett, who never seemed to change in a changing world, worked with horses and steers as he had for years.

  Bill said little, but his word carried a lot of meaning.

  “Good to have you back home, John.”

  “Thanks, Bill.”

  “They’s a lot of new folks,” Pickett went on.

  John had noticed that. With the nationwide publicity, the moves and the extensive train travel of the 101 Wild West Show, it seemed that everybody in the country wanted to be a cowboy … Or cowgirl. There must be kids everywhere who were pretending to be Tom Mix, Buck Jones, or Princess Wenona. As they became old enough, a lot of them were making their way to the 101 Ranch to seek employment. This year there were far more than usual.

  There were, of course, many who were legitimate cowboys. Some were good, hardworking young men, down on their luck, looking for a steady job. A few were of questionable morality, possibly even on the run from a misunderstanding with the law. The Millers asked few questions. A man who did his work well and was loyal to the Hundred and One was accepted.

  A young man was assigned to help John with the two-year-olds. John was not very enthusiastic about it. His work, like that of Pickett and some of the other specialists, was best done alone. But, after the first few hours of gentling, it would take a lot of hours of easy riding to complete the animal’s education. As Pickett put it, “a poultice of wet saddle blankets applied daily.” Wet, of course, translated to sweaty. A light workout, every day, a few miles under saddle, to finish the animal’s training after the preliminary gentling and breaking.

  The young man, who called himself “Ed,” was from back east somewhere, Illinois or Indiana. He appeared to have little experience with horses, but seemed ambitious.