Jack Johnson, the first Negro to achieve the championship, had been resented bitterly by the white sports world. Jess Willard had been heralded as the “Great White Hope,” who would demonstrate the white man’s superiority once and for all. When Willard’s victory took place, it was undoubtedly the biggest sports event of the year. Willard became a national hero.
It was never said that the Miller brothers would overlook a chance at publicity. They hastily added the Great White Hope as a headliner in the Wild West Show. It required some doing: a private railroad car for Willard, his family, manager, trainers, and assorted friends. Included in the deal were an automobile and chauffeur, a chef and a porter, for the exclusive use of the Willards.
“John, you done any boxing?” asked Joe Miller.
“A little, back at Carlisle,” John admitted.
He hadn’t enjoyed it much, and there was not much emphasis on boxing at the Indian schools. Striking with fists was virtually unknown among the Indian cultures. One would strike an enemy with a weapon or a coup stick, or would wrestle. Competition was keen in running, swimming, and contest sports. This translated well to track and field or competitive games, but not to boxing. It was an unfamiliar concept.
John had heard about the signing of Jess Willard by the Millers, and was not completely pleased by the news that the Great White Hope would be a part of the show. He was prepared to resent this development. But what did Miller have in mind?
“It’s like this,” Miller went on. “We’re settin’ up to have an extra private show after each main event. Willard will ride with the cowboys in the arena, but for those who want to stick around and pay an extra quarter, they can watch him in the ring with a sparrin’ partner. Now, he’s got his own trainin’ partner, Walt Monohan. But if we’re doin’ this a couple times a day, we figger it might be good to have somebody else to fall back on.”
“But, I—”
“You don’t have to take any real punches, John. Just dance around a bit. They’ll be watchin’ him, not you.”
“I don’t know, sir … .”
“Talk to him before you decide,” suggested Joe Miller. “He’s a nice fella, John.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to him.”
John was not eager for this interview. He was deeply suspicious about the thing of the Great White Hope and already resented deeply the racial overtones in this situation. It was a pleasant surprise, then, when he first met Jess Willard. The man who extended a hand to him seemed exactly as he had been billed: a big, friendly Kansas cowboy.
“John Buffalo? Howdy. I’m Jess Willard. Mr. Miller tells me you were at Stockholm. You really know Jim Thorpe?”
“Yes, sir.” John was completely taken by surprise.
“Must have been quite an experience!”
“It sure was.”
“I’ll want to talk to you about it later. Now about this sparrin’ thing. You’re an athlete and at least have an understanding of boxing. Want to try it? Just a show, a little sparrin’ for the crowd.”
“Maybe so,” said John. “Why not?”
Against his initial feelings, he found that he liked this man.
There was a session or two in which he was coached by Walt Monohan.
“Dance around to your right, John, away from his right. That’s it … Parry his left, but don’t—Ouch! Remember his one-two … . Block, but watch his other hand!”
Willard slipped a left past John’s block and landed a fairly solid punch to his jaw. John’s head whirled. Almost instantly, he found himself in a clinch, struggling with his arms around the champion’s shoulders and chest. He didn’t remember having grabbed the man.
“Sorry, son,” Willard said in his ear. “Now, when you’re in a bit o’ trouble, jest grab your opponent like this … . Hang on a minute … . Wrassle around till your head clears … . Referee’s gonna break it up, but it gives you a bit o’ time … .”
The sparring routine was so popular with the crowd that more exhibition sessions were scheduled between shows. It was purely a sparring encounter, and John was grateful that he was not asked to “take a fall,” as he had feared. To the spectators, simply watching the champion work out was reward enough.
There were more major developments that summer on the international fronts. The Great War was building rapidly, and the Millers were hard put to furnish horses to the Allies. Shipping became more of a problem almost daily.
Brothers Zack and George were concentrating more on the lucrative business in supplying the war effort, and were, more and more, allowing Joe to manage the show. However, the shipping problem proved a means to serve both efforts. In typical Miller fashion, it was decided to buy their own steamship. A German maritime firm agreed to sell them a vessel at New York for a sum of nearly $500,000, an unheard-of figure in 1915. However, the Millers calculated that four trips delivering horses to Allied nations, would pay for the ship. Then, after the war, the ship could be refitted to carry the entire Wild West Show on a five-year round-the-world tour.
But the best-laid plans go awry. German attacks on shipping were increasing, and in May an American freighter was torpedoed without warning. Only a few days later, the Cunard Line’s S.S. Lusitania, a passenger steamer out of New York, was destroyed by German torpedoes, with a loss of more than 1,000 passengers, including Americans. For all practical purposes, the United States was at war.
Despite this, President Wilson believed that the country should remain neutral. It would be nearly two years before the mood of the citizens would force the entry of the United States into the Great War.
FORTY-SEVEN
Even after a highly successful 1915 season, the Miller brothers could not agree on whether, with war appearing imminent, they should place a show on the road. Jess Willard had failed to renew his contract, and instead signed on with the Sells-Floto Circus. There was an urgent need for a new special act. Joe Miller was now the “Miller” part of the show offered that year by the Miller and Arlington Wild West Show Company.
There was a great national push for preparedness in case war did come. Once again, Joe Miller keenly guessed the mood of the public. There must be a way to harness the swelling patriotism and national pride.
Buffalo Bill Cody, still struggling to break out of his tragic bankruptcy and other legal entanglements, was able to sign with the 101, the only major Wild West Show still on the road. Unable to buy into the show, Cody was placed on a salary and percentage contract and worked vigorously to prove his worth.
Meanwhile, in keeping with the Preparedness theme, Joe Miller contacted the War Department to see if he could “borrow” some troops for demonstration purposes. His timing could not have been better. A display of “an Army of Uncle Sam’s gallant defenders of Old Glory” must have been a recruiter’s dream.
General Hugh Scott, Army chief of staff, ordered several regiments to furnish troops for the road show. With Miller’s uncanny sense of timing again apparent, the town of Columbus, New Mexico, was raided by Mexican revolutionary Pancho Villa, killing seventeen Americans. The Army dispatched 5,000 troops to Mexico, followed quickly by General Pershing’s punitive expedition to pursue Villa.
The Wild West Show was now the “Buffalo Bill (Himself) and 101 Ranch Wild West Combined, with the Military Pageant of Preparedness.” The show included a reenactment of the Columbus raid, complete with maneuvers by artillery, cavalry, and parade units, with flags flying and patriotism at its highest.
Buffalo Bill seemed to be a good drawing card, and was pleased to be working again with Iron Tail, his old Lakota friend.
John Buffalo was uneasy. There was always a ripple of excitement in preparation for the opening show of each season, a thrill of expectation. It had been there, but it was accompanied by an odd feeling that something was not quite right.
One thing that bothered him was the attitude of the Poncas. Many of them had objected to the drilling for oil on Ponca land a few years earlier. They remembered that before his death, Chief White Eagle, wh
o had given his approval, had stated sadly that it had been a mistake. “It will mean great trouble for me, for my people, and for you,” he told E. W. Marland, the oil wildcatter. By this time, it was being whispered that White Eagle’s prediction was a curse. There were stories of ghosts, whose eerie cries and wails could be heard on the wind, mingling with the cries of night birds and coyotes … Ghosts of both Indians and cowboys, the Poncas said. There were stories of 101 riders who had disappeared mysteriously. Usually, they were young loners who had run afoul of the Millers.
John put little credence in these stories. The Millers had treated him well. It seemed to him that cowboys who did not get along with the boss usually moved on. Still, he could not account for the Poncas’ uneasiness. They felt something ominous. A pall hung over the ranch, and the ghost stories continued. Maybe it would be better when the troupe hit the road for the season … .
But the season was marked by sickness. It was a year of disease. Nationwide, there was an epidemic of infantile paralysis, later called “polio.” Influenza was beginning to become serious again. Buffalo Bill Cody’s health was deteriorating, though he never missed a performance.
In Philadelphia, Iron Tail fell ill with pneumonia, and was hospitalized. Uncomfortable with the unfamiliar surroundings, the old chief slipped away, bought a one-way ticket to his South Dakota homeland, and boarded the train. He died on the train in Fort Wayne, Indiana, en route home.
The show must go on, and did so in a highly successful twelve days’ stand in Brooklyn at the New York Stampede. Among the dignitaries in attendance were former president Theodore Roosevelt and Will Rogers, their old friend from home. Roosevelt pronounced the performance a bully show, and Rogers invited the 101 troupe as his guests to watch his performance as headliner at the Ziegfeld Follies.
John was still uneasy, off balance. He could not define it: a vague feeling that something was wrong. Maybe he had listened to the Poncas’ ghost stories too seriously. Or, maybe he had tried so hard to adopt the white man’s ways that he was no longer capable of evaluating such a situation. Among his own people, following their ways, could he have understood? He had been deeply touched, too, by the death of Iron Tail. The old man must have felt something like this uneasiness. Iron Tail’s answer was to go home—at least, to make the attempt.
But Iron Tail had had family back in the Black Hills. John Buffalo had none, and nowhere to go. His heart was very heavy.
The show was in Chicago when it happened. The title of the performance had been changed for the Chicago run at the request of local politicians. There was a large German-American population, and it was feared that the militaristic Preparedness pageant might offend some. The military emphasis was downgraded for the series of appearances, and the Indian part emphasized. The entire performance was dubbed a Shan-kive, which was interpreted as an Indian expression meaning a “good time.”
The mayor, “Big Bill” Thompson, was given a title, Honorary Director General of the Shan-kive, and Buffalo Bill was proclaimed Judge Supreme of all rodeo events. Honorary judges included Joe Miller and local dignitaries such as William Pinkerton of the famed detective agency. Once more, John marveled at Joe Miller’s ability to evaluate and capitalize on a situation.
In the midst of all the excitement of the Chicago run, John was approached by a 101 employee who had been back to the base in Oklahoma.
“Buffalo! I have a letter for you. Mr. George sent it.”
“Thanks, Slim …”
He looked for a private spot to open the letter. It was tattered and water stained, but he was almost certain that he recognized the handwriting. The carefully drawn but clumsy-appearing words were certainly Hebbie’s. She had tried to raise the level of her literacy to match his own education.
But now, hope sprang alive in his heart. He could find her now and resume his life. In one of the storage tents, he sat on a rolled canvas and opened the envelope with shaking fingers.
My dearest John …
If you are reading this, then it can mean only one thing. I have left it in another envelope, to be opened in the event of my death.
John Buffalo’s moan of anguish could not be heard over the cheers and laughter of the crowd in the arena seats, but it echoed into the darkest recesses of his own soul. He had known for years—how many, now?—that this was the likeliest outcome, but could never have been ready.
He sat silently for a little while, tears streaming down his cheeks. Then he made an effort to read further. He found quickly that it was a useless effort. The envelope—even the letter itself—had been damaged so badly that most of it was illegible. It was torn and water stained, and looked as if someone had tried to paste it back together. If it had not been for a fairly clean area on the outside of the envelope where “101” could be seen, it probably would not have been delivered at all. He could see, toward the bottom of the stained page, a few words, including those most important:” … love you always, Hebbie.”
His eyes brimmed full again, and he turned to the envelope. When and where had this been mailed?
The postmark was smudged, completely undecipherable. He could not read either the date or the location. He looked for a return address, but found none.
There was another roar of approval from the arena as the show continued, but it meant nothing to John. His world was empty. He folded the letter carefully and returned it to the envelope, slipping it into his shirt pocket, and wandered out into the area between the big top and the auxiliary units.
He had to get away … But, to where? He had no place to go. For the past few years, his closest thing to a home had been the headquarters of the Hundred and One. Now he could not go there. There were too many memories.
He thought again of Iron Tail, boarding the train for his beloved Black Hills as his life faded away. John could understand that, but he had no comparable place. Still, the vast open spaces of the West, the lands of big sky and far horizons, seemed desirable to him. He thought of the sunsets he and Hebbie had shared. There were few sunsets worth watching in Chicago or Philadelphia.
I have to get away, he thought. Back to where I can stretch my eyes to as far as I can see. I need to be alone, to think, to remember the good times.
He made his way to the dormitory-style sleeping tent and tossed his few belongings into a duffel bag. He was just emerging when the main show concluded and the crowd came pouring out. Joe Miller, on his white stallion, came across the grounds toward the stable at a fast walk.
“Mr. Miller!” John called.
The showman reined aside.
“Yes, John?”
“I’m leaving, sir. A personal matter.”
“I see,” nodded Miller. “Slim said he brought you a letter. Anything we can do?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, stop by the office for your pay. Will you be coming back?”
“I … I’m afraid I don’t know, Mr. Miller.”
“Well, there’s a place for you at the Hundred and One.”
“Thank you, sir. That means a lot.”
He collected his pay and headed for the train depot, with very little idea as to where he’d be going. But he carried his saddle. Wherever he might be, he’d want that option.
FORTY-EIGHT
There was much about the next few months that John could never remember later. Sometimes a fragment of memory would startle him unexpectedly. He would struggle with it. Had it happened at all, or was it merely a disconnected thought that had floated to the surface through the dreamlike haze that hung over him?
He was running … . From the world, from the tragedy and the heartbreak of reality, from a life that no longer seemed worthwhile. Running as in a dream, and with the same futility. He was pursued, and each painfully slow and laborious step brought him no nearer to escape from the nameless, faceless thing that hounded him. Even knowing that one is dreaming, sometimes it is impossible to escape or to waken. The dream goes on and on, the terror drawing nearer yet postponing the attack tha
t will mercifully end the chase.
John’s flight from reality was much like that. He was attempting escape from something that, in the end, was within his own heart and could not be evaded. It would be many years before he was able to even begin to understand. Just now, heartbroken, he sat numbly in the railroad coach and listened to the click-clack of the wheels … . It seemed to be the sound and rhythm that marked every change in his life, good or bad. Mostly bad. He could remember few train trips that led to anything but disappointment. The travels on the show train did not count. They were accompanied by work and play and the company of friends. This—the solitary travel in a futile attempt to escape—was completely different. He wanted to scream, to shout a protest at the unfairness of life. He did not do so. His dignity would not allow it. The stoic, emotionless defense adopted by the red man in the presence of others would have to suffice. He looked at the other passengers, many of them sleeping in the dim light as the train rushed westward. Could any of them possibly understand the extend of his grief?
He thought of Iron Tail, the proud Sioux chief. The old warrior had known he was dying, and had tried to go home to the beloved land of his childhood. Iron Tail had not succeeded in reaching home before he crossed over to the Other Side, but he had made the attempt.
Maybe, thought John, he, too, was making such an attempt. He had given little thought to where he should go in his retreat. He had no home, no family. He had merely headed west because it was from there that he had come.
The thought that he, like Iron Tail, was headed home to die weighed heavily on him. His own death would be not from pneumonia, but from a broken heart. He sighed deeply and stared out the window at the vast blackness of the night.
The Long Journey Home Page 29