The Long Journey Home

by Don Coldsmith

  The Rough Riders were, as McCoy put it in his biography, “ … like the man in midair who suddenly discovers that he has no trapeze.”

  John Buffalo certainly felt this letdown. He had counted on the Rough Riders to give him some sort of a sense of direction. Many of the cowboys he had met recently felt the same. Some were enlisting in the army. The United States had initiated a draft, and the cowboys felt that they had a better chance for the choice of cavalry if they volunteered, instead of waiting to be drafted.

  As well as every other Indian, John was in a unique position. They were not yet recognized as American citizens, and were consequently exempt from the draft. They could volunteer for military service, in the same status as other volunteers, though still not citizens.

  Eager to fill the ranks, recruiters sent negotiating teams to the reservations to try to promote enlistments. John Buffalo decided to go along to the powwow on the Wind River Reservation to hear what the recruiters had to offer. He arrived with George Shakespear and Tim McCoy early in the afternoon at the dance arbor, a temporary shelter built to furnish shade for participants and spectators. There were dozens of bluecoat soldiers, many wearing uniforms heavy with gold braid. The high-ranking military men and dignitaries were seated at a table in the center of the arbor, and the Arapahoes, about one hundred in number, sat cross-legged on the ground.

  The speeches were flowery and full of platitudes that sounded like some of the old peace commission diplomacy … .

  “The Great White Father needs the help of his Indian children,” one orator gushed.

  “We must join together, red and white, to fight our common enemy … .”

  “The red man and the white man are brothers!”

  One after another the speakers rose, voiced their platitudes, and sat back down. Finally, a tall, dignified old Arapaho rose, dropped his blanket, and began to speak.

  “That’s Lone Bear,” George Shakespear whispered to John. “One of our most respected chiefs.”

  Lone Bear did a very uncharacteristic thing for one of the elders. He spoke in English, and in hand signs as well for those of his people who had no English.

  “A long time ago, we ‘Rapahoes fought you white men. We were brave but there were more of you. Your medicine was good, and though we fought hard, many of our friends were killed. A lot of bluecoats also died … . Then we were beaten and you told us follow the white man’s road. You told us putem up our tomahawks forever and pickem up plows. Yeah, ‘pickem up plow, live in peace.’ That is what you said then.

  “But now you come here and tell us, ‘Injun, putem down plow, pickem up tomahawk!’ Lone Bear is an old man, and maybeso Lone Bear is stupid, but Lone Bear no savvy!”

  The old chief resumed his seat.

  “I think maybeso Lone Bear ’savvies’ pretty good,” McCoy said quietly. “That or I don’t savvy, either.”

  The recruitment effort met with little success among Arapaho that day.

  Not long afterward, Tim McCoy, feeling a strong patriotic pull, left his ranch under the care of George Shakespear and joined a new officer candidate program in the Army.

  Other cowboys enlisted, and John Buffalo was restless to be doing something … anything.

  He could go anywhere he wished. His charges in the matter of the gold mine had been dropped so that he could enlist in the Rough Riders. That had fallen through, but he had been assured that, with the forfeiture of the gold claim his record was clean. There was a nagging doubt that maybe the claim was worth something to somebody, but he didn’t care. He was too grateful to be out.

  He thought of returning to the 101, but the Wild West Show had been closed until further notice. At least, until after the war. He considered, very briefly, the option of working at the ranch, but that was the locale of almost his entire life with Hebbie. He did not think he could bear to see the familiar surroundings, the places they had loved and enjoyed together … . No, it would never do.

  Maybe he should enlist. There were white men who had been good to him. The Millers, Naismith, Pop Warner … And, what would happen if the United States and the Allies lost the war? The Millers had supported the Allies worldwide.

  Yes, the 101 was probably not his best option. He could volunteer for the cavalry. He would have no major decisions to make, and could contribute his skills to the war effort … . Maybe even learn something.

  He wondered where to go to enlist. Thermopolis, maybe. But the recruiter he’d seen there appeared to lean toward infantry, which John hoped to avoid. Somehow, he remembered that the Army’s Cavalry School was at Fort Riley, Kansas. Yes … He could go there, walk in and offer to enlist.

  At the next payday, he collected his pay from the Double Diamond, where he’d been working, and quit.

  “Somethin’ wrong, John?”

  “No, sir. Just need to do something. Thought I’d join the Army, maybe.” The boss nodded. “Lots of cowboys are. I might even consider it myself, if I were younger. Best of luck, John!”

  John bought a train ticket and headed south. He’d change trains somewhere, probably Cheyenne. He couldn’t recall. He’d check it later.

  At least, now, he had some sense of purpose.

  FIFTY-TWO

  In due time John arrived at Fort Riley and approached the guardhouse at the gate.

  “I want to join the Army,” he told the guard who greeted him.

  He was directed to the proper building, and found himself facing a burly sergeant with a heavy handlebar mustache. The trim on his uniform was yellow. John had already realized that yellow designated cavalry, red, artillery, and light blue, infantry.

  The sergeant looked him up and down.

  “Cowboy? Where you from?”

  “Been workin’ in Wyoming,” John said vaguely. “Before that, Oklahoma. Hunnerd and One.”

  The sergeant seemed impressed.

  “How you happen to come here?”

  John shrugged. “Cavalry.”

  The sergeant’s face beamed with approval.

  “Good. You got some experience with horses?”

  It was not really a question.

  The sergeant opened a drawer and took out a sheet of paper, which appeared to be a form. He dipped a pen into the ink bottle on the desk and poised it over the paper.

  “Name?”

  “Buffalo. John Buffalo.”

  The sergeant paused.

  “You’re Indian, John?”

  “Yes, sir. That a problem?”

  “No. Can you read and write?”

  “Yes. I’ve been to school.”

  “Good. Here … You want to fill out this form? We get a lot that can’t read, you know.”

  “I’d expect so.”

  “Here … Pull up a chair.”

  He finished the paper and handed it back. The sergeant blotted the drying ink, turned the paper, and skimmed it quickly.

  “Good!” he said. “Now there’s a new platoon just forming. I’ll get somebody to take you over to Quartermaster where they’ll issue you a uniform. Then, down to the barracks. They’ll show you.”

  He called into an adjoining room, and a corporal stepped through the doorway.

  “Corporal,” said the sergeant, “this is John Buffalo, a new man. Take him over to Quartermaster and then over to C company.”

  “New platoon, Sergeant?”

  “Yes. Are they full yet?”

  “Still short a couple, I think.”

  “Okay, get him settled.”

  The next few days were a whirlwind of activity. The closest thing that John had ever come to this regimented scheduling was long ago during his first days at Carlisle. Even with the demanding travel schedules of the 101 Wild West Show on the road, there was nothing like this.

  To make matters worse, for the past few months he had been in cattle country, an area with strong Arapaho influence. Many of the ranches grazed on leased Arapaho land. It had been easy to fall into the habit of “Indian time”: It will happen when the time comes.


  Cowboying is often like that, anyway. When something is needed, he does it, sometimes with urgency. Then, a wait, often utilized in planning, but always vigilant and expectant toward the next emergency.

  Somehow, John had expected the Army to be like that.

  He was wrong.

  Every waking hour was planned for the recruits. Even the waking was planned, with a bugle call at dawn … . Reveille … This was accompanied by a yelling drill sergeant, stalking the barracks and shaking the bunks of those who moved too slowly.

  “Up! Up! You gonna sleep all day? Outta that sack, soldier!”

  Calisthenics, marching, weapons instruction, the issue of horses, saddles and equipment, saber drill “at the heads.” An entire afternoon was devoted to instruction in care and grooming of the horses. Some of the recruits had virtually no experience with animals at all. Another lengthy session was devoted entirely to cleaning, care, and polishing of the leather tack used on the horse. Halter, bridle, McClellan saddle, carbine scabbard … Saddle soap, neatsfoot oil, the old familiar smells. Never, though, had he seen common care of equipment given so important a schedule.

  It soon became apparent to the training cadre that John was a recruit with some experience. He could be of use to them. John was given responsibility, a little at a time, and managed to handle it well, assisting green recruits with their handling of horses.

  “Try it this way … . Pick up the foot and sort of lean against his shoulder … . So … That throws his weight on the other foot. Let him keep his balance.”

  Soon they let him have more responsibility. At the end of the few weeks of basic training, John was rewarded by the addition of two stripes to his sleeve: Corporal John Buffalo.

  It happened at the parade review. The reviewing stand was packed with dignitaries, gathered to observe and evaluate the graduating classes of trainees. Some of the new cavalrymen were draftees, but most were cavalry by choice, having enlisted as John had done, to gain this advantage.

  The military band, seated on a platform near the review stand, was pumping out the stirring strains of martial music to inspire pride and dignity in the troopers. It was a glorious day, one to make any soldier proud. Especially, a cavalryman.

  In his position as corporal, John rode at the end of one of the front ranks. As the platoon neared the review stand, the command, “Eyes … left!” rang out. As one, the heads of all the riders snapped to the left, to look into the faces of the visiting dignitaries. John found himself staring directly into a familiar face, yet one he could not quite identify.

  “Eyes … front!” came the next command, and the moment was gone.

  John was bewildered. He was certain that he knew—or had known—that tall captain, apparently an aide to one of the senior officers. But where? How?

  The mystery was solved quickly after the ceremonies ended.

  “John! John Buffalo!”

  The captain was hurrying toward him as John turned and tossed a snappy salute. It was returned almost casually.

  “John! What the hell are you doing here?”

  Now, with the ready, friendly smile and the familiar voice, his memory came rushing back. How many years? It had been at The Oaks, Senator Langtry’s plantation … A wonderful, impossible weekend, with Jane … Her family … Now a world away … This, her brother …

  “Alan Langtry? Excuse me, sir … . Captain Langtry!”

  The captain laughed.

  “Yes, finally graduated. But promotion’s slow except in wartime. Still just a captain. But where have you been, John? We need to talk. When are you off duty?”

  “After retreat, sir. But … Isn’t it forbidden to fraternize … an officer and an enlisted man?”

  The captain laughed again.

  “It must be permissible for a couple of old friends to talk. What ever happened to you? I expected to follow your athletic career. What happened?”

  He doesn’t know, John thought. No one ever told him about it.

  “I was transferred to another school. Haskell.”

  “You mean out here? At Lawrence?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But why? That must have been an error of some sort, John.”

  He has no idea, John realized.

  Alan Langtry would have been away at West Point, seldom home for the two or three years following that memorable weekend at The Oaks. There would have been no reason for the Senator to have explained the complicated events by which the life of John Buffalo had been changed. Or, the reason.

  “I have to get back to the stable, sir,” John said formally.

  “Of course. But, do meet me later, John. We can take a walk and visit a little. How about after your mess call—say, about seven? Meet at the parade ground?”

  “That’s fine, sir.”

  John saluted, and the greeting was returned casually.

  As he reined away, John was amused. Alan Langtry still retained much of his boyish charm and enthusiasm, but now it was heavily overlaid with military discipline. As it should be, he realized. His preoccupation with time called it to John’s attention … . “About seven …”

  For the past year, John had been headed in the other direction. Cowboys, especially in the area where he’d been, were largely oblivious to time. Most did not even own a watch. They might as well be Indians, it was sometimes joked. But in the military, time was of the essence. Plans must coincide to bring success.

  As he trotted toward the stables to rejoin his platoon, John had an amusing hought. Now that he was in the Army, his life was being regulated again by the clock, as it had on the show circuit. A performance would be scheduled, a time and place. It was necessary to have hundreds of people, animals, and rolling stock coordinated to arrive at approximately the same time, maybe hundreds of miles away. It had become a way of life for him with the Miller Brothers 101.

  It had never before occurred to him, though, how much like the Wild West Show the military might be. People, horses, supplies, rolling stock. Even the parade just past … A big show, to quicken the pulse and inspire excitement.

  About the only difference, actually, was that when each big performance would begin, the results would be not a show, but deadly serious. Both sides would be using live ammunition.

  John rather dreaded meeting with Captain Langtry. It would bring back a lot of memories that he wasn’t sure he wanted to exhume.

  As it turned out, their conversation was much more pleasant than he expected. Alan Langtry seemed genuinely glad to see him. Somewhat to John’s surprise, he found that he really liked the young man, as he had originally. His years of bitter resentment toward the family had warped John’s memory of a truly wonderful weekend of companionship at The Oaks.

  He had determined not to hint at his suspicion—no, his conviction as to the reasons behind the transfer of a Carlisle student to Haskell, coinciding with the transfer of Alan’s sister Jane to school in Europe.

  “Are your parents well?” John asked soon after they met at the parade ground. He should have asked that earlier, he thought. But he had been caught off guard.

  “My father is,” Alan said. “My mother died a few years ago. Pneumonia.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He truly was. Mrs. Langtry had been good to him. He wondered how much she had been involved in his and Jane’s banishment. Or, if she had even known about that.

  “Thank you,” Alan went on. “It happens, John. We’re never ready. However, my father goes on and on. He’s out of the Senate; lost out when Teddy’s Bull Moose Party split the election and gave it to Wilson. Of course, he wasn’t pleased with Wilson’s ‘neutrality.’ Well, we’re in it now. My father may take another run at the Senate, I think. But what about you, John? How did you get here? I rather expected you to go to the Olympics someday.”

  John chuckled.

  “I did, but as an assistant coach. I was in Stockholm.”

  “With Thorpe? My God, John. What an experience! You’ve been coaching, then?”
/>   “Not much. I’ve been with the Miller 101 Wild West Show most of the time.”

  Alan roared with laughter.

  “As a cowboy, an Indian, or a soldier?”

  “Well, all three, at one time or other.”

  “Really? Incidentally, that’s a great show. But how?”

  “It’s a long story, Alan. Excuse me—I should say ‘sir.’”

  “Not among friends, Corporal.”

  John quickly sketched in the events since he left Carlisle, including the abortive attempt at reactivation of the Rough Riders. He omitted his arrest for attempting to sell a salted mine, as well as any references to romance.

  “My God, John! What an exciting life! Olympics, Wild West, Rough Riders. And wasn’t Jess Willard with the 101?”

  “Yes. I was his sparring partner.”

  Langtry threw up his hands helplessly.

  “But tell me more about the Rough Riders. You met Teddy Roosevelt?”

  “No, no. It never got that far. I guess Wilson stopped it.”

  “He was right, of course. The day of the old cavalry charge is over, John. And good riddance. But lord, what a thrill! A charge up the hill with Teddy! Just to imagine it … Who was your commander?”

  “We really weren’t that organized yet. A rancher-cowboy in Wyoming put it together. He had the connection to Roosevelt. Tim McCoy.”

  “McCoy? He’s here, John. One of those hurry-up tin-plated officers through the special units. They need officers badly, and are rushing ’em through so we can get some units in the field. Incidentally, I’m the general’s aide, and up for major. But back to McCoy … He’s one of the good ones. Promoted to captain right out of school. As you might imagine, that’s not popular with some of the West Point crowd, but we do need commanders.”

  They talked of other things. Alan had married his childhood sweetheart, from a good family. They had two children, a boy and a girl. John thought that he could detect little enthusiasm for the marriage. Likely, a “proper” union, with little romance.