The Long Journey Home

by Don Coldsmith

  He surprised himself, that he was so defensive. Equally surprised, Alice backed off.

  “Say, John, I didn’t mean—Look, no offense intended.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “None taken … Sorry. But do you know where their place is?”

  “Not exactly. She’s wanted to keep it theirs, and separate from their military jobs. North of here, somewhere.”

  That didn’t narrow it much, but he tried to recall. Probably the meadow where they’d had their picnics would be in an area familiar to her. He recalled now that when she spoke of their farm, she had used a hand gesture, as if over there … . It was worth a try. He hiked out toward the grassy hillside.

  As luck would have it, he had not quite reached the point where they would leave the road, when he heard the clip-clop of an approaching horse, and the slight rattle and squeak of buggy wheels. He stepped off the road and looked ahead to the point where the approaching buggy would top the hill.

  A mail carrier … Maybe … He waved to the driver to pause, and the man pulled the horse to a stop.

  John stepped forward. “Excuse me. Am I on the right road to the Jackson place?”

  “Sure are. Over the hill and just around the bend, there. Not home very often, though.”

  “That’s okay. Thanks!”

  His pace quickened as he rounded the bend to see a small frame house tucked in against the hillside. Like many with the men away at war, the yard was a bit weedy and untended, but the place looked prosperous. There were good corrals, a hay barn, and a young apple orchard. It could be a good place. Except … There was no man here, to live and love his home. Now there would not be.

  His heart was heavy as he walked up to the porch and knocked at the door. He could hear music inside, a phonograph playing a sweet romantic waltz. He recognized the melody as one he had studied in a music class at school, but at the moment could not put a name to it.

  He knocked again, and heard footsteps approaching the door as the record came to its end and continued to turn with a scritch-scritch sound. The door opened and Ruth Jackson stood there, surprised.

  “John! Come in!”

  She turned and lifted the needle from the phonograph record, stopping the annoying scritch-scritch.

  He had no idea what to expect when he knocked on the door, but certainly not this. There might have been friends or neighbors, but there were none. She might have been drawn and haggard, but it appeared that she was dressed for an occasion. Her hair was arranged carefully, she had used just the right amount of powder and rouge, and wore an attractive party dress. If it had not been for the tragedy in her eyes …

  “Ruth … I heard,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you, John. Thank you for coming.”

  “You … You’re alone?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Yes. I really have no people here, anymore. I wanted to spend a little time here, alone with some of the happy memories.”

  “I’ll go,” he offered, with a glance at the crank-winding Edison phonograph and the stack of wax record disks beside it.

  “No, no,” she protested. “It was good of you to come.”

  “Well, I … I’m shipping out. Monday, I guess.”

  There was a look of alarm on her face.

  “France?”

  “No. Oklahoma. They’re converting cavalry units to artillery.”

  “I heard about that. Fort Sill?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Well … John, would you stay with me a little while?”

  “Of course.”

  She stood at the window, gazing at the radiant sunset.

  “I was just remembering some of the good times,” she said wistfully.

  She turned and pointed to the stack of records on the chair by the phonograph.

  “Nearly every one of those has a special memory,” she murmured. “Here, I’ll show you.”

  She wound the spring tightly, put a new record under the needle, and released the latch to allow it to turn. The strains of a Strauss waltz floated through the room.

  “That was the first one we danced to,” she said happily. She was swaying to the music. “It’s a good memory. Will you dance with me, John?”

  She came into his arms, naturally and comfortably, and they danced. He had always felt clumsy and uncomfortable on a dance floor, but this was different. Somehow, this was not for his pleasure, but to fulfill her inner needs. It was almost as if some outside influence was making him a better dancer, for her.

  Her face brightened, her smile became happier, and her eyes shone with pleasure. The record finished and she chose another, and they danced.

  Later, thinking back, he could not believe the perfection that he achieved that night with her … . For her. People mourn in different ways. For Ruth Jackson, reliving the good times was the way to honor her husband’s memory. John did not delude himself. She was reliving the good times with her sweetheart, lover, and husband, not with John Buffalo. He was merely a proxy. John knew and understood this, as he knew that she did. It was not necessary to discuss it.

  Darkness fell, and Ruth lighted a coal-oil lamp. They danced some more. Finally, as the phonograph wound down on a slow, romantic number, she snuggled close to him. He could feel the wetness of the tears on her cheeks as she whispered in his ear.

  “John, would you stay with me tonight?”

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  John woke in the morning with a burning sense of guilt. There was a smell of coffee and of bacon frying. He did not know whether he could face her. In her moment of bereavement and weakness, he had betrayed his friend, had taken advantage of the situation. How could he look at her this morning?

  He turned to the pillow beside him, still bearing the indentation of her head. The memory of her body next to his, the warm softness as she cuddled against him … At times she had cried softly … . He had held her close and tried to comfort her in her grief. He had given her only what she seemed to want and need.

  But these thoughts did not in any way justify what had happened. He looked around the bedroom, attractive, with just the right degree of feminine ruffles and frills. On a dresser, the instruments of a lady’s preparation for the day: comb, hairbrush, powder puff … The faint scent of sweet perfume wafted from that direction … Her party dress lay across a chair. He had been here, in a place he had no right to be. Another man’s home, his bed, with his wife. A dead man. He had done some things in his life of which he was not particularly proud, but never like this. The guilt descended on him like a cold, wet blanket. He did not know how he could face Ruth. The whole thing was wrong, like the taste of ashes in his mouth. He considered for a moment whether he could dress and slip quietly out the front door, but rejected the idea. He must be a man, acknowledge his mistake, and ask for her forgiveness.

  He saw a hint of motion from the corner of his eye, and turned to look to the doorway of the bedroom.

  “Oh, you’re awake!” she said brightly. “Good. I’ll bring you some coffee.”

  She turned away toward the kitchen. There was no time to answer, but he did not fail to notice that she made only momentary eye contact.

  “I’ll come out there,” he called.

  He could not wait to escape the bedroom and its associated guilt. He dressed quickly and stepped down the narrow hallway to the kitchen, where she was busy at the stove, sending wonderful breakfast smells through the warm room.

  “On the table.” She pointed with a big spoon, but did not look up from the eggs she was scrambling.

  John sat at the table and cupped the hot coffee mug in his hands.

  “Thanks,” he muttered briefly.

  There was much more that he had to say, but he knew that to broach any subject while a woman is cooking would be a mistake. That was one of the things he had learned as a small child at his mother’s lodge fire.

  Silence was wise. Ruth was doing everything at once, dishing up fried potatoes, eggs and bacon, and peeking into the oven to
check the progress of what must be biscuits. It all came together with the miraculous timing that allows a really good cook to have everything ready at the same moment. She set two plates on the table and a plate of biscuits between. She added a covered cut-glass dish with a lid, though which he could see a comb of honey.

  “Sorry I’ve no butter,” she apologized. “I’m not here very often.”

  Their eyes had still not met for more than an instant.

  “Ruth, I—,” he began clumsily.

  “Let’s eat while it’s hot,” she suggested. “We’ll talk later.”

  John didn’t think he could find the appetite, but once he was started, the primitive instinct to eat when there is food took command. Ruth Jackson was a very capable woman in many ways. With a great deal of regret, he felt that his behavior had now destroyed any chance of a lasting relationship. He cursed himself for being an idiot.

  They ate in silence, and she rose once to refill their coffee cups.

  “Good coffee,” he said clumsily. “Good breakfast.”

  “Thank you.”

  Finally he could stand it no longer.

  “Ruth,” he began.

  “John, I—,” she stammered at the same instant.

  Both laughed nervously.

  “Let me,” he said. “Ruth, I owe you an apology. I have violated our friendship. I’m sorry …”

  Her eyes were wide with surprise.

  “No, no!” she insisted. “I owe you the apology.”

  He was astonished.

  “How could you think that?” he blurted. “I—”

  She placed a finger gently on his lips.

  “Hush,” she said softly. “I asked you to stay. I was lonely … Maybe, the loneliest night of my life. You were here for me when I needed someone. I took advantage of you. I used you.”

  “No, no, Ruth. It was not like that … . I wanted to do anything to help you. I know how it feels. I have been there. Besides, I probably owe you my life.”

  She blushed self-consciously.

  “That was my job.”

  “Not hardly. Not many would have gone that far.”

  “But that … John, I don’t want you to misunderstand. I’m not ready …”

  “I know,” he said gently. “Ruth, I wasn’t trying to … I mean … I—I violated your trust.”

  She laughed a bit nervously.

  “We could argue all day,” she observed. “I was able to help you in your need. A different need, of course. You were here for me. Some things are meant to be. It does not require anything else.”

  “Still friends?”

  “Of course. Better than ever, John. Maybe even more, later. But not now. I hope you understand. But no hurt involved?”

  “Of course not.”

  They got up from the table and embraced warmly. A kiss … Not like the deeply, urgent amorous kisses of the previous evening. Merely a warm, affectionate exchange of genuine esteem.

  And it was good.

  “You have to get out of here,” Ruth observed. “Aren’t you due back to duty?”

  “Oh, my God!” he blurted. “Of course. I’ll be listed AWOL on the morning report!”

  “Buffalo! Where the hell have you been?” yelled the sergeant. “I’ve got you listed … Never mind! Get your duffel. The train leaves at noon.”

  John dashed for the barracks, yanked open his footlocker, and started stuffing the contents into his duffel bag. Fortunately, there wasn’t much to pack. The troop had not yet been issued winter clothing, which would have been much bulkier.

  He had just finished and buckled the canvas web straps when the sergeant entered the barracks.

  “Okay, fall out! Assemble in the street, carrying your gear. Let’s go!”

  As John passed him, the sergeant spoke quietly.

  “John, we’re tryin’ to get the morning report changed. You were listed as AWOL, but the company clerk will try to fix it. If anybody asks, you know nothin’. Somebody made a mistake, but you’re here. Mebbe they had you confused with somebody else, I expect.”

  “Sergeant, I—”

  The sergeant held up a hand to stop him.

  “The less I know, the better. I don’t even want to hear about it. Whatever it is, I reckon you had a reason. Now, get down there and fall in. We got a train to catch.”

  The train huffed and puffed its way south across rolling hills covered with lush prairie grasses, now starting to push up tall seed-heads. It would be October before they were fully ripe. They crossed into a region where more farms and crop land formed a green, brown, and black checkerboard across the landscape. The train stopped frequently to take on water for the boilers, but even so, they were making good time.

  South of Wichita, the country changed again. The familiar red soil began to make John feel at home. This was much like the country around the 101. He wasn’t certain exactly when they crossed into Oklahoma, but he began to see familiar landmarks. How many times he had traveled these same tracks on the Hundred and One Wild West Show trains.

  The train stopped briefly at Ponca City, and no one was allowed to get off. John craned his neck to see if he could spot anyone he knew, but it was growing dark, and saw no one.

  On southward to Lawton, and nearby Fort Sill, the command school for the Army’s Field Artillery training. It was completely dark now, and had been for some time. They detrained and marched in formation, carrying their duffel bags to a distant area of the post. There, they waited in a company street for something to happen. John had often wondered at such situations. What was happening inside the office of the administration building? What could there possibly be to talk about? The commanders had known for days, probably, that new troops would be arriving.They would be assigned to a barracks. An empty barracks. What could there possibly be to discuss, while the troops waited in the street in loose formation in the middle of the night? This was one of the things about the military that he would never understand.

  In due time, the noncommissioned officers came out and called the formation to attention. They shouldered duffel bags and marched, this time at rout-step, to an area a half mile away, where they moved into an empty barracks building like all the others.

  John fell into his bunk, exhausted from long hours of travel, thinking bittersweet thoughts of where he had been only twenty-four hours ago. He wondered whether Ruth might be awake … . Sleeping, probably … His heart went out to her in her bereavement. He knew how she must feel. He had overcome most of the guilt feelings, and hoped that he had, indeed, helped her in her loss and her loneliness. Ruth had certainly seemed to think so.

  It seemed that he had barely closed his eyes when the strains of reveille floated across the bright Oklahoma morning. Tired troopers were jumping into clothes and hurrying outside. It had been a short night.

  This was John’s first look at Fort Sill by daylight. It was much like other posts he had seen, but with one notable exception. The signs, designating building numbers and letters, were red, sometimes with white lettering. The little picket fence along the corner of the lawn where the barracks stood was bright red. He had never seen a red picket fence before. It took a moment to realize … . Red … The color designation for Artillery, along with the symbol of crossed cannons. He wondered whether an Infantry school would have sky blue fences.

  They could see a mountain in the distance. It was symmetrical in shape, an almost perfect cone. Not a mountain that would be impressive in the Rockies, but still certainly worthy of note.

  He learned this was Mount Scott, tallest of the range that could be seen in the distance, the Wichitas.

  There seemed to be a winding trail, spiraling around and around the cone of Mount Scott.

  “Looka there!” One of the newcomers pointed as they dispersed after roll call. “There’s people on that hill over there!”

  “Sure,” said a sergeant who was passing the newly settled troop. “Them are the mule packers.”

  “Mule packers?”

  “Ye
p … Mountain howitzers. Seventy-fives.”

  “They’ve got cannon up there?”

  There were human figures walking and leading mules along the mountain trail.

  “Yep. Special troops. The gun comes apart, packs on six mules. You’ll see ’em, later. I expect that’s C-battery up there. Say, you’re the new fellas … . Maybe you’ll be assigned to mule-pack.”

  He moved on, chuckling to himself. John and his fellow cavalrymen did not understand the humor in the situation. Not yet.

  FIFTY-NINE

  Before the day was over, they learned a great deal more. Every newcomer received a brief physical examination, part of which included detailed measurements of length and girth of their legs.

  “What’s goin’ on here?” someone asked.

  “We’re forming a new battery,” an artillery sergeant told them. “Special troops.”

  Still, no one answered any questions.

  At one point, John was called aside to be interviewed by a young captain.

  “Corporal,” said the officer, “you are John Buffalo?”

  “Yes, sir. Corporal John Buffalo, reporting as ordered.”

  “Hmm … Your unit’s morning report yesterday lists you as absent without leave.”

  “Yes, sir. Our platoon sergeant mentioned something about that. I don’t understand. I’m certainly here … .”

  The captain looked up sharply, as if questioning whether this was an insolent remark.

  “How’s that, Corporal?”

  “Sorry, sir. I meant no offense. Only to call attention to my presence.”

  “Well … Don’t get smart!”

  “Oh, no, sir. Nothing of the sort intended. Anything I can do to help straighten it out.”

  The officer still appeared to have some doubts.

  “Hmm … No one seems to know anything about it.”

  “So I was told, sir. Someone said, probably a clerical error at Fort Riley before we entrained.”

  “That would be a convenient explanation, Corporal,” said the captain, perhaps a bit sarcastically. “But … Your record’s good. Maybe it is just an error in recording the report.”