The Long Journey Home

by Don Coldsmith

  McCoy had been supplied with a convertible automobile by the film company, and they crisscrossed the Wind River Reservation, extending the invitation to feasting, dancing, and entertainment. McCoy, though a bona fide Arapaho, still spoke no Arapaho or any other Indian tongue. However, he was skilled in the hand signs, while many modern Indians were not. This impressed the elders greatly and, as they traveled to extend the invitation, High Eagle told of the opportunity for employment, just for being themselves: Indians.

  John and George Shakespear were astonished at the pay offered by Famous Players-Lasky: On the basis of a seven-day week, each adult, man or woman, would receive $5 a day. For each child, 50 cents. One dollar a day for each horse, and for a teepee, another dollar. Thus, a couple with one child, a horse, and a teepee would draw $87.50 a week. Most Indian families would not see that much money in a year.

  “They’ll feed you, too,” McCoy assured the potential actors.

  “Huh! What?”

  “Beef, bread, canned fruit, coffee. Just what I’ll be eating myself.”

  “You’ll be there, High Eagle?”

  “Of course!”

  Quickly, nearly every long-hair on the Wind River Reservation, Shoshoni and Arapaho, had agreed. The offer was too good to refuse.

  “But, Tim,” protested Shakespear, “you’re still about three hundred short. There aren’t that many long hairs!”

  Over in Idaho, the Indian reservation at Fort Hall contained a large number of Bannock Indians, relatives of the Shoshones, Bannocks were big and muscular, and a great many followed the old ways in dress and hair. They would fit in well with the Wind River Arapahoes.

  There was one major problem. The Lasky people had already been there, and had signed a number of Fort Hall Indians to play in The Covered Wagon. However, the agent at Fort Hall refused to issue passes for them to leave the reservation.

  With his basic confidence and ways of getting things done, McCoy felt that there must be a way. He left John and George Shakespear at Wind River, working with Ed Farlow, another friend of McCoy’s, organizing the transportation of Arapahoes, Shoshones, teepees, ponies, and families.

  He sent a couple of telegrams to some of his military and political connections, asking their support, and boarded the train to Fort Hall. On arriving there, he found that the agent had received telegrams from such influential persons as General Winfield Scott and Senator Warren of Wyoming, father-in-law of General Pershing. The agent was asked to give the project his full cooperation.

  “The extent of his cooperation,” McCoy said later, “consisted of not getting in my way.”

  McCoy spoke no Bannock, of course, but was skilled in hand signs, which were universal. The novelty of watching a blue-eyed Arapaho converse with their own elders in a mode many of them did not know fascinated the Bannocks. Gradually, with the help of an English-speaking Bannock named Black Thunder, plans began to come together. Thunder, whose white man’s name was Randall, was hired by McCoy as one of the assistants authorized to help with the Indian encampment at Milford, Utah, where the filming of The Covered Wagon would take place.

  The logistics involved in transporting the Indians to Utah were enormous. The three hundred Bannocks, families, and horses were loaded onto Union Pacific cars at Fort Hall in mid-October. The railroad ran directly through Fort Hall.

  Arrangements were not so easy at Wind River. The Arapahoes and Shoshones were transported to Rawlins, Wyoming, by truck. There, they met the young Arapaho who had driven three hundred horses overland to board the train.

  Again, McCoy’s contacts as Adjutant General helped to clear the tracks for the two special trains: thirty coaches and fifteen stock cars in all. Five hundred Indians, four hundred horses … Baggage, teepees, poles …

  At Salt Lake City, they detrained for the overland trek to Milford. Again, the people were loaded in trucks and the ponies driven overland, the eighty-five miles to the site where Famous Players-Lasky would establish the tent city that would be the base for the filming.

  There were some five hundred tents, not even counting the teepees of the Indians. Altogether, more than 3,000 people, besides the Indian “extras.”

  This would be the greatest production on film yet attempted, and the longest. Ten reels in all, running nearly two hours. The budget—originally $100,000—soon stretched to five times that, but there was no turning back.

  The director was James Cruze, hired by Jesse Lasky to organize the actual filming. Cruze, a veteran Shakespearean actor in traveling companies, was not emotionally prepared for dealing with conditions like those at Milford. He was well aware of the financial strain of so many people on location for a period of several weeks. The food bill alone was enormous.

  Added to all of this, the fact that Cruze had no idea at all as to how to go about dealing with Indians.

  “Did you see him when he discovered that they’d carried off a side of beef from the cook tent?” chuckled Shakespear. “They were cuttin’ strips and dryin’ it for jerky on racks outside their lodges. Tim convinced Cruze that it would make great film.”

  SIXTY-SIX

  A tougher problem arose when Cruze decided on a scene in the Indian encampment.

  “Now, look, Tim. I want to shoot a scene tomorrow morning, and I want those teepees in a circle, with entrances facing each other, just like the old days.”

  John and Shakespear listened with amusement as McCoy tried to explain.

  “But that’s not the way it was in the old days. They always had the entrances facing east.”

  “Why?”

  “To greet the rising sun.”

  “The rising sun? Oh, for Chrissakes!”

  “Yes, the rising sun.”

  “Well, that may be true, but it’s also bullshit, because this scene can’t be filmed that way. Now, you just go and tell ’em what I want, how they gotta put those goddamned tents of theirs, and we’ll have a few minutes of film in the can, ready to send to Lasky.

  “No.”

  “What the hell do you mean, ‘no’? I want the tents the way I want them, and that’s the way they’re going to be!”

  “Fine, you tell the Indians,” McCoy said angrily. “It’s taken me a long time to build some friendships with these people, and I’m not goin’ to ruin everything overnight by asking them to do something they’re not goin’ to do anyway.”

  Cruze was pacing angrily.

  “Great, just great!” he yelled. “We hire a technical director, an ‘Indian expert,’ and he’s not gonna tell the goddamned Indians what to do. That’s just terrific! Okay, you goddamned red-faced Irish son of a bitch, I’ll tell ’em.”

  He did a lot of yelling and motioning, and gathered a circle of Indians. He demanded that Black Thunder translate in hand signs.

  “Tomorrow, everything the same, tents in circles, but entrances all facing each other, not east!”

  Black Thunder converted Cruze’s demand into hand signs. There were nods around the circle, and a few mumbled, “Yeah, yeah.” The gathering dispersed.

  Cruze whirled on McCoy.

  “You see? All you gotta do is ask ’em right!”

  John Buffalo and George Shakespear watched from a distance, amused at the scene.

  John shook his head. “Tim could have explained to him that the teepee has to face east or the smoke won’t draw.”

  “Sure,” George agreed, “but don’t you think Tim’s way of pointin’ that out is more fun?”

  “Right … Let’s not miss it in the morning.”

  They were up at dawn, headed from the tent where they were staying toward the Indian encampment, when they heard a wail of anguish.

  “Kee-rist!”

  They ran toward the sound, to find Cruze, surrounded by cameras, equipment, actors, and crew, almost ready to weep. All the teepees still faced east.

  “Jimmy,” McCoy was saying to Cruze, “they’re not goin’ to change tens of thousands of years of habit for this picture.”

  “But,” Cruz
e protested, still missing the point, “don’t they realize this is an epic?”

  Despite such misunderstandings, the filming went on. In a few weeks, a sizable body of work had been accomplished. Then came another problem: weather.

  A blizzard came howling over the mountains to the northwest. Cameras were rolling in an attempt to finish the scene before snow struck, but in vain. By this time, having realized that one cannot change either the weather or Indian custom, Cruze decided to keep filming as long as they could. The fortunate result—almost an accident—was some excellent footage of pioneers laboriously pushing Conestoga wagons across the mountain trail in a blinding snowstorm.

  The snow and ice continued. The three thousand crew, actors, and extras huddled in their tents, wet, cold, and miserable. Except, of course, for the Indians, who had wintered for generations in their teepees. They were oblivious to the world outside, cooking, eating, visiting each other’s lodges for a social smoke, singing, and playing on their drums. The teepee, with its central fire, its insulation via the lodge lining, and its east-facing smoke hole to make the fire draw properly, kept them quite warm and dry. Some invited white friends to join them.

  Several days later, as the snow continued, Goes in Lodge, a senior chief of the Arapahoes, suggested to McCoy, who was staying with him, a possible solution. He finished a song, laid his drum aside, and turned to McCoy.

  “High Eagle, maybe so you ask Yellow Calf about this weather?”

  “Why Yellow Calf?”

  “He might be able to do something about it.”

  Yellow Calf was respected as a powerful medicine man, but …

  “What can Yellow Calf do about it?” McCoy demanded.

  “You ask Yellow Calf about his Turtle Medicine,” answered Goes in Lodge.

  The conversation was over.

  It was a major decision for McCoy. The old men were fond of jokes, and it might be that he was being set up for a wild-goose chase. But, he decided, it would do no harm to try. Only embarrassment …

  He made his way through the snow to the lodge of Yellow Calf, where he scratched at the doorway.

  “Who is it?” came the question from inside.

  “High Eagle. May I come in?”

  “Whoahai! Come in,” called Yellow Calf.

  They smoked and visited, and after a polite length of time, McCoy broached the subject on his mind.

  “I have been with Goes in Lodge, and he says you might be able to do something about the weather.”

  Yellow Calf shrugged.

  “This weather, he’s strong,” he chuckled. “What could I do about it, High Eagle?”

  “Goes in Lodge said something about Turtle Medicine.”

  “Oh, yeah … It’s been a long time since I used that power. I don’t know if it will work, but maybe so we give it a try.”

  He picked up his drum and began to sing, apparently lost in the rhythm and cadence, maybe in the unintelligible words of the chant.

  After an hour or so, with no apparent results, High Eagle excused himself and returned to the teepee of Goes in Lodge. Later in the afternoon, Yellow Calf came to the lodge, looked in, and spoke.

  “You ready?”

  Accompanying the medicine man were a small crowd of Indians, including George Shakespear and John Buffalo.

  “We gonna try the Turtle Medicine,” announced Yellow Calf.

  Wrapped in a blanket and carrying an ax and his drum, Yellow Calf led the way through the storm to the center of the teepee circle. With the handle of the ax, he drew out in the snow a ring, about five paces across, then sketched a rough representation of a turtle about four feet long, in the frozen snow.

  He sang some songs, glanced around at the cluster of observers, and announced, “Now we try Turtle Medicine!”

  Stalking into the circle with great dignity, Yellow Calf raised his ax high and swung a mighty blow into the back of the turtle figure. There was a crunch of ice and frozen snow, and Yellow Calf turned to the spectators.

  “Pretty soon now, we’ll know if it works. Not too long. Just wait.”

  One of those present later recounted the next development:

  Within five or ten minutes the snow and wind stopped, the sun came out from behind the clouds for the first time in several days. And within a short time, the ice turtle had melted and vanished. We were all believers.

  About eight weeks had been spent in filming, and the project at Milford was finished. The process of striking camp and transporting five hundred Indians, their lodges, ponies, and baggage was at hand. Tim McCoy insisted later that it was necessary to book two extra railroad cars to carry all of the canned goods and beef that the Indian extras carried home to the reservations. He figured they had earned it.

  Back on the ranch at Owl Creek, McCoy approached John Buffalo.

  “John, these movie folks want me to come to Hollywood to be a ‘technical director’ on this film.”

  “I thought it was finished.”

  “Basically, it is, I guess. But they want to shoot a few more scenes to patch in. You know anything about training oxen to the yoke?”

  “No …” John thought of Bill Pickett, bulldogging with his teeth. “Nothing at all,” he said quickly.

  “But you’re good with animals,” said McCoy. “These folks want some footage of that kinda thing. To them, anybody that knows one end of a steer from the other is an ‘expert.’ You want to come along?”

  John thought about it for a moment. Maybe this was what he needed. He was restless. The past months had been busy and occupied, and now he was wondering whether to return to Kansas or to Oklahoma, maybe even New Mexico.

  “You don’t have to decide now,” McCoy was saying. “Think it over. Sleep on it.”

  “No,” said John. “I’ve thought about it. I’ll go.”

  It was little short of amazing, the diversity of people and of expertise involved in the making of motion pictures. John had had some such contacts before, as the Hundred and One had always been involved in the rising film industry. He had even appeared as an extra in some Bison 101 films. Most of these, however, were filmed at the ranch or, like The Covered Wagon, on location.

  A motion-picture studio was an entirely different and new experience for John Buffalo. The entire area was filled with specialists. Cameramen, electricians, actors, prop men, those with experience in handling livestock, cowboys who would take a fall that would kill a lesser man …

  Even the animals were specialists. A scene might call for a horse that was trained to fall on cue, as if he had been shot. Roping, cutting, and bucking horses were, of course, familiar to John, as well as those used in harness or as pack animals. One trait was crucial. A horse must be able to remain calm and pay attention to business in spite of distractions. Most horses would be alarmed at bright lights, gunshots, and snaky-looking electric cables. In that respect, there were similarities to the Wild West Show.

  The movie director’s job was to bring all of this together and create order out of chaos. It was immediately apparent that the film community known as Hollywood was growing rapidly. Several companies were leading the way, and the specialists easily moved from one to the other to carry out their specialized jobs.

  Famous Players-Lasky started with three men: Sam Goldfish, a glove salesman, Jesse Lasky, a playwright and brother-in-law of Goldfish, and Cecil B. DeMille, a director. Sam Goldfish had sold out his share some six years earlier, changed his name to Samuel Goldwyn, and joined a theater operator from Massachusetts, Louis B. Mayer, to become Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. Famous Players-Lasky would eventually become Paramount.

  The already-famous green barn where Cecil B. DeMille had filmed their first motion pictures was no longer a movie stage, but had been demoted to a prop room.

  But for now, Famous Players-Lasky was concerned with finishing The Covered Wagon. They were still filming gold rush scenes in northern California, and wanted McCoy up there.

  “But … there aren’t any gold-rush scenes in the script,�
� McCoy protested.

  “There are now,” Lasky corrected him. “Go on up there with Jimmy Cruze. You’re the assistant director.”

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  “Hey, John! John Buffalo! What are you doin’ out here? Want a job?”

  John turned, to see a familiar figure from the 101 Ranch days.

  “Yak? Yak Canutt? What are you doin’ here?”

  “Workin’! Easy as fallin’ off a horse, an’ I’m serious about the job.”

  “Well, I sort of have a job, but … Well, what is it?”

  “Like I said … Fallin’ off a horse! The movie folks need fellas to double for the pretty-boy actors in the stunt scenes. They’ll pay fifty dollars and up for a fall. We used to work a week for that kinda pay, din’t we?” Yakima chuckled. “A lot of the boys are here. Some are actin’, some are cowboyin’. You remember Buck Jones and Tom Mix?”

  “Sure.”

  “Hoot Gibson … Young fella named Ken Maynard from 101, too. Jesse Briscoe was doin’ stunts, like me. Got himself killed when a horse fell last year. But what are you doin’, John?”

  John made a mental note about Briscoe, and the “easy” money in Canutt’s new art. He’d worked with Jesse Briscoe.

  “Well, I hadn’t really thought about it, but I guess I’m sort of in the movie business, too. I’ve been helpin’ the Famous Players-Lasky folks film in Utah. We used five hundred Indian extras. A picture called The Covered Wagon, from a book by Emerson Hough.”

  “Yeah, we heard about that. Well, you were wranglin’ Oglalas in Germany when the war broke out, weren’t you?”

  John nodded.

  “Who directed in Utah?” Yak asked.

  “Jimmy Cruze.”

  Canutt slapped his knee and roared with laughter.

  “Now that woulda been worth seein’. How did he get along with five hunnerd Indians?”