Ned was smiling at the confusion on John’s face.
“Yes, he’s named for you,” Ruth was saying.
“And ‘Emil’ for her husband. I suggested that. I knew how much he meant to Ruth, and she had told me of your kindness during her loss.”
John did not want to meet her eyes just then. He was glad that because of the time span involved, there was no question of young Emil’s parentage. The way the boy sidled up to his father promised a good father-son relationship. He found himself jealous on more than one count.
“I’m honored.”
He smiled at the youngster. Again, he was persuaded that the husband knew most, but not quite all of the story. Ruth had an understanding of people that was quite sensitive. As always, she had been able to choose just how much information could or should be shared. Ned was a very lucky man. If circumstances had been only a little different, this could all have been his. He knew, Ruth knew. But she was happy.
His eyes met Ruth’s, and he saw in her face only happiness and contentment. No alarm, no apprehension. She must have been somewhat vague in her narration of how and what kind of help had been involved.
“She has the highest regard for you, Mr. Buffalo,” Ned went on.
This further emphasized a couple of points: that Ruth had not been specific in her description of their relationship, and that she held no grudge that John had dropped from sight without trying to stay in contact.
But Ned talked on. “I want to thank you on behalf of my brother,” said Ned.
“Your brother?”
John was thoroughly confused.
Now a puzzled look crossed Ned’s face.
Ruth laughed, delightedly. “Of course!” She chortled. “John doesn’t know. He couldn’t. John, Ned is Emil’s brother.”
That explained a lot, very quickly.
“His brother?” John blurted again.
“Yes, I’d always been a little envious,” Ned said teasingly, slipping an arm around Ruth’s slender waist. “Emil was older than I, and when he married Ruth, I knew I could never find a woman half so desirable. I came when I heard of her loss. I do want to thank you, though, John. You were here when we needed someone.”
I’m not sure you’d thank me, John thought.
“The least I could do,” he mumbled, embarrassed.
For some reason, this struck Ruth as quite amusing.
“Not really,” she said, laughing. “But come on in, John. We’re ready to have supper. Tell us all about where you’ve been. You were headed for Fort Sill, weren’t you, the morning after … After I heard of Emil’s death?”
There was just a hint of a blush as her eyes met John’s for an instant.
“Yes. A lot has happened since then,” said John. “I was transferred to Artillery … . Mule pack, mountain howitzers.”
“So you know mules!” Ned exclaimed. “Good! We’ll talk of that. I’ll want to show you some mules in the morning.”
In the morning?
“Of course. You’ll stay with us, won’t you, John?”
SIXTY-NINE
It was a very uncomfortable situation. John tried to protest the invitation to stay the night, but both of the Jacksons were insistent. Ruth seemed to be quite genuine in her wish to have him stay over. She did not share his discomfort over the memory of their last time together. He was even more embarrassed that she did not seem to read anything negative into that situation, or this.
He felt some new guilt over some of his thoughts and repressed desires. He wondered if Ruth felt the old attraction, as he did. Probably not, but if she did, he felt that she was handling it better than he.
John lay for hours in the feather bed in their spare bedroom, staring into the dark ceiling, lost in his own confusion. He was tired, but unable to sleep yet as he tried to sort out the disorganized bits and pieces of his life. For a brief time, he had thought that there was some sense of direction taking place, but now that, too, was shattered. He forcibly thrust aside his thoughts of Ruth with another man. They had been so close! He had made a bad mistake in leaving her, he now realized. He had had no choice in his departure, but he should have kept in touch. Maybe things would have turned out this way, even if he had written, but … These thoughts were like oats long since run through the horse, as his cowboy friends would say. The loss of a woman with whom he could have been very happy was a great disappointment. It might not have developed into a life together anyway, but he had missed a golden opportunity, and his heart was heavy, the memory now like the taste of ashes in his mouth.
What should he do now? Never in his life had he been able to actually make any plans, he realized. Most of his happy memories were linked to some other events, and ended with the thoughts of if it had only been slightly different, in some way. It was easy to feel that never in his life had he made a right decision. He was a failure.
Still, he had to admit that the failure of whatever he tried was usually due to events beyond his control. It was simply a world in which he did not belong.
Where, then, did he belong? At times, it had seemed that things were going well. At the Hundred and One, with Hebbie … On the road with the Wild West Show … He had done some pretty good things, some accomplishments of which he could be proud. Helping to rescue the Oglalas from Germany at the start of the Great War … Looking back, he could hardly believe some of the achievements of which he had been a part. The time Zack Miller bought virtually the entire Mexican Army and resold what the Hundred and One could not use … He smiled in the darkness.
There had been some good times. The Olympics, with Jim Thorpe and the other athletes … He wondered where Jim was now … .
He had enjoyed the isolation of his cowboy jobs in Wyoming. Finally, toward morning, he fell asleep, and dreamed jumbled dreams with fragmented scenes that seemed to go nowhere. Hebbie appeared to him briefly, saying nothing, but with a wistful smile that was somehow a comfort. He slept better after that reassurance.
John rose with the sun, and with at least a semblance of a plan. While he was in the area, he’d stop by Haskell and Kansas University. He doubted that he would still know anyone there, but maybe someone in their athletic departments might even know of a coaching job for which he could apply. It was worth a try. Failing that, he could stop by the 101 Ranch. Out of curiosity, he wondered what was happening there. A few seasons ago, the ranch and the Wild West Show were constantly in the news. Now there was nothing. Why?
Well, maybe he’d stop by there … .
His departure from the Jacksons’ was difficult and embarrassing for him. Ruth gave him a hug and kissed his cheek, whispering quickly into his ear, “Thank you, John!”
He wished she hadn’t done that.
Ned Jackson shook his hand warmly and urged him to come back anytime. That, too, was hard. He doubted that he’d do it. The memories were too intense.
John patted little Emil on the head and lifted his duffel bag. At the bend of the road, he turned for a last look.
Ruth waved.
At Lawrence, he could find only one person when he knew: Forrest Allen, now at the University of Kansas. “Phog” was interested in John’s activities during the intervening years, but they really had little in common. They discussed the whereabouts of mutual acquaintances.
“You haven’t been coaching, then?” Allen seemed surprised.
“Too busy at other things,” John admitted. “I had a hitch in the Army, too.”
“Yes, that affected a lot of us,” Allen agreed. “Well, stop by when you’re in the area.”
All in all it was a pleasant visit that, in essence, went nowhere.
John was not ready to return to the Hundred and One. Not yet. Thinking to himself of how he had quite possibly ignored the possibility of a wonderful relationship with Ruth Jackson, he began to think again of Loving, New Mexico, and the Door of Hope. There, after all, was a woman who had actually known and loved his own son. The only person, as far as he knew.
He thought of
writing to Margaret Jones, but immediately realized a problem. He could never know whether she might answer such a letter. He had no place in which to wait and see. No, better to go back to Loving (he was not unaware of the suggestive play on words) and see what evolved. He was certain that Margaret Jones had indicated an interest in him by her actions. She was a handsome woman. Somewhat older than he, but probably not an important difference. It would do no harm to go and see.
En route on the train, he found himself thinking about other options. He had always avoided any thoughts of returning to Carlisle because of the circumstances of his leaving. But maybe … He’d think about it after he had checked out the situation in Loving.
He did not realize that in this decision, he had already assumed failure.
In Loving, he found that the Door of Hope seemed to be thriving. He was welcomed warmly and courteously by Margaret Jones.
Things were going well, she said. They had three more boys than when he had been there before. The big house was in good repair. Juan and Maria were still there, serving their purposes well.
It took only a few hours to see that he may have misread the situation. On his first visit, Margaret Jones had been kind, helpful, and accommodating, but it was probably out of sympathy. She had only been trying to show her regret for the accidental lack of communication.
Still, he could not forget the day they had spent together on the trip to Carlsbad. She had been warm and friendly. And there had been his feeling of someone outside his bedroom door late that night, deciding whether to enter. He had left the Door of Hope with a strong inkling that both of them knew there was a potential relationship here.
But something had changed. She was polite and friendly, but distant. Surely he could not have misread her attitude so badly on his previous visit. And to add to his confusion, Margaret Jones seemed a trifle embarrassed around him.
The mystery was quickly solved when he found himself alone for a moment with Juan. Juan wanted to show him something he was building with the help of the older boys. But maybe there was another motive … .
“The señora,” Juan began, flashing his beautiful grin and assuming a conspiratorial air, “she have un hombre … How you say? Man friend?”
“Ah!” said John. “A gentleman comes to see her?”
“Sí, si! Esta un bueno hombre, Senor John. She is happy.”
“Then I am happy for her,” John told him.
“Sí. Me, too. Señora needs a man.”
And she had found one. He was glad for her, but once more, floundering, himself.
After much thought, he decided to return to the 101 Ranch, primarily to see what was going on. At his last visit, he had been quite uneasy and unable to account for it. Something was in the air, something he needed to know more about. He’d have a look, anyway. Maybe even work there for a while. All the traveling with no real home base was depleting his funds. He’d have to work somewhere.
He was somewhat startled to see that the town of Bliss had been renamed. “Marland” was the new name painted on the sign under the gable of the railroad depot.
The reason was apparent to anyone familiar with the area. Marland was a name well known in the oil fields of Oklahoma. It was E. W. Marland who had begun the exploration on the Poncas’ land, leased to the Millers for grazing.
John thought for a moment of the attitude of the Ponca elders and the “Ponca curse.” Was this a part of the uneasy feeling he’d been experiencing? He also recalled with uneasiness the episode in Miller’s office, and the signing of the lease by the Ponca couple.
At the 101, he was astonished to see some of the changes. An elephant stood patiently in a new, heavily built corral to the south of the other facilities. There was a new large barn, and new equipment, tractors, and machinery in evidence. There was a buzz of activity. The old excitement over preparation for each road season washed across him.
But … An elephant?
He sought out Bill Pickett, who was breaking horses in one of the corrals.
“Howdy, John! Good to see you. Where you been?”
“Lotsa places, Bill. But what’s goin’ on here? I saw an elephant!”
Pickett chuckled. “Yep. We goin’ on the road agin’, I reckon. They done buyin’ a circus.”
“A circus?”
“Reckon so. Figger the crowds is wantin’ somethin’ beyond Wild West. So, you know how Mistah Zack is. They buyin’ the Walter Main Circus, gwine mix it with us. There’s lions an’ tigers an’ all. I dunno what’s goin’ on the road with us. All of it ain’t even here, yet. But I tell you … That elephant shore spooked some hosses.”
“You gonna bulldog him, Bill?” teased John. “He’s shore got the nose for it!”
“No, suh! I ain’t got the teeth for that much nose.” Pickett laughed. “But serious, now. You comin’ back?”
“Hadn’t really decided, but why not? Might be interesting to see how this circus turns out.”
SEVENTY
As Pickett had said, it was indeed a circus. Even without the purchase of the Walter Main Circus, there had been some major events at the Hundred and One, John learned gradually.
In the summer of 1923, a major flood on the Salt Fork had isolated the ranch and the town of Bliss for some time. Water had even entered the first floor of the White House itself. With classic Miller style, the 101 ranch established a ferry service at their own expense to serve the town and the area.
Oil production was hampered somewhat, and the Poncas whispered again of the ghosts and restless spirits and of old White Eagle’s “curse” when the first oil well came in a decade before.
“It will mean great trouble for me, for my people, and for you,” he had told Marland.
Eventually, though, the waters had receded. Repair and rebuilding quickly took place, and the Millers were looking ahead. In September 1924, they announced that a bigger and better Wild West Show would open the following season.
Billboard carried the news. Their headline read:
101 Ranch Wild West Will Again Take to the Road.
The show was retitled “The 101 Ranch Real Wild West and Great Far East Show.”
This, to accommodate the expanded scope of the three-ring circus and its equipment and personnel. There would be more than five hundred people involved in the traveling show, to open in April 1925. Attractions ranged from Ezra Meeker, a ninety-five-year-old pioneer with an ox team, to Selina Zimmerman, “the elephant girl,” with her highly trained troupe of elephants.
There were Indian riders, Cossacks, a Zouave drill team, and reenactments of buffalo hunts and stagecoach robberies. There were also sideshow and carnival features: sword swallowers, midgets, snake handlers, fortune-tellers, magicians, and Oriental dancing girls, the Frog Boy, and “Montana Hank,” an eight-foot, 360-pound cowboy.
To transport and supply this huge organization required dozens of railroad cars. Every ten days, fifteen tons of fresh produce from the ranch would be shipped to the show lots on the road in refrigerator cars. Meat, fruits, and vegetables, direct from the ranch. It was said that the cooks could feed hot meals to the five hundred show train personnel on forty minutes’ notice.
Of the Walter L. Main Circus animals, only the elephants and camels would take to the road. The assorted trained monkeys, lions, tigers, miniature horses, and bears were either sold or remained at the ranch. A black bear that drank soda pop was a fixture, chained in front of the ranch store, and became a favorite.
The 1925 season started with great fanfare, but developed problems quickly. They presented the “opener” in Oklahoma City in April, and bad luck dogged the tour through twenty-nine states and one Canadian province. Weather, always a major factor in a tent production, ranged from too cold for comfort in the early season to beastly hot in Boston later. The customers “stayed away in droves,” someone remarked.
In Indiana, a tornado ripped through the grounds, and in Pennsylvania, the big top was shredded by a freak windstorm.
In St.
Louis, after an evening of hard drinking, some of the cowboys were discussing the problems of the season.
“What we need,” said one, “is some pulbicity.” His speech was slurred.
“Naw … You’re tryin’ to say putiblicy,” another giggled.
Everyone laughed.
“Whatever,” said another. “You guys are drunk. But you’re right. We need some newspaper coverage.”
“The Millers are spendin’ a lot on advertisin’,” somebody pointed out.
“But that ain’t workin’ … We need some free coverage. Somethin’ that will have the papers writin’ about the Hunnerd an’ One!”
“Yeah, like if somebody tried to steal Colonel Joe’s fancy saddle, or somethin’. It’s worth about twenny thousand dollars, they say.”
“Not that much, but it’s worth quite a bit,” said another. “‘Nuff to get some attention. Mebbe we can find somebody dumb enough to try stealin’ it.”
“Lissen,” said one of the more inebriated, “we can help out. Mebbe we jest pertend to try to steal ol’ Joe’s fancy saddle.”
“Yeah!”
“Good idea!”
“No risk, like there’d be with real crooks!”
The plan, if such a scheme could be considered planning, was hatched quickly.
“You in, Buffalo? Help the bosses out?”
John had been listening in amazement. He had imbibed very little, but was along for the companionship. He was astonished at how quickly this harebrained scheme had developed. Now, he was in a spot.
“Fellas, I want no part of this. You’ll get in trouble, or get somebody hurt.”
“You’re skeered!” somebody hooted.
“Damn right! I’m stayin’ out of trouble.”
“You ain’t gonna rat on us, John?” one asked suspiciously.
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