The Long Journey Home

by Don Coldsmith

  “You know better’n that, Tex. I’m sayin’ nothin’, except that it’s a crazy idea. An’ now I’m leavin’, ’cause I don’t want to hear any more.”

  He turned and walked off to seek his bunk in the sleeping tent.

  Some time later, he was wakened by some yells and what could have been gunshots. He wanted no part of what might be happening and pulled the blankets over his head in a futile attempt to sleep.

  He never did hear all the details, partly because those most closely involved had very foggy memories of the events of the night. Partly, because he already knew more than he wanted of the scheme.

  It never made the papers—at least, not in any way favorable to the Hundred and One. There had been shots fired by the police; there had been arrests made; there had been trips made to the jail and bail money paid to extricate the wayward employees. But Joe Miller’s jewel-studded saddle was intact.

  In Georgia, late in the season, the 101 Show found itself in heavy competition with the Ringling Brothers–Barnum and Bailey combined circus, which was also touring the South. Their bad luck continued. A couple of sleeping cars on the show train near Gainesville caught fire and burned.

  To bring an end to a losing season, the last two weeks of the show tour were canceled after they arrived at Birmingham, Alabama.

  And 1926 was no better. Their bad luck continued. Weather was again a major factor, cutting attendance to unprecedented levels. Equipment was continually damaged by wind, which shattered tent poles and shredded canvas. One customer in Erie, Pennsylvania, was killed by a falling pole. Many of the season’s performances were late, shortened, or canceled entirely.

  The season was to close in a tour of neighboring states close to home, but an epidemic of hoof-and-mouth disease closed it even earlier. The show returned home in an unprecedented series of rain and thunderstorms. Salt Fork flooded again, drowning hundreds of cattle. Another season of financial disaster …

  If there was any bright spot in the year for the Millers, it was Joe Miller’s remarriage, having divorced Lizzie, to a bride half his age, Miss Mary Verlin of Grand Rapids. They had met in Ponca City, while Mary was visiting relatives there. The wedding was in Chicago, while the show was there on tour.

  John Buffalo was becoming more and more depressed over the bad seasons on the show circuit. Not that it was a personal loss, but that he was a part of what appeared to be a worsening situation. He was also concerned with the fact that the Poncas were still talking about the “curse.” He wasn’t certain that it was at all wise to remain in a situation that carried such a bad possibility.

  But around the Millers, it was easy to succumb to the idea that bad luck is only temporary. Next season will be better … . He decided to stay on for one more season.

  But 1927 was no better. The same specters haunted the 101 Show: Competition, weather, rising costs, and another bugaboo, legal problems. There had been enough accidents and injuries, both to the 101 show people and support staff, but also to spectators, to make legal expenses a major factor. The season again closed on a losing note, and returned to the ranch in October.

  John was still trying to find a way to tell the Millers gracefully of his decision to leave when tragedy struck.

  On October 21, Joe Miller had driven to the home he had built for his bride and their new son, a few miles north of the White House. He had told Zack that he intended to work on his car, which had been “acting up.” Miss Mary and their five-month-old son had been in Grand Rapids, visiting her mother, and had not yet returned.

  At about three o’clock, Will Brooks, a cousin of the Millers who worked with them, stopped by the house. He heard a car engine running and found Joe lying in the garage beside the car. The hood was up, and he had apparently been tinkering with the engine. He was dead, the doctors said, from carbon-monoxide poisoning. The garage doors had been only partly open.

  The Poncas took an active part in the funeral ceremonies, dropping eagle feathers into the casket, beating drums, and chanting the death song. Horse Chief Eagle spoke for the Poncas.

  “Our brother Joe, he is one of us … . He is gone. When he went away, it meant more than anything to the Indian. The Indian weeps … .”

  Joe was buried in the family plot near Ponca City, next to Mother Molly Miller. Things would never be the same at the Hundred and One.

  Still, the old Poncas shook their heads and mumbled about the “curse.”

  “The show will go out as usual,” George Miller told the assembled gamely. “That is what Joe wanted.”

  There was some question about that. It was well known that there had been a certain amount of disagreement among the brothers as to how to overcome the past three money-losing seasons. But this was not the time or place for argument. Everyone was in agreement at this point. It was announced that plans were under way for the 1928 season.

  This time there was no question in the mind of John Buffalo. He felt that he must separate himself from this ill-fated extravaganza, which seemed to be headed for disaster at ever-increasing speed. Even without the shadow of the words of old White Eagle, it was easy to see the direction in which things were headed.

  John’s plan was to head for Wyoming, but he realized that winter would soon be coming on. Maybe it would be better, he thought, to stop a little while in Hollywood, see some old friends, maybe work a little while as a horse trainer. Yakima Canutt and some of the others of the old 101 gang would help him find something.

  Thanksgiving, 1927, found him on a train, headed for California.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  Hollywood was as exciting as ever. The sense of unreality was even stronger, the buildings bigger, the charade more outlandish.

  John sought out Yakima Canutt.

  “John! You come back for that job?” Yak greeted warmly.

  “Not the fallin’-off-a-horse job,” John responded with a grin. “Some kinda job, maybe. Handlin’ livestock?”

  “Still wantin’ to cowboy, huh? Well, you can prob’ly find somethin’. Stick around till we finish this scene.”

  The scene involved a fall—not by Canutt, but a younger stuntman. John watched with interest as they set it up. A hobble was buckled around the horse’s front foot and attached to a slender cable, coiled on the ground and fastened to a stake.

  Canutt explained, “When he hits the end of that wire at a gallop, the horse trips and falls, an’ the rider goes flyin’ over his head. Now, here they go.”

  The cowboy spurred the horse into a gallop, as the coiled cable unwrapped behind them in a blur like that of a striking snake.

  “But won’t that—,” John began.

  He was interrupted by the managed “fall.” The cable snapped tight, the horse tripped and fell, and the stuntman sailed forward over the animal’s head. He rolled and came to his feet, apparently unhurt. Others rushed forward to where the horse struggled on the ground. Everyone had heard the crack of breaking bone, like a pistol shot, when the horse went down.

  “Damn!” said Canutt. “I hate when that happens!” He turned to another man. “Jim, you got a pistol?”

  “Right here,” answered the grim-faced cowboy, as he started toward the crippled horse. The animal had struggled to its feet, but a foreleg flopped uselessly, at a joint where there should have been none. A pistol shot ended its suffering, and the horse collapsed in its tracks.

  “Get it outta here,” yelled the director. “We have a film to finish!”

  John was appalled.

  “Yak, that’s gonna happen. Don’t you kill a lot of horses this way?”

  “Not as many as you’d think, John. Usually, no broken bones. Sometimes it goes bad, like this. Sometimes the rider breaks a bone, maybe. But they’ve got the picture in the can.”

  “But—My God, Yak! To deliberately set that up … Don’t that bother you?”

  Canutt was irritated.

  “Of course it does, damn it! You know, there’s accidents on a ranch, too. Folks that work with horses do it because we
love ’em, and we always hate an accident. Besides, it’s expensive.”

  “But in this business, they don’t care?” John realized slowly.

  “It’s not exactly that, John. They spend money to make money. You know a better way?”

  “Maybe I do. You can train a horse to do a lot of things. You’ve seen some of the trick horses in the 101 show. They’ll lay down, play dead, like a pet dog. These Hollywood horses are specially trained anyway, to ignore spotlights and loud noises and all.”

  “But they generally don’t use those trained horses for the falls, John. They’re too valuable. Any horse—”

  “That’s the point, Yak. A horse could be trained to take a fall, without gettin’ hurt with that damn wire.”

  “Who’s got the time to do that?”

  “Well, I have, for one. If I can find somethin’ to keep me goin’, I’ll train a horse or two on the side. Can you find me the horses?”

  “Sure! Look, there’s a lot of rigging in this stunt game. You can help me with that, and we’ll get you a horse to work with. What you want? A colt?”

  “Prob’ly a two-year-old gelding. Solid color … Sorrel or bay.”

  “Don’t be too picky,” Yak teased. “But you’re right. You wouldn’t want a horse with flashy coloring. That’d limit his use.”

  The training was time consuming and slow. John worked with the young horse away from the movie lots, first gaining its confidence and getting in tune with its spirit. Pal was a middle-of-the-road animal in build, sorrel in color, with a white star on his forehead. Not a horse you’d pick out of a crowd. He’d learned that in the Army. The military had always frowned on animals with distinctive coloring. They could be described and identified too easily. The same principle applied here. It was not prudent to have a horse so distinctive that he would steal the scene from the rider.

  There were exceptions. Tom Mix, from the old Hundred and One, already had a cult following for his horse, Tony. Later, Roy Rogers would do the same with Trigger. Mix’s career had lasted long enough to stretch beyond one horse’s lifetime, so now he rode “Tony, Jr.”

  Fred Thompson’s horse, Silver King, was actually fitted with his own toupee, an artificial mane to ensure his recognition.

  In a few weeks, John summoned Yakima Canutt to watch his accomplishments with the young gelding. It was a Sunday, and Canutt was enjoying a rare day off. There was often filming on weekends.

  John put the horse through the walk, trot, canter, to warm him up, and then demonstrated a few tricks. There was a thin wire attached to a front leg and running to the saddle horn. It was more of a signal than a trip wire. At an easy canter, he gave the wire a tug, and the horse rolled, without injury, as a gymnast would. At a walk, the same wire could signal for a limp.

  John put the horse through several such tricks, then dismounted and stepped around in front. He pointed a forefinger at the animal’s head like a pistol, and spoke softly.

  “Bang!”

  The horse dropped in its tracks, like a marionette with the strings cut.

  Canutt laughed.

  “How’d you do that?”

  “Just like teachin’ a dog to play dead,” said John.

  “Well,” the stuntman admitted, “it’s got possibilities. You’d train a horse for a particular scene?”

  “Sure. Just like the two-legged actors.”

  “Yeah. You know, John, time’s comin’ when the humane society could give us a lot of trouble.”

  “I figured that,” said John.

  He was remembering that there had been protesters in London who objected even to steer wrestling, a virtually harmless event.

  “But, the main thing is, you’d have a trained horse that could learn new tricks if the script calls for it. And it’d save the cost of shootin’ a horse when there’s an accident.”

  “Maybe you’d still have accidents.”

  “Sure, but not as many.”

  “Okay. Now they’ve got a scene comin’ up with knights in armor on horseback, jabbin’ one another with them long spears. Lances! That’s it. Mebbe they’d like one horse to go down.”

  “Sure, I can train him to do that.”

  This opened the door for a new career for John Buffalo, that of animal trainer. Within a few weeks, he was besieged with requests for a parrot that could sing “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” a chicken that laid eggs on cue, and a variety of other unattainable animal actors. John was bewildered by the bizarre assortment of desires.

  “They just don’t understand, Yak!”

  “Of course not. This is Hollywood!” chuckled the stuntman. “None of it makes any sense. ‘Mr. Buffalo, can you teach this dog to fart”The Star-Spangled Banner”?’”

  “Aw, lay off, Yak!” John complained.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Canutt said more seriously. “Do what you can, and tell ’em no on the rest.”

  “Guess I’d better stick to horses and mules,” John decided. “Maybe steers, but nobody wants much from them.”

  “An ox team, sometimes,” Yak pointed out. “But I think this’ll work for you. There are already people trainin’ dogs and monkeys. Everybody’s a specialist now.”

  Canutt was getting a great deal of enjoyment out of John’s efforts and the situation in general. And he was quite helpful in introducing John to people who might use his help.

  The Watering Hole, now known as Gower Gulch, was especially attractive to the cowboys, both real and movie types. It was about as rough as any of the frontier towns depicted on celluloid, and there were several shootings and other assaults at or near the Gulch. Still, nearly everyone went there sometimes. It was the cowboys’ hangout. There one might run into an acquaintance from almost anywhere else.

  “John Buffalo!” called a familiar voice, on one of John’s infrequent visits there with a couple of the stunt men.

  John turned.

  “General McCoy! I thought you were in Wyoming.”

  “I was,” McCoy chuckled. “And I thought you were in Oklahoma or somewhere. Why is it everywhere I go, you turn up?”

  “I don’t know. Are you filming the Arapaho again?”

  “No, not this time. We did shoot another picture up at Wind River … . Did a prologue for The Iron Horse, John Ford picture. Prologue like the one we took to London.”

  “That’s what you’re doing now?”

  “No, no.”

  McCoy seemed somewhat embarrassed.

  “I’m here doing some screen tests,” he said cautiously. “Seriously, John, I wouldn’t cross the street to see this face on the screen, but that’s what they’re doing. What are you up to?”

  “Training horses.”

  He explained what he was doing, and why.

  “It’s a good thing, John. That’s bothered me considerably, to see a good horse crippled or shot … or both. Full speed ahead!”

  They visited, and when they parted, shook hands warmly.

  “I’m over at M-G-M,” McCoy told him. “May our trails cross again soon!”

  SEVENTY-TWO

  1929 …

  Word came by way of a couple of disillusioned cowboys that spring. They had left the 101 after yet another show season with heavy losses. Knowing that many of the old gang were in Hollywood, they had come, looking for jobs.

  The crowning bit of bad luck back at the ranch: George Miller, manager and bookkeeper, the stabilizing influence of the operation itself, was dead. One of his favorite extravagances, a powerful Lincoln roadster, had been his downfall. He had been drinking and playing cards with friends at the Arcade Hotel in Ponca City until past midnight. Driving too fast on icy highways, en route from Ponca City to the 101, he had gone off the road. He was found the next morning by a couple of local men. Miller had apparently been thrown clear, but his head was crushed beneath a front wheel. He was only forty-seven.

  Matters worsened considerably in October of the same year, with the crash of the stock market and the onset of the Great Depression.

  Th
e 101 Ranch Wild West Show had again experienced a losing season on the road. Creditors were pushing to be paid, prices on farm products were dropping, but expenses rising. The ranch was mortgaged to the extent of $500,000 just to stay afloat.

  Again, there were whispers about the Ponca “curse.”

  1930 …

  “Naw, you gotta swagger a little … . Swing yer arms and sort of walk with a swing in yer stride … Like this … .”

  Yakima Canutt strolled a few paces, turned, and stalked back, a swing in his step. He paused to speak to the approaching John Buffalo.

  “Howdy, John. Just coachin’ a friend, here. Marion, this is John Buffalo, the horse trainer.”

  The lanky young man stuck out his hand in greeting.

  “Haven’t I seen you around?” John asked.

  “Yeah, probably. I’ve spent some summers here,” said the other. “Marion Morrison.”

  “He’s from Iowa,” Canutt said. “College football player. Been spendin’ the summers here, playin’ an extra, some odd jobs. Couple o’ stunts, but he’s like you—not really into the stunt thing. He’d really like to act. Play a cowboy.”

  John reflected that there were a great many young people with such an ambition.

  “He’s got a shot at it,” Canutt went on. “John Ford’s recommended him to Raoul Walsh, who’s directin’ a picture called The Big Trail.”

  “You a friend of Ford’s?” John asked.

  “Sort of,” Morrison said. “Met him here a couple of years ago. He likes to talk football.”

  “Trouble is,” said Canutt, “he’s playin’ a cowboy, but he don’t walk like one. Walks like … well, like he’s from Iowa!”

  “I am from Iowa.”