“Yeah … Well, anyhow, I’m showin’ him some pointers about ridin’ a horse an’ how to walk so’s to look like a cowboy. Oh, yeah! He don’t think Marion Morrison sounds like a cowboy’s name, either.”
He turned to Morrison.
“You and Ford decide on that name yet?”
“Pretty near,” said the young man. “I’m about settled on ‘John Wayne.’ Now, lemme try this walk some more, Yak. Like this?”
He swaggered a few steps, turned, and swung back toward them.
“Yeah!” said Canutt. “Now, that’s comin’ along. You’ll be lookin’ like a cowboy, yet!”
Someone once observed that the days pass slowly, but the years, quickly. It was true in John Buffalo’s life. He was busy. It was also true that the deceptive climate made it difficult to distinguish the season. There was a certain sameness the year round. John never quite became accustomed to the fact that in April, when the prairie grasses were greening and preparing to grow to six feet and taller, the California hills were becoming dry and yellow. They would remain so until October, when greening again began in the hills behind Hollywood.
1931 …
The worst year yet for the 101. John read about it in the papers. The 101 Ranch Wild West Show had closed forever, on the road, in Washington, D.C. August third was their last parade. Rising bills and falling attendance made further struggles useless.
In September, the ranch was placed in receivership. The land would be divided and leased to individuals to farm. Personal property would be auctioned off.
1932 …
The auction occurred in March. Zack Miller, sick and suffering from a “nervous breakdown,” referred to the auction as “legal robbery.” He was arrested and confined for a short while after firing a shotgun over the heads of approaching lawyers.
Less than a month later, Bill Pickett was dead. He lingered two weeks in a Ponca City hospital after being kicked in the head by a 101 horse which he was breaking.
Pickett was buried on the ridge near the resting place of White Eagle, the Ponca chief—he who had voiced the pronouncement that became known as the “curse.”
One of the old cowboys gave a left-handed compliment to his long-time friend.
“If ever there was a good nigger, it was Bill Pickett.”
John Buffalo would have made the trip to Oklahoma, to attend the funeral of the man who had been a good friend, but learned of Pickett’s death too late, after the funeral was over.
Also in 1932, Zack Miller negotiated with the Capone family of Chicago to buy the ranch. Al (Scarface) Capone was still in federal prison for tax evasion, but the family was negotiating seriously. News reports and rumors were rampant.
The ranch, it was said, was to be divided into forty- and eighty-acre plots. It would be used for truck farming in a cooperative farm, run by Italian immigrant families in hundreds of co-op units.
The deal finally fell through, after months of haggling, and Zack Miller again faced disaster. In addition, Zack’s recently divorced second wife, Marguerite, filed suit for overdue child support, lawyer fees, and alimony. Zack was jailed briefly at Newkirk, Oklahoma, for contempt of court.
1933 …
Miller managed to put together a troupe of cowboys and cowgirls who performed under the banner of the 101 Ranch at the Century of Progress exhibition in Chicago. Frantically, he tried various schemes to keep the 101 alive.
He tried to interest Babe Ruth, the New York Yankee slugger, to invest in the operation as a partner. Zack envisioned the show back on the road, with the great baseball icon putting on an act and autographing baseballs after each performance. The “Bambino” was not particularly interested.
1934 …
The country was still in the depths of the Depression, but Hollywood was in another world.
For a nickel or a dime, the American public could escape their troubles for a couple of hours in the movie theater. There, anonymous in the darkness, they could escape their own tawdry existence for a little while to live the adventures depicted on the silver screen.
Talking pictures had been a reality for several years now. After starring in a number of films as the strong and upright cowboy hero, Tim McCoy had finished a cowboy serial. It would be in twelve episodes, each to consist of two reels, which ran twenty minutes. One episode would be shown each week, with a cliff-hanger finish, a la The Perils of Pauline. The title of this first talkie serial was The Indians Are Coming.
John Buffalo was doing well. His work was held in high regard. While the rest of the country suffered from the Depression, Hollywood seemed exempt. There was usually money from somewhere if someone needed it to make a picture.
But John was restless. He was past forty, and still felt that his life had no sense of direction. He could see the years passing at an ever-increasing speed. He had no family. He was neither a hermit nor a ladies’ man, though he had had some relationships of convenience from time to time. Though he realized that the industry in which he found himself was suspected of debauchery, most of the people with whom he worked were good, upright citizens, with homes and families.
Yet he had none, and there was an empty spot in his life.
He was walking down Sunset Boulevard when a voice called his name.
“Buffalo!”
He turned. There were a lot of people whom he knew, but it took him a few moments to place this man. It had been many years.
“Mac? Coach McGregor?”
The two clasped hands warmly. Mac had aged some. He was balding, and the fringe of hair over his ears had changed from brown to gray.
“You’re in the movie business?” he asked. “I thought you’d be coaching.”
“Didn’t work out,” said John. “But you?”
“Still coaching. On a vacation just now. I’m taking a year off. Lost my wife last winter.”
John was somewhat embarrassed that if he had ever known anything about Mac’s family life, he couldn’t remember.
“I’m sorry, Coach.”
“It’s okay. I’m doing better now. Our kids are grown and gone. It’s a good time for me to see the world. You married, John?”
“No, sir. I was … Lost my partner, too.”
“Sorry … Guess that makes us a sorry pair.”
A flash of an idea crossed his face.
“Say, John, why don’t you go to the Olympics with me? Like old times!”
“You’re coaching them again?”
“No, no. I’m just going as a spectator. No responsibilities. Berlin … It’ll be like old times, but with no cares and troubles … . Just to watch …”
It did not take long to decide. Maybe this would be just what he needed, to shake the uneasy wanderlust out of his system.
“I’ll do it!” John said.
SEVENTY-THREE
They were on a train, headed for New York.
“I’m afraid I haven’t followed athletics much for a few years.” John apologized. “Hollywood’s such a different world, Mac. It’s easy to get into that, and forget there’s a real world out there. What’s goin’ on?”
McGregor laughed. “Sounds easy, John, the make-believe … What’s going on? I dunno. Baseball’s still the national game. You know about Babe Ruth, I guess. Folks say he can call his shots—not only whether he’ll hit a homer as he comes to bat, but where it’ll go over the wall. I dunno … Some good players comin’ on. Couple of brothers named Dean—they call ’em Dizzy and Daffy. Dizzy’s prob’ly the best pitcher.”
“What about football?”
“Yeah, college football is really big. Army, Navy, the Ivy League schools. You knew about Knute Rockne, coach at Notre Dame? Killed in a plane crash a couple of years ago. Pity … He was a good man. A lot like Pop Warner, I guess. Some professional football, getting a bit more attention. You knew our friend Jim Thorpe played pro for a few seasons?”
“Yes. I heard that. What about Pop Warner? Retired, I suppose? He’d be past sixty.”
“Not on your life!” Mac lau
ghed. “He’s still goin’ strong. Let’s see … He’s coached at a lot of schools since Carlisle. Georgia, I think … Nope, maybe Cornell. I don’t remember, John.”
“How about track and field? This Olympics?”
“Yeah … I think maybe there’s some increase in public interest. That Cunningham … Glen Cunningham … Distance runner … Great story, a few years back. He set a couple of records. A 4-minute, 4.4-second mile, indoors. You know, John, I’m thinkin’ some day we’ll see a mile under four minutes.”
“Really?”
“I’d bet on it. But the runner we’ll be lookin’ at in Berlin is a sprinter. Jesse Owens … A colored kid. John, last year he set three world records on the same day: 220-yard dash, 220-hurdles, and broad jump! Same day, he tied the 100-yard dash. He’ll be one to watch. I think he’s probably the best track man I’ve seen since our boy Jim.”
“Really? I’ll look forward to that! Does he play football?”
“Don’t think so, John. Athletes are more specialized now. Fewer of ’em in multiple sports like we used to do. But I’m sort of behind on following some of this myself. My wife’s illness and all, you know.”
“Yes. I understand.” You don’t know how much I understand, he thought. That would supersede everything.
“The football player I like is at Texas Christian, Mac went on.”Quarterback with a great arm for the forward pass. Sammy Baugh. They call him ‘Slingin’ Sam.’”
“Coach, you mentioned Rockne’s death. Do you think air travel will ever be really practical?”
“Oh, sure. But not with airplanes. Too complicated. You heard about Will Rogers and Wiley Post last year?”
“Sure did. I knew Rogers, through the 101. A real tragedy, Mac.”
“Yeah … Well, that’s what’s wrong with air travel by airplanes. The airship, lighter than air, is the future. Reminds me … I tried to get us tickets on one of the German dirigibles. They’ve got some transatlantic passenger service now. They’re building a really big one, I understand. The Hindenburg … Over four hundred feet long.”
“Hadn’t heard about that. But, you remember, we saw airships in Europe when we toured with Jim.”
“That’s right, we did. Of course … You’re well acquainted with airships.”
“Not really, Mac. I hadn’t paid much attention to them. Everywhere I’ve been there have been a lot of people and livestock to haul.”
McGregor laughed. “Guess you wouldn’t like to haul horses on one. They do have a flight deck, though.”
“A flight deck?”
“Sure. They can land and carry up to three scout planes on a sort of hanging platform under the air bags. John, we live in marvelously changing times.”
“We sure do.”
“I started to tell you, though. I tried to get us on one of the German airships, but they’re booked far ahead. I surely would have liked to ride the Hindenburg, though.”
“We’re going by ship, then?”
“Yeah, I guess we’re stuck with the old way. But you said you’d been to Germany—since we were there with Jim?”
“Yes! Right after the war broke out. The 101 Wild West Show had about sixty Oglala Indians under a subcontract to a circus in Dresden. We had a time gettin’ ’em out.”
He related some of the events involved.
“My God, John, you’ve had some adventures!”
“Guess you’d say so. But tell me … You’ve checked into the situation in Germany. They’ve got this new Chancellor … What’s his name?”
“Hitler. Adolf Hitler. A strange one, I guess. A lot of show and pageantry. Talks about racial purity. Aryan bloodlines, better’n anybody. Wonder how he’d have gotten along with Jim Thorpe.”
They both laughed.
“Not as well as King Gustav, I’d say,” said John.
“Pageantry” was an underestimation. John had never seen such an enormous crowd. The packed stadium was bedecked with scarlet banners and patrolled by uniformed soldiers.
“Never saw so many uniforms,” commented Mac.
“Or so many swastikas,” John added.
Some of the American Indians he had known used a swastika in their traditions. But this frightening design was everywhere: a stark black cross with broken arms, in a white circle, placed on a scarlet background. They were on the armbands of the military, on the flags that flew over the arena, on the bunting with which the reserved boxes were draped.
There were marching units of the Nazi elite guards, goose-stepping with a stiff-legged gait that appeared to John the most uncomfortable gait in the world. The jarring thud of hundreds of heavy jackbooted heels on the pavement sent a chill up John’s spine. He could not quite understand the vague feeling that something here was very wrong.
In a way, however, all the pageantry did lend excitement to the Berlin Olympiad. It was interesting and different to attend purely as a spectator. McGregor was acquainted with some of the coaching staff of the American team, so they did have a casual contact with the events, without the responsibility. It was a good feeling.
It was apparent that, although the Americans were expected to do well, their major hopes centered around Jesse Owens, the short-distance runner.
Owens was an immediate favorite with the crowd. His style as a runner, his modesty, and his undeniable ability held the spectators on the edge of their seats.
World’s champion at the 100-meter dash … The crowd applauded wildly.
“Wonder what happened to the pure-blooded Aryans?” commented Mac. “Damn, that boy is good, John.”
The scene was repeated with the 220-meter competition. Again, Owens took the gold medal.
When the broad jump, another of his best events, brought Owens yet a third gold medal as world champion, the crowd went wild. After the customary rise to their feet to honor the winner, they stayed standing, continuing to applaud.
“Look,” said Mac. “Hitler’s not standing.”
John was shocked.
“Did he stand before?” he asked.
“Not for Jesse,” said McGregor. “How low can you get, over a prejudice?”
The next few years would produce that horrifying answer.
On the trip home, John festered under the scene in Berlin. With time on his hands to think, he spent many hours at the ship’s rail, going back over his life. He stared out over the endless ocean, restless and unhappy. There were some good times and bad, some mistakes and triumphs, joys and sorrows.
There were times when he had felt that life was unfair. Life is unfair, he told himself. Nobody said it’s all supposed to be good. It is the way of things.
Coming back at him was another facet of his life, however. In retrospect, there had been some pretty good things. Most of them, however, had at some point stopped short, for no cause that he could have avoided. And, too often, it had been because of the color of his skin.
He thought of Adolf Hitler, refusing to stand to honor the accomplishments of a man of color. This bothered him increasingly as he ruminated and he was making no effort to stifle such feelings.
Sensing that John was working through some major crisis, McGregor thought it best to leave him alone. Only once did he offer his help.
“Anything I can do, John?”
“No. Thanks, Mac.”
“Okay … If you need me …”
In most of his low-tide experiences, there were white men. Biased white men …
His youthful romance with the Senator’s daughter, and the Senator’s determination that it should not proceed.
His experiences with job hunting … He was certain that, more than once, his skills had been overlooked because there was a white applicant.
His Army experiences … The sidelong glance that told far more than words.
There were some good whites, he knew. Mac, for one. He thought that the Miller brothers had treated him fairly. Then he thought again, and remembered that they had been indicted for stealing land from the Poncas. So, even the Mill
ers were not immune to this bias.
If there was anyone in his life whom he had felt that he could trust completely, it would have to be Hebbie. He guessed there were a couple of others. Ruth Jackson, McGregor, Tim McCoy … However, McCoy was a special case. John thought of him as an Arapaho, although McCoy had been born white. He held the same status as Charlie Whiteman or Lizzie Broken Horn.
There had been whites in Hollywood who respected him and his work, but others who were blatant in their attempts at demeaning humor. One, in particular, had been a source of irritation, calling him “Chief” since they first met. John had maintained his stoic, unmoved quiet with that one. But he hated to do that. It was causing himself to be a part of the man’s bigotry.
SEVENTY-FOUR
By halfway home, he had made his decision.
“Mac,” he said at breakfast one morning, “I’ve figured it out.”
“Good,” said McGregor. It’s about time. What have you figured out?”
“I’m goin’ back to the blanket.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It’s an expression the old-timers use,” John explained. “They’ve tried white man’s ways, and have figured they don’t work very well. So they just go back.”
“Back to what?”
“To the old ways. It’s hard to explain, Mac. It’s something that you learn as a child … A mixture of religion and spirit and life and death and faith and trust … You don’t know what I’m talkin’ about, do you?”
“I haven’t got the faintest idea,” mumbled the startled McGregor.
“Well, I’m afraid it can’t be explained,” said John. “Some whites find it … I think you have to find it for yourself. Nobody can really tell you about it. Maybe it’s what whites call our ‘medicine,’ though there’s really no English word for it.”
He paused and took a deep breath. McGregor was still staring at him in astonishment.
The Long Journey Home Page 45