by Judy Alter
"I thought I got out from under my father's domination," I said disgustedly. "The colonel sounds just like Papa—we'll do this, and we won't do that." In my mind's eye I could see myself mounted on a rearing white horse—never mind that Sam was brown—in Madison Square Garden, and I didn't want the colonel or anybody else getting in the way of that dream.
Rose seemed unconcerned. "We'll win him over. You watch and see."
"What 'trick business' are you going to do in the parade?" I asked curiously.
She shrugged. "Nothing fancy at first. Got to kind of work the colonel into this." Then she laughed and whirled away from me, dancing a few steps in the dirt from sheer happiness. My, how I envied the way Rose handled men—or thought she could.
We began to practice, and I almost thought I was back at Luckett's learning to rope calves. I'd been so busy with trick roping that it had been a long time since I'd roped a living, running animal. Now I had the strength to do it right. In spite of flashes of memory about that dead bull, it didn't take too long for me to get really good at it. By the end of the week, I had beat the time of most of the men—and my calves always stayed tied until I let them up.
The colonel also had me riding broncs, as he'd said. I got on the first one fairly confident—after all, hadn't I ridden that bronco in Bo's yard? The cowboys snubbed this one for me, and I got on and motioned them to let go. Next thing I knew, I was face-down in the dirt—and darn mad about it.
"Bring him back here!" I roared. "I'm goin' to ride that horse!"
Grinning, the cowboys brought the bronc back and snubbed him again. I got on again, remembering all Papa's lessons about taking my time, remaining calm and in control. This time when they turned the horse loose and he busted in half, I stayed in the saddle until the colonel finally rang that old cowbell of his. But I had a hard time doing it, 'cause I kept trying to get my feet in the stirrups for a better seat, and the stirrups were hobbled.
Women were then riding with hobbled stirrups—tied under the horse's belly—on the theory that it was safer for them. After that ride, I never would let them hobble the stirrups for me but insisted on having them loose like the men did.
Finally after a long week of practice, we were ready to board the train and start out on the circuit. Railroad tracks, laid for the editors' exhibition, still ran from the main railroad line to the ranch, and railroad cars began pulling onto these sidings the day after Bo left—stock cars with special stalls built for the horses, sleeping cars, baggage cars, a chair car, and a diner, which was nothing more than an empty galley with a large table in the middle—the colonel bought our meals at various stops and carried them on board. We would travel in style, or so it seemed.
We were to head north toward Wichita, with our first show in Hutchinson, Kansas. Then came Salina and Manhattan, before we swung east into Missouri and Illinois, where we'd hit several small towns before ending the tour in St. Louis in July—"before it gets hotter than hell," the colonel said.
That first show in Hutchinson was pretty tame. After the entry parade, the cowboy band played "The Star Spangled Banner,,"
"Home on the Range," and a stirring march that spooked at least five horses. The colonel would have to rethink his musical selections, I thought as I calmed Sam.
Then several cowboys roped and wrestled steers, rode bucking horses, and finally rode some bulls. The action was fast and the cowboys were skillful, but the crowd only clapped politely. All this was nothing folks in Hutchinson hadn't seen before. The colonel was trying to exhibit ranch skills to people who did the same thing every day of their lives.
But I could feel the crowd perk up when Prairie Rose was announced. "Yes, sir, ladies and gentlemen, the prairie flower herself, riding the meanest, toughest bronc ever to buck on this earth, a horse by the name of Twister." Twister pretty much lived up to his name, turning this way and that, leaping straight into the air and twisting before he came down. Rose, riding with tied hobbles, made the act of staying aboard look effortless, and when she stood on firm ground again after the ride and bowed daintily to the crowd, she got more of a response than all the cowboys combined. Still, it wasn't overwhelming. Ladies in Hutchinson probably rode tough broncs, too, out of necessity, not for fun, which was what they thought we were doing.
"Whew," Rose said as she came by me, still out of breath from her ride. "If this is show business, I believe I'll retire. I expected—"
"Wild cheering?" I asked. "Like the editors' show? Rose, those editors hadn't ever seen anything like broncs, but these folks ride mean horses every day." It seemed obvious enough to me what the problem was.
Rose looked at me with wide eyes, then turned to look at the crowd in the bleachers around the arena. They wore jeans and shirts, Stetson hats, boots, kerchiefs at their necks. The women wore serviceable straight skirts and shirts, and many wore hats just like ours, though several bonnets could be seen. Men and women both had lined weathered faces that told they'd been out in the sun most of their lives. They sat patiently but clearly without the excitement and anticipation one wanted from an audience.
"You're right," Rose breathed. "You're absolutely right. Why doesn't the colonel see this?"
"You tell me," I said, and then something bold came to me. "We'll have to show him," I told her. "Come over here a minute, and let's make some plans." Leading Sam by his reins, I guided Rose to an out-of-the-way spot behind the arena where we could talk. Minutes later, we both came away smiling. Sam and I headed for the arena gate, ready to begin our act, and Rose remounted her horse.
"Ladies and gentlemen, you've never seen a lady rope like Miss Tommy Jo Burns from the Cherokee Strip. She can rope 'em and tie 'em before you can blink! Tommy Jo!" The announcer's voice rolled over my name like thunder as Sam and I trotted into the arena and once around, waving at the crowd. There were a few scattered cheers and one or two waves, but once again it wasn't enthusiasm.
I roped three calves and tied them, each in pretty good time if I do say so, and the crowd applauded nicely. They understood good timing and could respect it, but it didn't excite them. Then I roped a yearling steer and Sam held him firm until one of the cowboys came in to throw him. The applause was a little less this time, and I couldn't blame the audience—what was the good of roping a steer if you had to have someone else come in and throw it for you? But the colonel had insisted, in spite of my showing him two times that I could tie my own steers.
"Nope, Tommy Jo," he'd said. "Calf is one thing, but a steer's too strong. Might get the best of you."
It did no good to tell him I'd been tying steers at Luckett's since I was fourteen, and I seethed with resentment again. But this time, I'd have my own way.
After the steer was tied, I took my hat off and waved it in the air. The crowd, at first thinking I was bowing out, clapped politely, but silence struck when I recoiled my rope and began building a large loop on the ground. I looked out of the corner of my eye and saw Rose, mounted on the dun mustang she'd brought with her, waiting patiently. I nodded my head ever so slightly, and she spurred her horse to a gallop. I stood, rope in hand, my left foot braced forward, waiting. When they were almost upon me, I hefted that huge loop into the air in front of me. Without missing a step, horse and rider rode through it.
The crowd went wild, standing to cheer as Rose turned her horse and came back toward me. Rose waved, and I, feet firmly on the ground, bowed. Colonel Zack stood on the sidelines, alternately glaring at us and staring in surprise at the crowd. I was tempted to throw a loop at him but decided it was the better part of wisdom to quit while I was ahead.
On impulse, though, I took the handkerchief from my pocket and threw it on the ground, then stepped well back. Rose saw me, spurred her horse to the other end of the arena, then turned and flew by me, reaching to grab the small cloth off the ground as she went by. The crowd roared again , and Rose, made bold by the applause, began to ride slowly around the ring. I watched her move into a crouch and then into a stand. Feet planted firmly on her
saddle, standing tall and straight, arms extended in a gesture of embracing the crowd, she and her horse circled the arena. Finally, speaking softly to the horse, she bent her legs slightly and then propelled herself off the horse, to land standing almost beside me. I was overwhelmed, and so was the audience. Applause rolled over and around us.
"Here comes the colonel," Rose said sideways to me, still smiling brightly and waving at the audience.
"Oh oh!" I said, but waving my hat in the air toward the crowd, I added, "Just smile pleasantly at him."
All smiles, he came to stand between us, an arm on each shoulder, and joined us in bowing. The colonel was no fool—he took full credit for our act and our success, while the announcer roared, "Aren't they wonderful, ladies and gentlemen?"
"I'll see you in my railroad car as soon as you get the horses put up," he said to us when we were at last out of the arena, and neither Rose nor I had a hint from his tone about what he would say to us.
* * *
"I don't care," I said defiantly. "We saved the show."
"We did, didn't we?" she said, her dimples showing as she grinned triumphantly. "There'll be trick riding in the Miller 101 Show from now on, I'll bet you."
It was nearly an hour later when we presented ourselves to the colonel. We'd rubbed and fed our horses and then taken a minute or two to clean ourselves up some. "Always look your best," Rose said grimly, "even if you may be shot."
The colonel's railroad car combined living and sleeping quarters with an office. It was comfortable but far from fancy, not like those I'd seen pictured with rich wood trim, tapestries on the wall, and cut velvet upholstery. This car had a large roll-top desk in one corner, a sturdy dining table surrounded by straight wood chairs that didn't match, and a comfortable but plain sofa and chairs. A screen apparently curtained off the sleeping portions of the car, quarters for the colonel and his mother. His two brothers, not enthusiastic about this exhibition adventure and its cost, had remained in Oklahoma to run the 101. "Someone's got to make some money," I heard one of them mutter before we left.
The colonel sat at the desk, staring out the window at a rosy sunset to the west. He'd acknowledged our knock with an abrupt "Come in!" but now, as we stood awkwardly before him, he ignored us for several long minutes. Rose and I stole a couple of glances at each other, but we stood patient and still, refusing to appear nervous.
Finally, he turned toward us. "Took things into your own hands this afternoon, didn't you?" His hands played with a worn leather bridle, moving almost nervously across it, but his eyes were steady, looking straight at us.
"It was my idea," I said boldly. "I talked Rose into it."
Rose almost giggled, and I wasn't sure if she was amused or nervous or both. "It didn't take much talking. Colonel, we were about to be—"
"I know," he interrupted, "we were at the opposite end of the scale from success, and you saved us. Makes me so damn mad to be so wrong about something!" His fist pounded so hard on the table, it made him wince, and I thought to myself that a little pain was probably good for him at this point.
"You were right," he said, his tone still angry even if his words weren't, "and I was wrong. Folks don't want to see ranch skills—"
"In St. Louis they will, and maybe even over in Illinois, but not out here where they do the same things every day themselves," I said, aware that I'd been rude in interrupting him but determined to make my point.
"So," he said thoughtfully, "we either have to change the show or the schedule."
"Why can't we do both?" Rose asked. "When we're playing for ranchers and cowboys, we'll do tricks. In the cities, we'll ride and rope."
"I'm going to think about it," he said. Then, pulling himself to his feet, he came toward us and put fatherly arms around our shoulders. "I owe you two, and I'm not too proud to admit it. Angry yes, but I try to be honest. I'm grateful to you."
"Thank you," we murmured, almost in chorus.
His voice grew thunderous again. "But don't you ever take things into your own hands again. Now go on, get out of here, and let a man think."
"Rose," I said when we were settled in our own car, "I believe I've learned something tonight, something about men that I should have learned from being around Papa. They aren't always right."
Rose giggled anew, and I thought there couldn't be two happier people anywhere in the world than we were that night. The road to St. Louis, I was sure, was paved with applause and good times. I had a lot to learn about the show circuit.
* * *
By the time we reached St. Louis, the Miller 101 offered a "History and Review of the Wild West," and I was tired and discouraged. There'd been no good times. We'd played twenty-eight small and middling towns in the space of just over forty-five days, and we'd practiced day and night to perfect new tricks. Oh, we got applause—no more of that halfhearted response we'd seen in Kansas—and the roar of a crowd never lost any of its fascination for me. But I was lonely and tired of days that seemed one like the next—up early, eat breakfast, practice until late morning, then lunch, followed by a rest and more practice. By the time we rolled out for an evening performance, the day had already been too long.
Our work showed though. We presented a real Wild West show, with all the trimmings—Rose and I did an act that combined trick riding and roping, almost all the stagehands had been recruited for a mock attack on a stagecoach, the cowboys herded cattle on a trail drive while one warbled "When the Work's All Done This Fall" or "Don't Bury Me on the Lone Prairie"—the colonel had discovered that one of his hands could almost sing and, flying in the face of all his earlier principles, had incorporated music into the show. I didn't remind him about the time he'd scornfully said, "There's no music in the background when you're working on a ranch!"
We still did the exhibition acts—the cowboys rode broncs, and roped and tied steers, but now I roped Rose as she rode toward me at full speed, and I always ended my act by throwing a loop around some unsuspecting person. One night, feeling foolhardy, I threw it around Colonel Zack. I think he would have frowned if the crowd hadn't roared so, but he just kind of grinned and shrugged his shoulders. I never did it again though—usually one of the cowboys was my target.
Rose and I were exhausted at night and fell into whatever bed was assigned us—sometimes it was a comfortable boardinghouse in a small town, once in a while it was a sleeping bag in a tent, and occasionally it was a stiff, uncomfortable seat on the train when a schedule demanded we travel at night. After a night on the train, I awoke stiff, sore, and sure that I wasn't cut out for a career in show business.
Tired or not, Rose found it possible to fall in love—twice. The first was an older farmer—he must have been thirty-five—who lived near some small town in Missouri where the colonel had announced we'd stay for several days to practice. Most of the women who came to the show in that town looked worn down by hard work before their time, and not a one looked like she'd willingly get on a galloping horse. They were, I suspected, women who walked behind the plow to help their husbands, raised their children, fed their chickens and their families, and died early of exhaustion. Sometimes it made me glad to be on the show circuit—helped banish those longings I'd been having for Bo and Guthrie. But I worried about Rose.
"Rose, you oughtn't to be encouraging this... what's his name?"
Buffing her nails in the dim light of our boardinghouse room, she said, "Mitchell. His name is Mitchell. And I'm not encouraging him. He says he's never seen a girl ride like I do."
"I'll bet," I said. "But you're going to move on in a few days and forget all about him, and—"
"How do you know I'll forget?" She whirled indignantly to face me. "We plan to correspond, and he says he might come to St. Louis."
"Rose, by the time we get to St. Louis, you'll have forgotten all about him." I lectured like an older sister, I thought, disliking my tone of voice. Still, she wasn't being fair.
"Maybe, maybe not," she said, her tone clearly implying that it
wasn't any of my business.
Mitchell waited for her after the show each of the three nights we performed in this town—the colonel couldn't resist turning our practice sessions into performances, and we drew a fair crowd each night. Anyway, this Mitchell was fairly tall and fairly nice looking with straight brown hair and big brown eyes that stared endlessly at Rose. But somehow he just wasn't like the men I'd been raised around. He didn't walk the same, and he didn't even look the same. Oh, he rode horseback and sat a horse well, and he wasn't fat or anything... it took me days to figure it out. He was a farmer, not a cowboy. I didn't say that to Rose.
"Prairie Rose!" he'd say, with a hint of wonder in his voice. "How'd you get a name like that?"
"Named after the flower," Rose said smugly. "Grows wild on the prairie. It's hardy and beautiful."
Mitchell had never thought about girls being like flowers, I don't think. The two of them would disappear in the evening, and Rose would come sneaking quietly in way late at night, her hair messed and her clothes slightly askew.
I always pretended to be asleep, though one night I lay awake a long time thinking about Bo and wondering if I was just plain jealous of Rose.
As I predicted, when we moved on Rose lost her fascination with Mitchell and was bothered by his almost-daily letters. "How will I tell him not to come to St. Louis?" she wailed, angry that I was less than sympathetic.
The second love of Rose's summer was a more serious affair. Jake, a cowboy in the show, began to watch her. In the ring, when she curried her horse, when we ate our midday meal at the long table by the arena, even once when we went shopping in Peoria, Illinois—Jake was always there, staring at Rose. It flustered her.
"He's admiring you," I said. "I wish some man was looking at me that way." Truth was, I'd expected romance to come flying at me now that I was out in the world and Bo was back in Guthrie. But nothing even remotely like that had happened, and I was disappointed—and jealous.