Cherokee Rose

by Judy Alter

  Our first big show on the road was back in St. Louis, and it fooled me into thinking all our shows would be in big grand coliseums, that we would always stay in comfortable boardinghouses, and that the road would always be smooth. It wouldn't turn out that way at all, but in St. Louis I added Buck to my act—by accident at first, and then, with the colonel's blessing and Buck's reluctant agreement, on purpose as part of the show. The audience loved it.

  I'd given up my trick of roping someone by surprise at the end of my act—too cute, I'd decided—but that night I took a notion to rope Buck, and I caught him, horn and all, by surprise. But Buck was game—he laughed, and arms pinned to his side, he still tried to play his horn.

  "The little lady's husband, folks—Buck Dowling!" the announcer roared, and then nothing would do but that I pull Buck in, like I would have a steer. I tied the rope to Governor's horn, dismounted, and slowly walked toward Buck. Of course, he did what no steer ever did and walked toward me. When we met, I kissed him soundly—thinking Sandy Burns would never approve this public display—before I loosened my rope. When he was free, Buck held the horn in one hand and me in the other and returned the kiss soundly. Then hand in hand, we bowed to the cheering audience.

  The colonel was waiting for me after the show, his face stern. "Took a big chance, didn't you, Cherokee?"

  "It worked," I said defiantly, and only then did he break into a grin.

  "It sure did," he said enthusiastically. "You can do that every show from now on."

  "Anybody ask me?" Buck said plaintively, and we all laughed.

  Later that night, in the privacy of our room, I asked, "Buck, did you mind my roping you?"

  He took the hairbrush I'd been using out of my hand and began brushing my hair. "No," he said slowly, "not really, but it did make me feel like your trained dog."

  I whirled toward him. "I'll never do it again!"

  "No, Cherokee, it worked. The audience loved it. That's what counts, so we'll do it every time from now on. Turn your head."

  I turned my head, and he continued to brush. After a minute, I said, "You're more important than the show, and what's between us matters more than whether or not an audience claps. I won't do it again."

  Standing behind me, Buck looked into the mirror and into my eyes as they were reflected there. Finally he said, "No, Cherokee, we'll do it, for lots of reasons. It won't change what's between us."

  I shuddered, but it would be years before I understood that Buck saw something I didn't, maybe knew me better than I knew myself at the time.

  From St. Louis we went to every little town in Missouri, or so it seemed to me. That was a particularly rainy spring, and the long gray wet days faded into each other, punctuated by miserably cold nights and performances in the mud at outdoor arenas to sparse crowds made unenthusiastic by the chill. Even the food we ate was depressing: cheap cafes where the idea of steak was to cook it until it was like leather, boardinghouses that made up for a scarcity of meat with lots of potatoes and turnips, and long nights when we were just plain hungry because there was no place to eat. Sometimes on the train at night, when we'd boarded right after a show and hurried off to the next town, my stomach would grumble so loudly that Buck would laugh—and that would make me mad, adding anger to hunger for an unpleasant combination. Even so, it was the rain that was the worst.

  "Weather doesn't break, Colonel will cancel the show," Buck predicted one night as we slogged through the mud to our tent.

  We were in Hannibal, Missouri—Mark Twain country—for three days, and the colonel had put up tents for all of us. "Tents, or sleep on the train," he said with forced cheerfulness. "No money for boardinghouses."

  And now Buck was telling me the tour might be canceled. "Did he say so?"

  "No. I just think it's logical. Crowds have been off, gate's down. Makes no sense to keep on losing money."

  "You don't know the colonel," I said. "His brothers back at the ranch, well, they think they make all the money so he can lose it on the road. And maybe they're right. Damn!" I was looking so intently at Buck as I talked that I walked right through an enormous mud puddle, splashing dirty gray water on my boots and the chaps I still wore.

  "Here"—he laughed—"stand still." And Buck, that most patient of men, took out his bandanna and wiped off my clothes.

  "I've been wanting angora chaps, but I sure wouldn't wear 'em in this weather." I'd had my eye on the curly white angora chaps that Fay Harrison wore, and I really did covet them.

  "Better stick to rough-outs until the weather clears," Buck suggested with practicality.

  "I wouldn't care if the show did close," I said defiantly. "I'm tired of being wet and cold and dirty. You ever try to rope and tie a calf in the mud?"

  "Yeah, that's why I play the horn."

  I swung an impatient fist at him. Buck flinched, then took off on a run, and I gave chase.

  "You'll get mud on your clothes again," he warned over his shoulder, "and this time I won't wipe it off."

  We landed in our tent in a wet dirty heap, shedding our clothes in a pile on the wood flooring and heading for bed without delay. It was the only warm dry place I'd been for days—but that wasn't why either one of us hurried. I'd put aside my fears of pregnancy, vowing not to let anything ruin the physical intimacy between Buck and me. And nothing did—not the thought of children, the possibility of the show closing, or the mud outside. Buck and I forgot the world the minute we were alone together.

  * * *

  Tying a calf in the mud was bad enough—the little beasts threw mud all over you as they struggled to get away—but relay races were worse. The horses tended to slip in the soft soggy ground, and their hooves churned up mud and dirty water. We had an act the colonel called "Pony Express" where four girls raced each other, on four separate mounts each. It was complicated—and hard to do in a small arena—but each of us stood at our post around the edge of the arena. If you think of a clock, we were posted at 12:00, 3:00, 6:00, and 9:00. Each of us had a cowboy to hold the other horses. When we had circled the arena and were heading toward our starting point, the cowboy would slap the second horse into motion. The point was to dismount from the first horse, bounce on the ground and take a flying leap to land on the second horse, which was already in motion. It took exact timing and a lot of nerve—the cowboys always said that was why they just held the horses and refused to ride in such foolishness.

  I wasn't riding the night Bonnie Adams's horse lost its footing in the mud. His forelegs buckled, just as though someone had put a trip wire in front of him as he ran, and then, almost in slow motion, he pitched slightly forward, and Bonnie was flung forward, luckily not enough to fly over the horse's head. While we all held our breath in fear, the horse fell to one side, pinning Bonnie's leg beneath him. Too close behind them came Belle, her horse going too fast to stop. At the last minute, Belle's horse shied to one side, almost crashing into the board wall that edged the arena, and then did an awkward jump over the fallen horse and rider, his hooves clearing them by inches. Behind that, Fay Harrison and little blond Jo desperately fought to turn their horses into the center of the arena.

  There was absolute silence in the arena, except for the whinnying of frightened horses and the soft tones of riders trying to calm them. Bonnie's horse mercifully lay still for a moment, too stunned to try to right himself. If he had struggled to get up, he'd have hurt her worse.

  Buck was one of the first to get to Bonnie, and he said later she was singing "Home on the Range" softly under her breath when he got there.

  "Singing?" I was incredulous.

  "So she wouldn't cry out," he said, "and maybe to quiet her horse."

  Bonnie, whose leg was badly crushed but not broken, stayed perfectly still while several cowboys pulled her out from under the horse and then stood back while the animal righted himself. He stood, head down in bewilderment, but all four legs planted firmly on the ground—no legs broken. Beside him, Bonnie, supported on each side by a cowboy and cove
red with mud, waved to the audience, and at last the silence was broken by applause. The crowd was thin that night, as it had been for days, but the noise they made sounded louder than the biggest crowd I'd ever seen in Madison Square Garden.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Bonnie Adams," the announcer roared, "and her horse, Samson. What a strong man he proved to be tonight!" That loud dramatic voice went on to praise the cowgirls who avoided even greater disaster with their tight control of their mounts, and the cowboys who ignored their own safety in the rush to save Bonnie. "Ladies and gentlemen," he concluded, "what you have seen tonight is the best of what the Wild West has to offer—a comradeship and concern for fellow performers and for animals that is absolutely unselfish. There're no finer folks on this earth, ladies and gentlemen, and I urge you to tell them once again how-much you admire their courage." The applause swelled again, and I wished the announcer would be quiet.

  Bonnie couldn't ride for a week, but she came to every show and sat in the stands.

  "You scared to ride again?" I asked. It was the question on everyone's mind—that she'd been so spooked by what had happened that she'd lose her nerve.

  "Yeah," she said, "I am. But soon as this leg mends, I want the colonel to put me in the 'Pony Express' again. Can't scare myself out of doin' something that I love."

  I hugged her tight, hoping that I'd be brave enough to feel the exact same way if I got hurt.

  I almost did get hurt one night, and it caused a row between me and Buck. A steer I was roping decided to act more like a bull—instead of running, it turned and started to charge Governor and me. I had a moment of panic—I couldn't very well turn and abandon the steer, but I sure didn't want him plowing those horns, short as they were, into Governor's side or my leg. Buck tried the trick that had worked before—playing his horn loudly—but the steer was oblivious. He had begun by walking deliberately in our direction; then he stopped and pawed the ground, just like a bull getting ready to charge. Just as he began to move forward—at a good pace—another rope sailed out and caught him. One of the cowboys had roped him from the opposite direction, and with both ropes on him—pulling in different directions—the steer was pretty much stuck right where he was. The cowboys finally got him out of the arena, and the colonel later admitted he sold him to a butcher right away.

  Buck was angry about the incident and turned his anger toward me. "You can't do that, you know, just disregard people who care for you."

  "I didn't do anything I don't usually do," I said hotly. "It was the steer, not me!"

  "I don't care! How do you think I feel down there with the band, watching while you nearly get yourself killed?"

  "I didn't nearly get killed, and if you don't like it, don't watch."

  We lay rigid in the bed that night, careful not to touch each other, going to sleep with only a murmured goodnight. In the middle of the night, though, Buck reached for me, and as I turned into his embrace, he whispered, "I just don't want anything to happen to you." And then the world disappeared for us again, as his hands brought my body awake and alive with wanting.

  * * *

  Life went on—we were in Wisconsin, Illinois, Michigan, and Ohio in the next three or four months—and I thought little about Belle. The colonel gave me star billing all along the way. Headlines in local papers screamed, "The Miller 101 Featuring Cherokee Rose and Her Amazing Rope Tricks!" or, "Cherokee Rose, World's Greatest Cowgirl, to Perform Here!"

  Before and after shows, little children would clamor for my autograph, and the colonel generally had me stand in front of the arena for a while and sign programs or tickets or whatever they had.

  I loved it! I loved having those little children look up at me and breathe, "Golly, you sure can ride, miss!" or "I wish I could learn to rope." When they asked, I'd tell them quick stories about growing up on a ranch and learning to ride before I could walk—well, it was only a slight exaggeration. The faces of the city kids would turn pure green with envy, and I wished for each of them a childhood on a ranch.

  I was a heroine to the grown-ups, too, though in a different way. Sometimes a man would sidle up and ask if he couldn't show me the town or a good time, but Buck seemed to have some kind of special intuition, for at just the right instant he would appear next to me, asking "Cherokee, you need anything?" and I'd smile graciously and introduce my husband. The man generally was gone before I could get out Buck's name. The rest of the time, while I signed, Buck sat on a stool behind me. "Watching you," he told me. "I'd never get tired of that." It gave me a good secure feeling to know he was there.

  But it was the women who surprised me. Generally they wanted to talk more than they wanted my signature, and the request for an autograph was just an excuse for a brief conversation. Invariably the first question was "Are you married?" and I'd say yes and nod at Buck, and then they'd give him a long stare.

  "He doesn't mind?" The question from a pale woman in a faded dress was typical. Two children clung to her skirts, the little girl crying for ice cream and her brother trying to smack her into silence, while the mother, oblivious of them, talked to me.

  "Buck's proud of me," I said quietly. "He's in the show, too."

  "But he's not the star like you are," the woman said, shaking her head.

  No, I thought, that's true, he's not—but I was too busy to ponder that right now.

  "You have children?" she asked, glancing for a minute at the two clinging to her but neglecting to recognize their quarrel.

  "No, ma'am," I said, and bit my tongue before I added, "not yet."

  "I wish... I wish I could do what you do," she said. "You're free, and I envy you."

  I hadn't rightly ever thought about being anything but free—I had been free as a child on the prairie, and I was still free, even with Buck. It was one of the blessings of my life I took for granted, until all those sad-faced women started asking about my life—and reminded me of Mama, who never had been free. I wanted to hug this particular woman and tell her... no, I didn't know what I'd tell her.

  Late that night, I said, "Buck Dowling, I'm glad I married you."

  Startled, because I almost never spoke about love or what was between us, Buck replied, "I'm glad, too. Any special reason you brought it up right now?"

  "Just been thinking," I muttered, "about what most women's lives are like."

  He laughed aloud. "Not like yours, Cherokee, not at all like yours. 'Course, soon's as we have a baby, you'll get a little better idea of how the other half lives."

  Buck talked a lot about having a baby, and I usually just listened and tried to agree without having to sound enthusiastic. Nothing ever would make Buck Dowling leave me, I knew that, unless I said, "Buck, I don't want children." Deep down inside, I knew that Buck wanted children even more than he wanted me.

  It wasn't that I didn't want children exactly. Part of it was that I'd simply never been able to imagine myself as a mother. Seeing myself in the future had never been a problem for me—hadn't I always seen Tommy Jo Burns right where I was now, starring in a Wild West show? Only part I'd missed was the identity change from Tommy Jo to Cherokee. But motherhood, that was something different.

  The other part, of course, was that pregnancy would interrupt my riding. While I was sidelined for three months or more, Dixie Bell or Fay Harrison or some girl I'd never heard of might take my place, and I might never get it back. Maybe, I thought once in a while, if I could find a baby in a basket, like Moses in the bulrushes, I could raise it and make Buck happy and keep on riding. Miracles, however, don't grow on trees—or in bulrushes—and I knew that.

  But every time Buck made love to me, I thought about it, and every time he asked about my monthly time being so regular, I shuddered a little. If I was lucky—in my own terms—and failed to conceive, then I'd be unlucky in love and disappoint Buck. It was a dilemma I still hadn't come to grips with.

  * * *

  In Ohio, we ran into trouble with the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

&n
bsp; "Threatening to close us down, that's what they are," the colonel said one morning in Cleveland. "Damnedest bunch of nonsense I ever heard of. Cruelty to animals..."

  "Cruelty? What kind?" I asked, tagging along behind him as he paced the hallway outside the arena. "We treat our animals very well."

  "'Course we do, Cherokee, 'course we do. This is just some bunch of do-gooders, saying the horses and cattle don't have a choice in the matter. They're forced to do these things. When did you ever know a steer to make a choice?"

  "I remember one that chose to run at me," I said flippantly, and then regretted it, because the colonel gave me a really black look. "Sorry."

  "They claim it's cruel to rope and tie a calf, and unnatural—that was their word—unnatural to race a horse. Good God almighty, what those people don't know about the West would fill a book. Here I am trying to show 'em what it was like, and they're claiming it was cruel. Next thing you know they'll outlaw cattle raising and ranching and—"

  "Colonel, your blood pressure," I said. "Calm down. They can't close us, can they?"

  "They've gone to get a court order," he said. "If that works, they can."

  "Well, we'll just go on to the next town," I said prosaically.

  "And what if the do-gooders in the next town get word of this? It could follow us all across the country. Every town we go to, they could stop us."

  I couldn't believe that, but maybe I underestimated the people he called do-gooders.

  In the end, the judge they applied to sent an inspector to watch a show and see how the animals were treated, fed, housed, and so on. A prim-looking matron from the SPCA, wearing a fur-trimmed black cloth coat and a large black hat with feathers on it, sat through the show with the inspector, her lips pursed in disapproval, her jaw set. When a steer was roped, she would poke him and say, "See? You see that?" Finally, I saw the poor man rubbing his arm, as though it were sore from the constant poking.

  Buck caught me staring at her and asked mischievously, "Where'd ya think she got the fur and the feathers? Did those creatures have a choice?"