by Judy Alter
"He's grieving, and he doesn't need to know," I said. "But tell him I'm real sorry about his wife, will you?"
She nodded.
It was not a wonderful day to be riding across the prairie—early September in Oklahoma can be blast-furnace hot, the heat rising in great gusts to blow in your face. The sky was blue and cloudless, so that the sun beat down on me relentlessly, and I was soon wiping sweat from my face with my kerchief and taking frequent sips from the two canteens I'd brought with me. The prairie was burned brown by the summer's heat and had none of the beauty that I found in it on glorious spring days. I had to hold myself back from pushing Governor faster than I should, just to get the long ride over with. By pacing him—and myself—I rode to the 101 without camping, but it was a sixteen-hour day, and I was exhausted when I rode into the ranch just after one o'clock in the morning. I'd nibbled on the cornbread and roast beef Louise had packed for me, but I was hungry and tired.
I tried to sneak into the house—into the kitchen, specifically—but Mrs. Miller must have slept with one ear cocked. She was in the kitchen before I got the door firmly shut.
"Cherokee? Honey, you all right? Hungry?"
"Hungry," I admitted, and soon found myself sharing a midnight snack with her. Pretty soon the colonel wandered in, his pants apparently pulled on quickly under his nightshirt.
"Cherokee," he said. Far be it from the colonel to be exuberant in his welcome! "Glad you're back. We got to get to planning our show."
"Don't we have to plan it with Buffalo Bill?"
He looked startled for a minute. "Naw, not really. He's got half the show, and we got half." There was a long pause. "Our half will be better."
"His half," I said slowly, "won't be real western stuff, you know. He does all those acrobatic acts—Japanese and all—and that business about the Russian Cossacks. General public won't know which half is whose, Colonel. How're you going to feel about a show that isn't pure western?"
He sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward. "Cherokee, you have to make some compromises in this life." Then he grinned, almost mischievously. "And I'm willing to compromise a lot to tie into Buffalo Bill's name. It's going to be the Buffalo Bill and Miller 101 Wild West."
I grinned at him. "Yes, sir!" All the years I'd wanted to ride with Buffalo Bill, and now I was planning to outdo him. What strange turns our lives can take!
Next day I noticed that the colonel's brothers—Thomas and George—were mighty scarce. Oh, sure, they came to the dinner table—who could miss Mrs. Miller's cooking?—but they said little and they left as quick as they could. Specifically, they avoided looking at Zack or talking to him. And Mrs. Miller acted real nervous every time her boys were together.
"Colonel," I demanded as we walked out to the barn after supper, "what's going on with your brothers?"
"Never miss a thing, do you, Cherokee?" He stopped and stared across the fields. "They think it's time to get out of show business. Think the trouble in England was an omen. We've lost enough, George told me."
"Have you?" I asked.
"Yes," he said, "but that doesn't mean I want to quit. I—I don't know how to explain this, but I can't quit. I don't know what I'd do if I had to come back here and do my share of running the ranch and never go on the road again. I just don't know." He shook his head. "George and Tom, they don't understand that."
I took his arm, a rare gesture of affection between us. "I understand perfectly," I said. And I did.
* * *
The tour did not start out well. The night before we were to leave Oklahoma, a driving rain set in, and by morning the ground was mud and muck.
"We'll load the horses next," the colonel said from the depths of the slicker he wore against the wetness. "Cherokee, you go get Guthrie." In the same breath he ordered several others to go after specific horses, and we all turned to do his bidding.
I wasn't paying enough attention as I led Guthrie out behind one of the new cowboys, who led a skittish young horse. When I should have been watching that horse in front of me, my mind was wholly occupied with wishing I were drier and warmer. Suddenly, without warning, the horse in front spooked. I never did know why—maybe just rain hitting him in the face—but he whinnied and shied away from the cowboy who held him. I wasn't quick enough to pull Guthrie away, and my horse was thrown off while trying to avoid the tangle in front of him. With a frightened sound of his own, Guthrie slipped sideward. It was all straightened out in seconds, the cowboy got his horse under control, I calmed Guthrie, and we started again through the mud to the railroad cars. But Guthrie limped—badly.
"Colonel!" I called, and he came sloshing over, splashing mud every which way as he walked. "Guthrie's lame."
"Lame? How could he be lame from stepping out of the way of a spooked horse?" Anger made him indignant.
"Mud," I said. "He must have pulled a muscle."
The colonel sighed. "Get him on into the car and then rub it down. It'll mend by the time we get to New York."
I wasn't so sure about that, but I coaxed and urged Guthrie slowly to the car and up the boarding ramp—that part wasn't easy at all, and I wouldn't have gotten it done if that horse hadn't trusted me as much as he did. Finally, he was in a stall in the stable car, and I went to fetch the liniment.
The whole trip east, I kept that bottle of liniment in Guthrie's stall and rubbed his leg down several times a day. We stopped the train to exercise the horses once a day, and I couldn't see that the strain was improving any. But I didn't mention it to the colonel. No sense in leaping my bridges until I came to them. Still, I was worried.
The heavy rain from Oklahoma moved east with us, as though a dark cloud hung over the train the whole way. For two and a half days I stared out at a dull gray landscape, towns where the people had retreated inside, a sky that looked perpetually threatening.
"Wish it'd quit raining," Pearl said. "Makes me feel bad, like maybe the show's not gonna be a success."
"Bite your tongue," I said more sharply than I meant to. "The show will be fine. Weather's got nothing to do with it." But inside I didn't believe that. I knew, for one thing, that people are less inclined to go anywhere but home in rainy weather. And that even animals—let alone people—are affected by falling barometers and high humidity. Everything goes better on sunny and pretty days—including Wild West shows.
When we finally got to New York, the colonel had hired hands to unload the horses. "You all go on and get settled in the hotel," he said magnanimously.
"I'll take Guthrie out," I said evenly, "and see that he's settled."
The train had stopped at Grand Central Station, as close to Madison Square Garden as it could, but we would still have to lead the horses several blocks through the city, and I was worried about Guthrie making that distance.
"Cherokee!" The colonel sounded out of patience. "Guthrie'll be fine. The men will be careful."
I walked up close to him, so that his new hired hands couldn't hear me, and said, "Colonel, you don't know these men. You just hired them. I am not turning a lame horse over to them. In fact, I have my doubts about letting them lead Governor, even though he's perfectly sound."
In the end, the colonel led Governor and I took Guthrie, who still limped badly. It was a long slow walk to the barns at the Garden.
"He can't be ridden in time for rehearsals," I said.
"What do you mean, he can't be ridden? He's got to be ridden, Cherokee! The show depends on him." The colonel's face was turning red.
"It had better not," I said calmly, "'cause Guthrie's not being ridden until his leg is completely well. If he limps much longer, I'm going to insist we call a vet."
"A vet!" I could see the dollar signs spinning around in the colonel's mind. "Now surely, Cherokee, that isn't necessary...." His voice trailed off, and then he said the oddest thing. "I sure wish Buck was here."
I knew what he meant. He wished Buck were here to talk some sense into me. I didn't even dignify that with an answer. Buck would have m
ade no difference in my reaction to Guthrie's lameness, and Buck would have understood me much better than the colonel. For a fleeting instant, I, too, wished Buck was there.
We met Buffalo Bill—Colonel Cody—the next morning. It was a terrible letdown for me. All my life I'd carried this picture in my mind of the dashing Buffalo Bill, dressed in his white suit, his hair and beard flowing, his eyes sparkling with life and adventure. He was the hero of my childhood dreams, and I thought him invincible. I saw instead an old and tired man, worn down by financial worries and fear of failure. He still had the beard and long white hair, and he still wore white suits, but there was no sparkle in his eyes.
"Zack," he said, greeting the colonel, "it's good to have you with us. I know this show'll be a great success."
"I hope so," was the fervent answer. I thought maybe Colonel Zack was praying aloud as he spoke.
The Buffalo Bill show was definitely on the skids. We could see it in the shape of the equipment—tack hadn't been repaired, sets had been quickly and clumsily repainted—and we could also see it in their people. They were amateurs—I don't think there was a westerner among them. These were show people, come to make a living, without knowing or caring for what they were portraying.
"They'd as soon be playing Shakespeare as a Wild West show," I whispered to the colonel, but he pretended to ignore me.
We rehearsed—and we rehearsed. Colonel Cody was not happy with anything—not his performers, not the music, and, most of all, not me. "Where's that high school horse of yours?" he demanded.
"Lame," I answered. "Not at all ready to ride."
"You'll have to ride him lame," he said, his tone clearly telling me that he would brook no argument.
He got an argument nonetheless. "Colonel," I said, speaking slowly and distinctly, "I will not ride any lame horse, let alone my own trained horse. But I will give you a good show. I have another horse, you know, the best trained roping horse I've ever seen—and I can ride rough stock if I have to." The minute that was out of my mouth, I wondered why in the world I'd said it.
It didn't take Buffalo Bill a second to respond. "You'll have to," he said. "I've billed you big in this show—you're the star—and you'll have to live up to that top billing."
So that was the high point of the show. The announcer roared, "Here she is, ladies and gentlemen, Miss Cherokee Rose! She'll be riding the previously unridden wild horse, Devil Dancer! Riding him bareback! Watch the young lady for the thrill of a lifetime!" The crowd—what there was of it—shouted their approval.
Trouble was, Madison Square Garden was only about half full. I knew Buffalo Bill and Colonel Zack had publicized this show every which way, with newspaper ads, flyers, and a parade through the city that they'd forced each of us to take part in. Yet the crowd was nowhere near what it should have been. I was puzzled, but getting ready to ride Devil Dancer I had no time to ponder it.
At least the Garden had chutes, so there was no need to snub Devil Dancer to a post in the arena. In the chute, I let myself down on the horse and felt his muscle* tighten. When I was settled, my feet tucked into the stirrups and my hand in the grip, I nodded and the gate swung open. Devil Dancer hesitated just a minute, as though sizing up the situation, and then exploded out of the chute into the middle of the arena, where he put on a good show of sunfishing and pitching, with his back humped like a camel. Each time he landed on all four of his stiffened legs, the shock of the landing went through me like a sledgehammer. It was a long ride, though it was only six seconds—the prescribed time for women, as opposed to the eight seconds men rode.
When I had slid onto the hazer's horse and then down onto solid ground, with Devil Dancer running mad circles around the perimeter of the arena and the hazers chasing him, the crowd roared. And in spite of the sparseness of the audience, the noise seemed deafening to me.
I hadn't been truthful with Colonel Cody about how long it had been since I'd ridden rough stock.
Pearl was concerned about me—and Colonel Zack was furious!
"Dumb fool thing to do," he ranted. "Could've put yourself out of commission for the whole season. Then where would I have been?"
I looked sideways at him. "Where would I have been?" But then I got more serious. "It was either that or ride Guthrie while he's lame, and you know it."
He hemmed and hawed and finally said, "The lameness any better?"
"I think so. I expect I can ride him in a week or so. Meantime I'll ride Devil Dancer—or another one of Cody's bucking stock."
"You better," he said dryly, "stick to Devil Dancer. At least you know what his tricks are."
"I sure do," I said, rubbing the sore muscles in my upper arm, muscles I'd strained holding tight to that hand grip.
After a minute I asked the colonel the question on my mind. "Why was the audience so slim tonight? Doesn't Buffalo Bill's name draw people anymore?"
He shook his head. "I don't know. Worried me a lot, too. Maybe it's this war climate we live in. People are too preoccupied to be entertained."
"And maybe," I said hesitantly, "Wild West shows are... well, old-fashioned, out of date. How can you get caught up in Indians and cowboys when the Kaiser is threatening all of Europe?"
He looked startled. "Cherokee, you're a deep thinker. You may be right. But that's why I renamed the old artillery show. Now it's the 'Military Preparedness Pageant.' Figured that would appeal to people's sense of patriotism, of getting ready for the war that is inevitably going to involve us."
"Is it really, Colonel?" I asked seriously. I hadn't figured out that the war that had driven us out of England might follow us back to the States.
"I'm afraid it is, Cherokee. I can feel the tension in people and see the poor attendance at our shows."
The crowds were never what we anticipated, and the show lost money right from the first performance. But we plugged on, closing in New York City and opening in Boston for a one-week run. Then it was on to Atlantic City, Atlanta, and Chicago. Everywhere we played to small audiences, and the two colonels grew more worried with each run of the show.
Colonel Cody hovered like a shadow around the show—an old and tired and desperate man. He rarely spoke to any of us but rather seemed to be watching, hoping for a miracle—that big success again—that we couldn't give him, though not through any fault of our own.
Sometimes he'd talk to the colonel. I'd see them standing close together at the side of the arena before a show or even early in the morning when we were taking care of the animals and making ready for the day's performance. Later, the colonel would tell me about the conversations.
"The acrobats," he said disgustedly. "He thinks the acrobats will draw a crowd."
Grudgingly I admitted that they were indeed unusual, bending themselves into shapes that were absolutely impossible for the human body, and flying through the air in ways that God surely never intended. "But," I added, "it's not western."
"I know, I know," the colonel said. "You told me that before."
I didn't want to say I told you, so I was simply quiet.
Every once in a while Colonel Cody would try to be my friend, and I never knew what to make of that. "Cherokee," he'd say almost too heartily, "you're the backbone of this show. If anybody can draw the crowds in, you can. We've got to do it, girlie."
I didn't like being called girlie, and I resented the implication that I could be drawing more crowds in somehow. I was doing my darnedest—and the poor crowds had nothing to do with my performances. But I don't think Buffalo Bill ever understood that.
The whole time we were with his show, Buffalo Bill made me feel sad—sadder even than either Sandy Burns or Buck Dowling did, and that was saying a lot.
* * *
Guthrie's leg was sound again, and I thought he was putting on a terrific show, but then Governor gave me the scare of my life. He refused to eat one day in late November, turning indifferently from the oats I put in his bucket, and when I studied him I thought he looked like a rag doll—limp, withou
t the spark that gives a horse pride and carriage. Well, at least a horse like Governor.
"Colonel, I'm worried about Governor. I'll sleep in the stall with him tonight." We were in Atlanta, and the barns were adjacent to the coliseum. Our hotel, small and modest, was more than a mile away.
"Cherokee! You can't do that. It's not safe for a young woman alone."
"There's no choice," I said. "Come look at him yourself."
It was late in the evening when I dragged the colonel back to the barn. By then Governor was standing with all four legs spraddled, looking totally dejected. He'd stare at us a minute, and then turn his head as though to look at his stomach.
"Colic!" we both said in chorus.
"We'll both be here all night," the colonel said, "and even then who knows if we can save him. You sit and rest, Cherokee. I'll start." And he began to walk Governor in a large circle in the open part of the barn. Periodically Governor would balk, pulling back on the lead rope.
"Wants to lie down and roll," the colonel said, "but it won't do him any good. We just got to keep him walking and see if we can't untwist that gut."
I nodded. I knew only too well about horses and colic, and the twisted gut that could literally explode inside an animal and kill it. Bo had once told me, "If only a horse could burp, it could relieve some of that pressure. But it can't. It's like its insides are frozen—can't burp, can't eliminate, can't make anything happen. And they're in terrible pain."
It was Governor's pain that bothered me the most. That most gentlemanly of horses should not suffer! Watching the colonel walk that poor miserable horse around and around, I periodically thrust my fist into my mouth to stifle the urge to scream. At last, huddled on a bale of hay, I slept a little. When I woke, the colonel was still walking in circles.
"My turn," I said, rising groggily. "He any better?"
The colonel shook his head. "No, but he's not any worse, either. I'd like to be chivalrous and tell you I'll keep on, but I can't. I'm dead on my feet."
I took the reins and began that monotonous circling. If it's monotonous for me, I thought, what can Governor think of it? By now he was following me docilely, though he still turned his head in the direction of his stomach every once in a while. I thought maybe he was just a bit better.