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Authors: Don Coldsmith

BOOK: The Long Journey Home
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She paused, seemingly lost in thought.
“But kinda lonely,” she added softly.
There was no way to tell her that he felt exactly the same way. The same feelings had brought them both to the top of the hill. Then he realized that there was no need to tell her. She already knew.
She rose suddenly and extended a hand to him.
“Come on,” she said. “Let's walk.”
He rose, with Hebbie still holding his hand, and they turned to walk along the flat hilltop. It was perfectly level, a narrow oval half the size of a football field.
“Look!” she pointed with all the excitement of a child. “The evening star!”
They stopped, still holding hands, and watched the other stars appear suddenly, one at a time, in the darkening sky.
And it was good.
T
heir friendship was something of a surprise to John. He had never before had a woman for a friend. His attachment to Jane Langtry was a romance, but this was different. He was attracted to Hebbie physically, but not to the extent that—
He sighed. It was not appropriate to try to understand it. It was simply there, a closeness and understanding that had happened without either of them realizing it. He knew without discussion that Hebbie felt much the same. She, too, had been surprised at their immediate sharing of feelings.
Actually, it was an unlikely relationship. She was half again his age, and their backgrounds had little in common. She did confess to a little Cherokee blood on her mother's side. There had been a time on the frontier when it was a step up the social ladder to marry into the Cherokee Nation. The thrifty, hardworking Cherokees were far more affluent than the dirt-scrabble whites who were homesteading on the border near them. They never discussed it, but in his heart, John suspected that that infusion of Indian blood helped to establish the union of spirit which had characterized their first meeting.
Their paths crossed occasionally, in the day-to-day activities of their work. Sometimes, on the rare occasions when nothing much was going on, they rode together, sharing new places, new sights and sounds. They sometimes went to the hill, which was often referred to as Cowboy Hill, because of its landmark status. Cowboys in the vast open country could see the hill from any direction, as far as thirty miles away. For a rider who might be slightly disoriented on a cloudy or overcast day, it was a reassuring beacon.
It was a reassurance to the pair of friends who loved to go there, too. In a way, it represented their odd and mismatched friendship. Nothing demanded or expected: just a mutual trust and respect, a solid rock in a world that sometimes seemed to be made of quicksand.
They talked … About nothing in particular. They still knew little about each other, but enough. They had known that from the first. Neither felt any need to conceal, nor any urge to reveal. And, much of the time they were together, they were communicating in silent trust, without talking.
 
“Hebbie, you ever been married?” John asked one Sunday afternoon as they rode.
She looked at him curiously.
“Nope. Never found the fella I'd want to inflict that on.”
They rode in silence for a while, and she spoke again.
“You?”
“What?”
“You … You been married?”
“No!” he blurted, a bit more emphatically than he intended. “Why?”
“Nothin' … You asked me, is all.”
She was quiet a little while, and then spoke again.
“Well, it's not quite true. There was a cowboy. Fella a lot like you, I reckon. We grew up together. Folks all figgered we'd end up married.”
There was a long silence, and curiosity finally prompted John to speak.
“So …”
Hebbie took a deep breath.
“That damn' war with Spain. He had to go show what a man he was. Damn' show-off got hisself killed, is what.”
“Hebbie … I'm sorry …”
“It's okay. I don't think about it as much as I used to.”
There was nothing to say, and they rode in silence for a while. Finally she spoke.
“But thanks for askin',” she said softly, closing the subject.
Someday, maybe he could tell her about his own tragedy. But not now.
 
“John, Mistah Zack lookin' for you,” Bill Pickett told him one morning.
“I do something wrong?” asked John in surprise.
“Don't think so. The boys jes' run in a bunch of range colts. Reckon he wants you to help with 'em.”
John sought out Zack Miller, who was leaning on a corral fence studying a dozen young horses. They were a mix of yearlings, two- and three-year-olds,
and it appeared that they had never been handled. For all practical purposes, they were wild horses. They stood, ears up and nostrils flaring, suspicious, defensive, ready to jump at the slightest sound or movement.
“Ready to try one of them, John?” Miller asked.
“Might as well, I guess. Which one?”
“How about that roan filly?”
Zack pointed to a well-built two-year-old.
John studied the animal … . Foxy little ears, pointed in at the tops … Large, wide-set eyes … Intelligent face … Good slope to the shoulder, and a long hip tapering to a low-set tail. A horse his father would have admired.
“She's okay,” he said.
“Where you want her?”
“The little pen over there. Don't rope her.”
“Do that yourself?” asked Zack.
“Mebbe. Let's sort of see what happens.”
They separated the young mare from the others by means of gates and the sorting chute, and into a small circular breaking pen. She exhibited a moment of near-panic at being separated from the others, calling out to her companions. For a moment it appeared that she might try to jump the eight-foot enclosure, but she decided against it.
Good, thought John.
She's got a little judgment.
Still alarmed, the young mare circled the pen at a lope, occasionally whinnying to her companions. John waited, watching.
“Go ahead, John!” called one of the cowboys, laughing.
“Let him alone!” admonished Zack Miller. “It's
his
act!”
The filly finally settled, slowed, and stopped, watching her tormentors cautiously.
Now John moved slowly, slid between the horizontal poles into the pen, and rose to his full height. He was carrying a soft cotton rope. He took a step toward her.
Disturbed by this intrusion, the animal began to run again, circling the arena. John had stepped inside her periphery, and she now followed the fence. Gradually he moved back toward the fence, into her path. She brushed against him, a glancing blow that knocked him off balance for a moment, but he stood fast.
Show no fear
, he reminded himself,
but present no danger, either.
On the next circuit, the filly moved around him without threatening.
Good … We have an agreement, then?
The running became less excited and more brief with each episode. He would take a step or two, the filly would run, but not so fast or so far now. He kept
crooning softly to her in Lakota. When he finally touched her neck she panicked again for a moment, but stopped and stood after a couple of circuits. The touch had enabled him to obtain a smear of her sweat. He paused and wiped his brow, mixing their scents … . Medicine. He extended his hand and she sniffed curiously.
See? Our medicine is good together … We do each other no harm …
Another touch, a pat on the neck and shoulder, an asking of permission, on the level of the spirit. He rubbed gently, and the animal seemed to enjoy it. The ears were an obstacle, but not for long. Soon he was rubbing her ears, tossing the soft rope over and around her neck and across her back.
He looped the rope around her neck just behind the ears and used it to lead her toward where Miller stood, one foot on the lower rail.
“That's about it,” he told the showman. “Want me to go on? Prob'ly better to do it later at another session, but—”
“No,” said Miller. “I see … Damn! Twenty-three minutes! You could prob'ly halter her now?”
“Sure. You want—?”
“No, no,” Miller interrupted. “I see your work. Amazing!”
Some of the cowboys at the rail began to applaud, and the filly spooked and pulled away. John let her go. This was no time for a confrontation.
He slipped out between the rails, and Miller met him with a handshake.
“Great job, John. I want you to go ahead with her training. When will you be riding her?”
“A few days.”
“You don't buck 'em out?”
“No. Easier not to, I figger.”
“I see. Well, she's yours.”
John wasn't certain whether it was a gift, or whether the little strawberry roan was to be his assigned 101 mount in the show. He could find out later.
The boss started away as the onlookers dispersed, but then turned and came back.
“You realize we can't use you in the show, John?”
“But I thought—”
I thought that was the whole idea of my being here
! he wanted to shout.
“Then … You mean I'm
fired
?”
“
What
? Christ, no! Where did you get that idea?”
“You just said—”
“No … We just can't use horse tamin' as an act. Takes too long. Folks pay money to see
action
. Horse tamin' is quiet and slow. But no, I still want you
ridin
' in the show, and workin' with horses on the ranch. You're
good
, boy. Mebbe as good as they come, with horses. But it ain't a show act … .”
He turned away, muttering to himself, “Damn! Twenty-three minutes.”
Someone approached, and John turned to see Hebbie. Her eyes were sparkling with excitement.
“I didn't know you were here, Hebbie,” he mumbled.
“Wouldn't have missed it,” she said warmly. “John … Well, you were just wonderful!”
She gave him a quick little hug and kissed his cheek.
John blushed crimson.
“Careful!” he protested. “That's prob'ly against the rules or somethin'.”
“I don't think so,” she laughed. “And … Tell you what—I don't care.”
They looked at the little roan.
“I heard Zack say she was yours,” Hebbie said. “Reckon he meant to ride for the 101, or to keep?”
“Don't know,” admitted John. “He gave Spradley to Bill Pickett, but that's a different case. Don't matter much, I reckon. Looks like I'm gonna be here awhile.”
“That's good,” she said quickly.
It sounded as if she thought he might be leaving. She must have heard his conversation with Miller.
“Well,” he said, “everybody's got to be someplace, I guess.”
I
t was autumn now. The leaves on the blackjack oaks were dry and brown, but still hanging on. In past times, these scrub oak thickets had made a good natural windbreak for teepee dwellers. Now, they provided shelter for wintering cattle and horses on open range.
Most afternoons were still warm and sunny, and John used the good weather to continue the training of the little mare, now called Strawberry.
The show season was over, except for a regional celebration or two, where the entire troupe would not be required. Usually John was asked to go. He was versatile, able to portray an Indian, a cowboy, a settler with an ox team, or a blue-clad cavalry trooper. There was a general feeling that he was a favorite of Zack Miller's, and consequently of Tom Mix's, too. He had spent some time with a visiting young cowboy with a friendly grin and a droll sense of humor. His name was Will Rogers. He was a friend of the Millers, and he did amazing things with a rope. Several of the ropers had taken some lessons from Rogers, including Lucille and Hebbie, as well as Mix, John, and a couple of the other cowboys. John was interested to note that Rogers and Pickett were good friends. They had met, someone said, when both had been performing at Madison Square Garden or somewhere. Rogers, once billed as the “Cherokee Kid,” had traveled and performed in Africa and South America, but was now primarily appearing in New York. He had immense appeal to Easterners, as they looked to the romance and adventure of the West.
Some of his stunts were unbelievable.
“John, get on your horse there, go off thirty yards or so, and ride past here at a fast canter,” suggested Rogers.
Spinning a rope in each hand, he tossed both as John thundered past on Strawberry, catching the horse in one loop and the rider in the other.
There was a low sigh of admiration from the gathered crowd, many of whom had remarkable skills themselves. There was little envy in evidence. Rogers was so friendly, likable, and modest that he always left people feeling better about themselves and about the world.
 
“John, come to town with us!” said Tom one Saturday evening.
Some of the boys often rode over to Ponca City, or to Bliss, for a few drinks or to play a few hands of stud poker.
“No, I'll stay here,” said John.
He didn't care much for drinking, and was always a bit self-conscious about being in public with whites, even cowboys who were his friends.
“Aw, c'mon, John. It'll do you good.”
He didn't want to appear uncooperative. Maybe it would do him good.
“Okay,” he agreed. “I'll get my horse.”
 
They rode into the little town of Bliss and tied the horses outside the bar. It was not quite dark, but the mellow light of kerosene lamps gave a warm glow to the room, a welcome. Behind the bar over the mirror was a painting of poor quality, an overweight, scantily clad female with a smile that was more like a leer, as she looked down on the bar.
The bartender saw John's glance, and chuckled.
“She gits to lookin' better after a few drinks,” he advised.
The other cowboys roared with laughter.
John sipped his fiery whiskey slowly, not really enjoying the evening, and wondering why he had bothered to come to town. Maybe after another drink or two … He tossed down the glass and the bartender refilled it promptly.
He was beginning to feel better, except for the mild buzz in his ears. A poker game was starting over in the corner. Maybe he'd sit in … . He was more comfortable now, ready to relax and have some fun.
Tom Mix strolled toward that table, but suddenly glanced out the window and stopped dead in his tracks.
“Oh, Jesus!”
“What is it?” asked the bartender.
John was caught up in the general rush to the window. There on the sidewalk in the fading light knelt a heavyset woman in a sunbonnet and a full dark dress. She carried a large handbag, which now lay on the walk beside her.
“What's she doin'?” asked someone.
“She's prayin',” said Mix in a hushed tone.
“What is it?” called the bartender again.
“It's bad, that's what it is.” Mix answered. “That there is Carry Nation!”
“Oh, damn!” muttered the bartender. “Not here!”
He began to move quickly, taking an armful of selected bottles from behind and under the bar, and scurrying to the back room with them.
John was confused.
“What's goin' on?”
“That there,” said Mix, “is that temperance lady, from across the border in Kansas. We need to get outta here.”
“But what's she—?” John was watching through the window fascinated.
The woman outside had risen now, looming to nearly six feet tall. John stared in amazement as she reached into the handbag to draw forth a large hand ax. Holding it above her head, she charged through the front door. The drinkers scattered like quail, some retreating through a side door, some slipping out the front after the attacker had passed.
But her target seemed to be not the drinkers, but the bar itself. She rumbled around the right end of the counter while the bartender retreated around the left.
The hatchet swung in a mighty horizontal arc, smashing a dozen of the bottles on the shelf under the mirror. Glass and assorted liquor showered down over the ample front of her dress, and across the polished surface of the bar itself. The mirror was next.
“Oh, no!” whimpered the bartender. “The mirror—”
Silvery shards tinkled to the floor.
“May this be the fate of the Demon Rum!” thundered the woman.
Her hatchet swung again, and more demons joined those on the planks. She paused, looking up at the painting as if in doubt. One swing of the ax left a cleft in the blatantly exposed skin of the painting's brazen woman that was not exactly anatomical.
The heavy arm descended, and a keg on a stand behind the bar splintered, amber fluid gushing out through the rupture.
John was still standing openmouthed as the hatchet swung again and again.
“This to the foes of the Lord!”
“Come on, John!” one of the 101 cowboys called from the doorway.
A table crashed over, spilling drinks, cards, and poker chips across the floor. Recovering his senses, John slipped outside. Men were untying horses from the hitch rail and hurriedly climbing aboard to sprint down the street and out of town. He mounted Strawberry quickly.
There was another crash and the sound of breaking glass from inside.
“What the hell is goin' on?” he asked in bewilderment. “Why isn't she arrested?”
“She usually is,” said Mix. “That's what she wants … . Publicity. She's against drinkin', even medicinally, I guess. Sheriff's prob'ly hidin' out. I wouldn't want to try to stop her, would you?”
“But … Where'd she come from?”
“Up at Medicine Lodge originally, I think. Mebbe she still lives there. They're dry. ‘Prohibition.' But she travels all over the country, puttin' on this act.”
“You seen her before?”
“No, but I heard. She's put a lot of places out o' business. The law's usually skeered of her. Reckon we can see why.”
John nodded agreement. He felt sympathy for the bartender, who was probably also the owner. He was surely ruined now.
“I heard her first husband was a drunk,” said one of the cowboys.
“Reckon she'd drive a man to drink!” retorted another. “She shore got my attention.”
“Want to ride on over to Ponca City?” somebody suggested.
“Naw, it'd be too late.”
“She might foller us.”
The ride back to the 101 was quiet. There was nothing to talk about, now that the excitement was over. The happy anticipation of an evening on the town was forgotten in the grim contrast of the ride home.
“Damn!” muttered someone. “How'd that ol' bitch do so much damage so fast?”
 
“Really?” asked Hebbie excitedly the next evening when he recounted the adventure. “You
saw
her?”
They were sitting on the sun-warmed stone shelf atop the hill, one of their favorite retreats.
“I sure did. Say, she was somethin'. You wonder about what she'd do to somebody with that hatchet.”
“But she don't use it on people, does she?”
“So they say. Just the Demon Rum, I guess.”
“John, you usually don't go drinkin' with the boys,” she said tentatively.
“Naw … They sort of talked me into it.” He chuckled. “Really, we didn't even get started drinkin', hardly. And when Carry got through, there wasn't much to drink. I tell you, Hebbie, she scared some pretty tough cowpunchers.”
“I'm sure of that,” she chuckled.
They were quiet a little while, watching the fading panorama in the western sky. With the fading sun, the night's chill came rapidly at this season. She snuggled against him, shivering a little, and he encircled her with an arm. The shared warmth of their bodies was good, and she nuzzled closer.
The sun's last rays made highlights on her hair, and he studied her profile.
Strong nose and cheekbones, a determined chin … Really, she was a quite attractive woman. As she leaned toward him, her face turned, bringing her full lips nearer his. What was a man to do? He kissed her. It was a warm and sensual kiss, like none he had ever had. Of course, he had little with which to compare and, at the moment, Jane Langtry was the farthest thing from his mind.
As she turned, into his arms, her breast brushed against his hand, and he instinctively cupped it in his palm. The kiss ended, but the hand remained.
“Did you really want to do that?” she asked softly.
“What? This?”
He gave a gentle squeeze.
“Yeah. I sort of thought we were just friends.”
“Well … We are … I mean …”
He was embarrassed now.
“It just seemed natural.”
He started to remove his hand.
“No, no,” she said. “It's okay.”
They sat a little longer, and he kissed her again. There was more passion now. Both were breathing more heavily.
“Oh, John,” she murmured.
Then suddenly, she pulled away.
“Wait a minute … . How old are you, John? Not twenty yet, I'll bet.”
“Well, maybe not … I'm not exactly sure. They didn't keep good records. What the hell are you gettin' at?”
“Hmm … Guess I ain't quite old enough to be your mother. Damn' sight nearer than I'd like, though. Never mind. I'm just thinkin' out loud.”
“But—”
She placed a finger on his lips.
“Shh … Don't talk. Yes, we're friends, an' that's good. But, looks like we're startin' somethin' else here. An' … Well, I reckon you haven't had much experience. Gov'ment schools an' all.”
“Well, I …” He was embarrassed to admit how really meager his experience actually was. “I can learn, can't I?” he joked.
“Sure,” she chuckled. “An' you don't mind if I coach you?”
“Can't think of anybody I'd rather,” he said. “And we're still friends.”
“Oh, well,” Hebbie said. “What the hell … Shut up and kiss me.”
He did, long and softly and very satisfactorily.
Finally they came up for air.
“Wow!” she said, “you don't need much coachin'. That's pretty good. No, real good. Now, put your hand here. That's right … Now, other one here … Oh, yeah, that's good … Now, kiss me again … .”
It was a long time before either spoke, and then it was Hebbie again.
Tears were wet on her face.
“Oh, John … I'm so glad we found each other.”

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