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Authors: Don Coldsmith

BOOK: The Long Journey Home
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“
M
aybe it was a mistake last night,” she told him the next day. “Is this goin' to spoil us as friends?”
John was caught completely off guard by such a question. He had realized that he was inexperienced, clumsy, probably inadequate in her eyes. Yet, he had gotten the impression that she, too, had been caught up in an ecstatic adventure, where both body and spirit had merged into a magical moment.
“I … I don't hardly reckon so,” he said clumsily. “I know I didn't know much about it, but—”
“Hush!” she said, laughing and blushing under her tan. “That ain't what I meant. I was prob'ly takin' advantage of you.”
“No, no … You'd never do that, Hebbie.”
Now the old twinkle was back in her eyes again.
“Well, I dunno,” she said in mock seriousness. “I might, you know.” She slipped a hand under his elbow and into the crook of his arm as they walked past the paddock.
“Never can tell,” she added.
John felt better, though he was still puzzled by the enormity of the situation. He had never felt like this before. This was not the way it was supposed to feel to fall in love. But, if this was not falling in love, what was it? Hebbie was plainly teasing him, implying a hint of things to come. Maybe that was part of it, the teasing and laughing together … Aiee, growing up was such a chore. Especially with no one to really advise him.
Back among the People, he would have had an advisor. An uncle, according
to tradition. But his mother had had no brothers still living, even before he was taken away from the reservation. One of his uncles had been killed in a skirmish with soldiers before Little Bull was born. The other had died of some white man's illness before he was old enough to remember. Typhoid or pneumonia or something, he supposed.
His thoughts moved back to the present, and to Hebbie, his friend and now his lover. What was supposed to happen now? Would they be expected to marry? He wasn't sure. There was no male friend with whom he felt close enough to ask. Some of the cowboys occasionally visited women in town, and on one occasion he had accompanied a couple of them to the bawdy house. He didn't know what the other cowboys had told the girls, but they had offered to pay for his visit. The whores had teased him about his inexperience. He was at the same time excited, stimulated, and repulsed at the sweaty, heavily perfumed women.
This is not as it is supposed to be
, he thought. He had been unable to perform.
Now, here was a totally unexpected situation. A completely satisfying friendship had suddenly blossomed into something else. Into a wildly thrilling, yet warm and satisfying exploration of an entirely new level of relationship. It was something he did not know how to handle.
The next day, he finally thought of a solution. It was one so simple that he wondered why he hadn't thought of it sooner. He could ask Hebbie. She was the focus of his puzzlement anyway, as well as his best friend. He'd ask her about it, when occasion offered.
 
“Hebbie, I need to ask you about somethin'.”
It was evening, two days after their experience on the hill. He had encountered her out behind the horse barns, and they were walking together in the twilight. It was growing chilly.
“Sure. What's that?”
“Well, about the other night …”
“Yeah?”
Her tone softened with her probing question.
“I'm not sure what I mean, here,” he went on. “But … Well, what's supposed to happen now?” he blurted.
She giggled, and then seemed to realize how serious his question was. Her nervous giggle stopped.
“What did you want to have happen?”
“I … I just don't know, Hebbie. Nobody has ever told me the rules about this.”
“What do you mean, ‘rules'?”
“Well, my people have customs. A young man has a teacher … An uncle,
maybe, who tells him about love and courtship and marriage and all. I don't have anybody, and I don't know your white customs on this.”
She started to laugh, and then stopped short again.
“You're serious!” she said, surprised.
“Well, of course.”
“I see … An' the cowboys ain't much help, are they?”
Now she was sympathetic and understanding.
“They're friends, but there's nobody I'm really close to. Nobody who'd know to help me with this. You're my only real friend.”
He thought for a moment that there was a tear in the corner of the gray-green eyes. Hebbie smiled, a little sadly.
“John,” she said seriously, “I'm proud you'd ask me. Now, there prob'ly ain't rules, like the ones with your people. An' we've maybe broke some, to some white folks' way of thinkin'. But … Well, we know each other purty good. I guess we don't have to do anything about this right now. That okay?”
“If it is with you.”
She nodded, then shifted the subject. “John, how old are you, really? I asked you before, an' you ain't sure, you said, but you got some idea, right?”
“Sure. Eighteen, maybe, give or take a year.”
“My Lord! I'm robbin' the cradle!” Hebbie said, half to herself.
“How old are
you?”
he asked.
“John,” she said evenly, “you ain't supposed to ask a woman her age.”
He was confused.
“You mean … That's a white man's rule or something?”
Hebbie smiled, perhaps a little cynically.
“Well, yes. Reckon you could say so.”
“I'm sorry. I didn't know. Among my people, the old women are proud of their many winters.”
“And among mine, too. But you're talkin'
old
women, John. A
young
woman ain't goin' to cherish her years. Not for a long time.”
“I see. And you're a young woman.”
“I'd hope to tell you! Some days … But never mind. Look … I ain't goin' to see my twenties again, but I ain't quite old enough to be your mother. That close enough?”
“I guess so.”
“Okay. An' there's some that are gonna look with disfavor on our bein' together.”
John bristled indignantly. “That's no business of theirs!”
“Exactly! But there's always some that feel they have to judge everybody else's doin's.”
“That's their problem!” he said.
“True. But things go smoother if they don't have too much to think about.”
“What are you sayin', Hebbie?”
“Just that … Well, you and I know how we feel about one another, but we don't have to tell the world. So, we just be friends in the open like we been all along.”
“And things go on the way they are!” he agreed.
“Sure. With the exception that you an' I know better. We behave ourselves in public. Okay?”
Since they were well behind the horse barn, and twilight was deepening, she gave him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek.
John longed for more and would have held her more closely, but she pushed him away gently.
“Later,” she promised in a whisper.
 
“John!” called Tom Mix, “How'd you like to go to Mexico?”
John had been gentling a colt in one of the small pens, and paused to look up at the approaching cowboy.
“Why?”
“We're goin! Joe's takin' the show to Mexico City. It's a heap warmer there. We'll be back by Christmas, though. Want to go along? Usual pay.”
“Who's goin'?”
“Purty near the full troupe. Ropers, riders, some o' the Indians. Couple of the dancers … I reckon they like strippers even in Mexico.”
They both chuckled. Ever showmen, the Millers had signed several carnival acts that season. Exotic dancers, a “tattooed man,” jugglers, and a magician.
“I dunno. Mostly the Wild West bunch. Pickett's goin' … A bunch of the cowgirls. We'll take the Hunnerd-an'-one train.”
John wondered whether one of the cowgirls would be Hebbie. He couldn't ask Tom. Well …
“How long?” he asked.
“Dunno. Couple o' weeks, maybe.”
“Sure. Why not? Am I a cowboy or an Indian?”
Mix laughed.
“I dunno. Maybe both.”
“When do we leave?”
“Next week, I guess. You'll want to take Strawberry?”
“If I can.”
“Sure … I'll keep you posted.”
 
The train ride was yet another experience. They were stopped at the border by customs inspectors who rifled through everything on the train, looking for any attempt at illegal entry.
Joe Miller walked from car to car, explaining that there was a rebel Mexican group threatening an insurrection. The authorities were suspicious over the importation of hundreds of horses and riders, many of whom were armed.
“They've always got somethin' like this goin' on,” Joe Miller fretted. “It'll be okay, let 'em search.”
So the Mexican customs authorities searched, even prying up floorboards in the cars to look for contraband. Some of the women performers were indignant over the way they were patted and poked and squeezed, and Joe Miller was sputtering with rage.
“Did they do that to you?” John asked Hebbie angrily.
“Nope … They were too occupied with the dancers,” she told him. “There's much to be said for not bein' too purty.”
“But you're—”
“Hush!” she cut him off. “Folks will think you're carryin' a torch for me or somethin'.”
The inspectors went so far as to explore supplies in the commissary car, much to the consternation of the cooks. Mexican soldiers thrust bayonets into containers of lard and other foodstuffs, to ensure that no weapons or forbidden items were hidden there. Considering the temperaments of American cowboys and of Mexican soldiers, it is perhaps remarkable that an international incident did not occur on the Miller Brothers show train. That it did not may be attributed to the discipline and experience of the 101 show troupe. Also, maybe, to the expertise of Joe Miller. Joe always operated on the theory that anything can be accomplished. It is necessary only to discover the right means. It is possible that some Mexican palms were greased with silver on the railroad siding that day.
In any event, the train moved on to Mexico City and a spectacular welcome. The newspapers were fascinated by the huge cast of characters who arrived on the train. The people were tired of the rumors of rebellion and war, and were ready to play. Performances began and, in a short time, attendance at the Wild West Shows were exceeding that of the bullfights.
This was not an acceptable thing for the professional matadors. They especially resented Bill Pickett and his bulldogging act, and began a campaign of slander. Journalists became involved, and there quickly evolved two sides: one supporting Pickett, the other deriding him as a fake.
The bullfight crowd insisted that the Dusky Demon would have no chance against a real Mexican fighting bull. An indignant Joe Miller came to the defense of his people, especially Pickett. Argument led to challenge, and it quickly became apparent that the two sides were on a collision course.
At Miller's urging, Pickett agreed to a bizarre contest. He would attempt to bulldog a fighting bull, chosen by a committee of the bullfight operators. The newspapers went wild, encouraged by interviews and by advertising purchased by Joe Miller. This would be an event to outshine both the bullfights
and the Wild West Show. The betting became heavy as the date of the contest approached.
By the appointed day, there was more excitement and coverage by the newspapers for this event than for either the Wild West Show or the bullfight itself.
J
oe Miller met with the bullring aficionados to finalize the rules.
Despite the derisive ridicule of the matadors, who worked on foot, with a cape, Pickett would approach the bull on horseback. He would be allowed hazers on horseback, but must handle the bull with bare hands and, of course, his teeth.
He would control the animal for a specific period of time, the length of which was a point of contention. Miller became irritated and finally issued a challenge that was hard to refuse, and included a wager: If Pickett could stay in the ring with the bull for fifteen minutes, five of which he would spend on the bull's head, as the promoters demanded, the Millers would take the entire gate receipts of the day. This, in addition to a side bet suggested by Joe Miller: 5,000 pesos. The bullring operators quickly agreed.
Meanwhile, Pickett was having some doubts. Before leaving home, he had had a nightmare in which he was being chased by a huge black bull. His wife, Maggie, had believed that the creature represented the devil himself. The Dusky Demon did not like the way things seemed to be shaping up. The Millers tried to reassure him. It was only a dream, after all … . Wasn't it?
 
The Plaza El Toreo was packed with spectators, some supporting Pickett's challenge. Most, however, were loyalists to the traditional spectacle of the bull ring, and already offended by the unorthodox challenge of the gringos' Dusky Demon.
Prominent government officials were present, including President Porfirilo Diaz of Mexico. The 101 troupe attended in full force to cheer on their champion.
It did nothing to raise their spirits when a group of costumed matadors entered the bullring before the contest solemnly carrying a black coffin lettered
El Pincharino,
“The Gored One.” This bothered Pickett, recalling his dream and Maggie's concern. Zack Miller treated his doubts with more encouragement and a sizable dose of rye whiskey.
The bull selected for the contest was called
Frijoles Chiquitos,
“Little Beans” because of some odd bluish freckles on his black hide. This encouraged Pickett. The bull in his dream had been a solid color: jet black.
It was agreed that Pickett would be allowed hazers on horseback to direct the bull's run while Pickett made his jump. These would be Joe and Zack Miller and Vester Pegg, veteran 101 cowboy. They quickly found that el
toro bravo,
the fighting bull with centuries of deliberately bred bad disposition, cannot be hazed like a Texas steer. The animal immediately attacked the horses. The picadors in a standard bullfight are mounted on horses protected by padded armor, and the horses are often blindfolded. The American cowboys, and especially their horses, were out of their league. Pegg's horse was gored and disabled immediately. The goal changed quickly from one of directing the run of the bull to that of avoiding his enraged charges. The three horsemen maneuvered for position, trying to get Pickett into a position for his leap to the horns of el toro.
In the melee and confusion, the four animals twisting and turning, the bull suddenly abandoned one selected victim to attack another. The victim was Pickett's horse, Spradley. In the process of turning, the horse's hindquarters were exposed, and the bull's vicious horns sank home. Spradley fell, going down to a sitting position as his injured hip muscles failed. Pickett jumped to the sandy arena, and to the mercy of the maddened bull. The crowd roared approval.
Pickett scrambled and the bull turned, now eager to reach a man on foot.
Hebbie, seated in the stands next to John, grabbed his arm.
“He'll be killed!” she yelled.
But Pickett dove straight at the bull, between the horns, and fastened himself around the neck with both arms.
This was much like having the traditional bear by the tail. He couldn't turn loose without being killed. He could only try to hold on. He was unable to move into position for the bulldog bite to the nose. The bull was whipping head and horns wildly from side to side, trying to dislodge this annoying creature, but Pickett hung on, with no other alternative.
The crowd was turning ugly and began to throw objects into the arena. Seat cushions, rocks, bottles, sticks and canes, “even open knives,” by one account. Something struck Pickett in the face, drawing blood. Another facial
wound, partly healed after a previous performance, reopened, and the bleeding increased. The crowd cheered.
Then some heavy object, said later to be a beer bottle, struck Pickett in the side, fracturing ribs and opening yet another bleeding wound. A journalist from the
New York Herald wrote:
He groaned in sudden pain, gasped for breath, cast a last, imploring, agonized look at us, his long-time friends, and loosed the iron clasp which had defied the fury of as fierce and strong a bull as ever pawed the earth of El Toreo.
Frijoles Chiquitos, although weakening, now suddenly began to revive and turned toward his tormentor, who lay helpless on the ground. Vester Pegg stripped off his red shirt and leaped into the arena, shaking it at the bull to divert him. This allowed Pickett to stumble to the shelter of the barricade and safety. Pegg, too, escaped the rush of the tired bull.
But now the crowd became really ugly, turning on the other gringos who were scrambling to escape a rain of debris.
“Over here!” John yelled to Hebbie.
The other cowboys and cowgirls were retreating to an area in the El Toreo facility which provided relative safety behind an iron gate. At least they could huddle together in defense.
Pickett was concerned primarily with the injury to his horse. An old man, apparently a healer, offered to help. He placed two ripe bananas in Spradley's open wounds, and soon the horse was able to struggle to his feet. He fully recovered later, with only scars.
Meanwhile, President Diaz was forced to call out two hundred mounted soldiers to restore order. It was several hours before it was safe for the 101 troupe to leave the shelter they had found from the angry mob.
But in the end, Pickett had more than qualified to win both the bet and the gate receipts, some 48,000 pesos. He had been in the bullring for more than a half hour, and had spent seven and one-half minutes on the head and horns of the bull.
It was two days before Christmas.
 
Three days later, following the last performance of the Wild West Show, without Bill Pickett's act, they boarded the train for home, stopping at San Antonio and at Fort Worth.
They were scheduled to stop for an appearance in Gainesville, Texas, also, but the Millers canceled the show and moved on. The weather had turned bitterly cold, and the battered troupe was glad to see the home ranch again. It had been a tough tour.
 
Only a few days later, in the middle of the night, that John woke in the bunkhouse. Something was wrong … . He couldn't pin it down, but there was a feeling of tension in the air, an urgency … . A sense of danger, and a warning.
He rose quietly, shivering in the January cold, and pulled on his socks. The plank floor was too chilly to go barefoot. He shuffled toward a window, and became aware of a yellow orange light … . Surely it wasn't time for sunrise yet! Besides, the glow seemed to come from the wrong direction. Confused, John wondered for a moment whether this was a dream or vision of some sort.
Now the source of the orange glow seemed to be flickering, like the light of a campfire … . Fire! As this dreaded thought screamed its way into his consciousness, there came a simultaneous echo from outside.
“FIRE! The White House is on fire!”
In the space of a few heartbeats the street outside was filling with people, yelling, running, trying to bring some order to the unthinkable chaos. Some carried buckets, to try to organize a bucket brigade, but there was no ready source of water. Even the tanks for livestock in the nearby corrals were frozen or kept nearly empty to prevent the risk of bursting from a deep freeze.
“Who's still inside?” someone yelled as the cowboys tumbled from their beds and pulled on clothing as they ran.
“Dunno.”
A window crashed on the second floor of the venerable old White House, and a burst of flame roared out into the night. John could see the figures of people stumbling out the front door, silhouetted against the hellish orange glare inside. Someone was helping a partly bent figure across the porch and down the steps. That would be Mother Miller, her granddaughter Alice at her side.
John ran with the crowd, now gathering in front of the house. It was only too apparent that the cause was hopeless.
The Millers had been entertaining a party of friends from the East, and a succession of people kept pouring out of the smoke-filled house. Some were barefoot in the frozen darkness.
“Where's Little Sol?” yelled George Miller, turning from helping Mother Miller off the porch. “He woke us!”
George's faithful pet dog had wakened those in the house just in time.
“He must be still inside!”
“George! Don't go back in!”
“I've got to.”
George pulled away and dashed back inside. He came back quickly, carrying an armful of clothing and dragging a small trunk … . His mother's jewelry.
“Can't find the dog,” George panted, coughing from the smoke. “He saved us!”
 
Quickly, it was over. The massive three-story White House crashed to a pile of embers in the space of a few minutes. The fire had started in the furnace room in the basement. The loss was almost inconceivable. Personal possessions, family mementos, and a small fortune in antique furniture, prized by Mother Miller, had been lost. Perhaps the worst loss of all: the records and documents of the 101 Ranch. George, the bookkeeper of the operation, had made his family's home in the White House, and all: records were kept there. The house and contents were only partially insured.
But, almost miraculously, there was no loss of life, except for the hero of the disaster, Little Sol, George Miller's dog.

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