The Long Journey Home (19 page)

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Authors: Don Coldsmith

BOOK: The Long Journey Home
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“John? John Buffalo? Is that you?”
Curious, John paused and turned aside. The voice sounded familiar, but the light was poor under the incandescent bulbs of the electric streetlamps.
A young man detached himself from the crowd.
“John? What are you doing here?”
“Charlie Smith?”
“None other,” grinned his former roommate. “You're with the show, here?”
“Sure. Couple of years, now.”
“You're not coaching?”
“Nope. Couldn't find a job.”
“Good!” said Charlie.
“What?”
“Then you don't know Coach McGregor's been lookin' for you?”
“No … What for?”
“He's got a job for you!”
“A job? Doin' what?”
“Coachin'. He asked me to let him know if I heard from you.”
“
W
hat are you doin' with this outfit?” Charlie demanded. “But no … Back up … You left Carlisle in a hell of a hurry. Nobody knew why, and we couldn't seem to get any answers.”
The old heartbreak washed over John in a wave like those that rhythmically rolled over the Coney Island beach and receded again like the wave. It had been a while since he had thought about it.
“That's a long story, Charlie. Doesn't matter much now. But what are you doin' here?”
“Doin' Coney Island, like you. I'm teaching, and on a vacation weekend.”
“Here? New York?”
“No, at Carlisle. Came down to look at some new equipment we're considering. Going back on the train tomorrow. But, John, tell me about you. We found out you'd been at Haskell, but they didn't know where you went after you left there. And this”—Charlie swept an arm at the tired but happy cowboys and Indians moving up the street—“Somebody said this is the Hundred and One Wild West Show?”
“That's right. I work for the 101.”
“C'mon … You're funnin' me.”
“No, I'm not, Charlie. I train horses at the ranch.”
“Oh, yes. I've heard you say that; you like horses. So, you don't ride in the show?”
“Well, yes … I do. We all do several jobs, help one another in a pinch.
The Millers are tough but fair, Charlie. They're payin' for this Coney Island trip.”
“Really? That's a heap o' money, John.”
“Yep … They don't mind spendin' it if it keeps the gang workin' and happy.”
“But …” Charlie paused and his eyes swept over his friend from head to toe. “You're a
cowboy
in the show?”
John laughed. “These are my workin' clothes at the ranch. In the show, I'm a cowboy sometimes, or an Indian, sometimes a cavalry trooper.”
Charlie's face registered his shock.
“My God, John! What would Yellow Bull say?”
“Well … Dunno. I'd guess he thinks I'm tryin' to beat the white man at his own game. But Charlie, these folks are different. They have some respect. Look … See these Indians? Poncas. Those over there are Sioux. They're all in the show. We've got Mexicans and Russians. A few breeds and Negroes. There's Bill Pickett over there—colored and Cherokee, they say.”
“I've heard of him … . Wrestles steers with his teeth, somebody said? Some trick?”
“No trick, Charlie. He does it. Damn' near got killed when we were in Mexico.”
“Heard about … Wait!
You
were there?”
“Sure. Several weeks. Say, we'll be here a week. Come on over. I'll get you a pass.”
“Come on, John, we'll miss the train,” called a woman's voice.
“I'm comin', Hebbie. Charlie, come back to camp with us. We've got more talkin' to do. And yes, I'd like you to meet Hebbie, my … uh … friend. Hebbie, this is Charlie Smith. We went to school together, back at Carlisle.
“Pleased to meetcha, Charlie. Sure, come bunk with us. Always room for one more on the road.”
“But, I—”
“Come on, folks,” yelled Vern Tantlinger. “We're loadin'! Bring your friend, John.”
“Well, okay,” Charlie said. “I do need to tell you about McGregor.”
 
They talked until far into the night.
“You don't know why they decided to transfer you out West?” asked the puzzled Charlie Smith.
“Not really,” John said, not quite truthfully. He thought the reason was pretty certain, given the circumstances.
“Couldn't your friend the Senator help you out on that, John?” Charlie asked, half teasing.
Then his face changed.
“My God, John. It was—”
“Never mind, Charlie. Let's talk something else.”
“My heart is heavy, my friend. Let us speak no more of it.”
“Good. But … You spoke of Mac. A
job
, you said?”
“Yes! He's been trying to find you. Asked me if I knew, because of our friendship. He knew you'd transferred to Haskell, but they'd lost track of you.”
“And you're working for him? McGregor?”
“No, no. I'm teaching English. But we have a really good athletic department now. And a rising star. Name's Jim Thorpe. Sac and Fox, from Oklahoma, I think. A whiz at football and baseball, but Pop Warner likes him best at track and field. Distance runner … All your old events, John.
“Wait a bit. Was Pop Warner there when you were? Director of Athletics? Great head coach …”
“Well, he had been. I was at Carlisle only two years, you know. But didn't he leave about the time I got there?”
“Oh, yes, I forgot. He was at Comell … . His alma mater, I guess, for about three years. But he's back, now, building. There's this Thorpe kid. Small, but wiry. Aw, there's too much to tell. Let me back up … .
“I said, Pop Warner is building our athletic program. It's big, but getting even better. Our Indian kids are enthusiastic. All they ever wanted was a fair chance to compete with the white man. We can relate to that, no?”
Charlie went on without waiting for an answer.
“Funny thing one of the Sioux students told Pop Warner: ‘You had the press agents … . When the white man won, it was always a
battle
. When we won, it was always a
massacre
.' But back to the subject … .
“You maybe heard about President Roosevelt organizing an American Olympic Committee a few years back?”
“Something of the sort. He's been down to the Hundred and One.”
“Doesn't surprise me. He's been everywhere. But he wants America to support sending amateur athletes to the Olympics. It helped that the Olympiad was held in St. Louis a while back. Now, the next one is to be in Stockholm in 1912. If Carlisle can field some entries for the tryouts, we think we can make a good showing. And, we'll have this Thorpe.”
“You will have?” John was confused.
“Well … Yes. He was sent on a summer job in the outing system. Pop and Mac have some people out looking for him … think he might have gone back to Oklahoma. You haven't run across him?”
That was an inside joke. It was commonly thought by most Easterners that anything west of the Alleghenies must be in close contact with the rest of the West.
“'Fraid not. I'll keep an eye out,” said John.
“We'll find him,” assured Charlie. “His parents are dead, but he's got relatives down around Stroud and Garden Grove.”
“But what did they want me to do?” asked John.
“Well, you used to help Mac. The coaches remembered that you used to help them with the young runners. They used you as a trainer. They've got some funds for an assistant, and Pop wants Jim Thorpe in the decathlon in 1912. If we can find him, that is.”
“Two years,” mused John. “I don't know, Charlie. I'd need to know more.”
“Of course!” said Smith. “But it's right in your field.”
“What field? Playin' cowboy and Indians?”
“No, you know, John. And it's a chance to travel … Europe … England. The summer Olympic games are in Stockholm.”
“Where's that?”
“Sweden, of course.”
“Never was much on geography.”
“Yes, I recall,” jibed Charlie. “But there's more incentive now.”
“That's true. Well, tell Mac to write me.”
“Where?”
“The 101 … No, that won't work; we'll be on the road. After this week, we got to—”
“Wait!” Charlie interrupted. “You'll be here a week?”
“Guess so.”
“Okay. I'll travel back to school tomorrow, and tell McGregor where you are. He'll probably want to write you before you leave New York. Where do you go next?”
“I dunno. Someplace in New England, I think. He's really serious about this, Charlie?”
“Of course, John! This is important, I tell you!”
 
On Tuesday, just before the matinee performance, a young man on a bicycle approached him.
“You're John Buffalo?”
“Yes …”
He looked over the young man's clothing, which appeared to be somewhere between a military uniform and that of a railway conductor.
“I have a telegram for you. Sign here.”
John did so. The messenger handed him a yellow envelope, remounted the bicycle, and pedaled away.
“I never had a telegram before,” said John, staring at the envelope in his hand.
“Well, open it,” suggested Hebbie.
“Oh … Yes. I'll open it.”
He ran a fingertip beneath the flap at one corner, and ripped the top fold open. Inside was a folded yellow paper.
DONT LEAVE NEW YORK STOP
WILL BE THERE THURSDAY STOP
MAC
McGregor did arrive on Thursday, on a noon train, and made his way to the tent city on the circus lot in Brooklyn. There he inquired as to the whereabouts of John Buffalo, and was directed to the horse pens.
However, the performance was just beginning, and John was in the arena, taking part in the grand entry.
McGregor waited impatiently.
“Go on over and watch the show,” suggested one of the roustabouts. “He ain't goin' nowhere. We'll tell him you're lookin' for him.”
Mac sauntered over to the massive Big Top and found a seat near the performers' entrance. The distinctive odors of sweaty horses, popcorn, and dust mingled with the unique smell of sunshine on canvas, in a not-unpleasant potpourri. There is nothing on earth like the smell of a circus under canvas.
Likewise, there is none of the human senses that stimulates the nostalgic memories of the past like the sense of smell. MacGregor was a child again, watching his first circus. This was a somewhat different show, but the memories came flooding back as he watched. Mixed with the circus atmosphere was another odor; the smoke from the Millers' lavish use of black gunpowder. It was a circus and the Fourth of July all rolled into one.
“Mac?” someone said, disturbing his reverie.
“What? Oh, yes, John!”
McGregor was jarred back to the present.
“Charlie Smith said you were lookin' for me.” John extended his hand. “I got your wire.”
“Oh, yes … Yes,” said McGregor, gathering his thoughts and remembering his responsibilities. “Is there someplace we can talk?”
“Sure. Come on.”
John led the way to a part of the circus lot away from the noise and traffic of the performance, and they sat on a couple of the wooden shipping boxes used to carry small items of tack and equipment.
“Charlie tell you what I want?” asked the coach.
“A little.”
“Well, it's simple. This Jim Thorpe is a wonderful athlete, John. Best since you were there. You have no idea how I hated to lose you. You had the potential … . But that's behind us now. No use cryin' over spilled milk. Now, we've got Thorpe. We've beaten about every school there is in football. Army, Navy, Notre Dame, Harvard, all of 'em. Feels good, John. But he's Olympic material in track and field. You were always good to give some pointers to the younger athletes. And I figured you'd be coachin' somewhere. How'd you get into this—Never mind, we don't have time.”
John smiled wryly.
“Came pretty close to a job or two out in Kansas, but they wanted somebody with lighter skin.”
McGregor was silent for a moment.
“I know, John,” he said a bit sadly. “Our students have that problem sometimes. But in this case, it's a plus. You can not only understand Thorpe's problems of that kind, but can coach him, and pace him on the distance events. I want to see him in cross-country, decathlon, and pentathlon. You can help him with all those.”
“I don't know, Mac. I've got a pretty good job here, workin' with good people. I'd sorta hate to give it up.”
McGregor looked as if he'd just been kicked in the stomach.
“But, John …”
“Two years,” John mused. “What then?”
“Then you'd have some status as a coach! What better reference than having paced an Olympic champion, John?”

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