The Long Journey Home (37 page)

Read The Long Journey Home Online

Authors: Don Coldsmith

BOOK: The Long Journey Home
8.45Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
John was on the afternoon train, heading north. He did not want to spend another night at the Door of Hope. It could easily come to look far too attractive, and he needed some time alone, without any outside influences. Maybe he'd cowboy a little. The long hours alone on horseback would provide an opportunity to think.
For that matter, the train trip yielded some time for thought, if he managed to avoid chatty passengers. For the present, he had abandoned the idea of returning to visit Ruth Jackson. There were other things that he needed to consider. Not decisions, necessarily, but events and possibilities that required some thought, before they could be put in their proper places. Besides, his thoughts were too preoccupied with memories of Hebbie to think of anyone else just now.
He reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a small photograph, given him by Margaret Jones. It depicted a small boy with light-colored hair, an infectious grin, and freckles. He had looked at it a dozen times since she had handed it to him on the depot platform as he boarded the train.
“You should have this,” she said.
On back of the Kodak likeness was written in a firm feminine hand,
“John Buffalo II, age 6, 1918”
John had the impression that across the eyes, the boy resembled him. However, the hair and the smile were purely Hebbie's. He could plainly see the shy
yet mischievous nature of the boy's mother in his grin. The hair, light in color and curly along the forehead and over the ears, was also a true picture of the unruly hair that Hebbie always fought to control. Usually, she had simply tied it back or jammed a cowboy hat over it. On a boy, it could be controlled by cutting, but … It didn't matter now, he realized with a heavy heart.
 
John was still unsure what he wanted to do, and where. Idly, he picked up a newspaper that a fellow passenger had left on the train, and passed a little time in reading. The sports page was always of interest to him, and he found it so today. There were familiar names. Jim Thorpe was discussed as a professional baseball player in one article. The sportswriter was defending Thorpe's skill, which had apparently been criticized by another writer: “Can't hit a curve ball?” the writer questioned indignantly. “Look at Thorpe's batting average!” There were statistics and opinions.
He learned that Naismith was no longer at the University of Kansas. He had turned the reins over to his friend Forrest “Phog” Allen. Allen's basketball team was doing better than Naismith's had done. John smiled to himself, remembering Naismith's scorn of his own creation:
You don't coach basketball, Forrest, it's just a game!
There were times when he thought of going back to see if there might be a position at Carlisle that he could fill. It had been several years since he had any contact there, but there should be someone who would know him. Even a lesser job as an assistant coach or trainer would be sufficient for his needs. He wasn't sure whether Pop Warner or McGregor, his old coach, were still there, however. The Great War and the influenza had caused a lot of changes. That was a long way to travel, just to inquire, and his modest mustering-out pay would not last long.
Possibly he could find an athletic job in the area around Haskell. He had only a speaking acquaintance with Phog Allen, but there were several colleges in the area, and Allen could probably tell him of any openings. It was only a passing idea, and he did not consider for very long. Such a move would not give him the solitude that he needed right now, or the time to be alone with his thoughts.
No, the more he thought, the more appealing became the picture of riding alone under a big sky. He had once heard a saying that now came back to him. About a horse …
There's something about a horse that is good for the inside of a man
.
He wasn't sure that was quite it, but it was close enough. A horse can furnish companionship when one needs to think without interruption. Long days and nights on the range would give time for thought and self-evaluation, while the horse handled his end of a rather routine job.
The more he thought along these lines, the better it looked. A cowboy's
job in Wyoming had a lot of appeal to a man just recovering from several emotional crises of different kinds. It would give him an opportunity to sort things out in his head, to overcome some of the guilt that kept coming at him from different directions.
The thought that finally decided him was the fact that he had already been offered a job. Colonel McCoy had sounded quite specific.
Now, John began to wonder. Had his own decision already been made at some other level? Here he was, on a train heading in that direction. Had his actions been anticipated? Who was it who once told him,
John, there are no coincidences?
The longer he lived, the more likely this seemed. He wasn't sure, but it was a comfort, somehow, to feel that in the confusion of the vast world, there was some sort of a pattern. Maybe, even, a purpose.
He fell asleep, lulled by the familiar click-clack of steel wheels on the rails.
 
When he reached Wyoming, John learned that McCoy was not at the ranch on Owl Creek.
“No, he's not here,” said George Shakespear. “You need to see him?”
“Well, I—,” John mumbled, caught off guard. “I talked to him at Fort Sill. He asked about what I'd do after the Army … . He sort of …”
“Offered you a job?” George chuckled. “Sure, we can use you. But the boss got himself a job in Cheyenne.”
“A
town
job?”
“Well, sort of. When he left the Army, he stopped in Cheyenne to see an ol' friend, who happened to be the governor.”
“Governor of what?”
“Of Wyoming. You didn't know Bob Carey, I guess. They'd cowboyed together, years back, before the War.”
“So what's his job?”
“Adjutant General.”
“Of
Wyoming?”
“Yes. Our colonel's wearin' a star on his shoulder.”
“He's a
General?”
“Yeah. Had to have the rank to take the job.”
John was astonished at such news.
“So … He's living in Cheyenne?”
“Well, he's out here quite a bit,” George admitted. “You knew he's married?”
“Yes, he told me that.”
“Yeah … Oh, yes, he has a new name.”
“You mean ‘General'?”
“Well, that, too. But you ‘member, the 'Rapaho called him
Ba,
‘The Friend'? Well, the old men decided he needed a real name. They had the
ceremony, the feather hat and all. He's a real Arapaho—‘Soldier Chief,' to honor his general's star. In 'Rapaho, ‘
Banee-i-natcha.
' Well, you want to go to work? I can use you.”
“Sure.”
 
Time passed quickly. The work was hard, the days sometimes long, but the reward of hard work is good sleep. During waking hours in the saddle, he was able to sort out in his mind many of the events that now seemed only dim memories: some good, some bad, some a bittersweet mixture. Once more, he noticed the selective nature of memory. The unpleasant is more easily forgotten, while the good is stored away carefully, to be drawn out and cherished from time to time. The experience that is good is relived. Sometimes with regret, of course.
If I had only realized then
…
 
The winter descended like an icy blanket thrown over the world, chilling man and beast to the bone. It had been a long time since John had wintered in the northern plains. This was one of the unpleasantries that had been selectively forgotten during the winters farther to the south in Oklahoma. Sometimes, in Mexico or South America, he had dodged winter entirely.
Old injuries, forgotten in the warm days of summer, awoke with each cold front, stirring up the selectively forgotten memories. He began to understand more fully the remarks of the old men:
My bones tell me a storm is coming
. He had only half-believed it until now, but the signs were plain. He would awaken sometimes in the night with aches and pains in a knee or shoulder. The one, perhaps, on which he had landed from the “hurricane deck” of a high-bucking bronc. It was no longer a surprise, now, to have such weather indicators followed in half a day by a dark cloud front moving in from the northwest, with a threat of snow.
 
He seldom saw McCoy, who was occupied with government matters while George Shakespear continued to manage the ranch. As the weather began to open up in the spring, however, the visits to the ranch became more frequent. It was plain that the love of big sky and wide-open horizons was talking to the general as he carried out the business of government.
“John,” Shakespear told him later that summer, “the 'Rapaho are gonna give Soldier Chief a new name. You wanna come to the ceremony?”
“Sure. But,
another
name? Isn't that unusual?”
“Not unheard of, John. The old men decided that
Banee-i-natcha
, Soldier Chief, doesn't tell his whole story. He needs a better one.”
John had attended some Arapaho ceremonies as a guest, with George Shakespear. Some were much like those of his own people, or at least similar enough to recognize their significance. John spoke no Arapaho.
“That's okay,” George told him. “Soldier Chief doesn't speak Arapaho.”
“But he
is
Arapaho, by adoption.”
“Sure. He uses hand signs. And the old men talk to him in English.”
“Your elders talk English?”
“Most of 'em. If they don't want to, they pretend not to understand.”
John smiled. He was familiar with this subterfuge. Sometimes, as a child, he had even used it himself.
 
On the appointed day, they rode out to the reservation with McCoy. As adjutant general, he had spent a lot of time traveling to visit other tribes. He was well respected by not only whites and Arapaho, but Lakota, Blackfeet and Cheyenne, communicating with hand signs. He had earned a reputation, “the good white man.”
Yellow Calf, one of the elders, served as a holy man to the Arapaho, a medicine man in his priestly function. Yellow Calf had also been, in his younger days, a “caller of buffalo,” a profession no longer necessary with the disappearance of the great herds.
After dark, the council fire was lighted and the old men gathered around it in a circle. Outside of that circle, friends and observers sat or stood.
Yellow Calf began by explaining why a new name was needed.
“Once, we called our friend Soldier Chief. In those days that was good enough, and when anyone said
Banee-i-natcha
, all of us knew who that was. But now, time has passed, and
Banee-i-natcha
has gone to the tribes of the Four Directions. He has traveled much and learned many things. It is as if he were a bird, an eagle, able to soar into the sky and look at all of the people of all the tribes. He needs a new name now. We have met in council and smoked on it. Now I will give him the name we have agreed on and he will be known from now on as
Nee-hee-cha-ooth
… High Eagle.”
The medicine man placed the ancient ceremonial bonnet on McCoy's head and began to sweep his hands across the general's shoulders and down his sides, “peeling away” the old name. He rolled it into a ball and symbolically dropped it to the ground.
Then an unheard-of thing occurred. Out of the crowd darted a young man, Charlie White Bull, son of the venerable old leader, White Bull. Charlie knelt to scoop up the discarded name from the dust, cupping it in his hands hugged tight against his chest to keep it warm and alive.
There was a brief conversation with Yellow Calf.
“What's happening?” asked John quietly.
“Charlie is asking to keep the name,” George explained. “Since
Nee-hee
-
cha-ooth
won't be using it, he asked to keep it for himself, to honor
Ba
, our friend.”
The medicine man glanced around the circle of elders, and they nodded in assent. The young man ran proudly off into the night with his new name.
Probably no one felt more honored than
Nee-hee-cha-ooth
, High Eagle, the blue-eyed Irish 'Rapaho.
W
orking on the ranch at Owl Creek was good. John could go into Thermopolis with George Shakespear and some of the other cowboys to spend an evening at Happy Jack's. There were always interesting people to listen to, and discussion of the news of the week. Sometimes he did this, mostly listening.
Sometimes he wanted to be alone. The other cowboys respected his feelings. He was invited—but not urged—to join in anything that might be occurring. Probably George understood him better than anyone because George's reaction to their varied amusements was much the same as his own.
Sometimes he played cards. It was a diversion, an interesting way to pass an evening, do a little socializing, and keep up on the news. His skill at cards, considered by his friends to be “luck,” stood him in good stead. He was careful not to do too much winning, which would have attracted attention, and possibly resentment.
Best of all, however, were the days of solitude, when he had time to think as he rode and worked alone, counting cattle and new calves, fixing fences, checking windmills and watering places. It was for such solitude that he had chosen this job, and it was a comfort.
From time to time, he thought of Ruth Jackson, or Margaret Jones in New Mexico, or of friends at the 101 in Oklahoma. After the surprise and agony of learning about Hebbie and his son, both now lost, he had really intended to retrace some of those trails. He did not do so at first because of the enormity of the burden of his loss.
As time passed, it became easier to postpone such a pilgrimage. He told
himself sometimes that he was needed at the ranch. This feeling was gradually replaced by a misplaced sense of guilt that he had not yet attempted to communicate. He could avoid this by throwing himself wholeheartedly into whatever he was doing.
He seldom saw McCoy, who was living in Cheyenne with his wife and children, in the course of his position as Adjutant General of Wyoming. On the occasions when McCoy did visit the ranch, John had the strong impression that the boss would far rather be there than in the office in the State House. At Owl Creek or when visiting his Arapaho friends, the Irishman could change his high-collared Army uniform and knee-length military boots for a Stetson, Levi's, and cowboy boots, and relax in comfort. The general still stood ramrod straight, but he was more relaxed.
 
It was more than a year—possibly nearer two—when it happened. John and George Shakespear joked frequently about the luxury of working on “Indian time”:
When it's time, it will happen
. They wondered how this could possibly work for the Adjutant General who, in many ways, was more Indian than the Arapaho themselves.
Apparently, this was a problem recognized by McCoy himself. He arrived at Owl Creek unexpectedly and revealed that he had resigned his office as Adjutant General. He had been asked to assist Famous Players-Lasky, a motion-picture company, in the filming of an epic. He called George Shakespear in to talk about it.
“You too, Buffalo. I need your skills on this, too. You've handled a bunch of Indians for the 101 Show, right?”
“Not handled, exactly, sir. We had a party in Germany when the war broke out.”
“Yes, that's what I meant. Oglalas, right? And you can drop the ‘sir.' We're not in the army now.”
“What is it you need to do, Tim?” asked Shakespear.
“Well, this film outfit is makin' a picture based on an Oregon Trail novel,
The Covered Wagon.
They want it to be authentic, so they need 500 Indians with old-style hair and dress, along with teepees and families. Oh, yes, ponies, too.”
“Whew!” George whistled. “Tim, there aren't that many ‘long-hair' Arapahoes in the whole world.”
“I know,” said McCoy. “They don't have to be Arapahoes as long as they fit … . Long-hairs, in buckskins and blankets. I figure we can use Shoshones from the other side of the Wind River Reservation.”
“Now, that's askin' for trouble, maybeso,” said George. “You know there's bad feelings between 'em. Goes back a long way. It's been tried before, to get 'em together. Last time, it caused the Battle of Tabasco Sauce.”
“
What?
” asked John Buffalo.
“Oh, yes,” explained Shakespear. Then he related the story.
Somebody had decided that since the two were on the same “rez,” they ought to get along. They invited two of the most important leaders from each tribe: Washakie and Otai from the Shoshoni, Sharp Nose and Black Coal from the Arapaho. They had a big dinner in the officers' mess at Fort Washakie, with the chiefs seated across from each other.
Things were going pretty well till some young officer figured he'd have some fun. He took a big bottle of Tabasco from the table, put his thumb over the hole, and pretended to take a drink. Then he handed it to Washakie. The old chief figured it was a ceremonial drink, so he took a big swig. His eyes began to water.
“Why does Washakie weep?” asked Sharp Nose, across the table.
“I was thinking of my brother,” said Washakie. “He was killed by Blackfeet a long time ago.”
He handed the bottle to Sharp Nose, who took a big gulp or two.
Very quickly, he, too, was crying.
“Why does Sharp Nose weep?” asked Washakie.
As soon as he was able, Sharp Nose answered. “I was thinking,” he said thoughtfully, “it is too bad that Washakie did not die with his brother at the hands of the Blackfeet.”
 
With the help of Paul Haws, the agent at Wind River and a friend of McCoy, they set up a celebration for the Fourth of July, involving both Shoshone and Arapaho.
McCoy had been supplied with a convertible automobile by the film company, and they crisscrossed the Wind River Reservation, extending the invitation to feasting, dancing, and entertainment. McCoy, though a bona fide Arapaho, still spoke no Arapaho or any other Indian tongue. However, he was skilled in the hand signs, while many modern Indians were not. This impressed the elders greatly and, as they traveled to extend the invitation, High Eagle told of the opportunity for employment, just for being themselves: Indians.
John and George Shakespear were astonished at the pay offered by Famous Players-Lasky: On the basis of a seven-day week, each adult, man or woman, would receive $5 a day. For each child, 50 cents. One dollar a day for each horse, and for a teepee, another dollar. Thus, a couple with one child, a horse, and a teepee would draw $87.50 a week. Most Indian families would not see that much money in a year.
“They'll feed you, too,” McCoy assured the potential actors.
“Huh!
What?
”
“Beef, bread, canned fruit, coffee. Just what I'll be eating myself.”
“You'll be there, High Eagle?”
“Of course!”
 
Quickly, nearly every long-hair on the Wind River Reservation, Shoshoni and Arapaho, had agreed. The offer was too good to refuse.
“But, Tim,” protested Shakespear, “you're still about three hundred short. There aren't that many long hairs!”
 
Over in Idaho, the Indian reservation at Fort Hall contained a large number of Bannock Indians, relatives of the Shoshones, Bannocks were big and muscular, and a great many followed the old ways in dress and hair. They would fit in well with the Wind River Arapahoes.
There was one major problem. The Lasky people had already been there, and had signed a number of Fort Hall Indians to play in
The Covered Wagon
. However, the agent at Fort Hall refused to issue passes for them to leave the reservation.
With his basic confidence and ways of getting things done, McCoy felt that there must be a way. He left John and George Shakespear at Wind River, working with Ed Farlow, another friend of McCoy's, organizing the transportation of Arapahoes, Shoshones, teepees, ponies, and families.
He sent a couple of telegrams to some of his military and political connections, asking their support, and boarded the train to Fort Hall. On arriving there, he found that the agent had received telegrams from such influential persons as General Winfield Scott and Senator Warren of Wyoming, father-in-law of General Pershing. The agent was asked to give the project his full cooperation.
“The extent of his cooperation,” McCoy said later, “consisted of not getting in my way.”
McCoy spoke no Bannock, of course, but was skilled in hand signs, which were universal. The novelty of watching a blue-eyed Arapaho converse with their own elders in a mode many of them did not know fascinated the Bannocks. Gradually, with the help of an English-speaking Bannock named Black Thunder, plans began to come together. Thunder, whose white man's name was Randall, was hired by McCoy as one of the assistants authorized to help with the Indian encampment at Milford, Utah, where the filming of
The Covered Wagon
would take place.
 
The logistics involved in transporting the Indians to Utah were enormous. The three hundred Bannocks, families, and horses were loaded onto Union Pacific cars at Fort Hall in mid-October. The railroad ran directly through Fort Hall.
Arrangements were not so easy at Wind River. The Arapahoes and Shoshones were transported to Rawlins, Wyoming, by truck. There, they met the young Arapaho who had driven three hundred horses overland to board the train.
Again, McCoy's contacts as Adjutant General helped to clear the tracks for the two special trains: thirty coaches and fifteen stock cars in all. Five hundred Indians, four hundred horses … Baggage, teepees, poles …
At Salt Lake City, they detrained for the overland trek to Milford. Again, the people were loaded in trucks and the ponies driven overland, the eighty-five miles to the site where Famous Players-Lasky would establish the tent city that would be the base for the filming.
There were some five hundred tents, not even counting the teepees of the Indians. Altogether, more than 3,000 people, besides the Indian “extras.”
This would be the greatest production on film yet attempted, and the longest. Ten reels in all, running nearly two hours. The budget—originally $100,000—soon stretched to five times that, but there was no turning back.
The director was James Cruze, hired by Jesse Lasky to organize the actual filming. Cruze, a veteran Shakespearean actor in traveling companies, was not emotionally prepared for dealing with conditions like those at Milford. He was well aware of the financial strain of so many people on location for a period of several weeks. The food bill alone was enormous.
Added to all of this, the fact that Cruze had no idea at all as to how to go about dealing with Indians.
“Did you see him when he discovered that they'd carried off a side of beef from the cook tent?” chuckled Shakespear. “They were cuttin' strips and dryin' it for jerky on racks outside their lodges. Tim convinced Cruze that it would make great film.”

Other books

Exploration by Beery, Andrew
Death's Witness by Paul Batista
Compromising Positions by Kate Hoffmann
Compliments by Mari K. Cicero
From Cradle to Grave by Patricia MacDonald
Windup Stories by Paolo Bacigalupi
Port of Sorrow by McKenzie, Grant