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Authors: Don Coldsmith

BOOK: The Long Journey Home
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T
he stay in London, which lasted nearly six months, was a great success. Initially, they erected the teepees on the grounds of the Crystal Palace, Piccadilly. It became apparent within a couple of weeks that teepees, while ideally suited for the heat, cold, and storms of the prairie, they were no match for the constant rain and fog of London. Appropriate rental quarters were found, and the troupe settled in for the winter.
The Arapaho were accepted with even more generosity than they had been in Hollywood. They were wined and dined by nobility, and honored constantly. Lord Robert Baden-Powell, the hero of the Boer War in South Africa and founder of the Boy Scout movement, was particularly impressed. The Arapaho of Wind River were invited to his estate, and later to the International Boy Scout Jamboree, held that year at Gilwell, England, outside London. Scouts from all over the world were instructed in Arapaho crafts and archery.
 
In mid-March 1924, the contract was over and the delegation from Wind River returned home. As they disembarked in New York, they were met by a swarm of reporters. The traveling Arapaho from Wyoming had become celebrities. By this time, such interviews had become familiar to the Arapaho, who rather enjoyed the notoriety, as well as the naivete of the reporters questions.
“What was it like in London?”
“Did you really fight Custer?”
Goes in Lodge probably summed it up, when he related the London experience to home.
“All same as Wind River.”
The old chief was talking in hand signs, though he spoke English well. Hand signs always made more of an impression on whites.
“Like the subway,” he signed.
McCoy finally came to the rescue of the confused reporters.
“What has that got to do with an Indian reservation?” one asked.
“All same,” Goes in Lodge signed. “Prairie dog go down one hole, come up another.”
 
Back in Wyoming, John Buffalo was faced with a decision. What now? The McCoy ranch on Owl Creek was a safe refuge, operated by George Shakespear while Tim McCoy was off on various jobs for the movie people. Currently, he was off somewhere tracking down potential defense witnesses for a lawsuit against Famous Players-Lasky. A descendant of Jim Bridger, the mountain man, had taken offense at the depiction of Bridger in
The Covered Wagon
. But there were still people alive who had known Bridger, and could testify to the character of the man.
McCoy's long-range plan was to build a house for his family and settle in on the ranch, now being called Eagle's Nest. Meanwhile, the cattle operation was thriving, and cowboys were needed. John was not unhappy working there, but he was restless. He felt that there were things left unfinished.
Finally he talked to Shakespear.
“George, there's something I have to do. Somebody I need to go and see.”
“Uh!” George grunted assent. “You comin' back?”
“I dunno. Maybe so.”
“You on Indian time?”
It was a gentle jibe. John smiled.
“Guess so. I just don't know how this will turn out.”
“I see. Well, you know the way back.”
“Thanks, George.”
 
John's excitement grew as he traveled back to Kansas. He bypassed Fort Riley when he detrained, and headed directly to Ogden and on toward Ruth Jackson's farmhouse. His anticipation grew, but his uneasiness and doubt did, also.
I should have written
, he thought.
Ruth might not even live here now. In his mind, he had not considered the fact that it had been several years since that fateful night.
I should have written.
But in a way, Ruth represented for him something solid, dependable,
and permanent. In an ever-changing world, she was the stable, predictable factor. She had saved his life.
There was a feeling of guilt as he walked up the road and around the bend from their picnic spot. Why had he not kept in touch? He realized that it was because of the guilt of their night together. He still felt that he had betrayed a friendship.
When the little farmstead came in view in the darkening twilight, he almost turned back. Ruth might be working an evening shift at the hospital. He should have checked there. But now he saw a light in the window. He stopped for a moment. A beautiful, comfortable, homey picture, with smoke curling gently above the slender brick chimney. That would be above the kitchen … . The supper fire … The name Jackson was still on the mailbox. Good.
His heart warmed as he walked up the path. It was a homey feeling. Had he at last found where he belonged?
Almost eagerly, he knocked at the door.
“John! How wonderful! Come in!”
She gave him a quick hug and a sisterly peck on the cheek.
“Where in the world have you been?” she went on. “I thought something had happened to you.”
She was beautiful, almost radiant in her beauty. Her golden hair had not changed, but her face had. Where there had been lines of sadness the last time he had seen her, now there was only happiness and contentment.
“Come on in!”
She took him by the hand and led him inside, talking over her shoulder as she did so.
“I want you to meet my husband.”
She raised her voice slightly.
“Ned!” She called into the kitchen, “John's here! John Buffalo!”
His head whirled in confusion. Who was Ned, and was he, John, supposed to know him? And … Ruth had said
husband.
Was her husband not named
Emil?
He had never met the man, but—And Emil was dead!
She must have remarried. Ned? He was sure that he knew no one by that name. But it
had
been a few years … .
The old guilt came rushing back, the embarrassment and regret over the night that he and Ruth had shared in each other's arms. She had attempted to make him more comfortable with what he had done, by trying to let him think that he was fulfilling
her
need in her bereavement. But now … How could she appear glad to see him?
She had used his name, John Buffalo, when calling to her husband, which made him very uneasy. How much had she told “Ned”?
Everything?
Down the hall from the other part of the house strode a man that John had never seen before. There were two remarkable things about him. One was his size. That was bad. He must be well over six feet tall, big across the shoulders
and heavily muscled. Not an ounce of fat on that frame. He was tanned. A farmer's tan, his forehead white above the line that would mark the position of his straw hat.
That almost-frightening impression was offset by another remarkable quality. It was a big, friendly grin; somewhat reassuring.
Ned stuck out a paw the size of a side of bacon, and John met his friendly grip.
“Ruth's told me about you!”
How much?
John thought.
But the man was still smiling.
Not everything,
John concluded as their eyes met. Not the whole story.
Ned went on, “I want to thank you for your kindness when she lost her husband.”
Definitely not the whole story.
“I … I did what I could,” answered John vaguely.
There was a sound from the hallway from which Ned had appeared before. That, John remembered, led to the kitchen.
He turned, to see a towheaded toddler just entering the room. The handsome young face was ruddy and healthy-looking, and became a trifle shy when confronted by a stranger. But not measurably so. Mostly, the child's face expressed curiosity.
“John, this is our son, Emil … Emil John Jackson.”
A cold hand grasped John's heart. Emil … Ruth's dead husband … But
John?
Could it be that the child was named for him because—His head whirled in confusion. No, not possible. This boy could be no more than three years old. The night before he had shipped out on the troop train would have been at least four years ago.
Ned was smiling at the confusion on John's face.
“Yes, he's named for you,” Ruth was saying.
“And ‘Emil' for her husband. I suggested that. I knew how much he meant to Ruth, and she had told me of your kindness during her loss.”
John did not want to meet her eyes just then. He was glad that because of the time span involved, there was no question of young Emil's parentage. The way the boy sidled up to his father promised a good father-son relationship. He found himself jealous on more than one count.
“I'm honored.”
He smiled at the youngster. Again, he was persuaded that the husband knew most, but not quite all of the story. Ruth had an understanding of people that was quite sensitive. As always, she had been able to choose just how much information could or
should
be shared. Ned was a very lucky man. If circumstances had been only a little different, this could all have been his. He knew, Ruth knew. But she was happy.
His eyes met Ruth's, and he saw in her face only happiness and contentment.
No alarm, no apprehension. She must have been somewhat vague in her narration of how and what kind of help had been involved.
“She has the highest regard for you, Mr. Buffalo,” Ned went on.
This further emphasized a couple of points: that Ruth had not been specific in her description of their relationship, and that she held no grudge that John had dropped from sight without trying to stay in contact.
But Ned talked on. “I want to thank you on behalf of my brother,” said Ned.
“Your
brother?
”
John was thoroughly confused.
Now a puzzled look crossed Ned's face.
Ruth laughed, delightedly. “Of course!” She chortled. “John doesn't know. He couldn't. John, Ned is Emil's brother.”
That explained a lot, very quickly.
“His
brother?
” John blurted again.
“Yes, I'd always been a little envious,” Ned said teasingly, slipping an arm around Ruth's slender waist. “Emil was older than I, and when he married Ruth, I knew I could never find a woman half so desirable. I came when I heard of her loss. I do want to thank you, though, John. You were here when we needed someone.”
I'm not sure you'd thank me
, John thought.
“The least I could do,” he mumbled, embarrassed.
For some reason, this struck Ruth as quite amusing.
“Not
really
,” she said, laughing. “But come on in, John. We're ready to have supper. Tell us all about where you've been. You were headed for Fort Sill, weren't you, the morning after … After I heard of Emil's death?”
There was just a hint of a blush as her eyes met John's for an instant.
“Yes. A lot has happened since then,” said John. “I was transferred to Artillery … . Mule pack, mountain howitzers.”
“So you know mules!” Ned exclaimed. “Good! We'll talk of that. I'll want to show you some mules in the morning.”
In the morning?
“Of course. You'll stay with us, won't you, John?”
I
t was a very uncomfortable situation. John tried to protest the invitation to stay the night, but both of the Jacksons were insistent. Ruth seemed to be quite genuine in her wish to have him stay over. She did not share his discomfort over the memory of their last time together. He was even more embarrassed that she did not seem to read anything negative into that situation, or this.
He felt some new guilt over some of his thoughts and repressed desires. He wondered if Ruth felt the old attraction, as he did. Probably not, but if she did, he felt that she was handling it better than he.
John lay for hours in the feather bed in their spare bedroom, staring into the dark ceiling, lost in his own confusion. He was tired, but unable to sleep yet as he tried to sort out the disorganized bits and pieces of his life. For a brief time, he had thought that there was some sense of direction taking place, but now that, too, was shattered. He forcibly thrust aside his thoughts of Ruth with another man. They had been so close! He had made a bad mistake in leaving her, he now realized. He had had no choice in his departure, but he should have kept in touch. Maybe things would have turned out this way, even if he
had
written, but … These thoughts were like oats long since run through the horse, as his cowboy friends would say. The loss of a woman with whom he could have been very happy was a great disappointment. It might not have developed into a life together anyway, but he had missed a golden opportunity, and his heart was heavy, the memory now like the taste of ashes in his mouth.
What should he do now? Never in his life had he been able to actually make any plans, he realized. Most of his happy memories were linked to some
other events, and ended with the thoughts of
if it had only been
slightly different, in some way. It was easy to feel that never in his life had he made a
right
decision. He was a failure.
Still, he had to admit that the failure of whatever he tried was usually due to events beyond his control. It was simply a world in which he did not belong.
Where, then,
did
he belong? At times, it had seemed that things were going well. At the Hundred and One, with Hebbie … On the road with the Wild West Show … He
had
done some pretty good things, some accomplishments of which he could be proud. Helping to rescue the Oglalas from Germany at the start of the Great War … Looking back, he could hardly believe some of the achievements of which he had been a part. The time Zack Miller bought virtually the entire Mexican Army and resold what the Hundred and One could not use … He smiled in the darkness.
There
had
been some good times. The Olympics, with Jim Thorpe and the other athletes … He wondered where Jim was now … .
He had enjoyed the isolation of his cowboy jobs in Wyoming. Finally, toward morning, he fell asleep, and dreamed jumbled dreams with fragmented scenes that seemed to go nowhere. Hebbie appeared to him briefly, saying nothing, but with a wistful smile that was somehow a comfort. He slept better after that reassurance.
 
John rose with the sun, and with at least a semblance of a plan. While he was in the area, he'd stop by Haskell and Kansas University. He doubted that he would still know anyone there, but maybe someone in their athletic departments might even know of a coaching job for which he could apply. It was worth a try. Failing that, he could stop by the 101 Ranch. Out of curiosity, he wondered what was happening there. A few seasons ago, the ranch and the Wild West Show were constantly in the news. Now there was nothing.
Why?
Well, maybe he'd stop by there … .
 
His departure from the Jacksons' was difficult and embarrassing for him. Ruth gave him a hug and kissed his cheek, whispering quickly into his ear,
“Thank you, John!”
He wished she hadn't done that.
Ned Jackson shook his hand warmly and urged him to come back anytime. That, too, was hard. He doubted that he'd do it. The memories were too intense.
John patted little Emil on the head and lifted his duffel bag. At the bend of the road, he turned for a last look.
Ruth waved.
 
 
At Lawrence, he could find only one person when he knew: Forrest Allen, now at the University of Kansas. “Phog” was interested in John's activities during the intervening years, but they really had little in common. They discussed the whereabouts of mutual acquaintances.
“You haven't been coaching, then?” Allen seemed surprised.
“Too busy at other things,” John admitted. “I had a hitch in the Army, too.”
“Yes, that affected a lot of us,” Allen agreed. “Well, stop by when you're in the area.”
All in all it was a pleasant visit that, in essence, went nowhere.
 
John was not ready to return to the Hundred and One. Not yet. Thinking to himself of how he had quite possibly ignored the possibility of a wonderful relationship with Ruth Jackson, he began to think again of Loving, New Mexico, and the Door of Hope. There, after all, was a woman who had actually known
and loved
his own son. The only person, as far as he knew.
He thought of writing to Margaret Jones, but immediately realized a problem. He could never know whether she might answer such a letter. He had no place in which to wait and see. No, better to go back to Loving (he was not unaware of the suggestive play on words) and see what evolved. He was certain that Margaret Jones had indicated an interest in him by her actions. She was a handsome woman. Somewhat older than he, but probably not an important difference. It would do no harm to go and see.
En route on the train, he found himself thinking about other options. He had always avoided any thoughts of returning to Carlisle because of the circumstances of his leaving. But maybe … He'd think about it after he had checked out the situation in Loving.
He did not realize that in this decision, he had already assumed failure.
 
In Loving, he found that the Door of Hope seemed to be thriving. He was welcomed warmly and courteously by Margaret Jones.
Things were going well, she said. They had three more boys than when he had been there before. The big house was in good repair. Juan and Maria were still there, serving their purposes well.
It took only a few hours to see that he may have misread the situation. On his first visit, Margaret Jones had been kind, helpful, and accommodating, but it was probably out of sympathy. She had only been trying to show her regret for the accidental lack of communication.
Still, he could not forget the day they had spent together on the trip to
Carlsbad. She
had
been warm and friendly. And there
had
been his feeling of someone outside his bedroom door late that night, deciding whether to enter. He had left the Door of Hope with a strong inkling that both of them knew there was a potential relationship here.
But something had changed. She was polite and friendly, but distant. Surely he could not have misread her attitude so badly on his previous visit. And to add to his confusion, Margaret Jones seemed a trifle embarrassed around him.
The mystery was quickly solved when he found himself alone for a moment with Juan. Juan wanted to show him something he was building with the help of the older boys. But maybe there was another motive … .
“The
señora
,” Juan began, flashing his beautiful grin and assuming a conspiratorial air, “she have
un hombre
… How you say? Man friend?”
“Ah!” said John. “A gentleman comes to see her?”
“
Sí, si! Esta un bueno hombre
, Senor John. She is happy.”
“Then I am happy for her,” John told him.
“
Sí.
Me, too.
Señora
needs a man.”
 
And she had found one. He was glad for her, but once more, floundering, himself.
After much thought, he decided to return to the 101 Ranch, primarily to see what was going on. At his last visit, he had been quite uneasy and unable to account for it. Something was in the air, something he needed to know more about. He'd have a look, anyway. Maybe even work there for a while. All the traveling with no real home base was depleting his funds. He'd have to work somewhere.
 
He was somewhat startled to see that the town of Bliss had been renamed. “Marland” was the new name painted on the sign under the gable of the railroad depot.
The reason was apparent to anyone familiar with the area. Marland was a name well known in the oil fields of Oklahoma. It was E. W. Marland who had begun the exploration on the Poncas' land, leased to the Millers for grazing.
John thought for a moment of the attitude of the Ponca elders and the “Ponca curse.” Was this a part of the uneasy feeling he'd been experiencing? He also recalled with uneasiness the episode in Miller's office, and the signing of the lease by the Ponca couple.
 
At the 101, he was astonished to see some of the changes. An elephant stood patiently in a new, heavily built corral to the south of the other facilities. There was a new large barn, and new equipment, tractors, and machinery in evidence.
There was a buzz of activity. The old excitement over preparation for each road season washed across him.
But … An
elephant?
 
He sought out Bill Pickett, who was breaking horses in one of the corrals.
“Howdy, John! Good to see you. Where you been?”
“Lotsa places, Bill. But what's goin' on here? I saw an elephant!”
Pickett chuckled. “Yep. We goin' on the road agin', I reckon. They done buyin' a circus.”
“A
circus
?”
“Reckon so. Figger the crowds is wantin' somethin' beyond Wild West. So, you know how Mistah Zack is. They buyin' the Walter Main Circus, gwine mix it with us. There's lions an' tigers an' all. I dunno what's goin' on the road with us. All of it ain't even here, yet. But I tell you … That elephant shore spooked some hosses.”
“You gonna bulldog him, Bill?” teased John. “He's shore got the nose for it!”
“No, suh! I ain't got the teeth for that much nose.” Pickett laughed. “But serious, now. You comin' back?”
“Hadn't really decided, but why not? Might be interesting to see how this circus turns out.”

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