The Long Journey Home (12 page)

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Authors: Don Coldsmith

BOOK: The Long Journey Home
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“
T
hey won't accept your credits?”
Naismith was indignant.
“Only a few, they said. Not more than a semester or two.”
“Well,” the coach pondered. “I can see their position. Not that I agree with it, John … Much of your study has been at a training level called ‘normal school.' Not comparable to the University. But to further confuse things, you've competed in football and track for three seasons. In your fourth, now. And this, at college level. And from Carlisle, back down to two-year training level. I don't understand that rationale at all.”
John said nothing. He had a pretty good idea of that rationale, but it would do no good to attempt to explain. He had been punished for his poor choice of parents, and an unacceptable romance.
Jane … He still thought of her often. He had mourned her loss and had tried to move on. There had been a brief time when no woman even looked attractive to him, but that had passed. Now his attraction was guarded. More objective, a bit defensive, in the stoic, emotionless “Indian” way. He did not expect … Did not even want to feel about any woman as he had felt about Jane Langtry. That was the love of a lifetime. The urges he felt now were purely animal.
“John?”
“What? Oh, yes, sir.”
His mind had wandered and he had been lost in thought.
“Are you all right, John?”
“I … uh … I think so, sir. You were saying—”
“I asked whether you knew how many credits the university will accept, eh?”
“Oh … No, sir. They didn't say. Not more than a year's work, I gathered.”
Naismith shook his head.
“Well, first you should finish the year at Haskell. Receive your two-year degree. That lends some dignity. Then you could probably find a job as a trainer. Possibly we can help with that. Pay would be poor … . Little chance for advancement. But you could continue your education and your physical training, compete in open track events, look ahead to Olympic level.”
“You mentioned further education, sir. What would be needed to coach?”
“At least a college degree, I'm afraid, John. But you wouldn't have to do it all at once, eh?”
“What about the cost?”
“That, of course, is a potential problem. Have you any resources?”
“Resources?”
“Yes. Any income …”
“Oh. Money.”
“Well, yes, to put it bluntly.”
“No, sir. At Haskell—”
“Ah, yes. The Indian schools. Carlisle, too, of course … This is outside my experience, John. But you know there are fees, tuition, expenses at colleges and universities?”
“Yes, sir. I've just had no occasion to deal with it.”
“I understand. Well, in most cases, the cost is by the credit hour. You'd pay only for the courses you take. Probably a registration fee.”
“How much money are we speaking of?”
“I can't say, offhand. But within reason. You can do this, John. Finish your year at Haskell, and I'll inquire around. A trainer's job, or even a locker-room attendant would be a start, eh?”
The coach rose, indicating that the interview was at an end.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Stay in touch!”
They shook hands and parted.
 
Now, with at least some sense of direction, John could try harder to concentrate on football. First, however, it was necessary to get into some games, and that was difficult. The Haskell team was well seasoned and well coached. Players were in good condition, and there were few injuries. John found himself in an odd dilemma, almost hoping for the injury that would thrust him into the game, yet feeling guilt for that very hope.
In practice, he worked with a vengeance. In scrimmage against the starters, he tackled and blocked as if the game actually depended on it. After a particularly hard tackle, he was helping the ball carrier to his feet when the coach rushed onto the field.
“Take it easy, Buffalo. This is just practice, you know.” He turned to the dazed player. “Are you okay, Soldier?”
“Yes, sir. I think so. Damn, John, we're on the same side, remember?”
“I—I'm sorry, Soldier,” muttered John. “I didn't mean …”
“I know. It's okay.”
If he could only take out his frustrations in a game or two!
But he warmed the bench and, in observing, learned. Football was still in process of development, and the rules were at times unclear. Haskell played teams with bizarre variations to their uniforms. Straps and handles dangled from the suit of one team's ball carrier. His teammates could grab and pull, push, carry—even throw the quarterback through or over the line of scrimmage.
Another team wore jerseys with the outline of a football, complete with lace up the middle, stitched on the chest. This created difficulty in identifying who actually had the ball.
Some of their games were with semiprofessional teams, with strange equipment and techniques. One of these, the St. Louis Athletics, had pointed helmets with a lace up the back like that on a football. When the ball was snapped, several players would yank off their helmets, tuck them under an arm, and run wildly. Which one should be tackled? And, if you guessed wrong, there could be a penalty for holding.
 
When the season was over, John reverted to distance running to stay in physical condition for the coming track-and-field season. Each morning he rose early to run at least ten miles before classes. In inclement weather he still ran, counting laps around the gymnasium.
Christmas came and went, observed but little celebrated by the students, most of whom remained at school for the holiday break. There was a Christmas dinner with some special treats. Oranges, not a usual delicacy in the school cafeteria, and for each, a sack of hard candy.
 
With the help of James Naismith, John managed to obtain more information about his academic status. At the University of Kansas, he would be allowed credit for what would amount to a year's study. There were three more courses for which he could receive credit by taking “prerequisites,” which would have been required if he had taken the courses at K.U.
“You could take some of those now,” suggested Naismith. “This term.”
“Uh … Sir, I couldn't.”
“Not enough time?”
“Well, that, and … I have no money, sir.”
“Yes, I suspected as much. Which leads me to another matter. I may have a job for you.”
John brightened.
“Here?”
Naismith smiled. “No, it's customary to fill our jobs with our own students, you know.”
Of
course,
thought John.
How stupid of me.
“This would be at Lane University,” the coach went on. “Over at Lecompton, west of here. Walking distance. Ten miles, maybe. A church school. United Brethren … A good school. They need a trainer and locker-room manager. Here, I'll give you the name to contact.”
Naismith pulled a sheet of paper toward him and scribbled on it, then folded it and handed it to John.
“Here's your introduction. Hand this to the coach over there, eh?”
 
It was three weeks before the weather permitted such travel. When there was finally a break, he crossed the bridge at Lawrence and followed the road west, on the north side of the Kaw River. The road was thawing in the watery rays of the pale winter sun. It was muddy in places and slippery in others, and it was difficult for him to maintain a runner's pace.
It was not difficult to locate the brown sandstone University building when he arrived at the town of Lecompton. Easily the most imposing structure in town, its construction had been started as the state's Capitol Building. Shifting politics moved the capital to Topeka, a few miles west, and the unfinished building was sold to the Church of the Brethren for their University. The Brethren were originally allied to the Methodists, but based around German-language congregations, and more pacifist, similar to the Quakers.
John was not particularly interested in all of this, but listened patiently as an enthusiastic student escorted him to meet the man to whom he would give Naismith's note.
Coach Braun rose to shake hands, and unfolded the note, scanning it briefly.
“Ah, yes! Coach Naismith spoke to me of this, Buffalo. As I understand, you are not to enroll as a student?”
“Possibly, sir. I will graduate from Haskell this spring, but will need further credits to enter coaching.”
“Ah, yes, I remember now. You seek a trainer's job while you continue. A few classes here, then?”
“If possible, sir.”
“I don't see why not. A bit unusual perhaps, but … Didn't Naismith tell me you had attended somewhere else? Some eastern school … Springfield?”
“No, sir. He was at Springfield. I was at Carlisle, and we played them at football.”
“I see. Well, this isn't much of a job, this trainer's position. Usually I use one of our own students as a part-time helper. But that man is graduating. We are talking of next term, I assume?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This could mean room and board, perhaps a couple of dollars a week … .”
“Coach Naismith suggested that I might work toward a degree from here. There would be enrollment costs?”
“Yes … I gather that your resources are limited?”
Not limited, nonexistent
, thought John.
“Uh … Yes, sir.”
“Well, it might be possible to consider a waiver. At least a partial one. Nothing definite, you understand. We'll see. After all, this is months away, you know.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
 
As he left Lecompton, his spirits rose. The journey back to Lawrence was much shorter and easier because his heart was soaring.
It had been a long time since he had anything good about which he could think. Maybe he had come to a point in the trail where things could again become good for him. He smiled to himself, and lengthened his stride toward the Haskell campus.
M
aybe his world was beginning to fall into place again. He still thought of Jane sometimes, but less often, maybe. There was not the rending, tearing sense of bereavement that he once had felt. There was regret for the loss, but it was a loss of something that had really never been, except as a hope and expectation. In his more thoughtful moments, he told himself that such a love could never have been, anyway. Her world was far removed from anything that he could ever be. He had been taught this, in many ways, since his first day in the government school on the reservation.
Now, however, he had envisioned a new goal and a realistic chance at achieving it. He could work for the summer again, maybe save a little money. He'd move to Lecompton as the harvest was over and the fall term began at Lane University. It was a plan. He was certain that in a position as trainer he could begin to do some coaching.
John worked hard at his own training, pleased that his abilities at track and field were improving. In distance runs, his wind was better than ever, and his coordination smoother. He almost never fell at the hurdles now. The javelin soared to greater distances as he developed muscle strength. He placed in the track meets against other schools around the region.
Shortly before the end of the spring term, it occurred to him that it might be good to contact Coach Schmidt at Lane again, to verify their previous conversation. He was accustomed to a daily ten-mile morning run, and usually another in the evening. He could easily head across the river and west, ending
the morning session at Lane. The return trip could be at any time later in the day.
It was a glorious morning in May, cool and sunny, and the sun was pleasant. John could glory in the use of his developing strength and condition. He reached Lecompton and slowed to a walk to cool down as he neared the campus at Lane University.
 
“Ah, yes,” said the coach, half-turning to set down a burlap sack of equipment. He extended a hand. “Good to see you, Buffalo. But I'm afraid I have bad news.
 
“Bad news?”
“Yes. The trainer's job … It's filled.”
“I don't understand. I thought—”
“I'm sorry, John. I told you, we give preference to our own students.”
“Yes, sir, but you said—”
“I don't know what you thought I might have implied, John. But the position is filled. Maybe next year.”
There was no point in further talk. That much was plain. It was also plain that the “preference” was quite selective. The pimply faced young man beyond the lockers, stuffing soccer balls into another gunnysack, was a Nordic type with blue green eyes and flaxen hair. It was as plain as if someone had said:
You're just an Indian.
John's shield of stony stoicism descended over his face as he turned away.
“Maybe later, son,” the coach called after him.
John wanted badly to shout at the man,
I am not your son! I am the son of Yellow Bull!
But it would do no good. He walked away.
 
The road back to Lawrence was much longer than it had been on the morning run, and not nearly so smooth. What had been a beautiful day, with sights, scents, and sounds of spring, had deteriorated considerably.
As he passed Mount Oread, he considered turning aside to talk to Coach Naismith, but elected to defer it. Possibly, when he regained his composure, he would consider it. Yes, he probably owed it to the coach to tell him of this latest twist of misfortune.
 
It was nearly two weeks before John had recovered to the point where he felt comfortable in approaching the man.
“Really? I'm sorry, John. Did he give you any reason?”
“One of his students …”
“Ah, yes. Well, that can't be helped. What will you do now?”
“I don't know. I can work for the summer for one of the farmers, but then, I don't know.”
“Sorry I'd have nothing here. There are other colleges around, though. I'll keep an eye open. Stay in touch, eh?”
 
John talked to his own coach, but they had never been really close.
“Too bad, Buffalo. I'd hoped that would work out for you at Lane. If I hear of anything …”
 
“Yah!” said Mr. Schneebarger. “Ist goot. Ve got a horse to break, too. Ven ken you start, John?”
“Two weeks. I could come this weekend, two days.”
“Mebbe so, Saturday. Sunday, nein. Ist day to rest.”
John had always found that odd. Most whites, especially the more churchly types, set aside a day for “rest” every seven days. Routine chores must be done, of course. Milking, feeding, and gathering eggs. In most families, there was no plowing or planting or hoeing. The main activity was church, which sometimes lasted most of the day. Prayers and singing and endless sermons.
He participated, to an extent. It was easier. Old White Horse had taught him that. But he still wondered. Why does the white man talk to his God only once a week?
 
There was a ceremony as the graduation took place at Haskell. The students wore robes and funny mortarboard hats, and marched to music. Speakers praised the graduates, and urged them to go out and make their instructors proud; to show that they had overcome the handicaps of their collective origins. They marched out again, soberly, to the same music.
 
John had made few close friends during his time at Haskell. He had been too distracted by personal problems and disappointments. There were short good-byes and good wishes from a few classmates, and an unexpected word of encouragement from the coach.
“Buffalo, I don't pretend to know all your problems, but … Well, I know you've got possibilities. Whatever it is, don't give up. You can do it!”
“Thank you, Coach,” muttered the embarrassed John.
If the coach only knew. But maybe he did, in some way. Coach had seen a lot of young Indians go out into the world to challenge a game in which the cards were stacked against them.
“Give it your best. I expect to hear good things about you.”
“Yes, sir. I'll try.”
 
His good-bye with Walter Goingbird was not much longer. Walt was perhaps his only real friend here.
“Where will you go, John?”
“Back out to Schneebarger's for now, I guess. You?”
“Home to Oklahoma. Lots of changes goin' on there, I hear.”
“Good or bad?”
“Both, probably.”
The two chuckled together.
“Always that way, John,” added Walter.
John nodded, but reserved his thought that if something good was to occur in his life, it was past due. He was more than ready for the good part.
 
John moved into the small crib in the barn where he had spent the past summer. All in all, not a bad place. It was used as a tack room, and the walls were hung with bridles and pieces of leather harness and hand tools used in the constant necessary repairs of equipment. The familiar smells of leather and neat's-foot oil brought back memories of last season … . Of the unexpected letter that had dashed his romantic dreams in an instant and sent him into depths of despair from which he was not yet ready to recover. He tried to push that behind him.
He did not know how long he would be here. His departure last fall had been because of the beginning of the school year. Now there would be no urgency. If Schneebarger needed him longer, so be it. Here his heritage stood him in good stead.
What will happen will happen. And only when the time comes.
Meanwhile, he was here. He could work with the horses, using his gifts of athletic ability and his ability to see into the thoughts of the animal. That, too, he regarded as a gift.
 
Last year he had barely become acquainted with the family's three children. Looking back, he decided that Mrs. Schneebarger had probably planned it that way. There had undoubtedly been some distrust or at least doubt about the hiring of an Indian. Schneebarger had probably decided on that move without consulting his wife. Gradually, the buxom Helga had become more friendly. There had actually been tears in her eyes when John moved back to school in September.
Now she was much more open and friendly, her smile and demeanor welcoming him back. He was careful to treat her with respect, as he had been taught. The position of women among his own people was somewhat different
than among whites. Indian women could speak in council, could vote, own property. In some tribes, all property. By contrast, white women seemed to have little control of their lives, beyond their kitchens and firesides. That had been very confusing to him, especially since the first white woman he had ever seen had been Miss Whitehurst. Old White Horse was a special case, and did not fit the pattern.
The Schneebargers' home, however, was the closest contact he had experienced to an ordinary white family's patterns of behavior. He quickly realized that the previous year had been a test and that he had passed. He was now accepted almost as family, and it was good.
 
The older two children finished the school year at about the time John moved into the tack room. They were home for the summer. Hans—“Little Hans” to distinguish him from his father—was about ten or eleven, John estimated. He was smart and strong and very much wanted to do “man things,” to make his father proud.
Gretchen, a year or two younger, was equally eager to become a young
hausfrau
. The “baby,” Wilhelm, was actually about three or four. He had been born after the family came to America, John was told.
“Ve talk only English at home, now,” explained their mother. “Before … At first ve talk Cherman. Den, Liddle Hans goes to school. De odder kids, dey laugh at him 'cause he can't talk good, und he don't understand. Now, ist better, nein?”
They, too, John realized, were going through a process much like his own. These people, of another origin, were trying to learn the ways of this new country. It had not occurred to him that some whites had the same problems.
Besides all this there were the Negroes, former slaves and children of slaves. He knew that they had special problems. Some had joined the Indian tribes and had intermarried, especially among the Seminoles and Creeks. He had known a couple of students at Carlisle who were very dark-skinned. He was just realizing what extra problems they would have in the white man's world.
“Liddle Hans was having trouble mit reading,” his mother went on. “The teacher sent home his books for the summer. Maybe you help him some?”
John realized that this was a great honor, a sign that he had been accepted by the family. He was flattered.
“I'd be glad to help, Mrs. Schneebarger.”
“
Ach
! Call me Helga. Everybody does.”
“Okay, Helga. May I look at the schoolbooks?”
“Sure. Over dere …” She gestured.
There were four books.
McGuffey's Reader
and a spelling book. He'd used those himself. An arithmetic volume and another, titled
History of Kansas
, by Noble L. Prentiss. Curious, he opened the history book. A printed sentence on
one of the first pages indicated that this was the official history text for all schools in the state.
Curious, John scanned the table of contents and noticed a chapter titled “Indians of Kansas.” He found that page. The chapter was only three or four pages long, mostly omitting more than mention of the dozens of tribes and nations who had migrated or been forced in, out, and through the area.
The chapter closed with a summary paragraph:
The story of their wars and huntings and migrations has little interest to civilized people. When they passed away from Kansas and the world, they left nothing except mounds of earth, rings on the sod, fragments of pottery, rude implements. They fought each other, disputed possession with wild beasts, were stricken down with fell diseases, but their history never became of interest or importance to the world, because they did nothing for the world.
John sat staring at the page for a few moments before he closed the book.
Some things never change
, he reflected.

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