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Authors: Don Coldsmith

BOOK: The Long Journey Home
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J
ohn's trip to Topeka was memorable, to say the least. He rode a borrowed horse.
The Miller Brothers 101 Ranch Circus was a magical extravaganza, a performance to quicken the heart and delight the senses. Sweating men and horses; exhibitions of roping, trick riding, and handling livestock; bucking horses and bulls; and the event that had precipitated John's interest, the bulldogging of steers by Bill Pickett.
The mixed-blood Pickett was becoming famous on the show circuit. He had demonstrated his specialty in Canada and Mexico, as well as at dozens of events throughout the American West. As a ten-year-old in Texas, Willie Pickett had watched a bulldog, trained to work cattle, catch and hold a young steer by the nose for several minutes. The dog fastened its teeth into the animal's upper lip, which seemed to completely immobilize the steer.
I could do that,
thought the boy.
When opportunity offered, Willie tried it. No one around … A calf, more his size … He found that it worked as well for him as it had for the dog. As he grew a little older, he demonstrated to a bunch of local cowboys that he could immobilize calves in this way while they were “worked” and branded.
At the Taylor, Texas, Fair in 1888, Will Pickett had been asked to demonstrate his peculiar skill. He was seventeen at the time. In this demonstration, a steer was roped and tied, and Pickett would mount its back. Then it was released, Pickett holding to the horns. Somersaulting over the head, he would
grab the steer's upper lip in his teeth and, with a twist, he would throw the animal to the ground and hold it.
He worked for a while on a ranch near Rockdale, Texas, and Lee Moore, the owner, began to book appearances for him at county fairs in the area, finally branching out into Colorado and other states about 1900, charging admission fees as a specialty act. After the 1902 season, Pickett signed on with Dave McClure, the cowboy promoter, who was famous among rodeo and show people as “Mr. Cowboy.” This brought him better bookings and more notoriety. In 1904, at Cheyenne Frontier Days, his exhibition resulted in this testimonial from the
Wyoming Tribune:
The event par excellence of the celebration is the great feat of Will Pickett, a Negro who hails from Taylor, Texas. He gives his exhibition this afternoon and twenty thousand people will watch with wonder and admiration a mere man, unarmed and without a device or appliance of any kind, attack a fiery, wild-eyed and powerful steer, dash under the broad breast of the great brute, turn and sink his strong ivory teeth into the upper lip of the animal and, throwing his shoulder against the neck of the steer, strain and twist until the animal, with its head drawn one way and under the controlling influence of those merciless teeth its body forced another, until the brute, under strain of the slowly bending neck, quivered, trembled, and sank to the ground, conquered by a trick. A trick, perhaps, but one of the most startling and sensational exhibitions ever seen at a place when daring and thrilling feats are common.
Initially, McClure had been cautious. He described Pickett as a “half-breed,” which implied Indian and Caucasian. In most of the United States, an individual with as little as one-sixteenth Negro blood was legally a “colored” person. Athletic contests between whites and colored were not only frowned on, but illegal in many places. Very quickly, his fame was so widespread that it didn't matter, though the stigma of his Negro ancestry still hung over him.
 
At the time the demonstration took place, John had learned much of this background. Pickett, now called “Bill” instead of Will or Willie, was booked as “the Dusky Demon, the most daring cowboy alive.” By this time, he was working from horseback, stepping from his horse's back to that of the steer while a “hazer” on the left kept the half-ton animal running straight. (In modern steer wrestling events, much smaller animals are used, and the approach is from the left. Pickett approached from the right “'cause mah hoss is taught I'm gettin' on an' off his left side.”)
John was quick to note that Bill Pickett's skin wasn't much darker than his own. Part of this could be accounted for by the burning and tanning of constant work in the sun. Still, there was something … . The man's features seemed more Indian than negroid.
 
“Hey, there,” a voice called.
John looked around. It was the horse trader who had urged him to go to the show originally.
“Ain't this somethin'? I told you about that Pickett. Want to meet him?”
“You know him?”
“Shore! Come on!”
John followed the trader, a little embarrassed. He doubted that this somewhat shady character really had such connections. His suspicions were confirmed when they approached the place where Pickett had tied his horse. The Dusky Demon was loosening the cinch on the sweating animal, and looked around as they approached. The mildly annoyed expression on his face verified John's suspicion that the braggart horse trader was no more than a casual acquaintance.
“Bill, this here's a boy that wants to meet you. Name of John Buffalo. He tames horses.”
Then the trader's gaze shifted. “Hey, there's a feller I need to see!”
He left quickly, but in the opposite direction. John and Pickett stood, both a bit confused and embarrassed, looking after the retreating figure.
“You know him?” Pickett asked.
“Not hardly,” answered John. “He's a horse trader.”
“Reckoned that,” smiled the Dusky Demon. “He been hangin' aroun'.”
He studied the young man for a few moments.
There was, somehow, an understanding between them, as if they had known each other always.
“You Cherokee?” asked Pickett.
“No, Lakota. You?”
Pickett nodded. “Cherokee, white, some colored … Less'n half, we figger.”
“I … Mr. Pickett, I was amazed at your performance.”
The dark man smiled, showing even white teeth under his mustached upper lip.
“No trick to it. An' call me Bill.”
“Thanks. I'm John Buffalo.”
“Howdy, John. About this bulldoggin' … You could do it. Jest grab him and bite him on the nose … . Hope it ain't a snot-nosed steer.”
Both chuckled.
“You don't use a rope at all?” John asked.
“Naw. A rope's okay for hangin' folks, I guess, but when ah'm chasin' a steer it jest gits in the way.”
“I see …” He didn't, exactly. “You travel a lot?”
“Quite a bit, with the Millers' 101. They be good folk. Ah was doin' on mah own before. Been to Canada an' Mexico.”
“Mexico?”
“Yeh … They got them fightin' bulls down there.”
“You rassled
them
?”
“Naw. Jest the steers. But they be purty ringy. Rassled a bull elk in El Paso, though. Don' try that. He got too many horns!”
“Okay, I won't,” said John, quite truthfully. He had no such intention.
“Say,” said Pickett, “you hear about dat earthquake an' fire at San Francisco las' spring? Ah was
there
!”
“You were?”
“Yas, I
was
! Say, that was somethin'! Look like the whole world be goin' up in flames. All them folks outa their homes, no place to go … .” He shook his head. “I don' want no more o' that.”
“I reckon not,” agreed John. “But, I was lookin' at your horse, here. How'd he get the scar on his chest?”
“Ol' Spradley? He's a 101 colt. Had a bad injury when he's a baby. Big chunk o' fence rail stuck in his chest. Splinter-like. Nobody noticed, an' he got so puny they was goin' to kill ‘im, put 'im outen his misery. I axe could I have him, an' Mr. Joe he say yes, he no good anyhow. Ah cut that chunk o' board out, an' he heal' up purty good. Runs spraddle-legged, though. Thass why I call ‘im Spradley.” He patted the gelding affectionately. “He a good boy.” He paused and spoke cautiously. “That ol' hoss trader, he say you got a way with 'em?”
Now John was cautious.
“Sort of, I reckon. I just try to get inside their heads, talk to ‘em … . Easier'n tryin' to do it by force.”
“Sometime you needs force.” said Pickett.
“Sure. You couldn't
talk
a steer down. But, startin' a horse out calm-like is goin' to make it lot easier ef you have to bust him later.”
“Thass true.”
A man approached and spoke to Pickett.
“Bill, they'd like to have you in the arena again. Are you up to it?”
“Reckon so. Lemme give ol' Spradley a bit mo' rest. It's purty hot.”
“Sure. When you're ready.” He turned to look at John. “Do I know you?”
“Prob'ly not. I just came over for the show.”
“You know Bill, here?”
“I do now. We just met.”
“Mistah Miller, he's the hoss trainer that no-'count trader was talkin' of,” said Pickett.
“Not really,” protested John.
“Wait a moment. You tame wild horses, right?”
“Well, not exactly …”
“Yes, I expect you're the one. Look, let's talk about this. I need a few more Indians for the wagon-train scene. You'd fit in that. But I was wonderin' if you could do that horse-tamin' act in the arena. Run in a wild horse … . You want a job? By the way, I'm Zack Miller. I run the show, my brother Joe is the rancher, and George is the bookkeeper.”
“I … I see,” muttered John. This was pretty sudden. A job?
“Mr. Miller, I'm from over near Lawrence, on a borrowed horse. I …”
“No matter, son. We'll figger a way to get the horse back, if you're interested.”
“Well, I suppose I am. In hearin' about it, anyhow.”
“Good! Let's go talk about it. John, is it?”
“Yes, sir, John. John Buffalo.”
“
Y
ou're
what
?” demanded Naismith. “Leaving?”
“Considering it,” answered John. “I wanted your advice.”
“A circus?”
“Not exactly, Coach. The Miller Brothers, 101 Ranch … Wild West Show. They have some good people. I can't seem to find a job as a coaching assistant.”
“Well …” Naismith seemed just a little uneasy about that remark. “You might try it for a season. Working with horses, you say?”
“Yes, sir. I'm told that I'm good with them. I do have some pretty good luck, I guess.”
He had decided not to go into too much detail about his “luck” with animals. He had learned caution when talking to whites. Any white man, even one whom he trusted to give good advice. Naismith might have John's best interests at heart, but there were things that the coach might never be able to accept or understand. Especially about things of the spirit. Somehow, whites seemed to be afraid of things that they didn't understand. Sometimes it seemed to be mixed up with their religion, as a sort of denial of the obvious presence of the power of the spirit. To think in terms of good or bad luck, however, was acceptable.
“And they pay well?”
John paused. Zack Miller hadn't been very specific about that. It would depend on his skills, the showman had implied, but there were dozens, maybe hundreds of men and women in their employ. The Indians who played a part in the reenactment scenes seemed content. Bill Pickett, a “man of colour,” was
obviously pleased at his connection with the Millers and the 101. There seemed to be a general tone of respect for each other on the part of the 101 crew, and this seemed to come from the Millers themselves.
“Apparently so, sir. No specific figure was mentioned, but their employees seem satisfied and—well—
proud
to be working there.”
Naismith nodded. “That's a good sign. Well, John, I hate to see you abandon the goal of coaching. But you don't have to leave it permanently. Stay in shape—you'll probably do
that
easily. And stay in touch. You have talent. Maybe later, eh?”
John had the feeling that the coach's heart was right. It was plain that he, too, realized the overwhelming obstacles that faced a young Indian in the white man's world. Naismith had made the effort, and would do so again, but some things are not to be. At least, not easily.
They shook hands warmly and John turned to go.
“Say, John,” the coach called after him. “You might talk to a fellow who's doing some coaching. Allen … Forrest Allen. They call him ‘Phog.' He's coaching at Haskell as well as at Baker, and has done some work for me. You'll probably stop by Haskell anyway, eh?”
“Maybe so.”
 
He did stop by to tell the Haskell administration what he was doing, and to tell the coach good-bye. He also asked about Coach Allen.
“Not here right now, John. He's based down at Baker. A good man. Coachin' basketball for us this winter.”
John smiled. “Naismith still says that's just a game. But, maybe I can talk to Allen later.”
“Maybe so … Best of luck with the cowboyin', John!”
“Thanks …”
 
He did not think it worthwhile to contact Coach Allen now. It would take most of a day, and he had a lot to do. He must explain to Schneebarger what he intended, gather his few belongings, and return to Topeka before the 101 departed. Transportation back to the Ponca country of Oklahoma Territory would be by special train, carrying the entire Wild West Show.
 
During the train trip, he was approached by Zack Miller, who motioned him over and slid into the seat beside him.
“Glad to have you join us,” Miller began. “Buffalo, isn't it?”
“Yes, sir. John Buffalo.”
“Mmm … Got that in a Government school, I reckon. You're Sioux?”
“Yes, sir.
This man seemed to understand, so John decided to elaborate.
“Once I was Little Bull, son of Yellow Bull,” he added, showing a bit of pride.
Miller smiled. “That's good,” he said simply. But John knew that he understood.
“Well, you see our Show. The ‘Wild West.' My brother Joe figured that we'd ought to do somethin' to preserve the cowboy life, the Indian ways, show how to handle stock, work cattle, an' all. Joe says, ‘Boys ten years old and younger have never seen a genuine Wild West show, and we are going to make it possible for them to see one!' We have a variety of acts, a bit broader than Cody's Buffalo Bill show. You've seen that?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, no matter. What we have is a real workin' ranch … 110,000 acres. We aim to show folks what a ranch is an' does, plus the specialty acts. Ridin', ropin', tricks, Pickett doin' his bulldog thing. Gawd, I dunno how he does that! You a friend o' his?”
“No, sir, we just met.”
“Well, he savvies folks purty good, an' he seems to like you. Anyhow, we're always lookin' for new acts, an' if they come right offa the 101, so much the better. We do have a buffalo herd, but mebbe we'll get a couple of camels and an elephant or two. But never mind … Tell me about your act.”
“Well … I really don't have an act, sir.”
Miller took a puff on his cigar, blew a cloud of blue smoke, and tapped the ash into the tray on the arm of the seat beside him.
“But somebody said you tame wild horses. That true?”
“Maybe, but it ain't exactly an act, Mr. Miller. I tame 'em 'cause they need tamin'.”
“No matter. Them steers of Pickett's don' really need to be bit on their nose, either. It's a demonstration … shows what can be done. Now on the wild-horse thing … We can talk about it later. Sounds like I need to watch it. When we get down to the ranch, we'll run in a couple of range-runnin' yearlin's, and you can show me.
“I can do that,” John agreed.
“Okay … Meanwhile, you can do some odd-job ranch chores. The boys will show you the bunkhouse an' get you settled.”
He started to rise and then paused.
“You don't mind playin' Indian when we take the show out on the road?”
“No, sir.”
It was a truthful answer.
Not for people who come this close to understanding,
he thought.
The 101 Ranch itself was an experience like no other. It was hard to comprehend its sheer size, and the hundreds of people who were employed in the operation. There was a headquarters complex resembling a small town, with houses, a store, barns and stables and granaries, a running track for horses and arenas for practicing the various acts for the Millers' shows. The demand for bookings had resulted in the formation of a second troupe, so that the Miller Brothers Wild West Show and Circus could be on tour in separate parts of the country at once. The 101 had its own railroad sidings as well as locomotives and rolling stock. “Headquarters” was still in the White House, the original home of the Miller family, built by George W. Miller, father of the Miller Brothers. Mother Molly Miller still lived there.
There were vast herds of horses and longhorn cattle, a small buffalo herd, and carefully segregated herds of purebred Angus and Hereford cattle.
John learned, gradually, that the Millers had conceived the idea for a Wild West Show of this magnitude by attending the World's Fair in St. Louis, a few years earlier. They had also made some valuable connections there. In 1905, with national media attention, the Millers hosted a gala celebration which drew 65,000 people to the ranch. The national convention of newspaper editors was in attendance, and some thirty trains brought spectators. President Theodore Roosevelt, already a fan of the concept of the Wild West Show, asked the Governor of Oklahoma Territory to call out the Territorial Militia to help with security and crowd control.
“Remember Geronimo, the ol' Apache chief?” asked the cowboy who was showing John around the ranch. “He was here.”
“I thought he was in jail.”
“Well, he is, I guess. But the Millers—Mr. Joe, I guess—got permission to bring him for that roundup. They got the chief to shoot a buffalo, and barbecued it for them newspaper folks.”
“But he must be about eighty,” John protested.
“Guess so. But he rode in one o' them horseless carriages. A Locomobile, it were called, I'm thinkin'. Ol' chief was outa practice … missed a couple o' shots.”
“Bow and arrows?”
“No … A new Winchester. That'd be his last buffalo kill, they said. ‘Course, it was his first, too, you know. Apaches didn't have buffalo where they lived.” The cowboy chuckled. “But I reckon it shore impressed the crowd. What's your job goin' to be, John?”
“Workin' with horses, I guess. Not sure yet … This happened purty sudden.”
“Yep.” Slim nodded. “Zack gets an idea, he moves on it, don't he? But … Say, you must be the wild-horse tamer! That it?”
“I guess that's what Mr. Miller had in mind,” admitted John. “But I really don't …”
“Yeah … Indian medicine-tricks. I gotta see this. You're Sioux, ain't you?”
“Yes. Lakota.”
“We got quite a few Sioux already. Pine Ridge, Rosebud.”
These were reservations, and John knew his people by their band names: Oglala, Hunkpapa, Brule …
“Mebbe you'll know some of 'em.”
“Not likely …”
John was having some very strange feelings. Would he have much in common with Lakotas from the reservations, now that he had been detached from his people for several years, and subjected to the white man's ways? Time would tell.
Meanwhile, he moved into the bunkhouse with the cowboys. He dressed and acted as the whites did, and felt more at home here than in the cluster of lodges down by the river. He felt an odd pang of guilt, as well as a bit of scorn for those not able to assimilate into a modern world.
It did not occur to him that perhaps they were taking advantage of a rapidly changing social situation, as were the Millers and their 101 Ranch.
Of one thing he was certain. On the 101, everyone seemed to be respected for his skills and abilities, not for his race or ethnic background. The Millers employed whites, Mexicans, Negroes, and Indians, treating all with respect not found in most places he had been. Some nonwhites even had considerable status. With some surprise, he learned that the Pickett family had their own home on the 101.
Maybe this was his own ticket to the future.

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