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Authors: Don Coldsmith

BOOK: The Long Journey Home
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O
ver the next few weeks, John met a lot of people with remarkable talents. It was an atmosphere of unreality, as if most of the hundreds of people in the gigantic ranch operation were playacting, at least part of the time. For some, all of the time. This is not to say that theirs were easy jobs. They developed, practiced, and perfected skills not seen elsewhere, for the purposes of The Show. Trick riders, fancy ropers, marksmen (and women) who could perform amazing stunts with a rifle or pistol. Some spent days and weeks of special training sessions for the purpose of readying an animal performer for a specialty act that would last only a matter of minutes in the arena. A horse that would “play dead” or roll over on command … A dog that would dance on his hind legs, wearing a top hat … The skills involved were largely those of the trainer.
In other cases, the skills were the result of long years of hard work on the backs of galloping horses. A headstand, a bounce from one side of the horse to the other, touching the ground at both sides, at a full gallop. Perhaps the “suicide drag” stunt … Many of these were young women, who seemed especially agile at this sort of trick riding. There were names which would become well known later as their fame spread. Lucille Mulhall, billed as The Original Cowgirl, could rope as well as any man and better than most, a world champion rodeo performer. Jennie Howard Woodend was another, actually an aristocrat from a wealthy and prominent Eastern family, who preferred the life of the West. She performed as a trick rider and worked maintaining fence for the 101 as “Jane Howard.” Lillian Smith, who was dressed as an Indian and was billed as “Princess Wenona,” outdid even the famous Annie Oakley with her shooting
skills. Other veteran women performers were Julie Allen, Edith Tatlinger, and Zack Miller's wife, Mabel.
There were always a cadre of young women striving to perfect their skills to the extent that they could become one of the featured acts on The Show. Meanwhile, they worked for pay at ranch jobs alongside the men, who were many times engaged in similar pursuits. But the Millers were quite strict about the impression that their female performers might give to the public. They were never to appear wearing lipstick or rouge, and must dress discreetly, to avoid any impression of the cheap or tawdry.
Some of the men were working similarly toward becoming feature acts. Most would never become headliners, but there was always a need for large numbers of horsemen. They filled out the cast of hundreds for the reenactments of wagon trains, Indian attacks, cavalry charges, and frontier skirmishes. When the Wild West Show was not on the road, the same riders were carrying out routine ranch jobs, working cattle, branding, and fixing fence. The day-to-day work required to operate the far-flung 101 Ranch with its thousands of cattle and horses demanded a lot of cowboys.
There was always excitement in the air. The Millers were creative, and seemed to want to try any new innovation that came along. They were always experimenting with new seed crops and the newest farm machinery. This drew the attention of people with like minds, who would drop in unexpectedly just to show the Millers a new machine, or an automobile, driven by steam or kerosene or gasoline.
The 101 employees seemed to expect to be called on to do each other's jobs when there was need. Sometimes it seemed that the entire operation was a gigantic play. On John's first tour with The Show, Zack Miller took him aside.
“John, would you mind puttin' on a soldier suit this time? I've got plenty of Indians, with the Oglalas and White Eagle's Poncas, but I need a few more cavalry for the rescue scene.”
“Sure,” John said quickly.
“Good!” Zack clapped him on the shoulder. “Go see Tom Mix. He's got the uniforms.”
 
Mix handed him the folded blue trousers and jacket.
“The hat you're wearin' is okay, John. Check the duds back in after the last performance.”
“Right.”
“Say, weren't you an Indian last time?”
“Still am, I reckon. Zack needed some more soldiers.”
This sort of thing was expected as the norm. It was not until later that he had time to wonder what Yellow Bull would have thought of his son's pursuit.
As he turned away, John noticed a stranger with a bill cap worn backward, carrying an odd-looking black box on a tripod.
“Who's that fella?” he asked. “What's that he's carryin'?”
Mix chuckled. “Aw, that's Will Selig. He's takin' movin' pictures.”
“
Movin
' pictures? How can that be?”
“You don't know about movies yet? They're the comin' thing. Pictures on a screen, like a lantern-slide show. Special camera an' all. He turns a crank on the side, there … . Same way when they show it. The crank makes the pictures move. You'd ought to go in town, sometime they're showin' one at the opera house.”
There was little to indicate that in a few years this same Tom Mix would be recognized as “King of the Cowboys,” and that Tom and his horse, Tony, would be the highest-paid act in the rapidly expanding “movie” business.
“Say, John,” Mix called after him, “weren't you goin' to do some kinda horse-tamin' act?”
In the frantic pace of the 101's activities, that had almost been forgotten.
“I guess so. Nothin's been said about it.”
“Aw, Zack's busy. Look, I'll mention it when we get back from the show.”
“Okay … Thanks, Tom.”
 
Looking south across the Salt Fork of the Arkansas River, there could be seen a hill, the highest point around the 101 headquarters. It seemed to call out to John, but it had been weeks before he had the time to ride over and explore. When he did manage to go there, it was worth the wait.
It was away from the hustle and bustle, a quiet that he had not felt for a long time. He had not realized how much he had missed the chance to be alone with his thoughts. He could see in the distance below him, the beehive activity of the ranch. But here it was quiet, and he could be alone.
It was not often that his chores and responsibilities around the ranch allowed him to slip away. He was careful not to let it seem that he was a slacker in any way. His duties first, then maybe he'd be able to find an opportunity that drew him to that hilltop.
 
On this occasion, it was early autumn. The diverse grasses of the prairie were beginning to turn color, from bright greens to an endless assortment of pinks and yellows and reddish hues. These muted tones of the grasses were accentuated by patches of crimson sumac, and the bright gold of cottonwoods along the watercourses.
He rode past the Oglala Indians' camp near the river, crossed to the south side, and headed for the hill. Part way up the slope there was a clump of shrubby
sumac, turning scarlet with the changing season. He dismounted to tie the horse, allowing it enough slack to graze on the prairie grass, now curing to standing hay. The animal began to crop the reddish seed heads of turkeyfoot grass, and John made his way on up the hill.
The climb was longer than he expected. A rise that appears insignificant from a distance on the prairie may be much more imposing close at hand. Objects are dwarfed by the vast panorama and reach of the land. The eye sees gently rolling grassland, a full half-circle of horizon at one time. One glance encompasses hundreds of square miles, some of which may be quite rugged.
He reached the top, and stood for a moment, panting to regain his breath. He had thought that he was in fairly good condition, but this activity had used different muscles and motions. He recovered quickly, however, and found a place to sit while he enjoyed the sunset. The rock was warm from the autumn sun and felt good against the slight chill of the south breeze. He wondered idly what sort of winter there might be in this place. It was farther south than he had ever wintered.
To the north across the Salt Fork, the ranch headquarters sprawled before him, a bustle of activity. He was reminded of an anthill, with its seemingly aimless comings and goings, but all a part of a complicated effort to accomplish some purpose, no matter how obscure.
There was a movement below him, nearer at hand, and he focused his gaze. A human figure, ascending the hill as he had done … He felt a flash of resentment at the intrusion, but quickly realized that he had no exclusive right to be here. Still, it was unfortunate. He had been enjoying the solitude. There had not been a time since he arrived at the 101 when he had managed to be alone.
The figure approached, heading straight toward him now. A woman … He had seen her in the practice arena … Trick rider, maybe. She was attractive, in the split riding skirt and embroidered blouse used by many of the girls. In their actual trick riding, her garb would be more like that of the cowboys. The loose, flowing fabric of skirts and blouses would be dangerous as the rider swept across, over, and under the horse and saddle. Even a momentary snag on the saddle horn or on the cantle could interrupt the rhythm and cause a serious accident.
The girl reached the top and straightened, took a deep breath, and came directly toward him, still breathing hard. John wondered if she had sought him out on purpose.
“Sorry,” she said between gasps for air. “Didn't know there was anybody up here, till I saw your horse. Don't want to bother you.”
“It's okay,” John found himself saying, not quite truthfully.
“Sometimes,” the woman went on, “I jest have to get away. Too many damn' people.”
That had been his own motive, he realized, with a bit of surprise. Here was someone who felt as he did.
“That is true,” he said cautiously. He pointed to a spot on a rock near him. “Sit?” he invited.
“Thanks.”
She sat, and both were silent for some time, studying the brilliant colors of the rapidly changing sunset. Orange and gold and purple and red shifted and danced majestically as thin layers of cloud moved and evoked even more colors than can be imagined.
John began to study the young woman's reactions to the majestic scene, and was pleased. They were much like his own. He turned more attention to her … .
She was possibly ten years older than he, rather mannish in her bearing, and tanned by the summer sun. Her hair, tied up in a bun and topped by a flat wide-brimmed hat, was a pleasant medium brown. Her eyes … It took him a little while to determine the color. It was even more difficult because of the changing colors of the sunset. The eyes, too, seemed to shift and change color. He decided that they must be a gray green. Then he wondered why it would matter.
He thought back … . He had not felt a real attraction to any woman since his world was shattered over the loss of Jane. For him, the blue eyes and golden hair were the pinnacle of feminine attractiveness. Anything less was not worthy of consideration. He might admire a buxom figure or a well-turned ankle, but it was not the same.
His feelings were similar as he studied this woman. She seemed pleasant, friendly, down-to-earth … . Not unattractive … A sincere smile … One who understood the need to get away from the frenetic rush of people … One who understood …
“Have you come here often?” she said softly as the shadows deepened on the east slope of the hill.
“My first time,” he said. “I've wanted to. I knew it would be good. Have you been here before?”
“Yes. It makes the world right.”
He nodded.
“I—I don't know your name … ,” he blurted.
She laughed, a soft rippling music like clear water over white pebbles.
“Hebbie,” she said.
“Hebbie?”
“‘Fraid so.” She was quiet a moment, and went on in a musing tone. “I was christened Hepzibah. That's a Bible name, I reckon. But I ain't wearin' that. I changed it to Hebbie.”
She paused and looked at him studiously, possibly with a bit of suspicion.
“Don't know why I told you that. Nobody here knows it.”
She paused again, a twinkle in her eye.
“If'n anybody turns up knowin' it, it's your fault, an' I'm after your hide!”
They laughed together.
“No cause for worry,” he said.
“I don't know your name,” she said. “You're the horse tamer, ain't you?”
“People keep tellin' me that, but we haven't got around to it yet. But, forgive me … I'm John Buffalo.”
Hebbie nodded.
“I'd heard the John part,” she noted.
“I think I've seen you practicin',” he said. “Trick rider?”
“Ridin', ropin', rifle shot. I'm tryin' 'em all. But say, it's uphill when you got all the talent in the world just above you. I prob'ly will never ride an' rope as good as Lucille, and hey, I thought I was a good shot until I saw Wenona. But they need cowgirls for the parade, and I have to say, it's excitin', ain't it?”

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