The Flying Cavalier

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Hey, thanks, lady. If you want that monster hauled anywhere else, just give me a call.”

  Ignoring his invitation, Jo got out of the car and spoke to Bedford, who jumped out immediately. She walked with determination toward the entrance, ignoring the stares that several apprehensive citizens gave to the large dog beside her. He’s got to give me something more to do than covering golden wedding anniversaries, and I’m sick and tired of the fashion page! she thought as she entered the door.

  When she got to the elevator, Mose Johnson grinned at her. “Mornin’, Miss Josephine.”

  “Good morning, Mose. How are you today?”

  “I’m finer than frog hair. Hello, Bedford. Are you fine, too?” He laughed when the dog sat down and stared at him and barked sharply. “I guess he’s fine.”

  Mose moved the lever in front of him and stopped the car at the fifth floor. “You’re all dressed up this morning, Miss Josephine. You must be gonna ask for a raise.”

  “Something like that, Mose. When I see you next time, I’ll either have a better job or I won’t have one at all.”

  “Hey”—Jo left, making Mose crane his neck around the corner—“you’d better be careful about that. Jobs ain’t easy to come by these days.”

  Waving carelessly at the diminutive operator, Jo entered through a set of opaque glass doors and stepped into another world. It was an enormous room crammed with desks as close together as possible. Typewriters were making a staccato sound, people were calling shrilly across the room, and copyboys ran from desk to desk, snatching sheets of papers out of some wire baskets and slamming others into them. Threading her way down the narrow passageway that went the complete length of the room, Jo spoke to several people who greeted her, but her mind was not on them. When she reached the end of the room, she paused for one moment before a door marked “Managing Editor.” Taking a deep breath, she said, “Well, Lord, here I go. Thrill me or kill me.” She opened the door and marched in with Bedford pressed close to her side. She shut the door loudly behind her, then positioned herself squarely in front of an enormous desk, the top of which was completely obscured with papers, photographs, documents, and ashtrays.

  Ed Kovak stared up at her angrily. He was a large, strongly built man with a square face, piercing brown eyes, and black hair that was thinning on the crown. The cigar he was chewing on sent up clouds of purple smoke. He placed both thick hands flat on the papers before him and snarled, “Don’t bother to knock, Hellinger! Just barge right in!”

  “I’ve got to see you, Mr. Kovak.”

  Kovak stared at the huge dog. “I told you not to bring that animal here again! Have you got a hearing problem?”

  Jo Hellinger had decided earlier when she first came to work for the Times that Ed Kovak had no use for anyone without a backbone. She had stood up to him from the first day of her employment, and the assistant managing editor had told her later, “You won’t last long. Nobody ever goes head to head with Kovak and comes out on top.”

  But Jo Hellinger had come out on top, and she had won a grudging acceptance from the burly editor by being faster, more innovative, and tougher than any woman, at least, that he had ever allowed to work under him. He had given her the most dreary assignments, and she had never complained. True, they never met on a social plane, but then Kovak never fraternized with any of the hundreds of people that worked for him. “Business is business, home is home,” he said, and most of the time he spent with his five children and his very pretty wife.

  “What do you want, Jo? I’m busy. The Panama Canal’s going to be completed, and I’ve got to come up with a feature story on it.”

  “Let me do it, Mr. Kovak.”

  Kovak leaned back, and his dark eyes flickered over the young woman. Good-looking babe, he thought. Tough too. Too bad she’s a woman. She’s smart enough and tough enough to be a man. “I already gave it to Simmons.” He pulled the cigar out, stared at it, then jammed it back in his mouth. Chewing on it, he repeated the question. “What do you want? I haven’t got time for chitchat.”

  “You’ve got to give me a different assignment. I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked me to do, Mr. Kovak, but I’m sick of weddings and anniversaries, the society page, and even the cooking page. I’ve done them all, and I’ve never complained, have I?”

  “No you never have.” Kovak leaned back, locked his hands behind his head, and grunted, “Well, what do you want?”

  “Anything! Let me cover a prizefight.”

  “That’s a joke! Women can’t cover prizefights.”

  “How do you know? Have you ever let one try?”

  Kovak studied the young woman more carefully and realized, to his surprise, that he not only respected Jo Hellinger, he even liked her. Not that he would ever show it, for that would be favoritism. He was aware, however, of his fondness for her, and now he said roughly to cover his own feelings, “Why don’t you get married, stay home, and change diapers like other women?”

  “It’s not time for that yet, Mr. Kovak. One of these days I will, but now I’ve got to do something I’ve always wanted. While other girls were primping and going to parties, I was learning photography. While they were getting engaged and getting married, I was learning journalism. And I want to do something exciting!”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything except what I’ve been doing!”

  Kovak felt a sudden pang of pity tinged with admiration. He leaned back in his chair, then said thoughtfully, “Women haven’t made it yet in this world, kid.”

  “Then I’ll be the first.”

  Kovak came to an instant decision. It was what made him a great editor. He could think quickly, and most of the decisions were excellent. “I’ll tell you what. You’re due a vacation, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then make it a working vacation. Go somewhere, do a feature story complete with photos, come back, and give it to me. If you do a good job, we’ll talk about putting you on something a little bit more exciting than the society pages.

  “I don’t blame you for not wanting them. They bore me to death. Well, start tomorrow.” He removed the cigar again, got up, came around the desk, and awkwardly patted her shoulder. “Good luck, kid. I’d like to see you make it. I really would.” He heard a low growl and, startled, turned to see that Bedford had risen and stood with his eyes fixed on his jugular vein. “Hey, I was just kidding, Bedford!” Kovak said nervously. He shot a glance at Jo, who was smiling, and asked, “He wouldn’t really bite me, would he?”

  “Not unless I told him to, Mr. Kovak.” Jo laughed suddenly, and reached out and patted Ed Kovak’s cheek, something no reporter had ever done in the Times building. “I was going to have him tear your throat out if you didn’t give me a chance, but now you can pet him if you want to. Be nice, Bedford.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Kovak grinned. “Go on. Come back with something good. We’ll see where it goes.”

  ****

  The field seemed to be alive with the green grass as it swayed back and forth in the gentle breeze. Low rolling hills broken by gullies lay off to Jo’s left, while at her feet a small and insignificant stream purled and murmured, making a sibilant sound—a counterpoint to the breeze that stirred over the prairie.

  “And this is where it happened, Mr. Price?”

  “Yes, ma’am. This is the place.” The speaker was a slight man with dusty gray eyes that peered out under heavy, bushy eyebrows. He wore a pair of faded brown pants and a white shirt buttoned at the sleeves in spite of the sweltering heat. A dark brown Stetson, which looked the worse for wear, having apparently survived many winters of rain and summers of blistering Montana sunshine, was pushed back on his forehead, allowing crisp, gray curly hair to be exposed over a bronzed forehead. He lifted his hand and pointed to the east. “Right over there was where I was with Major Reno, and right there”—he shifted his arm—”is where Custer and all of his men died.”

  Overhead a trio of buzzards cir
cled lazily, and the old man’s eyes followed their motions. “I remember,” he said quietly, “three days after the battle the sky was full of buzzards. They had plenty to eat. Most of the Seventh Cavalry and quite a few Indians.”

  “What was it really like, Mr. Price?”

  “Most folks just call me Nels. Short for Nelson, ma’am.” The dusty gray eyes came to rest on the young woman Price had driven all the way from Billings to the site of the Little Bighorn battlefield. He had expected her to complain about the heat, but she had not, and now he saw that her gray dress was soaked and she was sunburned pretty badly.

  “Better get back in the car. This sun’s going to cook you, Miss Hellinger.”

  “Why, it’s all right. I want to get a few more pictures if I can. But tell me about the battle.”

  Jo spent the next few hours taking pictures of the battlefield, although there was nothing much to see. The grass had come and covered all the scars made when Custer and most of his beloved Seventh Cavalry had died in a pitched battle with the largest collection of hostile Indians ever gathered on the open plain. She found it much more interesting to talk to Nels Price, who had actually been in the battle. She had been shocked, somehow, to realize that there were still men alive who had fought alongside Custer. When she had found him at Billings, she retained him as a guide to take her to the battlefield. Price had been glad to get away from his small store and leave his older son to run it. He had been reticent at first, saying little, but when he discovered that the young woman from the East was actually interested in the truth of the battle and not in the romantic myths and legends that had grown up, he became more loquacious.

  Finally, as the sun was going down, he paused at a certain spot and said, “That’s the hill right there where I climbed up with what was left of us.”

  “That was Major Reno’s force.”

  “That’s right. We split off from Custer, and thank God we did. If we had gone with him, we’d have been killed along with all of his men.”

  “None of them made it?”

  “Not a man made it back alive. Of course, we couldn’t see any of it. We had fought our way back up on top of that hill.”

  The wind keened around the pair as they stood on the slight rise fifty yards away from where the car was parked. There were no other visitors that day, and a loneliness seemed to fill the open prairie. Price was silent for so long that Jo thought he had forgotten, but finally he shook his head, took his hat off, and wiped his forehead.

  “We fought our way up the hill and stayed there out of ammunition. Finally Major Benteen came back with one ammunition train, and the next day all the Indians pulled out. We knew Custer was dead, and that’s when the buzzards began gathering.”

  “It’s still a little hard for you to talk about, isn’t it, Nels?”

  “Yes, miss. It is. I lost some good friends that day. Never have forgot them.” The old man stood hipshot in place for a moment, jammed his hat back on, and then twisted his head to one side. “What you want to know all this fer, Miss Hellinger? It’s old news, and nobody’s interested in General Custer anymore.”

  “I am,” Jo said quickly. “I’ve always been interested in the military. My father was a soldier, and he taught me a lot about it, but all I’ve done is read about it in books, and now, out here, you’ve made it all seem so real.”

  “It was bloody that day. Men were dying everywhere you looked. What are you going to do with all them pictures you made?”

  Jo hesitated. “My editor told me to go get a story and take pictures. I couldn’t think of anything to write a story about that interests me much, then I got to wondering about the West. Of course, I’ve read about it all my life, but I realize that most of it’s gone. But I decided there might be a little of it left, and so I came out West to see what I could find.”

  “Mostly all gone now, miss,” Nels said. “Them was better times, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Well, I thank you for bringing me out here and for telling me about your experiences. You must be very proud of the part you played.”

  “Well, I don’t know. Feel kind of sorry for them Indians.” Price bowed his head, stared at the ground, then traced a design in the thin soil at his feet. Finally he looked up and shook his head. “I hated them then, but now I’ve been thinking, as I get on myself in years, they was just tryin’ to make it like I was tryin’ to do. Don’t see how as we gave ’em a fair shake.” He shook his shoulders together and then made a grimace. “Well, we’d better get back to Billings.”

  The two piled Jo’s photographic equipment in the back of the big Packard that Nels drove. On the way back, he said, “When will you be going back East?”

  “I’ve got to get back pretty soon. My time’s about up and I’m about broke, too.”

  “You find anything for your story?”

  “Oh yes. Quite a bit. Yours will be in there. Be sure and give me your address, Nels, and I’ll send a copy to you. You don’t mind my using it, do you?”

  “Why, I reckon not. I’d be proud to see it.” He suddenly swerved to miss a jackrabbit that darted out in front of the car and laughed. “That fella’s not long for this world. He’s not used to these newfangled automobiles.”

  “Is there anything else I ought to see while I’m here before I go home?”

  “Well, have you been to any of the rodeos?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “You ort to take in one of them. There’s one right now outside of town at the stock arena. Of course, it ain’t one of the big rodeos like they have in Cheyenne or down in Fort Worth, but it’s big enough.” He hesitated, then said, “Be proud to take you, ma’am, if you wouldn’t be ashamed to be seen with an old soldier.”

  Jo leaned over and squeezed the thin arm. “I’d be happy if you’d escort me, Nels. What time should we go?”

  “Let’s go about six o’clock. I’ll take you around and introduce you to some of the bronc riders.”

  “That would be very nice.”

  “Better watch out for them cowboys, ma’am. They’re pretty bad medicine when it comes to pretty young gals like you.”

  “You’ll be there to protect me, Nels.”

  “Well, dog my cat! Maybe I’d better strap on my forty-four just in case any of them long-legged galoots get the wrong ideas about you.”

  ****

  Nels Price had understated the problem a pretty girl might have with cowboys. From the moment Nels led her back under the stands where the horses were constantly being shifted, they were besieged by lanky men, mostly undersized and wiry. Nels seemed to know them all, and finally he had to push several of them away who crowded around, saying, “Git back thar, you ugly galoots! Ain’t you hairpins never seen a lady before?”

  “Never one this pretty!” A tall, gangly cowboy with a face like a dried apple grinned. He had no teeth at all, but that didn’t seem to bother him. “Why don’t you come with me, Miss Jo. I’ll show you what a real cowboy’s like.”

  “Legs, you get away or I’ll salivate you!” Nels threatened. He had, indeed, put a forty-four in his belt, and now he pulled back his vest to expose it. “See that? It’s just for birds like you who don’t know how to treat a lady decent like.”

  Legs Moreland grinned but did not seem alarmed. “You watch me when I’m up on Dynamite, Miss Jo, and you be sure and write me up in that story of yours. You want to get my picture?”

  “Yes.” Once Jo had taken one picture, she found herself overwhelmed by cowboys who offered to pose.

  Finally Nels shooed them all away, saying, “You birds get going! You got hosses to ride.”

  “They’re all so small. I thought they’d be bigger,” Jo said.

  “Ain’t no man, no matter how big he is, gonna manhandle a three-thousand-pound Brahma bull. But I tell you one thing—” Suddenly he broke off and said, “Hey, there’s the fellow I want you to meet.” Grabbing Jo by the arm, he pulled her toward a cowboy who had just entered with a light gray, flat-crowned h
at pushed back on his head. He was wearing, as most of the others were, a pair of blue jeans and a red-and-white checkered shirt. “Hey, Logan! Got somebody for you to meet here!” Nels said. “This here’s Miss Josephine Hellinger. Come all the way up from New York just to see what the Wild West was like. This here’s Logan Smith. Fancies himself a bronc rider, Miss Jo.”

  “I’m happy to know you,” Jo said and on impulse put her hand out. It was grasped at once in a powerful grip, and she received a nod and a smile.

  “Glad to know you, Miss Hellinger. Don’t believe a word this fellow says. He’s the father of all liars.”

  Logan Smith was no more than five ten, but he was all smooth muscles, and there was an electricity about him. His skin was olive with a deep sunburn and he had crisp brown hair that was slightly curly. The strangest thing was his eyes, which were a shade of blue Jo had never seen before. They were close to indigo and as direct as she had ever seen in a man.

  “You’ve been to many rodeos, Miss Hellinger?”

  “No. This is my first. I don’t know a thing about them.”

  “Well, I’ll be ridin’ first. If you care to watch, I’d sure be glad to have you.”

  “Oh yes!” Jo said quickly. Logan Smith nodded, then turned around and walked away.

  “Come on. We’ll get a good view from here. Let me explain something about horse riding,” Nels said. “This here’s the bareback riding. The horses don’t wear no saddles, and the cowboy has to hang on to a leather handhold. You look there in that chute. That’s some hoss that Logan’s gettin’ up on. Ain’t many ever ridden him for the full ten seconds.”

  “Is that how long they have to stay on?”

  “It’s a mighty long time on top of a pile of dynamite like that! That horse’s name is Man Killer. Now you watch. When they turn him loose, Logan will have to touch the spurs to the horse’s shoulders. He’s got to spur that horse through eight seconds of that ride.”

  “How do they know who wins?” Jo asked.

  “Why, each cowboy’s judged on how well he rides, how well he spurs, and then, of course, how well the horse bucks. Now, look out. There he comes!”