The Long Journey Home

by Don Coldsmith

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  INTRODUCTION

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY-ONE

  SIXTY-TWO

  SIXTY-THREE

  SIXTY-FOUR

  SIXTY-FIVE

  SIXTY-SIX

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  SIXTY-NINE

  SEVENTY

  SEVENTY-ONE

  SEVENTY-TWO

  SEVENTY-THREE

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  Copyright Page

  To Shatka Bearstep, Bert Yellowhawk, Jim Thorpe, High Eagle, Bill Pickett, Will Rogers, Iron Tail, Joe Looking Bear, Robert Conley, Benny Smith, James Billie and the many others whose stories have been reflected in this book.

  INTRODUCTION

  This book was suggested to me a few years ago by a former editor and good friend. He envisioned it as a novel based on the life of an American Indian, Jim Thorpe, possibly the greatest athlete of the twentieth century. I balked at a biographical novel, but suggested a similar, but fictional character with a comparable career. He could know Thorpe in an Indian school, follow Thorpe’s Olympic triumph and downfall …

  Only later did it occur to me that this era, the first few decades of the twentieth century, saw a tremendous amount of change, invention, and discovery. Radio, automobiles, airplanes, lighter-than-air dirigibles, manufacturing, moving pictures, exploration, science, on and on. No previous generation had seen such progress.

  As I started the research for this book, every new bit of information seemed to fit somewhere else, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. (Let’s see … If this character was there, at that time, he would have also seen … ) I’m indebted to many people for their help, and for verification of my suspicion that it must have been this way.

  I especially want to commend two sources: Tim McCoy Remembers the West by Tim McCoy and his son Ronald. Ron was able to verify many facts about which I inquired.

  The other is a new book, released in 1999. The Real Wild West, by Michael Wallis, is already an award-winning reference volume, on the history of the 101 Ranch of Oklahoma and The Miller Brothers Wild West Show.

  In all of my historical fiction, I have followed a single principle: to be so accurate that no one could, by historical fact, prove that my story did not happen. This is still my goal. As outlandish as some of the events in the story of John Buffalo may appear, every one is based on fact and is verifiable. Without my credibility, I would have nothing.

  Don Coldsmith

  ONE

  The boy squirmed in his seat. It was a beautiful day, ripe with the sights and scents of autumn. It was a day, he thought, when any boy of his age—nearly ten summers—should be outside, wandering the hills and the streams, maybe hunting squirrels in the timber along the river. Through the open window, he could hear the lazy, clattering buzz of a grasshopper in flight. That would be one of the big ones, with black and yellow wings.

  The teacher was talking, in English, telling the class something about new books, as if they were a real treat, like something good to eat. Little Bull wasn’t paying much attention. The weather outside made it hard to think about anything else. There were a lot of places he’d rather be than the schoolhouse. Almost anyplace, come to think about it.

  He thought back about how he happened to be here. That missionary had come, and talked to the People around a story fire. Some of his stories were pretty good, about a man and woman and a snake who ate something called apples. Or maybe it was the man who ate the apples. He wasn’t sure because he did not understand English well. Barely enough to follow the storyline. There had been a white woman with the missionary—probably his wife—who used hand signs to follow the story along. That helped some, but she wasn’t very proficient at it. Still, everyone loves a story, and some of these were pretty good.

  When an outsider camped with the People, there would be stories, which everybody could enjoy. Usually the stranger would tell his own Creation story, how his people entered the world. Little Bull found that fascinating. Usually, they had come from inside the earth, though sometimes there were big differences. One man said that his people were at the top of the blue sky-dome, and slid down the side to reach the earth. That one had been interesting. Another said that his people came up out of a lake.

  Almost always, the stories included a Creator who helped the people in some say. It was generally assumed that this was really the same being, called by different names in each tribe or nation: Man-Above, Great Father, Grandfather … .

  It was when the missionary began to mix his concept of God into the story about First Man and First Woman and the snake that things became even more confusing. The Creator became angry at the people over what they ate. Well, many other nations have foods which are forbidden, do they not? It was still a good story.

  Then, one of the local storytellers thanked the missionary, as was the custom, and began to respond with their own Creation story.

  “No, no!” the visitor exclaimed. “That is false. Blasphemy! Heresy!”

  Little Bull did not understand such words, but he did realize that this was very rude behavior on the part of the visitor. It spoiled the entire tone of the evening. The People listened in shocked silence while the visitor ranted on.

  “You people worship the wrong god!” he accused.

  It became very quiet around the story fire, and then one of their leaders spoke. Standing Bear, one of the most respected of men, a holy man who always seemed to be able to see through to the heart of a problem. There was almost a twinkle in his eye, which may have been lost on most of the crowd. But he was polite, despite the rudeness of the visitor. He rose to his feet.

  “We regret this, Uncle,” he said calmly. “We did not know that there was more than one God.”

  There were a few quiet chuckles, but outright laughter would have been impolite. The story fire was over, spoiled by misunderstanding on the part of the visitor.

  Despite the unfortunate beginning, the missionary stayed, and began to have some who followed his way of thinking. Mostly, it seemed to be those who thought they might receive more or better food rations from the Agency. The missionary seemed to have close connections there. So, he poured wate
r on the heads of his converts, and pronounced them “saved.” Most were unsure what this meant. However, nearly everybody realized that though the ways of the missionary were unknowing and impolite, his heart was good. He stayed for some time, and during that time he talked long and earnestly to those with small children.

  “You owe it to them” he pleaded. “Let them learn the white man’s way. They must grow up and live in his world. Place them in the school provided by the White Father.”

  That was how it had happened. Little Bull’s mother was alone since the death of her husband, Yellow Bull, two winters ago. Pneumonia, it was said. She had two younger children to look after … . She allowed the missionary to pour the water on her head and on those of her children, and had agreed to let Little Bull attend the government school. He would live there most of the year.

  The first, stunning shock when he arrived at the school had to do with his hair. Little Bull was proud of his braids, lovingly combed and braided by his mother since he was small. They were plaited with strips of the finest otter fur with ceremonial care before he left for the white man’s school.

  “You would make your father proud.” His mother smiled.

  But as they were processed through a room where they changed to white man’s clothes, each boy was shoved briefly into a chair. There, a white man with a pair of large shears quickly amputated each boy’s treasured braids and tossed them aside. It was useless to resist, but a few cried. Little Bull was one of those.

  At times, Little Bull wondered. Had his mother sent him away so that it would be easier to provide for her other children? He wished that his father was still alive. Yellow Bull had been a respected warrior, and there had always been people around their lodge to hear his stories. Especially the one about the fight with the soldiers at a place called Greasy Grass. That had been a few years before Little Bull was born. Yellow Bull had counted many coups that day, and there had been little trouble with soldiers since. But Yellow Bull was gone.

  The teacher was walking down the aisle now, between the desks, and placing a new blue book on each desk. She was tall and bony, of indeterminate age, with a perpetually sour look on her long face, as if she had just tasted bile. Small, square eyeglasses perched near the upper portion of a long, straight nose. Her hair, a mousy brown, was pulled tightly into a bun at the back of her head.

  It had been whispered that she had no man. Little Bull found that understandable. What man would want such a forbidding figure to grace his lodge, much less to warm his bed?

  There were about twenty boys in the room, and each was to receive one of these books. No one spoke, except the teacher. Someone should, thought Little Bull. It would be only polite to express thanks, even though such thanks would not be completely sincere. The teacher dropped the last book on the desk in front of Little Bull.

  “It is good,” the boy murmured in the tongue of the People, by way of thanks.

  The teacher whirled angrily. There was a short stick in her hand, one he was later to recognize as a “ruler.” Before he knew what was happening, she had struck him across the knuckles with the stick.

  “You will not use that heathen tongue here!” she snapped. “We speak only English, understand? You must learn to overcome the handicap of your inferior background. Do you understand me?”

  Little Bull nodded, afraid and confused.

  “Speak up!” the teacher demanded. “‘Yes, ma’am’ is the acceptable answer.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That’s better … Now, let that be a lesson to you all. You are here to rise above your savage beginnings, and to learn to live and work like civilized people. I will tolerate nothing less.”

  She went back to the front of the room and turned.

  “Now, a part of such civilization is to have a good name. Her glance singled out Little Bull. “You, there. What is your name? In English, please!”

  “I am Little Bull. My father was Yellow Bull.”

  There, that should impress people, that he came from the family of such a great man as Yellow Bull.

  “No, no, that will never do,” scolded the teacher. “That is a rather indelicate word. Hmm … A buffalo, I suppose?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Buffalo … . And you will need a given name, as well as the family name. Let’s see … John … That is it. You are John Buffalo.”

  A few of the other boys giggled, but subsided quickly under the stern glance of the teacher. One by one, the names were Anglicized. Some were already acceptable in meaning, and were merely translated to English from their own language. Some, such as Bloody Hand, were modified, sanitized and, with the addition of a given name, this boy became Charles Hand.

  By the end of the day, the teacher, Miss Whitehurst, seemed pleased with herself. There had been only one more incident which required the whacking of knuckles. John was never certain what precipitated that. The recipient was on the other side of the room. However, the ruler had the desired effect. No one else misbehaved for the rest of the day. The teacher had established her authority. One more rule was initiated before the end of the day: Hand signs were forbidden.

  That was completely beyond the understanding of Little Bull, now John Buffalo. He could understand, in a way, the necessity to learn the ways of the white man. His mother had taught him well: The white man is coming … . No, he is here! Those who do not learn to live by his customs will have no chance at all … . But this thing of the hand signs seemed to defeat its purpose. Most of the communication on the frontier was dependent in some degree on hand signs. Why was their use prohibited?

  Years later, John Buffalo finally realized the probable reason. Miss Whitehurst apparently did not know the signs, and found it wise to conceal that fact to maintain her rigid control.

  By the end of the week, three boys had left the school. “Escaped,” the others joked wryly.

  For John Buffalo, this was not an option. What you start, you finish, his mother had impressed on him. There was a responsibility to bring pride and respect to the family of Yellow Bull. To do this, it appeared, he must learn the white man’s way. He must learn so well that he could outdo the white man at his own game. It was not only a challenge, but a duty.

  TWO

  At night in the dormitory, the students quietly used their own language. There could be trouble if they were caught, but the supervisor, who lived in a room at the end of the barrackslike hall was a little hard of hearing. After “lights out,” when the supervisor’s snores told that he was asleep, there was usually quiet conversation. John just listened, mostly.

  “What will they do to the ones who escaped?” someone asked.

  “Bring them back. Let old White Horse whack ’em with her stick!”

  There was muffled laughter.

  “Shh … Don’t wake the Bear.”

  The supervisor had earned this name because he was grumpy, a bit pudgy, short, and walked with a sort of swaying motion like a bear on its hind legs.

  “He’s out for the night.”

  “Hibernating?”

  More laughter, more shushing, and a short period of silence.

  “I don’t think they’ll try to catch them. Who would go after them?”

  “I don’t know. The army, maybe.”

  More laughter … There was a break in the even snoring from Bear’s room. This brought instant quiet until the regular rhythm resumed. Finally, very cautiously …

  “What do you think is the matter with old White Horse?”

  “She needs a man.”

  The giggles could barely be suppressed.

  “What man would want to bed her?”

  “I don’t know. Bear, maybe.”

  The laughter could hardly be controlled, now, but was finally stifled. Even John was amused at the thought of those two in such a situation. Some of the others apparently had the same mental image.

  “He’d barely come up to her chest!”

  “No matter. There’s nothin’ there anyway.”<
br />
  “Maybe she’s a man!” another suggested.

  “Aiee! You think so?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even want to know.”

  “Me, neither.”

  “Quiet down in there!” came a command from the Bear. “It’s past lights out!”

  After a long moment of silence, Charlie Hand spoke to John in a whisper.

  “Do you think he heard?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” observed John. “He doesn’t know our tongue.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Well, no. But you’re right. We have to be careful, Charlie. Let’s try to learn their ways. If we learn enough, we can use it against them.”

  “How, Bull? I mean, John.”

  “I don’t know yet, Charlie. But the more we know …”

  In the next week or so, Miss Whitehurst noted that certain of her pupils seemed to be working harder. It was difficult to determine their attitude because of the flat, expressionless looks on each face.

  Have these savages no emotion? she wondered to herself. No joy or sorrow, pleasure or pain?

  She did not even suspect that this was a deliberate, conditioned defense. If a person shows no hurt, it is harder to hurt him.

  Regardless, she was pleased at the progress of some of her pupils in the area of reading, writing, and language skills. One of her best was the strange, quiet boy who had called himself Little Bull. A disgusting name, but one which had actually seemed a matter of pride for the boy.

  Ah, well, she thought, such is the savage nature.

  But she never had to punish John Buffalo again. She must admit, the boy was a quick learner.

  John found the use of marks on his slate to express sounds intriguing. It was not long before the idea of letters and words to transmit messages to others was firmly established in his understanding. He pored over the blue book and began to find familiar words and phrases. Suddenly it came to him. I can read! He was quiet about it, not letting the others know too much. His heart was heavy for some of them, who struggled hard with the unfamiliar sounds. At times in his own recitation, he would pretend to stumble, so that the others would not think he considered himself superior. Besides, it seemed prudent not to reveal how much he was actually learning. Let there be something that he could keep secret. Someday it might be useful. He could not actually justify this feeling. It was only a dimly formed idea, perhaps stemming from his need for privacy.