They both chuckled. Ever showmen, the Millers had signed several carnival acts that season. Exotic dancers, a “tattooed man,” jugglers, and a magician.
“I dunno. Mostly the Wild West bunch. Pickett’s goin’ … A bunch of the cowgirls. We’ll take the Hunnerd-an’-one train.”
John wondered whether one of the cowgirls would be Hebbie. He couldn’t ask Tom. Well …
“How long?” he asked.
“Dunno. Couple o’ weeks, maybe.”
“Sure. Why not? Am I a cowboy or an Indian?”
Mix laughed.
“I dunno. Maybe both.”
“When do we leave?”
“Next week, I guess. You’ll want to take Strawberry?”
“If I can.”
“Sure … I’ll keep you posted.”
The train ride was yet another experience. They were stopped at the border by customs inspectors who rifled through everything on the train, looking for any attempt at illegal entry.
Joe Miller walked from car to car, explaining that there was a rebel Mexican group threatening an insurrection. The authorities were suspicious over the importation of hundreds of horses and riders, many of whom were armed.
“They’ve always got somethin’ like this goin’ on,” Joe Miller fretted. “It’ll be okay, let ’em search.”
So the Mexican customs authorities searched, even prying up floorboards in the cars to look for contraband. Some of the women performers were indignant over the way they were patted and poked and squeezed, and Joe Miller was sputtering with rage.
“Did they do that to you?” John asked Hebbie angrily.
“Nope … They were too occupied with the dancers,” she told him. “There’s much to be said for not bein’ too purty.”
“But you’re—”
“Hush!” she cut him off. “Folks will think you’re carryin’ a torch for me or somethin’.”
The inspectors went so far as to explore supplies in the commissary car, much to the consternation of the cooks. Mexican soldiers thrust bayonets into containers of lard and other foodstuffs, to ensure that no weapons or forbidden items were hidden there. Considering the temperaments of American cowboys and of Mexican soldiers, it is perhaps remarkable that an international incident did not occur on the Miller Brothers show train. That it did not may be attributed to the discipline and experience of the 101 show troupe. Also, maybe, to the expertise of Joe Miller. Joe always operated on the theory that anything can be accomplished. It is necessary only to discover the right means. It is possible that some Mexican palms were greased with silver on the railroad siding that day.
In any event, the train moved on to Mexico City and a spectacular welcome. The newspapers were fascinated by the huge cast of characters who arrived on the train. The people were tired of the rumors of rebellion and war, and were ready to play. Performances began and, in a short time, attendance at the Wild West Shows were exceeding that of the bullfights.
This was not an acceptable thing for the professional matadors. They especially resented Bill Pickett and his bulldogging act, and began a campaign of slander. Journalists became involved, and there quickly evolved two sides: one supporting Pickett, the other deriding him as a fake.
The bullfight crowd insisted that the Dusky Demon would have no chance against a real Mexican fighting bull. An indignant Joe Miller came to the defense of his people, especially Pickett. Argument led to challenge, and it quickly became apparent that the two sides were on a collision course.
At Miller’s urging, Pickett agreed to a bizarre contest. He would attempt to bulldog a fighting bull, chosen by a committee of the bullfight operators. The newspapers went wild, encouraged by interviews and by advertising purchased by Joe Miller. This would be an event to outshine both the bullfights and the Wild West Show. The betting became heavy as the date of the contest approached.
By the appointed day, there was more excitement and coverage by the newspapers for this event than for either the Wild West Show or the bullfight itself.
TWENTY-NINE
Joe Miller met with the bullring aficionados to finalize the rules.
Despite the derisive ridicule of the matadors, who worked on foot, with a cape, Pickett would approach the bull on horseback. He would be allowed hazers on horseback, but must handle the bull with bare hands and, of course, his teeth.
He would control the animal for a specific period of time, the length of which was a point of contention. Miller became irritated and finally issued a challenge that was hard to refuse, and included a wager: If Pickett could stay in the ring with the bull for fifteen minutes, five of which he would spend on the bull’s head, as the promoters demanded, the Millers would take the entire gate receipts of the day. This, in addition to a side bet suggested by Joe Miller: 5,000 pesos. The bullring operators quickly agreed.
Meanwhile, Pickett was having some doubts. Before leaving home, he had had a nightmare in which he was being chased by a huge black bull. His wife, Maggie, had believed that the creature represented the devil himself. The Dusky Demon did not like the way things seemed to be shaping up. The Millers tried to reassure him. It was only a dream, after all … . Wasn’t it?
The Plaza El Toreo was packed with spectators, some supporting Pickett’s challenge. Most, however, were loyalists to the traditional spectacle of the bull ring, and already offended by the unorthodox challenge of the gringos’ Dusky Demon.
Prominent government officials were present, including President Porfirilo Diaz of Mexico. The 101 troupe attended in full force to cheer on their champion.
It did nothing to raise their spirits when a group of costumed matadors entered the bullring before the contest solemnly carrying a black coffin lettered El Pincharino, “The Gored One.” This bothered Pickett, recalling his dream and Maggie’s concern. Zack Miller treated his doubts with more encouragement and a sizable dose of rye whiskey.
The bull selected for the contest was called Frijoles Chiquitos, “Little Beans” because of some odd bluish freckles on his black hide. This encouraged Pickett. The bull in his dream had been a solid color: jet black.
It was agreed that Pickett would be allowed hazers on horseback to direct the bull’s run while Pickett made his jump. These would be Joe and Zack Miller and Vester Pegg, veteran 101 cowboy. They quickly found that el toro bravo, the fighting bull with centuries of deliberately bred bad disposition, cannot be hazed like a Texas steer. The animal immediately attacked the horses. The picadors in a standard bullfight are mounted on horses protected by padded armor, and the horses are often blindfolded. The American cowboys, and especially their horses, were out of their league. Pegg’s horse was gored and disabled immediately. The goal changed quickly from one of directing the run of the bull to that of avoiding his enraged charges. The three horsemen maneuvered for position, trying to get Pickett into a position for his leap to the horns of el toro.
In the melee and confusion, the four animals twisting and turning, the bull suddenly abandoned one selected victim to attack another. The victim was Pickett’s horse, Spradley. In the process of turning, the horse’s hindquarters were exposed, and the bull’s vicious horns sank home. Spradley fell, going down to a sitting position as his injured hip muscles failed. Pickett jumped to the sandy arena, and to the mercy of the maddened bull. The crowd roared approval.
Pickett scrambled and the bull turned, now eager to reach a man on foot.
Hebbie, seated in the stands next to John, grabbed his arm.
“He’ll be killed!” she yelled.
But Pickett dove straight at the bull, between the horns, and fastened himself around the neck with both arms.
This was much like having the traditional bear by the tail. He couldn’t turn loose without being killed. He could only try to hold on. He was unable to move into position for the bulldog bite to the nose. The bull was whipping head and horns wildly from side to side, trying to dislodge this annoying creature, but Pickett hung on, with no other alternative.
The crowd was tu
rning ugly and began to throw objects into the arena. Seat cushions, rocks, bottles, sticks and canes, “even open knives,” by one account. Something struck Pickett in the face, drawing blood. Another facial wound, partly healed after a previous performance, reopened, and the bleeding increased. The crowd cheered.
Then some heavy object, said later to be a beer bottle, struck Pickett in the side, fracturing ribs and opening yet another bleeding wound. A journalist from the New York Herald wrote:
He groaned in sudden pain, gasped for breath, cast a last, imploring, agonized look at us, his long-time friends, and loosed the iron clasp which had defied the fury of as fierce and strong a bull as ever pawed the earth of El Toreo.
Frijoles Chiquitos, although weakening, now suddenly began to revive and turned toward his tormentor, who lay helpless on the ground. Vester Pegg stripped off his red shirt and leaped into the arena, shaking it at the bull to divert him. This allowed Pickett to stumble to the shelter of the barricade and safety. Pegg, too, escaped the rush of the tired bull.
But now the crowd became really ugly, turning on the other gringos who were scrambling to escape a rain of debris.
“Over here!” John yelled to Hebbie.
The other cowboys and cowgirls were retreating to an area in the El Toreo facility which provided relative safety behind an iron gate. At least they could huddle together in defense.
Pickett was concerned primarily with the injury to his horse. An old man, apparently a healer, offered to help. He placed two ripe bananas in Spradley’s open wounds, and soon the horse was able to struggle to his feet. He fully recovered later, with only scars.
Meanwhile, President Diaz was forced to call out two hundred mounted soldiers to restore order. It was several hours before it was safe for the 101 troupe to leave the shelter they had found from the angry mob.
But in the end, Pickett had more than qualified to win both the bet and the gate receipts, some 48,000 pesos. He had been in the bullring for more than a half hour, and had spent seven and one-half minutes on the head and horns of the bull.
It was two days before Christmas.
Three days later, following the last performance of the Wild West Show, without Bill Pickett’s act, they boarded the train for home, stopping at San Antonio and at Fort Worth.
They were scheduled to stop for an appearance in Gainesville, Texas, also, but the Millers canceled the show and moved on. The weather had turned bitterly cold, and the battered troupe was glad to see the home ranch again. It had been a tough tour.
Only a few days later, in the middle of the night, that John woke in the bunkhouse. Something was wrong … . He couldn’t pin it down, but there was a feeling of tension in the air, an urgency … . A sense of danger, and a warning.
He rose quietly, shivering in the January cold, and pulled on his socks. The plank floor was too chilly to go barefoot. He shuffled toward a window, and became aware of a yellow orange light … . Surely it wasn’t time for sunrise yet! Besides, the glow seemed to come from the wrong direction. Confused, John wondered for a moment whether this was a dream or vision of some sort.
Now the source of the orange glow seemed to be flickering, like the light of a campfire … . Fire! As this dreaded thought screamed its way into his consciousness, there came a simultaneous echo from outside.
“FIRE! The White House is on fire!”
In the space of a few heartbeats the street outside was filling with people, yelling, running, trying to bring some order to the unthinkable chaos. Some carried buckets, to try to organize a bucket brigade, but there was no ready source of water. Even the tanks for livestock in the nearby corrals were frozen or kept nearly empty to prevent the risk of bursting from a deep freeze.
“Who’s still inside?” someone yelled as the cowboys tumbled from their beds and pulled on clothing as they ran.
“Dunno.”
A window crashed on the second floor of the venerable old White House, and a burst of flame roared out into the night. John could see the figures of people stumbling out the front door, silhouetted against the hellish orange glare inside. Someone was helping a partly bent figure across the porch and down the steps. That would be Mother Miller, her granddaughter Alice at her side.
John ran with the crowd, now gathering in front of the house. It was only too apparent that the cause was hopeless.
The Millers had been entertaining a party of friends from the East, and a succession of people kept pouring out of the smoke-filled house. Some were barefoot in the frozen darkness.
“Where’s Little Sol?” yelled George Miller, turning from helping Mother Miller off the porch. “He woke us!”
George’s faithful pet dog had wakened those in the house just in time.
“He must be still inside!”
“George! Don’t go back in!”
“I’ve got to.”
George pulled away and dashed back inside. He came back quickly, carrying an armful of clothing and dragging a small trunk … . His mother’s jewelry.
“Can’t find the dog,” George panted, coughing from the smoke. “He saved us!”
Quickly, it was over. The massive three-story White House crashed to a pile of embers in the space of a few minutes. The fire had started in the furnace room in the basement. The loss was almost inconceivable. Personal possessions, family mementos, and a small fortune in antique furniture, prized by Mother Miller, had been lost. Perhaps the worst loss of all: the records and documents of the 101 Ranch. George, the bookkeeper of the operation, had made his family’s home in the White House, and all: records were kept there. The house and contents were only partially insured.
But, almost miraculously, there was no loss of life, except for the hero of the disaster, Little Sol, George Miller’s dog.
THIRTY
It was a bleak January at the 101. Everyone was already beaten to exhaustion from the Mexican tour. It had been financially successful, but to the members of the show troupe, exhausting and dangerous. Bill Pickett would take months to recover and heal from his near-death adventure in the bullring.
The fire seemed to have been the last straw, but there was more to come. That very day, word came from the nearby town of Bliss, that one of the 101 employees had died in a rooming house there. He was Henry Breslow, foreman of the “canvas unit,” in charge of all the tents and equipment as the Wild West Show traveled. Henry was a young bachelor, not yet thirty, and a critical link in the show operation. His death was rather sudden, from a tonsillitis infection. Like the rest of the exhausted show troupe, Henry had had little stamina left with which to fight one more battle.
Despite these depressing events, and the continuing bitter cold of the winter, life went on. The ranch office was reopened temporarily in Joe Miller’s home in Ponca City, and preparation for the coming season moved ahead.
The ashes of the White House were hardly cooled when plans began for reconstruction. Joe Miller would supervise the new building, and swore that it would be fireproof. So safe, in fact, that “a bonfire could be set in every room without damaging the house.” An architect was hired, and within a month plans had begun, encompassing the latest in modern construction, including plumbing, hot and cold running water, electricity, ventilation, and steam heat. All of these systems were self-contained, even the electrical generators.
The building itself was larger than the original White House. It was three stories tall, built of reinforced concrete and steel with an asbestos roof. The third floor “attic,” a dormitory-style facility, held enough beds to sleep one hundred visitors during special occasions.
With all the modern features, the new White House was built in a Colonial style and, in appearance, would resemble a southern plantation home.
That spring, there was other excitement, too, as modern developments startled the country and the world. Henry Ford, a manufacturer of automobiles, was mass-producing a family vehicle that he called the Model T.
Inspired by the success of the Wright brothers’ exper
iments with “aeroplanes,” other aeronautical engineers were quickly discovering flight principles that led to more successes.
All of this in turn created a demand for petroleum products to fuel the futuristic machines. During the absence of Joe and Zack Miller on the Mexican tour, George had been approached by E. W Marland, an oil prospector, with a proposal for exploration drilling on the vast 101 ranch.
The Millers were always eager for new innovation, even with their love of the old ways of the Wild West. They felt a need to preserve the record of that West, even as it seemed to be slipping away. The death of Frederic Remington at forty-eight, one of the West’s great painters, called this to the attention of the public that year. With the diversity of the vast 101 empire, they were in a position to promote this preservation. Their far-flung enterprises in livestock, farming, ranching and entertainment was a major influence on a rapidly evolving modern America.
The Millers were fascinated by the idea and engineering of motion pictures. In turn, some of the pioneers in that budding industry were attracted by the Old West. Theirs seemed to be a natural medium to preserve what was left. This led to an alliance between the early movie pioneers and the Millers, with the same goals approached from different sides.
“John, you want to be in one of them movin’ pictures?” asked Tom Mix.
“What do I have to do?” John was suspicious.
“Nothin’ much. Nothin’ you ain’t been doin’ already in the show. This here’s Mr. Selig.” He introduced the producer with a wave of his hand.
John recognized the name, which was well known at the 101. Selig had been at the ranch during a flood on the Salt Fork, and had offered fifty dollars to any cowboy who would attempt to swim his horse across the flooded river for the camera. There were no takers until Tom Mix accepted the challenge.
The Long Journey Home Page 18
