The Long Journey Home

by Don Coldsmith

  Mix had blindfolded his horse, worked him a little to get him used to the blindfold, and then urged the animal into a hard run, off the bluff and into the flooded stream. Then they swam to the other side. Selig had kept cranking his camera, capturing the entire event on film.

  “Here’s the scene,” said Selig. “We’ll bring the wagon train around the shoulder of the hill, and then have the Indians attack, from the west, there. The wagons will try to circle, and we’ll burn a couple of them … . Pour some oil in the wagon beds to make a black smoke … . Then the cavalry comes in, pennants fluttering, shooting, from over there, and the Indians flee … .”

  “Pretty much like the show, then?” John asked.

  “Yeah,” said Mix, “except for burnin’ the wagons. “We’ll have a few riders fall off of horses like they was shot.”

  “Who’s gonna do that?” John asked suspiciously.

  “We’ve got a couple of cowboys to do it,” said Selig. “They get extra pay, of course. You want to try it?”

  “Don’t think so,” said John. “I take enough lumps without doin’ it on purpose.”

  “Fair enough,” chuckled Selig, “but if you change your mind, it’s a rising profession.”

  “Am I a cowboy or an Indian today?” John asked Tom.

  “Prob’ly cavalry,” Mix answered. “We’re long on cowboys, and White Eagle’s bringin’ some Poncas over to ride with the Oglalas.”

  “When does this happen?”

  “About noon, a little after,” said Selig. “Our light will be best then.”

  “Good. I’ll be there.”

  “Oh, John,” Mix called after him as he turned away, “borrow a bay to ride instead of Strawberry. You’re Army issue today.”

  The cavalry was quite strict about the colors and markings of their mounts. A strawberry roan in a platoon of sorrel or bay horses would be inappropriate. Of course, a mare would be, too. Cavalry animals were all neutered males. But this would not be so noticeable in an action scene as an animal that was off color.

  There was always a bit of excitement when the act started. There was more today, just knowing that they could watch themselves later in a darkened theater. It was an eerie feeling, different from the usual thrill of the act in the arena of the Wild West Show. This would take on more importance because it would be preserved.

  Sitting on his borrowed bay, John watched the wagons wind their way across the rolling prairie and around the hill. Then a shot, a yell, more shots, screams from the wagons, teamsters lashing their horses into a canter, attempting to circle for defense.

  Now the Poncas swept down, whooping and firing. The cottony white puffs of smoke could be seen a few heartbeats before the sounds reached the ears of the cavalry on the hill.

  One of the wagons overturned, breaking away from the madly galloping team. The passengers and the driver jumped clear, and it took John only a moment to realize that this was one of William Selig’s “stunts.” The moviemaker was hunched over his camera, cap on backward to allow his eye closer to the viewfinder, steadily cranking the machine of his own design.

  One of the wagons caught fire, then another, and black smoke rolled from under the burning canvas. The Poncas were shooting flaming arrows from the hill, but it was apparent that the fires in the wagons were set by Selig’s crews. It certainly produced an exciting film, though John doubted that the Poncas had often launched flaming arrows at anyone.

  Now the cavalry bugler blew the charge. It would not be heard on the screen, of course, but served to raise the emotions and quicken the pulse, adding to the realism. The blue-clad troop swarmed down the hill, firing their carbines, and the Poncas wheeled away in retreat.

  It was an amusing diversion, but as the scene ended and everyone laughingly returned to more normal activity, John felt a pang of regret, and some smattering of guilt. Would the moviemakers ever film an act where the Indians won? What about Custer?

  Meanwhile, the cast and crew of the Wild West Show was gathering, after the winter break. The cowboys and cowgirls had largely remained on the ranch, but many of the specialty performers had spent the winter in warmer climes, working the off season. Now, with the 1909 season pending, they began to gather. The Millers and their partner and advance man, Edward Arlington, were constantly recruiting new acts. The cowboy band was already an attraction, as well as Vern Tantlinger, boss of the cowboy unit and expert with the boomerang. His assistant would catch the boomerang in flight.

  There were also sideshow acts; Magicians, jugglers, ax throwers, a minstrel troupe, trained mules, lion tamers, and dancing bears.

  Bill Pickett was still recovering from his wounds, but there was no shortage of other headliners. “Prince Lucca,” of Russia, led a troop of Cossack horsemen.

  Zack Miller himself performed in the ring, displaying marksmanship on the back of his trained Arabian stallion.

  Vern Tantlinger had also recruited a number of Sioux Indians from the Pine Ridge Reservation, to ride with the Poncas and other Indian performers. Princess Wenona, “world’s best female shot alive,” would continue to be a crowd pleaser.

  Taking advantage of the opportunity to film working cowboys, cattle, and buffalo as backdrops for his scenes, William Selig produced three movies that spring on the 101.

  Oil exploration was in progress, too, occasionally spoiling the movie crews’ plans for a scene. On top of all this, the farm operations continued to expand, with new crops and new varieties.

  Celebrity guests were common at the ranch after the restoration of the White House, and there was always an increasing air of excitement. It was easy to become intoxicated with the excitement of being a part of what appeared to be a rising star: the Hundred and One.

  John and Hebbie were pleased to be a part of such excitement, and to be with each other. Once more, John mentioned marriage.

  Hebbie hesitated a long time, and finally sighed deeply.

  “Oh, John, I don’t know. I was burned, once. I’m afraid … Oh, let’s not spoil what we’ve got.”

  She kissed him softly.

  “I’ll think about it, though … . Thank you … .”

  THIRTY-ONE

  The 1909 show season was a mad blur of excitement. Crowds everywhere were large and enthusiastic. It was easy to fall into the contagion of excitement that was always present when the Millers were around. Several unrelated events contributed to the enthusiasm and fascination of the public with the Wild West and the Hundred and One.

  A French motion-picture company in Mexico City to film the bullfights had recorded Bill Pickett’s ordeal with the Mexican fighting bull. Moviegoers worldwide, and especially in America, were treated to repeat performances of Pickett and Spradley and the near-tragedy in the arena. It would be late in the season before Pickett was able to perform again, but the film called attention to the show and filled the bleachers in the big tent.

  Yet another unrelated event sparked interest in motion pictures, Wild West, and the 101. Former President Theodore Roosevelt was an enthusiast of the West and of big-game hunting. When he announced his intention to go on an African safari to hunt big game in 1909, motion picture pioneer William Selig, filming on the 101, petitioned to be allowed to go along and record the expedition’s activities. He was refused.

  Undaunted, Selig hurried back to his Chicago studios and prepared another approach. He hired an actor resembling the famous Teddy, and constructed a movie set with tropical plants and an old lion. African tribesmen were portrayed by Chicago Negroes. Innovative camera angles, skilled editing, and the unfamiliarity of audiences with both Africa and with motion pictures created an illusion that was remarkable in its effect. The film, Hunting Big Game in Africa, was held for release at the proper time.

  When word came from the Dark Continent that Roosevelt had bagged a lion, Selig was ready. Theatergoers thrilled at the mistaken impression that the film they were watching was film of the Roosevelt hunt. This inspired Selig to create more outdoor and jungle films with a menageri
e of zoo animals and file footage from foreign lands edited into his flexible story lines. Many of these were produced, at least partially, on the vast and varied landscape of the Hundred and One.

  The entire fascination of the public with the spectacle of outdoor adventure drew record crowds to the 101 Wild West Show performances, and it was a great season for the Millers and for their cast of performers.

  In late autumn, Vester Pegg approached him with a proposal.

  “John, how’d you like to see South America?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Some of us are goin’ to sign on with another show … The IXL Ranch Show.”

  “Leave the Hundred an’ One?”

  “No, no, John. Just for the winter season. It’s their summer down there, you know. We’ll be back by April, before the tour starts here.”

  John was cautious.

  “I dunno … Who’s goin’?”

  “Well, the Tantlingers, the Parry girls, Jim Garrett, Frank Maisle, Chet Byers, George Hooker …”

  “Them are all headliners, Ves. Why would you want me?”

  “You’re a good hand with horses, and we’ll be takin’ several. Need some help.”

  “Can I think about it?”

  “Sure. No hurry. We won’t leave till next week.”

  John sought Hebbie’s opinion.

  “Maybe you could go, too,” he suggested.

  “No, no, John.” She smiled. “They’ll want headline acts and a few hands to look after the stock. You fit that category, but I don’t fit neither one. Not good enough to headline, and not really a stock handler. But you go on. It’ll be a great way to spend a winter.”

  “But … I’d miss you, Hebbie.”

  “Yeah, sure. You’ll have them little senoritas cattin’ after you so fast … . You’ll have a great time. Go ahead on, John.”

  “Are you tryin’ to get rid of me, Hebbie?”

  “Hell, no. Just, you get a chance, you oughta take it.”

  “But I—No! I won’t do it, without you. Wouldn’t be any fun.”

  “None at all? Maybe a little?” she teased.

  He grinned. “Well, maybe a little. But it ain’t worth it. No, I’ll tell Ves not to count me in.”

  Hebbie said nothing, but only smiled. He could tell from that smile though, that he had made the right choice.

  The crew of headliners returned from South America in early April, looking tanned and healthy and ready to start the show season. They met the rest of the troupe in St. Louis to prepare for the season opener on April 16.

  “Boy, that was a tour down there,” Vester Pegg told him. “You’d like it, John.”

  “Well, maybe next time.”

  There was little time to catch their breath before the show rolled on to enthusiastic crowds everywhere. St. Louis … Dayton, Springfield, Columbus, and Cambridge in Ohio … Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Washington, Baltimore … . New England …

  With awareness of other “Wild West” shows on the road, the 1909 tour had been rechristened the 101 Ranch Real Wild West Show. After all of the above appearances in less than six weeks, it was a seasoned but tired troupe whose show train arrived in Brooklyn for a week’s booking. In the early morning, they detrained and set up on the old circus lot at Fifth Avenue and Third Street, later abandoned to progress. It was Sunday, so no performance was booked until the following day.

  “Hey, John,” someone called. “Mr. Joe wants a meeting at noon. Pass the word!”

  What now? It had been a busy and hardworking season so far, but there was always the possibility of an unpleasant surprise. Where the Millers were involved, anything could happen, and frequently did.

  John’s muscles tightened involuntarily. Was this to be an announcement that the tour was over and everyone was on his own? What would he do in New York City? More to the point, was this an announcement that the show was in financial trouble and that no one would be paid? There was considerable apprehension as the troupe gathered under the Big Top.

  John took Hebbie’s hand as Joe Miller strolled out into the center ring. There was a hushed silence as he faced the crowd of more than a hundred troupers: headliners, sideshow operators, Cossacks, Indians, roustabouts.

  “Y‘all have been doin’ a great job,” Miller began.

  It was like waiting for the other shoe to drop. But … What?

  “But we got us a half-a-day off,” he continued.

  Absolute silence.

  “So let’s have fun! Let’s all go to Coney Island! It’s on the Hunnerd and One!”

  Now a cheer arose, and a few war whoops from the Sioux, who weren’t quite certain what it was about, but saw the joy in the faces of their fellow performers. The crowd scattered to change and dress for the occasion.

  Meanwhile, Joe Miller had tipped off the newspapers that the troupe would be traveling to Coney Island for an afternoon of recreation. They were followed by a bevy of reporters as they gathered in the circus lot and headed for the Third Street railway station. The ticket agent reacted initially with a certain degree of alarm. After all, a crowd of more than one hundred people in strange and colorful costumes, many of them Indians in tribal dress, was an imposing sight. Very likely the railroad employee had transient thoughts of what had happened to Custer only a few decades ago. He might have been even more anxious had he realized how closely some of these people were related to those on the Little Bighorn.

  Joe Miller, leading the high-spirited crowd, stepped up to the window to placate the agent with cash. Tickets to Coney Island for everybody.

  Coney Island, at the southern end of Brooklyn, had been a resort and recreation area for many years. Actually, it was not an island, but a peninsula, now mostly connected to the greater landmass. It boasted six miles of carnival attractions, fun houses, dance halls, rides, and freak shows.

  The Hundred and One troupe detrained at about four o’clock, and went straight to Thompson and Dundee’s Luna Park, the largest of the carnival ride complexes. They were met at the entrance to the park by a band blaring carnival music and were welcomed by Fred Thompson himself. Curious New Yorkers gathered to watch the fun, and to follow the crowd of show people from one attraction to another.

  It was a strange situation. More than a hundred physically fit, active people, who made their living by being whirled, jolted, bumped, jarred, and battered … . Now, for recreation during their half-day vacation from work, they submitted themselves to a myriad of purchased indignities. In this, they were whirled, jolted, bumped, jarred, and battered and, for the next several hours, had a wonderful time. The 101 troupe rode every ride, saw every attraction, and relaxed thoroughly, with no responsibilities.

  They played like children that evening. Champion rider George Hooker, enjoyed the gentle ride on the wooden horses at the merry-go-round.

  A newspaper reporter who spoke Spanish quickly attached himself to the Mexican vaqueros and acted as their interpreter for the evening.

  The Indians were fascinated by the rides. Women with babies fastened securely in cradle boards rode the steep Helter-Skelter slide. One of their favorite rides was Luna Park’s Chute-the-Chutes, a slide with cars which plunged into a pool of water. Red Eagle and some of the younger Indians rode it again and again. The more dignified Chief Plenty Horses had a different opinion: One ride on the Chutes was enough for a man of his rank.

  The Ferris wheel was one of the popular attractions. John and Hebbie spent some time in one of the gondolas near the top of the wheel. While the operator seated each next batch of passengers, there would be a pause of a minute or two. It was a romantic interlude, looking out over the ocean, or in the other direction, over the lights of New York as darkness fell. At the top of the great wheel, it was as if they were the only couple in heaven, but looking down on the mere humans below. He kissed her, long and warmly, and it became one of their most exciting experiences as each long pause heightened the romantic interlude. Their breathing became heavier … . His hands began to wander, and th
eir bodies pressed closer in the gondola’s chair.

  Finally Hebbie pulled away, still breathing hard.

  “My God, John! Not here. He’s gonna start this thing whirlin’ again in a minute. We don’t want to be part of the show!”

  “You don’t think it would make a show?” he teased, sitting back to catch his breath.

  “Too good, maybe. You’ll land us in jail. Now, behave!”

  Her words were harsh, but her tone was soft and loving.

  “Later,” she finished.

  As they dismounted from the Ferris wheel, Vern Tantlinger approached, a worried look on his face.

  “John, have you seen Pickett?”

  “No … We … Uh … We been on the Ferris wheel. Why? He’s missin’?”

  Vern did not seem to notice their flushed faces and mild embarrassment.

  “Don’t know,” he answered. “Nobody’s seen him since we got off the train. I’m a bit worried. I’m askin’ around. You know how Bill can be about drinkin’, and he’s not used to big cities.”

  “And nobody’s seen him?”

  “Not since the train.”

  “Could he have stayed on the train?”

  “Hell, anything could happen, John. I sent Walker to look for him.”

  “Hank Walker?” Hebbie burst out. “Vern, that’s like putting the monkey in charge of the bananas!”

  Hank “Rocky Mountain” Walker was the driver of the Deadwood Stage in the show, skilled at his job, and completely reliable—but he enjoyed a good time.

  “Aw, Hebbie, Hank ain’t that bad,” Vern assured her. “He’ll find him. But, let’s not tell Joe Miller. He’s got enough to think about.”

  But some time later, it was discovered that no one could find either Pickett or Walker.