The Long Journey Home

by Don Coldsmith

“‘At’s okay,” chuckled Pickett. “You kin start ’em out together, train both hoss an’ rider.”

  “That ain’t funny, Bill,” John observed.

  Still, the results seemed acceptable. A day or two of John’s “medicine,” then a few hours of riding, before he turned the animals over to young Ed. The process was producing some pretty good mounts.

  However, there came a day when the deep-seated warnings in the farthest corners of John’s subconscious mind began to ring true. The young man had ridden off on one of the green-broke horses and had not yet returned at noon for dinner. This fact almost escaped John’s notice. The mess hall was big and always crowded, a lot of people coming and going. Maybe he’d missed Ed in the crowd. But he ought to be sure … .

  At the corral, he couldn’t find the saddle that the young man used. He asked a couple of cowboys working nearby, with no results.

  “I seen him ride off,” Bill Pickett verified. “Headin’ north, like most every day. He was ridin’ that dun gelding, about fifteen hands tall, dark mane an’ tail, star an’ snip on his face, white front foot … . Good horse …”

  Trust a horseman to remember the details of the markings of any horse he saw.

  “That’s the one,” agreed John.

  “He ain’t back yet? Missed dinner?”

  “Guess so.”

  “Mebbe he’s in trouble,” Pickett suggested.

  “He better be, Bill, ’cause if he ain’t, he’s gonna be.”

  “You think he be stealin’ that hoss, John?”

  Pickett was concerned, but mildly amused by the situation.

  “I dunno. But, I figger I better let George know, either way.”

  “Mr. Miller, that fella we had helpin’ with the green-broke colts turned up missin’.”

  “When was this, John?”

  George Miller rocked back in the chair behind the big desk, a look of concern on his face, along with a bit of a question.

  “This morning, sir. He didn’t show up for dinner. He may be in trouble.”

  “Did anybody go look for him?”

  “I rode out a couple of miles, where he usually goes. No sign of him.”

  “Any tracks?”

  “Sure. Lots of ’em, this close to the ranch. I couldn’t tell.”

  “Of course.”

  “The saddle’s missing, that we use on the green-broke colts. But he could have had an accident, Mr. Miller.”

  Miller nodded. “Be best if he did. Okay, you go look for him. Take somebody if you want to. But come back tonight. I don’t want you out with no supplies. Let me know when you get home.”

  It was dark when John returned and put Strawberry in the stall, with a reward of oats in the feed bunk before her. He made his way to the White House.

  “He’s gone, Mr. Miller. I found his tracks, followed him maybe four, five miles. Horse was workin’ well, headin’ straight north.”

  “Why, that son of a bitch! Took him in an’ tried to help him. Well, okay … I’ll send somebody into town tomorrow, have the sheriff wire ahead. We’ll offer a reward for this horse-stealin’ bastard. Good horse, you say?”

  “Purty good, sir. One of the best of that bunch.”

  “Damn! Prob’ly worth a hundred, or more?”

  “Yes, sir. More’n that. And the saddle, too. It wasn’t much, but worth mebbe thirty or forty dollars. Bridle, too …”

  “Yep … Well, we’ll put a hundred dollars on his head, and describe the horse. He’ll try to sell it, I expect.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You want to chase him, John?” Miller asked with a grin.

  “Not in the winter, sir. Mebbe if it was summertime.”

  “Okay … Well, go on with the horse breakin’, then. If you learn anything, let me know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The mild buzz of the curious excitement over the disappearance of the young man from Illinois quickly subsided. There were other things to think about, such as the opening show on the road on April 5, 1913, in Hot Springs, Arkansas.

  Meanwhile, however, George Miller, with his thorough efficiency as a manager, published and distributed a “Wanted” flier. It advertised a hundred-dollar reward for the arrest and conviction of the horse thief. The Millers asked few questions about the past of a prospective employee, but one certain requirement was loyalty.

  In late January, John was working with a young horse when a cowboy paused at the rail.

  “John, when you have a minute, George wants to see you in the office.”

  John nodded and continued his work, but his mind was racing.

  Something about Hebbie?

  He decided not. The clue was in the way his presence had been requested: When you have a minute.

  He tried to continue with the horse, but found it impossible to concentrate. How could he possibly find his way into the head of the already-suspicious animal when his own head was spinning? Finally he gave it up. Leaving the colt to relax in the little enclosure, he called to Pickett.

  “I’m goin’ up to the White House, Bill. The colt’s okay … . Back purty soon.”

  Pickett waved and nodded.

  What could George Miller possibly want? It is a worrisome thing to be called before the throne of authority, even when innocent. Was there somehow an oversight, an unseen or forgotten infraction? Well, he would know soon.

  He knocked on the door frame from outside the open office door as he peered into the room. John’s first glimpse of George Miller as the manager looked up from his cluttered desk was reassuring.

  “Ah! Come in, John.”

  Miller’s grin was like that of the cat who has just made a meal of the family canary.

  “Sit down, son! Just thought you’d like to see a couple of things, here.”

  He shoved a letter across the desk, and John picked it up cautiously. He was curious. The letter was friendly, innocent, and appeared quite insignificant. It was merely an inquiry about a relative who, it seemed, was employed at the 101 … . The younger brother of the writer, it seemed. There was a polite request:

  … give him a chance at riding … For I truly would like to see him gain a high reputation. Surely he ought to be able to better himself immensely. Hoping you will try to help me make my wish come true.

  John was puzzled. Why should this be of any concern to him? Who was the young man referred to in the letter? He looked at the envelope again. Moline, Illinois …

  A light dawned, and the tight smile on the face of George Miller gave evidence that his thoughts were on the right track.

  “Is this the fella?”

  Miller didn’t answer, but shoved another letter across the desk, his answer to the request:

  Dear Madam,

  Your letter of January 27th is just received, and I regret very much to have to write this letter.

  I enclose herewith a reward card, offering $100.00 reward for the arrest and conviction of a horse thief.

  I beg to further advise you that your brother … is the man mentioned in this card, and he was captured at Arkansas City, Kansas, on the morning of January 30th, where he was attempting to sell the horse and saddle for $30.00, and he is now in jail at Newkirk, Oklahoma, and will, no doubt, plead guilty to horse stealing.

  When caught with the goods, he was probably very fortunate in falling into the hands of the sheriff instead of falling into other hands.

  Very truly yours,

  George L. Miller

  FORTY-ONE

  In early spring, when Zack Miller stopped by as John was working with a young gelding. Miller leaned on the fence, said nothing, but merely watched and waited.

  When the time came to pause, John left the animal for a few moments and walked over to the rail.

  “Momin’, Mr. Miller. You want to see me?”

  “If you’ve a minute, John. Nice gelding, there.”

  “Yes, sir. He’s comin’ along purty good.”

  Miller reached into his pocket and drew out a coin, which he h
anded to John. It was shiny and new, and on one side bore the profile of an Indian’s face; on the other, a buffalo.

  “Know what that is?”

  “A medal of some kind?”

  “That’s a nickel, John. New design, just out. But do you know the fella on it, there?”

  John paused. Was Zack Miller teasing him? It was well known that to many whites all Indians look the same. It was a quiet inside joke that to Indians, all whites look alike. But joking about this was not like Zack Miller.

  “I don’t think so,” John said carefully. “Should I?”

  “I dunno,” Miller answered. “Thought you might. You’re Sioux, ain’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. Lakota.”

  This had never come up since he joined the 101. What was going on?

  “Well, this fella on the nickel, here, one of them that posed for the picture, is an Oglala Sioux named Iron Tail.”

  “But what—”

  Miller waved the question aside and continued.

  “Iron Tail has been with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show, but has contacted us. I guess things ain’t goin’ so well with the Two Bills. You knew they’d joined up? Buffalo Bill and Pawnee Bill?”

  “I’d heard that.”

  “Well, some of their people, particularly the Oglalas, are gettin’ restless. Iron Tail’s contacted us and will be with us this season … . Great opportunity for advertising, with the nickel and all.”

  John nodded. Trust Zack Miller to think of every angle for publicity.

  “I’ve heard my father speak of Iron Tail,” he said.

  “Good! Well, just lettin’ you know. He’ll prob’ly bring some others with him. We’re bookin’ a big season … . You know, my brother Joe’s over in Europe now. He’s workin’ on a deal with a German circus for some of our Oglalas to spend a season with them.”

  “In Germany?”

  “Yep. They’ll announce it purty soon.”

  “You’ll go there?”

  “No … Wayne Beasley will run that. I’m goin’ south to pick up some cattle we’re buyin’. Ten thousand head—about 350 carloads, we figger. Bring ‘em up here for the grazin’ season. I’ll take some cowboys down.”

  “You want me to go?”

  “No, no, John. Joe will need you for the show. Well, see you later!” Zack Miller turned and strolled away, leaving John with several questions. Was Zack talking about the show season starting soon in Hot Springs, or the show season with the Oglalas in Germany? Or both?

  Well, he’d learn eventually.

  Zack Miller’s crew of cowboys were still shipping cattle when the show opened in Hot Springs, Arkansas, on April 5, 1913, with a great parade. Joe Miller led the procession on Ben-Hur, his Arabian stallion. He was riding in a new saddle, designed and built by S. D. Myres, the famous saddle maker of Sweetwater, Texas. The saddle itself was used in the 101 advertising and publicity. “The finest fancy saddle ever made … Valued at more than ten thousand dollars …” It was of hand-carved leather, decorated with fifteen pounds of silver and gold, and studded with diamonds, sapphires, and rubies.

  All three Miller brothers were present; Zack had returned for the occasion. Joe, too, had completed his negotiations in Europe with the Sarrasani Circus, based in Dresden. The entire Miller family, including Mother Molly Miller, and Joe’s wife, Lizzie, were on hand for the beginning of a whirlwind season, and rode in motorcars in the parade. Also featured in the parade were a new steam calliope, Professor Donato La Banca’s cowboy marching band, scores of floats, and hundreds of riders, including more than one hundred Indians.

  The Sarrasani Circus, billed as Europe’s “grandest,” featured wild-animal acts, acrobats, clowns, and a Wild West Show, patterned somewhat after Buffalo Bill Cody’s show, which had toured Europe and Britain. Joe Miller had contracted to furnish fifty Oglala Sioux, to work under Beasley’s direction.

  Joe Miller approached John while the show was in New England.

  “Buffalo, how’d you like to go back to Europe?”

  “To do what?”

  He was hesitant to leave the country, in case Hebbie tried to contact him. But …

  “Well, let me tell you about it, John. The ol’ Hunnerd and One is goin’ international. We’ve got a deal to supply horses for that war in the Balkans. You know about that?”

  “Not much.”

  “Well, they’re usually fightin’ one another. The Greek Army is buyin’ horses … Cavalry and artillery. We’re supplyin’ three thousand.”

  “Does the 101 have that many?”

  “No … We’re buyin’ in Mexico an’ Texas, to resell. We’ll ship out of Galveston. I’ll need a few cowboys to take ’em over.”

  John’s mind was racing. If Hebbie needed him, she would know that he’d probably be on the road with the show. If she happened to be where the troupe was performing, she’d ask the crew, and they’d tell her of his whereabouts. Similarly, if she went to the ranch. If she wrote instead, the message would be waiting on his return … .

  “I don’t see why not,” he told Miller.

  “Okay. Good! Now, one other thing. You’ll be over there—Europe, I mean. You’ve a little experience. Schprechen a little Deutsch?”

  “German? Very little, Mr. Miller.”

  “But you’ve been among Europeans, got along with ’em.”

  “Tried to, anyway. But what—?”

  “Well, Beasley’s havin’ some problems with the Oglalas at that circus in Dresden.”

  “Problems?”

  “Yep. Some of ‘em don’t think they’re bein’ treated right. Couple of ’em even jumped ship and started home on their own.”

  “Oh! Well, most of ’em speak some English, and a lot of the Europeans do. They could work their way home on a ship, I guess.”

  “Hope they make it okay,” said Miller. “Anyhow, here’s what I was thinkin’. If you could spend a few days talkin’ to them … The ones still with the circus … I’ve got some watch fobs, made out of them nickels with Iron Tail’s picture on ‘em. They look like medals … . Like you said. You can take a bunch of ’em over and hand ‘em out as gifts. Just try to keep most of ’em there till the contract’s finished at the end of the season.”

  “Well,” said John, “why not?”

  “Good! You’ll need to leave here tomorrow. Head to Galveston by train.”

  As it turned out, seventeen of the Oglalas had rebelled at the treatment they were receiving, and had “jumped ship.”

  Anxious to avoid problems with the government, or any damage to the reputation of the Hundred and One, Joe Miller wrote to the Agency at Pine Ridge, South Dakota. Most of the Oglalas in the European contingent were from that reservation. In a letter addressed to Superintendent John Brennan, Miller acknowledged:

  Several of our Indians have got tired of show business and have gone home … . Should any of the Indians who come in complain of mistreatment or things not going right with the show, I would be very glad to have you write to Iron Tail or any of the Indians on the show (on the U.S. Tour), and they will tell you that there is no show on the road that takes as good care of the Indians and treat them as well as we do.

  John Buffalo arrived in Europe via the ship carrying horses to the Greek Army, and made his way on to Dresden by train. He had no trouble asking his way to the Sarrasani Circus. In fact, because of his manner of dress—boots, Stetson hat, and Levi’s, the natives assumed that he was an American, associated with the circus. He was met with smiles everywhere.

  He stepped off the train at the circus grounds, to find the afternoon performance under way. The German employees of Sarrasani nodded to him and motioned him on inside. Still holding his suitcase, he walked up the entrance ramp, listening to the roar and applause of the crowd. There was laughter; there must be a clown act in progress. But there was a thunder of hoofbeats, too … . More like the Indian attack and cavalry pursuit in the 101 show. But why the laughter?

  He could see the ring now, and the galloping horses
as they circled. He heard the war whoops of the Oglalas. Yet what—?

  A painted warrior swayed and toppled from his horse, landing and rolling as other horses dodged around his limp form, or jumped easily over it. The crowd roared with laughter, thinking it part of the show. But … Something must be wrong. Other riders were swaying drunkenly in the saddle, sliding, toppling … . This was not part of any show he’d ever seen.

  The fallen warrior scrambled to his feet and staggered toward the ramp where John stood. He tried to evade the circling horsemen, dodging and falling, to scramble up again. John dropped his luggage and sprinted into the arena to help him. The brawny shoulder of a galloping horse struck John a glancing blow. He whirled and dodged another, grabbing the unhorsed Sioux by the elbow.

  “Come, Uncle,” he yelled at the man in his own language, using the traditional term of respect for an older male. “I will help you.”

  There was a startled look of surprise on the face of the bewildered Sioux. John slid an arm around the man’s waist and half-carried him out of the galloping traffic. There was a whiff of alcohol on the man’s breath as their faces came near.

  Drinking? How could that be? The Millers were quite strict. John was certain that the Oglalas’ contract had a “morality clause” prohibiting their use of alcohol.

  He dragged the stumbling warrior onto the ramp and to one side. Someone ran to help him, and he recognized Wayne Beasley.

  “Buffalo!” exclaimed the startled Beasley. “What are you doin’ here?”

  “Joe sent me. What the hell is goin’ on?”

  “Tell you later—let’s get Bear’s Hand out of here.”

  “What about the others?”

  “Dunno … We’ll see … . But I sure want you to talk to ‘em. Some of ’em quit and went home.”

  “Yes, I heard. Okay, let’s go!”