The Long Journey Home

by Don Coldsmith

  “Is this the real stuff, or am I minin’ fool’s gold?”

  John cautiously tossed a small corked bottle on the counter. Definitely not the pouch he’d obtained in the poker game. The pouch was well worn and greasy, and spoke of long use. That would suggest that he knew more than he was trying to imply. Besides, the stained old pouch held a lot more dust. He had no exact idea of its value, but here was an opportunity to learn. He knew exactly the measure of the gold dust in the bottle. He’d measured it in his gunpowder scoop. This would give him a close estimate of the total worth of his winnings. Then it remained only to rid himself of his useless mine.

  The assayer lifted the bottle, glanced at the sparkling powder carelessly, and then took a more serious second look. He pulled the cork, carefully sifted a bit of the powder into a glazed ceramic tray, and poked around with a small glass rod.

  “This come from that Boar’s Nest claim of yours?” he asked suspiciously.

  “I’ve been workin’ it a little,” John said casually. And, of course, quite truthfully, without really answering the assay man’s question.

  He waited while the man ran some tests, dropping fluids from an eyedropper on a few grains of dust, carefully weighing a sample on a delicate-looking scale in a glass case.

  Finally the assayer straightened, poured the dust back into the bottle, and set it on the counter.

  “That’s a good-quality lode,” he said, some doubt still in his voice. “Boar’s Nest, you say?”

  “That’s what the papers call it,” said John.

  “Hmm … You mentioned wantin’ to sell it?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure, now.”

  “Well, I can understand that. But in case you’re interested, I know a fella or two … . Let me talk to ’em.”

  Suddenly John realized that he had created a dangerous situation. If there were prospective buyers, they’d want to accompany him to the mine. Miles from town, he’d be alone and vulnerable.

  But … The assay office had to be a reliable establishment. If the assayer referred them, surely prospective buyers would be honest. He needed some sort of assurance.

  “How do I know if these buyers are legitimate?”

  “Ah, I see,” answered the assayer. “You’re careful. Miles from town, with strangers … Of course! Clever of you to see that. Well, look … Your protection is probably the deed. Where is it now?”

  “It’s safe,” John said cautiously.

  “Good. But before leaving town with strangers, I’d … Let’s see … You could leave it with the bank, or the sheriff, or leave it in our safe. We’re federally bonded, of course.”

  Of course. John considered consulting someone else in a position of authority; but, being a stranger in town, could not know who might be reliable. The fewer people who knew about the transaction, the better. And it would lend to his own credibility.

  “I’ll leave it here,” he concluded. “I’ll have to come back to transfer the deed if you send me a buyer.”

  “That’s right. You want me to send this fella out?”

  John’s suspicion rose again.

  “When do you think you might—?” he started to ask.

  “Oh! There he goes now,” interrupted the assayer. “Just a minute!”

  He stepped to the door and called to a couple of men across the street. They crossed over and the introductions took place.

  Then the assayer explained the situation. “ … so Mr. Buffalo, here, not being experienced in mining, was of the opinion that he might do best to sell.”

  The two men nodded understandingly.

  “You’ve checked his dust?” asked one. “Good enough for me. Of course, I’d want to see the vein. He drew a gold watch from a vest pocket. It’s late. How about we go out tomorrow?”

  “Fine with me,” John agreed. “Shall we meet here?”

  “Good! After breakfast, then?”

  They shook hands all around, and John went to check into the hotel. He might as well be comfortable on what he hoped would be his last night in the area.

  FIFTY

  The three men rode into the camp at Boar’s Nest about noon. It seemed a shorter journey now that he had traveled the distance a few times.

  “There it is.” John pointed to the tunnel.

  “Let’s take a look,” said the man who called himself Johnson, swinging down and heading for the opening.

  “There’s a lantern inside,” John called. “Go ahead. I’ll be right there.”

  He unsaddled his horse and tied it to a pine tree, laid his saddle aside, and walked over to the tunnel. The others had simply looped their reins around the saddle horn. They must be in a hurry, he smiled to himself.

  The watery yellow light of the lantern showed as a glow from the inner end of the shaft. Johnson was holding the lantern, and Green, his companion, was inspecting the area where sparks of gold dust reflected its rays.

  “Look at that!”

  “And that …”

  John was pleased. He said nothing, figuring he didn’t have to. They were already doing a selling job on themselves.

  The two came out toward the entrance, talking softly between them.

  “You find where I’d been workin’?” John asked.

  “Yes, we sure did,” said Johnson. “Way that looks, why you wantin’ to sell?”

  John shrugged. “I’m not a miner. Don’t really know much about it. Just as soon not be tied down.”

  “How’d you happen to have it?” Johnson asked. “I assume you have a deed?”

  “Of course. It’s in the vault at the assay office. To tell the truth, I won it in a poker game, sight unseen.”

  “What do you think it’s worth, if we want to buy it?” Green asked, cautiously.

  “I don’t know, fellas, I told you I’m not a miner,” John said. “I’m not lookin’ to get rich, here. I figure, the way the bettin’ was goin’ in that poker game, I’ve got about five hundred in it. That sound fair?”

  The two men looked questioningly at each other.

  “Let’s take another look at the vein, there,” Johnson said.

  He picked up the lantern and headed on in. The two men followed.

  “Now, where’d you first see the color along here?” Green asked.

  “Right there where you see it.” John pointed. “Sort of spreads out along the wall toward the corner, there.”

  “What’s your bottom dollar to sell—right now, today?” Johnson asked.

  John hesitated. He’d hoped they’d make him an offer. In his ignorance, he might have priced too low and created suspicion.

  “Look,” he said, “I’ve told you I don’t know mining. I might be too high or too low, and wouldn’t know either way. You see what I’ve got, and you know more than I what it’s worth. I said I’ve got maybe five hundred in it. But I want out, and if you’ll agree to four hundred, I’ll go back to town and sign the deed.”

  Then a very strange thing happened. The two men glanced at each other in the dim lantern light, and both nodded agreement. As if in one motion, both drew their guns.

  John wanted to make a break for it, but in the narrow confines of the mine tunnel, he knew he’d never reach the open air. This was what he’d feared, but …

  “Wait!” he called out, hands half-lifted. “Don’t shoot! That deed’s back in town. This is no good to you … .”

  His voice trailed off as he saw both men chuckling. Was this some kind of a terrible joke?

  “Son,” said Johnson, “we don’t want to hurt you. We’re federal marshals, and you’re under arrest.”

  “For what? Tryin’ to sell my claim?”

  “Well, maybe that, too … . One you know is worthless … . But, for sure, saltin’ a mine with dust from someplace else is a crime. Might say, though, that for somebody that ain’t a miner, it’s a pretty slick job. How’d you do it? Shotgun shells?”

  “Where are you takin’ me?”

  “Back to town. There’ll be a circuit judge around in
a week or so. We’ll let you gather up your stuff. Green, get the shotgun, there.”

  He turned back to John.

  “I hope you won’t try nothin’ stupid. You got another gun?”

  “No. You can check.”

  “We will. But it’ll go a lot better if nobody gets hurt, an’ that’s up to you. You’re not in a lot of trouble, yet, so just don’t cause none.”

  It was nearly dark when they reached town, and the sheriff opened one of the cells for the marshals.

  “That’s your home for now, Buffalo,” said Johnson. “The judge comes a week from Wednesday, the sheriff says. We’ll be here.”

  “What about my horse? He belongs to the livery.”

  “We’ll take him back. The sheriff will look after your gear.”

  The trapped, enclosed feeling in the jail was among the hardest times of his life. He already had a dread of enclosed places, which had shown itself at the mine shaft. This was even worse. There was one small window, high in the wall. He could have seen out by standing on the cot, except that the window was covered by a wooden shutter against the winter winds.

  The iron bars let him look down a short hallway and into the sheriff’s office. At present, there was no one in the other two small cells.

  On the third day in confinement, the sheriff brought a young man down the short hallway.

  “You got a visitor, Buffalo,” he said simply.

  John said nothing. He didn’t understand. He knew nobody in the area, except the assayer and the federal marshals.

  The man looked familiar, somehow. He was dressed as a cowboy, and looked the part, but … Wait! A few weeks ago, in another part of the state … In a saloon … This was the quiet young Indian who was with the fun-loving Irishmen, joking about the war and the Kaiser.

  “John Buffalo?” the young man asked aloud.

  At the same time, he was using hand signs. The palm forward sign of friendly greeting, followed quickly by I am here to help you.

  Still puzzled, John nodded and signed It is good.

  The visitor smiled, and spoke now in English.

  “Good. You know hand signs.”

  “Out of practice, maybe. Who are you?”

  “My name is George Shakespear. I saw you in Thermopolis at the Happy Jack. I was made to think that you were troubled.”

  “More trouble now.” John gestured at the walls and bars.

  “That is true.”

  “Are you a medicine man?”

  “No, no. I do a little medicine, is all. I work as a cowboy.”

  “You are Lakota?”

  “No … ’Rapaho. You are Lakota?”

  “Yes. I was, anyway. I went to Indian schools.”

  “Me, too. That’s how I got to be George Shakespear. My brother is William.”

  “Of course.” John smiled for the first time in months. “But, what are you doing here?”

  “I heard they were holding an Indian who had salted a mine. I thought it might be the same … Same as the troubled one in Thermopolis. So I came over to see.”

  John stared. “You do have a powerful guide.”

  George Shakespear merely shrugged, and went on.

  “I have a friend who can help you. A white man … McCoy.”

  “The big man telling jokes?”

  “No, that’s Irish Tom. Tim McCoy is small but tough. He was there, but let me go on. He is recruiting … Building a war party of cavalry, a Rough Riders outfit to go to Germany. Theodore Roosevelt is sponsoring it.”

  “I read about that in the Denver Post, didn’t I?”

  “Maybe so. Anyway, he needs cowboys. I am made to think that you know horses, no?”

  John nodded. “Some.”

  “Okay … Would you talk to McCoy? With his influence … He has a telegram from Roosevelt … . They might let you off on this if you’d sign on for the Rough Riders. No promises …”

  “Why not? It beats sittin’ here.”

  “Okay. I think I can get McCoy to come over.”

  “Is he a cowboy, too?”

  “Yes. He has a homestead, a few cattle. Hires out to other ranches, too, sometimes.”

  “Why would he help me?”

  “He might not, but I’d guess he will. His Arapaho name is ‘The Friend.’”

  “He’s a half-breed?”

  “No, he’s just a white man who understands. He’s all Irish, I guess, but he’s all ’Rapaho, too.The old men talk to him.”

  That, perhaps, was the most significant fact of all. A white man with whom the tribal elders consult must be very special.

  “He speaks Arapaho?” asked John.

  George Shakespear laughed.

  “No,” he answered. “He does it all in hand signs.”

  Tim McCoy, “The Friend,” showed up at the jail two days later. He explained the recruitment effort, which was going well. Already, he had enlisted more than 300 potential cavalrymen, with his goal 400.

  “I think that your signing as volunteer would impress the marshals,” McCoy told him. “No promises, of course. What’s your riding experience?”

  “Been at the Hundred and One Ranch a few years,” said John. “Traveled with the show. We were in Germany when the war broke out.”

  “You were?”

  “Yes … We had about sixty Oglalas with a circus over there.”

  “Heard about that! That was you? Buffalo, we need you.”

  John signed the enlistment roster, and sat back to wait.

  It didn’t take long. Apparently, McCoy was skilled in the use of documents. A personal telegram from Theodore Roosevelt, authorizing the recruitment effort, seemed to carry a lot of weight with federal marshals. The jail door swung open.

  In a matter of days, John Buffalo was working as a cowboy on a ranch in Wyoming, preparing to be mustered in with 400 other Rough Riders. When the call came to meet the Kaiser on his own ground, the Rough Riders would be ready.

  FIFTY-ONE

  There is a curious idiosyncrasy in human history: As a nation prepares for war, it thinks in terms of previous wars and prepares for the most recent experience; not for the next war, but for the one just fought. This, in terms of weapons, tactics, and preparations … .

  Teddy Roosevelt’s hard-riding American cowboys, the Rough Riders of the war with Spain, were extremely effective in Cuba. Their prowess had stirred the pride of America, and had, in fact, catapulted Roosevelt into national prominence. He served as governor of New York, and was selected in 1900, as vice presidential candidate for William McKinley’s second term.

  He had been vice president for only a few months when McKinley was gunned down by ah assassin. The president was expected to recover, but took a turn for the worse and died a few days later. Roosevelt became the youngest president in American history when he took the oath of office in 1901. The American public, fascinated by his background as a cowboy and soldier, and by the expanding American West, loved his flamboyant style and no-nonsense approach: Speak softly and carry a big stick.

  Roosevelt had been instrumental in the creation of the Panama Canal and was elected in 1904, declaring that he would not run again for another term.

  But in 1912, concerned over a reactionary drift among the Republicans, he helped to organize the Progressive Party and ran for president. His candidacy split the Republican vote and elected Woodrow Wilson, a Democrat. Wilson’s reluctance to enter the “European War” must have frustrated the old Rough Rider to extremes.

  Now, there was even more frustration. The latter-day Rough Riders, four hundred strong, were enlisted and signed, ready to serve as Teddy’s big stick in Germany. They would “punch a small hole” in the vaunted German defenses and wreak havoc in the Kaiser’s backyard, behind his own lines. The Rough Riders waited, poised for action, expecting marching orders.

  That, however, was another matter. The special cavalry unit, men and horses, would have to debark from an American port, and the United States was still officially neutral. It would require the
permission of President Wilson, Roosevelt’s old political enemy, who was still determined to stay out of the war.

  There are no official records of the conversation between the two leaders, only that there was such a meeting at the White House in early 1917.

  Roosevelt, recounting the meeting to his old friend, General Leonard Wood, later reported:

  “ … if I were president and I told somebody what Wilson told me, I would have meant ‘yes.’ But since I’m not president and I’m not Woodrow Wilson, I really don’t know what the hell he meant.”

  What Wilson undeniably meant was a definite no. He was determined not to allow any privately organized military units to endanger American neutrality.

  In addition, there was another factor. Roosevelt’s popularity was again rising with American sympathy for the Allies in the European war. There was a groundswell of pressure for Roosevelt to lead the 1920 presidential campaign as a Republican candidate who could unseat the frustrating Wilson.

  For whatever reasons, the Rough Riders’ dreams of glory were dashed. In late March, Tim McCoy received a telegram from Roosevelt in which the message was clear: There were to be no marching orders. The plan had been rejected. The Rough Riders would remain cowboys, and nobody was going anywhere.

  This, McCoy related in later years, ended the opportunity to have followed “Teddy” in a wild, old-time cavalry charge up the hill. He also conceded that sabers and horses from the last war would have been no match for German machine guns and automatic weapons in this one.

  “It’s likely that Wilson saved our hides by stopping it,” he admitted.

  But for now, it was a crushing defeat. Ironically, it was only a few days until the United States entered the war, enraged over the sinking of the Lusitania.