The Long Journey Home

by Don Coldsmith

  He indicated the three noncoms.

  A tough-looking girl was helping a dazed soldier to his feet beside the bar. A lanky packer from their own battery, one whose back had been crowded against the bar, now grinned sheepishly, if somewhat drunkenly.

  “Thanks, Sarge! We knew you’d come.”

  “Okay,” said Bonner. “Let’s go home. You’re s‘posed to be fightin’ the Kaiser, not each other!”

  Training and practice continued. There began to be rumors about shipping out, mingled with rumors that the war was coming to an end. Corporal Vandever gleefully told John of a prank that a couple of privates in his platoon had carried out. They had deliberately started a completely ridiculous rumor that the battery was to be sent to defend Alaska, and told it in strictest confidence.

  Within a matter of hours, the rumor was back, with more details. The battery was to go by train to San Diego, where they would board ship to Alaska.

  “I know damn’ well it’s true,” insisted one packer. “I got it from a fella in A-battery who has a cousin in Quartermaster. They’re fixin’ to issue cold-weather gear. But, he was told to say nothin’, and to deny it if he’s asked.”

  “Hell,” said Vandever with a chuckle, “by that time, I was ready to believe it myself!”

  It was only a few days later that John met a familiar-looking figure on the street at the fort. An officer, with insignia of a major … No, a lieutenant colonel, he saw as they came closer. Something familiar in the way the man walked. Straight as a ramrod; not tall, but lean and wiry.

  John saluted as they met, and saw the recognition in the man’s eyes. At about the same time, he realized—

  “Buffalo? John Buffalo?”

  “Captain … Excuse me, sir. Colonel McCoy?”

  “Yes … What are you doing here, John?”

  “Transferred here, sir. From the cavalry. Fort Riley.”

  “Yes,” McCoy chuckled. “I got into the same changeover.”

  “You’re in artillery, too?”

  “Yes. French 75s. But, I didn’t know you were in the Army, John.”

  “Yes, sir. When the Rough Riders fell through, I had to do something.”

  “And you’re a sergeant! Good. But it looks like the war’s about over now. What will you do then?

  “Hadn’t thought about it, sir. Will you stay in?”

  “Probably not. I’m married, now. We’ll probably go back to the ranch. Fella running it … Well, of course! You know George Shakespear.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, good to see you, Buffalo. If you’re up Wyoming way, stop by!”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Mebbe by that time, we can forget the ‘sir.’” McCoy grinned.

  Only a few weeks later, the war was over. It would take a while to decommission the combat units, but it was time to consider moving on. John thought long and hard about a military career. He could do it, but would probably have to take a reduction in grade. He had always felt unsuited to the strict, time-oriented pace of the Army, anyway. It would be best to return to the more loosely organized schedule of a civilian. But what to do, there? He wasn’t sure. Well, he could decide, later. When it’s time …

  At last, the Great War, the war to end wars, was over. Worldwide, there had been millions of fatalities. Ten million, he had heard.

  Yet that paled to insignificance compared to the death rate from the terrible influenza epidemic. Worldwide, more than twenty million deaths … He realized now that he was fortunate to have fallen ill among such caring people as Father O’Reilly and Nurse Ruth Jackson.

  He wondered how Ruth might be doing. Maybe he’d go and see. But first he’d have to muster out, and that process was moving slowly.

  SIXTY-ONE

  John Buffalo was mustered out at Fort Sill in the spring of 1919, after helping with the decommission of the wartime training units. Hundreds of mules were sold at auction, with large quantities of equipment, no longer needed.

  The pack howitzers were covered with canvas tarpaulins, and stored at the fort, in the huge stable facilities. There they would wait for the next war, their iron-rimmed wooden wheels an anachronism in a conflict fought on rubber tires, and by sea and in the air. It is worth note in passing that the concept of the mountain-pack artillery was a good one. Modified with rubber-tired truck wheels, the same howitzers were used to good advantage by paratroops in the Second World War.

  John had no definite plans. He had a vague idea that he would go back to Fort Riley and visit Ruth Jackson. He still had mixed feelings: shame and guilt, mixed with the bittersweet memory of that night. Yet she had seemed grateful for his presence in her time of need. Maybe if he could get past the initial embarrassment and talk to her … . Become reacquainted … Yes, she had left an open door, recognizing that either or both might have quite different feelings after a period of time. Whether they would—or could—relate as friends, as lovers, or both, would not be certain until they met again. Maybe the intensity of their relationship would have burned away the chances of returning down that road. Regardless, he must go and see.

  Now he recalled that on the trip to Fort Sill, the troop train had passed through Ponca City. Why not plan to pause there before going on to see Ruth? He could see what was happening at the Hundred and One, talk to some old friends, maybe. He wondered whether, in the aftermath of the war, the Wild West Show might take to the road again. Yes, a stop there would give him a much better idea of his options, no matter what the result of his reunion with Ruth Jackson might be.

  He said good-bye to a few friends and boarded the train north, with his discharge papers and his mustering-out pay.

  It was a relatively short trip to Bliss, Oklahoma, and he caught a ride out to the ranch on a supply wagon. He did not know the young driver, but gained some information en route.

  The Wild West Show was not on the road this season. There had not been much talk of it, but the war was barely over. Speculation about next season was beginning to surface.

  One trend was toward more drilling for oil on the Ponca lands. There were many more motorcars in use, and gasoline and oil would be needed in large quantities. Henry Ford was expected to develop new models of his auto. Others were rushing to respond to the demand for cars and trucks. Oldsmobile, Moon, Starr, Dodge, Chevrolet, Willys, Cadillac, Maxwell, Buick, Hudson … Even Studebaker, the veteran manufacturer of freight wagons for a century, was manufacturing an entry into the booming world of motorcars.

  After the fact, it was realized that motorcars had changed the course of the war. German forces had threatened Paris, and the military governor, General Joseph Gallieni, commandeered the taxicabs of Paris to transport troops to the battlefront. The German advance had been stopped at the Battle of the Marne. Military transportation would never be the same again. The demand for oil was increasing by leaps and bounds.

  John stepped down from the wagon and thanked the driver. He headed toward the ranch office at the White House, duffel bag on his shoulder.

  “John! Good to see you.” Joe Miller greeted him. “Wondered what had happened to you.”

  “Been in the Army, sir,” said John, a trifle embarrassed.

  He was always nervous around people in positions of authority. Possibly Old White Horse may have been the origin of this trait, but he wasn’t thinking of that now.

  “You’re out, now?” asked Miller.

  “Yes, sir, just discharged. Passin’ through to go see a friend.”

  “I see. Thought you might be lookin’ for a job. Show isn’t on the road this year.”

  “I heard that, on the way out,” John told him.

  “Want a job here? We’ve got some good things goin’, John … Crossin’ buffalo with cattle and with zebu, them humpbacked cows from India. New crops, too. And there’s the oil … . Big business there.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I think I’ll move on for now. I’ve got some friends to see. I’ll stop back by if I get a chance.”

  He rose
and began to head for the door. Joe Miller extended a handshake, and John turned back to respond.

  “Say,” said Miller suddenly, “there’s a letter here for you. I’d forgotten. Let’s see …”

  He began to rummage in an array of pigeonholes above a desk behind him.

  “Didn’t know where to forward it … . Been some time, now—”

  His search was interrupted by a knock at the open door of the office. John turned to see an Indian couple standing in the hallway. Poncas, by their dress and demeanor.

  “Oh, yeah! Thanks for comin’ in, Elk! Got somethin’ for you to sign … . You get some oil money. John, you remember Spotted Elk, here, an’ his missus.”

  John nodded noncommittally, and gave a hand sign in greeting.

  Miller spread a paper on the desk and set an inkwell and a pen near it.

  “Now, sign right there.” He pointed a finger. “That says you give permission to drill for oil on the land titled in your name. Now, I’m gonna give you the money.”

  He counted out some bills and shoved the little stack of paper toward Spotted Elk.

  “Could be some more, if we hit it big,” Miller suggested.

  Odd, John thought. A strange way to sign an oil lease.

  John was trying hard to look anywhere but at the paper that Spotted Elk had signed, but his eyes were drawn to it. He did not have much experience with legal papers, but something seemed wrong. The paper did not have the appearance of an oil-lease agreement. Actually, it looked more like a deed. Could it be that Joe Miller … ? No! It was a ridiculous idea to think that there might be any deception on the part of Joe Miller, “white chief of the Poncas.”

  But, there was also the payment by Miller to the Spotted Elks—in cash, with no apparent record of a transaction. John was very uncomfortable with this situation, but he was certainly in no position to ask questions.

  Miller and the Poncas shook hands while John waited, still uneasy. The Indian couple nodded to John and departed, pleased with the transaction and with the handful of greenbacks.

  “Good man, that Spotted Elk,” said Miller to John. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, I was looking for your letter. Hmm … Should be … Yes! Right here!”

  He handed the letter to John.

  “Come back and see us, John. And there’ll be a job when you want it.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”

  He was completely puzzled with the business-sized envelope. It bore a New Mexico postmark, and the return address was printed, in the upper left corner: Door of Hope, Loving, N.M. It was addressed to him, John Buffalo, 101 Ranch, Bliss, Oklahoma, in a neat, tight script. Someone accustomed to writing.

  Completely confused as to what the communication might be, John sought privacy and slit the envelope with his pocketknife.

  The letter was written in the same hand as the address on the envelope. The date was more than a year old. It took him only a moment to glance at the printed letterhead, “Door of Hope Orphanage,” in formal, churchly lettering like that on the title page of an old Bible. Now thoroughly confused, he began to read the letter … .

  My dear Mr. Buffalo,

  It is my painful task to inform you of the death of your son, John, from the ravages of influenza.

  His heart was racing and his palms were damp from sweat. Did someone have him confused with someone else? He shook his head to clear it and read on.

  We had rather hoped to hear from you before such an occurrence made it necessary to contact you. It was our understanding that the people with the TB research group had forwarded to you a letter from your wife. It was to have explained the situation and the whereabouts of your son in case of her death.

  John’s eyes filled with tears. A son—his and Hebbie’s … She had tried to tell him in the letter which was too damaged to be read … . Slowly and painfully, he began to piece the information together. Hebbie must have wanted to conceal … But why, oh why?

  He wiped away tears and attempted to read the rest of the letter. Now it seemed to him that it was somewhat accusing in tone.

  She had indicated that she believed that in the case of her death the boy’s father would come to assume the responsibility of his care. This has not happened. There is, however, in the case file, a note that it may be possible to reach you through the 101 Ranch in Oklahoma. Hence, this letter. Your son was buried beside his mother in the cemetery near Carlsbad, in case you wanted to know.

  Our sympathy for your loss.

  Sincerely,

  Margaret Jones, Dir.

  Door of Hope Orphanage

  It was all that John could do to keep from crying aloud in his grief. There was much to be said, he realized, for the celebration of the Great Mystery by means of the songs of mourning of his people.

  He began to realize now how carefully Hebbie had planned. She had not wanted to complicate his life more than necessary. If only she had known how much he had longed to be a part of hers. In her thoughtfulness, her determination not to be a problem to him, she had inadvertently deprived him and herself of so much. A son … He could see now that the ruined letter would have explained the whole thing. Hebbie had known that when he received that letter, he would come immediately to take care of their son, the product of their love. If only he had known … . But the letter was destroyed.

  I’m so sorry, Hebbie, he whispered to the evening sunset.

  If only he had known where she was, he could have gone there … . And then what? His thoughts kept circling, like a “bull-roarer,” the child’s toy of his people, whirled around one’s head on a string.

  Hebbie had carefully set up the letter which would have explained all of this and directed him how to find their son … . And the letter was lost.

  He saw only one thing that he could do now. He must go to New Mexico, must find the orphanage which had housed his son, must inquire as to the circumstances of Hebbie’s death, and where it had occurred.

  It was growing dark as he shouldered the duffel bag and started to walk toward Ponca City. He could not have slept, anyway, and he’d be there to board the first train that would take him to Loving, New Mexico.

  Loving … A cruel twist of fate …

  SIXTY-TWO

  The “Door of Hope Orphanage” read the sign across the front of the house. He walked up the steps and across the front porch to the heavy door, where he gave the cast-iron toggle a twist. He could feel the mechanism whirl and clang against the bell and hear the sound that was generated inside the house.

  He heard footsteps, and a well-groomed middle-aged woman, her hair drawn up in a bun, opened the door.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m looking for Margaret Jones,” he began.

  She eyed him a bit suspiciously.

  “And who might you be?” she demanded. “What is the nature of your business?”

  “Forgive me, ma’am,” John said. “I neglect my manners. I am John Buffalo, and I seek information about my … My son.”

  It was the first time he had voiced the words aloud.

  “John Buffalo?”

  The expression on her face scrolled through a range of emotion: disbelief, anger, sadness … . Her eyes swept him up and down. He was tired, dusty, disheveled, and, just now, growing impatient.

  Her face softened.

  “Come in, Mr. Buffalo,” she said politely. “I am Margaret Jones.”

  Seated in her office, John began to feel the discord between this setting, neat as a pin, and his own condition.

  “I—I just got off the train,” he began apologetically.

  “I understand. But how is it that you come here now?”

  Her attitude was still one of disapproval.

  “I will explain, Mrs.—Mrs. or Miss Jones?”

  “Mrs. I am a widow. But please go on.”

  “Yes … This is very difficult for me. Until two days ago, I had no idea that I had a son. I came as soon as I received word.”

  “But I wrote—That was a year ago!
And I expected you long before that. You never even responded to the death of your wife, I’m told. What kind of a man are you?”

  She was angry, now, her voice shrill with disapproval. Visions of Old White Horse flitted through his head. Her behavior over infractions by her young charges had been much like this. Except, compared to the thin and bony frame of the teacher, this woman was quite attractive, even in her anger. She was tall but shapely, and the years had been kind to her. She was dignified and proud in her carriage, reminding him of his own mother in her prime, before she lost everything.

  But now, his anger rose over the lack of understanding that this woman showed.

  “Mrs. Jones,” he began as calmly as possible, “you have no idea of this situation and no right to condemn me for something over which I had no control—no knowledge, even.”

  He paused, unsure where to begin.

  “Go on,” she snapped. “I’m listening.”

  Best he should start at the first, he reasoned. Quickly, he related his experience at the 101 Ranch, and how he and Hebbie met and became common-law partners. How he felt that both were ready for a formalization of their relationship in marriage when he returned from Europe.

  But Hebbie had disappeared.

  “I am made to think,” John said thoughtfully, “that she wanted to spare me the pain of seeing her fail slowly.”

  The woman’s face had softened somewhat, and so had her voice when she spoke.

  “You looked for her?”

  “Of course. I contacted every sanatorium I could learn of. There was no trace. I was forced to conclude that she had used another name.”

  Now Margaret Jones was nodding sympathetically.

  “This explains much. Please go on.”