The Long Journey Home

by Don Coldsmith

  “There were some problems,” John agreed ruefully. “We had a fella handling the Indian part. Tim McCoy. General McCoy … Arapaho. I work for him.”

  “Oh, that’s the connection.”

  “Yes … He’s up at Bishop; they’re shooting some gold-rush scenes. I’m helping with some livestock scenes here, finishing up.”

  “I see. So you haven’t been at the Hunnerd an’ One for a while?”

  “No. I’ve been in Wyoming, cowboyin’. A hitch in the Army.”

  “It has been a while, hasn’t it? Well, a lot of the old bunch are here. We sort of hang out at The Water Hole … Hollywood and Cahuenga streets. A little poker and some tequila and whiskey. Stop by!”

  “Maybe I will!”

  John doubted that he’d do much drinking. That had given him some grief before.

  “Do you think the 101 will put the Wild West Show back on the road?” asked Canutt.

  “Hadn’t thought about it. There were some good times, weren’t there?”

  “Sure ’nuff. Say, remember Will Rogers, the roper?”

  “Sure. We were with him that time in New York. Nice fella.”

  “Well, he’s comin’ on big. Radio, newspaper column … Made a film or two.”

  “Times are really changing fast, aren’t they?” John observed.

  “Yep … You hear about ‘talkies’?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Puttin’ talk in a movie.”

  “Aw, c‘mon, Yak … You’re funnin’ me.”

  “No, really. You know, some theaters are usin’ phonograph records for background music instead of a piano or organ.”

  “I’d heard something like that.”

  “Well, what if they could make a record of the talkin’, the gunshots, war whoops, hoofbeats, whatever?”

  “Yak, I don’t think it could ever work. They couldn’t get it matched up right.”

  “Mebbe not. But some of ‘em are workin’ on it. I figger they’d have to hook it to the film on the reel somehow. But John, it ain’t long since movin’ pictures were just a curiosity. We’re livin’ in modern times. Fast trains, airplanes … Folks have flown across the ocean, you know.”

  “Some got killed.”

  “I know. But it can be done.”

  John remembered having heard a newsboy in Denver hawking papers with a headline about a failed transatlantic flight. Two European military pilots had gone down in the Atlantic.

  An old woman, passing by, had paused to read the headline, and sniffed indignantly.

  “Serves ‘em right, for thinkin’ they could fly!” she snorted, as she shuffled on down the sidewalk.

  Yes, we live in fast times, John thought. Maybe, too fast.

  It was an interesting winter, warm in Hollywood, unreal in many ways. On the studio streets, it was not unusual to see couples in evening clothes meeting and nodding to a knight in armor, an Indian in war paint, or a dark-cloaked vampire. There was a calmness about such things that belied the general tension and excitement in the air, which pervaded the entire community. There was a feeling of expectancy, a reluctance to be anywhere else. To be absent from this strange make-believe world might be to miss the next development or happening. The fact that no one knew what that might be only added to the mystery and suspense.

  The location unit at the gold-rush site near Bishop finished that sequence, and returned to Hollywood. McCoy seemed satisfied with the work they had done there, but approached John with a proposition.

  “John, they want to make a big show out of introducing this Covered Wagon thing. It’ll be at Grauman’s Egyptian Theater, which is about the biggest thing around. There’s been only one movie presented there before: Robin Hood, with Douglas Fairbanks.”

  John wondered what this had to do with anything, but McCoy continued.

  “Now, Lasky wants a live prologue, onstage, with a few of our long-hairs, and me, using some hand signs. Could you stick around and sort of help me with arrangements for the Indians’ encampment? They know you, and you can talk with the movie folks.”

  “I don’t know much hand talk,” said John.

  “You don’t have to. Most of them speak English. You know them, John. Goes in Lodge, Left Hand, Charlie Whiteman, their wives. Broken Horn and his wife, Lizzie. You remember her—a redheaded Arapaho … Indian name is ‘Kills in Time.’ It’s a four-month contract, pays pretty well.”

  “Sure, why not?” agreed John.

  The Arapaho camp was established at Cahuenga Pass, a mile from Grauman’s Theater. John helped with the arrangements for transportation of the thirty-five Arapahoes and their lodges, and McCoy moved his wife and their three children to Hollywood, at least for the season.

  The grand opening on April 10, 1923, was spectacular, with aerial searchlights and costumed Egyptians stalking the parapets. Admission tickets sold for $1.50, a princely sum at that time, when skilled workmen drew only about $10 per week.

  The houselights dimmed, the crowd quieted, and an announcer spoke from the orchestra pit:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Famous Players-Lasky presents The Covered Wagon. This film, which is dedicated to the memory of Theodore Roosevelt, stars Miss Lois Wilson, Mr. J. Warren Kerrigan, and a cast of thousands, directed by Mr. James Cruze. As a prologue to this epic film, which may very well be the finest ever made, General Tim McCoy will now present for your elucidation, edification, and entertainment, a company of America’s native sons, over thirty Arapaho Indians from the Wind River Reservation in Wyoming.”

  Then the electrician brought up the lights, illuminating the stage. The audience gasped. There, appearing to have generated out of the darkness, stood thirty Indians in various stages of dress or, in some cases, of undress. McCoy had told them only to “show the white-man audience how they looked when they felt beautiful.” There were eagle feathers, warbonnets, shell chokers, gold earrings, hair-pipe breastplates, Washington peace medallions, fringed buckskin shirts, beaded leggings, and quilled moccasins. According to McCoy’s later account, this scene “erupted into a volcano of pure, joyous color.”

  McCoy, dressed in a white shirt, dark tie, trousers, and boots and wearing a white Stetson, then introduced each of the Arapaho in turn. Each told his or her story briefly in hand signs, which the general translated into English.

  Goes in Lodge, who fought against the white man and later became a scout for the Army.

  Charlie Whiteman, captured by Utes from a wagon train in the 1860s, later captured from the Utes by Arapaho. His fellow Apaches teased him about being “one-third Ute, one-third Arapaho, and one-third white man.” He considered himself an Indian.

  Lizzie Broken Horn, wife of Broken Horn. Captured from her family’s wagon train in 1865, by Cheyenne and Arapaho “dog soldiers.” Her older sister was ransomed, but when Lizzie was finally located in 1902, she could not speak or understand English. She was all Arapaho.

  Left Hand, who had fought Custer, but wore a blue Army jacket to show his later service as a scout.

  Red Pipe, six and a half feet tall, created a sensation merely by his appearance.

  Twice a day, this prologue was presented, at 2:30 and at 8:00, before the showing of The Covered Wagon. It was vastly popular and a great attention-getter.

  During the next four months, the Arapahoes were wined and dined, invited to lavish dinners, attended movies, and enjoyed side trips by bus to see the ocean.

  “Big lake,” said Goes in Lodge. “Can’t see across.”

  There was one near-disaster. Attempting to load the bus for a tour, Grauman’s stage manager committed a major breach of Arapaho etiquette. He attempted to seat some of the men next to their mothers-in-law. The entire group refused to board until such a flagrant error could be straightened out by Tim McCoy and the Arapahoes could be seated properly.

  As the contract for the onstage prologue drew to a close, McCoy was approached by Victor Clark, Lasky’s right-hand man. The Covered Wagon was to open in London in September, he explained. Would
he consent to take the Arapahoes to London?

  McCoy was willing, and convinced John Buffalo to go along.

  “You know your way around there, John. I don’t. You could be a big help.”

  Convincing the Arapahoes was another matter. Goes in Lodge finally made an impassioned speech, and with ceremonial burning of sweet grass, singing, and dancing, the troupe from Hollywood boarded the train again at Wind River to head to New York. Ed Farlow and John Buffalo would go along to assist as needed.

  The teepees were erected on the lawn of the Museum of Natural History, across from Central Park. There were only a few days to process passport applications, including photos.

  The day before the ship was to sail, Ed Farlow made a disturbing discovery.

  “Some of the ’Raps are missing.”

  “Missing?” McCoy snapped. “Ed, they’re supposed to be here, getting photos taken for passports. No photo, no passport; no passport, no trip. Where are they?”

  “I don’t know! Off in Central Park or in some bar, I reckon. But they sure as hell aren’t here.”

  There were supposed to be thirty-five, but only thirty-two could be found. McCoy, Ed Farlow, and John stood helplessly, wondering what could be done.

  Just then Goes in Lodge, wearing his eagle-feather bonnet, came out of the photographer’s tent.

  “Look,” said Tim, “borrow Goes in Lodge’s bonnet, put it on Yellow Horse, tell ’em it’s Shavehead or one of the other absentees.”

  “Uh … ain’t that kinda illegal, Tim?” asked Ed.

  “Ed,” McCoy pointed out, “will this be the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

  Thus began a game of “musical warbonnets,” as it was described later. A headdress would be placed on the head of a man who had already been photographed bareheaded. Taking advantage of the white man’s belief that “they all look alike” the feather bonnet would be pulled down over the brow and the photography would proceed.

  In a short while, there were thirty-five passport photos, and the next morning, thirty-five Arapahoes boarded the S.S. Cedric, a modern White Star Line luxury liner. There were no questions about “they all look alike.”

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  The stay in London, which lasted nearly six months, was a great success. Initially, they erected the teepees on the grounds of the Crystal Palace, Piccadilly. It became apparent within a couple of weeks that teepees, while ideally suited for the heat, cold, and storms of the prairie, they were no match for the constant rain and fog of London. Appropriate rental quarters were found, and the troupe settled in for the winter.

  The Arapaho were accepted with even more generosity than they had been in Hollywood. They were wined and dined by nobility, and honored constantly. Lord Robert Baden-Powell, the hero of the Boer War in South Africa and founder of the Boy Scout movement, was particularly impressed. The Arapaho of Wind River were invited to his estate, and later to the International Boy Scout Jamboree, held that year at Gilwell, England, outside London. Scouts from all over the world were instructed in Arapaho crafts and archery.

  In mid-March 1924, the contract was over and the delegation from Wind River returned home. As they disembarked in New York, they were met by a swarm of reporters. The traveling Arapaho from Wyoming had become celebrities. By this time, such interviews had become familiar to the Arapaho, who rather enjoyed the notoriety, as well as the naivete of the reporters questions.

  “What was it like in London?”

  “Did you really fight Custer?”

  Goes in Lodge probably summed it up, when he related the London experience to home.

  “All same as Wind River.”

  The old chief was talking in hand signs, though he spoke English well. Hand signs always made more of an impression on whites.

  “Like the subway,” he signed.

  McCoy finally came to the rescue of the confused reporters.

  “What has that got to do with an Indian reservation?” one asked.

  “All same,” Goes in Lodge signed. “Prairie dog go down one hole, come up another.”

  Back in Wyoming, John Buffalo was faced with a decision. What now? The McCoy ranch on Owl Creek was a safe refuge, operated by George Shakespear while Tim McCoy was off on various jobs for the movie people. Currently, he was off somewhere tracking down potential defense witnesses for a lawsuit against Famous Players-Lasky. A descendant of Jim Bridger, the mountain man, had taken offense at the depiction of Bridger in The Covered Wagon. But there were still people alive who had known Bridger, and could testify to the character of the man.

  McCoy’s long-range plan was to build a house for his family and settle in on the ranch, now being called Eagle’s Nest. Meanwhile, the cattle operation was thriving, and cowboys were needed. John was not unhappy working there, but he was restless. He felt that there were things left unfinished.

  Finally he talked to Shakespear.

  “George, there’s something I have to do. Somebody I need to go and see.”

  “Uh!” George grunted assent. “You comin’ back?”

  “I dunno. Maybe so.”

  “You on Indian time?”

  It was a gentle jibe. John smiled.

  “Guess so. I just don’t know how this will turn out.”

  “I see. Well, you know the way back.”

  “Thanks, George.”

  John’s excitement grew as he traveled back to Kansas. He bypassed Fort Riley when he detrained, and headed directly to Ogden and on toward Ruth Jackson’s farmhouse. His anticipation grew, but his uneasiness and doubt did, also. I should have written, he thought.

  Ruth might not even live here now. In his mind, he had not considered the fact that it had been several years since that fateful night. I should have written. But in a way, Ruth represented for him something solid, dependable, and permanent. In an ever-changing world, she was the stable, predictable factor. She had saved his life.

  There was a feeling of guilt as he walked up the road and around the bend from their picnic spot. Why had he not kept in touch? He realized that it was because of the guilt of their night together. He still felt that he had betrayed a friendship.

  When the little farmstead came in view in the darkening twilight, he almost turned back. Ruth might be working an evening shift at the hospital. He should have checked there. But now he saw a light in the window. He stopped for a moment. A beautiful, comfortable, homey picture, with smoke curling gently above the slender brick chimney. That would be above the kitchen … . The supper fire … The name Jackson was still on the mailbox. Good.

  His heart warmed as he walked up the path. It was a homey feeling. Had he at last found where he belonged?

  Almost eagerly, he knocked at the door.

  “John! How wonderful! Come in!”

  She gave him a quick hug and a sisterly peck on the cheek.

  “Where in the world have you been?” she went on. “I thought something had happened to you.”

  She was beautiful, almost radiant in her beauty. Her golden hair had not changed, but her face had. Where there had been lines of sadness the last time he had seen her, now there was only happiness and contentment.

  “Come on in!”

  She took him by the hand and led him inside, talking over her shoulder as she did so.

  “I want you to meet my husband.”

  She raised her voice slightly.

  “Ned!” She called into the kitchen, “John’s here! John Buffalo!”

  His head whirled in confusion. Who was Ned, and was he, John, supposed to know him? And … Ruth had said husband. Was her husband not named Emil? He had never met the man, but—And Emil was dead!

  She must have remarried. Ned? He was sure that he knew no one by that name. But it had been a few years … .

  The old guilt came rushing back, the embarrassment and regret over the night that he and Ruth had shared in each other’s arms. She had attempted to make him more comfortable with what he had done, by trying to let him think that he was fulfilling he
r need in her bereavement. But now … How could she appear glad to see him?

  She had used his name, John Buffalo, when calling to her husband, which made him very uneasy. How much had she told “Ned”? Everything?

  Down the hall from the other part of the house strode a man that John had never seen before. There were two remarkable things about him. One was his size. That was bad. He must be well over six feet tall, big across the shoulders and heavily muscled. Not an ounce of fat on that frame. He was tanned. A farmer’s tan, his forehead white above the line that would mark the position of his straw hat.

  That almost-frightening impression was offset by another remarkable quality. It was a big, friendly grin; somewhat reassuring.

  Ned stuck out a paw the size of a side of bacon, and John met his friendly grip.

  “Ruth’s told me about you!”

  How much? John thought.

  But the man was still smiling.

  Not everything, John concluded as their eyes met. Not the whole story.

  Ned went on, “I want to thank you for your kindness when she lost her husband.”

  Definitely not the whole story.

  “I … I did what I could,” answered John vaguely.

  There was a sound from the hallway from which Ned had appeared before. That, John remembered, led to the kitchen.

  He turned, to see a towheaded toddler just entering the room. The handsome young face was ruddy and healthy-looking, and became a trifle shy when confronted by a stranger. But not measurably so. Mostly, the child’s face expressed curiosity.

  “John, this is our son, Emil … Emil John Jackson.”

  A cold hand grasped John’s heart. Emil … Ruth’s dead husband … But John? Could it be that the child was named for him because—His head whirled in confusion. No, not possible. This boy could be no more than three years old. The night before he had shipped out on the troop train would have been at least four years ago.