In Hominy, we asked directions to the home of Deputy Wylie Haynes. He had worked with Dad, and offered to put us up for the night. When we found the house and made ourselves known, one of Haynes’ sons took our horses to the stable and fed and watered them. Mrs. Haynes took similar care of Bud and me.
We were at the stable the next morning, eager to be on our way, but Geronimo was down, and nothing I could do would make him stand.
“Looks like he’s foundered,” said Mr. Haynes. “He must’ve gotten too hot.”
And then, of course, I remembered how Geronimo couldn’t seem to get enough water at the creek the day before. I nodded unhappily.
“He can’t go anywhere like that,” Mr. Haynes said. “You’ll have to let him rest.”
My face must have fallen to my shoes. We couldn’t go on without him. Sam Bass couldn’t carry both Bud and me all the way to New York.
“We’ll get you another horse, Temple,” Mr. Haynes said. “There’s a man at the edge of town with a big herd, and I’m sure he’ll be glad to sell you a horse.”
“But I don’t want to leave Geronimo!” I protested.
Mr.Haynes promised me that he would put Geronimo on a train back to the farm as soon as he got well enough to be moved. Bud convinced me that the best thing would be to buy another horse, so reluctantly, we went to look at the trader’s herd.
A red and white Indian paint caught my eye.
“The price is eighty-five dollars,” the trader said.
Bud insisted that was too much money for us to pay, just as he’d said about the Indian blanket I’d bought for Geronimo. But the trader wouldn’t come down in price, and I wouldn’t have any other horse. Grudgingly, Bud wrote out a check, drawing on our emergency fund for the first time.
I named the horse Wylie Haynes, which pleased our host a great deal, and I put Geronimo’s Indian blanket on him. Wylie Haynes was a smart horse, and we soon got along famously, though I grieved over Geronimo for days.
But, we were on our way again, riding northeast from Hominy, headed for Kansas. As we rode, Bud began to rave about what a great horse Sam Bass was. “Ol Sam’s too smart to drink more water than he can handle. Wylie’ll probably do just like Geronimo did, he doesn’t look too smart to me.” On and on he went.
I knew Bud was just teasing, but I still fell into the trap. “I bet Wylie Haynes can outrun Sam Bass,” I hollered, giving Wylie a kick. The race was on!
Wylie kicked up his heels and lurched forward, almost throwing me off. Sam Bass stretched out his long legs and ran like the wind.
The next thing I knew, Sam Bass fell with a thump, pinning Bud’s leg under his body. Now Sam Bass was a sure-footed horse, and he most usually could run over any kind of rough ground. But I guess having a new horse running next to him kind of got him excited. He’d run wild, right into a stump.
I was sure Bud’s leg was broken, and I think he thought so too. Sam scrambled to his feet soon enough, and we examined Bud’s leg. It had a nasty bruise, but it wasn’t broken. Thankfully, Sam Bass didn’t seem any worse for his tumble. We were just plain lucky.
“Sorry, Bud,” I mumbled. “I guess if we’re ever gonna get to New York, we’ve got to be more careful.”
Bud agreed.
We rode into Coffeyville, Kansas, the town that gained instant fame in 1892, when the notorious Dalton gang was shot down in the midst of an attempted bank robbery. We talked about the Dalton’s and their outlaw ways, but we rode on to Chetopa, Kansas, to spend the night.
At the livery stable in Chetopa, I carefully put my prized Indian blanket over my saddle. Next morning, when the horses were brought to us, that beautiful Indian blanket had been replaced by an old cotton blanket.
I was sure there was a mistake. “I’m sorry, Mister, but I had a Navajo blanket on my horse last night,” I said to the livery man.
“This is the same one you had when you came in young man,” he said, pointing to that worn cotton blanket.
Bud agreed with me, telling the man that he was mistaken. At that, the livery man got real ugly with us, insisting that the cotton blanket was the one I’d had the night before. Bud didn’t want any trouble, and he pulled me away, whispering that we’d buy another blanket in the next town.
There was no way I was going to put up with that! “No, Bud. I want my blanket.” I glared at the man and ordered, “Get my blanket!” Then I saw a long whip hanging on the tack room wall, and before Bud could stop me, I grabbed that whip and began brandishing it toward the man.
I hit him once before he started running. Then he was off, and I was chasing him, going as fast as six-year-old legs possibly could, and getting angrier with every step I took.
But Bud grabbed the whip from me and made me climb onto Wylie Haynes. “You shouldn’t have hit him, Temple. Someone else could have stolen your blanket.”
“Maybe,” I said reluctantly, “but I doubt it. And I still want my blanket.”
Bud had the last say, and I left Chetopa without the Navajo blanket.
We’d had three disasters in a row: Geronimo had foundered, Bud had come extremely close to breaking his leg, and I’d lost the blanket I’d paid so much money for. Things had to get better or it sure would be a miserable trip to New York.
On Saturday, April 16, we rode into Joplin, Missouri, and found that we were famous. A local newspaper reporter interviewed us, and the Mayor entertained us. We liked Joplin so well that we stayed over on Sunday, and even went to church with all those friendly people.
On Monday we headed east to Springfield, Missouri, and for the next few days we had to struggle with bad weather. It rained and rained. Sometimes it was so dark that the only time we could see where we were going, was when the lightning zigzagged across the sky. We went real slow, so that the horses wouldn’t lose their footing, but in some places the mud was so deep that we were sure they would bog down.
One day as we plodded along the wind shifted to the north turning the rain into sleet. I lowered my head and pulled my slicker around my face. Wylie Haynes would have to find his own way through that storm. “Bud? I’m cold. Can’t we stop somewhere?”
“I’m cold too, Temp. Just hold on. We’re bound to come to some town soon.”
We rode on until, finally, we saw the lights of Union, Missouri. We rode straight to the only hotel in town, but when we got there, I was so cold and stiff I couldn’t get off my horse. The proprietor of the hotel helped me down and led us inside where there was a huge fire. He was even so kind as to take our horses down the street to the stable. Cozy and warm at last, Bud and I huddled inside.
During the night, the sleet changed to snow, and by morning the town of Union was transformed into a fairyland. We loved the idea of a winter wonderland in April and stayed in Union the whole day, playing in the snow and watching the drifts pile high.
By the next morning, the snow had stopped, and we knew we had to head to St. Louis. It was a long day’s ride, and it was late that night when we saw the lights of the big city.
“Isn’t this town named for you?” I asked Bud.
“Sure it is,” he said, going along with my joke.
“Why don’t you get it moved a few miles, so we won’t have to ride so far to get to it next time we come this way?”
Bud didn’t laugh; he just shook his head. I suppose he was too old for my brand of humor.
In St. Louis, we stayed at the Jefferson Hotel and sent Dad a wire, saying that we were well and having a good time. What we didn’t tell him, was that once again, we were celebrities.
The Mayor sent a man with an automobile to give us a tour of the city. I didn’t care a bit about the sights. My attention was absolutely captured by the car. I luxuriated in seats that were as soft as any living room chair. I stuck my head out the window and watched the wheels turn at what seemed like blinding speed. I swore that I’d have one of those machines someday. In fact, I think if anyone would have offered me a swap right then, Wylie Haynes would have had a new owner.
We did see the sights though; ships and boats on the Mississippi River, the Shaw Gardens, even the opera at night. St. Louis was wonderful, and we hated to leave.
But finally, we rode the ferry across the river into Illinois, accompanied by some of our new friends. They wanted to ride part way with us on the National Pike, the best road in the country at the time.
We enjoyed our ride across Illinois. The farther east we rode, the more newspaper reporters there were to meet us at each town. Apparently folks were fascinated by two small boys riding across the country alone. We didn’t understand all the fuss, because we were just off on another great adventure—this time to ride to New York to see our friend Teddy.
In Lawrenceburg, Indiana, a reporter asked me the usual question: “What do you want to be when you grow up, Temple?”
My reply was the usual one, too. “I want to drive a train.”
The next thing I knew, I was driving a train, ringing the bell, pushing the levers, and thrilling to feel the locomotive lunge down the tracks. The reporter had arranged the whole thing, and for me it was a high point of the trip, even if folks did laugh at my enthusiasm.
Cincinnati, Ohio, was almost as exciting. The Mayor had arranged a real tour for us. We went to the zoo first, where we saw animals we’d never seen before, then to a fire station which was a dream come true for me. The main part of the station was a large room with a horse and ladder wagon, and a steam engine in the middle. Around the edge of this monstrous room were the stalls of the horses that pulled the wagons.
The steam engine particularly caught my eye. It was bright red, with a silver smokestack and a silver-and-gold boiler, and even gold trim on the red wheels. The bells and gongs were silver and gold, too. This was the wagon that pumped water onto the fire.
There was a dormitory on the second floor of the station, with a bed for each fireman. A pair of rubber boots and rubber pants stood by each bed, ready to be pulled on at a moment’s notice. Each fireman also had a fire hat and a slicker. The fire chief explained to us that each man had a specific duty when there was a fire, and he performed that duty with precision and pride.
Fire stations don’t have brass poles nowadays, but this one had a pole that went from the ceiling of the second floor, through a large hole in the floor, and on down into the room where the wagons were. When the fire bell rang, all the firemen slid down this pole.
I couldn’t stand the excitement. “Could we spend the night here?” I blurted out.
Bud looked embarrassed that I would ask, but the fire chief thought about it a minute and said he didn’t see any reason why not. My heart almost turned over when he added if there was a fire that night, we could go along. “Everyone works as a team,” he told me solemnly, “and we depend on teamwork. You must be sure not to hold anyone up.”
Bud and I practiced sliding down the brass pole, just to make sure we wouldn’t hold the firemen up.
That night I was too excited to sleep, lying wide-eyed in my bed while all around me the firemen snored gently away. Suddenly, the bell began to ring.
“Up and at ‘em,” yelled the chief.
Every man jumped to his feet, dressed, and disappeared down the brass pole. Bud followed the last fireman, and heart pounding, I went next. I sure hoped we weren’t going to miss the wagon because we were making them late. “Teamwork,” I repeated to myself as I slid down.
When the bell rang in an old-time fire station, the horses almost seemed to know to line themselves up in the proper place. Then their harnesses dropped from the ceiling, where they were held by ropes. When the chief gave the signal that each horse and each man was in place, we were off!
Bells ringing and gongs clanging, the wagons leapt forward. We flew from the station as if we were riding on the wind, or so it seemed to Bud and me. We held on tight as we rocked around the corners and swung from side to side on the wagon. I was out of breath from the sheer excitement of it.
When we got to the fire, the horses stopped and stood very still. Most animals get frantic around fire, but these horses knew their duty and stood rock-steady. In seconds, the steam engine pumped a steady stream of water onto the fire, and the flames vanished in a cloud of black smoke. When the fire was finally out, the firemen began to put the equipment back on the wagons. It was all over so quickly that it seemed almost a dream, but what a dream!
We’d had so much fun in so many places to the point that time was getting to be a bit of a concern. If we wanted to be in New York to meet Teddy, we needed to move on. We left Cincinnati escorted out of town by policemen on motorcycles. Wylie Haynes and Sam Bass were a little skittish around the motorcycles, but I thought riding one looked like almost as much fun as riding in an automobile. I was delighted with all these new inventions and ready to try them out at any chance. But I didn’t get to ride a motorcycle that day.
Our next stop was Dayton, Ohio, where we again were greeted by police. This time, the Chief of Police took us to his office where reporters interviewed us, photographers took pictures of us, and the chief himself, took our fingerprints. Fingerprinting was brand new at the time, and we were impressed. The chief put our fingers on the ink pad, then rolled them on a piece of paper, and explained to us that no two people have the same prints. He then pointed out the differences between Bud’s and mine.
“Say, Temple,” the chief asked, “how would you and Bud like to be my deputies for the day? You can wear a badge and carry a club like mine.”
I thought it was a fine idea. Bud and I stood side by side on a stool while the chief, in a very serious tone, asked: “Will you try to do right at all times and help keep the law?”
“I will,” we both said solemnly.
“Then you may both carry these clubs.” He handed us little clubs that were exactly like the bigger ones that policemen carried. “Never strike a man unless you have to, and if you do, be sure it is to uphold the law. I now officially appoint you deputies.” He then pinned the badges on our shirts.
In Dayton, we visited the Wright Brothers Aeroplane Factory. Wilbur and Orville Wright had flown the first power- driven, heavier-than-air machine less than seven years before at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. Since then, they had improved their machines and set many records, and now they were making the machines in a factory in Dayton.
Wilbur Wright himself showed us around the factory and told us how he and his brother had worked for weeks and weeks in their bicycle shop to perfect their flying machine. Then he let us sit behind the controls of a nearly completed red aeroplane. I had the same feeling I had about the car and the motorcycle: “Someday I’m going to have one of these.”
It sure was an exciting time to be alive and traveling. We’d seen cars, motorcycles, aeroplanes, fire stations, and police who had made us deputies. We would never again be simple farm boys from Oklahoma.
Everywhere we went, people seemed excited about our trip. Of course, part of that was because we were going to meet Teddy Roosevelt. Many people hoped he would run again for president in 1912. But more than that, we were on an adventure, and people envied that. We knew that somewhere, sometime, we’d meet people whose envy would turn to anger. Sometimes I remembered the hysterical woman in Oklahoma who’d grabbed me and demanded to know where my parents were. This time, Dad wasn’t around to come to our rescue.
We met our first real opposition in a small town northeast of Dayton. We rode past a young boy walking down the street, one who looked to be between the two of us in age, but closer to Bud in size. As soon as he saw us, the boy screwed up his face into a scowl, and I knew we were in for trouble.
He trotted alongside us to keep up with the pace of our horses. Soon he let loose with the worst string of phrases I had ever heard. The words were familiar to me. I had heard them from cowboys in town on a binge and schoolkids trying to show how big they were. But my father made it very clear to me, the dire consequences to my backside, if he ever caught me using such language.
Bud was angry, but he tried to
reason with the boy. “You shouldn’t talk like that. What did we do to you?”
That just made it worse. “Your boots and hats are ugly, and you’re ugly too,” the boy said, adding a few colorful expletives for shock value.
That really made me mad. We were proud of our boots and hats. I saw the livery stable down the street and thought surely he’d leave us before we got that far.
He didn’t. Bud tried again. “Leave us alone, kid. We don’t want to have to fight with you.”
Naturally, that resulted in the accusation that we were yellowbellied, lily-livers.
I knew Bud wasn’t afraid to fight. I’d seen him in situations like this before. Both of us had learned to box by the Marquis of Queensbury rules, and we even had our own boxing gloves and sparred with each other at home. In a fair fight against an opponent roughly equal in age and size, Bud and I usually won. But one thing about Bud’s personal code of ethics began to bother me right about then. He absolutely refused to fight anyone who was smaller than he was.
The boy continued to pester us, and finally Bud said, “Temp, he’s too small for me to whip. I guess it’s up to you.”
I looked at the boy’s mean face and clenched fists, and I knew it would be a tough fight. If he talked to everyone the way he’d talked to us, he’d probably had a lot of fighting experience.
“Bud,” I said, “you’d better whip him. He’s twice my size.” Big brother would not budge. “I know he’s bigger, but you can do it, Temp. It’s up to you.”
“I’ll beat you both,” yelled our tormentor.
Finally I pointed ahead down the street. “See that livery stable down the street?”
He nodded.
“If you don’t stop cursing by the time we get to that livery stable, I’m going to have to whip you.”
Bud & Me Page 4
