Bud & Me

by Alta Abernathy

  Bud and I were invited so many places to tell about our adventures, that Dad decided we needed speaking lessons. I thought Bud and I had done just fine at speechmaking on our trips, and this was foolishness. Nevertheless, I spent several weeks taking speaking lessons before I finally rebelled and managed to convince Dad they were unnecessary.

  The rest of the summer was taken up with work on an aeroplane I was building in the backyard. The Wright brothers’ factory had inspired me, and I spent weeks hammering and sawing assorted two-by-fours and one-by-two boards. It was a pretty good-looking little plane, but it had no motor and it absolutely refused to leave the ground. Still, I had hours of fun pretending I was soaring through the clouds and racing against the birds.

  Around the beginning of December, the Brush Company invited Bud and me to the annual automobile show in New York. They wanted us to sit at a booth and tell people about the “Wildcat.” The show began January 1, 1911. The first week would be at the Grand Central Palace, with a second show, in Madison Square Garden.

  We were overjoyed at the offer and accepted immediately. Dad couldn’t leave Oklahoma right then, so he asked his cousin, the Reverend John Abernathy, and his wife Helen, to accompany us on the train. Dad said he’d meet us there after a week or thereabouts, so right after Christmas, we boarded the train for New York.

  New Year’s Eve in New York was one of the big thrills of my life. Early in the evening, the streets near our hotel began to fill with people in silly paper hats, stern old men blowing wildly on little whistles, and girls rushing about kissing everyone. The fun was contagious, and Bud and I were having a wonderful time when midnight came. But then, John and Helen found us and announced it was time to go back to the hotel. After all they reasoned, we should be rested for the first day of the automobile show. But I could hardly calm down. I blew a little horn someone had given me until I was completely out of breath.

  It was a short night’s sleep. Next morning, we dressed in our special outfits for the show. Bud had a black tuxedo with a stiff-collared white shirt. My outfit was exactly the same, but it had short pants. At first I hated those pants, but then I got used to them and even thought I was rather stylish. We each had a white carnation in our buttonhole.

  We learned a lot at the show. It was only the eleventh such show ever held. It successfully demonstrated how far the automobile had come in just over a decade—from being a play-thing for the rich to an affordable, time-saving device for many people. Bud and I handed out posters and brochures about the Brush, and told people about our drive from New York to Oklahoma.

  My sales pitch was that it was easy to drive. “If I can drive it, you can mister,” I’d say.

  Lots of cars were shown at the exhibit, some that became standard names in the automobile industry, and others that you never heard of again after a few years. Included were Maxwells, Buicks, Oldsmobiles, Mitchells, Willys, Overlands, Pierce-Arrow, and the Stevens-Duryea. The Cadillac salesman said his factory had shipped more than a thousand cars in December alone. Bud and I didn’t have any statistics like that about the Brush, so we just told people how it could go anywhere.

  Near the end of the show, John and Helen went back to Oklahoma, and Dad joined us. He knew some people in the movie business in New York and wanted to stay awhile. He soon hired a private tutor to keep us up with the school work we were missing.

  Dad had even brought Sam Bass and Wylie Haynes up to join us, but he wasn’t planning to have us ride them back to Oklahoma. A couple of movies had parts for Bud and me and our horses.

  In one story, there was a young girl returning from school in the East, by train, to her western home. Her father, a rancher, met her at the depot and they started for the ranch. Along the way a group of rough-looking banditos with broad-brimmed hats and bullet belts across their chests stopped the buggy, knocked the father unconscious, and kidnapped the young lady.

  That was where Bud and I came in. We were supposed to be riding peacefully along not far behind the buggy. Suddenly we came across the unconscious father, and then we sprang into action. We took care of him, and he roused back to consciousness just long enough to tell us that the outlaws had kidnapped his daughter. Bud already had one foot in Sam Bass’ stirrups as he yelled to me, “Go get a posse. I’ll go after the girl!”

  I rode fast and hard to town, and shouted, “Come on! Follow me! A girl’s been kidnapped!”

  A group of cowboys gathered immediately, and there was even a couple of Indians. I led the posse, of course, but when we caught up with Bud, he had everything under control. He had surprised the outlaws and rescued the girl. The cowboys took the girl to her father and the prisoners to jail. The movie ended with Bud and me sitting on a rock with our arms around each other, smiling because we had saved the girl.

  Dad was getting more and more excited about making movies. He got his friend, Sim Shepherd from Lawton, Oklahoma, to come help him, and he hired a cameraman, a director, and a scriptwriter. His idea was to do a series of films. The first one was to be a reenactment of our Santa Fe and New York rides.

  We got those shot, and then Dad wanted to film a little scenario written especially for Bud and me. It opened with the two of us walking along the boat docks in New York. We rented a small boat and went out in the Hudson River to fish. Off camera, a Coast Guard cutter was standing by.

  Bud and I cast our hooks into the water and relaxed, munching on sandwiches and talking and laughing. On cue, Bud pulled the plug from the bottom of our little boat and water poured in. We began to shout and wave, hoping the Coast Guard would come to our rescue. As the boat filled with water, I crawled to the front end to wait. The cutter approached, and the sailors threw two ropes our way. Bud caught his, but I missed mine. That wasn’t part of the script! The boat was sinking fast, and I was truly scared. Bud shouted at me and then threw me his rope, which luckily, I caught. The sailors threw Bud another rope and hauled me up. Once again, the movie ended with Bud and me smiling, our arms around each other, happy this time to have been rescued from drowning. Believe me, I was really happy about it.

  Our last movie was about Dad’s wolf hunts, and it ended with a scene where he rescued us from wolves. Our family adventures made pretty good movies, and we had lots of fun doing them.

  Fred Thompson and Skip Dundy were friends of Dad’s who’d built the huge Hippodrome Theater in New York City. We’d been to the theater and seen staged shipwrecks and earthquakes so real they had us clinging to our seats. Thompson and Dundy also owned Luna Park, an amusement park on Coney Island. The two men hired Bud and me to sit on our horses at a booth on the Boardwalk, and tell people about our adventuresome rides.

  Then, in July, they had a new and highly unusual job for us. We were to take another ride, but this time not with Sam Bass and Wylie Haynes. Bud was to ride a 7000 pound elephant named Judy and I was to ride a donkey named Jennie in a race to the national capital. The animals represented the Republican and Democratic parties, and the race was to predict which party would win the upcoming 1912 presidential election.

  In spite of the bad experience I’d had with a donkey on the ride to Santa Fe, and the fact that I considered myself a staunch Republican, mostly because of Teddy, I agreed to ride the Democratic mascot.

  We started from Luna Park, rode through New York City, crossed the Hudson River on the ferry, and started south from Jersey City. When people saw us their eyes bugged out in shock and then their faces would break into big smiles as they laughed and waved.

  Each animal had a trainer who stayed with us, making sure children didn’t get too close and things like that. On the third day, as we approached Trenton, New Jersey, it Was really getting hot. Both animals were panting hard by the time we stopped to water them at a trough in front of a saloon. Jennie the donkey, drank quickly and was soon satisfied, but big Judy was another story. She drank and drank and then began filling her trunk with water and throwing it over her back. By then a hundred or more people had gathered to watch, and Judy’s t
rainer led her to a vacant lot to tie her.

  “Please! Please stand back!” he said to the people who began to crowd too close. “This elephant is trained and gentle, but I still don’t know what she might do. Please get back!”

  One young wiseguy swaggered toward Judy, saying, “I’m not afraid of any old elephant...”

  Before the last word left his lips, Judy snatched him up in her trunk and threw him twenty feet in the air. He wasn’t hurt, but it shook him up a bit. Everybody else moved way back without any further warning.

  Once, between towns, Jennie ran away with me, going in the wrong direction. I just let her run until she was tired, then turned her around and rode back to where Bud, Judy and the trainers were waiting for me.

  As we entered the next town after Trenton, I was riding 40 to 50 feet behind Bud when I saw a horse-drawn milk wagon coming around the corner toward Judy. For some reason, it seems that horses are terribly afraid of elephants and this case was no exception. All heck broke loose when those horses rounded the corner and spotted the elephant. The horses bolted, overturning the wagon and throwing the driver out. Milk bottles flew everywhere as onlookers scrambled for shelter. Women screamed as they snatched their children off the street. Fortunately, no one was hurt, but to this day I can’t help chuckling when I remember that chaotic scene of splattering milk and wild-eyed horses.

  On the fourth day the Democrats, Jennie and me got too far ahead of the sore-footed Republicans. Judy’s feet had turned up sore a day or so earlier, but funny-looking leather shoes seemed to help. This time, though, she was so slow the trainers locked Jennie and me into a large but clean chicken coop for a couple of hours. In spite of loud protest from me, we weren’t released until Bud and Judy caught up with us.

  The trainers doctored Judy’s feet every night, but by the time we reached Philadelphia, she was too sore-footed to go on. And so ended the great race. The Humane Society insisted that the race be cancelled. Bud and I were disappointed, and for many years we had a running argument over who would have won the race.

  Meanwhile, back in New York, even bigger plans for us were being discussed.

  Dad gave us confidence that we could do just

  about anything we set our minds to.

  5

  THE CHALLENGE

  “A good horse can travel sixty miles a day on the average, day in and day out. A car is speedier but for dependability give me a horse any day.” Dad was talking to promoters Dundy and Thompson over lunch at the Luna Park restaurant.

  “Is that so?” Thompson asked, the wheels in his head obviously spinning rapidly. He was the dreamer, the creative one of the pair. Dundy was the businessman, with a flair for making money and sometimes, for losing it. Both of them were born gamblers.

  “What did your boys average on the way up here last year?” Thompson asked.

  “Fifty miles a day without even pushing it,” Dad answered.

  “Do you think they could ride from here, all the way to the west coast, say San Francisco, averaging sixty miles a day?”

  “Sure they could,” Dad said confidently. “Those two and their horses are the steadiest, sturdiest travelers I’ve ever seen. Dare ‘em to do it and see what they say. They’d make a trip like that at the drop of a hat.”

  “We can do better than a dare,” said Dundy. “We’ll stake $10,000 on the ride.”

  “Right!” Thompson chimed in. “Let’s get out the maps, figure out a route, and figure out how many days it will take to go the distance. Then, if they make it within that period of time, the boys will win $10,000. If not, well, they’ve had another nice ride. How about it, Jack?”

  Naturally, we were excited when we heard about the challenge. It would, by far, be our longest trip yet, and much of it would be through country we’d never seen before. The money added to the excitement, but Dad was right, we’d have done it on a dare.

  We spent two weeks planning the trip, mapping out a route that would include Albany, Syracuse and Buffalo in New York; Chicago, Cheyenne, Reno, Sacramento, and finally, San Francisco. The estimated distance was 3,619 miles.

  Sixty riding days was the time limit agreed upon. If we made it in 60 days or less, we would win the $10,000. But the contract between us and the promoters also stipulated that we would not ride on Sundays—Dad insisted on that. Sundays and any other days when we were “providentially hindered” by rain, or something else beyond our control, didn’t count toward the 60-day total. Dundy and Thompson insisted that this should be a rigorous trip, so we were not allowed to sleep or eat under a roof at any time. Also, only one change of horses would be allowed, but we were confident we wouldn’t even need that. We knew Sam Bass and Wylie Haynes could make it all the way to California!

  We were to send telegrams giving our location and conditions as often as possible. The starting point was knee deep in the Atlantic Ocean at Coney Island, and the goal was the water of the Pacific at San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park.

  At one minute after midnight on August 11, 1911, we rode Sam Bass and Wylie Haynes out of the water and across the sand at Coney Island. We had a flask full of salt water to carry from the Atlantic and empty into the Pacific at the end of the journey. Several thousand people were there to wish us luck.

  Our first ride to Santa Fe had been for fun. The second ride was to meet a friend. Now we were beginning a more ambitious and difficult ride, this time on a bet. Bud and I were excited!

  We rode through the streets of New York in the dark of the night. Some saloons in the Bowery were still open and a few drunks staggered out, talking loudly. At one corner, a drunk yelled at me, “I bet I can stand here flat-footed and jump over your horse.” He looked crazy enough to try it so we just rode on without saying anything.

  As we rode through the night the sound that followed us was the clop of our horses’ hooves on the brick streets. Shortly after daybreak, we took the ferry to the Jersey shore. Still excited by boats, Bud and I ran over, looking at the steam engine and watching the big tread wheels turn.

  In Jersey City we stopped for breakfast and then pushed on. A few early risers hailed us and asked what we were up to. When we told them about our ride they were fascinated by the idea and everyone we talked to wished us good luck and a safe journey.

  Heading north toward Albany, we had good roads and could travel quickly although the pavement was hard on the horses’ hooves. The first night out was beautiful and clear. Both Sam and Wylie had swollen ankles and were as happy to stop as Bud and I were. The next morning we pushed on feeling much better for the rest.

  People we met along the way asked us to stop and visit, and news of our trip traveled far ahead of us. Often the Mayor of a town would meet us and want to entertain us just like on our earlier trip to New York. But we had to be careful. We couldn’t stay long in any one place if we were to reach our goal in 60 days.

  In Albany, in the early afternoon of the third day, we stopped to buy groceries and water and feed the horses. Then we looked for a blacksmith shop to have their hooves tended. We were careful to find a smithy in almost every town. Dad had taught us that a blacksmith was as important for horses as a mechanic was for cars.

  About 20 miles past Albany, we found a good place to stop for the night. I gathered firewood, and Bud got out the food. He had steaks sizzling in the frypan and beans on the boil when out of nowhere, a man said, “Get off this land. It belongs to me.” We were too surprised to answer. Bud finally recovered enough to say, “We’re sorry mister, if we’re trespassing. We didn’t see a sign saying not to stop here.” Pointing to the fire, he said, “Our steaks are almost cooked. Could we please eat our supper before we leave?”

  The man began to cool down some, and asked where we were going. Bud told him, but had a hard time convincing him that we were telling the truth. By then the steaks were about to burn, so the man said we could eat them. Then he sat down and asked us more questions while we ate. Angry now, we answered reluctantly and didn’t offer a lot of information.<
br />
  By the time we’d finished eating, saddled up and climbed aboard our horses, the man seemed sorry he’d been so rude. But we thought it best to move from a place where we weren’t welcome. We found a better spot a couple of miles down the road and got a good night’s rest.

  Syracuse and Buffalo greeted us with crowds of supporters and swarms of newspapermen. Bud and I figured we’d be rich if we had a quarter for every hand we’d shaken.

  For the next 70 miles we rode alongside the Erie Canal and I was fascinated by the barges. Some were loaded with cotton, others with grain, and a few were stacked high with boxes. Sometimes the barges were pulled by horses, but most had a lone mule walking along the bank ahead of them, tugging that entire, huge load. I struggled to figure out how one lone mule did that.

  We rode across the tip of Pennsylvania, and then through northern Ohio. Between Cleveland and Toledo, some of the roads were brick, which were hard on the horses. At night, when we pitched camp, Wylie Haynes would roll over on his back and stick his sore feet straight up in the air. We bathed him, rubbed his ankles, and fed him, all with the poor critter lying there, feet up. Every now and then, someone would ride by and marvel to see a horse sleeping on his back, and two young boys lying on the ground beside him. Sam fared a little better, but the trip was hard on him, too. Fortunately, morning always found both horses ready to go.

  One Saturday afternoon outside Toledo, we found a little brook with willow trees beside it, a perfect place to camp for our Sunday rest. Next morning, we tied a rope between two trees and laid our tarpaulin over it, making a cool, shady tent. We rested through the day, laughing and talking about our experiences. As sunset, we took our makeshift tent down and used the tarp for a ground cloth to sleep on. We slept like babies, until three o’clock in the morning. Suddenly, the wind began to blow, and streaks of lightning turned the night into day, and a heavy rain began to pour down. We were soaked to the bone before we could get our bedding rolled up and our slickers on.