by Judy Alter
"No," she said slowly, "I'm just worried about your being more boy than girl."
At fourteen, I was the youngest person on the wolf hunt, and almost the only girl. But I wasn't youngest by much—some of the cowmen had brought their sons, boys not much older than I. No, it wasn't my age that made me stick out like a sore thumb—it was my sex, though Papa seemed fairly oblivious to my distinction in the company that was gathered. Theodore Roosevelt was neither oblivious nor aloof—but that's later on in the telling.
The only other female was one of the wives of Chief Quanah Parker of the Comanches, and she slept in the only other tent, provided not by Parker but by the Texas cattlemen who leased lands from him. But that lady—I never learned her name—didn't venture outside the tent, and I think I saw her only once the entire five days we were in that camp.
The Texas cattlemen who invited Roosevelt on the hunt leased lands in the Indian Territory to graze their cattle, and they dealt with Quanah Parker on the leasing. I thought he was the most interesting Indian in the whole territory—son of the white captive Cynthia Ann Parker and her Comanche husband, Peta Nocona, he had been the fiercest of warriors until Colonel Ranald Mackenzie whipped the Indians good at Palo Duro Canyon in the Texas Panhandle. After that, Quanah saw the inevitability of the Indians' defeat and was the most important chief to lead his men on the "white man's road." But he still had many wives, and he still wore funny clothes, including an out-of-place derby hat. I was intrigued by him, but I never got to talk to him—and I never got to talk to his wife. I wanted to ask her what it was like to be one of several wives. Papa and Mama sometimes had so much trouble getting along that I couldn't imagine multiplying it.
* * *
Papa brought me a small tent, having listened to Mama say that I absolutely could not sleep around the campfire with the men. I slept in my tent and wished I were around the campfire with the men.
"Burns, why'd you bring that girl? I mean, she's a nice enough youngster, but a girl on a wolf hunt?" The voice, unidentifiable, drifted back to me as I lay in the tent, wrapped in blankets against the chill of an April evening. Embarrassed even though no one could see me, I burrowed down into those covers, but the voices followed me.
"Wha'dya mean, a girl?" Papa asked belligerently. "You brought your son, didn't you?"
"Well, of course. " came the crisp answer. "Boys belong on hunts. But not girls. They need to stay home and tend to—well, you know, cooking and the like."
"Tommy Jo can outride any of 'em," Papa said, "any of them boys. And... well, I wanted her to have the experience."
"It's putting a damper on it for the rest of us," the voice continued. "Got to watch what we say, be careful how we act, where we pee, for God's sake."
"You don't got to watch nothin' for Tommy Jo," Papa said with a certain lack of chivalry. "She's just like your sons."
I cringed. I didn't want to be like anyone's sons, even though I didn't want to be like most people's daughters either.
"I think you ought to take her home," said another voice, this one more determined and angrier than the first. "She don't belong here."
"You want to make me?" Papa asked.
I slid to the opening of the tent and looked out. Papa, silhouetted by the firelight, stood with his legs apart, his fists clenched, staring almost nose to nose with a man no bigger than he, but no smaller either.
The other man stood firm and put his palm up, facing Papa. "I don't want to fight with you, Burns."
"Then quit talking about my daughter!" Papa's clenched fists came up, as though he were ready to strike.
I'd never before seen my papa so near out of control, though Lord knows I've seen many men since rush into a fight with less cause. But Papa—he was always in charge in my mind, and it terrified me that I could be the reason he'd fight. Many a woman is thrilled to have a man go to battle for her, but rarely when it's her father.
Just before I could scream, Papa said flatly, "She stays," in the same tone he sometimes used on Mama. And then he turned his back on the other man, as though daring him to hit a man from behind.
I held my breath as the other man wilted as though someone had let the air out of him. By then, I was sure Papa would have won in a fair fight. It was the closest I ever saw Papa come to a fight. And it was over me.
After that, the men kind of accepted but ignored me, though I could always feel them watching. One who watched me with a different kind of curiosity was Walt Denison, the nineteen-year-old son of a North Texas rancher who owned thousands and thousands of acres in the southeastern part of the state. At least, that was my estimate of his wealth.
"You sure do ride better than any girl I ever knew," he said once, sidling his horse right up next to mine.
Flustered, I said, "Thanks," and spurred Sam away.
"Hey," he called, "don't be leaving so fast. You and I could be good friends." He loped after me.
He was dark-headed, with curls that escaped under his Stetson and plastered themselves on the back of his neck, around his ears, even on his sideburns. His eyes were blue, though, and always laughing. When he looked at me, I thought of Sheila at the convent and Eddie McAdams who kissed so well and all those secret dreams about boys.
"What's your name?" he asked, his horse again almost on top of mine, so that between the animals our legs brushed.
"Tommy Jo," I faltered, "Tommy Jo Burns."
"I knew that," he said, grinning, "but I wanted to ask. All the men are talking about you being on this hunt 'cause your father treats you like a son."
"He does not!" I said indignantly, but then could say no more in defense of myself or Papa. "I got to look for my father," I said nervously, and stood in my stirrups searching for Papa, who was nowhere to be seen.
"How old are you?" he asked, almost angry.
"Fifteen," I lied.
"Fifteen!" he hooted. "Call me when you're seventeen, promise? Name's Denison—Walt Denison." And with that he trotted after a group of men ahead of us.
I was left to ride alone and look for Papa.
* * *
Theodore Roosevelt was the first president the country ever had who appreciated what life on the frontier—or what was left of it—was like. A sickly and spindly young man, Roosevelt had gone to the Dakota Territory in his mid-twenties, stayed to ranch, and literally turned into a new person—he filled out physically to the figure now familiar from history books, not fat but certainly stocky. While he was a rancher, he welcomed every adventure that came his way—from hunting to a barroom brawl in which he decked an obnoxious drunk—and thereby earned the respect of cowboys. Once he was heard to say that it was in the West that "the romance of my life began."
Tom Waggoner of the Waggoner DDD Ranch and Burk Burnett of the Four Sixes, two of Texas's biggest and best-known ranches, had invited Roosevelt on this wolf hunt, hoping that he'd be so intrigued by the Big Pasture—lands granted to the Indians but leased annually by the Indians and the federal government to the ranchers for grazing—that he'd extend the right to graze in the territory. The government had declared an end to the leasing.
To lure the president to the Big Pasture, Waggoner and Burnett arranged to have Jack "Catch-'em-Alive" Abernathy hunt wolves with the president and show how he caught the wild animals by hand. Story was that Abernathy was once attacked by a wolf and had saved himself by thrusting his right hand into the wolf's mouth, grasping him under the jaw, and making it impossible for the animal to bite. He'd become so successful at this that he caught animals for zoos and exhibitions, making almost more money that way than from his salary as a United States marshal. Now the stakes were high—impress the President of the United States.
Besides Abernathy and Quanah Parker and Waggoner and Burnett, who'd arranged the hunt, there were Mr. Luckett, Papa, me, Walt Denison, Sr., his son, and several other ranchers from both Texas and Oklahoma that I never really met. Three of them had their young sons with them, so it was quite a crowd after those poor wolves. Then Waggoner
and Burnett had brought the cooks and the foremen from their ranches, along with several cow ponies—there was great competition about whose ponies were the fastest and whose the president liked best.
The first morning, we all rode out in a knot, though I trailed behind some out of self-consciousness. Papa, pleased to be with the men, seemed to forget me and rode on ahead, almost right next to the president. I wouldn't have traded spots with him, for I knew being next to greatness would have made me tongue-tied.
Waggoner and Burnett had each brought a pack of greyhounds, and the dogs flew ahead of us to find the wolves. We followed on horseback—except for Mr. Luckett, who never rode horseback because of an injury and even herded cattle from a carriage. When the hounds flushed out a wolf, they held it at bay until the riders caught up. Then Abernathy jumped off his horse and grabbed the snarling animal by the jaw, and before you knew it the wolf was conquered.
The first time I saw Abernathy do this, I stared openmouthed in amazement. Wolves were one of the few things that scared me on the prairie, for I'd seen what they could do to calves and I thought of them as evil, our natural enemy. My idea of the way to deal with a wolf involved a rifle, and I couldn't imagine anyone pitting his own strength and cleverness against the wily animals without that advantage. Yet this Abernathy—a big, clean-shaven man who always wore a grin—seemed to like hunting wolves. Evidently, he also liked showing off for presidents.
"Another one for you, sir!" he called, holding up a struggling wolf that pawed the air helplessly.
"Bully!" Roosevelt cried. "I wish I could try it."
"Best not," Abernathy said modestly. "It'd be a shame for the President of the United States to lose a hand." And then he laughed as though to show that he had just been joking.
"Right, right," the president agreed, laughing with him. But he was not afraid to walk right up to the wolf that Abernathy held and examine him closely. "Remarkable!"
That was kind of how the first three days of the hunt went. We rode, Abernathy caught wolves, and we watched. The wolves were caged and sent to various zoos back east, though I knew the cattlemen would rather have killed their longtime enemies. Roosevelt prevailed on that point.
I began to think the hunt kind of boring, but Roosevelt seemed to enjoy himself thoroughly. If I'd thought a president would be dignified and distant, this one proved me wrong—he was always laughing, joking with the men, praising the coosie for the chuck, even talking to the horses. He called me "Little Lady" and, contrary to some others, didn't seem at all offended that I was part of the group.
When Sam was feisty in the morning and I had to hold on tight to prove I was the boss, the president praised my riding, saying he'd never seen a girl ride like that. He seemed impressed and even mentioned to Papa how proud he ought to be of my horsemanship. Papa, of course, puffed up with pleasure.
By the fourth day, I was tired of the monotony and ready to go home. But that morning, Papa insisted I ride near him.
"Tommy Jo, come right on up here," he kept urging.
I suspect he was by then feeling comfortable with the president and less reticent about pushing his daughter forward, since the president had bragged on me so. To keep Papa from talking louder, I rode forward as he told me, and next thing I knew I was between the president and Jack Abernathy.
Abernathy asked my age and allowed as how he had two sons right about the same age and that they'd ridden to New Mexico by themselves. I couldn't imagine any kind of a father letting two boys ride alone that far, but it wasn't my place to say so. After telling me that story, he ignored me, his concentration on the hounds ahead.
We rode for a long while that morning, the April sun turning warm enough to cause some discomfort. The hounds leaped and bounded and bayed, but they seemed unable to flush a wolf. Even Roosevelt wondered aloud if we should call it a day.
Then a change in the noise from the hounds, far enough ahead to be out of sight, alerted us. Frantic baying was followed by the ferocious growls of a fight, and everyone—myself included—put spurs to their horses. A large wolf, less easily cowed than the others the hounds had flushed, had turned on the dogs. By the time we got there, blood was dripping from two or three dogs—and probably the wolf—and a fierce battle was under way. All my fear and hatred of wolves vanished in admiration for this lone strong animal who took on a pack of hounds.
"I'll shoot the wolf!" Roosevelt cried excitedly.
"No! You'll hit my dogs!" That was Waggoner, whose pack was running that morning. "I can call 'em off."
"I'll get the wolf," Abernathy said with a kind of quiet confidence. "Call your dogs, Waggoner."
Waggoner called, and the hounds reluctantly backed off. With a firm hand on the reins, Abernathy rode his nervous horse almost up to the cornered wolf, who stood panting, too exhausted to growl. Abernathy jumped off his horse toward the wolf, but the wolf, perhaps more clever than we gave him credit for, chose that moment to back off further.
Without the wolf to land on, Jack Abernathy landed flat on the ground, the wind almost knocked clean out of him.
It was instinct, I guess. My rope was coiled—ever since Papa had taught me to rope, I kept a ready loop on my saddle—and I threw it. It sailed home, right over the head of the wolf. Without a command from me, Sam began backing, drawing the rope taut and pulling the wolf away from the hounds.
For a moment, there was complete silence. The men stared at me, openmouthed.
The wolf, on the end of a line, fought and kicked but could go nowhere.
"I'll take over, Little Lady," Abernathy said, pulling himself upright. "You've done a mighty piece of work." He grabbed the wolf in his usual manner, held it up in the air, and motioned to someone to slip my loop down over its body.
As I sat on my horse, coiling the loop, Roosevelt found his voice. "I—I've seen few men rope like that, Little Lady, but no women. Where'd you learn?"
"My papa," I answered, now tongue-tied and somewhat alarmed at what I'd been bold enough to do.
"She's a natural," Papa said with false modesty. "I only showed her a thing or two, and she practiced. Sometimes I wish I could rope like Tommy Jo."
The president repeated my name, as though memorizing it. "Tommy Jo," he said, "the cowgirl. You wait till I tell folks back east about this. Have you ever thought about Buffalo Bill's show? I bet you'd draw as many people as Annie Oakley!"
I simply blushed and looked down. That year, the Buffalo Bill was barnstorming the country with a new act especially in honor of the president. "The Battle of San Juan Hill" had replaced "Custer's Last Stand" as the battle for folks to see reenacted. I'd read about it in Papa's St. Louis newspaper. But I couldn't confess to the President of the United States that I dreamed of joining the show, of riding in the arena, of showing off for royalty. To think that Theodore Roosevelt himself thought I should do just that! I very nearly felt like I was going to fall off Sam from sheer dizziness.
Around the campfire that night, as we ate our beef and beans, I was the center of attention. Papa made much over me, putting his pride into words time and again, though trying hard to be tactful and modest about it, and Mr. Luckett acted like I was his daughter instead of his foreman's. The other men, one by one, congratulated me, offered their praise, and suggested my future lay in exhibitions. One even allowed as how he wished his son could rope as well as I could, but then he seemed embarrassed that he'd said that and turned away. The young boys mostly sat glowering at me—and I didn't blame them for being resentful.
Later in the evening, while the men sat around smoking, I wandered out a ways from the fire to stand staring at the sunset, thinking about wolves and their place on the prairie. A voice broke into my thoughts.
"Pretty proud of yourself, aren't you?"
I turned to see Walt Denison standing behind me, arms folded across his chest in a belligerent pose.
"No," I said slowly. "I just acted before I thought. I suspect I should have let someone else rope the wolf."
T
hen he laughed loudly. "Who?" he asked. "No one thought as fast as you did. You should be proud of yourself. But you may also have bought some trouble."
"What do you mean?" I asked, my heart thudding just from the uncertainty of talking to this young man, who was better looking than any of the boys the girls at the convent had dreamed about.
"Most men resent a woman who can do their work better than they can." He moved closer to me and spoke softly.
"Do you?" I asked, backing away nervously.
"No," he said, "not at all. I admire what you did." In one quick—and, I'm sure, practiced—movement, his arm was around my shoulders, and he leaned his face close to mine. "You're older than fifteen," he said, "at least in spirit."
Almost frantically, I put my hands up against his chest to push him away. If instinct guided me, as it had that morning, I would have hollered for Papa, but that somehow didn't enter my mind. And when he kissed me—gently, almost but not quite like a big brother—I did nothing.
He drew back and looked at me. "Someday—soon—you'll act different. I wish I could be there," he said. And then he was gone.
Papa packed us up for home the next morning, and it would be ten long years before I saw Walt Denison again.
But that last night on the hunt ended badly for me. The voices came again in the night as I lay in my tent, angry voices of men who accused Papa. They were not near as admiring of my roping as Walt had been nor as they themselves had been to my face.
"Ain't natural to have a girl rope and ride like that," said one, "and it makes boys look bad. Men are gonna resent her. You've got an old maid on your hands, Burns."
"Sure made my son mad," said another. "If it were my daughter—"
Suddenly Papa's voice—a little too loud—cut through the talk. "Well, it ain't your daughter. Tommy Jo's my daughter, and I'm proud of her. She'll be no old maid, and she'll probably always make your sons look second rate. But she ain't gonna change for their sake."
It took me some time to realize that Papa had really said what Walt Denison had. They both gave me something to live up to.
