by Judy Alter
"James," she finally said shrilly, "she says this is her husband."
"That's right, Jess, he is. Our little girl's all grown up and married."
Mama looked more puzzled than distressed. "But I don't remember the wedding, and I didn't make her a gown."
I went to her side. "No, Mama," I said softly, "we were married in New York, in Madison Square Garden. But I missed you something fierce."
Mama wailed as if her heart would break. "Thomasina's wedding," she cried, "and we weren't there!"
Eventually she quieted down, and I helped Papa fix a noonday meal by adding more potatoes around the roast he'd started, opening some canned peaches, and slicing some fresh bread. After we ate, Papa took Buck on a ride around Luckett's, and the two hours they were gone gave me a good chance to visit with Mama, though it wasn't much of a visit.
I guessed, as we sat there on the porch, that I never would understand Mama. Oh, I knew about how much she loved Papa and even why she never left him, in spite of all his trips to Guthrie, but I couldn't understand why she'd given up, retreated into that half-world of hers. How could she sit on the porch and rock all day, while Papa did his work and hers? For the first time, I felt more sympathy for Papa than Mama.
"Showed me where you killed a bull," Buck said grinning, "so I told him about the steer you missed in the Garden."
"Is that tit for tat?" I asked, embarrassed that Papa had heard about my empty loop. "Why not tell him about the ones I caught?"
"He did," Papa said, "he did. Bragged on you right good, and made me a proud old man. But it sure makes me jump some every time he calls you Cherokee."
I laughed, and Buck said, "I've never known her as anyone but Cherokee. Don't think I could call her Tommy Jo."
"I'm gettin' used to my new name, Papa. You will, too."
"Cherokee?" Mama said vaguely. "What Cherokees?"
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, while Papa patted her shoulder reassuringly.
"Papa? Will you come to the show sometime, maybe when it's in Oklahoma City?"
"Honey, I'd go to Kansas City, even St. Louis to see you ride—and I'll bring your mama."
We spent the rest of the afternoon talking a blue streak about the show, with Papa listening intently to everything we described, asking questions about the people we mentioned, probing the plans for the next year. Mama's hands were busy with her knitting, and occasionally she said, "Really?" but I don't think she cared what we were talking about. Every once in a while she'd look up from her handwork to just stare at Papa, with a look so full of love and devotion and dependency that it near made me cry.
Papa said we could have my old room, but we both knew the bed there was too narrow for two, and Buck and I left in earl evening to ride to Guthrie. When we were near to the ranch gate, I turned to wave at Papa, who stood on the porch, his big arms signaling a hearty farewell. Then I rode on without saying a word for miles, tears streaming down my face.
Finally, Buck said, "It isn't ever like you want it to be when you go home again, Cherokee."
"I know. I just... well, I want them to be happy, and they seem so pitiful."
"I don't think they're pitiful," he said. "At least your pa's not. He's a fine man, proud of you, good to his wife, and fairly happy. I don't know what more you want."
Buck made me see Papa in a new light. Finally, I said, "He liked you."
"I liked him," Buck said, and I thought my world sure was in good shape.
Louise and Buck took to each other instantly, as I'd known they would. Far be it from Louise to fuss over a man—instead, she sized him up with a long look and said, "You think you're man enough to keep up with, uh, Cherokee?"
Buck grinned. "I sure aim to try, ma'am."
"You'll probably do it," she said, and led us to the kitchen where she put me to work on a pie while she floured steak and fried it with potatoes and onions. We ate with the boarders—-just like old times—and sat in the parlor talking until near midnight.
Louise filled me in on the news of Guthrie—which wasn't much, considering I didn't know too many people there—and we retold the story of our adventures in New York, how we met when Carmelita's bull ran amok into the musicians, how we married in the Garden late at night.
"Sandy upset?" she asked. "I haven't seen him since before you left."
I wasn't surprised that Papa didn't come into Guthrie anymore. "No. He and Buck got along fine. Mama cried 'cause she wasn't at the wedding."
Louise just nodded. Her sympathy never had been with Mama. "You going out to see Bo?"
"Should I?"
"You owe him that, child."
Bo had been part of Tommy Jo's life, and now I was Cherokee, and married, but I guessed Louise was right. I went to see him alone the next morning, leaving Louise and Buck chatting over coffee.
"Tommy Jo!" Bo ambled out of the barn when he heard me ride up. "Didn't know you were coming back." He shaded his eyes against the sun with one hand and reached the other out for my hand. "Gonna get down for a minute?"
"If that's all right," I said, feeling awkward about the news I had to impart.
We walked toward the barn together, Bo asking small questions like "How was New York?" and getting small answers like "Fine."
"Tommy Jo, there's somethin' I got to tell you," he said all in a rush. "I met this girl—now she ain't like you, but she's a fine little girl, and—"
I laughed so loudly that Bo stopped in his tracks and stared at me, hands indignantly on his hips.
"It ain't funny," he protested.
"Oh, Bo, yes it is," I said. "I came out here to tell you I'm married."
He didn't exactly laugh like I had, but he grinned. "Married? Well, I'll be... you beat me to it, Tommy Jo. I was worrying how to tell you, and all the time... well, don't that beat all!"
"Why didn't Louise tell me?" I asked.
"I reckoned it was mine to do. We talked about it before. But Tommy Jo, I want you to know something." Bo looked at the ground, avoiding my eyes. "I'm here for you always, anytime you need me. I... it ain't that I don't love you, and I guess you know that."
I threw my arms around him. "And I love you, Bo. But we're better off this way. And thank you."
When I was mounted again and ready to ride back to town, I said, "Bo, my name's Cherokee now. Cherokee Rose."
"After Prairie Rose," he said instantly, and it struck me that Bo was still one of the few people who really understood me.
"Yeah, after Prairie Rose. See ya, Bo."
"See ya, Cherokee."
Buck and I spent two days with Louise—almost a honeymoon, since she left us strictly alone unless we came looking for her. We stayed in bed half the day sometimes, wandered the streets of Guthrie looking in stores and splurging on silly things for both of us—an oak-backed dressing table set for me, silver-backed hairbrushes for Buck, things we never needed.
"We'll have to be more practical," he said. "Colonel doesn't pay us all that much."
I giggled. "This is a one-time honeymoon shopping spree!"
"As long as it's just us, we can spend what we make," he said. "But when we have a family, we'll have to watch our pennies and nickels."
A family! Buck and I had never talked about children, and somehow the idea had never occurred to me. I couldn't see myself raising babies, and just as I didn't want love to get in the way of my riding and roping, I sure didn't want motherhood to.
The look on my face must have been a clear map to the thoughts in my brain, because Buck laughed and asked, "Don't you know how babies are made, Cherokee? What do you think we've been doing since we were married?"
"Making love," I retorted, "not babies."
"Can't always separate the two," he said complacently. "I sort of hope it won't be too long now."
My heart lurched. I should have known, I told myself later, that I was too happy. The Lord just doesn't let folks have everything all at one time—seems like he always puts at least one cloud on the horizon, and he
sure had put a black one on mine. From now on, I'd worry about pregnancy and watch my monthly time like a hawk. Would I think of that every time Buck touched me?
"Buck, look at that hat in the window," I said, almost frantic to change the direction of my thoughts. "The one with the pheasant feather headband—I want it to wear in the show." It was a brown Stetson with a high crown, a large brim, and a hatband woven of feathers, with two feathers sticking jauntily into the air.
"And you shall have it," Buck said, dragging me into the store.
I talked to Louise about my new fear late that night, having sent Buck to bed on the true excuse that some girl talk was needed. "I just figure if I keep roping and riding, it won't happen," I said.
"You mean it won't take?" she said with a smile. "You going to get rid of a baby by riding so hard it won't stay around? I don't think you can count on that, Tommy Jo, and I don't think it would make you happy. There are remedies, folk medicines and such, but they're chancy."
"I don't want a baby!" I surprised even myself with the ferocity of my reply.
"Are you going to let that fear rum your marriage? Are you going to stop sleeping with Buck?"
"I've thought of that," I mumbled, "and that's not what I want either."
"It's trite and corny, child, but we don't always get all the things we want."
"Or even half of them," I interrupted petulantly.
"My best advice is to love Buck as much as you can and leave your life in the hand of fate to a certain extent. At least, don't let this fear dominate your life."
We talked a few minutes longer, and I hugged her as I went up the stairs, saying truthfully, "I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have you to talk to."
"Never thought I'd be mothering a grown girl," she laughed, "but I like it."
I woke Buck when I came to bed, and I think I surprised him with my passion that night, but I made love to him frantically, as though to keep my fears at bay.
* * *
We left for the 101 the next day, and once we were back there, we were into a whole new routine. The colonel put us all to work. Buck had worried about staying at the 101—"Colonel can't feed all of us for months till show time, without getting anything for it," he'd said, and I assured him it would be all right. It was: The colonel put Buck to work cowboying, cleaning stalls, doing general work that needed to be done.
My job was to sew costumes with Mrs. Miller, a chore I didn't mind too much. If we'd been making fancy clothes with ruffles and tucks and the like, I'd have rebelled. But we made western-style clothes. As the colonel added a new member to our group—he was out recruiting all the time—we measured him or her and began a new wardrobe. 'Course some of the new ladies had to sew with us, and that gave me a chance to get to know them.
New York had been a disappointment to me in one way. I'd never found another Rose, never felt close to anyone in the show except Buck—and that was so different that I didn't think it counted as friendship. Somehow I thought there should be camaraderie among us, particularly the girls, but in New York there had been only Carmelita and me and Belle, who was nice enough, but somehow we never developed a real close friendship. I longed for Rose or Louise or some new friends, so I eyed each newcomer hopefully.
"We're gonna add to this show," the colonel said heartily at one of the meetings he called. The troupe had grown so, with his new recruits, that breakfast meetings could no longer accommodate everybody. Because I was an old-timer, as it were, Buck and I lived in the big house and ate with the colonel and his mother and brothers. But most of the new troupe lived in hastily built dormitory buildings and ate in a mess hall. When a norther blew through in February and Buck and I were warm and comfortable in a very private bedroom, I felt sorry for the others.
The colonel wanted to add relay races to the program, for one thing. "I been checking out other shows," he said, "and they have ladies riding relay races. Good event. Gets lots of interest. That's why I've hired so many of you girls." He nodded at the new riders, of whom there were seven. "Teams of four, counting Cherokee."
My new companions were another Belle—Belle from New York had elected to return to her family's ranch in southern Oklahoma rather than join the 101 traveling show. This Belle was from Montana and had short dark hair, enormous wide eyes, and a kind of solemn look on her face all the time, but she could ride. I'd seen her top off a feisty horse early one morning, and I was impressed.
Then there were Jane and Jo, seventeen-year-old blond twins from Colorado, raised on a ranch and perfectly at home on any horse you put before them, full of giggles and high spirits. Dixie Bell—surely that wasn't her real name!—came from southern Oklahoma, but I suspected she was a little like Carmelita, a town girl who pretended to be ranch-raised. Still, she could ride and rope, and she'd be an addition, if she didn't prove as untrustworthy as Carmelita. Fay Harrison, from Kansas, was the tallest girl I'd ever seen, near as tall as Buck, with blond hair that hung in natural ringlets down to her shoulders and bright blue eyes that looked at the world with laughter, even when she fell off her horse, which she did during her first tryout.
I didn't know the last two girls at all yet—Bonnie Adams and Grace Carroll. The colonel had come back from St. Louis with them in tow only a few days before this meeting.
Two things about all seven of these girls—they took the term cowgirl for granted as their proper title, never knowing that it had been coined for me, and I didn't tell them. And they all called me Cherokee, thought it was my name. In a way it was like Tommy Jo was dead and gone—and that gave me a qualm or two.
"We're gonna add some other things," he went on. "Acts, kind of like little dramas. With music in the background. Buck," he said suddenly, "that's gonna be your responsibility. You and me, we'll dream up these acts, and then you can fit some music to go behind them."
Buck grinned, and I knew he liked the idea of being part of the planning. "What kind of acts, Colonel?"
"You know—Indian massacres and attacks on homesteads, and stuff that shows people what the Old West was like."
I put my hand to my mouth to stifle laughter and wondered if Rose was looking down from heaven on this scene. If so, she'd be laughing and saying, "I told you so!" The colonel had come a long way from that show that he declared would be nothing but authentic work done on a real, working ranch. Little dramas indeed!
Those were happy days for us. Buck spent long hours reading history books and poring over sheaves of paper on which he plotted his little dramas. Usually I was allowed to comment and contribute, as long as I kept the needle and thread in my hand busy.
"Custer's Last Stand has been done too much," he'd say. Then, reading from a book: "How about this? In 1873 the Grand Duke Alexis was visiting here and wanted to go buffalo hunting. So the army sent Custer to lead the party. How about that for a skit?" And so eventually the show had a skit showing Custer leading this prince, who had an atrocious fake accent, over plains made of green carpet, in search of buffalo.
And, of course, there was the massacre scene, but Buck decided that too many homesteads had been attacked onstage and instead we'd do a wagon-train scene. He read somewhere about some freighters who were killed by Comanches in Texas—the Comanches almost got General Phil Sheridan—and he invented an act he called "The Salt Flats Massacre."
By April, the show was ready to go on the road. The cast totaled nearly fifty cowboys and cowgirls who doubled as soldiers, beleaguered wagon-train drivers, Russian princes, whatever the script called for. Only the Indians were real—seventeen men of the Poncas, who lived on and around the 101, rode with us.
One night as we lay in bed, Buck leaned a lazy arm around me and said, "Cherokee, you were so right. Coming with the colonel was the best thing for us to do. I'm going to listen to you from now on."
I shivered before I could stop myself. Buck, thinking I was cold, began to warm me, and my doubts melted away. Lesson number two: When a man makes love to you, you forget your worries, even about him. For on
e clear second there, I had seen the future, and it frightened me.
Chapter 8
By the fall of 1908, Buffalo Bill was back from Europe, his show in disarray and debt, his longtime partner, James Bailey, dead. In Madison Square Garden, he gave a farewell speech, bowing out of the Wild West show business forever. But then he immediately teamed up with another smaller show, Pawnee Bill's Far East, and they toured the country together. Their show, familiarly called the Two Bills, grossed a million in one year, and Buffalo Bill was out of debt again. But the tour was, so Cody insisted, "a farewell exhibition."
It struck me as ironic that I was touring with the show that was in a large sense competing with Buffalo Bill, when all my life I'd meant to ride with him. The colonel was careful to take the 101 far from wherever the Two Bills Show was playing, but it was a big country, and there were plenty of audiences for both of us. Colonel Miller and the 101 did all right in show business despite the competition.
Buck and I went all over the states with that show for six long years. I was the star, and Buck kept on plotting his little dramas—sometimes he'd ride in them, like the time he took over the part of Custer when the regular cowboy sprained his ankle. For one show Custer had short dark curls instead of the long blond ones that everyone knew him by. Buck also became sort of the colonel's assistant manager, taking more and more responsibility for the smooth running of the show. That meant the show revolved around the two of us in a lot of ways—sounds immodest to say, but it was true—and we were sort of the golden couple of the Wild West. It was a heady time. We traveled forty thousand miles, did more than eight hundred shows in forty-two states, and by the time the show left for Europe in 1914, we were different people, with a lot of different experiences behind us. But that gets me ahead of my story.
