Cherokee Rose Page 10

  "You there! Move along! No tourists allowed here, and you're in the way. Look lively now!" From behind me, a voice bellowed in an unpleasant tone.

  Holding Sam's reins tightly, I turned in the saddle, only to see an enormous load of wooden planks being hauled by mules, right toward the spot where we sat. I touched Sam lightly with my knees, and he moved forward and away.

  "No tourists here!" the voice repeated, and then it took shape, a man of perhaps Papa's age with a bushy mustache, who stood, hands on hips, belligerently staring up at me from beneath the brim of an enormous Stetson.

  "I'm not a tourist," I said, summoning all my dignity. "My name is Tommy Jo Burns, and I've been invited here to ride." Just who this rude man was I had no idea, but I wanted my tone to convey what I saw as my superiority.

  "Tommy Jo Burns!" he exploded. "Well, I'll be. I'm Zack Miller, the one who invited you here. Come right down off that horse, and let's have a look at you! Where's your pa? I never could figure if you'd be here or not, what with your letter and his saying different things. But I figured if you showed up, he would, too."

  Patting Sam to reassure him in the face of all this conversation, I dismounted, dropped the reins on the ground, and walked around Sam to face Colonel Miller. "My father," I said, "could not come with me."

  "And you came way out here alone? A sprite of a thing like you? Lord almighty!" Hands still on his hips, he stood staring at me, evaluating, until I thought I was a horse he was thinking of buying. Finally, he said, "If you can rope, you'll be the hit of the show."

  "I can rope," I said with great conviction.

  "Well, come right on up to the house. We're puttin' the ladies up there. Mama's got rooms all fixed." Jerking his head toward the huge white house, he strode off, leaving me little choice except to follow or stand there looking dumb.

  "How much do you know about the show we're putting together?" he asked as we walked.

  "It's for editors or something," I said, puzzled by this talkative man. "You want me to rope."

  "Right, editors. We're gonna show 'em what the real West is like—none of this Buffalo Bill business. We're gonna have working cowboys—and real Indians. Geronimo is here." He added this triumphantly, as though having the Indian chief were a great accomplishment.

  "Geronimo?" I echoed. Sure, I'd heard the name, but I couldn't have told you any more than that he was a fierce Indian who'd killed more than his share of whites in days past. And now he was here at an exhibition? I shook my head.

  "Yeah, Geronimo. Apache. One of the meanest and toughest, but he's a farmer now. Real calm. You'll see."

  "This isn't a Wild West show?" I asked tentatively, trying to hide my disappointment.

  "No, ma'am, it's an exhibition of real working cowboys—and cowgirls, of course. I hear you're the first to have that name, least officially."

  "Well, maybe," I said, suddenly bashful, thinking perhaps I was presumptuous even to think of myself as a cowgirl. But then I raised my head and said proudly, "President Roosevelt called me a cowgirl. I guess that was where it all began." I didn't think it was worth mentioning those mean girls in the convent.

  His scornful attitude toward the Buffalo Bill show was still bothering me as we reached the house, but I forgot about it as soon as I met Mollie Miller, the mother of Colonel Zack and his two brothers.

  "They tell me you can rope like no other girl," she said, her voice in a question as though she were appraising me.

  "I can rope," I said, with a sense of repeating myself. "I don't know any other girls who rope, so I guess I can't say about the others."

  "Where's your father? I presumed he would accompany you."

  There was that question again! "Papa couldn't come," I lied. "I came alone."

  She frowned. "A young girl like you riding all that way alone. Your father should be horsewhipped for allowing that."

  Now there was a thought! I prayed a silent but fervent plea that Papa would not arrive unexpectedly, for I'd have hated to see him tangle with Mrs. Miller. I began to understand why her three sons were not married.

  "Come, I'll show you your room."

  Without ceremony, I was deposited in a large sunny corner room with two narrow beds, a rag rug on the floor, roller blinds that were raised to let in bright sunlight, and family photographs hung in chains on the walls.

  "You'll be sharing with Prairie Rose Henson," she said, plumping the pillows in a no-nonsense way as she talked.

  "Prairie Rose?" Could it possibly be the girl I'd read about, the one who backed the officials down and rode a bucking horse?

  "She's a bronc rider from Wyoming. One of the best. Dinner's at eight." And with that she was gone, leaving me to unpack my few belongings and wait in anticipation to meet my heroine.

  I didn't have to wonder long, for Prairie Rose—her real name was Florence—blew into the room a bit later. She wore a Stetson with a brim so wide it made mine look like a miniature, and an explosion of red curls escaped beneath it, framing a small heart-shaped face liberally sprinkled with freckles and split by a smile that threatened to turn into a giggle. I liked her immediately.

  "You're Tommy Jo," she said, a statement that became cause for laughter—not deep laughter like Louise's, but a high-pitched, girlish sound. "You rope. Mrs. Miller told me you were the best girl roper in the West." She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.

  "She told me you were the best bronc rider," I replied, too shy to tell her that I already admired her greatly. Much later in our friendship, I told Rose that I'd known about her and that she'd inspired me, and all she said was, "Silly! You've got the spirit, Tommy Jo. You can go anywhere you want without me to inspire you. You just got to remember that." And I did remember her saying that, forever.

  I sat on the bed I'd chosen and watched as she carelessly pulled clothes from a canvas duffel, flinging them over a chair here and on the bed there.

  Being Mama's daughter, I'd hung my few things, including the new clothes Louise had made, neatly in the wardrobe.

  "Yeah, I ride broncs. But I really trick ride. It's just that Colonel Miller is so bound that this be an exhibition of working cowboy skills, that he doesn't want trick riding. This time." With that she smiled, as though she had a secret plan. Prairie Rose emptied her canvas bag in minutes, disappeared into the bathroom down the hall for just a moment, then reappeared to insist, "Let's go downstairs." All I'd learned about her in those few minutes was that she grew up on a ranch in Wyoming, that she really wanted to be a trick rider, not a bronc rider, and that her pa, as she called him, had sent one of his cowboys to escort her all the way to Oklahoma. At first I thought they'd ridden all that way, and I was mightily impressed, but the truth was they'd gone to Oklahoma City by tram. Rose, on the other hand, was awed that I'd made a two-day ride alone and spent a night on the prairie, and I could see that I went up in her estimation. It gave me a good feeling.

  Since it was nearly time for dinner, we put off exploring until the next day and settled ourselves on the veranda to watch what was going on—some men carried long pieces of lumber, for benches perhaps, others led horses, cowboys rode back and forth, and people milled around.

  "Look," I said, "at that Indian—do you suppose that's Geronimo?" I was staring at a short, slightly stooped man with his gray hair parted in the center and drawn back from his face. He wore a stovepipe hat, a man's suit that looked too big, a wrinkled checked shirt, and a scarf knotted at the neck, and he was animatedly talking with Colonel Miller. As he talked, he waved his hands in the air and pointed at himself, then the colonel, then the big top, then the sky. "Whatever can he be saying?"

  "Don't know, but I do know that's Geronimo."

  "The colonel said he was here," I said, trying to appear casually knowledgeable. "But what's he going to do? Ride in the parade?"

  "More than that," she laughed. "They're going to kill a buffalo—one last buffalo hunt, so they say—and Geronimo's going to get to do it. I heard a rumor that Geronimo offered a thousand dol
lars to any white man who would let himself be scalped during the raid on the stagecoach. But I don't guess anybody's taken him up on it."

  "I want to meet him," I said, half-rising to head toward him right then.

  Mrs. Miller stopped me, sticking her head out of the door to announce that dinner was ready. She banged on an iron triangle, and I saw Colonel Miller start a little and then take leave of Geronimo to head for the house for dinner. His mother must have trained him never to be late to meals.

  Dinner was hearty—beef and potatoes—and it was informative, for Colonel Miller presided over the meal and turned it into a lecture session on the exhibition. "Trains start to arrive first thing in the morning, parade is at two p.m. Everyone's expected to ride. We'll meet in the arena tomorrow at eight in the morning to go over the exhibition plans." He looked around as though challenging his guests to come up with questions or comments.

  No one spoke. I peeked a shy glance around the table—there were three other women besides me, Mrs. Miller, and Prairie Rose, and they looked to be older, one nearly thirty. The colonel's two brothers sat near him at the head of the table, and about six other cowboys had joined us. The Millers made no introductions, and I was left to wonder if these were other performers in the exhibition or simply cowboys who worked on the ranch. One thing was certain: There were a whole lot of workers on this ranch who weren't at this dinner table. Luckett's looked like small potatoes by comparison.

  * * *

  Papa showed up just before the parade—at least I guess he did. I saw him as I rode next to Prairie Rose, just behind Geronimo, who was bowing and smiling and loving the attention he got—only now he was dressed like everyone thought he should be, in a beaded vest, fringed leather leggings, and a feather-decorated band holding his hair. I was amazed at the change in him, from the kind of dumpy man I'd seen the day before. Now he rode proud in the saddle.

  The parade was equal to the one I'd ridden in for President Roosevelt, and I had to keep reminding myself I was on a ranch in the Cherokee Strip and not in a big city. A cavalry band led the way, playing "Home on the Range" every so often between marching and battle songs. Geronimo and a band of Indians dressed for battle followed, and we five women performers followed him. Then came a long procession of cowboys. A stagecoach and a pioneer wagon train brought up the rear.

  We paraded from behind the house along the road to the arena, and then twice around the arena, while the spectators stood and cheered, causing the horses to shy almost into each other. The editors were seated in a large group—Colonel Miller told me later they came from every end of the country, even Vermont and Maine—and they were mostly dressed like easterners, in dark suits with boiled shirts, proper ties, and derby hats, which some of them waved enthusiastically. The arena that I thought held at least a thousand people turned out to hold ten thousand, and there wasn't a vacant seat anywhere.

  I knew how Geronimo felt as he waved to the crowd, for once again I heard the roar and felt the applause and thought I'd died and gone to heaven. Those men, the editors, had probably never seen women riding in exhibition—gosh, they'd never seen a western exhibition—and they cheered loudly as we rode by. If they'd known our names, they'd have called to each of us, I was sure.

  Papa was waiting outside the arena right after the parade.

  "Get back on Sam. We're goin' home," he said in his strictest tone. "You don't run away when I've told you not to go somewhere."

  "I'm here, Papa, and I'm going to ride."

  "You're my daughter," he thundered, "and—"

  I looked behind me to see what had caused Papa to stare into space and stop yelling at me. There stood Colonel Zack Miller.

  "Burns?" he said, holding out his hand. "Good to see you again. Sort of expected you to arrive with Tommy Jo. Understand you've been her coach and all." He ignored the difference in our letters, the fact that Papa had said clearly that I was not coming to the exhibition.

  "Uh, that's right," Papa said, taking the offered hand. "I've taught her what she knows." He beamed at me with what I considered a fake smile, and I was glad Billy wasn't around to hear Papa take all the credit.

  "You'll be proud to see her perform today, then," the colonel said.

  "Yessir, looking forward to that!" Papa responded.

  "Well, I'll take her back with the performers now, but there's a reserved seat waiting for you next to the announcer. I know you'll have a good view."

  "Thank you," Papa said, almost mollified. He turned into the arena, and still mounted on Sam, I followed Colonel Zack Miller.

  * * *

  I'd never roped before a big audience before—oh, sure, I'd ridden in President Roosevelt's parade, and I'd roped for Billy, but I'd never put the two together, at least not until it was almost time for me to perform.

  The show began with an Indian ball game, followed by a war dance and powwow, bronco busting, and finally, the roping. Rose, as I'd already come to call her, rode a wicked dun bronc who sunfished, threw himself straight up in the air on four stiff legs, and finally reared back on his hind legs. I held my breath, sure that the horse would topple over backward, crushing Rose beneath his falling body. But she grinned and waved at the crowd as they cheered, whistled, and stomped. Prairie Rose was a hit, and there was, I knew, no way I could follow her. The roping was next.

  Four of the men who'd been at the dinner table the night before were on the roping program before me. They roped running calves, and one—a short banty-legged cowboy with amazingly strong arms—roped a running buffalo. But none let horses run through their loops, and none dared to rope another cowboy.

  "Ladies and gentlemen!" roared the announcer. "We now have the privilege of seeing the finest lady roper in the West—Miss Tommy Jo Burns of the Luckett Ranch in the Cherokee Strip."

  I touched my heels lightly to Sam, and he moved forward, carrying us into the arena at a dignified pace. We moved to a point just beyond the center of the arena, and I dismounted. The arena was almost eerily quiet, though my heart was pounding so loudly that I thought it would break the silence. Moving slowly, deliberately, I built a loop in front of me—a good-sized loop—and when it was strong, I stepped into it and continued to turn it around me. The cheering nearly brought me to my knees. Letting the loop drop after a few minutes, I stepped over the rope and bowed deeply.

  Then, my hands almost shaking, I laid out a huge loop behind me. When it was to my satisfaction, I nodded ever so slightly to the man who waited at the far end of the arena—he was a cowboy I'd met that morning at the planning sessions—and he began to ride toward me. When he was almost up to me, I heaved the loop over my head, until it stood vertically in front of me.

  The horse, his rider waving his hat in the air, rode through that loop. For just a moment, there was silence in the crowd, as though everyone had collectively drawn in a long slow breath, just as the loop settled about the horse and rider. And then the audience exploded in applause. Laughing and as excited as I'd ever been, I took bow after bow.

  The cowboy—he was John Mason—stepped off his horse and started toward me, and as he did I built a loop with the small rope on my belt and threw it around him, barely pulling it tight. Laughing, he tried to hold his hands up in a shrug, though he could only get them partway up because of the rope around his shoulder. The applause grew louder, but I could not bow as long as I had that rope around Mason. Finally, I let it drop, and he came over and grabbed my hand, holding it high in the air as though I were the victor in a boxing competition.

  I bowed to them, and bowed again, breaking into laughter from pure joy at the applause. The editors and all those other folks from around about were cheering wildly, and my bows didn't seem likely to stop them. Off to one side, I saw Papa, grinning broadly, all his anger forgotten in reflected glory. With a sudden inspiration, I coiled my rope and deliberately built a loop. The crowd quieted as they watched. When the loop was right, I sent it sailing over Papa, and then tightened it enough to begin to pull him toward me. The c
rowd went wild again as the announcer said, "The little lady's father, folks! Sandy Burns!"

  The Indian raid on the stagecoach followed. The Indians weren't Apaches like Geronimo, but were the Poncas who lived around the 101 and who respected Colonel Zack like a father. As a favor to him, they dressed up and pretended to be fierce, but it was really an act. The editors, however, didn't know a Ponca from an Apache, and they oohed and aahed with horror as the Indians shot arrows into the fleeing stagecoach and finally set it on fire. One horse—specially trained, I learned later—limped off after the battle, as though wounded. If the show was repeated very often, I thought, it would get expensive replacing stagecoaches and horses.

  The climax of the show, though, was Geronimo's buffalo hunt. This great warrior chief shot his last buffalo right there in front of a bunch of easterners who didn't have any idea what it meant to him. But the amazing thing about it was that he shot that buffalo with a bow and arrow like he'd done all his life, but this time from a speeding automobile rather than from a running horse. The other Indians around him rode horseback and herded the buffalo toward him, but Geronimo, armed with bow and arrow, rode in a Locomobile that probably went twenty miles an hour—and he brought down his buffalo with an arrow placed just behind the shoulder. The editors would have buffalo meat for dinner—and probably none would realize that it was stringy and tough, because the animal was an old bull. And maybe none of them thought about how ironic it was for a great Indian chief to be hunting from an automobile. I thought there was something wrong about automobiles—and terribly wrong about an Apache shooting a buffalo from one.

  Papa waited for me at the gate when it was all over. "Tommy Jo! You best talk to me!"

  "Papa, aren't you proud of what I did?"

  "'Course I am, honey," he said, "but you still disobeyed me, and I can't let that be. We're goin' home now."

  "Papa, I'm not goin' home with you," I said in deliberate tones, though I had no idea where or what I would do instead.

  Prairie Rose rode up behind me just then. "Mr. Burns? You must be awful proud of Tommy Jo!"