T
he letters, two of them, were waiting in the mail room at the ranch, forwarded from Carlisle. By the dates on the cancellations, both had been sent on before he had returned from Europe. He sought a place to be alone ⦠. Behind the horse barns, where they had often met. He tore open the envelopes.
My dear John,
By the time you read this, it will be after the Olympics. How I hope for the Americans to do well. They will, with you helping them, and we'll read about it here. News travels so fast now.
Things have been good here, though I miss you. Strawberry had her baby, a fine stud colt. He's sort of mouse colored, what the Mexicans call
grulla
, but I think he'll shed off as a blue roan.
I've had a cough for some time, and will go see a doctor in Ponca tomorrow. I'll mail this then. I miss you a lot, John, and I'll be glad when we can be together again.
All my love always,
Hebbie
He tore open the other envelope, which was dated in late July.
My dear John,
Forgive me for not writing sooner. I was waiting for the doctor's decisions. He was concerned about my cough, and gave me some
medicine, which smelled pretty bad and tasted worse. It didn't do much good. He said I have what we used to call consumption, and they call it tuber-something now. “T.B ⦠.”
Some folks go to Arizona or someplace for this, but the doctor says they have special hospitals for it now. Some even get well. But, I wouldn't want you to catch this from me, so good-bye.
I will love you forever, John. Don't try to come to me. If I get well I'll look you up. Good-bye, John.
All my love,
Hebbie
He sat numbly, sitting on the ground with his back against the barn wall. A dung beetle a few feet away was rolling the ball containing her eggs toward wherever she'd bury it. The burden was three times her size, maybe as big as the laggin' taw marbles he'd seen kids play with. He'd never understood how such a creature could handle such a weight. But it was nothing compared to the weight that now fell on his heart.
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In the ranch office in the White House, Joe Miller was sympathetic.
“Yes, I heard about that, John. Too bad, to come home to such a thing from such a triumph as yours. She's a good woman, too.”
“I've got to find her, Mr. Miller.”
“Of course. Let's see ⦠Surely we've got some connections with information like this. Let me send a couple of wires ⦠You'll want to take a train, I suppose. A horse would be pretty slow.”
“I hadn't thoughtâ”
“You need an advance on your pay?”
“No, sir. I still have a little from my Carlisle job.”
Miller nodded. “Good. But maybe we should advance a little, just in case. Now ⦠Come back tomorrow afternoon, and we'll see what's turned up. Be ready to travel.”
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Joe Miller was true to his word. John had always been amazed at the “connections” the Millers enjoyed. They challenged the world with a confidence that they could do anything, and usually did.
But not this time. Miller rose from his chair behind the desk as John entered the office. There was a frustrated look on his face as he motioned to John to shut the door. Then he pointed to a chair and seated himself again.
“John,” he began, “we're hitting a dead end, here.”
John's heart sank, as he found his seat, and Miller continued.
“Hebbie ⦠I understand that's short for Hepzibah?”
“That's what I was told, sir.”
“Gawd! Who'd name a defenseless baby somethin' like that?”
“She said it's a Bible name.”
“That's no excuse. But let's go on. There are several states beginning to open these sanatoriums to treat this T.B. I understand it's quite a problem. I'd heard there was one in Kansas, but I find it's not even open yet. Several others ⦠But, I can't find a trace of anyone with the name of Hebbie Schmidt. Hepzibah, either.”
“She may be using another name,” John said numbly.
“You know of one she'd use?”
“No, sir. But she'd change both names if she wanted to disappear. There are a lot of Schmidts, but as you said, Hepzibah or Hebbie would be one folks would remember.”
“Yes ⦔ Miller hesitated a moment. “We have to consider the possibility that she may be dead, John.”
“Yes, I know,” John said quietly, his voice husky.
“But,” Joe Miller went on, “none of the sanatoriums we contacted had any such record. She's just disappeared.”
John nodded sadly. “She just doesn't want to be found, sir. If she's in one of those places, it's under another name. She may have changed her name anyway. One thing's sure: She's gonna do it her way. She's tryin' to save me the pain of takin' care of her.”
“I'm sorry, John. If you can think of anything we can do ⦔
John took a deep breath.
“No, sir. I reckon not. If she don't want to be found, we're not goin' to find her. She's smart, and she'll cover her tracks.”
To himself, he held one more thought. Her letterâthe second oneâstated plainly that if she did survive,
“I'll look you up
⦠.” She wanted to call the shots, and she would.
But ⦠If she wanted to find him, he'd need to be available. Where would she look first? Here, on the Hundred and One.
As if in answer to this unspoken thought, Joe Miller spoke again.
“You'll stay with us?”
“Yes, sir ⦠I appreciate your help.”
“Sorry we can't do more, John. We'll keep some feelers out.”
“Thanks, Mr. Miller.”
“Glad you're staying. We've got a bunch of two-year-old colts that will need some attention. Keep your mind off things, maybe.”
“Maybe so.”
But he knew it wouldn't help much. However, it would give him a lot of time to think, and remember some of the best years of his life so far, which had been here on the 101.
With Hebbie â¦
P
reparations for the 1913 show season were in progress during the winter. The success of the past two seasons had been inspiring to the already-enthusiastic Millers and Edward Arlington, their less-conspicuous partner.
John was astonished at the change in equipment, facilities, and in organization in the short time he had been gone. The show train now consisted of twenty-eight railway cars, brightly painted and exciting to view. There were eight stock cars for the horses, cattle, and a few buffalo, and fourteen flat cars to carry the extensive equipment, canvas, electric generators for lighting; all the accouterments of the circuslike show. The remaining six cars were for the personnel: Pullman sleepers, which would be their homes for the next six months, beginning in early April.
It was good to remain busy, but it did not help entirely. John would waken in the night and find it impossible to return to sleep, thinking of Hebbie, not knowing whether she was alive or dead. Sometimes he thought of going to look for her, visiting some of the sanatoriums to try to find her, but he always realized the futility. Besides, he was certain that if and when she recovered, Hebbie would come to him. She had promised. The first place she would look, of course, would be the 101. Even if he was on the road with the show, this would be her contact. He could see no other way.
He threw himself into the work of taming and training the range-bred colts, readying them for use. An operation the size of the Hundred and One, including all of its far-flung enterprises on the West Coast, required hundreds of horses, not to mention the turnover in cattle ⦠Roping calves, steers for wrestling,
longhorns for the simulated cattle drives, beef to feed the small army of cowboys, Indians, and headliners.
Near the corrals where John was working, Bill Pickett, who never seemed to change in a changing world, worked with horses and steers as he had for years.
Bill said little, but his word carried a lot of meaning.
“Good to have you back home, John.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
“They's a lot of new folks,” Pickett went on.
John had noticed that. With the nationwide publicity, the moves and the extensive train travel of the 101 Wild West Show, it seemed that everybody in the country wanted to be a cowboy ⦠Or cowgirl. There must be kids everywhere who were pretending to be Tom Mix, Buck Jones, or Princess Wenona. As they became old enough, a lot of them were making their way to the 101 Ranch to seek employment. This year there were far more than usual.
There were, of course, many who were legitimate cowboys. Some were good, hardworking young men, down on their luck, looking for a steady job. A few were of questionable morality, possibly even on the run from a misunderstanding with the law. The Millers asked few questions. A man who did his work well and was loyal to the Hundred and One was accepted.
A young man was assigned to help John with the two-year-olds. John was not very enthusiastic about it. His work, like that of Pickett and some of the other specialists, was best done alone. But, after the first few hours of gentling, it would take a lot of hours of easy riding to complete the animal's education. As Pickett put it, “a poultice of wet saddle blankets applied daily.” Wet, of course, translated to sweaty. A light workout, every day, a few miles under saddle, to finish the animal's training after the preliminary gentling and breaking.
The young man, who called himself “Ed,” was from back east somewhere, Illinois or Indiana. He appeared to have little experience with horses, but seemed ambitious.
“âAt's okay,” chuckled Pickett. “You kin start 'em out together, train both hoss an' rider.”
“That ain't funny, Bill,” John observed.
Still, the results seemed acceptable. A day or two of John's “medicine,” then a few hours of riding, before he turned the animals over to young Ed. The process was producing some pretty good mounts.
However, there came a day when the deep-seated warnings in the farthest corners of John's subconscious mind began to ring true. The young man had ridden off on one of the green-broke horses and had not yet returned at noon for dinner. This fact almost escaped John's notice. The mess hall was big and always crowded, a lot of people coming and going. Maybe he'd missed Ed in the crowd. But he ought to be sure ⦠.
At the corral, he couldn't find the saddle that the young man used. He asked a couple of cowboys working nearby, with no results.
“I seen him ride off,” Bill Pickett verified. “Headin' north, like most every day. He was ridin' that dun gelding, about fifteen hands tall, dark mane an' tail, star an' snip on his face, white front foot ⦠. Good horse ⦔
Trust a horseman to remember the details of the markings of any horse he saw.
“That's the one,” agreed John.
“He ain't back yet? Missed dinner?”
“Guess so.”
“Mebbe he's in trouble,” Pickett suggested.
“He better be, Bill, 'cause if he ain't, he's gonna be.”
“You think he be stealin' that hoss, John?”
Pickett was concerned, but mildly amused by the situation.
“I dunno. But, I figger I better let George know, either way.”
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“Mr. Miller, that fella we had helpin' with the green-broke colts turned up missin'.”
“When was this, John?”
George Miller rocked back in the chair behind the big desk, a look of concern on his face, along with a bit of a question.
“This morning, sir. He didn't show up for dinner. He may be in trouble.”
“Did anybody go look for him?”
“I rode out a couple of miles, where he usually goes. No sign of him.”
“Any tracks?”
“Sure. Lots of 'em, this close to the ranch. I couldn't tell.”
“Of course.”
“The saddle's missing, that we use on the green-broke colts. But he could have had an accident, Mr. Miller.”
Miller nodded. “Be best if he did. Okay, you go look for him. Take somebody if you want to. But come back tonight. I don't want you out with no supplies. Let me know when you get home.”
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It was dark when John returned and put Strawberry in the stall, with a reward of oats in the feed bunk before her. He made his way to the White House.
“He's gone, Mr. Miller. I found his tracks, followed him maybe four, five miles. Horse was workin' well, headin' straight north.”
“Why, that son of a bitch! Took him in an' tried to help him. Well, okay ⦠I'll send somebody into town tomorrow, have the sheriff wire ahead. We'll offer a reward for this horse-stealin' bastard. Good horse, you say?”
“Purty good, sir. One of the best of that bunch.”
“Damn! Prob'ly worth a hundred, or more?”
“Yes, sir. More'n that. And the saddle, too. It wasn't much, but worth mebbe thirty or forty dollars. Bridle, too ⦔
“Yep ⦠Well, we'll put a hundred dollars on his head, and describe the horse. He'll try to sell it, I expect.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You want to chase him, John?” Miller asked with a grin.
“Not in the winter, sir. Mebbe if it was summertime.”
“Okay ⦠Well, go on with the horse breakin', then. If you learn anything, let me know.”
“Yes, sir.”
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The mild buzz of the curious excitement over the disappearance of the young man from Illinois quickly subsided. There were other things to think about, such as the opening show on the road on April 5, 1913, in Hot Springs, Arkansas.
Meanwhile, however, George Miller, with his thorough efficiency as a manager, published and distributed a “Wanted” flier. It advertised a hundred-dollar reward for the arrest and conviction of the horse thief. The Millers asked few questions about the past of a prospective employee, but one certain requirement was loyalty.
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In late January, John was working with a young horse when a cowboy paused at the rail.
“John, when you have a minute, George wants to see you in the office.”
John nodded and continued his work, but his mind was racing.
Something about Hebbie?
He decided not. The clue was in the way his presence had been requested:
When you have a minute.
He tried to continue with the horse, but found it impossible to concentrate. How could he possibly find his way into the head of the already-suspicious animal when his own head was spinning? Finally he gave it up. Leaving the colt to relax in the little enclosure, he called to Pickett.
“I'm goin' up to the White House, Bill. The colt's okay ⦠. Back purty soon.”
Pickett waved and nodded.
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What could George Miller possibly want? It is a worrisome thing to be called before the throne of authority, even when innocent. Was there somehow an oversight, an unseen or forgotten infraction? Well, he would know soon.
He knocked on the door frame from outside the open office door as he peered into the room. John's first glimpse of George Miller as the manager looked up from his cluttered desk was reassuring.
“Ah! Come in, John.”
Miller's grin was like that of the cat who has just made a meal of the family canary.
“Sit down, son! Just thought you'd like to see a couple of things, here.”
He shoved a letter across the desk, and John picked it up cautiously. He was curious. The letter was friendly, innocent, and appeared quite insignificant. It was merely an inquiry about a relative who, it seemed, was employed at the 101 ⦠. The younger brother of the writer, it seemed. There was a polite request:
⦠give him a chance at riding ⦠For I truly would like to see him gain a high reputation. Surely he ought to be able to better himself immensely. Hoping you will try to help me make my wish come true.
John was puzzled. Why should this be of any concern to him? Who was the young man referred to in the letter? He looked at the envelope again. Moline, Illinois â¦
A light dawned, and the tight smile on the face of George Miller gave evidence that his thoughts were on the right track.
“Is this the fella?”
Miller didn't answer, but shoved another letter across the desk, his answer to the request:
Dear Madam,
Your letter of January 27th is just received, and I regret very much to have to write this letter.
I enclose herewith a reward card, offering $100.00 reward for the arrest and conviction of a horse thief.
I beg to further advise you that your brother ⦠is the man mentioned in this card, and he was captured at Arkansas City, Kansas, on the morning of January 30th, where he was attempting to sell the horse and saddle for $30.00, and he is now in jail at Newkirk, Oklahoma, and will, no doubt, plead guilty to horse stealing.
When caught with the goods, he was probably very fortunate in falling into the hands of the sheriff instead of falling into other hands.
Very truly yours,
George L. Miller