A tougher problem arose when Cruze decided on a scene in the Indian encampment.
“Now, look, Tim. I want to shoot a scene tomorrow morning, and I want those teepees in a circle, with entrances facing each other, just like the old days.”
John and Shakespear listened with amusement as McCoy tried to explain.
“But that's not the way it was in the old days. They always had the entrances facing east.”
“Why?”
“To greet the rising sun.”
“The rising sun
? Oh, for Chrissakes!”
“Yes, the rising sun.”
“Well, that may be true, but it's also bullshit, because this scene can't be filmed that way. Now, you just go and tell 'em what I want, how they gotta put those goddamned tents of theirs, and we'll have a few minutes of film in the can, ready to send to Lasky.
“No.”
“What the hell do you mean, âno'? I want the tents the way I want them, and that's the way they're going to be!”
“Fine,
you
tell the Indians,” McCoy said angrily. “It's taken me a long time to build some friendships with these people, and I'm not goin' to ruin everything overnight by asking them to do something they're not goin' to do anyway.”
Cruze was pacing angrily.
“Great, just great!” he yelled. “We hire a technical director, an âIndian expert,' and he's not gonna tell the goddamned Indians what to do. That's just terrific! Okay, you goddamned red-faced Irish son of a bitch,
I'll
tell 'em.”
He did a lot of yelling and motioning, and gathered a circle of Indians. He demanded that Black Thunder translate in hand signs.
“Tomorrow, everything the same, tents in circles, but entrances all facing each other,
not
east!”
Black Thunder converted Cruze's demand into hand signs. There were nods around the circle, and a few mumbled, “Yeah, yeah.” The gathering dispersed.
Cruze whirled on McCoy.
“You see? All you gotta do is ask 'em right!”
Â
John Buffalo and George Shakespear watched from a distance, amused at the scene.
John shook his head. “Tim could have explained to him that the teepee has to face east or the smoke won't draw.”
“Sure,” George agreed, “but don't you think Tim's way of pointin' that out is more fun?”
“Right ⦠Let's not miss it in the morning.”
Â
They were up at dawn, headed from the tent where they were staying toward the Indian encampment, when they heard a wail of anguish.
“
Kee-rist!
”
They ran toward the sound, to find Cruze, surrounded by cameras, equipment, actors, and crew, almost ready to weep. All the teepees still faced east.
“Jimmy,” McCoy was saying to Cruze, “they're not goin' to change tens of thousands of years of habit for this picture.”
“But,” Cruze protested, still missing the point, “don't they realize this is an epic?”
Â
Despite such misunderstandings, the filming went on. In a few weeks, a sizable body of work had been accomplished. Then came another problem: weather.
A blizzard came howling over the mountains to the northwest. Cameras were rolling in an attempt to finish the scene before snow struck, but in vain. By this time, having realized that one cannot change either the weather or Indian custom, Cruze decided to keep filming as long as they could. The fortunate resultâalmost an accidentâwas some excellent footage of pioneers laboriously pushing Conestoga wagons across the mountain trail in a blinding snowstorm.
The snow and ice continued. The three thousand crew, actors, and extras huddled in their tents, wet, cold, and miserable. Except, of course, for the Indians,
who had wintered for generations in their teepees. They were oblivious to the world outside, cooking, eating, visiting each other's lodges for a social smoke, singing, and playing on their drums. The teepee, with its central fire, its insulation via the lodge lining, and its east-facing smoke hole to make the fire draw properly, kept them quite warm and dry. Some invited white friends to join them.
Several days later, as the snow continued, Goes in Lodge, a senior chief of the Arapahoes, suggested to McCoy, who was staying with him, a possible solution. He finished a song, laid his drum aside, and turned to McCoy.
“High Eagle, maybe so you ask Yellow Calf about this weather?”
“Why Yellow Calf?”
“He might be able to do something about it.”
Yellow Calf was respected as a powerful medicine man, but â¦
“What can Yellow Calf do about it?” McCoy demanded.
“You ask Yellow Calf about his Turtle Medicine,” answered Goes in Lodge.
The conversation was over.
It was a major decision for McCoy. The old men were fond of jokes, and it might be that he was being set up for a wild-goose chase. But, he decided, it would do no harm to try. Only embarrassment â¦
He made his way through the snow to the lodge of Yellow Calf, where he scratched at the doorway.
“Who is it?” came the question from inside.
“High Eagle. May I come in?”
“Whoahai!
Come in,” called Yellow Calf.
They smoked and visited, and after a polite length of time, McCoy broached the subject on his mind.
“I have been with Goes in Lodge, and he says you might be able to do something about the weather.”
Yellow Calf shrugged.
“This weather, he's strong,” he chuckled. “What could I do about it, High Eagle?”
“Goes in Lodge said something about Turtle Medicine.”
“Oh, yeah ⦠It's been a long time since I used that power. I don't know if it will work, but maybe so we give it a try.”
He picked up his drum and began to sing, apparently lost in the rhythm and cadence, maybe in the unintelligible words of the chant.
After an hour or so, with no apparent results, High Eagle excused himself and returned to the teepee of Goes in Lodge. Later in the afternoon, Yellow Calf came to the lodge, looked in, and spoke.
“You ready?”
Accompanying the medicine man were a small crowd of Indians, including George Shakespear and John Buffalo.
“We gonna try the Turtle Medicine,” announced Yellow Calf.
Wrapped in a blanket and carrying an ax and his drum, Yellow Calf led the way through the storm to the center of the teepee circle. With the handle of the ax, he drew out in the snow a ring, about five paces across, then sketched a rough representation of a turtle about four feet long, in the frozen snow.
He sang some songs, glanced around at the cluster of observers, and announced, “Now we try Turtle Medicine!”
Stalking into the circle with great dignity, Yellow Calf raised his ax high and swung a mighty blow into the back of the turtle figure. There was a crunch of ice and frozen snow, and Yellow Calf turned to the spectators.
“Pretty soon now, we'll know if it works. Not too long. Just wait.”
One of those present later recounted the next development:
Within five or ten minutes the snow and wind stopped, the sun came out from behind the clouds for the first time in several days. And within a short time, the ice turtle had melted and vanished. We were all believers.
About eight weeks had been spent in filming, and the project at Milford was finished. The process of striking camp and transporting five hundred Indians, their lodges, ponies, and baggage was at hand. Tim McCoy insisted later that it was necessary to book two extra railroad cars to carry all of the canned goods and beef that the Indian extras carried home to the reservations. He figured they had earned it.
Â
Back on the ranch at Owl Creek, McCoy approached John Buffalo.
“John, these movie folks want me to come to Hollywood to be a âtechnical director' on this film.”
“I thought it was finished.”
“Basically, it is, I guess. But they want to shoot a few more scenes to patch in. You know anything about training oxen to the yoke?”
“No ⦔ John thought of Bill Pickett, bulldogging with his teeth. “Nothing at all,” he said quickly.
“But you're good with animals,” said McCoy. “These folks want some footage of that kinda thing. To them, anybody that knows one end of a steer from the other is an âexpert.' You want to come along?”
John thought about it for a moment. Maybe this was what he needed. He was restless. The past months had been busy and occupied, and now he was wondering whether to return to Kansas or to Oklahoma, maybe even New Mexico.
“You don't have to decide now,” McCoy was saying. “Think it over. Sleep on it.”
“No,” said John. “I've thought about it. I'll go.”
Â
Â
It was little short of amazing, the diversity of people and of expertise involved in the making of motion pictures. John had had some such contacts before, as the Hundred and One had always been involved in the rising film industry. He had even appeared as an extra in some Bison 101 films. Most of these, however, were filmed at the ranch or, like
The Covered Wagon
, on location.
A motion-picture studio was an entirely different and new experience for John Buffalo. The entire area was filled with specialists. Cameramen, electricians, actors, prop men, those with experience in handling livestock, cowboys who would take a fall that would kill a lesser man â¦
Even the animals were specialists. A scene might call for a horse that was trained to fall on cue, as if he had been shot. Roping, cutting, and bucking horses were, of course, familiar to John, as well as those used in harness or as pack animals. One trait was crucial. A horse must be able to remain calm and pay attention to business in spite of distractions. Most horses would be alarmed at bright lights, gunshots, and snaky-looking electric cables. In that respect, there were similarities to the Wild West Show.
The movie director's job was to bring all of this together and create order out of chaos. It was immediately apparent that the film community known as Hollywood was growing rapidly. Several companies were leading the way, and the specialists easily moved from one to the other to carry out their specialized jobs.
Famous Players-Lasky started with three men: Sam Goldfish, a glove salesman, Jesse Lasky, a playwright and brother-in-law of Goldfish, and Cecil B. DeMille, a director. Sam Goldfish had sold out his share some six years earlier, changed his name to Samuel Goldwyn, and joined a theater operator from Massachusetts, Louis B. Mayer, to become Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. Famous Players-Lasky would eventually become Paramount.
The already-famous green barn where Cecil B. DeMille had filmed their first motion pictures was no longer a movie stage, but had been demoted to a prop room.
But for now, Famous Players-Lasky was concerned with finishing
The Covered Wagon
. They were still filming gold rush scenes in northern California, and wanted McCoy up there.
“But ⦠there aren't any gold-rush scenes in the script,” McCoy protested.
“There are now,” Lasky corrected him. “Go on up there with Jimmy Cruze. You're the assistant director.”
“
H
ey, John! John Buffalo! What are you doin' out here? Want a job?”
John turned, to see a familiar figure from the 101 Ranch days.
“Yak? Yak Canutt? What are you doin' here?”
“Workin'! Easy as fallin' off a horse, an' I'm serious about the job.”
“Well, I sort of have a job, but ⦠Well, what is it?”
“Like I said ⦠Fallin' off a horse! The movie folks need fellas to double for the pretty-boy actors in the stunt scenes. They'll pay fifty dollars and up for a fall. We used to work a week for that kinda pay, din't we?” Yakima chuckled. “A lot of the boys are here. Some are actin', some are cowboyin'. You remember Buck Jones and Tom Mix?”
“Sure.”
“Hoot Gibson ⦠Young fella named Ken Maynard from 101, too. Jesse Briscoe was doin' stunts, like me. Got himself killed when a horse fell last year. But what are you doin', John?”
John made a mental note about Briscoe, and the “easy” money in Canutt's new art. He'd worked with Jesse Briscoe.
“Well, I hadn't really thought about it, but I guess I'm sort of in the movie business, too. I've been helpin' the Famous Players-Lasky folks film in Utah. We used five hundred Indian extras. A picture called
The Covered Wagon
, from a book by Emerson Hough.”
“Yeah, we heard about that. Well, you were wranglin' Oglalas in Germany when the war broke out, weren't you?”
John nodded.
“Who directed in Utah?” Yak asked.
“Jimmy Cruze.”
Canutt slapped his knee and roared with laughter.
“Now
that
woulda been worth seein'. How did he get along with five hunnerd Indians?”
“There were some problems,” John agreed ruefully. “We had a fella handling the Indian part. Tim McCoy.
General
McCoy ⦠Arapaho. I work for him.”
“Oh,
that'
s the connection.”
“Yes ⦠He's up at Bishop; they're shooting some gold-rush scenes. I'm helping with some livestock scenes here, finishing up.”
“I see. So you haven't been at the Hunnerd an' One for a while?”
“No. I've been in Wyoming, cowboyin'. A hitch in the Army.”
“It
has
been a while, hasn't it? Well, a lot of the old bunch are here. We sort of hang out at The Water Hole ⦠Hollywood and Cahuenga streets. A little poker and some tequila and whiskey. Stop by!”
“Maybe I will!”
John doubted that he'd do much drinking. That had given him some grief before.
“Do you think the 101 will put the Wild West Show back on the road?” asked Canutt.
“Hadn't thought about it. There were some good times, weren't there?”
“Sure 'nuff. Say, remember Will Rogers, the roper?”
“Sure. We were with him that time in New York. Nice fella.”
“Well, he's comin' on big. Radio, newspaper column ⦠Made a film or two.”
“Times are really changing fast, aren't they?” John observed.
“Yep ⦠You hear about âtalkies'?”
“What's that?”
“Puttin' talk in a movie.”
“Aw, câmon, Yak ⦠You're funnin' me.”
“No, really. You know, some theaters are usin' phonograph records for background music instead of a piano or organ.”
“I'd heard something like that.”
“Well, what if they could make a record of the talkin', the gunshots, war whoops, hoofbeats, whatever?”
“Yak, I don't think it could ever work. They couldn't get it matched up right.”
“Mebbe not. But some of âem are workin' on it. I figger they'd have to hook it to the film on the reel somehow. But John, it ain't long since movin' pictures were just a curiosity. We're livin' in modern times. Fast trains, airplanes ⦠Folks have flown across the ocean, you know.”
“Some got killed.”
“I know. But it
can
be done.”
John remembered having heard a newsboy in Denver hawking papers with
a headline about a failed transatlantic flight. Two European military pilots had gone down in the Atlantic.
An old woman, passing by, had paused to read the headline, and sniffed indignantly.
“Serves âem right, for thinkin' they could fly!” she snorted, as she shuffled on down the sidewalk.
Yes, we live in fast times
, John thought.
Maybe
,
too fast.
Â
It was an interesting winter, warm in Hollywood, unreal in many ways. On the studio streets, it was not unusual to see couples in evening clothes meeting and nodding to a knight in armor, an Indian in war paint, or a dark-cloaked vampire. There was a calmness about such things that belied the general tension and excitement in the air, which pervaded the entire community. There was a feeling of expectancy, a reluctance to be anywhere else. To be absent from this strange make-believe world might be to miss the next development or happening. The fact that no one knew what that might be only added to the mystery and suspense.
Â
The location unit at the gold-rush site near Bishop finished that sequence, and returned to Hollywood. McCoy seemed satisfied with the work they had done there, but approached John with a proposition.
“John, they want to make a big show out of introducing this
Covered Wagon
thing. It'll be at Grauman's Egyptian Theater, which is about the biggest thing around. There's been only one movie presented there before:
Robin Hood
, with Douglas Fairbanks.”
John wondered what this had to do with anything, but McCoy continued.
“Now, Lasky wants a live prologue, onstage, with a few of our long-hairs, and me, using some hand signs. Could you stick around and sort of help me with arrangements for the Indians' encampment? They know you, and you can talk with the movie folks.”
“I don't know much hand talk,” said John.
“You don't have to. Most of them speak English. You know them, John. Goes in Lodge, Left Hand, Charlie Whiteman, their wives. Broken Horn and his wife, Lizzie. You remember herâa redheaded Arapaho ⦠Indian name is âKills in Time.' It's a four-month contract, pays pretty well.”
“Sure, why not?” agreed John.
Â
The Arapaho camp was established at Cahuenga Pass, a mile from Grauman's Theater. John helped with the arrangements for transportation of the thirty-five
Arapahoes and their lodges, and McCoy moved his wife and their three children to Hollywood, at least for the season.
Â
The grand opening on April 10, 1923, was spectacular, with aerial searchlights and costumed Egyptians stalking the parapets. Admission tickets sold for $1.50, a princely sum at that time, when skilled workmen drew only about $10 per week.
The houselights dimmed, the crowd quieted, and an announcer spoke from the orchestra pit:
“Ladies and gentlemen, Famous Players-Lasky presents
The Covered Wagon
. This film, which is dedicated to the memory of Theodore Roosevelt, stars Miss Lois Wilson, Mr. J. Warren Kerrigan, and a cast of thousands, directed by Mr. James Cruze. As a prologue to this epic film, which may very well be the finest ever made, General Tim McCoy will now present for your elucidation, edification, and entertainment, a company of America's native sons, over thirty Arapaho Indians from the Wind River Reservation in Wyoming.”
Then the electrician brought up the lights, illuminating the stage. The audience gasped. There, appearing to have generated out of the darkness, stood thirty Indians in various stages of dress or, in some cases, of undress. McCoy had told them only to “show the white-man audience how they looked when they felt beautiful.” There were eagle feathers, warbonnets, shell chokers, gold earrings, hair-pipe breastplates, Washington peace medallions, fringed buckskin shirts, beaded leggings, and quilled moccasins. According to McCoy's later account, this scene “erupted into a volcano of pure, joyous color.”
McCoy, dressed in a white shirt, dark tie, trousers, and boots and wearing a white Stetson, then introduced each of the Arapaho in turn. Each told his or her story briefly in hand signs, which the general translated into English.
Goes in Lodge, who fought against the white man and later became a scout for the Army.
Charlie Whiteman, captured by Utes from a wagon train in the 1860s, later captured from the Utes by Arapaho. His fellow Apaches teased him about being “one-third Ute, one-third Arapaho, and one-third white man.” He considered himself an Indian.
Lizzie Broken Horn, wife of Broken Horn. Captured from her family's wagon train in 1865, by Cheyenne and Arapaho “dog soldiers.” Her older sister was ransomed, but when Lizzie was finally located in 1902, she could not speak or understand English. She was all Arapaho.
Left Hand, who had fought Custer, but wore a blue Army jacket to show his later service as a scout.
Red Pipe, six and a half feet tall, created a sensation merely by his appearance.
Â
Â
Twice a day, this prologue was presented, at 2:30 and at 8:00, before the showing of
The Covered Wagon
. It was vastly popular and a great attention-getter.
During the next four months, the Arapahoes were wined and dined, invited to lavish dinners, attended movies, and enjoyed side trips by bus to see the ocean.
“Big lake,” said Goes in Lodge. “Can't see across.”
There was one near-disaster. Attempting to load the bus for a tour, Grauman's stage manager committed a major breach of Arapaho etiquette. He attempted to seat some of the men next to their mothers-in-law. The entire group refused to board until such a flagrant error could be straightened out by Tim McCoy and the Arapahoes could be seated properly.
As the contract for the onstage prologue drew to a close, McCoy was approached by Victor Clark, Lasky's right-hand man.
The Covered Wagon
was to open in London in September, he explained. Would he consent to take the Arapahoes to London?
McCoy was willing, and convinced John Buffalo to go along.
“You know your way around there, John. I don't. You could be a big help.”
Convincing the Arapahoes was another matter. Goes in Lodge finally made an impassioned speech, and with ceremonial burning of sweet grass, singing, and dancing, the troupe from Hollywood boarded the train again at Wind River to head to New York. Ed Farlow and John Buffalo would go along to assist as needed.
The teepees were erected on the lawn of the Museum of Natural History, across from Central Park. There were only a few days to process passport applications, including photos.
The day before the ship was to sail, Ed Farlow made a disturbing discovery.
“Some of the 'Raps are missing.”
“
Missing?
” McCoy snapped. “Ed, they're supposed to be here, getting photos taken for passports. No photo, no passport; no passport, no trip. Where
are
they?”
“I don't know! Off in Central Park or in some bar, I reckon. But they sure as hell aren't here.”
There were supposed to be thirty-five, but only thirty-two could be found. McCoy, Ed Farlow, and John stood helplessly, wondering what could be done.
Just then Goes in Lodge, wearing his eagle-feather bonnet, came out of the photographer's tent.
“Look,” said Tim, “borrow Goes in Lodge's bonnet, put it on Yellow Horse, tell 'em it's Shavehead or one of the other absentees.”
“Uh ⦠ain't that kinda illegal, Tim?” asked Ed.
“Ed,” McCoy pointed out, “will this be the worst thing you've ever done?”
Thus began a game of “musical warbonnets,” as it was described later. A
headdress would be placed on the head of a man who had already been photographed bareheaded. Taking advantage of the white man's belief that “they all look alike” the feather bonnet would be pulled down over the brow and the photography would proceed.
In a short while, there were thirty-five passport photos, and the next morning, thirty-five Arapahoes boarded the S.S.
Cedric
, a modern White Star Line luxury liner. There were no questions about “they all look alike.”