Some explanation came forth the same day with the arrival of a note to John Buffalo. He recognized the envelope, the seal, the handwriting of the address, and the faint scent of the perfume.
My dear one,
My heart is heavy. My father was furious over my unladylike behavior and over our friendship, which he considers inappropriate. I deeply apologize for having embarrassed you, and for any trouble that he may cause for you. I know not what that might be.
He is talking of sending me abroad to school, which I suspect is to keep us apart. But know that my affection (dare I say “love?”) for you will be forever.
I will write you when I can.
Yours, always,
Jane
John sat staring at the page. A few days ago he had been at the top of the world. His life ahead of him, a promising career … Now it was like ashes in his mouth. The worst was not even to his career, but the loss or destruction of the budding romance. The pinnacle of that thrilling episode had been the experience of a lifetime. To have a beautiful woman throw her arms around him with such feeling in a public place was embarrassing. But it was also such an honor … Aiee! But then it was spoiled by the reaction of her parents.
He still did not understand about that. He had thought that the Langtrys liked and respected him. Their quick withdrawal had confused him completely. What had caused the change? It could be nothing but the scene of affection at the stadium. And that was not even of his own doing.
“You’re leaving?” Charlie Smith was astonished. “Why?”
“I don’t know, Charlie. Just a request through the Bureau.”
“But … Where?”
“I don’t know. Some school out in Kansas. Haskell, it’s called.”
“Haskell? I know that one, John. It’s only about a hundred miles from the Cherokee Nation. But … That’s only a two-year school. A junior college! I don’t understand. Maybe Senator Langtry could—”
Charlie stopped short and the two stared at each other.
“Yes,” John said sadly. “I’m afraid so.”
“Because of that little hug on the track the day of the game?”
“I don’t know, Charlie, but it looks like it. They left early, you know. I had a letter from Jane.”
“I heard you got a letter,” Charlie said with a smile.
“Well, it wasn’t good. She’s going to school in England or somewhere. I wrote to her but haven’t heard back.”
“He’s sending her away?”
“I guess so.”
Charlie took a long breath.
“Whew! Well, damn it, John, you’ve got to face it. The Senator doesn’t want his precious daughter keepin’ company with a savage redskin.”
John’s temper flared. “It’s not like that, Charlie!” he insisted.
The Cherokee said nothing for a few moments, and then finally spoke, but more softly. “You know it is, John. I’m sorry. I thought the Senator was different.”
“But I didn’t think he’d do this, Charlie.”
“Me, neither.” Charlie sighed deeply. “I guess white men are all alike, after all. They all look alike, you know.”
It was a wry attempt at humor, a reverse twist to the white man’s impression of the hundreds of Indian cultures. But it was a poor joke, and fell on deaf ears.
“At least, I can write to her,” John said.
That, too, proved to be wrong. The next day, John’s letter was returned, unopened. Across the face of the envelope was scrawled in a firm hand: “Return to Sender.”
His heart was very heavy.
Only a few days later, John found himself on a train, heading west again. It was different country. His sense of direction was acute, but his knowledge of geography and the political boundaries which had been drawn by the whites was sketchy. Borders, which could not even be seen, seemed a ridiculous concept to John and his friends. Charlie had told the others of a situation in which the white man’s government had awarded adjacent tracts of land to his Cherokee Nation and to the ‘Osages. Through error, the land assignments overlapped, which led to border warfare between the two. And both were right.
“Huh!” said Little Horse. “Borders are a white man’s disease anyway.”
“Maybe so,” agreed Charlie. “But our word for ‘Osage’ now translates ‘Nation of Liars.’”
The others had chuckled, but it was a sour joke.
The miles slipped behind with the click-click of the wheels on joints in the rails, a bitter reminder of the hope he had felt two years ago on the journey east. He was being exiled. There was no other interpretation. Through no fault of his own … His only crime had been the affection of the Senator’s daughter. Even in that, his own part had been passive. The active role was Jane Langtry’s. It was of little help that she, too, had been banished from home and country. That was a wry twist to the dark jokes played by fate.
Haskell Indian Institute was located on a flat tract of land south of the town of Lawrence, Kansas. Between the two was the campus of the University of Kansas, perched on a hill. Between this hill, impressively titled Mount Oread, and the Kaw River, sprawled the town of Lawrence. It had been burned by William Quantrill’s Confederate raiders, and some 200 of the residents had been killed during the War Between the States, but Lawrence had now recovered and was rebuilding.
The area had also suffered from the loss of the riverboat industry, as the navigable rivers were bridged by the railroads. Riverboats which once plied the Kaw, unable to pass under a railroad bridge, had been sold or transferred to companies operating on the upper Missouri. But the town was still well located. The area around the junction of the Kansas (or Kaw) River with the Missouri was the gateway to the rapidly expanding West. Another day’s journey westward from Lawrence would bring a traveler to Topeka, the state capital.
In the midst of all this expansion, there was a thrust for education. Within easy traveling distance were several colleges and universities, and the whole area was interested in athletic achievement. The strength of young manhood was prized greatly on the still-lusty frontier.
Within the radius of a day’s train travel were at least eight or nine colleges
and universities with strong athletics programs. The University of Kansas, almost within view of Haskell, had a small but growing athletic program.
“Our toughest rival is Baker University,” said Walter Goingbird, his first new acquaintance. “That’s a Methodist school about twelve miles south of here. We play them in football and baseball. It’s close enough for us to walk over to the game. They walk here, too, when we play here.”
“Who else does Haskell play?” John asked.
“Well, the strongest are the church schools,” Walter explained. “There’s a lot of ’em pretty close … . Park College, over on the Missouri side. They’re Presbyterian, and so is the one at C of E—that’s College of Emporia, a bit farther away. We play Washburn at Topeka. Now, that’s a city college. There’s a Baptist University at Ottawa, south of here, beyond Baker … . Town of Ottawa … Then Lane University at Lecompton, between here and Topeka. They’re United Brethren. Let’s see … . Oh, there are state Universities of Missouri and Nebraska. KU, of course. Kansas has an ag college, too, a ways west of Topeka.”
“And all of these have football?” John asked. “Not just track and field and baseball?”
“I think maybe so, John. Football’s catchin’ on pretty fast. First game in Kansas was here. Kansas and Baker, about eight years ago, they said.”
“Who won?”
“Oh, Baker, of course. They’re the bigger school.”
Maybe it won’t be so bad, John told himself. Still, he was only half-convinced. And still, he smarted from the rejection and undeserved penalty for the simple infraction of having been born with a red skin.
By comparison to Carlisle, back in the more civilized part of the country, Haskell was somewhat primitive. But the instruction was good, the athletic program active. That is, within the limits of money for equipment. That had always seemed to be a problem everywhere, even at Springfield College.
One major difference at Haskell was something he had not foreseen. Many of the student athletes were older—some in their thirties, perhaps even forty years old. He remarked on this to Goingbird, who chuckled and nodded.
“Yes,” he agreed. “That’s right. There are a lot of men in the plains nations … . Kiowa, Apache, Southern Cheyenne … . Even some Osages, who were sort of caught in between. Some refused to cooperate and stay on reservations, but then later figured they’d have to play along. So, some of them are in school here. They have some pretty wild stories, but it’s hard to get ‘em talkin’.”
“I’d suppose so,” agreed John.
In age, some of these men were contemporaries of his father. It startled him to realize that some of these older students might conceivably have ridden
with Yellow Bull and the others against the cavalry at the Battle of the Greasy Grass, called the Little Bighorn by the whites. Surely not … He dismissed the idea as too unlikely to consider seriously. But … Maybe?
There was nothing he could do to attempt contact with Jane. His letter had been returned, and there was no point in trying again. He mustered what faith he could, hoping against hope that she would try to contact him.