It was shortly after lunch time on a Friday in June that Jason Brierley strode into the Hugo Herald office, spied a nondescript woman behind a paper-strewn desk on the other side of the counter and asked to see the editor. Jan White glanced up over her horn-rimmed glasses then sat a little straighter. This wasn’t a reporter from the Daily Oklahoman in Oklahoma City. They didn’t dress in such well-tailored suits, didn’t exhibit the same self-assurance, the same imposing air.
“May I give him your name?”
“Jason Brierley from the New York Times, New Orleans office.”
Jan punched the intercom button on the dusty phone. “Harry, there’s a reporter, a Mr. Brierley from the New York Times, to see you.”
“Tell him to wait there. I’m on my way out.”
Jason assumed that the editor of the little paper in this small southern Oklahoma town was showing deference by coming out of his office to greet him. This was going to be a great human-interest story for the Times. It wasn’t every day two circus elephants escaped for a romp in the woods. His superiors at the Times had picked up the AP wire story and had called and told him to rent a private plane, go up to Oklahoma and check out the runaways. What was a circus doing in this little backwater town anyway, he wondered.
A door opened and a middle-aged, balding man came to the front of the newspaper office and around the counter, hand extended. “Mr. Brierley? I’m Harry Martin. What can I do for you?” He really didn’t need to ask. The most exciting local event in years, the escape of the elephants, had hit the regional newspapers and during the July slow news drought, was obviously being picked up by the national press.
Jason winced slightly as Harry shook his hand. “Sorry,” said Harry. “We give pretty strong handshakes around here. Too many of us do some cow milking, I guess,” and he chuckled.
“My editors want some stories about your runaway elephants. Could we sit down so you could give me some background?”
“Not right now. The sheriff ’s organized another search posse and I’m on my way to join it. Can you ride a horse? You’re welcome to come along. There‘s no time to change clothes, though.”
A posse? Ride horses? It’s the 1970’s. Was Oklahoma still the old Wild West, Jason wondered? He could feel the excitement in the editor’s voice. He hadn’t ridden a horse himself since his farm boy days in Indiana, but this sounded exciting. He could already feel his adrenalin rising. “I can ride. I don’t have a horse, of course. Can you get one for me?”
“Yeah. We’ll meet the sheriff at the courthouse. It’s just a few steps from here. He’ll take us to the fairground horse barns where we’ll meet up with the others. The horses are already there. Let’s go. Hold the fort, Jan,” he called over his shoulder as they went out the front door and headed down Jackson Street towards the Choctaw County courthouse.