The Great Brain Does It Again

by John D. Fitzgerald

  “My leg!” Pete cried out and then fainted.

  I ran to the house and got Mamma to phone Dr. LeRoy. When the doctor arrived he said Pete’s leg was broken. He had Pete taken to our small county hospital where he set the leg and put it in a cast. Mamma had phoned Papa and Mr. and Mrs. Kyle. Papa went to the hospital with Pete’s parents. When he returned he didn’t say anything until after we had supper and were all sitting in the parlor.

  “I told Mr. and Mrs. Kyle that I will pay all of the doctor and hospital bills,” he said.

  Tom looked up from a book he was reading. “Why should you pay anything?” he asked. “It was Pete’s fault. He forgot to unhook the rope from the coaster.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Kyle could sue me if they were that kind of people,” Papa said. “But that isn’t the reason why I’m going to pay the bills. In the first place it wasn’t Pete’s fault. It was your fault. I warned you about making certain the rope was unhooked. You didn’t do it.”

  “I didn’t think I had to with Pete,” Tom said. “I figured he was old enough and smart enough that I didn’t have to remind him like I did with J. D.”

  It only took a little brain to figure out that Tom was indirectly saying I was a dummy. I was astonished when Papa seemed to agree with him.

  “That doesn’t excuse your carelessness,” Papa said. “When a person goes into any kind of business he automatically becomes responsible for the welfare and safety of his employees.”

  “But a thing like that wouldn’t ever happen again,” Tom protested.

  “I am going to make sure it doesn’t,” Papa said. “You will tear down the chute-the-chute and destroy the coaster.”

  “But you said it was perfectly safe,” Tom said. “It is the best money-maker my great brain ever invented.”

  “It isn’t safe when you don’t take every precaution to make certain an accident can’t happen,” Papa said. “And now for your punishment for letting this accident happen which you could have avoided by making certain the coaster was unhooked before each ride.”

  “Punishment?” Tom asked bug-eyed. “Having to tear down the chute-the-chute is more than enough punishment.”

  “It is only the beginning of your punishment,” Papa said. “I know that you know to a penny how much you made with the chute-the-chute. You will turn all that money over to me to help pay the doctor and hospital bills. And you will report to Mrs. Kyle every day and do the chores Pete used to do before he broke his leg. You will not hire anybody to do them. I want you to do them yourself and continue to do them until Pete is able to do them himself.”

  “But that means I won’t have time to do my share of chores at home,” Tom protested. “I’ll lose my allowance and get nothing for doing all of Pete’s chores.”

  “Exactly,” Papa said. “And this should teach you that going into any kind of business is more than just trying to make money.”

  Boy, oh, boy, what a catastrophe for The Great Brain. Giving up the twelve dollars and forty cents he had made with the chute-the-chute would break his money-loving heart into a thousand pieces. Doing Pete’s chores would make him wish he’d never seen a chute-the-chute.

  “Boy,” I said to Tom, “am I glad you didn’t make me a twenty-five-percent partner.”

  “I was coming to you,” Papa said. “You helped to build the chute-the-chute and were a partner for one day. You will hand over to me the eight cents commission you were paid. And, because if you hadn’t gotten greedy and wanted twenty-five percent instead of ten percent this accident would not have happened, your punishment will be no allowance for a month.”

  I’m telling you, there are times when a fellow just can’t win, especially where parents are concerned. I knew if Mr. and Mrs. Kyle had sued Papa that Judge Potter wouldn’t have blamed me for the accident. The judge would have to go by what is written in the law books. But, you take a father, he just makes up his own laws as he goes along, and boy, oh, boy, there ought to be a law against that.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Tom Becomes an Indian Blood Brother

  WE HAD OUR FIRST INDIAN TROUBLE soon after Papa put Tom out of the chute-the-chute business. During the 1890s the last of the Indians in southwestern Utah were placed on reservations. Several tribes were confined to the Shivwits-Shebit Reservation near Santa Clara, Utah. Other Indians were placed on two small reservations including the Pa-Roos-Its band of Paiute Indians who were placed on a reservation about ten miles from Adenville.

  Before being placed on the reservation Chief Tav-Whad-Im, which translated into English means Rising Sun, and his band of Pa-Roos-Its never made any trouble for the citizens of Adenville. This was due to the fact that the Mormons had always treated the Indians very well. It was part of their religion. They believed the American Indians were Lamanites descended from the white tribe of Joseph, who were led by the Prophet Lehi from Jerusalem to the western hemisphere in 600 B.C. They treated the Indians as brothers.

  The Paiutes had been driven from their good hunting and fishing grounds by white men before being put on the reservation. The Mormons tried to make up for this by giving the Chief and his band flour, potatoes, turnips, corn, and other food from the church storehouse. And the Gentile ranchers contributed sheep, hogs, and cattle. The people in town collected old clothing and enough money to buy medicine. The Paiutes came into Adenville to sell beaded buckskin gloves, moccasins, jackets, furs, roasted pine nuts, and other things. Papa had invited Chief Rising Sun to our house for Sunday dinner several times.

  When the United States government put the Chief and his band on the Pa-Roos-Its reservation all of this stopped. James Fredericks, the Indian agent, under orders from the State Superintendent of Indian Affairs, stated that the government would furnish the Paiutes with all the food, supplies, clothing, and medicine they needed, but the Paiutes were not allowed to leave the reservation. A Mission School was established on the reservation to teach the Paiutes how to speak, read, and write in English.

  Papa and Bishop Aden were both worried when the Indians were first placed on the reservation. They knew some Indian agents were dishonest and cheated the Indians. They waited two months and then went to see Chief Rising Sun, making sure Mr. Fredericks wasn’t with them when they entered the Chief’s tepee. They asked the Chief how the Indian agent was treating him and his band.

  “Mr. Fredericks,” Chief Rising Sun told them, “wears an Indian moccasin on his left foot and a white man’s shoe on his right foot and is our tubicin.”

  This was the Chief’s way of saying Mr. Fredericks was honest and fair in his dealings with the Indians and they considered him their friend. Tubicin in their language meant friend.

  We had no Indian trouble until Mr. Fredericks died from a heart attack several years later. A new Indian agent named Henry Parker took his place. Mr. Parker was much tougher with the Indians. He was what Papa called “a stickler for rules and regulations.” He had been Indian agent for about four months when a Paiute whose English name was Hail Storm came to our back door one night. Mamma cooked him some ham and eggs, which he wolfed down as if he were half-starved. Then Papa took him into the parlor to talk.

  “I know,” Papa said, “that you didn’t get Mr. Parker’s permission to leave the reservation because you came here at night. I also know you came to me because I am a friend of Chief Rising Sun. Why are you here?”

  “Chief Tav-Whad-Im sent me,” Hail Storm said. “He wants to see you and Bishop Aden and Sheriff Baker. I go now.”

  Papa left the next morning with Bishop Aden in the Bishop’s buggy and Sheriff Baker riding his horse. Of course, he wouldn’t let Tom and me go with them, but he promised to tell us all about it later.

  A building that was the combination office, trading post, and home of Henry Parker was in the center of the reservation. In the Indian village surrounding it men, women, and children sat in front of their tepees staring at the three men as they passed.

  “They look listless to me,” Papa said.

  “They
look hungry to me,” Bishop Aden said. “Look, even the children are not running around and playing. There is definitely something wrong here.”

  Mr. Parker, who was sitting on the porch of the building, saw them coming and walked down the steps to meet them. He was a tall, gaunt man with a sallow complexion and a black moustache. He already knew Papa, Bishop Aden, and Sheriff Baker.

  “Hello, gentlemen,” he said. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

  Sheriff Baker dismounted. “We want to talk to Chief Rising Sun in private,” he said.

  “According to the book of rules and regulations,” Mr. Parker said, “I could refuse to let you do it. Nobody is allowed on an Indian reservation unless they are a United States Marshal or work for the Bureau of Indian Affairs. However, since I know all of you personally, I believe I can make an exception. You will find Chief Rising Sun in his tepee. I believe I know why you are here. But listen to his story first and then we will talk.”

  Papa, Bishop Aden, and Sheriff Baker entered the tepee of the Chief. After greeting them Chief Rising Sun asked them to sit down on the buffalo robe in his tepee.

  Bishop Aden spoke first. “You sent for us,” he said. “We are your friends. Why did you want to see us?”

  “When Mr. Fredericks was Indian agent,” Chief Rising Sun said, “there was enough food, medicine, clothing, and supplies for my people. Two months ago Mr. Parker told me the government has cut rations for all Indian reservations by twenty-five percent. There are no longer enough supplies for my people. I am afraid many of my young braves will leave the reservation and become renegades.”

  Papa was surprised. “I don’t remember reading anything in the New York World weekly mail-edition about this,” he said.

  Bishop Aden shrugged. “Perhaps they didn’t think it important enough to print,” he said. “Since putting the Indians on reservations many white people just want to forget they ever existed.”

  Sheriff Baker was skeptical. “How do we know Mr. Parker is telling the truth?” he asked. “Some of the Indian agents the government sends are out-and-out thieves.”

  “That we will find out,” Bishop Aden said. “Meanwhile, Chief Rising Sun, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints will see that you have enough food to make up for the twenty-five-percent cut. And I’m sure the Gentiles will see that you get steers, hogs, and sheep to slaughter for meat. And we will all see that you have clothing and medicine.”

  “Thank you, tubicin,” Chief Rising Sun said.

  They bade goodbye to the Chief. Mr. Parker was waiting for them.

  “I suppose,” he said, “Chief Rising Sun has told you about the government cutting reservation allotments by twenty-five percent.”

  Bishop Aden nodded. “Yes,” he said, “and we have promised to make up that twenty-five percent.”

  “That is mighty generous of you,” Mr. Parker said. “I’m sure these poor devils will appreciate it as much as I do.”

  Sheriff Baker hitched his thumbs in his gun belt. “No offense, Mr. Parker,” he said, “but before we leave we would like to see proof that the rations have been cut.”

  “I suppose I should be offended,” Mr. Parker said, “but I’m not. I found it hard to believe when I was notified. Come into my office, gentlemen, and I’ll show you proof.”

  In the office Mr. Parker opened two drawers in a file cabinet and removed two folders. He opened them on his desk and pointed at one of them.

  “Here are copies of requisitions and bills of lading while Mr. Fredericks was Indian agent and for two months while I was the agent,” he said.

  Then he opened the other folder. “Here are requisitions and bills of lading for the past two months,” he said. “If you compare them you will find every item from beans to tobacco has been cut twenty-five percent. All food, clothing, medicine, and supplies for all three reservations in southwestern Utah are shipped to the Shivwits-Shebit reservation in Santa Clara because it is so much larger. From their warehouse the monthly allotments of rations are shipped here and to the other reservation. I was notified two months ago of the cut in rations by the Supply Master at the Shivwits-Shebit reservation.”

  Papa, Bishop Aden, and Sheriff Baker examined the requisitions and bills of lading. They could readily see the allotments for the Pa-Roos-Its reservation had been cut twenty-five percent during the past two months.

  Bishop Aden shook his head. “The government is barely giving the Indians enough food to survive,” he said.

  “It just so happens,” Mr. Parker said, “that our monthly rations are arriving by wagon train the day after tomorrow. To satisfy Chief Rising Sun, I would appreciate it if you three gentlemen were on hand to check the supplies against the requisitions and bills of lading. I get the feeling that Chief Rising Sun thinks I’m lying to him.”

  * * *

  The following day the Mormons sent a wagonload of food to the reservation from their church storehouse. Ranchers contributed sheep, hogs, and beef. People in Adenville collected old clothing and money for medicine to send.

  Papa admitted he had his doubts until he, Bishop Aden, and Sheriff Baker went to the reservation when the freight wagons arrived with the monthly allotment. They checked the bills of lading against every item. Everything was in order. There was just seventy-five percent as much as the reservation used to receive.

  That evening after supper Papa sat smoking his after-dinner cigar and staring into space. Mamma looked up from her sewing.

  “What’s bothering you?” she asked.

  “It’s a shame,” Papa said, “the way the Indians are treated. First we broke one treaty after another with them. Then we drove them from their hunting and fishing grounds into barren land. Then we herded them onto reservations and promised to feed and clothe them and take care of them. Then some muddle-headed Congressmen who think Indians are being treated too well cut the appropriations for the Bureau of Indian Affairs by twenty-five percent. I’ve half a mind to write a blistering editorial about it and mail a copy to every Senator and every member of the House of Representatives.”

  Mamma shook her head. “I doubt if they would pay any attention to one little newspaper from a small town,” she said.

  “You’re right, of course,” Papa said. “Well, at least, thanks to Bishop Aden and the Mormons and the Gentiles in this county, the Indians on the Pa-Roos-Its reservation will have plenty to eat and enough clothing, supplies, and medicine. We will more than make up for that twenty-five percent cut.”

  Tom, who had been listening, got up from his chair and stood with one elbow on the mantelpiece.

  “I just can’t believe the President of the United States and the Congress could be so mean,” he said. “Are you sure Mr. Parker is an honest Indian agent?”

  “I had my doubts,” Papa said, “until we checked the monthly shipment from the Shivwits-Shebit reservation. Mr. Parker is an honest Indian agent. The blame lies with Congress and President McKinley for cutting the appropriations.”

  * * *

  The next day was Saturday. Frankie and I finished the morning chores and Eddie Huddle came over to play with Frankie. I sat on the back porch steps waiting for Tom, who was doing Pete Kyle’s chores. Tom didn’t get home until eleven o’clock.

  “Boy, oh, boy,” I said, “poor old Pete must have a lot of chores to do. Frankie and I were finished two hours ago.”

  Tom sat down beside me. “Mrs. Kyle makes Pete do more than just chores,” he said. “She made me help her wash the parlor and dining-room windows. This is the worst punishment Papa ever gave me.”

  Tom just sat there staring straight ahead. I thought he was thinking about having to do Pete’s chores for the next few weeks. But I was wrong.

  “I can’t get those poor Indians out of my mind,” he finally said. “I lay awake for a long time last night thinking about them.”

  “Well,” I said, “at least the Indians on our reservation are going to be taken care of.”

  “But what about all the other
Indians on reservations all over the country?” Tom asked. Then he stood up. “I am going to write a letter to the President of the United States denouncing him and Congress.”

  “Can I watch?” I asked, because I’d never seen anybody write a letter to the President.

  “Get me a writing tablet, an envelope, and a pencil,” Tom said.

  I went into the house and got the writing materials. Then I followed Tom to the barn and up the rope ladder to his loft. He opened the tablet and laid it on a box. He sat down cross-legged. He wet the lead in the pencil with his tongue and then he began to write. But he only wrote a few words before he tore the page from the tablet and crumpled it up.

  “What did you say?” I asked. “What did you say?”

  “It isn’t every day in the year a fellow writes to the President of the United States,” Tom said. “I want to tell him off but I’ve got to be sort of polite about it.”

  Tom wrote and destroyed six more pages before he finally completed the letter. He read it several times and then handed it to me.

  “See what you think, J. D.,” he said.

  The letter read:

  Dear President McKinley:

  I am only twelve years old and not old enough to vote. But I am a citizen of the United States and that entitles me to write a letter to the President. Just what kind of a man are you anyway? It was bad enough for Presidents to break treaties with the Indians and herd them like cattle onto reservations. But at least the Indians got enough to eat until you and Congress cut the appropriations for the Bureau of Indian Affairs, and now the poor Indians only get seventy-five percent as much food, clothing, supplies, and medicine as they used to get. How would you like it if somebody took away twenty-five percent of your food? I’ll bet you wouldn’t like it at all. So what makes you think the Indians will like it? My father voted for you but I’ll bet he’ll never vote for a man like you again. You and Congress make me sick.

  Yours truly,

  Tom D. Fitzgerald