Stone Fox

by John Reynolds Gardiner

  Little Willy sucked in the cool night air and felt the sting of the wind against his face. It was a race all right. A race against time. A race against themselves. A race they always won.

  The small building up ahead was Grandfather's farmhouse. When Searchlight saw it, she seemed to gather up every ounce of her remaining strength. She forged ahead with such speed that the sled seemed to lift up off the ground and fly.

  They were so exhausted when they arrived at the house that neither of them noticed the horse tied up outside.

  Little Willy unhitched Searchlight, and then both of them tumbled over onto their backs in the snow and stared up at the moon. Searchlight had her head and one paw on little Willy's chest and was licking the underside of his chin. Little Willy had a hold of Searchlight's ear, and he was grinning.

  The owner of the horse stood on the front porch and watched them, tapping his foot impatiently.

  4

  THE REASON

  "GET OVER HERE!" The voice cut through the air like the twang of a ricocheting bullet.

  Little Willy had never heard a voice like that before. Not on this farm. He couldn't move.

  But Searchlight sure could.

  The owner of the voice barely had time to step back into the house and close the door.

  Searchlight barked and snarled and jumped at the closed door. Then the door opened a crack. The man stood in the opening. He was holding a small derringer and pointing it at Searchlight. His hand was shaking.

  "Don't shoot!" little Willy yelled as he reached out and touched Searchlight gently on the back. The barking stopped. "Who are you?"

  "Name's Clifford Snyder. State of Wyoming," the man said with authority. He opened the door a little farther.

  The man was dressed as if he was going to a wedding. A city slicker. He was short, with a small head and a thin, droopy mustache that reminded little Willy of the last time he'd drunk a glass of milk in a hurry.

  "What do you want?" little Willy asked.

  "Official business. Can't the old man inside talk?"

  "Not regular talk. We have a code. I can show you."

  As little Willy reached for the door, Clifford Snyder again aimed his gun at Searchlight, who had begun to growl. "Leave that...thing outside," he demanded.

  "She'll be all right if you put your gun away."

  "No!"

  "Are you afraid of her?"

  "I'm not...afraid."

  "Dogs can always tell when someone's afraid of them."

  "Just get in this house this minute!" Clifford Snyder yelled, and his face turned red.

  Little Willy left Searchlight outside. But Clifford Snyder wouldn't put his gun away until they were all the way into Grandfather's bedroom. And then he insisted that little Willy shut the door.

  Grandfather's eyes were wide open and fixed on the ceiling. He looked much older and much more tired than he had this morning.

  "You're no better than other folks," Clifford Snyder began as he lit up a long, thin cigar and blew smoke toward the ceiling. "And anyway, it's the law. Plain and simple."

  Little Willy didn't say anything. He was busy combing Grandfather's hair, like he did every day when he got home. When he finished he held up the mirror so Grandfather could see.

  "I'm warning you," Clifford Snyder continued. "If you don't pay...we have our ways. And it's all legal. All fair and legal. You're no better than other folks."

  "Do we owe you some money, Mr. Snyder?" little Willy asked.

  "Taxes, son. Taxes on this farm. Your grandfather there hasn't been paying them."

  Little Willy was confused.

  Taxes? Grandfather had always paid every bill. And always on time. And little Willy did the same. So what was this about taxes? Grandfather had never mentioned them before. There must be some mistake.

  "Is it true?" little Willy asked Grandfather.

  But Grandfather didn't answer. Apparently he had gotten worse during the day. He didn't move his hand, or even his fingers.

  "Ask him about the letters," piped up Clifford Snyder.

  "What letters?"

  "Every year we send a letter--a tax bill--showing how much you owe."

  "I've never seen one," insisted little Willy.

  "Probably threw 'em out."

  "Are you sure..." began little Willy. And then he remembered the strongbox.

  He removed the boards, then lifted the heavy box up onto the floor. He opened it and removed the papers. The papers he remembered seeing when he had looked for the money to rent the horse.

  "Are these the letters?" he asked.

  Clifford Snyder snatched the letters from little Willy's hand and examined them. "Yep, sure are," he said. "These go back over ten years." He held up one of the letters. "This here is the last one we sent."

  Little Willy looked at the paper. There were so many figures and columns and numbers that he couldn't make any sense out of what he was looking at. "How much do we owe you, Mr. Snyder?"

  "Says right here. Clear as a bell." The short man jabbed his short finger at the bottom of the page.

  Little Willy's eyes popped open. "Five hundred dollars! We owe you five hundred dollars?"

  Clifford Snyder nodded, rocking forward onto his toes, making himself taller. "And if you don't pay," he said, "I figure this here farm is just about worth--"

  "You can't take our farm away!" little Willy screamed, and Searchlight began barking outside.

  "Oh, yes, we can," Clifford Snyder said, smiling, exposing his yellow, tobacco-stained teeth.

  5

  THE WAY

  THE NEXT DAY little Willy met the situation head on. Or, at least, he wanted to. But he wasn't sure just what to do.

  Where was he going to get five hundred dollars?

  Grandfather had always said, "Where there's a will, there's a way." Little Willy had the will. Now all he had to do was find the way.

  "Of all the stupid things," cried Doc Smith. "Not paying his taxes. Let this be a lesson to you, Willy."

  "But the potatoes barely bring in enough money to live on," explained little Willy. "We went broke last year."

  "Doesn't matter. Taxes gotta be paid, whether we like it or not. And believe me, I don't know of anybody who likes it."

  "Then why do we have them in the first place?"

  "Because it's the way the State gets its money."

  "Why don't they grow potatoes like Grandfather does?"

  Doc Smith laughed. "They have more important things to do than grow potatoes," she explained.

  "Like what?"

  "Like...taking care of us."

  "Grandfather says we should take care of ourselves."

  "But not all people can take care of themselves. Like the sick. Like your grandfather."

  "I can take care of him. He took care of me when my mother died. Now I'm taking care of him."

  "But what if something should happen to you?"

  "Oh..." Little Willy thought about this.

  They walked over to the sled, where Searchlight was waiting, Doc Smith's high boots sinking into the soft snow with each step.

  Little Willy brushed the snow off Searchlight's back. Then he asked, "Owing all this money is the reason Grandfather got sick, isn't it?"

  "I believe it is, Willy," she agreed.

  "So if I pay the taxes, Grandfather will get better, won't he?"

  Doc Smith rubbed the wrinkles below her eyes. "You just better do what I told you before, let Mrs. Peacock take care of your grandfather and--"

  "But he will, he'll get better, won't he?"

  "Yes, I'm sure he would. But, child, where are you going to get five hundred dollars?"

  "I don't know. But I will. You'll see."

  That afternoon little Willy stepped into the bank wearing his blue suit and his blue tie. His hair was so slicked down that it looked like wet paint. He asked to see Mr. Foster, the president of the bank.

  Mr. Foster was a big man with a big cigar stuck right in the center of his big mouth. Wh
en he talked, the cigar bobbled up and down, and little Willy wondered why the ash didn't fall off the end of it.

  Little Willy showed Mr. Foster the papers from Grandfather's strongbox and told him everything Clifford Snyder, the tax man, had said.

  "Sell," Mr. Foster recommended after studying the papers. The cigar bobbled up and down. "Sell the farm and pay the taxes. If you don't, they can take the farm away from you. They have the right."

  "I'll be eleven next year. I'll grow more potatoes than anybody's ever seen. You'll see..."

  "You need five hundred dollars, Willy. Do you know how much that is? And anyway, there isn't enough time. Of course, the bank could loan you the money, but how could you pay it back? Then what about next year? No. I say sell before you end up with nothing." The cigar ash fell onto the desk.

  "I have fifty dollars in my savings account."

  "I'm sorry, Willy," Mr. Foster said as he wiped the ash off onto the floor.

  As little Willy walked out of the bank with his head down, Searchlight greeted him by placing two muddy paws on his chest. Little Willy smiled and grabbed Searchlight around the neck and squeezed her as hard as he could. "We'll do it, girl. You and me. We'll find the way."

  The next day little Willy talked to everybody he could think of. He talked with his teacher, Miss Williams. He talked with Lester at the general store. He even talked with Hank, who swept up over at the post office.

  They all agreed...sell the farm. That was the only answer.

  There was only one person left to talk to. If only he could. "Should we sell?" little Willy asked.

  Palm up meant "yes." Palm down meant "no." Grandfather's hand lay motionless on the bed. Searchlight barked. Grandfather's fingers twitched. But that was all.

  Things looked hopeless.

  And then little Willy found the way.

  He was at Lester's General Store when it happened. When he saw the poster.

  Every February the National Dogsled Races were held in Jackson, Wyoming. People came from all over to enter the race, and some of the finest dog teams in the country were represented. It was an open race--any number of dogs could be entered. Even one. The race covered ten miles of snow-covered countryside, starting and ending on Main Street right in front of the old church. There was a cash prize for the winner. The amount varied from year to year. This year it just happened to be five hundred dollars.

  "Sure," Lester said as he pried the nail loose and handed little Willy the poster. "I'll pick up another at the mayor's office." Lester was skinny but strong, wore a white apron, and talked with saliva on his lips. "Gonna be a good one this year. They say that mountain man, the Indian called Stone Fox, might come. Never lost a race. No wonder, with five Samoyeds."

  But little Willy wasn't listening as he ran out of the store, clutching the poster in his hand. "Thank you, Lester. Thank you!"

  Grandfather's eyes were fixed on the ceiling. Little Willy had to stand on his toes in order to position the poster directly in front of Grandfather's face.

  "I'll win!" little Willy said. "You'll see. They'll never take this farm away."

  Searchlight barked and put one paw up on the bed. Grandfather closed his eyes, squeezing out a tear that rolled down and filled up his ear. Little Willy gave Grandfather a big hug, and Searchlight barked again.

  6

  STONE FOX

  LITTLE WILLY WENT to see Mayor Smiley at the city hall building in town to sign up for the race.

  The mayor's office was large and smelled like hair tonic. The mayor sat in a bright red chair with his feet on his desk. There was nothing on the desk except the mayor's feet.

  "We have a race for you youngsters one hour before." Mayor Smiley mopped sweat from his neck with a silk handkerchief, although little Willy thought it was quite cool in the room.

  "I wanna enter the real race, Mr. Mayor."

  "You must be funning, boy." The mayor laughed twice and blotted his neck. "Anyway, there's an entrance fee."

  "How much?"

  "Fifty dollars."

  Little Willy was stunned. That was a lot of money just to enter a race. But he was determined. He ran across the street to the bank.

  "Don't be stupid," Mr. Foster told little Willy. "This is not a race for amateurs. Some of the best dog teams in the Northwest will be entering."

  "I have Searchlight! We go fast as lightning. Really, Mr. Foster, we do."

  Mr. Foster shook his head. "You don't stand a chance of winning."

  "Yes, we do!"

  "Willy...the money in your savings account is for your college education. You know I can't give it to you."

  "You have to."

  "I do?"

  "It's my money!"

  Little Willy left the bank with a stack of ten-dollar gold pieces--five of them, to be exact.

  He walked into the mayor's office and plopped the coins down on the mayor's desk. "Me and Searchlight are gonna win that five hundred dollars, Mr. Mayor. You'll see. Everybody'll see."

  Mayor Smiley counted the money, wiped his neck, and entered little Willy in the race.

  When little Willy stepped out of the city hall building, he felt ten feet tall. He looked up and down the snow-covered street. He was grinning from ear to ear. Searchlight walked over and stood in front of the sled, waiting to be hitched up. But little Willy wasn't ready to go yet. He put his thumbs in his belt loops and let the sun warm his face.

  He felt great. In his pocket was a map Mayor Smiley had given him showing the ten miles the race covered. Down Main Street, right on North Road--little Willy could hardly hold back his excitement.

  Five miles of the race he traveled every day and knew with his eyes closed. The last five miles were back into town along South Road, which was mostly straight and flat. It's speed that would count here, and with the lead he knew he could get in the first five miles, little Willy was sure he could win.

  As little Willy hitched Searchlight to the sled, something down at the end of the street--some moving objects--caught his eye. They were difficult to see because they were all white. There were five of them. And they were beautiful. In fact, they were the most beautiful Samoyeds little Willy had ever seen.

  The dogs held their heads up proudly and strutted in unison. They pulled a large but lightly constructed sled. They also pulled a large--but by no means lightly constructed--man. Way down at the end of the street the man looked normal, but as the sled got closer, the man got bigger and bigger.

  The man was an Indian--dressed in furs and leather, with moccasins that came all the way up to his knees. His skin was dark, his hair was dark, and he wore a dark-colored headband. His eyes sparkled in the sunlight, but the rest of his face was as hard as stone.

  The sled came to a stop right next to little Willy. The boy's mouth hung open as he tilted his head way back to look up at the man. Little Willy had never seen a giant before.

  "Gosh," little Willy gasped.

  The Indian looked at little Willy. His face was solid granite, but his eyes were alive and cunning.

  "Howdy," little Willy blurted out, and he gave a nervous smile.

  But the Indian said nothing. His eyes shifted to Searchlight, who let out a soft moan but did not bark.

  The Giant walked into the city hall building.

  Word that Stone Fox had entered the race spread throughout the town of Jackson within the hour, and throughout the state of Wyoming within the day.

  Stories and legends about the awesome mountain man followed shortly. Little Willy heard many of them at Lester's General Store.

  "Was this time in Denver he snapped a man's back with two fingers," said Dusty, the town drunk. But nobody believed him, really.

  Little Willy learned that no white man had ever heard Stone Fox talk. Stone Fox refused to speak with the white man because of the treatment his people had received. His tribe, the Shoshone, who were peaceful seed gatherers, had been forced to leave Utah and settle on a reservation in Wyoming with another tribe called the Arapaho.
<
br />   Stone Fox's dream was for his people to return to their homeland. Stone Fox was using the money he won from racing to simply buy the land back. He had already purchased four farms and over two hundred acres.

  That Stone Fox was smart, all right.

  In the next week little Willy and Searchlight went over the ten-mile track every day, until they knew every inch of it by heart.

  Stone Fox hardly practiced at all. In fact, little Willy only saw Stone Fox do the course once, and then he sure wasn't going very fast.

  The race was scheduled for Saturday morning at ten o'clock. Only nine sleds were entered. Mayor Smiley had hoped for more contestants, but after Stone Fox had entered, well...you couldn't blame people for wanting to save their money.

  It was true Stone Fox had never lost a race. But little Willy wasn't worried. He had made up his mind to win. And nothing was going to stop him. Not even Stone Fox.

  7

  THE MEETING

  IT WAS FRIDAY night, the night before the race, when it happened.

  Grandfather was out of medicine. Little Willy went to see Doc Smith.

  "Here." Doc Smith handed little Willy a piece of paper with some scribbling on it. "Take this to Lester right away."

  "But it's nighttime. The store's closed."

  "Just knock on the back door. He'll hear you."

  "But...are you sure it's all right?"

  "Yes. Lester knows I may have to call on him any time--day or night. People don't always get sick just during working hours, now, do they?"

  "No, I guess they don't." Little Willy headed for the door. He sure wished he could stay and have some of that cinnamon cake Doc Smith was baking in the oven. It smelled mighty good. But Grandfather needed his medicine. And, anyway, he wouldn't think of staying without being asked.