When we got to the barbershop, Danny’s father, Mr. Forester, had a clipboard, a notebook, a pencil, and an eraser. He was sitting in the barber chair with the clipboard on his knees. I could see that a drawing of the magic square was fastened to it.
“There must be a thousand ways of putting these numbers in the squares,” he said. “When Danny asked me about it, I thought it would be easy.”
After we got our hair cut, Frankie and I stopped at the Z.C.M.I. store to buy some candy. Mr. Harmon had a notebook and pencil and was trying to solve Tom’s puzzle. I gave it another go when I got home, but had no luck.
That evening after supper Tom went to sit on the Reagans’ front porch with Polly. I showed Papa my list and explained that I couldn’t figure it out.
“You must do it by elimination,” Papa said, “and you must start with the three squares in the middle. The rest is just a matter of getting two more combinations on the top and bottom to give you the answer.”
It sounded simple enough. I went to the dining room so I could use the table. But by bedtime I still hadn’t solved the puzzle. No wonder Tom was willing to risk fifty cents against a dime. Without the combinations Papa had given me, a fellow would have as much chance of solving the puzzle as a rooster does of laying an egg.
The next morning I told Tom I still hadn’t been able to solve the puzzle.
“I think you’re pulling a fast one on everybody,” I told him.
“What do you mean by that?” Tom asked.
“I don’t think it can be done,” I said. “And after driving everybody crazy for a couple of days, you’ll laugh about it like all get out.”
“The puzzle can be solved all right,” Tom said. “Tonight after supper I’ll show you and the other fellows.”
• • •
All the kids who had bet the numbers game were in the barn that evening. Tom arrived carrying Frankie’s blackboard, a piece of chalk, and the bag of money. He stood behind the box.
“Did anybody win the numbers game?” he asked. “I’m ready to pay fifty cents to each winner.”
Parley pushed his coonskin cap to the back of his head. “There ain’t any winners and you know it,” he said. “You’ve had your fun making fools out of us trying to solve a puzzle that can’t be solved. Now, give us back our dimes.”
“Just a minute, Parley,” Tom said. “I’m going to show you the answer.” He took the blackboard and drew the magic square. Then he put in the following numbers:
“You can see,” Tom said, “that I’ve used only the numbers one through nine, each number once. You can add the numbers every which way and they total fifteen. So there you have the magic square, and you all lose, and I win.”
Danny Forester’s left eyelid flipped open. “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” he said. “My pa said it couldn’t be done.”
“Anything is possible if you have a great brain,” Tom said.
Later, as Tom and I walked toward the house, he put his arm around my shoulder. “I appreciate your not telling the other fellows the combinations,” he said. “I appreciate it so much I’m giving you back your dime.”
I took the dime. “I knew the combinations and I still couldn’t solve it,” I said.
“That’s because you didn’t try hard enough,” Tom said. “You gave up too quick.”
“Even with your great brain, it took you three days,” I pointed out.
“That’s how I knew nobody else could solve it in two days,” Tom said and laughed. “Now I am taking my windfall over to Polly Reagan’s house and inviting her to the drugstore for an ice cream soda.”
I watched him walk off, but I didn’t try to follow. I could hardly believe that The Great Brain could persuade his money-loving heart to shell out good money for an ice cream soda for a girl. I decided it was all part of that dangerous age of thirteen.
CHAPTER THREE
Indians
AT THE SAME TIME that Tom was pulling his soap swindle on me and separating the other kids from their money with The Numbers Game, something happened near Adenville, Utah, that caused trouble between the Paiute Indians and their neighbors.
The Pa-Roos-Its band of Paiutes were on a reservation about ten miles from Adenville. The people of our town had never had any reason to be afraid of the Indians until Henry Martin bought a farm adjoining the reservation. He was an unfriendly man who didn’t mix with the people of the town and gave the impression that all he wanted was to be left alone. But he was a white man, and that was enough to make some other white people take his word of honor above that of an Indian.
A month after Henry Martin bought his farm, he made a citizen’s arrest of an Indian he accused of stealing a saddle. It was Martin’s word against the Indian’s, and the Paiute went to the penitentiary. A few weeks after the trial Henry Martin made a citizen’s arrest of another Indian, whom he accused of stealing a pig. Again it was Martin’s word against the Paiute’s, and the Indian went to the penitentiary. By this time some of the citizens of Adenville were beginning to become suspicious of Mr. Martin.
The day that the second Paiute was found guilty, Papa and Tom arrived home for dinner early. I knew something was up, but we are never permitted to discuss ugly subjects during meals, so I had to wait until after dinner to learn what had happened.
Papa had covered the trial for the Advocate, and he had taken Tom out of school that afternoon to attend with him. “I thought Tom could learn something about how a newspaper story is developed and also learn about our justice system,” he said after he’d told us about the trial. “But I’m afraid what Tom witnessed was an unfortunate example of how things can go wrong.”
“You think the Indian was innocent,” Mamma said.
“You know I am not a wagering man, Tena,” Papa said, “but if I were, I’d bet money on it.”
“Chief Rising Sun looked like a thundercloud when he left the courtroom,” Tom said. “He spoke on the Indians’ behalf, but since his English was so poor hardly anyone listened.”
Papa made a sound like a horse snorting. “I’d like to see any white person there speak Paiute,” he said, “or even try.”
“What will happen now?” I asked.
“You will do your homework, J.D.,” Papa said. “You too, T.D.”
“I don’t believe the Paiutes were stealing,” Tom told me when we were back at the dining room table, our books and papers spread in front of us. “They never stole anything from the Peckhams when the Peckhams owned that farm.”
“The Peckhams didn’t have anything worth stealing,” I said. The Peckhams had tried dry farming out that way, but went broke and had to leave. I don’t know what Henry Martin had paid them for the farm, but it couldn’t have been much.
“The Paiutes have never stolen from anybody else I know either,” Tom said, staring me straight in the eye.
That reminded me that Tom was blood brother to the Pa-Roos-Its band, ever since the time he wrote a letter to President McKinley and helped to catch a dishonest Indian agent who was cheating them. So I hunched over my homework and kept my mouth shut. Besides, I didn’t think the Indians were dishonest, and I didn’t like Henry Martin at all. He was a man I never saw smile.
• • •
Things were pretty quiet for a few weeks. Then early one Sunday afternoon Mr. Martin drove into town in his buckboard with the new Indian agent, Mr. Haley. In the rear of the buckboard was Chief Rising Sun’s nephew, whose English name was Running Bear. Running Bear was tied with rope at the ankles and feet.
My uncle, Mark Trainor, was our deputy sheriff and marshal. He and Sheriff Baker came out of the jail, which also served as Adenville’s marshal’s and sheriff’s office.
Sheriff Baker shook his head sadly. “Another one?” he said. Although the light was at his back, he squinted his blue eyes at Mr. Martin.
Mr. Martin got down from the buckbo
ard. “Caught him cold trying to steal my rifle,” he said. “I started out for town this morning to get supplies. Got a mile or so down the road and found I’d left my list behind. I got back to the house in time to see this no-good Indian come out of my cabin with my rifle. I surprised him with my revolver and made him drop the rifle. Then I tied him up and took him to the reservation to get Haley.”
Sheriff Baker looked at the Indian agent. “Any evidence besides Martin’s word?”
Mr. Martin thrust his head into the sheriff’s face. “You doubtin’ my word?” he demanded.
“No,” Sheriff Baker said, “but it does seem strange that we never had any trouble with the Paiutes until you bought that farm.”
“Come out and see for yourself,” Mr. Martin said. “It rained last night, and you can see this Indian’s moccasin tracks going right up to my cabin and mud on the floor leading to my gun rack.”
Sheriff Baker locked Running Bear in a cell, then got his horse. He accompanied Mr. Martin and Mr. Haley to the Martin farm.
Mr. Martin pointed. “You can see the Indian’s moccasin tracks coming from the direction of the reservation and right across my yard to the door of my cabin. And you can see the tracks he made when leaving until I stopped him in the middle of the yard. Come closer. You can even see the imprint of the rifle in the mud when I made him drop it. Now let’s go into the cabin.”
They walked inside the cabin. Tracks from the muddy moccasins ran from the door to the gun rack and back to the door.
“Satisfied, Sheriff?” Mr. Martin asked.
“Reckon so,” Sheriff Baker said.
While this was going on, Tom and Papa paid a call on Uncle Mark and heard about Mr. Martin’s latest accusation. “What does Running Bear say about what happened?” Papa asked. “As I recall, he was educated in the reservation mission school and speaks English.” He had a pad and pencil out and was making notes to use in his story for the Advocate.
“Nothing,” Uncle Mark said. “Before I put him in the cell, Running Bear told me that he didn’t steal the rifle. Then he said, ‘No white man will believe me, and white man’s word is law.’ Later I asked him if he wanted a blanket or anything else, but he didn’t answer. He just stared at the wall.”
“He’ll talk to me,” Tom said. “I’m a blood brother of the Pa-Roos-Its band.” Then Tom went to the cell where Running Bear was held.
The brave sat cross-legged on the floor of the cell, his eyes fixed on the wall not three feet from his face.
“Running Bear,” Tom said. “You know me. The great Chief Tav-Whad-Im made me a blood brother of the tribe.” Tav-Whad-Im is Paiute and means Rising Sun in English. “I don’t believe you stole the rifle. What happened?”
Running Bear didn’t answer. He didn’t take his eyes off the wall either. He sat there in the dark cell as if he’d been carved from stone.
Tom tried several times to get the Paiute brave to speak to him, but Running Bear would not speak nor move a muscle.
“This is bad,” Tom said when he went back to the office with Papa and Uncle Mark. “Running Bear won’t even talk to me.”
Uncle Mark pushed his Stetson to the back of his head. “I tell you, Running Bear has me worried,” he said. “When an Indian acts like that, it sometimes means he has decided to give up the ghost. If he won’t eat, he’ll end up dead, and that will mean big trouble.”
Papa and Tom stayed at the jail until Sheriff Baker came back to tell them what he saw at Martin’s farm. While he was talking about it, Chief Rising Sun and a couple of braves rode into town. Chief Rising Sun asked to see his nephew.
Running Bear would not speak to the chief, nor would he look at him. When the chief left the jail and mounted his horse, there was a stern expression on his face.
“Then what happened?” I asked Tom that evening when he told me all about it.
“The Chief said that if Running Bear dies, there will be an Indian uprising,” Tom said.
That made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I’d never been anywhere near an Indian uprising, and I sure didn’t want to be. On the other hand, I couldn’t blame the Paiutes for fighting if their people were shut up in prisons to die. Especially if they hadn’t done anything wrong.
“What’s the matter, J.D.?” Tom asked when he noticed the expression on my face.
I didn’t want to seem lily-livered, but I thought Tom would understand. “The whole idea of an Indian uprising scares the daylights out of me,” I told him.
Tom nodded soberly. “Anybody would be scared,” he said, “if they had the sense they were born with.”
“How long does it take for someone to starve?” I asked.
“About four weeks,” said Tom. Then he added, “It’s about three weeks until the circuit judge will show up to hold a trial. My great brain should come up with a solution before then.”
• • •
The next day after school I stopped by the jail to see if Running Bear had said anything or eaten. When I arrived, Tom was in the sheriff’s office.
“Papa sent me over for the Advocate,” Tom told me. “He wants to know if anything new has happened to put in the newspaper.”
“Nothing new yet,” the sheriff said. “The brave hasn’t moved a muscle since he first sat down on that floor. He hasn’t had a bite to eat or a sip of water for over twenty-four hours.”
“No water?” Tom said, and his skin got an ashy color.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Bad news,” Tom said. “A person can live about four weeks without food—but only about three days without water.”
That was bad news. In three more days Adenville could be the center of a bloody battle.
“Can we see him?” Tom asked.
The sheriff glanced at me, then eyed Tom up and down. “Can’t see what harm it would do,” he said.
We went to the back of the jail, where the cells were, and sure enough, there was Running Bear, staring at the wall.
“Running Bear,” Tom said, but the Indian might as well have been deaf for all the notice he took.
“Sheriff Baker says you won’t drink anything,” Tom said. “It’s been a whole day now. In only two more days without water, you will die.”
If Running Bear cared about that, he gave no sign. He sat there, his legs crossed, his hands on his knees, his face turned to the wall. It was hard to believe he was still alive.
“Chief Tav-Whad-Im says if you die there will be an Indian uprising,” Tom said. “Many innocent people will suffer.”
There was no sign that Running Bear had heard.
“What will happen to your wife if you die and there is an uprising?” Tom asked. “And your little son and baby daughter?”
From where I was standing, I thought I saw the Paiute’s shoulders stiffen, but I wasn’t certain.
“No use talking to him,” the sheriff said. “His mind’s made up. He’s on his way to the land of the spirits.”
“Are you going to put that in the newspaper?” I asked Tom when we’d left the jail house.
“I guess it’s up to Papa. It’s not the kind of news people want to read.”
It wasn’t the kind they wanted to hear either. When I went over to Smith’s vacant lot after stopping by my house and changing my clothes, the fellows weren’t any happier than I was when I told them.
“I’ll fight if I have to,” Jimmie Peterson said.
But Parley said, “Running Bear is a good Indian. He taught me things about trapping and skinning that even my father didn’t know.” That was something, because Parley’s dad was an animal bounty hunter. “Early on the very day he was arrested,” Parley went on, “he showed me some of the pelts he’d collected. I’m not his blood brother, but I sure don’t want him to die of thirst, or to be shut up in the penitentiary.”
“Me either,” I told
him.
That night I asked Tom if his great brain had figured out a way to prove Running Bear’s innocence.
“Not yet,” he said. “But I will.” Then he got his new cap that Mamma had bought that day at the Z.C.M.I. store and put it on.
“Are you going over to the jail?” I asked hopefully, thinking I’d tag along.
“No, I’m going to see Polly,” Tom said.
“You’d think when we’re all about to die in an Indian uprising you’d have better things to do than visit Polly,” I observed.
Tom looked surprised. “Like what?”
“Like put your great brain to work preventing it,” I said. “All the fellows are worried, even Parley Benson. Parley told me that Running Bear taught him all sorts of things about trapping. He even showed Parley some pelts the morning of his arrest.”
That was when Tom got the look in his eyes that he sometimes does when his great brain is hard at work. Usually this means that I or the other kids should watch our pocketbooks, as we are about to lose some money. This time, however, Tom said, “Well, I just think I’ll stop to see Parley on the way to the Reagans’ house.”
The Benson place is nowhere near Polly Reagan’s house, but from the set of Tom’s shoulders, I knew it was no use asking what he was up to talking with Parley. All I could do was hope that The Great Brain would figure out a way to get us out of this mess Henry Martin had gotten us into.
The next afternoon, when school had let out, I stopped at the jail on the way home. Most of the other kids headed that way instead of toward Smith’s vacant lot. When we arrived, there were about a half dozen men standing around in front of the jail and several ladies too. There were also some students from the Adenville Academy.
I saw Parley near the front of the crowd. He told me that he had asked Sheriff Baker if he could talk with Running Bear, but the sheriff told him Running Bear was not on exhibition to the public and that we should all go home and behave ourselves.
The Great Brain Is Back Page 3