“Why did Tom stop by to see you last night?” I asked Parley.
“He wanted to know about the pelts Running Bear had with him Sunday morning. Tom asked if there was any special reason he had shown them to me.”
“Was there?” I asked.
“Running Bear had a silver fox. It isn’t very often a trapper gets hold of one of those. I’d never even seen one before.”
I tried to work this out with my little brain, but I couldn’t understand why Tom was wasting his time visiting Parley to talk about trapping when all of us were one day closer to dying in an Indian uprising.
That was when Sheriff Baker came to the front door of the jail. “You folks all go home now,” he said. “There’s nothing to see here.”
Tom, who had just arrived, spoke up. “I’m here to interview you, Sheriff,” he said. “The Advocate is going to run a big news story on all the events of the past few days. We’re hoping to have it in tomorrow’s edition.”
The sheriff took his Stetson off and scratched his head. “Well, I guess you’d better come on inside,” he said.
Tom told me later what happened inside the jail. Sheriff Baker sighed and looked at him. “There’s nothing new happening, son,” he said. “Running Bear stares at the wall. He won’t eat, he won’t drink, and he won’t talk. I’m ready to ask for a troop of cavalry to come to Adenville in case of an uprising.”
“But he’ll listen,” Tom said, “and I have something that will open up his ears and maybe his mouth too.”
“I doubt it,” the sheriff said. “But at this point I’m willing to take a chance on anything.”
“You won’t regret this, Sheriff,” Tom said as he followed the sheriff back to the cells.
Running Bear sat in exactly the same position he’d been in when he was put in the cell. He didn’t look a bit different, not even thinner from not eating.
“It is Tom, blood brother to the Pa-Roos-Its,” Tom said. “I know Running Bear is on his way to the land of the spirits, but I wish him to delay his journey to listen to me. I have figured out what happened between you and Mr. Martin. If I am correct, Running Bear can live free and there will be no trouble between our friends, the Paiutes, and the people of Adenville.”
Running Bear looked as if he hadn’t heard a word.
“I am going to tell you what I believe happened,” Tom went on. “If it is true, just nod your head, and we can prove it. If not, we will go away and never bother you again in your journey to the land of the spirits.”
Running Bear stared at the wall.
“Sunday morning you knew Parley would be out early checking his traps,” Tom said. “You had some pelts that were ready to trade, but before you traded them, you wanted to show him the pelt of the silver fox, since Parley had never seen one.”
Running Bear gave no sign he’d heard.
“On the way back to the reservation, you met up with Henry Martin. He saw the silver fox and told you he would give you more for your pelts than you would get at the Indian Trading Post. So you went back with Mr. Martin to his cabin.”
Tom paused, but the brave in the cell seemed not to notice.
“Mr. Martin told you he would trade you the rifle for the furs and that you should take it from the gun rack and leave. You left the cabin and he followed after you.
“When you had walked a little way from the cabin,” Tom said, “Mr. Martin pulled his revolver on you and told you to drop the rifle. You did. Then he tied you up and took you to Mr. Haley and said he caught you stealing.”
“Can you prove that, Tom?” the sheriff asked.
“Mr. Martin’s bound to have that silver fox pelt in his cabin. It’s worth too much to throw away, and he’s no trapper, so we know he didn’t catch it himself. Since Mr. Martin doesn’t know Running Bear showed Parley the pelt a few hours earlier, he wouldn’t figure it could be used as evidence against him.”
“By jingo, you’re right,” the sheriff said.
The brave in the cell still hadn’t moved a muscle. “Running Bear?” Tom said.
Slowly, Running Bear turned his head toward Tom. “Little brother speaks the truth,” he said.
When the sheriff, Uncle Mark, Tom, and several other men from town went out to Mr. Martin’s farm with a search warrant, they found the silver fox pelt hidden in his barn under several bales of hay.
“I trapped that myself,” Mr. Martin said.
“Nobody but an Indian tans furs like these,” Uncle Mark said. “The brave is innocent.”
Mr. Martin’s face twisted with rage. “Indians killed my woman and my son,” he shouted. “Murdered them in cold blood!”
“And you think you’ll get even by sending innocent people to prison,” Uncle Mark said.
“An Indian’s an Indian,” Mr. Martin replied.
“An Indian is a human being like you or me,” Uncle Mark said. “We are going to prosecute you for perjury.”
• • •
And so it was Henry Martin who went on trial, and not Running Bear. Mr. Martin was like a crazy man. He kept screaming that all Indians should be put in jail, that it didn’t matter that he’d lied, that he had a right to get even.
Running Bear returned to the reservation, and there was no Indian uprising. In time, the other two Indians were declared innocent also and returned to their homes.
The trouble between the citizens of Adenville and their neighbors, the Pa-Roos-Its band, was soon forgotten. But the Indians never forgot their blood brother and his great brain.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Great Bee
I NEVER KNEW just how strong a spell Polly Reagan had placed on Tom until The Great Bee took place in our town. That was when I almost gave up hope for my brother and his money-loving heart.
It was Mr. Monroe, the master at the Adenville Academy, who came up with the idea of having a giant spelling bee. The bee would involve all the kids at the Academy, which included seventh and eighth grade. That year there were thirty-two kids, counting Tom.
I first heard about the bee one night after supper. Tom and I had finished our homework at the dining room table. We went into the parlor, where Papa and Mamma and Aunt Bertha were sitting. Papa was reading his weekly mail edition of the New York World, Mamma was embroidering flowers onto a pillowcase, and Aunt Bertha was darning socks. Frankie was playing with some marbles on the carpet. He’d used a piece of string to make a circle and was practicing using his new aggie shooter.
“There you are,” Papa said when Tom and I came into the room. He folded his newspaper on his lap. “I had something to tell your mother and Aunt Bertha, but I felt since you were involved, T.D., I should wait until you finished your homework.”
When Papa said Tom was involved, my heart sank. All I could think of was that one of his shenanigans had caught up with him again.
“As you know,” Papa said, “Mayor Whitlock is chairman of the board of directors of the Adenville Academy.”
This was worse than I had feared. I glanced sideways at Tom, but he just stood there watching Papa, as cool as a cucumber. Whatever Tom had been up to, he sure wasn’t worried about it.
“Well, he came to see me today,” Papa said. “He asked me if I would be the judge in a spelling bee.”
I couldn’t help it. I felt disappointed. At least when Tom was involved in one of his swindles, life was exciting for me and the other kids in Adenville. Spelling bees were hardly exciting at all. We had them all the time in the common school. Mr. Standish, our teacher, thought they were a good way to get the students interested in spelling.
“Why would Mr. Whitlock ask you to judge a spelling bee?” Tom asked.
“Because this is going to be the greatest spelling bee ever to take place in Adenville,” Papa said. “Mr. Monroe went to Mr. Whitlock and the rest of the school board and said he proposed to make the students at the A
cademy the finest spellers in all of Utah.”
“My lands,” Aunt Bertha said.
Mamma looked up from her embroidery.
“The school board asked different business people in town to donate prizes. A group of us went in together to pay for the first prize, which will be a brand-new bicycle.”
Tom whistled.
“Second prize will be a ten-dollar gold piece, and third prize will be a certificate worth two dollars at the drugstore.”
Now Papa had everybody’s interest, mine included. “I don’t see why us kids at the common school can’t compete,” I said. “It’s not fair at all. The only prize we ever get in spelling is a gold star on our report card if we do perfect work all year.”
Papa looked straight at me. “If I recall correctly, J.D.,” he said, “you are in no danger of earning one.”
I shut my mouth in a hurry.
“I sure could use a new bicycle,” Tom said, and I could tell by the expression in his eyes that he was already planning how to get it.
“Will you mind if your father is the judge?” Papa asked.
Tom grinned. “Don’t worry,” he said. “When I win The Great Bee, nobody will think it’s because you’re the judge. They’ll know it’s because of my great brain.”
“Which up until now hasn’t been much interested in spelling,” Papa said.
When Papa said that, I wondered if the whole idea really had been Mr. Monroe’s. Papa said that now that Tom was helping to set type at the Advocate, finding spelling errors in the newspaper had become a sport in Adenville.
Papa made it sound as if Tom was the world’s worst speller, which wasn’t true at all. The fact was that Tom never was interested in studying spelling. He said he had more important things for his great brain to concern itself with. And even without studying, he hardly ever misspelled anything. Most years in common school he’d missed a gold star by only two or three words.
“Just to show you how important I think this contest is,” Papa said, “I am going to give you an hour off work every day after school from now until the bee. That should give you plenty of time to prepare for the contest, which will be held two weeks from Saturday at the school.”
Then Papa looked at me. “And, J.D.,” he said, “one of your chores for the next two weeks will be to help Tom with his spelling drills.”
I didn’t think that was one bit fair since I couldn’t enter The Great Bee, but nobody asked my opinion.
“First prize will be exhibited in the window of the Z.C.M.I. store until the day of the contest,” Papa said. Then he went back to reading his paper.
“Papa is getting two people to learn spelling when only one of them can win the prize,” I said to Tom later. “It’s even too late for me to get a gold star on my report card since I’ve been missing spelling words all year.”
“You might change your tune when I win that bicycle,” Tom said. “After all, I’ll be starting high school back east at the end of the summer. I won’t be home after August to rent out my old bicycle, and somebody will have to use it.”
“It still is in pretty good shape,” I said. Sweyn had given me his old bicycle to use, but it had been ridden for so many miles by so many different kids that I was always needing Tom’s or Papa’s help to repair it.
“I’ll give you a fair price since you’re my brother,” Tom said. Then he went off, whistling, to see Polly Reagan.
The next day when school let out, the other fellows and I stopped by the front window of the Z.C.M.I. store before we went home. By the time we arrived, there was already a crowd of kids from the Academy, which lets out at the same time as the common school but is closer to the commercial district of Adenville.
Practically all the fellows from the Academy were there and most of the girls too. Even Andy Anderson, who could never ride a bicycle because of his peg leg, was looking in the window. Tom was right in front of the crowd, with Parley Benson on one side and Polly Reagan on the other.
When I managed to work my way through the crowd, I was right behind Tom and Polly. By standing on tiptoe, I could look over their shoulders and see the entire display. I could also see that Tom was carrying Polly’s books while all she had in her hand was a fancy lunch bucket. I ignored them and looked in the window.
Much to my surprise, there were two bicycles in the window. One was a Waverley with a diamond frame painted bright red with black stripes, and a Bridgeport searchlight mounted on the handlebars. Beside it stood a drop-frame lady’s bicycle in sky blue. The lady’s bicycle had a warning bell instead of a searchlight. Both bicycles had cyclometers so the owner could tell how many miles had been ridden.
At first, two bicycles made me think there must be two first prizes being offered in The Great Bee, but Papa had mentioned only one prize. Then I noticed the sign in front of the bicycles. It said:
ONE OF THESE FINE BICYCLES
WILL BE THE FIRST PRIZE
IN THE GREAT SPELLING BEE.
A LUCKY BOY OR GIRL
WILL RIDE IN STYLE
BECAUSE OF SUPERIOR ABILITY
AND LOVE OF LEARNING.
THESE BICYCLES FEATURE SAGER CYCLE SADDLES AND HARTFORD SINGLE-TUBE PNEUMATIC TIRES.
Parley Benson adjusted his coonskin cap. “That is one fine machine,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind owning it at all.”
“Me either,” Sammy Leeds added.
I looked at the man’s bicycle and was overcome by jealousy of my brother Tom. First off, he was older than me, and then he had his great brain, and now he was going to win the spelling bee and own a fine new Waverley bicycle. Life sure wasn’t fair.
“Well, fellows,” Tom said. “Look all you want, but I am going to be riding that bicycle in two weeks.”
“Oh, Tom,” Polly said. “Why would you think such a thing?”
Tom looked at Polly. I wondered why he didn’t notice me peering over their shoulders, but he didn’t. “Because me and my great brain are going to win that bicycle,” he told her.
“Goodness!” Polly said and laughed. “Everybody knows that I am the best speller around. Every single year we were in common school I took home a gold star on my report card for perfect spelling.”
Tom had amazement written all over his freckled face. “But why would you want to win the spelling bee?” he asked.
“To win the bicycle, of course.” Polly had a little pink color on her cheeks.
“But you already have a bicycle,” Tom said.
“It’s a girl’s bicycle,” Polly said, “and it doesn’t have a warning bell or a Sager saddle. That bicycle in the window is the most beautiful woman’s bicycle I’ve ever seen, and I intend to win it at the spelling bee.”
Because I was standing right behind them, I could see Tom’s Adam’s apple move up and down as he swallowed. He didn’t say anything, though. That whole crowd of kids was so still that you could hear a pin drop.
Then Dotty Blake, who used to be called Britches Dotty before Tom taught her to read and Mamma made her some good clothes, spoke up.
“I don’t see why anyone could ever want one of those contraptions,” she said. “Not when they could ride a horse.”
“You’re just saying that because there’s no way you could ever win at spelling,” Sammy said. He had hated Dotty ever since she’d made him the only boy in Advenville ever to get beat up by a girl.
Dotty didn’t answer Sammy. She just stared at him until Sammy looked away and started to whistle as if he didn’t care what everyone in the crowd was thinking.
Herbie Sties spoke in rhyme, as usual.
“T.D.F. might win the bee
If it weren’t for good old me.
I want that bicycle, sure as shootin’.
And I’m going to win it, you’re darned tootin’.”
Danny Forester’s left eyelid flipped open farthe
r than I’d ever seen it go before. “This Great Spelling Bee sure is one event I don’t want to miss,” he remarked. “It will be much more interesting than any fight I’ve ever seen in Smith’s vacant lot.”
• • •
I could hardly wait until we got home to rub salt in Tom’s wounds.
“Polly Reagan sure is going to be mad at you,” I said, “when you win that bicycle.”
“Don’t worry,” Tom said. “My great brain will figure out a way to win that Waverley bicycle and to keep sitting on Polly’s porch swing too. Now, here are the words I want you to drill me on today.”
Boy, oh, boy. I looked at that list and it was just like being in school again. Worse, because I’d already spent practically the entire day in school, and after I’d finished my chores and supper, I’d still have homework to do.
The first word was emporium.
“Emporium,” I said.
“Emporium,” Tom said. “E-m-p-o-r-i-u-m. Emporium.” Then he said, “You know, in the spelling bee, the person who gives out the word will use it in a sentence, but we’ll skip that part.”
“All right.” I looked at the list. “Deuteronomy.”
Tom spelled Deuteronomy.
“Why did you put that word on your list?” I asked. “That’s a book in the Bible.”
“Because Bishop Aden is one of the people submitting words.”
“How do you know?”
“I asked Papa. Bishop Aden, Mr. Monroe, Mr. Standish, Reverend Holcomb, and Mr. Whitlock are making up a big list of words. Bishop Aden will give the words, Papa will judge the spelling, and Mr. Standish will keep the time.”
Tom’s great brain had already figured out what a lot of the spelling words would be. Well, that would be much easier than figuring out a way to win and to keep Polly happy too.
“Are they going to have a contest every year?” I asked, thinking that maybe my hours of drilling Tom wouldn’t be wasted if that were so. The next year I’d be at Adenville Academy, and I’d have a head start in learning words.
“Just give me the words, J.D.,” Tom said. “Most of my hour is already gone.”
The Great Brain Is Back Page 4