More Adventures of the Great Brain

by John D. Fitzgerald

  Papa appeared to suddenly decide he wanted to live on this earth a little longer. “Pierre Dussierre has a herd of sheep in the stockyards,” he said. “I’ll get him to drive that herd from the river up to the cave and leave them grazing on Cedar Ridge as soon as you seal up the entrance.”

  Then Papa looked at Tom, and his face wasn’t fatherly at all, but downright unfriendly. “You boys go to bed,” he commanded. “I’ll deal with you in the morning.”

  Tom and I were sound asleep when a mighty blast of dynamite shook our house.

  The next morning a herd of sheep was grazing on Cedar Ridge, and you couldn’t have found a trace of the fake footprints with a magnifying glass.

  I thought for sure that Tom’s brilliant idea would make the punishment light, but it didn’t. Papa handed down his sentence right after we’d finished eating breakfast.

  “A person who cheats to win a bet is no better than a person who steals,” Papa said to Tom. “You will call off your bet with Parley Benson. And you will give me your word of honor that you will never make another bet with another boy.”

  Tom’s face took on the look of a boy who has just lost a beaut of a Bowie knife. “I promise, word of honor,” he said reluctantly. “But don’t forget, Papa, that you and Uncle Mark cheated by letting people believe there really was a monster.”

  Papa took a deep breath, which he held so long his cheeks puffed up, and his face turned red. Then he slowly exhaled.

  “You are right,” he admitted, “but only about the footprints and the monster story. Sneaking out of the house after curfew for two straight nights is an entirely different matter. And for that, T.D., you will not receive your allowance for doing your chores for the next four weeks. And because J.D. conspired with you I hereby pronounce a sentence of one week of the silent treatment on both of you.”

  Tom and I were the most unfortunate kids in town. When any other kids did something wrong, all they got was a whipping. When Tom and I did something wrong, we got the silent treatment, which was ten times worse than a whipping. It meant that Papa and Mamma wouldn’t speak to us, and if we spoke to them, they would pretend they didn’t hear us. It was as if Tom and I didn’t exist as far as they were concerned during the silent treatment. How I wished they would act like normal parents and give us a whipping, and get it all over with in a hurry.

  Papa sent a telegram to the Smithsonian Institution, informing them it was all a hoax. Star reporters from Salt Lake City and Denver and even one from San Francisco came to Adenville but were unable to prove the story of the night the monster walked was a hoax. After all, hundreds of people had seen the tracks of the monster, and Uncle Mark said he’d sealed up the entrance to the cave to protect the lives of the citizens of Adenville. None of the newspapermen seemed interested in opening the cave and searching for the monster. And Pierre Dussierre said he hadn’t even heard about the tracks of the monster when he put his herd of sheep out to graze on Cedar Ridge.

  My little brain couldn’t figure out how the minds of grownups worked. Tom had saved Papa’s reputation as an editor and publisher and saved Uncle Mark’s reputation as a Marshal and Deputy Sheriff. I thought he should be entitled to a reward instead of being punished. But my little brain did figure out something about telling a lie. A kid tells a lie and his parents give him a whipping or punishment of some kind. But his parents can tell lies all over the place, like Papa did, and that is all right, because they are grownups. The way I figured it was that when our parents were kids, they got punished for telling lies. The only way they could get even was to wait until they had kids of their own to punish for telling lies. Well, I’d show Papa and Mamma. Boy, oh boy, when I’m grown up, I’ll be the biggest liar in the world, and I’ll hand down sentences of a whole month’s silent treatment on my own kids every time they lie.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Taming of Britches Dotty

  ON MONDAY MORNING AFTER the Saturday that Tom had terrorized the town, Mr. Standish asked him to take the midterm examination with the sixth graders instead of the fifth graders. He said if Tom passed the examination that he would promote my brother to the sixth grade, so Tom could graduate in June. Mr. Standish always let superior pupils skip a grade if they could pass the midterm examination for the next grade. It was no trick at all for Tom to get an A. So he moved from his desk in the fifth row with the fifth graders to the last row with the sixth graders.

  A couple of weeks later when Papa came home from the Advocate office, he had something on his mind. He told Mamma he had let a man named Charles Blake and his daughter move into the old adobe house. Papa and Mamma had lived there when they first got married. It was furnished with our old furniture and had a small and large bedroom, a parlor, and a big kitchen. Papa put off telling Mamma about it until we had finished eating supper.

  “Blake?” Mamma asked as she rolled up her napkin and placed it in her silver napkin ring. “I don’t recall anybody by that name in town. How much rent is he going to pay?”

  Papa sort of coughed like something was stuck in his throat. “You know, Tena, that house has been vacant since the Palmers moved to Cedar City,” Papa said. “A house lasts longer when people are living in it.”

  “I see,” Mamma said. “You told Mr. Blake he could live in the house rent-free. But why?”

  “He isn’t a Mormon for one thing,” Papa answered. “You know how the Mormons look out for their own. If he were a Mormon, they would see to it that Blake and his daughter had a place to live and find some kind of work for the man.”

  “Just who is he?” Mamma asked.

  “He was a wrangler who caught wild horses and broke them to the saddle or harness and sold them to ranchers,” Papa answered. “He owned a small spread over near the Nevada line. A few months ago a wild horse fell on him and broke his leg in several places and also permanently injured his back so he can never ride again. What little money he had was soon gone, and he lost his small ranch.”

  Mamma shook her head. “The poor man,” she said sadly.

  “Dave Ecord gave Blake and the daughter a ride into town,” Papa continued. “He dropped them off at the Advocate office this afternoon, thinking I might help the man find some kind of work in town. Blake’s injuries make it impossible for him to do any heavy work, and he can’t work standing up because he has to use a crutch to get around.”

  “What kind of work could he possibly do?” Mamma asked.

  “That part I took care of this afternoon,” Papa said. “I remembered Jerry Stout telling me a few weeks ago that he was getting older and had more business than he could handle. I took Blake to see Jerry. Jerry offered to give Blake a job and teach him how to repair saddles, harnesses, and bridles in his shop. It is work that can be done sitting down. And Blake doesn’t know it, but Jerry told me that if things work out, he will sell the shop to him when he retires in a few years.”

  “That was very nice of Jerry,” Mamma said.

  Papa’s face became solemn. “Getting Blake settled was easy,” he said. “The daughter is much more of a problem. Blake lost his wife several years ago. Since that time, he has taken the girl with him into the mountains and plains to capture wild horses. He’s raised her like a boy. She is about twelve years old and has never attended school. I just don’t see how she will be able to adjust to life in town. It will be like a prison to her. She is like a wild creature. Her father calls her Dotty.”

  “All she needs is love and help,” Mamma said.

  “It is going to take more than that,” Papa insisted. “I doubt if she has ever worn a dress in her life. She wears Levi britches, a boy’s shirt, and boy’s cowboy boots.”

  “That is no problem,” Mamma said. “I know several mothers who have clothing their daughters have outgrown. And Bertha and I can make the girl some dresses and things.”

  “In my judgment,” Papa said soberly, “she wouldn’t accept them or wear them, and her father wouldn’t permit it anyway. They are a proud and stubborn pair. Blake insis
ted I make out a promissory note for him to sign with an X, promising to pay me rent when he gets on his feet, before he’d move into the adobe house.”

  Mamma stared at Papa. “Mr. Blake can’t read or write?” she asked.

  “Ignorant but proud,” Papa said.

  * * *

  The next morning after we’d finished our morning chores, Mamma called Tom and me into the kitchen. She pointed at a bushel basket on the table. It was lined with wrapping paper. I could see a smoked ham, fruit jars, and several jars of homemade jellies and jams.

  “You boys take this to the Blakes,” she said.

  Tom and I grabbed hold of the wire handles and carried the basket down Main Street to Third Street South, where we turned left. The adobe house was in the middle of the block. As we got near it, we stopped and stared.

  There was a girl wearing Levi britches, a boy’s shirt, and short cowboy boots washing a window with her back turned toward us. I wouldn’t have known it was a girl, if it hadn’t been for her yellow hair tied in a braid behind her back.

  We continued on and set the basket on the small front porch of the adobe house.

  The girl heard us and turned around. She had a round face burned a deep brown from outdoor living. Her face looked like it had been dunked in a barrel of freckles. She stared at us with unfriendly blue eyes.

  “I’m Tom Fitzgerald, and this is my brother John,” Tom introduced us. “You must be Dotty Blake. Our mother and family welcome you and your father to Adenville and have sent you a few things.”

  I thought it was a very neighborly and nice speech myself, but Dotty’s eyes flashed.

  “Us Blakes don’t take charity from nobody,” she said. At least she sounded like a girl when she talked.

  “It isn’t charity,” Tom said. “It is just being neighborly.”

  “Ain’t no difference,” she said. “Take it back. Me and Pa don’t need help from nobody.”

  Tom shrugged as he looked at me. We picked up the bushel basket and carried it back home. We told Mamma what had happened, after setting the basket on the kitchen floor.

  Mamma shook her head sadly. “I guess your father was right,” she said.

  The next morning we went to the Community Church as usual, because there was no Catholic Church in Adenville. A Catholic missionary priest came to town about once a year to baptize Catholic babies, marry Catholics, and hold confessions and Masses for a few days in the Community Church. Papa said going to hear the Reverend Holcomb preach at the Community Church was better than no church at all. Mr. Blake was there dressed in overalls and a blue work shirt, I guess because he didn’t own a suit. And Dotty was there bold as brass in her Levi britches, boy’s shirt, and cowboy boots. Reverend Holcomb didn’t seem to mind and welcomed them to the congregation.

  “I’m going to call on the Blakes,” Mamma said when we returned home.

  “Do you think that’s wise?” Papa asked. “Mr. Blake and his daughter have given every indication all they want is to be left alone.”

  “I have every right to see how they are taking care of our house,” Mamma said. “I’ll use that as an excuse. Then I’ll try to reason with Mr. Blake that being neighborly isn’t charity.”

  This was too exciting to miss, so Tom and I waited in our parlor with Papa and Aunt Bertha until Mamma returned. She sure looked worried and sad as she sat down in her maple rocker.

  “That girl has the house as neat as a pin,” she said.

  “Then what are you worried about?” Papa asked.

  “It isn’t the house,” Mamma said. “It’s that poor girl and her stubborn father. He lets her do the housework and cooking but otherwise treats her like a son and not a daughter. He even boasted to me how he had raised her as if she were a boy, and how she could ride, use a lariat, a rifle, and other things better than a boy. I first tried to reason with him, pointing out that now they were living in town, and he should treat her as a daughter and not as a son. And do you know what he said?”

  Papa waited as Mamma paused and then asked, “How could I know? I wasn’t there.”

  Mamma shook her head. “He said he liked his daughter just the way she was, and it was nobody else’s business how he raised her. Then I pointed out to him that living in town did have some advantages, such as enabling his daughter to get an education. And do you know what he said to that?”

  Papa was getting impatient with Mamma as she paused again. “My dear Tena, how could I possibly know?”

  “He said he didn’t hold with book learning,” Mamma said. “The man is impossible.”

  I was one hundred percent in favor of Mr. Blake. Any father who didn’t want his kid to go to school was all right for my money.

  “There is nothing we can do about it,” Papa said. “It is Mr. Blake’s business how he raises his daughter.”

  Mamma stood up with that look of determination on her face I’d seen so many times. “I am going to make it my business, and you are going to help me. We are going to force Mr. Blake to make his daughter go to school.”

  “How?” Papa asked.

  “You will go see Calvin Whitlock and other members of the school board this afternoon and convince them it is to the best interests of Dotty Blake that she get an education,” Mamma said.

  When Papa returned home late that afternoon, he seemed in good spirits.

  “Well?” Mamma asked.

  “It is all set,” Papa said. “Calvin and the members of the school board, along with Mark representing the law, will call on Mr. Blake in the morning. They will tell him the law forces all children to attend school through the sixth grade. Blake can’t read, so there is no way for him to look up the law. Jerry Stout and others Blake might ask about it have all agreed to cooperate.”

  The next morning Mr. Whitlock entered our one-room schoolhouse looking very distinguished with his gray, muttonchop side whiskers. He was accompanied by Dotty Blake and her father. Mr. Blake had yellow hair and a yellow mustache. His face was burned as brown as an Indian’s skin. He was hobbling on a homemade crutch.

  “This is Dorthea Blake,” Mr. Whitlock said to Mr. Standish. “She has never been to school. You will have to start her in the first grade, and be patient with her.”

  Then Mr. Whitlock and Mr. Blake left. Dotty looked scared and was biting her lower lip. She was wearing her Levi britches, boy’s shirt, and cowboy boots. Our teacher showed her to a seat in the front row with the first graders.

  “Welcome to our school, Dorthea,” Mr. Standish said.

  “My name’s Dotty and not Dorthea,” she said.

  “Mr. Whitlock said your name was Dorthea, and that is what you will be called in school,” Mr. Standish said with authority.

  “Guess my pa knows my name better’n Mr. Whitlock,” Dotty said. “Pa calls me Dotty.”

  Mr. Standish sort of shrugged. “All right, Dotty, if that is the way you prefer it,” he said.

  Mr. Standish tried to include Dotty in the lessons for the first grade, but she just sat with her arms folded and wouldn’t answer him.

  When our teacher finally released us for the morning recess, Tom whispered to me, “That poor kid is in for a rough time.”

  Tom was right. No sooner had the kids got outside on the playground when they began making fun of Dotty. Sammy Leeds was the ringleader.

  “Are you a boy or a girl?” Sammy asked as all the kids crowded around her. “Can’t tell with those britches, boy’s shirt, and boots you’re wearing.”

  Then Marie Vinson put in her two cents. “Britches Dotty hasn’t got a dress to wear,” she shouted and then laughed.

  Christine Mackie kept the insults going. “Why didn’t your mother wash and curl your hair?” she asked.

  “Ain’t got no ma,” Dotty said. “She’s dead.”

  I thought that would make the kids ashamed, but it didn’t.

  Sammy laughed a cruel laugh. “Britches Dotty can’t read or write,” he shouted. “Britches Dotty is dumb, dumb, dumb.”

  Then a
ll the kids except Tom and me and Basil began to shout: “Britches Dotty is dumb, dumb, dumb!” Sammy was the worst of all, stepping right up close to her and shouting the insult right in her face. She pushed him away.

  “You stop makin’ fun of me, or you’ll be sorry,” she said with a wild look in her blue eyes.

  “Sorry about what?” Sammy taunted her.

  “About this!” Dotty shouted, as she hauled off and punched Sammy right on the nose so hard it began to bleed.

  All the girls began insulting Sammy, because they had never seen a girl fight a boy.

  Marie Vinson shouted, “Sammy got a bloody nose from a girl!”

  As if by signal, all the girls began to shout, “Sammy got whipped by a girl! Sammy got whipped by a girl!”

  Sammy wiped the blood from his nose with his handkerchief. He looked angry enough to explode. “If you wasn’t a girl, I’d beat the tar out of you,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “I ain’t afraid to fight you,” Dotty said.

  That was all Sammy needed. He doubled up his fists and began throwing punches at Dotty, who fought just like a boy and punched him right back.

  The kids began to scream and shout. This brought Mr. Standish out of the schoolhouse. Tom ran to meet the teacher with me following.

  “Please let them fight,” Tom pleaded. “If Dotty whips Sammy, all the other kids will leave her alone.”

  Mr. Standish thought about it for a moment and then went back into the schoolhouse.

  By the time Tom and I got back to the fight, Sammy and Dotty were in a clinch. I watched bug-eyed as Dotty wrestled Sammy to the ground and pinned him with her knees on his arms. She pasted him good a few times on the face. Then she scooped up a handful of dirt.

  “Had ‘nuff?” she asked.

  Poor old Sammy knew he was beat. “I give up,” he said.

  “Then eat dirt,” Dotty shouted, as she pushed the handful of dirt into Sammy’s mouth.

  It was one of the worst humiliations a fellow could suffer. Sammy began to gag and spit dirt and blood from his mouth as Dotty got up. And boy, did she have a wild look as she stared at the kids.