The Great Brain Does It Again

by John D. Fitzgerald

  One of the trappers with a tobacco-stained moustache spat out some tobacco juice. “We sure did, son,” he said.

  “What time did they leave?” Tom asked.

  “Funny thing ’bout that,” the man said. “Pete here and me was wonderin’ why anybody would pull out in the middle of the night instead of waiting for daylight. We were just coming back after the saloons closed at midnight when we saw them leaving.”

  “Thank you,” Tom said.

  By the time we got home it was time to start doing the evening chores. I called Tom to one side in our backyard so Frankie couldn’t hear.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked. “If Mr. Gruber is too poor to buy a rocking horse and stole Bullet to give to his son maybe we’d better forget the whole thing. Papa can buy Frankie a new rocking horse.”

  Tom stared at me as if I had a carrot for a nose and a cabbage for a head. “That would mean forgetting about the dollar reward,” he said. “I’m positive Mr. Gruber stole the rocking horse. He waited at the campgrounds until he knew everybody in our house would be asleep in bed and came here and stole Bullet. It was his wagon Mrs. Higgins heard. And I’m going to collect the reward.”

  Tom waited until after the supper dishes were washed and we were all in the parlor.

  “Papa,” he said, “my great brain has figured out who stole Bullet, but we will have to go to the Gruber farm to prove it.”

  Papa looked surprised. “I’ve known Jeb Gruber for years,” he said. “He is an honest and hard-working man and not a thief.”

  “All the evidence points to him,” Tom said. Then he explained how his great brain had solved the mystery.

  Papa was shaking his head when Tom finished. “That is all very flimsy circumstantial evidence,” he said.

  Mamma leaned forward in her rocking chair. “Not so flimsy considering what I saw yesterday,” she said. “I was washing the parlor window when I saw the Grubers. When their little boy spotted the rocking horse on our front porch he began clapping his hands and I could hear him shouting, ‘Horsey!’ Mr. Gruber stopped the team and wagon so the boy could get a good look at the rocking horse. Then they drove on down the street.”

  “I just can’t believe that a man like Jeb Gruber would steal anything,” Papa said.

  “There is only one way to find out,” Mamma said. “Frankie loves that rocking horse. I’m not asking you to have the man arrested if he did steal it. I just want you to get it back. It is a question of Frankie’s happiness or the Gruber boy’s happiness.”

  Frankie, who had been listening, got up from the floor where we were playing checkers. He walked over and put a hand on Papa’s knee.

  “Please, Papa,” he pleaded. “Please get Bullet back for me. Please.”

  “All right, son,” Papa said. “We’ll drive out to the Gruber farm tomorrow.”

  We hitched our team to our buggy after Sunday dinner. Frankie rode with Papa in the front seat and Tom and I sat on the rear seat. As we rode towards the Gruber farm the evidence of the drought was all around us. The ground was so parched it was caked with withered crops lying in the sun. The Gruber farm was about a mile off the main highway. As we approached the farmhouse Frankie pointed toward it.

  “Bullet!” he shouted happily.

  And sure enough, on the front porch of the farmhouse we could see a little dark-haired boy riding the rocking horse. He didn’t pay any attention to us. He was lost in his imagination. We could hear him shouting, “Giddy-up, Horsey!” Papa pulled the team to a halt as Mr. and Mrs. Gruber came out of the farmhouse and walked up to the buggy.

  Mr. Gruber scratched nervously at his beard. “I know why you are here, Mr. Fitzgerald,” he said. “Reckon as how somebody saw me do it. Thanks for not bringin’ the sheriff.”

  Frankie grabbed Papa’s hand as we got out of the buggy. “Let’s get Bullet!” he shouted, but Papa held him firmly by the hand.

  Mrs. Gruber brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “I’m as much to blame as Jeb,” she said. “I didn’t try to stop him.”

  Papa looked at both of them. “I just don’t understand why you took the rocking horse,” he said.

  “Our son Jimmy has diabetes,” Mr. Gruber said. “About six months ago he started saying he was thirsty all the time and he drank a lot of water. My wife and I got worried when this went on for a couple of weeks and we took him to see Doc LeRoy. Doc said Jimmy has diabetes. Ain’t no cure for the disease. Doc said Jimmy had about two years to live.”

  Papa shook his head sadly.

  “Friday when we went into town for supplies,” Mr. Gruber continued, “Jimmy saw the rocking horse on the front porch of your house. He asked me if he could have a rocking horse like that. I couldn’t afford to buy him one, but I wanted to make Jimmy happy. I said to Emma, ‘I’ve got to get that rocking horse.”’

  Mrs. Gruber nodded. “And I let him do it,” she said.

  “Reckon as how there is no more to say,” Mr. Gruber said, “I’ll fetch the rocking horse and put it in your buggy. And thanks again for not bringing the sheriff.”

  Papa picked Frankie up in his arms. “Do you understand why Mr. Gruber took Bullet?” he asked.

  “Yes, Papa,” Frankie said. “Jimmy is going to die.”

  “I’m going to leave it up to you, son,” Papa said.

  Papa put Frankie down. Frankie walked over to the front porch of the farmhouse. Jimmy Gruber was smiling happily as he rocked back and forth, but he stopped when Frankie got in front of him. Frankie just stared at Jimmy for a moment. Then he reached out and patted the head of the rocking horse.

  “His name is Bullet,” he said. “Please take good care of him.” Then he ran to our buggy and climbed into the front seat.

  Mr. Gruber blew his nose. “Just ain’t no way to thank you and your boy enough,” he said to Papa.

  “It was worth a hundred rocking horses to see what Frankie just did,” Papa said. “We’ll be leaving now.”

  We walked to the buggy. Papa got into the front seat with Frankie. Tom and I got in the back seat.

  “I’m very proud of you, son,” Papa said to Frankie as he started the team.

  I looked back as Papa drove the team out of the farmyard. I could see Jimmy Gruber riding the rocking horse while his parents watched him. I knew Frankie had done a very kind and generous thing. I knew I should feel glad about it. Instead I felt like crying. Maybe it was because a little four-year-old boy had less than two years to live. Then Tom interrupted my thoughts.

  “What is diabetes, Papa?” he asked.

  “I asked Dr. LeRoy about it when Ben Horner died from the disease a few years ago,” Papa said. “He told me that the medical profession doesn’t know what causes it and that’s why they can’t find a cure. All they know is that an adult will die from it within five years and a child will die within two years.”

  “What makes them die?” Tom asked.

  “They don’t get the benefit of the food they eat,” Papa said, “because of changes the disease makes in their bodies, and eventually they go into a diabetic coma and die. But someday science will find a cure.”

  We didn’t talk much during the rest of the drive home. Papa helped us unhitch the team and told Tom and me to give the horses a rubdown before doing the evening chores. Then he took Frankie by the hand.

  “Let’s go now, son,” he said, “and put in an order to Sears Roebuck for a new rocking horse for you.”

  Tom stepped in front of them. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Papa?” he asked. “I mean the reward.”

  “Good Lord,” Papa said. “How can you think of money at a time like this?”

  “You always said people should pay their debts promptly,” Tom said. “And in a way the reward is a debt you owe me.”

  Papa removed his wallet from his pocket and took out a silver dollar which he handed to Tom. “There are times,” he said, “when I think you have a cash register for a heart.”

  Tom watched Papa and Frankie leave the barn.
“I wonder what’s eating Papa,” he said as he flipped the dollar up and down. “If my great brain hadn’t solved the mystery of the missing rocking horse, Papa could have bought Frankie ten new rocking horses and none of them would have taken the place of Bullet in Frankie’s heart. But knowing he has made Jimmy happy, Frankie will now be satisfied with a new rocking horse. Instead of being angry with me, Papa should be proud of me.”

  “Even my little brain can figure out why Papa is angry,” I said. “Frankie sacrificed Bullet to make a little boy happy, but you still demanded the dollar reward.”

  Then Tom got angry. He held out the dollar towards me.

  “If you don’t think I earned this dollar, go ahead and take it,” he dared me. “Just don’t forget that if it hadn’t been for me, every time Mr. and Mrs. Gruber looked at that rocking horse their consciences would have bothered them.”

  I had to admit it was worth more than a dollar not to have a guilty conscience.

  “I guess you earned the dollar,” I said.

  “No guessing about it,” Tom said as he put the dollar in his pocket. “You know darn well I earned it and so does Papa.”

  Jimmy Gruber lived for fifteen months after Frankie gave him the rocking horse. Papa was wrong about science discovering a cure for diabetes. Even today there is no cure. But in 1923 it was discovered that insulin and a controlled diet allowed diabetics to live as long as normal people.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Horse Race

  IT WAS SOON AFTER Jimmy Gruber’s funeral that Howard Kay, who was one of my best friends, had a birthday party. Howard’s party was held after school on a Friday. Mamma told Tom and Frankie they would have to do all the evening chores because I was going to the party. It was a sort of strange birthday party. We ate our fill of ice cream and cake all right but we didn’t play any games like Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey. The reason for this was that Howard’s uncle, who owned a ranch, had given Howard a mare for a birthday present. We spent most of our time in the Kay barn admiring and petting the mare.

  Howard was one of the very few kids in Adenville who had a horse of his own when he was only six years old. His uncle had given him a saddle horse then named Blackie who was now getting pretty old. The time had come for Blackie to be turned out to pasture on the ranch and that is why Howard’s uncle had given him the mare. She was a beauty. She had a light-brown coat and white forelegs and her face was all white down to her nose. Her name was Cleo and every kid at the party including me wished he had an uncle like Howard’s.

  * * *

  The next morning after chores I told Tom and Frankie that I was going to the fairgrounds.

  “Why the fairgrounds?” Tom asked.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” I said. “Howard is going to race his new mare against Parley Benson’s pony Blaze.”

  “I hope that Howard wasn’t stupid enough to bet,” Tom said. “Blaze is the fastest quarter horse in the county.”

  “Cleo is a quarter horse too,” I said. “They aren’t going to bet. Howard just wants to find out how fast Cleo can run.”

  Frankie touched Tom on the arm. “What is a quarter horse?” he asked. “How can you have just a piece of a horse?”

  Tom laughed. “It’s a breed of horse that can run very fast for a short distance,” he explained.

  “But why do they call them quarter horses?” Frankie asked.

  “Because the best distance they race is a quarter of a mile,” Tom said. “They can beat any other kind of horse in a short race.”

  Tom and I got our bikes. Frankie rode double with Tom to the fairgrounds. Adenville was the county seat and every September the County Fair was held there. There was a grandstand for spectators. One big building was where the livestock were judged. Another building had booths in it where vegetables, prepared foods, and sewing were judged. Judges awarded blue ribbons to the best ear of corn, the best squash, and the best other vegetables. They also awarded a blue ribbon to the best needlepoint sewing, the best crocheting, the best homemade quilt, and things like that. Cakes, pies, homemade jams and jellies and other prepared foods were judged too and awarded ribbons.

  Mamma usually won the first prize for the best fruitcake, but I think she cheated a little bit. She always put a little of Papa’s brandy in her fruitcake mix. The Mormons never drank any alcoholic beverage and wouldn’t know what it tasted like. I always figured it was the extra flavor the brandy gave Mamma’s fruitcakes that made the judges award her first prize.

  Next to the grandstand were chutes for the rodeo part of the fair. Each cowboy had to put up five dollars each time he entered a contest, and the winner got all the money. We had bronco-busting, bulldogging, calf-roping, and other contests. We had a quarter-mile horse race, too, which Parley had won two years in a row. But my favorite race was the race of the chuck wagons. The chuck-wagon cooks from different ranches drove their teams at a gallop with the wagons so close together that the hubs of their wheels were just inches apart.

  There were about twenty kids in front of the grandstand when we arrived. Parley was sitting on Blaze. Howard rode up on his mare a few minutes later. He and Parley dismounted. Parley was too old to be invited to Howard’s party and was seeing the mare for the first time.

  “She looks a lot better than some of the quarter horses I beat at the fair,” Parley said.

  “I know I can’t beat you,” Howard said. “I just want to find out how fast Cleo can run. I wish we had a stopwatch.”

  “We don’t need one,” Parley said. “We’ll just see if I beat you by a greater distance than I did some of the horses at the fair.”

  Parley got on Blaze and Howard on Cleo. They asked Tom to act as starter. They took their places opposite the starting pole.

  “I’ll count to three,” Tom said. “One, two, three, go!”

  Howard’s mare surprised me. She ran neck and neck with Blaze almost halfway around the quarter-mile racetrack. Then she began dropping back. Parley crossed the finish line about ten lengths in front of Cleo.

  “Don’t feel bad,” Parley said to Howard when the race was over. “I beat four horses in the fair race by twenty lengths and I beat the other three by more than five lengths, so Cleo is faster than four of those quarter horses. Blaze is the fastest quarter horse in the whole county.”

  I knew Tom had something on his mind when we got home because he went straight up to his loft in the barn. He only went there when he was going to put his great brain to work on some scheme or swindle. He didn’t come down until it was time for lunch.

  “What were you doing in your loft?” I asked.

  “Yeah, what?” Frankie said.

  “That Parley sure likes to brag about his horse,” Tom said.

  “For my money,” I said, “he has something to brag about.”

  “I can’t stand a fellow who brags,” Tom said.

  “Boy, oh, boy,” I said, “then you sure must hate yourself. You are always bragging about your great brain.”

  “That is different,” Tom said.

  I couldn’t see any difference. But I did know that Tom had put his great brain to work on how to stop Parley from bragging about Blaze.

  “If you’re thinking of a way to beat Blaze in a race,” I said, “forget it.”

  Tom nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “but just think of how much money I could make betting if my great brain figured out a way to beat Blaze.”

  That evening Tom sat on the floor in the parlor with Frankie and me playing dominoes. I knew he didn’t have his mind on the game because I beat him twice and Frankie beat us once. Finally he told Papa what was on his mind.

  “Papa, why do cowboys all use mustangs instead of quarter horses?”

  “Because a mustang has twice the stamina of a quarter horse,” Papa said after placing a magazine he was reading on his lap. “A cowboy can work a mustang all day at hard labor that a quarter horse could never do. About the only thing a quarter horse is good for is as a saddle horse for pleasure riding or racing.�
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  “Could a mustang outrun a quarter horse in a long race?” Tom asked.

  “Definitely,” Papa said. “In a race of more than half a mile the mustang would win.”

  A big grin came over Tom’s freckled face. “Thanks, Papa,” he said, and then proceeded to beat Frankie and me at dominoes until it was time to take our baths.

  The next day after Sunday dinner Tom went up to our bedroom and changed to his playclothes.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “To try an experiment,” he answered.

  “Can I come?” I asked.

  “If you promise to keep your mouth shut about it,” Tom said.

  Eddie Huddle came over to play with Frankie. I went to the barn with Tom and helped him saddle up Sweyn’s mustang Dusty. We rode to the fairgrounds. I got off. Tom stayed on Dusty.

  “I’m going to see if Dusty can run a mile,” he told me. “You watch and see if he slows down after I put him into a steady gallop.”

  I watched Tom ride Dusty around the track four times. Dusty was going just as fast the last time around as he had been going the first time. When they stopped, Dusty was breathing a little heavy but looked as if he could run around the track ten more times if he wanted to.

  “I’ve got Parley where I want him,” Tom said. “I’m going to challenge him to a race, Dusty against Blaze.”

  “Dusty hasn’t got a chance,” I said. “Blaze can run a lot faster.”

  “For a quarter of a mile, yes,” Tom said, “and maybe even for half a mile. But this is going to be a mile-long race.”

  “But won’t Parley know he can’t beat Dusty in a mile-long race?” I asked.

  “Parley is so proud of Blaze that he would bet on any kind of a race,” Tom said. “To him Blaze is a racehorse and Dusty just an old mustang.”

  Monday after school we changed to our playclothes and went to Smith’s vacant lot. Parley was there with about a dozen other kids.

  “That was some race Saturday,” Tom said as the fellows crowded around us.

  “Blaze is the fastest horse in the county,” Parley said. “Ain’t one horse around here that can beat him.”