John Fitzgerald (4 page)

   
"I do," he said. "And I'll
tell you why. When we play cowboy and Indians or cavalry and Indians I never
get to be one of the tricky Indians. I've always wanted to be a tricky Indian
but couldn't because I didn't have an Indian suit and war bonnet. I'll trade
you, John. I only get to use the cap pistol on the fourth of July anyway. That
is the only time my folks will let me buy caps for it."

   
I left Howard's home with the cap pistol
and holster. My next stop was the boardinghouse that Jimmie Peterson's mother
owned. Poor Jimmie had to peel potatoes for the boarders almost every day after
school. I found him on his back porch peeling spuds and dropping them into a
bucket of water. I showed him the cap pistol and holster. "How would you
like to own it?" I asked.

   
He stood up and wiped his hands on the
front of his shirt. Then he put on the holster and made a couple of practice
draws with the cap pistol.

"What do you
want for it?" he asked.

   
"I remember you telling me one of your
mother's boarders gave you a scout knife for Christmas last year," I said.
"That means you've got two scout knives. I'll trade you the cap pistol and
holster for one of them.

   
Jimmie thought for a moment. "A scout
knife is worth more than a cap pistol and holster," he said.

   
"Just tell me how you can whittle or
do anything with two scout knives at the same time," I said. "It's
like having four legs when you only need two to walk on. I figured I was doing
you a favor by taking one of the knives off your hands and trading you
something you really need and want."

   
I knew I had him when Jimmie made a couple
more practice draws.

   
"I'll trade my old scout knife but not
the new one," he said.

"It's a
deal," I said.

   
I left Jimmie's back porch feeling mighty
proud of myself as a trader. I'd started out with Tom's old Indian suit and war
bonnet that was just lying around in our attic and now had a scout knife.

   
The next day after school I told Frank
Jensen I wanted to talk to him. It was his
brother
Allan's week to do my chores. I knew their dog Lady had given birth to another
litter of pups, which were now weaned. Some mongrel dog was the father. They
had given away all but two pups which Frank and Allan had kept for themselves.

   
"You told me yesterday that you wanted
a scout knife more than anything else," I said to Frank. "I'll trade
you a scout knife for a pup." I showed him the knife.

 
  
He
opened all the blades to make sure none were broken. Then he looked at the
handle.

   
"There is a piece of bone missing on
the handle," he said.

   
"What did you expect for a mongrel
pup?" I demanded.
"A brand new knife?
If you
don't want to trade, just say so." But I knew from the way he was admiring
the knife that I had him.

"I'll
trade," he said.

   
I walked home with him and got the pup. My
next stop was Andy Anderson's house. Andy was a boy who had lost his left leg
just below the knee. He had a peg leg. He was in their woodshed chopping
kindling wood on a chopping block made from the trunk of a tree. He stared at
the puppy in my arms.

"Where did
you get the pup?" he asked.

"From Frank
Jensen," I answered.

   
He slammed the hatchet into the chopping
block. "That
ain't
fair," he said.
"You already got two dogs. I asked Frank and Allan for a pup after my dog
died. But they said all the pups were spoken for."

   
"They were," I said. "This
was Frank's own pup. I traded him a scout knife for it. And I'm here to do more
trading if you want the pup."

   
Andy patted the pup on the head. "What
do you want for him?" he asked.

   
"You are getting too big for that
wagon of yours," I said. "I'll trade you the pup for the wagon. Then
I'm going to trade the wagon to Roger Gillis."

   
"Boy, you are sure doing a lot of
trading," Andy said. "But you are right. I was going to ask for a new
wagon for Christmas. Give me the pup and take the wagon."

   
The next day after school I asked Roger
Gillis, who was only seven years old, to come to our barn with me. I showed him
the wagon.

"It looks
like the one Andy Anderson had," Roger said.

"It
is," I said. "I traded him for it."

   
"What are you going to do with
it?" he asked. "You got a wagon and this one is too little for you
anyway.

   
"Remember the air rifle your uncle
gave you for your birthday," I said. "You told me your mother put it
away and won't let you use it."

   
"She says I'm too little to have an
air rifle," Roger said.
"Said I couldn't have it
until I was nine or ten years old."

   
"Then what good is it to you?" I
asked. Boy, oh, boy, was I getting to be a sharpie at this trading business.
"I'll trade you the wagon for the air rifle. Your mother will probably be
glad to get rid of the air rifle if she is so afraid of you using it."

   
"Let's go ask her," Roger said.
And when he picked up the handle of the wagon and began pulling it, I knew I
had him.

   
Mrs. Gillis acted as if I was doing her a
big favor trading the wagon for the air rifle. My next stop was in the alley
behind the Palace Cafe on the east side of town. Basil
Kokovinis
lived in an apartment above the cafe with his mother and father. He was helping
out in the kitchen when I called to him through the screen door. I remembered
Basil telling me that some cowboy had given his father a riding quirt with a
short handle and lash of braided rawhide as security for a meal ticket. The
cowboy never came back to redeem the riding quirt. It was useless to Basil or
his father because they didn't own a horse.

   
I handed Basil the air rifle when he came
to the screen door. "I'll trade you for the riding quirt you told me
about," I said.

   
Basil ran back into the kitchen with the
air rifle. I heard him talking half in Greek and half in English with his
father. In a few minutes he came out and handed me the riding quirt.

   
That finished my trading for that day. And
I couldn't help thinking that I just might end up becoming the greatest sharpie
in Utah someday.

   
The next morning I talked to Danny
Forester, who raised Belgian hare rabbits. When school let out, I traded Danny
the riding quirt for a doe rabbit. A short time later I arrived at the home of
Parley Benson with the doe in my arms. Parley was in their barn filling the manger
with hay for their livestock. He jabbed the pitchfork into a pile of hay when
he saw the rabbit in my arms.

"That is a
Belgian hare rabbit," he said. "Is it a doe?"

   
"It's a female," I said.
"Just what you said you wanted. I'm here to make a trade."

   
Parley pushed his coonskin cap to the back
of his head. "Just name it," he said. "My doe died, and what
good is a buck rabbit without a doe? I tried to get a doe from Danny but he
wanted cash and I didn't have enough." He paused, looking puzzled. "Where
did you get it?" he asked.

   
"From Danny," I answered. "I
traded him a riding quirt for it. Now I'll trade you the doe for that genuine
Indian bow and arrow you own."

   
"It's a deal," Parley said.
"I need the doe more than I do the bow and arrow."

   
My next stop was the home of Seth Smith. He
had just finished dumping a bucketful of slops into the trough in their pigpen.
He put the bucket down and stared at the bow and arrow.

   
"Where did you get the bow and
arrow?" he asked. "It's a beauty."

   
I handed the bow and arrow to him.
"You can see for yourself it is a genuine Indian bow and arrow," I
said. "I got it from Parley Benson."

   
Seth admired the bow and tested it.
"Boy, I wish it was mine," he said. "What do you want for it,
John?"

   
It never occurred to me until that moment
that I didn't know what I wanted for the bow and arrow. Mr. Kramer knew when he
started out with his saddle horse that he wanted to end up with a team of
mules. I'd known what every kid wanted, and got it for them with my sharp
trading. But I didn't know what I wanted. I had just about everything a kid
could want.

   
"What have you got that you'll trade
me for it?" I asked Seth.

"How about a
knife?" he asked.

"I’ve got a
scout knife,
  
I answered.

   
"How about some
marbles, including my genuine taw?"
Seth asked.

"I've got
all the marbles I need," I said.

   
One by one Seth named all his worldly
possessions. But there wasn't a thing he had that I wanted or needed.

"How about a
cash deal?" I asked.

   
"All I've got is about twelve
cents," he said. "I used the rest of the money I had saved up to buy
Ma a birthday present."

"Then I
guess I'll just have to keep the bow and arrow," I said. "But I don't
want it. I've already got one."

   
Seth looked around desperately until his
eye fell on the pigpen. "You
ain't
got a
pig," he said.

"That's
right," I said. "I don't own a pig."

   
Seth motioned for me to follow him and look
into the pigpen. "Our sow just finished weaning a litter of piglets,"
he said. "Pa said I could have one for feeding the pigs. I was going to
raise it until it got big enough to sell. I'll trade you a piglet for the bow
and arrow. Take your pick of the litter."

   
I had never fully realized how cute baby
pigs were. I leaned over and picked up a little black and white
sow.

"You've got
yourself a deal," I said.

   
I couldn't help feeling very proud of
myself as a trader as I walked home with the little sow in my arms. I'd started
out with just an old Indian suit and war bonnet and now I owned a pig. Then a
brilliant idea hit me. Why didn't I go into the pig raising business? I could
raise the little sow until she was old enough to sell for butchering. I'd get
enough money to buy about three weanling pigs. And I'd raise them until they
were old enough to sell. But I'd only sell two of them and buy a boar. Then I'd
breed my sow to the boar. And that would give me a litter of pigs. In no time
at all I'd own a lot of pigs. I would keep breeding them and selling them and
make a fortune. Even Tom with his great brain never came up with a brilliant
idea for making money like this. I'd put the little sow in the barn for
tonight. Tomorrow after school I'd get some wooden crates from Mr. Harmon at
the Z.C.M.I, store and build a pigpen. I was so proud of
myself,
I just had to show Mamma the little sow before I put her in the barn.

   
Mamma and Aunt Bertha were starting to
prepare supper in the kitchen. Mamma put her hands on her hips as she always
did when angry.

   
"John Dennis, just what do you think
you are doing with that pig?" she demanded.

   
I couldn't understand why she was angry. I
knew as soon as I told her about all the sharp trading I had done that she
would be proud of me. And I knew she'd be even prouder when I told her about my
plans to go into the pig raising business. So I told her and Aunt Bertha all
about it, right from the beginning. It was strange but the more they listened,
the angrier Mamma looked.

   
"What is the matter with you,
Mamma?" I asked as I finished. "You look angry when you should look
proud for having such a shrewd and clever son. I'm going to raise pigs and make
a lot of money."

   
"Well, you certainly aren't going to
raise them around here," Mamma said sharply. "I do not mind horses. I
do not mind a milk cow. I do not mind chickens. But there is one thing I will
never permit and that is a pigpen in our backyard. Now just march yourself back
to Seth Smith and give him back his pig."

"But Mamma
..." I started to protest.

   
"There are no buts, and there will be
no pigs," Mamma said firmly. "You get rid of that pig and do it right
now."

   
Boy, oh, boy, what a disaster this was
after all my sharp trading. I knew there was never any appealing one of Mamma's
decisions. I went back to Seth's house, and found him practicing with the bow
and arrow in his backyard.