Just then an Indian mother appeared in the doorway of her hogan. The papoose upon her back was crying loudly, and Billy looked roguishly at Mrs. Fighting Bull and asked: "Is the baby called a "Squawker"?"
CHAPTER VIII
WHO WINS THE RADIO?
For many days Billy worked diligently at his composition. He took care to do his writing away from home, as he cherished the thought of surprising Mother and Father.
Then, too, he had conceived another idea. It happened to pop into his head one evening when he was returning from Bah"s home. It was such a good idea that he wondered he hadn"t thought of it before.
And so, as I have said, he worked, and no one but Peanuts knew what he was doing, and Peanuts was sworn to secrecy. As he would prepare to leave his secluded spot out on the prairie where he did his writing, Billy would say to Peanuts: "Now, we"ll never say a word! We"ll keep this to ourselves, won"t we?"
[Ill.u.s.tration: FOR DAYS BILLY WORKED ON HIS STORY]
And Peanuts was most agreeable. Why not? The days had been pleasure since his master had decided to allow him to graze all day long instead of asking him to gallop over the plains. Yes, indeed, the plan suited Peanuts down to the ground (where, by the way, he constantly kept his nose.)
Billy"s nose was buried in his writing and he chewed the pencil as steadily as Peanuts chewed the dry nourishment he found. But at last the task was over, the ma.n.u.script sent in to the magazine, and Billy was again paying his respects to the Fighting Bull family. Peanuts was the only regretful one when the story was finished, and sent away.
Billy sighed a sigh of relief and the first day that he put in an appearance at the hogan, Bah squealed with joy to see him returning.
Many happy days ensued, in which the Indian girl showed the boy new games and ways of playing which she, little lonely one, had devised by herself.
Each evening Billy would come home with the same question on his lips: "Has my magazine arrived?"
But New York is a long way from Arizona, and it was many weeks before the magazine, in which the winning story was to appear, at last came.
It was one evening after Billy had had a particularly exciting day chasing buffaloes (in the form of tame sheep) with Bah, that he came home to find his magazine awaiting him. It had not been opened and was lying on his little desk. It was addressed to him--and inside it was--maybe--his story! He longed to find out, but he couldn"t move his fingers to open the wrapper.
He suddenly grew hot all over and realized then how he longed to see that story inside those covers. If he had been an Indian instead of a white boy he would have made a prayer stick and prayed via the eagle feather to the Great Father.
The next morning Father and Mother found Billy curled up in a big chair in the living room poring over his magazine. They could not see his face.
Father took up his paper, but before starting to read he remarked: "Who"s the lucky winner of the radio, Son?"
Billy did not answer, but arose from his chair and brought the magazine over, to Father. Father glanced at the page with a wicked smile, and remarked: "Needless to say, it wasn"t a chap named William!"
Billy, his head drooping, left the room, and Mother felt sorry for him.
So did Father. In fact I think Father was sorry for what he had said, as he got up and called him back.
It was then that Billy told Father what he had done--all about it from the first day that the idea had occurred to him until the moment when he had, with trembling fingers, opened the magazine and found....
"You"re a good boy, Bill," said Father, "and I"ve been wronging you."
Mother was about to make a fuss over him, so, allowing her only time enough for one kiss, he grabbed his hat. Then with the parting words, "I"m going to see the Fighting Bulls--goodbye," he made a dash for the door.
"Some day maybe you"ll take me, Bill," called Father after him, "I"d like to meet the Fighting Bulls, and their calf. She must be a smart little kid!"
Then the parents looked at each other and Mother"s eyes were just a little bit dewy. She smiled and shook her finger at Father: "I know another Fighting Bull," she said.
"Yes, dear," said Father humbly, "and he has a splendid and plucky little calf!"
At the hogan there was much excitement. As Peanuts came galloping down the village "street" his rider saw a most unusual sight.
Chief Fighting Bull, his wife and small daughter were all grouped about an object which seemed to be attracting them. So much did it attract them that they were talking in Navajo faster and louder than Billy had ever heard them talk.
The boy jumped down from his pony and walked up to the family circle.
He saw that the object of their interest was a large wooden express box, and written across it were the words:
"Bah, The Little Indian Weaver, Daughter of Chief Fighting Bull, Navajo Reservation, near Tuba, Arizona."
[Ill.u.s.tration: "IS IT FOR ME?"]
"This came today," said the Chief to Billy, and Bah held up an envelope which she clutched in her hand.
"And see--letter to Bah."
Billy asked: "Why don"t you open it?"
"Yes, will do," replied the girl. At the same time as Bah and Billy were opening the letter, the Chief, aided by his wife, was opening the large box.
"You read letter for me, please," smiled Bah.
Billy took the letter--but just then the box was opened and inside it the astonished family beheld a radio!
"What this?" asked Fighting Bull.
Said Billy wisely: "It"s a radio--you know, you can listen to music and everything. It"s lots of fun. Come on, we"ll fix it up!"
[Ill.u.s.tration: "WITHOUT YOU I COULDN"T HAVE WRITTEN IT."]
With Billy"s instructions the Chief set up the radio. It was a portable set and as soon as they attached the aerial and Billy turned the dials the sound of fine music began to float on the air.
"Alive!" shrieked Bah, turned on her heels, and fled!
Billy, still holding the unopened letter, ran after her. He found her hidden in a thicket and brought her back to her parents, who stood transfixed before the radio, which was still sending forth music.
"Don"t be afraid, Bah," said Billy. "It"s not this box making the noise. The music comes through the air from a big city!"
The Chief and his wife were almost as impressed as Bah, but they did not show their feelings. They could only stand and stare while Billy, holding on to Bah with one hand for fear that she would run away again, read the following letter:
"Dear Little Bah:
Your story "The Little Indian Weaver," written by yourself about yourself, has won the Composition Contest. The prize, a radio, we are sending you today. It was a great pleasure to receive such a charming little story from a real Indian girl. The white children who read it will, we are sure, enjoy it, and learn a great deal from you. Thank you, and we hope you will like the radio!
The Children"s Magazine."
"But--but," said Bah, "I not write story!"