THE NEXT DAY little Willy met the situation head on. Or, at least, he wanted to. But he wasn’t sure just what to do.
Where was he going to get five hundred dollars?
Grandfather had always said, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” Little Willy had the will. Now all he had to do was find the way.
“Of all the stupid things,” cried Doc Smith. “Not paying his taxes. Let this be a lesson to you, Willy.”
“But the potatoes barely bring in enough money to live on,” explained little Willy. “We went broke last year.”
“Doesn’t matter. Taxes gotta be paid, whether we like it or not. And believe me, I don’t know of anybody who likes it.”
“Then why do we have them in the first place?”
“Because it’s the way the State gets its money.”
“Why don’t they grow potatoes like Grandfather does?”
Doc Smith laughed. “They have more important things to do than grow potatoes,” she explained.
“Like what?”
“Like . . . taking care of us.”
“Grandfather says we should take care of ourselves.”
“But not all people can take care of themselves. Like the sick. Like your grandfather.”
“I can take care of him. He took care of me when my mother died. Now I’m taking care of him.”
“But what if something should happen to you?”
“Oh . . .” Little Willy thought about this.
They walked over to the sled, where Searchlight was waiting, Doc Smith’s high boots sinking into the soft snow with each step.
Little Willy brushed the snow off Searchlight’s back. Then he asked, “Owing all this money is the reason Grandfather got sick, isn’t it?”
“I believe it is, Willy,” she agreed.
“So if I pay the taxes, Grandfather will get better, won’t he?”
Doc Smith rubbed the wrinkles below her eyes. “You just better do what I told you before, let Mrs. Peacock take care of your grandfather and—”
“But he will, he’ll get better, won’t he?”
“Yes, I’m sure he would. But, child, where are you going to get five hundred dollars?”
“I don’t know. But I will. You’ll see.”
That afternoon little Willy stepped into the bank wearing his blue suit and his blue tie. His hair was so slicked down that it looked like wet paint. He asked to see Mr. Foster, the president of the bank.
Mr. Foster was a big man with a big cigar stuck right in the center of his big mouth. When he talked, the cigar bobbled up and down, and little Willy wondered why the ash didn’t fall off the end of it.
Little Willy showed Mr. Foster the papers from Grandfather’s strongbox and told him everything Clifford Snyder, the tax man, had said.
“Sell,” Mr. Foster recommended after studying the papers. The cigar bobbled up and down. “Sell the farm and pay the taxes. If you don’t, they can take the farm away from you. They have the right.”
“I’ll be eleven next year. I’ll grow more potatoes than anybody’s ever seen. You’ll see . . .”
“You need five hundred dollars, Willy. Do you know how much that is? And anyway, there isn’t enough time. Of course, the bank could loan you the money, but how could you pay it back? Then what about next year? No. I say sell before you end up with nothing.” The cigar ash fell onto the desk.
“I have fifty dollars in my savings account.”
“I’m sorry, Willy,” Mr. Foster said as he wiped the ash off onto the floor.
As little Willy walked out of the bank with his head down, Searchlight greeted him by placing two muddy paws on his chest. Little Willy smiled and grabbed Searchlight around the neck and squeezed her as hard as he could. “We’ll do it, girl. You and me. We’ll find the way.”
The next day little Willy talked to everybody he could think of. He talked with his teacher, Miss Williams. He talked with Lester at the general store. He even talked with Hank, who swept up over at the post office.
They all agreed . . . sell the farm. That was the only answer.
There was only one person left to talk to. If only he could. “Should we sell?” little Willy asked.
Palm up meant “yes.” Palm down meant “no.” Grandfather’s hand lay motionless on the bed. Searchlight barked. Grandfather’s fingers twitched. But that was all.
Things looked hopeless.
And then little Willy found the way.
He was at Lester’s General Store when it happened. When he saw the poster.
Every February the National Dogsled Races were held in Jackson, Wyoming. People came from all over to enter the race, and some of the finest dog teams in the country were represented. It was an open race—any number of dogs could be entered. Even one. The race covered ten miles of snow-covered countryside, starting and ending on Main Street right in front of the old church. There was a cash prize for the winner. The amount varied from year to year. This year it just happened to be five hundred dollars.
“Sure,” Lester said as he pried the nail loose and handed little Willy the poster. “I’ll pick up another at the mayor’s office.” Lester was skinny but strong, wore a white apron, and talked with saliva on his lips. “Gonna be a good one this year. They say that mountain man, the Indian called Stone Fox, might come. Never lost a race. No wonder, with five Samoyeds.”
But little Willy wasn’t listening as he ran out of the store, clutching the poster in his hand. “Thank you, Lester. Thank you!”
Grandfather’s eyes were fixed on the ceiling. Little Willy had to stand on his toes in order to position the poster directly in front of Grandfather’s face.
“I’ll win!” little Willy said. “You’ll see. They’ll never take this farm away.”
Searchlight barked and put one paw up on the bed. Grandfather closed his eyes, squeezing out a tear that rolled down and filled up his ear. Little Willy gave Grandfather a big hug, and Searchlight barked again.