It looked like a good plan at the time. We were down South, in Alabama—Bill Driscoll and me—when a kidnapping idea struck us. Afterward, Bill called the plan "temporary insanity."
There was a town, as flat as a flapjack, and it was called Summit, of course. A bunch of country hicks lived there, unremarkable folks as harmless as they were full of themselves. Bill and I had about six hundred dollars, and we needed two thousand more to pull off a sweet get-rich-quick scheme. With that money, we were going to sell some land out in western Illinois. Of course, it wasn't our land to sell, but that was the beauty of it!
"A kidnapping job could work perfectly in this town," said Bill as we talked on the steps of the Summit Hotel. "In a big city, the newspapers would get a hold of it and stir things up with nosy reporters. But out here, Sam, there's nothing but philoprogenitiveness for miles!"
"Philo—what?" I asked.
"Philoprogenitiveness," he said.
I looked at him like he was crazy.
"It means loving one's children," he said. "Parents here will do anything for their kids. And with Summit being such a small town, the law can't come after us with anything better than an old sheriff and his dog."
"Sounds good," I said.
We selected our victim, the only child of a well-known citizen named Ebenezer Dorset. The father was a banker, respectable but tight with his wallet.
"He's a stern, decent type," said Bill. "The kind that goes to church every Sunday and passes the collection plate. Without adding to it, of course."
I shrugged. "At least he doesn't subtract from it."
"Right you are! So that means he has money!" laughed Bill.
The banker's son was a boy of ten, with dark freckles and hair the color of red pepper. It wouldn't take much for rich old Ebenezer to melt down and pay a ransom of two thousand dollars. That's what we figured, anyway.
Two miles from Summit, there was a little mountain covered with shrubby cedar, which had a cave on one side. We secretly stored food and other items we'd need for the kidnapping in there. As soon as we were ready, we drove in a rented buggy past old Dorset's house one evening just after sundown. The banker's kid was outside, throwing rocks at a neighbor's kitten.
"Hey, little boy!" said Bill, smiling sweetly. "Want some candy and a nice buggy ride?"
Suddenly, the boy caught Bill neatly in the eye with a piece of brick.
"Ow! That'll cost the old man an extra five hundred dollars," muttered Bill, getting out of the buggy.
The boy wrestled like an angry bear, so we held him down in the bottom of the buggy and drove away quickly. We got to the cave and I hitched the horse to a tree. After dark, I drove back to Summit, returned the rented buggy, and walked back to the mountain.
When I arrived, Bill was holding a wet rag on his black eye from the piece of brick. A fire burned behind the big rock at the entrance of the cave. The boy was sitting in front of a pot of boiling coffee, and he had two wild-turkey feathers stuck in his red hair.
He pointed a sharpened stick at me and said, "Ha! Cursed paleface, do you dare enter the camp of Red Chief, the terror of the plains?"
Bill rolled up his trousers and showed me his various shin wounds. "That kid kicks hard. But he's calm now. We were playing cowboys and Indians. I'm Old Hank the horse thief, Red Chief's captive. I'm to be hanged on Saturday."
The boy was having a great time. Camping in a cave was so much fun that he forgot he was the captive.
"You're Snake-eye, the spy," the boy said, pointing at me.
"Snake-eye, eh?" I said. "Nice name, don't you think, Bill?"
Bill held the rag over his eye and didn't answer.
The boy stabbed his stick in the dirt. "When my braves return from the warpath, you will be broiled at the stake," he said all matter-of-fact, like burning folks up happened every day.
We ate supper. The kid filled his mouth with bacon, bread, and gravy, then began to talk. He didn't stop, even to breathe.
"I like this cave fine. I hate school. Rats ate sixteen of Jimmy Talbot's hen's eggs. Are there any real Indians in these woods? I want more gravy. Do trees make the wind blow? We have five puppies. What makes your nose so red, Hank? My father has lots of money. Are stars hot? I whipped Ed Walker twice, Saturday. I don't like girls. Do cows talk? Why are oranges round? Are there beds to sleep on in this cave? Amos Murray has six toes. A parrot can talk, but a monkey or a fish can't. How many does it take to make twelve?"
Every few minutes, the boy would remember who he was supposed to be. He'd grab his spear and tiptoe to the mouth of the cave to hunt for enemies. Then out of the blue, he'd let loose with a blood-chilling war whoop: "AAAHHH-OOOUUU!"
Terrified, Bill dropped his dinner plate and started shivering so hard, the beans jumped off his lap.
"Red Chief," I said, "do you want to go home?"
"Aw, do I have to?" he said. "I can't have fun at home. I like camping out. You won't take me back, Snake-eye, will you?"
"Not right away," I said. "We'll stay here for a while."
"All right!" he said. "I've never had so much fun."
We got to bed late. We spread some blankets and quilts and put Red Chief between us. But we weren't afraid he'd run away. Heck, he kept us awake for three hours, jumping up, grabbing his stick, and screeching right into our ears. Every time a leaf rustled, he'd run to the cave entrance and shout to an imaginary band of outlaws, "You can't sneak up on us!"
At last I fell into a troubled sleep. I dreamed I'd been kidnapped and chained to a tree by a short, fast-talking pirate with bright red hair.