Ten Mile Treasure

by Andre Norton

  "Lady Maude, too?" Christie asked in a small voice. To have Lady Maude go out of her life so quickly was very hard.

  Father hesitated. "Well, we can leave her and the other things you left in the cave until we find out what sort of claims can be made for those. But even if Toner gets the station, I don't see how he can claim any of this. We'll wait and see. This"—he patted the mailbag and the strongbox—"does have a place to go—the postal authorities."

  "Is the strongbox like mail then?" Neal wanted to know.

  "It probably took the place, in its day, of registered mail." Father looked around the room. "Nothing more we can do here now until we know more about things."

  "If the people those letters were sent to are all dead now," Christie asked, an idea beginning to grow in her mind, "what will the post office do with them?"

  "They may try to find descendants of those meant to have them," Father said. "Finding such mail will make exciting news. I remember reading some years back about a mail pouch that had been stolen over a hundred years ago and hidden under the floor of a house that was just being torn down. They tried to find the families of those the letters had been sent to— there was a story in the paper about it."

  '' Will they put a story in the paper about this, too?" Parky wanted to know.

  "Could be. As for you, Patrick"—Father looked unsmilingly at Parky (to be called Patrick meant that Father was going to say something very serious)—"I think you had better go to your room and sit and think about what you did this morning. Do you remember what we said the last time this happened?"

  Parky's face reddened. He looked down at the scuffed toes of his sandals.

  "She—she wouldn't let go," he muttered.

  "No excuses," Father answered. "March in there and think about it, Patrick. Also, decide what punishment meets this."

  It was serious. Christie felt sorry for Parky and glad she was not the one who had to leave the room. When Father was really upset he expected you to name your own punishment. You gave up something you wanted very much, generally because you were sorry enough to make it a stiff one. Or you did something you simply hated to do.

  At least Mr. Toner had not arrived with the sheriff to arrest Parky. Christie had half-expected all afternoon to have that happen and had been so glad when Father and Mother got back from town. They had looked so unhappy and tired that she had made Neal and the twins wait until after supper to bring in the cave things.

  "I think it's bedtime for all of you." Mother got up slowly, as if she were very tired indeed. She went to the sink pump and filled the big kettle and put that on to heat wash water. As she stood by the stove she looked slowly around the room, and Christie wondered if she were thinking about all the plans they had made. There had been the motor to run the refrigerator and a big freezer, a new stove, all the other things on the list that had been written out only a day or two earlier.

  "Mother," Christie said later, when she was in her bunk and Mother had come in to tuck in Perks and say a last good night, "are we going to have to leave the station?"

  "We don't know, Christie—we honestly don't know." Mother sighed as she kissed Christie and went out. Shan purred loudly in Christie's ear and kneaded the pillow, up down, up down, with his dark brown paws, making a bed to his liking.

  Mother did not know. Christie lay awake, watching the crack of light under the door. She could hear her parents still moving around, but they were not talking to each other. Then she heard their door shut.

  Christie shivered. Perks must be asleep. In the quiet she could hear her sister's even breathing. Shan must be asleep too—he had stopped purring and his head was flat on the pillow where he stretched out limp and warm.

  Now there were little noises Christie had not noticed before. A skitter-skatter sound on the roof overhead, and far off once an 000-000 which might have been a coyote and which Baron answered from the yard with a sharp bark.

  When they had first come there Christie had been afraid of those noises. Back home, if you awoke in the night, what you could hear was the woosh-woosh of big trucks along the highway, or maybe once in a while one of the neighbors coming in late and closing a garage door with a bang.

  Would the Kimballs now be going back to a house with a bathroom and water, a small yard, sidewalks all around? Christie found suddenly that she did not want those things at all. She wanted to stay right here. Oh, not as the station was now, torn up and all untidy, but as it would be when the workmen were through. She wanted to be able to hunt arrowheads, and learn to ride Sheba or Solomon, or perhaps even someday a horse like Marlene's.

  Marlene—and Lady Maude! Mother had only just glanced at Lady Maude tonight—she did not understand how wonderful she was. But if Mother would really look at her and all she had— And they had even told Mother and Father about their plan. If they had to move, there would be no plan—no one would ever come to see Lady Maude and the other things from the cave.

  What they had said about postmen trying to find the families of the people to whom the "dead letters" had been written so long ago— that stuck in Christie's mind now. What if Maude Woodbridge had had a little girl of her own, and in turn she had a little girl. Why, that was who Lady Maude would really belong to! And that would be better than Marlene getting her.

  Christie felt under her pillow for her flashlight, pressing the button, but keeping some of her fingers over the bulb so only a little light showed. There was just enough for her to be able to find her suitcase. In that was the letter Captain Woodbridge had written. Well, Christie could mail that. Only not give it to the postmen—no—she would send it in another envelope and she would write a letter to go with it, explaining all about the station and Lady Maude. Maybe there would still be some Woodbridge left to get it.

  She did not know, of course, if there was any little girl now, or even if there was any such name or address—she could only use the one lettered on the box. However, if she put her own return address on the outside the letter would come back and then she could be sure there were no Woodbridges left.

  Do it now—without telling anyone! She had the letter paper Grandmother Nourse had sent her—that with the Alice-in-Wonderland picture on it. Pinto could mail it for her—or Mrs. Wild-horse—she had said she was going to town tomorrow. Then, if there was no one to get the letter, Christie would be the only one to be disappointed. She must tell Pinto to send it fast mail—if the postman had that kind any more. For if Lady Maude were to be rescued, it must be soon.

  Christie found her ballpoint and the writing paper. For a long moment she sat still on the lower bunk, listening. Yes, Perks was sleeping. She must be careful not to wake her. Using the paper box for a desk, she held the pen and tried to think carefully about what to write.

  Should she say "Dear Maude Woodbridge"?

  Christie Writes a Letter

  But it wouldn't be going to Maude now. What did you put at the beginning of a letter if you if you did not know just who was going to read it?

  Perhaps that was just it. Since she did not know to whom she was writing, why not say so? With care Christie wrote at the top of the sheet: "Dear I do not know who—" It looked queer but it was the truth.

  She had better explain right at the beginning. It took a long time to write the letter. First Christie had to tell who she herself was, then she had to describe finding Lady Maude and about the danger of losing her to Marlene. Twice she had to cross out words, and she was not quite sure about some of the spelling. Finally she had covered five sheets of paper. Now the envelope. For that there was only one possible address. Christie printed it so it would be extra plain.

  "To the Family of Miss Maude Woodbridge, Woburnscott, Maine."

  Her own address was in the upper corner and then "urgent" with two lines drawn under that.

  When her five pages with the old letter were folded together, it made the envelope so fat Christie had to use Scotch tape to seal it shut. She tucked the letter and the flashlight under her pillow and settled
down for the second time. Now she had only to ask Pinto to mail it. What if he wanted to know why? By this time Christie was so sleepy she could not stay awake to worry about that.

  The next morning she had half-forgotten her letter. Mother had to call her twice, and Perks pulled the covers off her before she sat up blinking. But when she was dressing she remembered and hurried through shirt buttoning to get the fat envelope. It was so big and thick it might need two stamps—maybe even three. She still had some of her allowance left—enough, she was sure, to buy those.

  All the family were already at the table when she came out. Father smiled at her.

  "Not like you, Christie, to oversleep. You must have had a dream too good to lose," he said as she reached for a paper cup of orange juice.

  "I can't remember any dream," she answered. "Is Pinto going into town today?"

  "I was wondering," Father said, "how you and Neal and Perks would like to ride into town with us—to deliver the boxes and the bag to the post office and then tell the sheriff about them."

  "Parky found them too," Perks said as she stirred her cereal around in her bowl.

  "Parky has chosen to stay in his room today," Mother answered.

  Perks stared mournfully into her bowl. If Parky had chosen that as his punishment, he thought it the worst that could happen to him now. Perks looked as if she agreed with him— to be separated from her twin was punishment for her also. "I guess, then, I'll just stay here," she said in a low voice.

  Father shook his head. "No, Perks. Parky chose this and you must let him. You know the rules. We shall go to town and next time Parky will remember to think before he loses his temper."

  Perks still looked unhappy as she and Christie went back into their room to put on clean jeans and shirts. She stood staring at the floor as Christie brushed her hair.

  "Parky was just trying to keep Marlene from taking Lady Maude. He wasn't being bad on his own."

  "He did it the wrong way, Perks. You know that." Christie hunted for something to take her sister's mind off Parky's troubles. "Listen, Perks, you want to hear a secret?"

  "What?" Perks asked flatly, still staring at the floor as if nothing mattered very much.

  "I've thought of a way to perhaps keep Lady Maude from going to Marlene. Even if the sheriff says she can have her."

  "How?" She did have Perks's attention now.

  Christie showed her the fat envelope. "You have to promise not to tell—not even Parky. Because if anyone finds out too soon, maybe it won't work." She hesitated. Telling Perks was a risk.

  "I always tell Parky everything," Perks said.

  "Not at Christmas time," Christie reminded her. "Remember last year when you went along with Father to buy the talking bear? You knew for a long time that Parky was going to find that under the tree, but you never told."

  "That was a Christmas secret."

  "This is just as important a one. And it may help us out."

  "How?"

  Christie could not be sure. But anything that would keep Lady Maude from going to Marlene would help. "We'll just have to wait and see. You promise you won't tell, Perks."

  "Cross my heart twice over?"

  At Christie's nod the little girl thought for a long minute and then raised her hand to cross twice over. "I promise, Chris. Now—what's the secret?"

  "You remember that letter we found in Lady Maude's box? Well, I put it in this envelope last night, and I wrote another letter to go with it, telling about how we found Lady Maude and what happened. I am going to mail this today when we go into town. We have to go to the post office anyway if Father takes the mailbag there."

  "But who are you sending it to?"

  Christie turned the envelope over so Perks could read the printing Christie had tried to make so plain. She had traced each letter twice to make sure.

  "Remember what Father said about those letters going to families of the people who should have gotten them? I'm sending this to the family of Miss Maude Woodbridge, with the same address that is on the box. I put our return address on the outside. If no one gets it, then it will come back here and we'll know for sure that Lady Maude really belongs to no one."

  "Then Marlene will get her?"

  "Maybe not. We found her. Anyway, it can be a long time before anyone is certain."

  "Chris." Perks watched her sister put the letter inside her shirt, count money out of her wallet and tie that into the corner of a handkerchief to be stuffed into her jeans pocket. "Are we really going to move again?"

  "I don't know any more than you do, Perks. Listen—Mother's calling, we'd better go!"

  Mother waved goodbye from the station doorway as Father turned the big car carefully to avoid all the things left by the workmen.

  "What made you go looking for this treasure of yours?" Father asked as the car bumped and dipped on the rough road.

  Neal told the story of Shan getting lost and how they had had to dig their way into the cave to find him.

  "So we really have Shan to thank for it. Look, Perks, there goes a roadrunner!"

  The long-legged bird raced along, almost keeping even with the car for a minute or two, then flashed off into the bushes.

  "To think"—Father slowed down even more as they hit another very bumpy stretch—"this was considered a really good road at one time."

  "Wonder what the stagecoach people would have thought of the big highway?" Neal asked.

  "I am afraid they would not have had too comfortable a ride even on that in a stagecoach," Father said. "No springs—most of the coaches were slung on heavy leather straps. Lots of times on steep grades everyone had to get out and walk to spare the horses. Of course, on flat land they went as fast as anyone could in those days. I heard that the newspaper here in Gilesburg still stores the old station books. Nearest place Bright's heirs could find to keep them when the old line closed down. Perhaps we could get them back on loan, display them in this museum of yours."

  Then Father's face changed and the eager look went out of it. He had just remembered, Christie knew, that perhaps they were not going to have the station after all. There would be no guests who would want to learn what life had been like in the old days.

  "Isn't there a good chance of our staying, Dad?" Neal must have read Father's expression as quickly as she did.

  "It's a big tangle now. Bright had the franchise for the stage line under territorial law, before Arizona was a state. He also had the mail franchise from the U.S. government, which gave him certain privileges. People were not so careful about land rights and things of that sort back in the days when this was all wilderness and there was a lot of unclaimed land. Too, Bright had a slightly different case with our station than with the rest of his holdings. It is partly over the border of the Navajo reservation, so he had a treaty with them later. Also, the army once used it as an outpost. So there were a number of different regulations. Colby thought our title to the station was solid—it came directly from the liquidation of the stage company. We never expected any trouble, though Colby knew that Toner was after the water rights. He had already told Toner he would not sell.

  "Now Toner thinks he can prove Colby never had any right here in the first place. We can't count on anything until it's legally decided. If we had a year, maybe two, with the new highway open and tourists coming through to the park, we could make it. Colby has an idea about opening a side trail up to that ghost town, Darringer. He's out in Hollywood right now trying to interest some show people in restoring part of the town as an attraction. It has been done in other places. We could link the station to that also as a part of the old stage history. That's why we planned to rebuild so it would look just as it did in the old days. I've wired Colby and he'll be back as soon as he can. If Toner is determined to fight this through the courts, we might not be able to afford to stand up to him. Legal help is very expensive—"

  Father sounded more as if he were thinking aloud, speaking of all that was on his mind rather than talking to them. Christie s
ighed. Their own plan would have worked out so well with all Father had wanted to do.

  Maybe Father heard her sigh, for he glanced down and smiled. "Trouble has a way of hanging around, but that's no reason to invite it to come and live with us. We don't have to move out yet. Colby may not only have some ideas about how to handle Toner, but he's going to be very excited about this find of yours. I don't think he's ever seen before the cargo—if you can call it that—of a stagecoach intact after a hundred years."

  They went to the sheriffs office first when they came into town. It was not the least like a sheriffs office in the TV Westerns, Christie discovered, but more like a real office. One man was using a typewriter, and there was no big wall rack with guns in it or an old stove with a coffeepot sitting on top.

  The man who met them did have on boots and a wide-brimmed hat hung on the rack by the door. He wore a gun belt with a holstered gun and a badge pinned to the breast pocket of his khaki shirt.

  "I'm Wylie." He held out his hand to Father. "You're Kimball—heard about you from Lucas when he passed through. What can I do for you?"

  "Well, maybe you can tell us just what to do with this." Father set the strongbox down on the nearest desk, the mail sack laid across it. "I suppose the mail goes on to the post office— about a hundred years late!"

  The sheriff looked for a moment as if he was not quite sure he had actually heard what Father had said. Then he turned his head and stared at the pouch and the box, almost as if he expected them to explode. The man who had been typing swung around in his chair to stare, too.

  "A hundred years," the sheriff repeated, as if to make sure that really was what Father had said. "Suppose you tell me just what we have here anyway!"

  Father did just that—telling about the cave, the lost luggage, and all the rest of the story, while the sheriff looked more and more surprised.

  "A strongbox—and mail—" he repeated when Father had finished. "This is something to make eyes open around here. A story like this"—he shook his head—"well, I guess you have the evidence, so the case is proven all right! But you've got yourselves a real mystery story, you sure have!"