On Track for Treasure

by Wendy McClure

  Then came the patter of footsteps. One person, running, then crashing through the bushes near the top of the ravine and stumbling down into the woods.

  Alexander was already on his feet, holding out his hatchet for defense. “Who’s there?” he called.

  “It’s me!” gasped the intruder. “Quentin!”

  Quentin was still struggling to catch his breath. Though Quentin’s crooked front lip always made him look like he was sneering, Jack could tell he’d had quite a scare. The others gathered around, full of questions.

  “Where are the rest of the kids?” Alexander demanded. “Did they escape with you?”

  “N-no,” Quentin panted. “Just me . . .”

  “What?” Alexander was furious. “You just left on your own?”

  “You did the same thing when you escaped from the ranch,” Jack reminded him.

  “No! Listen to me!” Quentin insisted. “I was just trying—”

  “Trying to put us all in danger?” Frances interrupted. “What about those dogs out there?”

  “I didn’t know there’d be guard dogs!” Quentin cried. “But, I mean, I think I outran ’em.”

  Jack shook his head. “Those dogs probably woke up half the town of Whitmore, Quentin! What if it’s not only the dogs that are chasing you? What if it’s the Pratcherds, or . . .”

  “Or the sheriff,” Alexander said, his voice suddenly a whisper. His face had gone pale at the sight of something at the top of the ravine. Jack and the others turned to follow his gaze.

  There, at the edge of the woods, was a man on horseback: Sheriff Routh. Jack could see the glint of his badge.

  “So this is where you brats have been keeping yourselves,” the sheriff said, smirking as he looked all around.

  Nobody moved or spoke, but then Frances stepped in front of her little brother, Harold, as if to protect him. “It’s better than the bunker at that wretched ranch!” she called out. “Better than being forced to dig all day in those fields. Why don’t you let us be?”

  The sheriff’s eyes narrowed at Frances. “I don’t care anymore how rough you had it out there. You little worms tried to make a monkey of me the day you stole that wagon from the Pratcherds,” he said. “And they will be very interested to know where you are now.” He pointed at Alexander. “Especially you.”

  Alexander was still pale, but he squared his shoulders. He had been the first one to escape from the Pratcherds, and it had been his idea to start Wanderville.

  “Is that so?” Alexander said. Jack could hear a slight tremble in his words. But then Alexander took a breath and raised his voice. “I’d like to see you try to arrest all ten of us right now!”

  “Yeah!” Frances called. “Just try it!”

  The boys joined in as well. “Go ahead!” Quentin jeered.

  But Jack held his tongue. The sheriff had a look about him that was different today: He glared at them all fiercely. The man seemed to be boiling inside, and suddenly Jack understood that this wasn’t about breaking the law anymore. This was about revenge. They’d made the sheriff look foolish in the town of Whitmore.

  “You think you’re safe because there’s a whole crowd of you kids now? I’ll just come back with a few of my deputies,” Sheriff Routh declared. “And the Pratcherds, too. Don’t bother trying to hide.” The sheriff turned his horse around, kicking up dirt and scattering the pile of kindling that the little kids had been collecting. Suddenly, Jack wanted to yell something—anything—at the man, but the words wouldn’t come. He stood there, furious and silent, as the horse and rider dashed up the ravine and rode off.

  No one spoke for a moment after the sheriff left.

  “Good riddance,” Nicky said. “He can’t threaten us.”

  Alexander took a deep breath. “No, he’s serious. Did you see his face?” He turned to Jack and Frances. “He’ll be back.”

  Jack could only nod. He wasn’t going to forget that face anytime soon.

  Frances’s eyes were wild. “We can’t just sit here and wait for him to return!”

  “So we’ll fight back?” Lorenzo asked, picking up a rock.

  “No,” said Alexander as he yanked down one of the hammocks. “We have to get out of here, and fast!” He tied the hammock into a bundle and began to fill it with the bread that they’d taken from town. After a moment, the others began to gather their things as well.

  Frances crouched down to check the buttons on her little brother’s shoes. Jack heard Harold ask, “Mrs. Routh isn’t going to help us, is she? She was nice to us on the train.”

  Frances shook her head. “She has to obey the sheriff. He’s her husband. We have to figure this out ourselves. . . .”

  “No time to talk. Come on!” Alexander shouted.

  Everyone began to move faster, except for Jack, whose feet had somehow turned heavy as he realized what was happening—what Alexander had just decided.

  Just leave? he thought. That was the solution?

  “Jack!” Quentin was standing in front of him now, looking anxious. “Hey, Jack, I . . .”

  “In a minute,” Jack said.

  “But I have to tell you something . . .”

  “It’s all right, Quentin. No need to apologize.” Jack knew it wasn’t Quentin’s fault that the sheriff had followed him to Wanderville, even if the other kids didn’t believe him. There were more urgent things to deal with right now, like this crazy plan of Alexander’s.

  He stepped around Quentin and followed Alexander over to the old suitcase where they kept their provisions. “What do you mean, ‘get out of here,’ Alex?” Jack demanded. “Just ditch everything? What about the kids who are still at the Pratcherds’? Are we just going to run off and give up on them?”

  Frances, who was nearby helping Harold with his coat, looked up, too. “Jack’s right!” she said. “We can’t just leave them.”

  Alexander turned and faced Jack. “It’s too late for that. The sheriff found us. There’s only one place we can go now.”

  “Where’s that?” Frances asked.

  “California,” Alexander answered. Harold’s eyes widened.

  “There’s a twelve o’clock train going west,” Alexander continued, slinging a bundle over his shoulder. “We’ll take the creek path and go into Whitmore. That will buy us some time because the sheriff will look for us here first.”

  Jack was shaking his head. “No! I still think we should stay and try to rescue the others at the ranch—”

  “Jack,” Alexander broke in. “We won’t be any help to them if we all get caught!”

  That was all Harold needed to hear. “I don’t want the sheriff to catch us!” he cried.

  “We’re not going to get caught,” Frances told her little brother. She looked up at Jack and Alexander. “We’re going to do something, right?”

  Alexander’s eyes met Jack’s. “That train’s our only chance, and that’s that.”

  That’s that? Jack wanted to say more, but his mouth went dry. Alexander seemed to think he had all the answers. And he always had to have the last word.

  Now we’re here, Jack thought, keeping his eyes on the floor of the train car to avoid looking at Alexander. He couldn’t believe they’d made it on board. But still he wished it all had gone differently—the rescue attempt, Quentin’s escape, their sudden departure. And if Alexander had just bothered to listen to him . . .

  Jack felt someone nudge his shoulder. Anka had crept over to where the boys were sitting. Anka, who had come all the way from Poland when she was younger—and now she was still traveling, still searching for a home. But somehow nothing seemed to get to her too much; she could always find a reason to laugh.

  She smiled and took something out of her skirt pocket to show Jack and Alexander. It was the little painted wooden doll that she had brought out on her first night in Wanderville. Frances had made
a small shelf in the crook of one of the trees, and it had been the perfect place for the doll to stand. It was one of the things that had made the wooded ravine feel like home.

  “Remember the third law of Wanderville,” Anka told them.

  Jack understood. Back in the woods, he and Alexander and the rest of the children had created this last law—the law that meant that Wanderville could be anywhere they decided to build it. But Jack couldn’t stop thinking about the Wanderville they’d just left.

  Alexander grinned. “We’re just on our way to the next place, that’s all. Right, Jack?”

  “Right,” Jack said.

  But he didn’t mean it. Alexander wasn’t right. They should have stayed in Kansas.

  3

  BRETHREN OF THE ROAD

  “Do you think we’re in California yet?” Frances’s little brother whispered. “I want an orange.”

  “Harold,” Frances whispered back, “it’ll be a long time before we get there.”

  Frances guessed that it had been about an hour since they left Whitmore. She was starting to get used to the jostled-all-over feeling that came from sitting on the floor of a moving freight car. The constant motion made the straw on the floor slowly travel across the boards, like a gently drifting current, and it was mesmerizing to watch. She began to think about California, too, and wondered whether she’d get to see the ocean. . . .

  She was just starting to doze off to these thoughts when she felt the train slowing down.

  “Why’s the train stopping?” Harold asked.

  Jack crept over to look out the side door, which had been left open a few inches. Alexander and Nicky were peering outside through wide chinks between the boxcar planks.

  “I don’t see a town or a station or anything,” Nicky reported.

  “Maybe it’s a water stop,” said Frances. “For the engine.”

  Just then, the hobo with the thousand-year-old voice sat bolt upright. “Kid sister is quite correct. And high time for some of my traveling brethren to join us here in the luxury coach.”

  Jack looked around the freight car and laughed. “Luxury coach?”

  “Compared to riding the bumpers, ’tis,” the hobo said. “You can call me Jim, by the by.” Then he reached up and knocked against the side of the car. Three knocks, loud.

  A moment later three knocks came from the outside. Then, suddenly, the side door slid open wider, and three dusty figures climbed in out of the sunlight.

  Harold’s face lit up. “Are you hoboes, too?” he asked them. He nudged George in excitement.

  “Indeed we are,” said one of the dusty men, who licked the palm of his hand and used it to smooth back his hair. Frances could see he was the youngest of the three; he seemed to be about eighteen. He looked around and gave a big grin, followed by a sputtering cough.

  “Riding the decks, eh?” said Jim. “Sounds as if you ate some dust.”

  “You were riding up on top of the train?” Frances couldn’t believe it. The young hobo just nodded and grinned again.

  “Time for introductions,” declared Jim. He pointed to the sleeping man. “You’ve already met Dead John over here, and this here’s Cooper and Fingy Jim.” The two older hoboes shook hands with some of the boys.

  “Wait, there are two Jims?” Frances asked.

  “Show them what for you got your name, Fingy Jim,” said the first Jim.

  Fingy Jim held up his left hand. His fourth finger was a short stump and his fifth was missing. “Be carefulla them boxcar doors,” he said.

  Harold swallowed hard and shoved his hands deep in his pockets.

  “What about you?” Frances asked the young hobo. “What’s your name?”

  He stretched out his legs as the train began to move again. “Well, I used to be known as The Oklahoma Baby. But it don’t suit me any longer. Now I prefer to go by A-Number-One Nickel Ned Handsome,” he said. “Or just Ned Handsome.”

  Frances didn’t find Ned at all handsome on account of his sunburned face and missing front tooth, but he seemed kind enough.

  “Those are good names,” Harold said. “All of them.” The other kids nodded.

  “Thank you,” said Ned Handsome. He looked around the car at the ten children. “So, are you folks ambulanters? A gypsy family?”

  Alexander spoke up. “Not exactly. We’re not gypsies, but we are on the move. Just like you, I guess.”

  “Not ’zactly,” said Ned. “I’m on the move. You’re on the run. Escaping from somewheres or someones. It’s plain to see.”

  Alexander and Jack exchanged nervous looks, and Quentin suddenly started to study his own shoes.

  “But as you may have noticed by now,” Ned continued, “us ’boes mind our own business.”

  Frances glanced around the car—the hobo named Jim appeared to have dozed off again, Cooper and Fingy Jim were silently playing cards, and Dead John hadn’t stirred. Meanwhile, the little kids, Harold and George, were hanging on Ned Handsome’s every word.

  “Besides, ’twasn’t easy at my home when I was young,” he said, his voice a little softer. “Sometimes better to hit the road.”

  “We all had a home in the woods. But we had to leave,” Harold put in.

  Ned cocked his head. “Is that so?”

  Frances leaned in. “It’s sort of a long story. . . .” But soon she and Jack and Alexander were taking turns telling Ned about the orphan trains, the sheriff, and the Pratcherds. Then they told him about Wanderville, and the swings they’d built, and the suitcase full of tinned food that they called the pantry.

  “We built our own courthouse!” Harold said. “And we slept in the trees!”

  The other kids joined in with their stories, and soon they were sharing their lunch with Ned—hunks of bread from Alexander’s hammock and a couple of tins of sardines that Lorenzo had stashed in his pack. After a while Frances forgot about the rattling of the train and the way the wind whistled through the planks.

  “Sounds like you had quite a paradise back there,” said Ned Handsome. “How come you had to leave?”

  Everyone fell silent for a moment. But then George piped up. “Because of Quentin,” he said. “He gave away our hiding place.”

  “That’s not fair!” Jack protested. “He was just trying to escape.”

  Quentin’s face had gone beet red and his shoulders were hunched up nearly to his ears. Frances remembered how Quentin could be a bully sometimes, but she’d heard the Pratcherds had thrashed him extra hard, too. He seemed shaken up inside, like a bottle of fizzy cola.

  “I had to run away from the ranch,” he muttered. “I’ll trounce anyone who says otherwise! And I’ve been trying t’ tell you—”

  Alexander broke in. “It’s all right, Quentin. We believe you,” he said. “Right, everyone?”

  The other children nodded. Frances was fairly certain that Alexander didn’t believe Quentin’s story—she wasn’t so sure she did herself—but the last thing anyone needed was for Quentin to get angry. Quentin settled down into a sullen silence, and nobody spoke for what seemed to Frances like an eternity. Even Fingy Jim and Cooper had paused their card game.

  Ned Handsome cleared his throat. “Sounds like you could stand to borrow some of my luck,” he declared. “If you run into more trouble and ever find yourself near Sherwood, Missouri, that is.”

  “What’s in Sherwood?” Frances asked. She had never heard of the town.

  Ned grinned. “Just a little something I stashed away.”

  Harold jumped up. “A treasure?”

  “You could call it that. Something I found and set aside in case I ever needed it. But you folks might need it, too. If you want, I can tell you how to find it.”

  “Yes!” exclaimed Harold and George together.

  “Er, all right,” said Alexander, who sounded more skeptical.

  “
Very well, then,” said Ned. “You begin at the depot in Sherwood, Missouri. . . .”

  Frances reached into the side of her shoe and drew out a pencil. Then she pulled out her Third Eclectic Reader and turned to the first bit of blank space she could find to write on.

  Begin at depot in Sherwood, Missouri, she scribbled.

  Ned went on, “And you’ll have your boot on in the right direction. . . .”

  “Don’t you mean your boots?” Jack asked.

  Ned shook his head. “You’ll see what I mean if and when you get there. Anyways, then you’ll cross an Indian, a saint, and one of our founding fathers.”

  Frances looked up from her writing. “What?”

  “Write it just like I says, little sister. Then you give our founding father a right hook, and just keep going until you get mush. I know, it don’t make sense now, but trust me, there will be mush! And then . . . look for a house with blue eyes that are always shut and has broken teeth. Go behind it into the woods. Then count steps. Every step has its own president. Once you get to Harrison, check the ground, and you should be on the right track.”

  “And?” Harold asked.

  “And then you’ll get to the right spot,” Ned said. “I promise.”

  “Thanks,” Jack said. “We’ll be sure to . . . uh, remember it.”

  Frances looked down at what she’d written. It seemed like a puzzle. She had no idea where Sherwood, Missouri, was, but maybe there were clues she could figure out if she thought hard enough. Like, a right hook—was that his way of saying turn right?

  She wanted to ask Ned Handsome, but by then he had started teaching the other kids a song—something about a place with mountains made of rock candy.

  In the Big Rock Candy Mountains, all the cops have wooden legs,

  And the bulldogs all have rubber teeth, and the hens lay soft-boiled eggs.

  The farmers’ trees are full of fruit, and the barns are full of hay.

  Well, I’m bound to go where there ain’t no snow,

  Where the rain don’t flow and the wind don’t blow

  In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.