“Ain’t a real place,” Ned said after he had sung it to them. “But it’s a song about how we wish things could be. And you can always make up new verses. In fact, I’ll make up some just for you folks.”
The next thing Frances knew, Jim was playing a harmonica in the corner, and they were all singing:
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains, all the sheriffs are stone-blind,
And the children from Wanderville don’t pay ’em any mind.
The orphan trains don’t go nowhere except to Coney Island.
Oh, the birds and the bees and the lib-er-ated cheese.
All the Pratcherds in jail, so we do as we please
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.
They sang it five times over, enough to memorize it, until Jim put away his harmonica.
After that, Quentin and Lorenzo stayed in Ned’s corner of the boxcar to hear him talk more about hobo life.
“Once I ran afoul of the cops in Cincinnati, and they clubbed me most diligently,” Frances heard Ned tell them at one point.
“Wow!” said Lorenzo.
Meanwhile, Anka braided Sarah’s hair, and Nicky and George played jacks in the corner.
“Can I play with them, too?” Harold asked Frances.
Frances hesitated. “Well . . .” Despite George’s bookish glasses and the fact that he was a younger kid, the same age as Harold, George seemed like trouble sometimes. He’d swiped those jacks from right under the nose of the clerk at the Whitmore Mercantile last week, and Frances had been sure he’d get them all caught—over a set of lousy jacks.
But Harold had his please please please look on his face, so she shrugged and said, “Fine, go ahead.”
Harold beamed and scurried over to George and Nicky’s corner, leaving Frances, Jack, and Alexander by themselves.
The three said nothing for a while. They simply sat and swayed with the motion of the train.
“In the Big Rock Candy Mountains,” Alexander sang softly, “all the sheriffs are stone-blind.”
Jack just looked down into his lap. “In the Big Rock Candy Mountains,” he sang, “nobody got left behind.”
Alexander sighed. “I know, Jack. I wish we could have helped all the kids at the ranch escape. Believe me.”
Frances felt a lump in her throat. “Me, too,” she said.
Jack glanced up and smiled faintly at Frances. But, she noticed, he wouldn’t even look at Alexander.
4
HOBOES DON’T PLAN
Jack hadn’t known he’d dozed off until he felt someone shaking his shoulder. Hard. Quentin, Jack realized with a start. The big blond kid was shoving him now.
“I have to talk to you!” Quentin insisted. “I keep trying to tell you.”
Jack rubbed his eyes and sat up. “Tell me what?”
“Not just you—all of you,” Quentin said. “About why I had to run away from the Pratcherds by myself! But I’ll explain to you first.”
“You’d better explain to me, too,” said Alexander, who had crept over to listen.
“Fine,” Quentin said. “Look, I heard something at the Pratcherds’ the other day. Mr. and Mrs. Pratcherd were walking by the barn when I had to muck the stalls. And they were talking, and I overheard them. . . .”
“Saying what?” asked Frances, who had joined them, too.
“Saying . . . that they had to do something about all the runaways. ’Cause the suh, the suh-sighty . . . how do you say it? The Society didn’t like that children were running away. ’Cause it doesn’t look good.”
“The Society for Children’s Aid and Relief,” Jack said, realizing. He remembered the office in New York that had sent them on the orphan trains to be “placed out.”
“It could hurt the Society’s reputation if a lot of kids escaped from the Pratcherds and said they were cruel.”
“Right,” said Quentin. “And then Mrs. Pratcherd said her sister who works for the Society was going to take care of it. Round up us kids and send us someplace else.”
“A new placement, you mean?” Frances asked. “But maybe it would be a better place, right?”
Jack knew what she meant. They had all heard that sometimes that happened to orphan train kids—you’d be sent to another home if things didn’t work out at the first one.
“No. That’s just the thing,” Quentin said, lowering his voice to almost a whisper. “That’s why Mrs. Pratcherd’s sister is coming out. She’s that lady who was on our orphan train—the awful one. . . .”
“Miss DeHaven!” Jack shuddered. There’d been a rumor that the mean train chaperone was related to the ranch owner’s wife, and now they knew it was true.
“That’s her, all right. She’s already on her way, coming out on another orphan train. But not just to take the farmhand kids away—she’s also gonna get the sheriff to catch the rest of the ones who escaped.”
Alexander looked stricken. “That’s us.”
Jack swallowed. “Did they talk about what Miss DeHaven would do with the kids they caught? Where she’d take them?”
“They didn’t mention where ’zactly, but Mr. Pratcherd said . . .”
Quentin stopped for a moment. Jack looked around and saw that all the kids were listening now, along with Ned and two other hoboes who were awake. Quentin took a deep breath. “He said, ‘Make sure they get worse than what they got here.’ And Mrs. Pratcherd said, ‘Of course.’”
There was a terrible silence.
“What could be worse than the Pratcherds’?” Frances said. She put an arm around Harold.
“I don’t know,” Quentin murmured. “But then I got your note with the map, and I wanted to warn you. Because what if the sheriff caught you first? Then there wouldn’t be anyplace the ranch kids could escape to. I didn’t know what to do. . . .”
“So you just ran,” Jack finished the thought for him. “I suppose I would have done the same thing.”
“Not me,” Alexander broke in. “I would’ve figured out a plan.”
Quentin looked like he’d gotten a slap in the face.
“Well, like you said, Alexander”—Jack looked the older boy in the eye—“we can’t change what happened.” (Though truthfully, he still wished he could.) “We ought to talk instead about what we’re going to do when we get to California.”
Ned Handsome spoke up just then. “California? How do you folks figure on getting there?”
“On this train, of course,” Alexander said. “Our plan started with getting out of Kansas on a westbound train and . . .” Alexander’s voice trailed off as he sat up straight and looked around the car.
Jack glanced around, too, and suddenly understood what the other boy was seeing: the sunlight that streamed between the wooden planks of the freight car’s sides and roof. The light fell through the dusty air in slanted beams that were growing longer with the afternoon sun.
If they’d been heading west, Jack realized, they’d be traveling toward the afternoon sun. Not away.
“Cripes!” Jack blurted out. “We’re going east!”
“Are we going back to New York?” Harold asked Frances, his eyes big.
“Not if we can help it,” Frances told him.
She stomped across the car to where Jim was idly polishing his harmonica with a grimy handkerchief. “You heard my little brother say we were going to California when we first got on the train!” she said. “Why didn’t you tell us this train was heading east?”
Jim just shrugged and kept polishing. “Figured you was planning t’ get to California in a more interestin’ fashion,” he said.
Frances sighed and looked around. The other kids were all chattering in excitement and confusion. How could they have gotten on the wrong train? Anka pointed out they hadn’t seen which direction the train came in from, since they’d all been hiding.
“We sure w
eren’t thinking about which way it was facing when we were making a run for it,” Lorenzo recalled.
“It’s not like we could’ve waited all day for the right train to come along,” Sarah added.
“But I had a plan,” Alexander said dejectedly.
“Hogwash. Hoboes don’t plan.”
Dead John had woken up, and he was glowering at them all from his corner of the car. “So stop talking your nonsense ’bout plans and such,” he muttered. Then he turned and lay back down again, facing the wall.
“Er . . . what he means is that we ’boes just ride the rails and see where the day takes us,” Ned Handsome explained.
“Are we hoboes now?” Harold asked.
Ned grinned. “Well, you ain’t got a home and you’re riding the rails, and you already said you ain’t gypsy children, so the way I sees it, you’re hoboes. Honorary hoboes, at least.”
“But Ned,” called out Fingy Jim, “they don’t got their road names yet.”
“Road names?” Frances asked.
“When you’re traveling, you’re not quite the same person as you are when you’re not,” Ned answered. “So you go by a road name. And you can’t pick it—it’s given to you on the road. But I can give ’em to you now, if you want. Who’s first?”
“Me!” George waved his hand.
“Hmm . . .” Ned Handsome looked at him thoughtfully. “You’ve got spectacles, so we’ll call you Glims, ’cause that’s what some folks call ’em.” George seemed to like that.
Next Ned turned to Nicky. “Skillet,” he declared. “’Cause you’re a little skinny and need to be reminded to eat breakfast.”
“Sure thing,” said Nicky.
Sarah shook her head. “I don’t see the point of a road name,” she protested, “if you’re just going to give it up when you get settled somewhere.”
Frances sighed. That was just like Sarah to say that, she thought, though she noticed Anka nodding a little, too.
“Fair ’nough, if that’s how you feel,” Ned replied. “How about the rest of you? If you want your road name, say ‘aye.’”
Everyone else said aye, even Anka. Sarah shrugged and played with one of her braids.
Ned was able to think up names as soon as he looked hard at someone. Jack was Swindler Jack, and Lorenzo was dubbed Enzo the Tall. Alexander became Pennsylvania Kid, Anka was Petunia, and Harold was Little Tomato Can.
Frances wasn’t sure she liked her road name. “Gizzard?”
“It’s ’cause you got grit,” said Ned.
Frances couldn’t resist grinning then.
“Don’t forget me!” Quentin cried. “Don’t I get a road name?”
Ned looked at him. “You’re Quentin, right? Hmm . . . seems like your name ought to have tin in it. How about Tin . . . Whistle? Because I bet with that crooked lip of yours, you can really whistle.”
Quentin stood up and glared at Ned, his hands in fists. Frances thought he might actually slug the hobo. But Ned just smiled, and after a moment, Quentin seemed to relax and he sat back down.
“Tin Whistle, huh? I like that,” he said. “Guess it doesn’t matter if my face is kind of funny.”
“That’s right,” Ned replied. “Because all kinds of funny stuff happens in life, and there’s no sense in hiding our misfortunes. Being a hobo’s ’bout learning to recognize that life takes you in certain directions for a reason. Even if you don’t know the reason yet.”
Frances wasn’t quite buying all this. “So does that mean life isn’t going to take us to California?” she asked. “Since we’re going the wrong way and all.”
“It may seem like the wrong way, Gizzard my friend,” Ned replied. “But if you hop off this train in Kansas City, you can get yourselves on a Santa Fe Express that goes more direct to California than the westbound trains on this line. And faster, too. If California is your destiny, life has a way of making it work. And in this case, it turns out going east a ways was the better way to go.”
“You don’t say,” said Alexander. “How soon until we get to Kansas City?”
“Ain’t more than an hour,” Ned said.
Alexander turned to Frances and Jack. “This is our chance,” he said. “Right?”
Jack nodded. “Let’s go for it.”
Frances wanted to agree, but she couldn’t help but stare at the sunlight glowing through the slats of the boxcar. The sun was getting lower.
What if they were running out of chances?
5
WELCOME TO KANSAS CITY
According to Ned, the best way to slip off a train was to jump before it stopped. Otherwise the “bulls,” the railroad men who patrolled the tracks, might catch you.
“Stay close to the rail yard fence,” he advised. “And whatever you do, don’t go inside the depot.”
“But there’s a place in there that has stick candy!” George said. He’d come out west on an orphan train that had stopped in Kansas City, and he’d seen the inside of the depot. More than once Jack had overheard him talking about it. “They got the cinnamon kind. Sassafras, wintergreen, horehound,” George continued. “I swore that if I ever got away from the Pratcherds, I’d go back and get a whole lot of those sticks.”
“Forget it, Glims,” said Ned. “The town clowns are in the depot, too. The local cops, I mean. You’ll want to stay clear of them and stick to the rail yard. That’s where you’ll look for the California train. . . .”
Jack did his best to pay attention to Ned, but all the while he kept his eyes on the space in the big sliding door, which provided a narrow window to the outside. The scenery was changing—they had just gone over a great iron bridge, over a river that glittered in the late-day sun. Now they were passing an area that was crisscrossed with wooden rail fences, and Jack could see that they were pens filled with cattle: dozens, no—hundreds of them crowded in this vast grid, bumping and nudging against one another. Jack realized it had to be the famous stockyards of Kansas City, where thousands of cattle and hogs and other livestock were sold. The strong, ripe smell of manure wafted in, and while he noticed some of the others in the train car were wrinkling their noses, he seemed to be the only one looking out at the view.
He’d never seen so many cows all at once. It was a stunning sight. Yet somehow it made him think about the orphan train and the ranch—all those times when he and all the other kids were made to line up and shuffle along single-file, herded together just like all that cattle. He turned away and tried to shake off the reminder.
A few minutes later, the wheels below them made a dull thunk, and the train began to slow down.
“It’s almost time,” Ned told them. Jack glanced outside again and saw taller buildings along the tracks; it was looking more like a city. Now they could all hear a growing din of clanging bells, chugging engines, and hoarse steam whistles.
The train was moving slowly enough that they could stand without losing their balance. Alexander shot up and helped to pull George and Harold to their feet. Not to be outdone, Jack stood, too.
The hoboes slid the freight car door open wider. Ned stuck his head out to look around, then turned back and nodded at the children. “You want to jump first?” he asked Jack.
“But I’m—” Alexander began. Jack could tell that Alexander wanted to go first, that he wanted to say that because he was the one who’d founded Wanderville—he was the leader. But he seemed to stop himself from saying so. Instead he went, “Go ahead, Jack. I’ll make sure everyone gets off safely.”
Jack nearly rolled his eyes at that. Still, he nodded goodbye at the hoboes and shook Ned’s hand, then stood ready at the doorway of the train car.
“Careful, now,” Ned advised. “You’ll stumble a bit when you hit the ground.”
Jack grinned. “I know.” It wasn’t the first time he’d jumped off a train, after all. Or the last, he reckoned. The air rushed
past his ears as he leaped—then, one heartbeat later, hit ground.
He steadied himself just in time to see Anka land a little way ahead of him. Next came George, holding Sarah’s hand, and Nicky, close behind them. Lorenzo did a daredevil leap, followed by Quentin. They’d all landed on a narrow stretch of gravel near the rail yard fence. Seven of them so far, all safe on solid ground. Which meant—Jack waited, holding his breath—three were still on board.
He watched the retreating train join the traffic in the bustling rail yard. “Alexander?” Jack called, not nearly loud enough. “Frances? Harold!”
Frances held her brother’s hand so tight it had to hurt, but she wasn’t letting him out of her sight around these tracks. They stood with Alexander and Ned in a tiny clearing at the center of the rail yard. Freight trains passed by on either side, and to Frances it felt like being in a dark alley with sliding walls.
She was trying not to panic. “We’re in the wrong place! We should have jumped when the others did.”
“ ’Twasn’t safe,” Ned reminded her.
Another train had blocked their way, and they’d had to leap off in the middle of the rail yard. Frances was glad that Ned was there—he’d left the other hoboes behind to help them—but the rail yard was so vast they couldn’t see the other seven children.
Alexander looked as anxious as Frances felt. “How are we going to get back there? We can’t be on these tracks, not with the railroad cops around.”
But Ned Handsome just grinned. “We’ll just head back a little the way we came!” And with that, he swung himself onto the rear platform of a nearby caboose as it crept by. “Come on!” he called.
It was easy enough to board the caboose, and soon they were slowly traveling in the opposite direction. Wish we knew where to jump off again, Frances thought. But the dusk shadows made it hard to see anything beyond the train cars. If they could just get to higher ground . . .
“Ned!” Frances said suddenly. “Can I ride up on top of the train? The way you do sometimes?”
“A girl like you?” Ned exclaimed. “You’re not a-feared?”
On Track for Treasure Page 3