On Track for Treasure

by Wendy McClure

  “You said I had grit, didn’t you?” Frances replied. She spotted a ladder from the rear platform to the roof of the caboose. “I’ll just climb up that and see where our friends are.”

  Frances caught a glimpse of Alexander’s surprised face as she grabbed the ladder rungs. She couldn’t believe she’d just decided to climb on top of a train. The boys’ breeches she wore made the climb easy.

  “Wait, me, too!” Harold called from below. He could move like a little monkey, so of course he would want to clamber up as well. As soon as Frances reached the roof of the train car, she made room for her little brother to sit along the edge.

  “We’re in the sky!” Harold exclaimed.

  Frances agreed. Sitting up so high was like being on a fire escape back in New York. Well, a moving fire escape. The sky was still bright, and she could feel a warm, gritty breeze on her arms. Best of all, she could see the end of the rail yard, where Jack and Sarah and the others had gathered.

  “I see them!” she called down to Alexander on the caboose platform. “All we need to do is ride this down to where they are!” She saw fewer sets of tracks over there, and it would be easier to navigate the slowly passing trains.

  Alexander grinned. “Good job!” he called back.

  “The coast is clear of the railroad bulls, for now’t least,” Ned said once Frances and Harold had climbed back down to the platform. “And just like before, jump when I tells you, and look both ways.”

  “We’re sure glad for your help,” Alexander told Ned.

  “And I got to ride on top of a train!” Harold exclaimed. “I can’t believe we did that!”

  Frances felt herself smile. She couldn’t believe it, either.

  “Ain’t nothing,” Ned replied. “Good luck to you and all the other Wanderville citizens,” he said. He looked over at Frances. “Too bad you won’t be down near Sherwood to see what I left there. But if you get to California, you won’t need it anyways.”

  Frances felt an odd little shiver at the mention of the treasure. She was glad she’d written down the hobo’s instructions. Who knows? she thought. Maybe someday . . .

  Ned interrupted her reverie. “In about five seconds, there’s your spot to jump!” he said, pointing to a stretch of gravel by the rail yard fence.

  Since it took Frances about five seconds to say, “Thank you, A-Number-One Nickel Ned Handsome!” her jump was perfectly timed, and she hardly stumbled when she hit the ground. A moment later, Alexander, with Harold riding piggyback, leaped and landed safely, much to her relief.

  The spot where Frances stood wasn’t far from where the other kids had jumped from the first train, and now they were all running over to see her and the boys. Jack was the first to reach her, and he shook his head in amazement—or perhaps, Frances suspected, relief.

  “Well, if it isn’t Gizzard, the Pennsylvania Kid, and Little Tomato Can!” he said, smiling wide. “Glad you decided to join us after all.”

  Now all they had to do was find the right train. But navigating the Kansas City rail yard turned out to be harder than Frances had thought it would be.

  “What’s the name of the train Ned told us to catch again?” she asked.

  “It’s the . . .” Jack shut his eyes as if to better remember. “It’s the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe,” he answered. “Uh . . . right?” He didn’t seem too sure.

  “Wait,” said Alexander. “Is that all one train? Or three different trains?”

  “Of course it’s one train!” Jack looked at Frances. “Isn’t it?”

  Frances gazed out over the many crisscrossing sets of tracks at the dark, hulking train cars that slid by. She strained her eyes to read the letters painted on the sides, willing the right name to appear. But she could only make out a few words here and there—Chicago, Alton. Were those the names of the trains or of their destinations? Meanwhile, the sky still held the last of the daylight, but everything else seemed to be rapidly fading into dusk.

  Sarah spoke up, her voice wary. “It’s getting dark. What should we do?”

  “Maybe we should wait until morning to hop a train,” Jack suggested.

  “And risk getting caught here?” Alexander said. “Where will we go for the night?”

  Frances peered out at the city block beyond the rail yard fence. There were lamps glowing in some of the businesses, though the windows were grimy and the lights hardly looked welcoming; one of the places appeared to be a saloon.

  “We shouldn’t go too far,” she said to Alexander. “But Jack’s right. We should wait till morning, when we can know if we’re on the right train. Let’s find someplace nearby to sleep.” Frances noticed just then that Harold was rubbing his eyes, and George looked tired, too. It had been a long day, she realized, and she suddenly felt foggy with exhaustion. Had it been just that morning that they’d been in Wanderville?

  Anka and Nicky spotted a little toolshed in an alley just beyond the fence.

  There was no door, but the floor was dry and, if some of the kids sat upright and leaned against the walls, there was just enough space for all of them to sleep. Which is what Frances did, with Harold curled up against her.

  “Frannie?” Harold whispered, looking up at the cobwebbed ceiling of the shed. “Can we find a better house tomorrow for all of us?”

  Frances sighed and stroked his hair. “We’ll be back on a train tomorrow. This is just for tonight.”

  “But after the train, we’ll be in California, right? Where we can stay?” His voice became scratchier. “It doesn’t even have to be California, as long as . . .”

  “Harold,” Frances said in her hush-up tone, “wherever we go, I’ll be here. With you.”

  “Okay.” And in another few moments he was asleep.

  Still feeling the motion of the train in her limbs and wondering again about the treasure at the end of Ned’s instructions, Frances soon drifted off, too. She dreamed about houses with eyes and founding fathers who turned to mush.

  When Jack’s voice woke her up, she could see morning light through the doorway of the shed. She looked around at the others sleeping. Somehow the floor of the shed seemed less crowded than it had been last night. Were all the boys sleeping outside?

  But Jack was already up and standing. And shouting.

  “Wake up!” he cried. “There’s only seven of us here. Who’s missing?”

  6

  INSIDE THE DEPOT

  Three boys were gone: Quentin, Lorenzo, and George. And there was a note, from Quentin.

  Jack had found it held down by a rock in the corner of the shed that Quentin had claimed the night before. The paper was thick and appeared to have been torn out of a book. Frances brought over her old Third Eclectic Reader and showed him where Quentin must have torn the flyleaf out. “Guess he borrowed my pencil, too,” she said.

  Jack was reading the words over and over again, written in a wobbly script:

  Dear Jack & ever one,

  Enzo & me are gone to hop a train somewhere. Ned told us lots about the hobo life & it sounds real good. He say hoboes work sometimes picking fruit but you can leave anytime you dont like it. Want some pocket money & nobody telling us whats what. Be sides I feel real bad about all you haveing to leave Wandervill cause of me & maybe better if I go.

  Enzo say bye & thanks too.

  Tin Whistle & Enzo

  Sarah grabbed the note. “But where’s George?” she said. “He’s gone as well! The note doesn’t mention him.”

  By now Anka and Nicky and Harold were awake and had gathered around, and Alexander was pacing back and forth by the rail yard fence.

  “Did anyone hear them leave? Anyone see anything?” he asked.

  Jack felt sunk. All he’d wanted to do was bring the kids at the Pratcherd ranch to Wanderville, but when that had failed, he was glad that at least Quentin had joined them. Wasn’t it better to stay
together?

  Just then Harold spoke up. “I know something,” he said in a small voice. “I-I didn’t see Quentin and Lorenzo. They were gone when I woke up. But . . . I know where George is. . . .”

  “Where, Harold?” Frances snapped.

  Harold looked over in the direction of the depot building, which loomed in the near distance like a castle with its tower and pointed gables and turrets. “He said he was going to get some candy,” he mumbled. “Like the kind he had when his train stopped here before.”

  “Oh, no,” Jack said. “He’ll be caught for sure if he tries to steal here in Kansas City.” His stomach lurched as another thought came to him, too: What if Sheriff Routh had sent out word that they were runaways?

  Alexander seemed to be thinking the same thing. “Let’s hope that they aren’t already looking for kids on the loose.” Turning to Jack, he added, “You and me had better go find him.”

  “We’re all going,” Frances declared. “Remember what Ned said about the town cops in the depot. What if they caught you, too? Then we’d never know what happened.”

  “Good idea,” Jack said.

  Alexander, meanwhile, obviously didn’t agree, judging from the way he quickened his pace to walk ahead of the other six kids as they made their way to the depot.

  Jack rushed to catch up with him. “Look, Alex, it’s better if we stick together,” he said upon reaching him. “That way, when we find the train to California, we can all get on it at the same time.”

  Alexander’s jaw was set and his face was steely. “We should’ve hopped a train last night instead of staying here,” he muttered. “Blast that Quentin. Lorenzo, too.”

  “You didn’t have to be so mean to Quentin, you know.”

  “Oh, so it’s my fault that he left? Just like it’s my fault that we got on the wrong train?”

  “I never said that!” Jack protested.

  “Both of you, pipe down!” said Frances in the mother-hen tone she usually used with Harold. “We’re getting close to the depot.”

  Kansas City’s Union Depot was no Grand Central, Jack thought, but it was still plenty big, with long corridors and high-ceilinged waiting rooms. Porters pushing dollies loaded with baggage seemed to come from all directions, and people streamed through every doorway. There were even stray dogs in the depot—Jack noticed more than one mutt roaming around the waiting areas and nosing through the sandwich wrappers and other litter beneath the benches.

  “Look! Water!” Anka cried as she rushed over to a drinking fountain across one of the hallways. The other kids followed, and Jack could no longer ignore his own thirst. Anka grabbed one of the tin cups that hung from the spout on a chain and filled it again and again for everyone with the good, clean cold water. Even though it was a risk coming into the depot, Jack thought, at least they’d gotten a much-needed drink.

  He peered into the bustling lobby, looking for the candy stand, hoping George hadn’t gotten to it yet. He spotted a newsstand, a peanut cart, a man handing out leaflets, and . . .

  “Apples,” Frances whispered. “Do you suppose they’re free? There’s no price on the signs.”

  Behind the man with the leaflets were two plainly dressed young women with bushel baskets of apples at their feet. They were softly singing hymns, and one of the baskets bore a placard that said AN APPLE A DAY FOR HEALTH & TEMPERANCE. Next to them were an older woman and a teenage boy holding signs that said PRAY WITH US and STOP THE SALOONS.

  “Nothing’s free if it comes with a sermon,” Jack muttered.

  “It’s only a sermon about how whiskey is bad,” Frances said. “Which it is. I’d say that’s worth an apple or two. What’ve you got against folks like those?”

  “Nothing, I just—”

  “Hey!” Nicky broke in. “There’s George!”

  The boy was racing through the lobby in a zigzag fashion, his worn shoes sliding along the tile with each turn. He zipped right past Jack and the others and darted into a waiting room.

  Jack looked back into the lobby in time to see the stationmaster in pursuit.

  “Somebody stop that little hooligan!” the man was bellowing. “Check his pockets!” The stationmaster had lost sight of George, but there was only one corridor in this direction, so it was only a matter of time before he figured out where the boy had gone.

  Alexander caught Jack’s eye. He was nodding at something—the drinking fountain’s faucet.

  Jack understood. He stepped over to the faucet and casually placed the tin cup over the drain. Then he cranked open the tap. Water started to fill the little basin beneath the spout.

  Anka’s eyes grew wide when she realized what was happening, and the other kids backed away from the basin as it began to overflow.

  “Walk fast, but don’t run,” Alexander told everyone in a low voice. “Follow me.” He headed in the direction George had scurried.

  Jack couldn’t resist looking back to see what had happened. There was a puddle spreading into the lobby, and the stationmaster was shouting at one of the porters. Another porter was using a broom to try to shoo away the stray dogs that had come to lap up the water.

  “I think they forgot about George.” Alexander laughed. “Now, let’s run!”

  “I see him!” Sarah whispered to Frances. They were checking the waiting rooms one by one for George. They’d split up to save time—Jack and Harold were searching with them, and the other three had gone to look along the other side of the hall.

  “Where is he?” Frances asked.

  “Hiding behind those trunks.” There were half a dozen wooden trunks lined up near the door. Sarah ran over to them and yanked George out by the arm.

  “Yowch!” he yelled.

  “Children!” said a scolding voice behind them.

  Frances turned and saw a short but substantial woman heading their way. “Let me see your tickets,” she said. As the woman brushed off her uniform coat, Frances noticed a brass pin on her lapel. DEPOT MATRON, it read.

  “We, uh . . . we don’t have tickets,” Frances blurted out. “Because . . . we’re waiting to meet our papa’s train.”

  The depot matron looked them over: Jack, Sarah, Frances, Harold, George. “All of you?” she said. “The same papa?”

  “We’re going to help carry his bags,” Harold volunteered.

  “ ’Cause he got a wooden leg,” George added.

  Jack suddenly broke into a very odd coughing fit.

  “We’ll sit here quietly,” Sarah said quickly, grabbing George by his jacket collar and pulling him over to a bench. Frances did the same with Harold, and Jack plunked down, too.

  “Very well,” the depot matron said. “Don’t let me hear you again.”

  Frances held her breath until the matron turned away. “We’ll just wait here until she leaves,” she whispered to Jack and Sarah.

  Jack peeked over his shoulder. “But she’s sitting on the bench behind us.”

  “Then we’ll just have to linger,” Frances said with a sigh. She shifted in her seat on the bench and tried to distract herself by practicing her best posture.

  A few minutes passed and the depot matron still did not move. In fact, she had struck up a very spirited conversation with one of the waiting passengers.

  “Miss Lily!” the matron said. “Always a pleasure to chat whenever you pass through Kansas City! So, which way are you headed?” she asked her friend. “Going back to New York?”

  “No,” her companion replied. “Whitmore, Kansas. One of my favorite places . . .”

  Frances’s throat went tight. She’d heard that voice before.

  The voice continued. “My dear sister and her husband are in utmost need of my help. And of course you’re aware of my charity work with the Society. . . .”

  Next to Frances, Harold stiffened, and when she looked over at Jack and Sarah, their faces we
re ashen. They knew the voice, too: melodic and refined—but with an unmistakable edge. Frances didn’t dare turn around, but she could picture the stylish traveling dress, the pinched smile, the fancy ribboned badge . . .

  “So you’re about to go on chaperone duty, then?” the depot matron asked.

  “Yes,” said Miss DeHaven. “The train’s due in half an hour. Another orphan train.”

  7

  A MOST ANXIOUS EAVESDROPPING

  D on’t move, Frances thought. She was too nervous to even mouth the words to Harold, much less whisper them, so she hoped he could somehow hear her thoughts as he sat next to her. Quiet as a mouse. They were all quiet now, she and Harold and George, Jack and Sarah—not just to escape the depot matron’s attention, but to listen to what Miss DeHaven was saying.

  “. . . the youngest ones are less troublesome, to be sure. Of course, one must give their grimy little faces a good scrubbing before they come off the train so that they’re rosy-cheeked and presentable, and if they cry a few tears, it’s no matter.”

  Frances could feel her face growing hot as she listened.

  “Besides,” Miss DeHaven continued, “I daresay it’s the weepy orphans who get picked first, especially by sentimental people who want these waifs to be family.” The more she talked, the less musical her voice sounded.

  “. . . yes, and as for the older ones, they’re just dreadful. Guttersnipes. Ungrateful for the chance to breathe country air and learn the value of hard work. My sister and her husband have taken in several of them, but they’re wholly out of control—running away, spreading lies all over town, tormenting my poor nephew . . .”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Frances could see Jack smirk a little, and she remembered his story about how the kids at the ranch had thrown potatoes at Rutherford Pratcherd after he punished them with beatings and cracked his whip at them.

  “Terrible,” the depot matron was saying. “What can be done about them?”

  “Place them elsewhere,” Miss DeHaven replied. “And I’m heading back to Whitmore to do exactly that. . . .”