On Track for Treasure

by Wendy McClure

  Jack had winced when he heard that and looked over at the Careys. The Reverend sat in a rocking chair, studying a Bible with print so small that he had to lean forward and trace the lines with his finger. Mrs. Carey was busy pouring a glass of lemonade for Harold. If they’d heard the men talking, they gave no indication. He hoped Eli had a good hiding place, at least.

  As the afternoon wore on, the Carey girls came out to join the group on the porch with their sewing, and Jeb brought out his books.

  Jack was relieved that the Reverend was so occupied with his Bible. Jack still hadn’t attended a prayer session, and he had a feeling that Reverend Carey wanted to talk to him about that. But everyone had fallen quiet in the July heat. Quiet enough that they were able to hear the wagon coming up the road.

  “I suppose that’s the mail,” Mrs. Carey said. “Frances and Jack, you can run down to the front fence and fetch it from Mr. MacDonald so he doesn’t have to drive all the way up here.”

  “Can I go, too?” Nicky asked. He wasn’t wearing the poultice cloth anymore.

  “Yes, but don’t run too hard,” Mrs. Carey replied.

  Jack felt a little sorry for Nicky, who had been a pretty tough kid before his wheezing got bad. Now he had to ask permission to run to the fence.

  The three of them headed down to meet the postman. But it wasn’t Mr. MacDonald and his mail wagon; it was a sleek black buggy with a single driver, and it stopped as soon as it reached the fence.

  “Hello, children,” said the driver. She wore a straw hat tied down with a scarf, and in any other circumstance, Jack would have thought her very pretty.

  Except, of course, that she happened to be Miss DeHaven.

  She stepped down from the buggy and motioned to Nicky to hitch the horse team to the fence. Nicky obeyed, his hands shaking, and Jack could hear him taking gulps of air.

  “I imagine you’re enjoying yourselves here,” she said to them. Her eyes fell on Frances in her borrowed dress. “I knew you weren’t a boy when I saw you at the depot,” she hissed. “I remember you from the train from New York.” She turned to Jack. “You, too.”

  She began to walk up to the front porch of the house. Jack and Frances exchanged stunned looks. What is she doing here? Jack wanted desperately to run ahead to warn the others, to hide—to do anything. But he could hear Nicky trying not to wheeze, and they had to make sure he was all right. Frances took Nicky by the arm, and then the three of them followed Miss DeHaven toward the house.

  As they walked, Jack could hear Frances almost stomping, and he felt his own hands curling into angry fists. What was the use in staying with the Careys if they weren’t safe from Miss DeHaven?

  Despite the wilting heat, Miss DeHaven was immaculately dressed, and her SCA&R badge stood out against her crisp white shirtwaist. At the sight of her, all the kids on the front steps stood and parted like the Red Sea to let her pass. When she reached the porch, she handed Mrs. Carey a calling card.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Carey,” she sang. “I’m here to check on the children.”

  “That would be Reverend Carey,” Mrs. Carey corrected. “And I beg your pardon, but I don’t know what you mean.” The Reverend had come over to stand behind his wife, and he nodded in agreement.

  “I think you know very well I mean the orphans who were placed with you in Kansas City last week,” Miss DeHaven replied. “As a representative of the Society for Children’s Aid and Relief, it is my duty to make sure these children aren’t causing problems.”

  Reverend Carey narrowed his eyes. “The children live here. If there are any problems, they will be handled by Mrs. Carey and myself. Not by some meddling ‘society.’”

  “Of course they will,” said Miss DeHaven. “But eight children is a lot to take in, and these children were quite troublesome at their previous placement in Kansas. I have reports of stealing, property damage, vandalism, vicious attacks. . . .”

  Jack had to admit that taking the Pratcherds’ wagon was stealing. And maybe property damage, too. But they’d needed to escape.

  Miss DeHaven went on: “It’s hardly a surprise when you consider these children came from the streets of New York, where they lived amid crime and filth, and never learned right from wrong.”

  Mrs. Carey straightened up. “Miss DeHaven, my husband and I have faith that people—children—can change their ways if they are shown the right path. . . .”

  The Reverend broke in, using what Jack now recognized as his sermon voice. “And we will not hear such words of judgment spoken in our own house!”

  Between Miss DeHaven’s accusations and Reverend Carey’s thunderous response, Jack could hardly breathe. The other kids stood almost frozen.

  After Reverend Carey’s outburst, Miss DeHaven just smiled and tucked a lock of hair behind one ear. “I do hope I haven’t offended you. I am ever so glad it’s not necessary to place any of these children elsewhere.”

  Jack got the sense that Miss DeHaven meant exactly the opposite of all those sentiments.

  “But if the situation ever changes,” she added, with a look in Jack’s direction, “you have my card.”

  “And you tell your society to leave our family alone!” the Reverend boomed.

  By then Miss DeHaven was already striding back to her buggy. A few moments later, she was driving off.

  The Reverend looked at Miss DeHaven’s calling card. “Meddling spinster,” he muttered. He slapped the card down on the porch rail and stormed inside, followed by Mrs. Carey.

  Jack was glad that the Careys didn’t want to cooperate with Miss DeHaven. He hadn’t wanted to stay on the farm—still didn’t—but what choice did they have now? They were all safer here than traveling out on their own. Still . . . while the Wanderville behind the barn was good enough for the time being, Jack couldn’t help but wonder if there was another Wanderville out there—in California, maybe—one they had yet to build. Maybe Frances felt the same way about Ned’s treasure—that it was out there, waiting to be found. If only they weren’t stuck here . . .

  Just then Jack felt someone nudge his shoulder. It was Jeb Carey.

  “Did . . . did you really do all those things in Kansas like the lady said?” Jeb asked excitedly. “Vandalism and all that?”

  “Now, Jeb,” said either Olive or Eleanor, “you know that’s a rude question.”

  Jack walked over to the far corner of the porch, away from Jeb and the others, to get a better view of the front gate and the road. Not only were they going to have to stay at the Carey farm, he realized with a sinking feeling, but they were going to have to stay on their best behavior.

  He stared out at the road. After a few moments, though, he heard a soft shuffling noise just beyond the porch. He looked over the railing and saw Harold—just out of sight of everyone else—crouching on the ground with a glass of lemonade. He was looking into the space under the porch.

  “I brought you some more lemonade,” he heard Harold whisper to someone.

  Jack watched as Eli crawled out from under the porch and took the drink from Harold. He downed it quickly and handed the glass back to Harold with a grateful nod. Then he ducked out of sight.

  17

  THAT NIGHT IN WANDERVILLE

  Frances noticed that Jack came to the prayer session that afternoon. He hesitated only slightly at the door before sitting down next to Frances and Harold.

  “I know you’re not much for praying,” Frances whispered to him. “But you might not mind when the Reverend plays the fiddle.”

  It was true that the music was Frances’s favorite part of prayer time—the simple hymns and the sweetly sad notes that Reverend Carey would play. Her mother—Frances still called her Aunt Mare—used to sing some of those songs when Harold was a baby. Back when Aunt Mare was still around, that was.

  Still, the melodies were a comfort, and today Frances’s nerves needed soot
hing. She kept thinking of the look Miss DeHaven had given her when she arrived at the house. Later, after the woman had left, Frances had sneaked a look at Miss DeHaven’s calling card, which read:

  MISS LILLIAN MERIWETHER DEHAVEN

  AGENT, SOCIETY FOR CHILDREN’S AID AND RELIEF

  PARK AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY

  Somehow, Miss DeHaven’s name in print made her even more real and awful. Why had she come? Eight children is a lot to take in, she’d said. She must have thought that the Careys would change their minds about having all the children stay. And then, Frances realized, Miss DeHaven would have been more than happy to take the kids and “place them elsewhere.” Frances was sure that whatever place Miss DeHaven had in mind wasn’t a good one.

  The Reverend began to play “The Sweet By-and-By,” and it helped remind Frances that at least they were safe here at the farm. She’d even said as much to Harold today, after Miss DeHaven left.

  “Don’t worry,” she’d told her brother. “We have a place to sleep and food to eat. And we’ve all stayed together, haven’t we?”

  But as she’d said it, her own voice in her ears didn’t sound very certain, and Harold had only managed a tight little smile in response.

  Maybe it was because the sky was still so light that evening, or perhaps it was because of the strange events of the day, but all the children were allowed to eat supper outside and then play afterward.

  “Go on,” Mrs. Carey told the four who slept in the house. “Get some fresh air now that it’s cooled down a bit.”

  Frances’s heart leaped. “Finally!” she said, grabbing Sarah’s hand and motioning to Anka. “Come on!” She began to lead the girls around the side of the barn. Jack and Alexander were doing the same with Nicky, and Harold was leading George. Frances couldn’t help but notice how excited her brother looked, his face the brightest it had been all day.

  “Where are we going?” Sarah asked as they reached the rail fence. “We can’t leave the farm.”

  “We’re not going far!” Alexander replied as he vaulted the fence.

  “It’s just over here!” Harold added.

  And then they were all in the grassy clearing. No one spoke at first.

  “What’s this, an old chimney?” George asked, peering up at the stone structure.

  “No, it’s the courthouse,” Harold insisted. “Can’t you see?”

  “There used to be a house here?” Nicky asked, nudging a bit of old wall with his foot. “That’s interesting.”

  “So what was it you were going to show us?” Sarah asked Frances.

  “Just . . . this place,” Frances said, though she really wanted to blurt out, Don’t you see it? It’s Wanderville! “It’s just the place where we go. Kind of like the place in Kansas.” She was hoping Sarah and Anka would understand what she meant, but they just stood there, and Anka kept glancing back at the fence where they’d come in. So did Nicky.

  “It’s getting dark,” Anka said. “We go inside soon.”

  “Olive is reading Treasure Island to us,” Sarah added.

  “We’ll tell you the story when she finishes,” Nicky offered.

  “Oh, okay,” Alexander said, looking over at Jack, who just shrugged. “Good night, then.”

  And so, the four children who slept in the house waved goodbye from the fence. Frances waved back, then reached over and gave Harold’s hand a squeeze. She didn’t want him to feel bad that George didn’t want to play.

  But Harold only said, “They’re silly. They didn’t even notice the rope swing.”

  “Everyone knows a swing’s a lot better than Treasure Island,” Jack said.

  Alexander looked truly glum. “Is it really better? I don’t even know. . . .”

  “Of course it’s better, you dumb lug!” Jack grinned and grabbed the rope, then made a running leap toward Alexander, who began to laugh. Frances noticed that the boys hadn’t quarreled since they’d found Wanderville again; that was certainly a relief.

  “Hey, look,” said Harold. “Eli’s still here.” He pointed to the tall corner section of the wall. There was the sharecropper boy, standing behind the wall.

  “What do you mean, still here?” Frances asked. “Has he been here this whole time tonight?”

  Harold nodded. “I told him he could come when . . . when I saw him today.” He looked down quickly. “He was hiding. I promised him I wouldn’t say where.”

  Frances shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “Eli?” Jack called. “Come on over.”

  Eli didn’t say anything, but his eyes were drawn to the rope swing.

  “You can try the swing,” Alexander added.

  The boy still didn’t speak, but a small smile began to play across his face. He stepped closer, into the clearing.

  Just then, they heard a voice by the fence. “Elijah Pike!”

  It was Eli’s father. He knocked aside one of the fence rails as he stormed over.

  “En’t no time for playing. Been looking for you all day. You got work!” he bellowed. He grabbed Eli by the wrist and yanked his arm. “You hear me?” His words sounded thick, and Frances could smell the liquor even from where she was standing. He shook Eli’s arm hard.

  “Hey!” Alexander called out suddenly. “Don’t—don’t thrash him.”

  Mr. Pike looked up and glared. As he did, Eli twisted his arm free and ran over to the fence.

  “Mind your own troubles,” Mr. Pike growled at Alexander before he turned and went after Eli. Soon they were both out of sight.

  The children didn’t say anything for a moment. Frances’s whole body had been tensed, as if ready to run herself. Finally, she let out a breath and pulled Harold closer to her side. Jack and Alexander still stood staring at the fence, fists clenched. At last, they relaxed a little when they heard only silence coming from the direction of the sharecroppers’ shanties.

  “I hope Mr. Pike doesn’t come back here,” Frances whispered.

  Jack nodded. “But maybe Eli will.”

  18

  THE ACCUSATION

  Jack was the first one up the next morning. He was starting to actually like getting up at first light. At the pump, he combed his hair back with wet fingers and then took a long drink of cool water while he watched the sunlight spread through the sky behind the orchard. If we have to stay here awhile, he thought, it might be all right.

  The four of them were getting so used to their chores that they’d gotten into a routine of things to talk about to help pass the time.

  Alexander liked to talk about plans for Wanderville. “I bet that once we get some hammocks up, and a better rope swing, the other kids will want to spend time there,” he said as they tended the garden.

  “Yes!” Harold said excitedly. “Especially George. And we can have Ella and Clement and Ora come over, too.” He wanted to teach them the Big Rock Candy Mountain song that the hoboes had taught them.

  Frances liked to talk about Ned’s treasure directions. “One of the clues is ‘a house with blue eyes that are always shut,’” she said as they worked in the orchard. “Do you suppose by ‘eyes’ he means windows?”

  Truthfully, the idea that a hobo would have treasure somewhere was beginning to seem pretty silly to Jack. But there wasn’t harm in hearing Frances talk about it.

  Sometimes they all wondered how Quentin and Lorenzo were doing in their new life riding the rails.

  “Do you think they’ve lost any fingers yet?” Harold wondered. “I hope not.”

  “Harold!” Frances said. “Don’t talk about such things!”

  Jack knew Quentin could be tough, and he liked to think that he and Lorenzo were all right. He hoped they could find work in an orchard just like this one when it was time to harvest the apples. He looked around at the trees, their fruit starting to form. It wouldn’t be long now. . . .
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br />   Reverend Carey’s voice interrupted Jack’s thoughts. “Children!” The minister and his wife marched up the orchard aisle toward them, their faces stern. No, more than stern, Jack realized—they were furious. And Jack noticed the Reverend had a tree bough in his hand.

  “To the barn!” the Reverend roared. “All four of you!”

  Reverend Carey’s fiddle was missing. According to Mrs. Carey, it had vanished from the cabinet in the chapel.

  “That’s where it’s always been kept,” she said. “And we put it there last night after the prayer session. Now it’s gone. I don’t think we need to tell you that fiddle is important in our family.”

  “Who stole it?” The Reverend paced the barn floor. The four children had been ordered to stand in a line while the Reverend walked up and down their row, stopping to study their faces for signs of guilt.

  “We trusted you,” Mrs. Carey said bitterly. “We’ve never had any kind of problems with stealing around here. Until today.”

  Jack’s guts were in knots. He thought about what Miss DeHaven had told the Careys about the children yesterday—that they were “trouble.” What if the Careys were starting to believe her? All because of the fiddle. What had happened to it? Could it have been misplaced?

  He exchanged confused looks with Alexander and Frances. Frances had turned pale—Jack was sure she was as upset about the fiddle disappearing as she was about being accused of stealing it.

  “Who is responsible?” the Reverend cried. “Step forward!”

  Jack tried to catch Harold’s eye, but the seven-year-old was staring down at the floor and shifting his feet. Oh, no, Jack thought.

  Alexander noticed how Harold was acting, too. He nudged Jack and gestured toward himself, as if to say, I’ll step forward.

  Jack shook his head and made his own motions: No, I’ll do it. But Alexander just glared at him, as if Jack were trying to show him up somehow. Jack’s face grew hot: They hadn’t argued in days, but now they couldn’t agree about a thing like this?