On Track for Treasure

by Wendy McClure

  Alexander was silent, sitting with his back to the rest of them, motionless except for the deep breaths he took. Jack, meanwhile, sat with his shoulders tensed, his elbows on his knees. He wanted to curl himself up tight and block all the thoughts that were beginning to burn inside.

  He remembered what Eli had said the first time they’d spoken—that the Reverend wouldn’t help a black kid the way he helped others. The problem isn’t just that the Careys have rules, Jack thought. It’s that they have different rules for different people.

  “And we shouldn’t break those rules, right?” Harold said. “We’ll be fine as long as we follow them, right? As long as we’re good?” His voice sounded hopeful. That was Harold, Jack realized—the kid was always trying to believe things were okay.

  But they weren’t okay.

  “I suppose,” Frances told her little brother, but her tone was wary.

  Alexander suddenly sprang up and started walking back and forth. “I know the Careys don’t mean to be cruel. . . .”

  “How do you know?” Jack suddenly shot back. “Look at how awful O’Reilly is. . . . Doesn’t he do the Reverend’s bidding? Haven’t you noticed? What are you, st—”

  Jack had to stop himself just then; he had almost said stupid. But then he’d seen Alexander’s face, and in a flash he remembered the pages that Eli had struggled to work on in that terrible schoolroom. Jack knew enough to realize it was the same way for Alexander.

  “Of course I’ve noticed how O’Reilly is, Jack,” Alexander said. He had stopped pacing.

  Jack took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Go on.”

  The older boy squared his shoulders and resumed pacing. “What I meant about the Careys is they haven’t hurt us. But that’s not enough. We shouldn’t have to live this way, should we?”

  “Live how?” Frances asked.

  “I mean . . . ,” Alexander began, but he couldn’t seem to find the words. He looked to Jack. This time, Jack knew they were thinking alike.

  “He means we shouldn’t live in fear!” Jack said.

  Alexander snapped his fingers. “Exactly! We can’t go on worrying all the time about whether we’re going to do something that’ll get us punished or sent away. And the Reverend’s supposed to believe in right and wrong, but what if he just believes in being right all the time?”

  “But at least we’re safe here!” Frances protested.

  Jack could see the doubt in her face. “Safe for now,” he pointed out. “Until Reverend Carey catches us talking to Eli. Or until he finds out about Wanderville. Do you think he and Mrs. Carey are going to approve of us coming out here on our own?”

  Nobody said anything for a moment. Then Alexander spoke up.

  “I . . . I guess I thought everything was going to be better once we built Wanderville again,” he said. “I thought we’d all be back together. And then something would work out the way I planned.”

  He dropped back down on the grass and sighed. All Alexander wanted, Jack knew, was for Wanderville to be as real as possible.

  Alexander straightened. “The only way we can all be together again and truly rebuild Wanderville is to leave the Careys’.”

  Jack grinned. For the first time in days, his friend sounded like he had back in Kansas. He looked over at Harold, who was nodding excitedly. Even Frances seemed to agree.

  Then Alexander turned to him. “Right, Jack?”

  “Right,” Jack said. “But first we have to help Eli. We owe him. And”—Jack hesitated—“and we should help him because we can. Because . . .”

  Frances cut in gently. “Because you’re thinking of all the children we left behind on the ranch in Kansas, aren’t you, Jack?” Her voice turned even softer. “The ones we couldn’t save.”

  Jack looked down at his feet. Yes, he was thinking about the kids back at the Pratcherds’. His thinking about them was like the sound of the crickets this time of year. It was always there, slipping under his other thoughts, but then sometimes, like now, it was all around him.

  “Yes,” he said finally. “And all the other kids, on all the orphan trains. I mean . . . helping Eli is the least we can do.”

  “We’ll do it,” Alexander said. “We’ll get Eli out.”

  And so the four of them began to devise a plan. They talked and planned until dusk fell and they had to head back to the barn. As they approached the fence, Jack grabbed one of the wild apples that grew at the edge of the clearing.

  “Don’t bother,” Frances said. “The Careys said those apples won’t be any good. They’ve been growing on their own for too long.”

  But Jack couldn’t help it—the fruit looked ripe, and he was hungry. He took a bite, expecting the fruit to be bitter. But it wasn’t. It was fine—pretty good, in fact. The Reverend wasn’t right about everything.

  The next day Frances wrote a note on the torn-out back flyleaf of her Third Eclectic Reader. Blank space in that book was becoming more and more precious, but this was important:

  Dear House Kids,

  The boy in the schoolroom is named Eli, and he is our friend.

  He did nothing wrong. It’s all a mistake, but the Rev. won’t understand.

  We’re going to liberate Eli. Will you help us?

  Write back yes or no. Then wait for instructions.

  —Barn Kids

  She tucked the note beneath a slat under the basket lid. Then she hid in the yard and waited.

  She’d been crouching behind a tree for nearly half an hour before the door to the house opened and Sarah came out with the washtub. Frances nearly fell over with relief. Laundry was one of the few chores that brought Sarah and Anka out to the yard for any length of time, but Frances hadn’t known for sure which day was wash day.

  She rushed over to Sarah and held out the basket. “Mrs. Carey said to return this.”

  But Sarah just hurried past her toward the water pump. “I’ve got to fill the tub,” she said. “You can just take it inside yourself.”

  Frances leaped ahead of her and stood in front of the pump. “Um . . . I’ll set it down by the steps. And then you should take it inside.” She looked Sarah right in the eye.

  Sarah blinked, confused for a moment. But then she nodded. “Oh! Of course!” So Frances left the basket at the steps while Sarah filled the washtub.

  Later that day, Mrs. Carey handed Frances the same basket at suppertime. Frances felt fluttery and anxious carrying it back over the fence to Wanderville, where Jack, Alexander, and Harold waited.

  “Do you think they wrote back?” Jack asked as Frances began to pull food from the basket.

  “I hope so,” said Frances. “I said in the note to write back yes or no. And I know Sarah got the note, so . . .”

  She went silent as she reached the bottom of the basket. There was no note. She checked the lid. Nothing. She ran her fingers along the slats inside the basket, hoping that a piece of paper might be caught under one of them. But there wasn’t.

  Her heart sank. They didn’t send a message back.

  At least Harold was excited about the food. “Here’s an apple!” he exclaimed. Only her little brother would still be excited about apples after days of working in an orchard, Frances thought.

  But that wasn’t what Harold was yelling about. “Look, Frances!” he cried, holding out the apple.

  And there, carved neatly into the side, were the letters Y-E-S.

  23

  INSIDE THE HOUSE

  The geese and chickens were making their daybreak noises, but Frances was already awake.

  In fact, she was running—sprinting from the barn past the water pump, the chapel, and the yard—heading straight for the Careys’ house in the gray dawn light. Her shoes were unbuttoned and her shirttails trailed behind her. She clambered up the stairs to the kitchen door and fell against it.

  “Mrs. Ca
rey!” she cried, half out of breath.

  The door swung open. “My child, what’s the matter?” the Reverend’s wife whispered. Behind her were Eleanor and Olive, wide-eyed, their hair still unbraided.

  “My brother,” Frances gasped. “He has a fever. . . .” She turned and looked back at the barn.

  Without another word, Mrs. Carey was out the door and hurrying toward the barn, with Frances running ahead to lead her. The Carey girls followed, too.

  Harold was in his straw bale bed, his face flushed and wet with perspiration. “Frannie,” he moaned. Alexander and Jack were crouched next to him, trying to give him some water from a tin cup.

  “He wouldn’t get out of bed this morning,” Frances explained, her pulse racing anxiously. “And then I felt how hot his forehead was.”

  Mrs. Carey put her hand to Harold’s head. “Oh, dear. The boy ought to be inside. Olive, help me carry him, and, Eleanor, gather his things.” One of the Carey girls (the taller one, Frances noted) came over and helped her mother pick up Harold, who only whimpered as he was lifted out of bed. “Frances, he’s your brother, so you’ll come in with us, won’t you?” Mrs. Carey asked.

  “Oh, well . . . of course,” Frances said slowly. “But first . . . I have to find his lucky pebble! He loves it, and—and he feels better when he can hold it in his hand! Right, Harold?” As she spoke, she began to search the corners of the barn.

  “Pebble,” Harold said weakly as he was being wrapped in a blanket. “Want . . . pebble . . .”

  “You see?” Frances said. “He misplaced it, and I’m the only one here who knows what it looks like.” Jack and Alexander nodded at that. “I’ll bring it to him as soon as I find it!”

  Mrs. Carey was becoming impatient. “He needs a cold compress, not a lucky charm. Come on, Olive.”

  They took Harold out of the barn while Frances and the boys watched. As he was being carried out, Harold caught Frances’s eye and smiled just a little. In another few moments, he was inside the house.

  “Whew!” Jack said, turning to Frances. “That was close. Good thing you thought up that business with the pebble.”

  Frances let out the breath she’d been holding. “That’s for sure.” She needed to stay outside for now; later she’d have a good excuse for getting into the house.

  “Now we wait for the next step,” said Alexander. “Let’s hope Harold does his part.”

  Mrs. Carey smelled a little like oatmeal. Or maybe it was the house, Harold thought, which carried the scent of hot breakfast cooking. He wondered if there was a kind of fever that could be treated with bacon and if there was a way to convince Mrs. Carey that he had it. Because it sure was a bother pretending to be sick. He’d had to run all around the barn with his coat on in order to get his face hot enough to fool the Careys.

  He’d kept his eyes squeezed shut the whole time he was being carried inside, but he finally opened them a peek after he’d been tucked in bed. He was in the upstairs room where the other children’s beds were. Frances had hated that room, but truthfully it wasn’t that bad. In fact, it was kind of nice. He shut his eyes again while Mrs. Carey put cool, wet cloths over his forehead. It wasn’t long before he began to doze off, just like a real sick person, and he was awfully proud of his performance.

  He woke to see four faces looking down at him. Faces that he knew but hadn’t seen in days.

  “Harold!” whispered George. “You’re here!”

  Behind George were Nicky, Sarah, and Anka.

  Harold sat up and grinned. “We got your apple message,” he told them as he reached into his pocket for the note that he’d brought. He handed it to Sarah, who unfolded it. It was a list of instructions that Frances and Jack had written out the night before.

  Sarah and Nicky looked over the note. “‘Get the key to the schoolroom,’” Sarah read aloud. She shook her head. “The Reverend and Mrs. Carey each have keys, but they keep their sets with them at all times.”

  “Is impossible,” Anka added.

  “But we can help with the other things on this list,” Nicky said.

  Harold nodded, but he felt a lump in his throat. The key to the schoolroom was the most important part! Without it, how were they going to get Eli out?

  “You don’t look so good,” George said. “Are you sure you’re not just a little bit sick, for real?”

  “Yeah,” Nicky said. “When you’re sick, you get toast with butter and jam.”

  “Really?” Harold lay back on the pillows and hoped he still looked feverish. He wondered what kind of jam Mrs. Carey would put on his toast.

  Meanwhile, the others began to make their beds and tidy the bedroom. Harold couldn’t believe how neatly and cheerfully they worked. Back at the orphanage in New York, making beds was a dreaded task because it could never be done quite right and the matrons would always yell about the covers being lumpy. But here, even George knew how to make the corners tuck in perfectly. Nicky was humming a merry-sounding song as he swept the floor, and Sarah and Anka shook pillows in rhythm to the tune. It looked almost fun. No, it was fun.

  Harold wished Frances and Jack and Alexander could see what it was like in here. Maybe they wouldn’t have to leave! They could all live together in the house and then go out to visit Wanderville. Of course, that depended on whether they would be allowed to play out there. Harold had a feeling the Careys wouldn’t approve, which meant they’d have to sneak over. But then, they weren’t supposed to lie—did sneaking count as lying?

  Thinking about all this made Harold’s head feel hot for real. It wasn’t a good feeling, but at least maybe now he’d get extra jam on his toast.

  By the afternoon Harold had consumed not only toast and jam, but some hot soup, a mug of tea that smelled like cinnamon, and a dish of applesauce. It was all delicious, but it was a little boring to sit there with Mrs. Carey watching him take every bite and slurp every spoonful.

  Later, he was allowed to go downstairs and sit in the kitchen while the other children worked. Harold and Nicky peeled potatoes for supper while Anka and Sarah sliced cucumbers to make pickles. Before long, Nicky and George began to hum again, a song Harold didn’t know.

  “Let’s sing the Rock Candy Mountain song!” Harold suggested. “With the part that Ned Handsome made up about Wanderville!”

  Sarah wrinkled her nose. “You mean that old hobo song?”

  George shrugged. “I don’t remember how it goes.”

  So Harold started to sing:

  In the Big Rock Candy Mountains, all the sheriffs are stone-blind,

  And the children from Wanderville don’t pay ’em any mind. . . .

  But nobody was joining in, and Harold couldn’t sing so well when he had to sing all by himself. He let the song trail off into a mumble.

  “No more song about sheriff and orphan train,” Anka said, frowning. “Hate to think of those things.”

  “We live here now,” George said. “Not Wanderville.”

  “But—” Harold protested.

  “We have new songs,” Nicky said. “The Reverend taught us this one. . . .”

  With banner and with badge we come,

  An army true and strong,

  To fight against the hosts of rum,

  And this shall be our song.

  Then Sarah and Anka and George joined in:

  We love the clear cold water springs,

  Supplied by gentle showers.

  We feel the strength cold water brings.

  The victory is ours.

  If you asked Harold, the song wasn’t as jolly as the hobo song. You had to sing it like you were marching, and from the way it plodded along, it was like marching in mud.

  But he tried to learn the song, and two other songs that Nicky and the others had learned. They were all about how cold water was better than liquor, but everyone knew that, Harold thought. He�
�d never tasted liquor, of course, but he knew it smelled exactly like shoes on fire. Couldn’t folks tell the difference between that stuff and cold water? Why did they need so many songs to explain? And as good as cold water was, it wasn’t nearly as delicious as rock candy, especially not a Rock Candy Mountain.

  That night, Harold lay in bed—his bed, Mrs. Carey had told him. His stomach was full and happy, but everything else felt funny. He kept looking around—like he was searching for something, but he didn’t know what. He could see, out the window and in the moonlight, a glimpse of the barn where Frances and Jack and Alexander were working on the next part of their plan. That was good. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. Was it because Frances wasn’t here? Or was it because of what he’d seen behind the shed, when that farmhand hit Mr. Pike again and again? Nobody in this house talked about Mr. Pike or Eli. Harold thought about Eli stuck all by himself in that schoolroom. Could he hear them making their beds and singing their songs?

  Something on the bedroom windowsill caught his eye. He went over to pick it up. It was Anka’s little wooden doll, the one she’d brought to the first Wanderville back in Kansas. It had stood in a special spot there, on a shelf in the trees that had made the place feel like a real house, only better. Harold knew that Anka had brought the doll with her when they’d left Kansas. He’d figured the next time he saw it, it would be in a place that felt like home.

  But this wasn’t home. He knew that now.

  24

  TO STEAL A KEY

  Jack couldn’t stop going over all the details in his head that night. According to the list they’d sent into the house with Harold, the first thing they needed was the key to the schoolroom. But, of course, it was up to the kids in the house to get it and unlock the door. He looked out across the yard to the lighted windows of the house. What if nobody could get the key? The whole plan depended on that part.