by Iacopo Bruno
Part of me felt like a lying fool. I could fix everything by confessing to Daddy . . . but the Law seemed to know about the Pritchards heading back to town, and if my plan to find their hideout actually worked, I wouldn’t have to say a word and justice would still be served. Would one teeny-tiny night in jail be so bad for the Widow if it meant I could find proper evidence and get her freed the next day? Hard to say.
Miss Ada paused her pie cutting to pinch me. She angled her head toward Daddy.
“Ow,” I murmured, rubbing my leg. “Yes, sir,” I said to him.
“Good.” Daddy scooted his chair back and stood up. “I’m going to check on your mama, then I’ll be going back to the courthouse for a spell.” He smiled at Miss Ada. “Mighty fine chicken, Miss Ada, thank you. Would you wrap up some of that pie for me to take along? I may not be home for supper, depending.”
“That’ll be fine, Judge. I’ll leave a plate in the icebox.”
Daddy left, and I sat stirring my gravy and green beans into a thick soup.
Miss Ada slid a slice of pie onto my plate and picked up Daddy’s dishes and placemat. “All this fuss over a man with nothing to his name except some gold teeth.”
“Who?”
“That dug up man. Heard some gossip at the store. Couple of women wondering why the Widow Douglas would dig up Amos Mutton when he didn’t have anything to his name but the metal in his mouth.”
“He had gold teeth?” I tried to picture a set of gold teeth and all I could see in my head were lumpy yellow nuggets. “I think I’d rather be toothless like the Pritchards. Say, Miss Ada, we got any cookies?”
She squinted her eyes. “Yes, Miss Becky. We got cookies, but I don’t want you running off and using them as catfish bait, or whatever you have planned, you hear?” She disappeared into the kitchen.
“I hear,” I agreed, following her with my plate.
She tilted her head at the jar on the counter. “Fresh batch from this morning. Now, I got some knitting to do, so you just stay out of trouble.”
The cookie jar used to be my favorite thing in the kitchen, and not just because of what tended to be inside. Mama had painted it herself and let me choose the design. I picked daisies. She even let me help with one of the flowers, which is why one looked a little wild and ragged.
I traced the sloppy flower with a finger. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be good.” I felt awful bad lying to Miss Ada, but I did it just the same.
There were about three hours before the sun went down and I had a handful of things needing to get done. Once Miss Ada went back into her cabin, I grabbed a dozen molasses cookies from the clay jar, sticking one in my mouth. I found an empty cornmeal sack in the pantry and crept over to the dining room cabinet for a couple of good linen napkins. We never had company anymore, so I knew the cloth wouldn’t be missed. Rolling the cookies up tight in two napkins, I stacked them in the sack so they wouldn’t break.
I added an empty oil lamp to the sack, a small bottle of oil, and a few matches. I wanted to change into Jon’s clothes after I got to the cave, so I flew up the steps for a pair of his overalls and a shirt. Then it was back downstairs to borrow good paper and an ink pen from Daddy. I figured I’d run over to Amy’s house and leave a note, on the off chance that plans didn’t go as smoothly as I hoped. Tapping the pen, I sent a good splatter of ink across the paper and had to blow it dry before writing the letter.
Dear Amy,
I got an idea of where the Pritchards are keeping their treasure stash. I’m not telling you where because I don’t want you following just in case the outlaws themselves end up being inside that cave they mentioned back at the cemetery. Whatever they stole from Amos Mutton or his coffin will surely be among their spoils, so the Widow won’t get blamed for being an evil witch who digs up dead people. Once I find the hideout for certain, I’ll leave a note for the sheriff and he can set a trap and surprise the Pritchards, like the Widow did to Joe and Sid with her ghosty sheets.
I might take Sid Sawyer with me—only ’cause I don’t care if he twists an ankle or anything, not because I don’t love you the very most! Plus, I know your daddy loves you and needs you a whole lot and it’s got to be nice to be loved and needed. You’re my bosom friend and I want you to have Jon’s marbles if I die (which I won’t, I surely promise).
—Your best friend, Becky Thatcher
*Oh, and I got three good stinkbugs in an old tobacco tin under my bed. If I get caught by those Pritchards, please make an excuse to fetch the bugs from my room and put two in Tom Sawyer’s desk (somewhere they’re sure to get smashed) and one in Dob-head’s black hair grease container. I got something of Ruth Bumpner’s hid under there too, and I reckon you’ll know what to do with it.
I waved the ink dry and folded the letter, trying hard to ignore the possibility that the Pritchards might’ve already gotten rid of whatever they took from Mr. Mutton. It didn’t matter too much, anyway, I decided. The sheriff could still force a grave-robbing confession out of the outlaws without me being directly involved. And wasn’t it the responsible and grown-up thing to do, letting the Law take credit for capturing dangerous criminals?
Why, yes, Becky Thatcher, I told myself. Yes, it is.
Nobody answered the door at the Lawrence house and I waited a good fifteen minutes before climbing a tree to get in Amy’s bedroom window. I left the letter at the foot of her bed, hoping I’d be back with good news by the time she read it. An hour later, the day closing in on dusk, I was not pleased to see Tom on the Sawyers’ front-porch swing. “Where’s Sid?” I called from the steps.
“Out with Joe Harper.”
“Where’d they go?”
“They wouldn’t let on.” Tom tugged on an ear and looked at me kinda shy. “You looking for someone to play with?”
I fixed him with a good scowl. “I was looking for someone to play pirates with, but not you, Tom Sawyer. You nearly got my hide tanned, didn’t you?”
He blushed. “I must’ve been seeing things.”
I stomped up the three stairs and poked his chest. “That’s right, you were seeing things. Now stay outta my business. Why don’t you go play with Sam Clemens. I reckon he’s old enough for you to get along with.”
Tom stared at his shoes, shuffling his feet. “His steamboat’s all fixed up and he’s leaving.”
Well, shoot. I needed to see that man again about my marble sack and my promise to Jon. “When’s he leaving?”
“Real early tomorrow,” Tom replied. “He said around six o’clock in the morning.”
Hmm. Daddy would either be busy or catching up on sleep tomorrow morning. Maybe I could sneak out and see Sam.
When I didn’t leave right away, Tom Sawyer looked at me, a tiny piece of hope sparkling in his eyes. “Hey, if you want to, we could go find Sid and Joe. I overheard them saying they might go fishing and—”
“Just hush,” I said, waving him toward the door. “I’m not going anywhere with you, Tom Sawyer.” I turned and was nearly to the sidewalk when I began feeling a little bad about how I’d talked to him. Maybe he didn’t understand what a pain he was. I spun around and leaned on the Sawyers’ fence, facing Tom’s cherry-colored cheeks.
“Sorry about that finger poke,” I said. “Maybe you don’t know not to tell on people. Listen, nobody likes someone getting them in trouble all the time and playing kissy-up to the teacher.”
Tom’s lip trembled, but he shrugged. “No one likes me anyway.”
I nodded in agreement. “That’s true enough. But maybe they would if you’d be more like a normal boy instead of trying to get in good with your aunt and Mr. Dobbins.”
He breathed out a sigh that sounded way too grown-up for his ten years. “What’s the point? Sid’s never going to like me.”
I was feeling generous for some reason, maybe because in the back of my mind I thought there was a slight chance I might run into the Pritchards and I wanted to leave life on a friendly note. “Tell you what. You want to earn Sid’s respect?”
He nodded eagerly.
“You got to do something awful like pull down the laundry line, mess up the kitchen, or take out your aunt’s stitching. And spit.”
“Spit?”
“Spit, Tom Sawyer. You got to spit more if you want to get any respect.”
He bobbed his head, as though committing my words to memory. Maybe there was hope for him after all.
“All right, then, I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”
“There’s no school tomorrow,” he said.
“What?”
“Mr. Dobbins has taken sick. He put out notice that there’s no school this week. They announced it at Church.”
I slapped the fence and gave Tom Sawyer a genuine smile. “Well, see there? That’s the kind of information you should be spreading with those loose lips of yours. I like you better already.”
He grinned and got even redder than before. I didn’t like the look on his face. There was something too grateful about it. Closing the gate behind me, I set off to get better acquainted with the Widow’s dog.
Charlie was waiting on the back porch. He plopped down on the steps as I got to the Widow’s, just like he’d been expecting me.
“Charlemagne,” I said, thinking it best to be formal when we were still getting to know each other. “Would you like to help me get your missus out of trouble?” I held out a cookie and watched the hound snatch it and wolf it down.
I swear that dog nodded while he licked my hand clean.
“Good boy. We’ll be hunting down the loot from those men in the graveyard. The men who took Mrs. Douglas’s shovel. You remember?”
He whined and licked his behind. I wasn’t all too sure if that was a positive sign or not.
“Well, where’s the scrap of shirt you ripped off that Pritchard?” My eyes drifted to his house. “Mind if I take a little look-see in there?” I tossed him another cookie and poked my head in. Sure enough, right near the back was a torn up piece of shirt that sure didn’t look like it belonged to an old lady. There was also a familiar-looking sack. It was the dead kitten! Amy must’ve forgotten about it and Charlemagne had taken it in.
Feeling dirty just touching it, I used two fingertips to grasp the kitten bag and stuffed it into my cornmeal sack. I’d give it a proper burial later for bringing us luck with the Widow’s bet. Then I went back for the cloth. It was stiff, probably from dried slobber.
“Now, Charlemagne,” I said, “I suspect I know where the Pritchards might have hid everything they stole, but you’ll be able to sniff those two out for certain. Besides, I wouldn’t mind a little company. Here, smell it real good.” I thrust the piece of shirt into Charlie’s nose and he growled.
The growl sent tingles up my back, like someone was trying to play piano scales on my spine. I shook off the nerves. “That’s right boy. We’re gonna find the Pritchards’ hideout and then we’ll let the sheriff take over. Easy as pie. Are you with me? Get a good sniff on it now.”
Holding my breath, I tucked the shirt piece into my overall bib and set off toward the woods behind the Widow’s home. The dog trotted behind me for half a dozen yards, then held back.
I turned and saw that his ears were pricked up. I froze, looking around and seeing nothing. “Let’s go, boy! Got to get this done while there’s still a little light out. I have a mind of where you can find more of this scent and save your lady from jail. Sound good?”
The ears stayed up, like somebody had tied fishing line to them from the sky and was yanking away.
“Come on!” I patted my leg until it felt sore.
Finally, the dog moved, but instead of coming toward me, he loped around to the front of the house. My confidence dropping an inch or two, I turned around and headed into a patch of woods. Seemed I’d be doing my hideout hunting without Charlie’s help.
I jumped the stream and hiked around the tree-covered side of Carver Hill, thinking maybe discovering the Pritchards’ stash wasn’t such a grown-up decision after all. My steps slowed while I pictured the graveyard scene from a week earlier. Shaking off the image of outlaws and knives, my black braid caught on a low-hanging branch. As I untangled it, I thought about how Jon had gotten Daddy’s light locks and mine matched Mama’s hair color perfectly.
I wondered if she’d ever brush my hair again. I wondered if, after the Widow was cleared of charges and the Pritchards were caught, I might try a little harder to talk to Mama. Maybe I could find a way to help her out of the dark place she was stuck in. My inner voice whispered a suggestion.
Maybe you should turn around and talk to her right now.
No sooner had I cleared the trees and stepped up to the school picnic grounds, feeling confused about whether or not to go home, than the Widow’s dog came bounding up behind me. He near scared me to death and relieved me to pieces.
“You came!”
His mouth was full of weeds, which he dropped at my feet. He sat back, looking like he expected a reward.
I scratched his ears real good. “Well, I guess you didn’t abandon me after all. What did you bring me?” I glanced at Charlemagne’s offering, then bent for a closer look at the weather-dried plant scraps. They weren’t weeds at all. I picked up a handful, ignoring the slobber, and stroked a faded white petal.
“Daisies?”
The truth dawned on me, like a glorious burst of day after a real long night. Or like two arms wrapping around me. Two Jon arms. I plopped down right in the meadow, astonished. “Charlemagne,” I whispered. “Did Jon tell you to bring me these?”
He didn’t respond, but he didn’t have to.
I’d been so busy thinking about Mama that I forgot about my marble promise to take Jon on adventures. Maybe sneaking out to find the Pritchards’ hideout was a slightly roundabout way to take responsibility and act grown-up, but it was a direct path to keeping my promise to Jon. And if keeping a promise wasn’t the responsible thing to do, I couldn’t figure on what was.
Mightily pleased at my intact sense of morality and ability to make smart decisions, I took a big inhale of air and let it out slow. “Okay,” I said to the darkening sky, “let’s go, Jon.” I kissed the daisies, nasty and wilted as they were, then looped the group of them through Charlie’s collar with shaking hands.
“You’re a good boy, Charlie,” I said, feeling fidgety but renewed in purpose. “The Widow said you gave messages from the Beyond and I guess she was right. Now, are you up for a little cave exploring?” I pulled out the cloth scrap and let him get another good sniff.
We were thirty feet from the cave entrance when that dog started going crazy. He jumped, barked, twirled, and sniffed. He wiggled like a worm, making his way straight inside.
The entrance cavern was about the size of the schoolhouse room and a good twelve feet high. With a small amount of light still hanging in the sky, the cave wasn’t particularly spooky, but it went in quite far. Sid said that a young boy got lost in there years ago. Twenty feet back, the cave branched off in two directions. There was nothing on the rocky floor but a few blown-in leaves, a scattering of bird feathers, and a pile of dried poop. Looked to be fox droppings. More critter leavings were likely to be deeper inside the cave.
But there was something else. A smell like stale wood smoke and a feeling that somebody, or a couple of somebodies, had been where I was standing not too long ago.
Crouching behind a natural corner on one side, I stripped off my dress and pulled Jon’s clothes out of my sack. It’s just the dried leaves, I told myself, reminding me of a burn pile, which makes me think of smoke. I started to pull on Jon’s shirt and breeches, when Charlemagne stopped sniffing and froze. Even his hair looked stiff. He turned and let out the most horrifying, threatening, wet-pants-causing growl I’d heard from him to date.
OhGodohGodohGodohGodohGod.
“Hey!” a voice shouted.
I whirled around, ready to face the Pritchards and my own death. When I saw the intruder’s face, I collapsed into the corner, shaking in relief. “Dar
n you, Tom Sawyer! You scared the bejeezus outta me. And you could have seen me in my underthings!”
Tom looked horrified. “I didn’t know you were taking your clothes off, honest! I just thought maybe we could be friends. I ran off, see? I didn’t even tell Aunt Polly where I was going.” He took a hesitant step toward a drooling Charlemagne, who seemed to realize that Tom Sawyer wasn’t a danger to anybody but himself. “Is that Widow Douglas’s dog?”
I fastened my overall straps and plucked Jon’s marbles from the cornmeal sack, putting them in my front pocket for closeness. Then I stepped toward Tom, glaring.
He gave me a faltering grin. “What are you doing? Can . . . can I join you?”
Though I would’ve been grateful for nearly any human company, I was jumpy enough without having to worry about Tom Sawyer’s safety. I’d also started to get a real creepy feeling about the cavern. Like maybe I was in the exact right spot, which was also the exact wrong spot.
If I was going to be making mistakes tonight, I didn’t care for anyone to be affected by them except me. Jon and Charlemagne would be all the help I needed. Plus, if I died, Tom Sawyer had to stay good and alive to get those stinkbugs Amy would put in his school desk.
That decided, I gave him a big smile and ruffled Charlemagne’s ears. “Join me? Not unless you want to go Pritchard-hunting with us. See?” I squatted down and stirred at the dried poop with a stick until it was good and broken up.
Tom stepped forward to see.
“Lookee there, it’s Billy Pritchard’s signature brand of tobacco.” I pointed to the pieces of poop. “Some people would say that getting your hands on all that stolen loot isn’t worth getting stabbed a time or two by the Pritchards.” I swallowed a big lump in my throat, trying hard not to think about getting stabbed. I forced teasing and lightness into my voice, even though I was feeling fearful myself. “But I say, what’s life without a little adventure? It might just turn out okay. You with me, friend?” Part of me prayed for Tom Sawyer to prove me wrong and still want to come.