On Track for Treasure (5 page)

But Jack was already up and standing. And shouting.

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

I
NSIDE THE DEPOT

T
hree 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
DA
Y
FOR
HEALTH & TEMPERA
NCE
. 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 were 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.”