Escape to the World's Fair

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ISBN: 978-0-698-18298-1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

A
RUN-IN WITH FATE

D
own,
Jack thought as he pulled the handle.
Down.
He pulled again.
Down.

The great iron arm creaked, and every so often the wheels would scrape as they slid along the tracks. Sometimes the scraping noise was so sharp Jack could hear it with his teeth. But it meant that they were making the handcar go as fast as it could—enough speed for a breeze that turned Frances's hair wild and nearly blew Alexander's cap away—and that was worth it. Even if all five of them wound up bone tired by nightfall again, at least they were going somewhere, right?

As far as Jack could tell, they were in Missouri still—the rusty stretch of railroad track they were on went past quiet cornfields and meadows. Twice they'd seen people—once, when they went by a farmhouse yard where a woman tended a clothesline, and then later, when they passed a man with a horse and plow. Frances's little brother, Harold, had called out hello to them and waved, but the woman had only stared back in amazement and the man had scratched his head. Jack figured it had been years and years since a train had traveled on these tracks, much less a handcar with five kids on board.

The fewer folks they saw, though, the better. They had a long way to travel, after all. Jack had been thinking about it all morning, and he was sure the others were, too.
California!
He couldn't believe they were on their way. But then he'd watch the big iron arm on the handcar go up and down like a seesaw and wonder how many times he'd have to pump those handles before they got to California.

Down.
Jack pulled again and shifted his weight on his aching feet. Today he was riding backward. When they'd first found the handcar two days ago, Jack and Frances had taken the side that faced forward, while Alexander and Eli had been on the other side. Sometimes they all switched places, and while it hadn't taken Jack long to get used to the motion of riding that way, he hated that the only thing he could see were the trees and fields behind their vehicle, slipping away into the distance.

“What's . . . ahead?” he managed to ask between deep breaths. “What . . . can . . . you see?”

Eli, who, along with Alexander, had the proper view, shook his head. “Nothin',” he puffed as he pulled down the handles on his end. “Same old . . . thing . . . Fields and stuff.”

Harold piped up. “That ain't nothing!” He rode in the middle and held on to their supplies since he was seven and too young to work the handles on the handcar. “I see a big tree, and a barn way over there. . . .”

“
Isn't,
” Frances corrected him. She was pulling right next to Jack, but she still had to be the big sister. “Not . . .
ain't
.”

Jack had a feeling it was going to be another long day. Yesterday they'd kept the handcar going well after dusk, until they were so exhausted they could barely speak. They'd stumbled off the tracks and fell onto the nearest bit of grass they could find. Jack's arms had felt sore to the bones, Frances complained of blisters, and Eli had declared that working the handcar was tougher than plowing.

“Just wait,” Alexander had said last night, while they all stretched out in the prickly prairie grass trying to find comfortable spots for sleeping. “Next thing you know, we'll be eating oranges out west. . . .”

His had voice trailed off. Nobody else had spoken; they hadn't had the energy to reply.

Jack was glad the five of them were on their own now, and not back at Reverend Carey's farm. Or, worse, still on an orphan train or breaking their backs at the ranch in Kansas. They were free, which meant that they
had
to be better off now.

That's what he kept telling himself, at least.
We're lucky.
He'd say it in his head all day long today if he had to. In between pulling the handle, that is.
Down . . . down.
He knew there were other kids who weren't so lucky.

An hour or so passed, and then another rusty shriek from the handcar wheels snapped Jack out of his thoughts. The awful sound grew louder, and Jack could feel himself cringing.

“Ow!” Harold cried, his voice barely carrying above the noise.
“Ow!”

“What?” Frances called back to her brother. “What is it?”

Harold's eyes were wide as he looked past Jack and Frances to the tracks ahead. And suddenly Jack realized what Harold was saying. Not
ow
but
look out
!

“We have to stop—” Alexander began. He and Eli could see whatever was ahead too, and they had quit working the handle.

“We have to
brake
!” Eli cut in. “Where's the brake?”

“Here!” Frances reached for it, an iron lever near her feet. She yanked on it with both hands.

The handcar screeched and slowed just enough for Jack to turn around and see the tracks ahead.

Or rather, what was
left
of the tracks.

• • •

Where's the bridge?
Frances's mouth went dry when she turned and spotted the creek ahead. Where there should have been a bridge, the tracks instead ended in two bent pieces that reached over the high bluff of the creek bank.

“We have to get off this thing!” Jack cried.

The handcar was still going plenty fast, its brake noise shrill and awful. The bank was just a few yards away and coming closer. Frances reached across to grab Harold's sleeve, getting ready to pull him along into a well-timed jump—

But with a bump and a
BANG!
, the handcar slammed to a sudden stop. Frances lost her footing and toppled off one side, dragging Harold with her.

“Ooof!” She hit the ground hard on her backside.

Alexander stumbled over and offered her a hand. “You all right?”

Frances nodded and got up. She looked around: Her brother had managed to land on his feet, though he'd dropped the floursack full of supplies. Jack and Eli had gone off the other side of the handcar, and they were slowly pulling themselves off the ground.

“What just happened?” she murmured.

“It's broken!” Harold cried, pointing over to where the handcar stood tilted to one side like a collapsed table. “The wheels came off the track!”

“Looks like it derailed,” Alexander said. He showed Frances and the others a spot along the tracks where two lengths of rail had come apart.

Frances looked over by the creek where the tracks abruptly ended. The bridge must have fallen long ago, and the rails on the bank had buckled. She was glad that the handcar hadn't just pitched them all straight into the rocky creek bed, but now that it had gone off the rails it was useless. She watched as Jack kicked the handcar wheels, his jaw set. He reached up and yanked the big iron arm, which made a feeble creak.

“Forget it,” Eli said to Jack. “That thing isn't going anywhere.”

Frances knew Eli was right. Even if they could fix it, there was no way they could haul it across the creek to where the tracks continued. She stepped closer to the wreck and sighed when she saw the snapped cables and a big splintery crack down one side of the platform.

“That was our treasure,” she said softly.

I'm sorry, Ned Handsome,
she thought to herself. Ned was a hobo they'd met while riding the rails out of Kansas. Before they'd parted ways, he'd given them a mysterious set of directions leading to a “treasure” he'd stashed away. For weeks Frances had puzzled over the clues and dreamed of finding it.

And she had; she'd found the handcar. Over the past two days they'd used it to travel more than sixty miles all by themselves. It had seemed like there'd be no stopping them.
Until now.

Frances had to bite her lip to keep back the tears. She glanced up to see Alexander looking over solemnly, as if to say he was sorry too. It helped to know that he understood.

Harold came over to her side and squeezed her hand. “Don't be sad, Frannie. Nobody got hurt too bad.”

She squeezed his hand back. “You're right. We're lucky.” She was glad for the reminder. It could have been much worse. But Harold had nothing more than a couple of dirty scuffs on his knickers, Frances and Alexander had just a few scrapes and bruises, and Eli had a skinned knee that he was washing in the creek. As for Jack, he seemed unhurt, but his shoulders slumped and he rubbed his eyes like he had a terrible headache.

“What do we do now?” Jack asked, looking around at all of them. “How are we ever going to get to California?”

Nobody answered for a moment. But Frances turned to look at Alexander. She had a feeling he'd have something to say.

“That's a good question, Jack,” he said. “But for now, we start by walking.”