On Track for Treasure

A
DIVISION
OF
P
ENGUIN
Y
OUN
G
R
EADERS
G
ROUP

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ISBN: 978-1-101-61918-6

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.

For Claire, Kate, Kelly, and Molly.
Shine on!

W
AITING FOR THE SIGNAL

Whitmore, Kansas

T
hey were going to miss the train. Jack was sure of it.

“Where'd Alexander go?” Frances whispered.

She was right next to Jack, but the boys' cap she was wearing was shoved down so low on her forehead that Jack wondered how she could see at all. Somehow, though, she and her kid brother, Harold, had managed to stay close behind Jack as they dashed through town from one backyard to another. Now the three of them pressed themselves against the wall of a shed just off Third Street, hoping the narrow strip of shade under the eaves would be enough to conceal them. It was a good thing the other kids were waiting in the empty stable a block away—they would never all fit in this spot.

Compared with the Lower East Side of New York, where Jack was from, Whitmore, Kansas, was just a sleepy hamlet. Yet nothing Jack had ever experienced in the dim and teeming alleys of Manhattan—not even at night—could match the panic he felt now, in the brightest noon daylight, in this tiny town just five blocks long. There was nowhere to hide in a place like this—and certainly nowhere
ten
runaways could hide. Except, that is, on the next train west. Alexander had said it was their only chance.

Jack's mind flashed back to that morning, when Sheriff Routh had found the clearing in the woods where they'd been living—the place they called Wanderville. It had been the only real home they'd known since leaving New York. They'd been on an orphan train, which took poor kids out of the cities and sent them west. But rather than live with strangers, Jack, Frances, and Harold had escaped. Wanderville wasn't just a home, but a town all their own, a safe place. They'd also rescued other orphan train kids, who'd been forced to work at the Pratcherd ranch nearby. Just that morning, in fact, one more had come to Wanderville: Quentin.

But then the sheriff had shown up, too. The kids had gotten away before he could round them up, but if they didn't get out of town on the next train, he would catch up to them. And this time he would have the Pratcherds with him, because it was clear he was on
their
side now.

“Do you see Alexander?” Frances asked again.

“Not yet,” Jack whispered. “Just wait. He'll give the signal soon.”

Where
was
Alexander?
he wondered. Alexander, who had been one of the first ones to come out here on an orphan train, knew the area better than anyone, so he'd run ahead to make sure all was clear by the train tracks. He was supposed to come by the corner of the livery barn and signal that it was safe to make a run for it. But he hadn't shown up so far, and time was running out.

“I can hear the train—” Harold began, his voice too loud, but Frances clapped a hand over his mouth to hush him.

The kid was right: The train had come in, and it was waiting up by the depot, just out of sight, beyond the buildings on Front Street. They could hear it chuffing and hissing, standing idle—for the moment at least.

“Come
on
,” Jack heard Frances mutter under her breath. She, too, was staring hard at the spot where their friend was supposed to appear. They could see past the livery barn to the train tracks glinting in the sun.

If they waited any longer, Jack knew, they'd soon see the train passing by, and with it their best chance of getting out of town fast. He didn't even
want
to get on that train, but they couldn't go back into the woods. By now, Jack was sure, the sheriff and the Pratcherds were storming into Wanderville on horseback. Sheriff Routh himself was probably tearing down the hammocks they'd slept in, kicking aside the rocks around the fireplace, destroying everything they'd built. . . .

But Jack couldn't let himself think about that now. “We should get the others,” he said. “They're waiting over in the stable, right?”

“Yes, but—” Frances suddenly stopped. She pushed her hat back, and Jack could see her eyes were wide.

Then he heard them, too: footsteps. Slow ones, as if they were sneaking up, coming around the side of the lean-to.

He mouthed the words to Frances:
The sheriff
.

Frances nodded and mouthed back:
Let's go.
She grabbed Harold's arm.

Then someone grabbed
Jack
's arm.

“
Hey!”
he yelped.

“Hey yourself!” a familiar voice whispered.

It wasn't the sheriff, though it was someone tall—Lorenzo, who had crept over with Sarah from the stable.

“We need to go!” Lorenzo insisted. He and Sarah had come out to Kansas on the same orphan train as Jack and Frances. They hadn't worked long at the Pratcherd ranch, but like the rest of them, they never wanted to go back there—Jack could tell from their anxious faces.

“We can hear the train!” Sarah sounded frantic, and she kept trying to tuck her braids up inside her hat.

After they left Wanderville that morning, some of the kids had tried to disguise themselves in case they ran into the Pratcherds in town. The boys shook dust into their hair to dull their hair color—for Harold, who had bright red hair, this was especially necessary—and the girls hid their hair under caps and hats. Frances even donned an old pair of breeches so that she'd be taken for a boy.

But none of these measures would do them a lick of good if Sheriff Routh caught them.

There was no more time to wait. “Let's go!” Jack said, his voice suddenly hoarse. “Lorenzo, get the others and then follow me. The rest of you”—he looked over at Frances and Harold and Sarah—“run for the tracks.
Now!
”

Sarah dashed out first, and then Frances raced across Front Street with Harold, the wind roaring in her ears.
Don't look back
, she thought. If anyone had spotted them and was giving chase, she didn't want to know. She held on tight to Harold's hand, and together they darted around the corner of the livery barn.

There was the train, stopped just a little ways down the tracks. And then, over the noise of the wind, the train's whistle, long and mournful. It was about to leave.

She and Harold ran faster, catching up with Sarah, their shoes kicking up gravel and cinders. They were just reaching the train's caboose when she saw Alexander, waving his arms wildly. He was leaning out the doorway of one of the freight cars near the back. He motioned frantically to Frances and Harold and Sarah:
Over here!

“Get in first,” she whispered to Harold as she helped him climb up into the empty boxcar and wriggle inside. He was just seven but strangely heavy all of a sudden. Then she gave Sarah a hand; and soon Lorenzo came with Anka and little George—two more kids they'd rescued from the Pratcherds—and she helped them crawl in, too.

The next thing she knew, the train's whistle was blowing again, right over their heads, and Jack was there with Nicky and Quentin, all of them clambering up the ladder rails and heaving themselves over the threshold of the freight car. She looked behind her—was anyone else coming?

But there was only the dusty end of Front Street, looking remarkably still under the noontime glare. Even the depot was empty. She felt an odd swooning sensation. No, it was the train, starting to move, and she was still on the ground, standing beside it.

“Frances! Grab the
ladder
!” Nicky was calling to her. “Get on the ladder!” He meant the ladder that went up the side of the car next to the door. Frances grabbed the highest rung she could and hauled her feet up. But she didn't know how she'd get across to reach the door. It had looked easy when the other kids climbed into the car, but the train hadn't been moving then. She tried to swing. . . .

Suddenly, an arm reached out and grabbed her by the belt of her breeches. A
big
arm, like a tree branch, and she was yanked inside.

“Almost missed the train, kid,” spoke a low and gravelly voice. It was dim inside the freight car, and she couldn't make out the face of her rescuer. Whoever he was, he sounded a thousand years old.

As her eyes adjusted, Frances could see the other children sitting on the floor nearby. Her legs felt weak, and when she plopped down beside Sarah and Harold, a wave of relief washed over her.

“Th-thank you,” she said.

“You're quite welcome,” the thousand-year-old voice replied. Frances could see that the man had a long coat and a bundle tied to one shoulder.
A hobo!
she realized. She'd heard stories about the hoboes, or bindle stiffs—the tramps who rode the rails. But she hadn't known whether they were real or just a legend. Now she knew.

The hobo tipped his hat to the children and smiled—a kind smile, though with teeth the color of tenement bricks. “Where might you and your smallish companions be headed?” he asked Frances.

She was still too stunned to speak.

But Harold answered for her. “California!”