Secret Signs (6 page)

His mouth felt as dry as the dust under his feet. Henry smiled. First chance he got, he'd write and tell Anne how he almost died of thirst in the great Canadian desert and how buzzards were circling, waiting
for him to drop. That was a story worthy of Tom Sawyer, for sure.

As he trudged beside Clickety Clack, Henry looked around at the parched fields and stunted grass. “What a horrible chunk of dried-out dirt. Why would anyone want to live in this dustbowl?”

Clickety Clack stopped dead in his tracks. “You listen to me, boy. I don't want to hear you talk like that again. This land is our friend and you don't kick a friend when he's down. It's years of drought that have ruined this place. All it needs to get back on its feet is water. Water is the key, boy. When the rains come—” he swept his arm as though gathering the entire prairie to him “—it will be home to herds of wildlife and flocks of birds, and it will be the finest place on earth to raise a family. This land will grow grain and crops enough to feed the world.”

Feeling thoroughly chastised, Henry looked at the countryside again, this time with fresh eyes, imagining this
burnt-out land covered with lush green crops and filled with life.

In the vast stillness, he breathed in the clean sweet air and heard the haunting call of a hawk overhead. It was as if the land was holding its breath until the rains came back and it was transformed into the answer to every farmer's prayer.

“I never thought of it like that before.” He gave the old hobo a sidelong glance. “Back there, when I was rude to you, I was, well, out of line.”

Clickety Clack grunted and started ambling down the road again.

As they walked, the late afternoon gold in the sky turned to a fiery red that finally faded to deepest mauve.

When Henry was so tired he didn't think he could take another step, Clickety Clack stopped and rubbed his hands together.

“That's exactly what I was hoping for!” he exclaimed with a chuckle.

Henry glanced around. “I don't see anything.”

“No, I don't suppose you would.” Clickety
Clack folded his arms across his tattered coat. “Tell me what you do see.”

Henry peered around him. “Well, empty fields mostly, a dry streambed, a rail fence and a gate with a post on either side. Other than that, not a heck of a lot.”

Clickety Clack shook his head. “Young whippersnappers! Don't use the eyes God gave them. See that?” He nodded at the post nearest them.

“Yeah, so, it's a worn-out gatepost…” Henry wondered what the tramp was getting at. Maybe the heat had melted the old coot's brain. Then he saw it. “Wait a minute… that's a hobo sign!”

Henry examined the symbol on the gate, then took out his journal and jotted it down. “I've got a list of these, but this one's new to me.” It was four straight lines stacked one over the other.

“Well, it's not new to me. That, my boy, is our dinner.” Clickety Clack was in high spirits now. “Say, I thought you knew about the code.”

“I do, sort of. Back home I'd see these drawings on fences and I'd note them in my journal. My pa said it was the hobo code for travelers.”

Clickety Clack nodded. “So it is, boy. It's a secret language only we knights of the road can decipher. This particular symbol means a housewife will feed you for doing chores. Come on, lad, we're about to sing for our supper.” He pulled out a battered pocket watch and glanced at it. “And I'd say our timing is about perfect.” With that, Clickety Clack began whistling as he strolled up the long driveway to the farmhouse.

Once they got to the house, Henry started up the front steps, but Clickety Clack stopped him. “No, no, lad. We're humble travelers, down on our luck. We go to the back door—” he winked at Henry “—which is usually the one closest to the kitchen!”

They made their way to the back of the house, where Clickety Clack removed his hat, smoothed back his straggly hair,
dusted off his pants and straightened his vest. Just before rapping on the door, he spat out his plug of tobacco. A large woman wearing a faded apron answered the knock.

“Excuse me, madam,” he began in a soft voice, “but my grandson and I were stranded today and we're wondering if you have any chores that need doing in exchange for a bite of sup?”

The woman frowned at Clickety Clack, and Henry thought she was going to tell them to scram, when her gaze fell on him. He tried to look forlorn and starving, which wasn't at all hard to do.

“Well now, I could use some kindling split. You two gentlemen,” she smiled sweetly at Henry, “can chop some wood while I fix you a nice supper. My family and I finished eating not five minutes ago, and we have lots of leftovers.”

“We'd be happy to help out, ma'am.” Clickety Clack smiled winningly at the woman and headed for the woodpile with Henry in tow. When they got to the
stacked rounds, Henry plunked down on a fat stump and prepared to watch Clickety Clack.

“I think you have mistakenly taken my seat, boy.” Clickety Clack looked at him indignantly.

Henry raised his eyebrows, first at the old hobo, then at the big pile of logs. “You're kidding. I've never split wood in my life!”

“Then it's about time you learned.” Clickety Clack shooed him off the stump as he stuck a fresh plug of tobacco in his mouth. “It's a simple thing, boy. You pick up the axe and turn that big hunk of timber over there into little sticks of kindling, preferably without chopping off your own foot in the process. Keep a-going until I tell you to stop.”

Taking a deep breath, Henry picked up the heavy axe.

Clickety Clack looked around as Henry set to work. “It looks like these here folks are some of the lucky ones.” He nodded toward a small lean-to. “See that forge?
I'd say this fellow is a blacksmith. More folks are using horses these days, and horses always need horseshoes. He's probably kept mighty busy and no doubt charges a pretty penny for his services.”

By the time Henry had chopped a respectable pile of kindling, the sun had disappeared, his arms ached and his back was on fire.

“That seems about right.” Clickety Clack rose to his feet. “Now for our pay.”

They walked to the house, where the ancient traveler knocked politely. He was wiping his brow with a red handkerchief when the woman opened the screen door.

She glanced at the kindling and smiled, then handed them two heaping plates of food. “You hard-working gents can sit under that tree by the toolshed, and I'll bring you a pitcher of cold lemonade.”

Henry felt giddy when she mentioned the lemonade. He was more than thirsty; he was parched down to the soles of his dusty boots.

Clickety Clack tucked the handkerchief away with a flourish, then stretched out his back. “Thank you, ma'am. A cold drink would go down nicely after that strenuous workout.”

“Oh, dear!” The farmwife looked alarmed. “You shouldn't have chopped so much in this heat! Maybe there are a couple of slices of rhubarb pie left. I'll bring those along too.”

Clickety Clack smiled as they headed to the tree.

That night the old hobo let Henry use one of his coats for a bedroll. “You're a bit soft to sleep rough” was all he said as he handed the coat over.

“Much obliged,” Henry replied, realizing he meant it. As he lay on his back, staring up at the night sky, Henry marveled at the millions of tiny lights strewn across the vast black velvet curtain overhead.

This was not how he'd imagined today would go, but then he remembered how the hobo signs had led them to a delicious meal. Now that was something!

They were up early the next morning, and Henry felt much better about his adventure. Just like Tom and Huck, he was making his way in the wide world. Okay, he needed a little help from Clickety Clack, but he was going to find his father in Alberta! By now his mother must have read his note. He didn't want to worry her, but a life riding the rails beat one on a boat any day. And as for Anne, why, he'd write her a long letter just as soon as he had a quiet hour or two. The exciting tale of his adventures would be told for years to come, of that he was certain. He'd stay with his pa in Calgary and work on the
dam, make some real money and see the whole wide world.

Henry and the old tramp continued down the long road, their shoes kicking up puffs of powder-fine dust.

“Are you sure this is the way to Regina?” Henry asked after they had been walking several hours.

“All roads lead to Rome,” Clickety Clack said cryptically. “In these parts, you end up in Regina whether you want to or not. It's the capital, you know.”

Henry shot him a dark look. “I'm not dumb.”

“Then stop acting like it. I know where we're going. That's what you hired me for.” The old hobo stuck a chaw in his mouth and ambled on.

They continued their trek, the searing heat from the sun beating down mercilessly on their heads. For the hundredth time, Henry wiped his brow and wished he had a hat.

As evening drew in, Clickety Clack appeared to be searching for something.
“Keep your eyes peeled for a tall gate with a carving of a wooden fish for a latch. My memory ain't what it used to be, but I'd swear the Fergusons' spread is right along this road.”

Henry was tired and hungry but did as he was told. Then he spotted it. “Over there, in the trees.”

Clickety Clack spat out a gob of juice. “That's the ticket, boy. This is where we'll bunk for the night.” He started walking toward the gate, then stopped and rubbed the dust off the side of a stump near the fence. “You can add this to your dictionary of secret signs if you don't already have it.”

Henry leaned over and saw a drawing that was a curved line like a smile with two small circles above it. “What's it mean?”

“It means we won't wake up with dew on our faces.” Clickety Clack chuckled. “It's safe to sleep in the barn! We'll be resting on a bed of soft hay tonight, boy.”

They made their way to the old barn, and when they went inside, sure enough,
there was a bucket of fresh water on a table and, beside it, a box of beef jerky and biscuits.

“How did these folks know we were coming?” Henry hungrily bit off a piece of the jerky.

“Oh, they didn't. All of us on the road know the Fergusons' place. These kind folks leave provisions in case a couple of travelers drop by for the night. They're mighty nice. They've got a boy, Johnny, about your age. He's a good lad.”

While they were eating the delicious food, Henry scratched the newest sign into his journal. “This is a good one to know. It's nice in here.” He looked around approvingly at the snug barn.

Clickety Clack harrumphed, then reached over and took Henry's journal and pencil from him. He quickly sketched another of the signs and wrote something beside it, then handed it back to Henry. “This is an important one to know.”

Henry read the words beside the symbol, two sets of circles arranged over each
other. “Generous people.” He smiled at Clickety Clack as he bit into his fourth biscuit. “I can't argue with that.”

Although he was tired, sleep eluded Henry that night and he tossed and turned for a long time. Finally he propped himself up on one elbow. “Pssst! Are you asleep, Clickety Clack?”

“I was until a second ago,” the old hobo growled.

“You must have been riding the rods for quite a spell,” said Henry.

Clickety Clack sighed. “Since I was about your age, and that was a long time ago.” His voice sounded sad and Henry wondered why. This life was full of excitement and strange new places. He loved it.

Clickety Clack put his arms behind his head. “It was a cold spring when my ma died. My pa had lit out years before, and her death left me alone. An old gent passing through helped me bury my mother. Then, since there was nothing to hold me, I left with him. That was the
start of my life on the road. I've been from one side of this country to the other more times than I can count.”

“Do you ever get lonely?” Henry asked.

“I've spent a month moseying around the Yukon, where I hardly saw a soul, and never felt lonely. I've also been in jam-packed cities and discovered that sometimes the loneliest place in the world is smack in the middle of a crowd. City folks bump into an old hobo like me on the street and pretend they don't see me. At least out here, everyone's in the same boat and we try to help each other as best we can.”

Henry thought about life on the road. He had to admit it was a tiny bit lonely, but it was still better than being on a fishing boat. “How did you get the name Clickety Clack?” he asked.

The tramp laughed heartily. “Why, on the road, everyone's got a special name, boy. Usually other fellas give it to you because of something different about you or a special talent you have. I was fourteen
when I got christened Clickety Clack. I was hopping a freight out of Vancouver, and that old steam engine was picking up speed. I caught sight of three big railway bulls hot on my heels and knew if I missed that train I was in trouble. By golly, I took two steps, jumped for my life and bingo! I was into that boxcar just like that.” He snapped his grimy fingers. “The other guys in the car said I went from standing still to landing in that car in the time it takes the big engine wheels to go around once—clickety-clack. The name stuck.”