Wanderville (7 page)

J
ack had never seen anyone get a fire going as quickly as this Alexander kid. Just a minute or two between match strike and a crackling little blaze.

“So where's all this food from?” Jack asked him.

“And why do you have it out here in the woods?” Frances added.

“Oh, I liberated a few things from Whitmore,” Alexander said matter-of-factly. “That's the town nearest here.”

Jack and Frances exchanged another look. They still couldn't make sense of all this.

“But where do
you
live?” Harold asked.

Alexander's grin got wider. “I'll explain after we eat. How'll some eggs taste?”

The campfire was suddenly Harold's new favorite thing. He kept circling it, tossing leaves on it, poking at the kindling with sticks. “We're like vagabonds! Tramps of the road!” he cried.

We
are
vagabonds
, Frances thought. But if Harold figured being homeless out in the countryside was more fun than being a little wanderer back in the slums, who was she to tell him otherwise?

“Take care you don't poke that fire out. We want to make sure the bacon and eggs cook,” she told Harold. Alexander had balanced a shallow tin milk pan on a ring of rocks in the fire pit, and the fresh eggs were bubbling away slowly in the bacon fat.

“Oh, believe me, Jack and I are watching them
very
carefully,” said Alexander.

Alexander set the pan on a short plank to keep their laps cool, and then they passed it around, tucking away hot mouthfuls of scrambled-eggs-and-bacon with a big spoon they all shared. Despite the odd arrangement, Frances thought it was one of the best breakfasts she'd ever had . . . even if she wasn't willing to admit it.

“I don't know how I was going to go through a whole rasher of bacon by myself,” Alexander said. “Good thing you folks decided to hop off that orphan train and come visit for a spell.”

Frances paused, holding the spoon in midair. Harold sucked in his breath.

Jack cleared his throat. “Who said anything about an orphan train?”

“As a matter of fact, we were traveling with our families in a wagon,” Frances declared. “A covered wagon! And we were tragically set upon by bandits and have been walking ever since.”

“Bandits, my eye,” Alexander said. “I can tell by the way you talk. You're Lower East Side scrappers. Straight from my old neighborhood.”

Frances and Jack looked at each other. There was no fooling this kid.

“And judging from where I've been and what I've seen,” Alexander continued, “you were right to escape from that train.”

“You mean, the rumors . . . ,” Jack started. “About the work farm . . . the hundred kids . . .”

“It's all true.”

“It's called the Pratcherd Ranch, and I was there,” Alexander told them as he washed the pan and spoon in the creek. The color in his face had seemed to drain as soon as he started talking about the work farm, and even now he was still a little pale. “Though it's not really a ranch, as there aren't cattle there. Or at least not any real cattle. The only herd they've got there are the farmhands—kids like us. You sleep in a bunkhouse, where the rain comes through the roof and the wind cuts through. Then they make you get up before dawn, and you work until dark. Digging up sugar beets.”

“They
keep
you
there at the ranch?” Jack asked. “Like a pack of mules?” He'd broken his poor neck running bundles for the shirt factory on Baxter Street, but at the end of the day, he'd had supper and his own bed and coins to spend. “How can they do that?”

“They claim the work is for our own good. That we're all low-life kids who ran in city gangs and that we need reforming. But all the Pratcherd family is doing is making themselves rich on our backs.”

“They're a family?” Harold asked. “You mean they have children of their own?”

“Just a son,” Alexander said. “Rutherford. He's about fourteen.”

“
Rutherford Pratcherd?
That's an awful name,” Frances said.

“Well,
he's
awful,” Alexander muttered. He finished drying the spoon with his shirttail and tossed it into the pan with a forceful
clang
. “And mean. If he thinks you're slacking off, he'll beat you to jelly.”

“So you ran away?” Jack asked. “How did you do it?”

“I stowed away on Mr. Pratcherd's buckboard wagon on a trip into town. I hid out in a load of potatoes and then crept out when he wasn't looking. Then I stayed in a livery barn in Whitmore for the night.”

“When did this happen?” Frances asked. “I mean, how . . . how long have you been out here all alone?”

“That was almost two months ago,” Alexander replied. “After that, I slept in chicken sheds, storm cellars, and corncribs.” He nodded proudly, but he also sank down into his shoulders a bit, as if he were remembering the cold. “But then I found this place, and I'm not going back.”

“The only place I'd ever go back to is New York,” Jack said. “Wasn't easy there, but at least it's what I know. . . .”

Alexander looked at Frances and Harold. “What about you?” he asked them.

“I just want a home,” Harold said in a small voice. “For me and my sister.”

They were all quiet for a moment, with only the sound of the creek nearby.

“Well,” said Alexander, “I know where you can find a home.”

“Really?” Harold asked.

“It's a place run by kids. Nobody telling them what to do. Nobody getting in their way. No grown folks,” Alexander continued. “After all, have adults done anything good for you?”

Harold shook his head.

“Jack? Frances? Do you trust anyone who isn't our age?”

“Not really,” Jack admitted. He thought about working days on the sidewalks in the city, all those grim-faced people in black and gray coats who wouldn't step aside for anyone, not even for a boy carrying a load on his back. When he'd get home, he wouldn't even make it up the dim stairwell with his wages sometimes, not if he passed his father on his way out for the night.

“Not at all,” Frances said. Any time grown people made a decision in her life, all that followed was trouble and turmoil. And half the time they probably didn't even stop to think when they were deciding something for her and Harold. Or at least Aunt Mare hadn't when she left.

“Then it's settled,” Alexander said. “You're all joining me in Wanderville!”

Harold was mystified.
“Where?”

“Wanderville is a town,” Alexander said. “A town most folks can't get to, and where they can't get to
us.
And it's right here.”

“Here,” Frances repeated.

“There's the fountain,” he said, gesturing over toward the creek. “And over there's the hotel and the mercantile. The main square is right here, but of course you've already seen that. You can see it, right?”

Jack and Frances and Harold looked all around, confused. There weren't any buildings at all—not in the wooded ravine, and not in the distance, either. All he was pointing to were trees, a clearing, and an old barrel.

“If you don't see it yet,” said Alexander, “just walk around.”

“Sure thing,” Jack said.

Frances motioned to him and Harold. “Come on, let's go see the hotel,” she said.
“Now.”
She took her little brother's arm and hurried over to the farthest trees, while Jack followed. Finally she stopped and brought her voice down to a whisper.

“I think it's time for us to get out of here,” she said.

“What do you mean?” Jack whispered back.

“I mean, haven't you noticed this kid is bughouse crazy?” Frances insisted. “There's
nothing here
!”

F
or a moment, all Jack and Harold could do was stare at Frances.

“Someone had to say it,” Frances said. “Alexander's out of his mind.”

“Well,” Jack finally said, a little sheepishly, “this Wanderville business
does
seem a little peculiar.”

“Alexander's seeing things that aren't there!” Frances shot back. “Clearly he's touched in the head. Also, he wants to start his own town. He's about twelve years old, he's got nothing but a barrel and a suitcase full of eggs, and he wants to start his own
town
.”

Jack shrugged. “I don't know. I think he's been through a lot. After the hardship he's seen, anyone would be a little . . . different. But he seems like he's doing his best to survive.”

Then Harold spoke up. “I like Alezzander. He's nice, and I want to stay in Wanderville.”

“It's not a real town,” Frances told him.

“The
food's
real,” Harold said.

“Harold's got a point,” Jack said. Before meeting Alexander, he hadn't known how he was going to make sure that Frances and Harold had enough to eat—or really, how they'd find food at all. “Did you see that suitcase? I noticed a sack of flour stowed in that barrel, too. He's been here for a while, through cold weather, even, and he's faring pretty well.”

Frances shook her head. “We should make our way to an actual town and hide out there. I don't know what we're doing out here in the middle of the wilderness.”

“But that's just it.
Alexander
knows what he's doing out here in the middle of the wilderness,” Jack pointed out, surprising himself by sticking up for him. Something about what Alexander had said had gotten under his skin. “Why don't we stick around for a few days and see how it goes?”

Frances drew her mouth into a tight line. “I just don't know.”

“Please?” begged Harold. “Think of how good breakfast will be tomorrow.”

“Fine,” she said at last. “We'll stick around.” Jack could tell that she still wasn't sure, but from the way she was looking at her brother, it was clear that she was glad to see the joy on Harold's face.

Frances walked back toward the creek, where Alexander was busy covering up the valise with leaves. He looked up expectantly.

“All right,” she told him. “We'll stay. But you'll have to show us everything you know about how to survive out here in the sticks of Kansas. How to build a fire, find food, stay warm—everything we need to keep living on our own. Because . . .” She paused, trying to find the words.

“Because you don't want to go back on an orphan train,” Alexander finished.

Frances glanced over at Harold, who nodded.
And because at least if we're here, we're together
, she thought.

“Right,” she said. “We're not going back.”

Alexander grinned. “Of course I'll teach you how to survive! Surviving is my specialty.”

“Then it's a deal,” Jack said.

“Deal,” Alexander said. “And congratulations.”

“Congratulations on what?” Harold asked.

“On being the first citizens of Wanderville.”