On Track for Treasure (17 page)

E
VERY STEP HAS ITS OWN PRESIDENT

“W
e've already got the first clue,” Frances said, pointing to the cobbler shop sign across the street from the depot—the big wooden boot that hung over the shop door. “‘You'll have your boot on in the right direction,'” she read out loud.

Jack nodded. “So we'll go that way?” he asked, pointing east, where the boot's toe was facing. Seemed simple enough, he thought. Maybe too simple.

“Yes,” Frances said. “But it's this next one that has me stumped: ‘Cross an Indian, a saint, and one of our founding fathers.'”

“Huh,” Alexander muttered as they headed down the street to a corner where the storefronts ended and the houses began. They stood there a moment, glancing around.

Then Jack looked over at the street name, which was painted on the side of a post:
HIAWATHA
.

“I got it! It means cross Hiawatha Street!” he exclaimed. “An Indian!”

“I think you're right!” Frances said, as they all ran across the street. “What's this next street? A saint's name?”

Sure enough, the street post said
ST
.
LOUIS
, and they kept going. The street after that was
FRANKLIN
.

“A founding father,” Alexander pointed out.

Frances looked down at her book. “Now I think we turn right. But then it says, ‘Just keep going until you get mush.' What does
that
mean?”

“Let's keep going and find out,” Eli said.

They all walked three blocks, then four, until they found themselves near the far edge of town.
What if there's nothing here?
Jack wondered. The street had only a row of deserted-looking brick warehouses.

Then Harold yelled, “I see it! Look up!”

They all looked up at the side of one of the warehouses, where painted in fading colors on the brick was an advertisement:

EAT

M
C
CANN'S

MUSH

OAT CEREAL 3 FLAVORS

“MUSH!”
they all shouted joyfully. It was the best billboard Jack had ever seen for a food he didn't want to try in the slightest.

From there, it wasn't too hard to find the “house with blue eyes that are always shut and has broken teeth.” Frances was right that the “blue eyes” were painted shutters; the “broken teeth” were missing rail posts on the front porch.

They went to the edge of the woods, where the space between two big trees seemed to form a sort of doorway.

“‘Then count steps,'” Frances read aloud. “‘Every step has its own president.'”

Jack took one step, which got him just past the trees. “George Washington,” he said. What was the second step? “Thomas Jefferson?”

Frances shook her head. “John Adams.
Then
Jefferson.”

She led the step-counting through the woods. “Madison, Monroe . . .” But once she got as far as Lincoln, she hesitated.

“Johnson,” Eli said, taking a step. “Grant. Hayes, Garfield, Arthur . . .” He made four more steps.

“I thought you said you stopped going to school!” Jack said.

Eli shrugged. “Just 'cause I can't read so good doesn't mean I can't memorize a bunch of presidents,” he said. “Drat! Now I lost my place. Where was I?”

“I see it!” Frances shrieked. “‘Once you get to Harrison, check the ground, and you should be on the right track.'”

“What do you see?” Jack said, scanning the dirt and twigs beneath his feet.

And then he saw it, too—steel railroad tracks! A single railroad spur that went through the woods.

They looked to the right and realized the tracks led to a tiny shed of gray weathered wood that blended in so well with the forest surroundings that they hadn't noticed it until now.

The door wasn't locked, and despite the rusty hinges, it opened quite easily.

“There's a note!” Alexander cried, picking it up.

Dear Orphans
, it read, in surprisingly elegant script.

Ned Handsome here. Was just passing through and thought I'd make sure that my treasure is still in good working order. These here train tracks are a side road that you can take west halfway to Oklahoma from here. Hope you got strong arms.

Sincerely, A 1 (5¢) Ned Handsome

PS Tin Whistle and Enzo send their regards.

“Wow,” Frances said.

Jack breathed a sigh of relief. “Quentin and Lorenzo—they're all right, wherever they are.”

“They're in good company,” Alexander agreed. “But now . . . what's in the shed?”

Jack was dying to know, too. He opened the door wider, and the sunlight hit a set of iron handles. Two handles, actually—one at either end of a long arm that was perched on top of a wheeled contraption.

“What is it?” Jack wondered.

“A handcar!” Harold shouted. “I once saw one in a book!”

Frances nodded. “I read you that book!”

“I've heard of these handcar contraptions,” Alexander said, stepping inside the shed to get closer. A wooden platform stood atop the wheels, and Alexander climbed up. “It's a little car that moves on train tracks.”

Jack jumped up next to Alexander, amazed, followed by Frances and Harold. “How does it work?”

Harold reached up. “You pump the handles up and down! You take turns, like a seesaw!” He pulled down one handle. Then Jack reached out and pulled down the opposite handle.
Up, down
, the long arm went, and the handcar started to move.

“Whoa!” Frances exclaimed. “Eli, jump on!”

The five of them stood on the platform, and Jack and Alexander manned the two handles and began to work the pumping mechanism.

“We've got to make sure we're both strong enough,” Alexander said. “But also that we don't overpower each other. Got it?”

“No problem,” Jack said, and he meant it.

“We can help, too, you know,” Frances said, putting her hands on the handle on Jack's side. Eli did the same on Alexander's, and Harold just held on in the middle.

The car lurched at first and moved slowly, with a few sharp squeaks from the wheels. But then it began to go more smoothly and pick up speed.

Frances and Harold were laughing and whooping in the new breeze of the handcar's motion. Alexander and Eli were on the side facing backward, so they couldn't see the road in front of them. But they grinned together, side by side, and Jack realized how lucky he was to have all of them as friends.

“You're the one facing forward, Jack,” Alexander asked. “Are we going in the right direction?”

Jack could see the afternoon sun ahead of him, right behind his friends.

“We sure are,” he said. “We're going west.”

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

M
any, many thanks to my amazing editor, Gillian Levinson, as well as the rest of the team at Razorbill: Ben Schrank, Christine Ma, and Theresa Evangelista. I'm grateful as well for the wonderful folks at Penguin, including Kathryn Bhirud, Scottie Bowditch, Sheila Hennessey, and Geoffrey Kloske, and for my agent, Sarah Burnes, for all they've done to support the Wanderville books. And thank you, Erwin Madrid, for bringing Jack, Frances, Harold, and Alexander to life!

To my family and friends—my husband, Chris, Michael Taeckens, Jami Attenberg, and the Gorgeous Ladies of Writing, thank you, too. And a great big trainload of thank-yous to all the terrific kids, teachers, librarians, parents, and booksellers that I've met since book 1 was published, whose comments, questions, and enthusiasm continue to inspire me.