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“What's going on?” I yawned under the gray-pink sky, watching Fedora kick the tires on Autry's truck, checking that everything looked safe and sound and up to snuff.

“Uncle Autry's leaving,” she said.

“Only for the day!” Autry called from behind the stack of charts and papers and photographs of butterflies he was busy loading into the truck.

“There are people who've heard about the butterflies and want to give Uncle Autry money to save the conservatory!” Gypsy clapped her hands, the only one besides Rocket who didn't look ready to crawl back into bed. “But—”

“But only if I'll consider opening the place up,” Autry finished for her, coming around the side of the truck to stand with the rest of us.

Marisol and Mesquite both woke up at that.

“Like some kind of zoo?” Mesquite asked, uncertain.

“You want to let total strangers into the conservatory, Papi?” Marisol chimed in. “Little kids with lollipops and grown-ups with great big clumsy feet?”

“I don't know yet!” Autry answered. “I have to go to Cheyenne for a meeting today. To show off the results from the work I've done. To prove we've got honest-to-goodness Alexandras here, surviving and thriving.

“This could be it, girls!” He grinned at the twins. “This could be what saves this place! And people would learn something coming here, no matter how big or small their feet might be. No one can look at a Queen Alexandra's Birdwing and not be changed! I suppose we might have to think about relocating some of the bigger spiders . . .” Autry scratched his head.

I stood back and watched as Marisol and Mesquite hugged their dad good-bye. Then Autry turned and ruffled Gypsy's hair.

“You're in charge of the butterflies today, okay, Gypsy? Rocket's in charge of everything else.”

Rocket nodded. Gypsy gave a barefoot, twirling salute, before adding, “I'll watch over them, no matter what!” The enormous butterflies were a big success for Uncle Autry. He hadn't lost a single one.

Before leaving, Autry turned last to me and Fedora.

“Whatever you two do, if your mother phones, don't tell her I'm in Cheyenne. She'll tan my hide. Besides, I'll be back tonight. I think I've convinced your folks that they don't have to come for you right away. But if Dinah calls and finds out I'm not around to keep you out of trouble, she'll savvy-talk the Indiana Air National Guard into flying her here in a fighter jet.”

Fedora and I both nodded as Uncle Autry climbed into his truck. Autry hadn't warned me again to stay away from Mr. Cabot. He hadn't said two words about Sheriff Brown. In the end, it was my mom who worried my uncle most. Thinking about it almost made me laugh.

“Ho, Ledger!” Autry had already begun to pull away when he stopped the truck and called to me from his open window. I jogged toward the idling truck and looked up, wondering if he was going to add to my list of punishments for breaking into the CAD Co. building. But my uncle had something else on his mind.

“Be a sport, Ledge, and don't tell the others what I said about the Eva Mae story, all right? The girls have been working too hard these past weeks looking for her treasure.”

“Treasure?” I repeated, my mouth hanging open. That was what Marisol and Mesquite had been doing with Fedora all this time? Digging for
buried treasure
? It explained everything: the dirt, the shovels, the need for extra doses of good-karma luck.

Autry winced. “The girls don't think I know what they've been up to. Let's not spoil their fun, all right? Sometimes the searching is the best part of any quest. Oh, and I almost forgot,” Autry called over the sound of the truck's engine. “I've got something for you.” He shuffled through a bag next to him. It was from Willie's Five & Dime.

“Something for me?” I asked, surprised. I'd expected chores, not presents.

Autry handed me a heavy bar of novelty soap, marked down for quick clearance. On the wrapper, the Sundance Kid sat behind bars, the words
You're in Sundance Now
—
Keep Your Nose Clean
printed just below the picture.

“You bought me soap?”

“Do us all a favor, Ledge, and take a real shower for a change? Eva Mae Ransom may have bumped and tumbled down the Big Muddy for a good long time, but she probably didn't know the magic of hot water and indoor plumbing the way we do.” Autry winked, then hit the gas, disappearing over the ridge, followed by jet streams of dartling, flittering, flying things.

I ran a hand through my grimy hair, realizing that, for the first time in my life, it had grown long enough to touch the tops of my ears. Looking at the soap, I lifted my shirt to my nose and took a whiff—I didn't smell that bad, did I? I considered giving the bar of soap to Samson to help him stick his shadow to something a bit more solid, but in the end, I went back up to Rocket's house and made the choice to take a shower.

T
HAT AFTERNOON, AS GYPSY WATCHED THE butterflies, Samson watched Grandpa, and Fedora and the twins continued their going-nowhere treasure hunt, Winona, Rocket, and I put the last spit and polish on the Knucklehead. Headlamp to harness—the bike was done.

We were all sitting back, admiring our work, staring happily at the awesome bike and at Winona's gleaming, scrap-yard jackalope, when Winona let out a sudden, noisy whoop.

“Unless I'm wrong, I think we've still got time, boys!” In an instant she was up, grabbing a calendar and digging through a stack of papers on Gus's desk. “I can't believe it! We do!” Winona looked at a clock on the wall. Rocket and I looked at each other, clueless.

Winona explained, rapid-fire: “The motorcycle show in Spearfish! The one with the big, fat prize that Gus and I planned to enter. It's this weekend! Today's the last day to register. The last day to deliver this baby for the show.” She leaned over and kissed the bike's handlebars, then polished them back to perfection with her rag.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” said Rocket. “Let's get this Knuck in the truck!” He clapped his hands together, showering harmless sparks.

Rocket went pale. But Winona hardly paused before she pointed at Rocket and said, “Okay,
that's
something you're going to have to explain to me a little later. In fact, I think you both have some explaining to do.” She cocked one eyebrow at me. “I've been out in the yard. I want to know what's going on. Only later! Right now, we've got a motorcycle show to enter.”

 

“Won't Autry get mad if he finds out we went to South Dakota?” I asked Rocket as Winona gathered what we needed to get the bike to Spearfish. “He did leave you in charge of the ranch.”

“When did you start worrying about what will or won't make Autry angry, Ledger? This morning after breakfast?” Rocket gripped the back of my neck and gave me a joggle. “Because I know you weren't trying to throw him a party when you were breaking into Cabot's place with Sarah Jane.”

I swallowed hard. “He told you?”

“He told me,” Rocket answered. “But he also told me that you were trying to help. So, I get that. Still . . . dude. Stupid.” He let go of my neck and knocked his knuckles into mine. And since I didn't get electrocuted, I guessed I'd been forgiven.

Rocket squared his shoulders. “As the adult in charge today, I'm giving us permission to drive to South Dakota,” he declared. “Spearfish isn't far, Ledge; it's not like we're traveling to a galaxy far, far away. And Autry's been harping on me for years to get
off
the ranch more often. We won't be gone more than two hours. Besides, it's not like there isn't another adult at the Flying Cattleheart . . . Grandpa Bomba's there.”

I gave Rocket a dubious look. I was pretty sure Grandpa's waltz by the river had been his last dance. If something did go wrong at the ranch—flood, fire, or fruit fly rebellion—Grandpa Bomba would probably snore right through it, the same as he'd done through my story about Grandma's jar.

Soon the Knucklehead was secure in the bed of the truck, held upright in a web of tightened ratchet straps, the three of us jammed together up front. As we drove through Sundance, headed toward Spearfish, I couldn't keep from leaning out the window, craning my neck to look behind us. I wasn't staring at the golden bike. Instead, I was looking toward the house on the hill, picturing Sarah Jane locked in her room, still totally unaware that she had a savvy of her own.

“Ha! Some people will believe anything.” Winona laughed next to me.

“Huh?” I grunted, pulling my head back inside the truck. Winona pointed at the car in front of us. Its rear bumper, still attached, was plastered in stickers:

I smiled, thinking of
The Sundance Scuttlebutt
and all of SJ's crazy stories. Then my stomach lurched as I was struck by a sudden thought . . .

If my parents arrived to take me and Fedora home as soon as Mom had said they would, I might not get to see Sarah Jane again. My palms itched. My knee hammered up and down even as I tried to get my head and shoulders out the window, straining to see SJ's house again. I couldn't leave Sundance without seeing Sarah Jane. She knew the truth about me. Now she needed to know the truth about herself.

“Hey, Ledge! You doing okay?” Rocket asked, his voice vibrating as he held tight to the shuddering steering wheel. Winona dragged down on my T-shirt.

“What're you trying to do, Ledge? Get your head taken off?”

“Stop!” I bellowed, reaching for the door handle. “You've got to let me out! You two take the bike to Spearfish without me. You have to get it there before it's too late. I've got to stay here—there's something I have to do.”

“Whoa, Ledge, slow down!” Rocket pulled the truck over as quick as he could to keep me from jumping out while it was still moving—and to stop my distress from undoing all our work on the bike in one cataclysmic savvy blow.

“Just get the bike to Spearfish!” I said, leaping from the truck. “Get it there so it can win that money. You can't let Mr. Cabot have the salvage yard!”

 

The Cabots' housekeeper was outside when I got there, sweeping a single spot on the front porch over and over as she stood engrossed in the colorful supermarket tabloid she held up in front of her broom.

Even from across the street, I could hear Sarah Jane throwing a pitching, screaming fit inside. She wasn't just crying. She wasn't just yelling. Sarah Jane was
breaking
things. It sounded like she was hurling objects—large and small—against the locked door of her room.

Hedda the Horrible didn't even flinch.

Something bad was happening. Something
really
bad. There was no outward sign that Mr. Cabot might be home: no Lincoln parked in front of the house, no CAD Co. truck either.

Ignoring SJ's tantrum, Hedda turned a page of her tabloid. I watched her carefully from where I lurked in the bushes, impatient for an opportunity to slip by her. The ladder I'd built was gone. All the fence posts hauled away. Getting to SJ would require that direct approach I'd thought of the last time I was here
—through the door, up the stairs, blast the lock!

I was no longer worrying about telling SJ who she really was. All I wanted now was to know what was wrong with my friend.

The telephone rang inside the house and Hedda moved swiftly through the screen door to answer. I crossed the street in four strides, the stump-filled yard in three, pausing just long enough to kick off my sneakers at the door.

Ignoring the smell of my socks, I was through the door and up the creaking, groaning stairs in seconds.

An old-fashioned keyhole lock . . .
WHAM!

A brass knob . . .
BAM!

A heavy-hinged door . . .
SLAM!

That was what I
could've
done. It was what I
had
done at the CAD Co. building. Only, that hadn't felt so great.

Instead, thinking fast, I scrabbled in my pocket, yanking the wire spiral out of SJ's notebook, as well as the corkscrewed wheel spoke from the Knucklehead. It took a few tries: a twist here, a bend there, a hook, a crook, a prayer . . . then
CLICK!

I'd made a fretwork-and-filigree skeleton key and fitted it to the lock.

I opened the door and ducked fast, dodging the alarm clock Sarah Jane had just sent flying. Glancing at the scattered gears and bells and cogs, I grinned.

“Hey! You've got your own mad skills. Stop copying mine!”

“Ledge! It's you!” She was across the room and hugging me before I knew what hit me, squeezing me to death in the doorway to her disaster of a room. SJ had pulled apart her bed, her desk, and her bookshelves too. Broken stuff lay everywhere. Though, the two Captain Marvel comics I'd given her rested in mint condition on her nightstand. At least she hadn't torn The Big Red Cheese to shreds.