Authors: Rebecca Martin
The Treasure Hunt (10 page)
Soon the aroma of baking bread filled the kitchen. Every three minutes or so, Lydia wanted to open the oven door to check on her loaves, but Mother warned her not to. “You'd be letting too much heat out of the oven,” she explained.
At last the tops of the loaves were as brown as a ripe chestnut. “Are they done, Mother?” Lydia asked.
With her fingernail, Mother tapped one of the loaves. “Hear that hollow sound? That means they're baked through and through.”
A beaming Lydia used two hot pads to carry the loaves from the oven to the table. Suddenly the kitchen door opened, and Jake stuck his head inside. “Where's Joe?”
“Oh, out hunting I suppose,” Lydia said distractedly, bending down to get the third loaf from the oven.
“He's always hunting, and he doesn't often get anything,” Jake growled, barging across the kitchen.
Bam!
He bumped into Lydia.
“Oh, Jake!” she shouted as her precious loaf flew from her hands and landed with a thud on the floor. She dashed to retrieve it. The lovely brown crust was broken and bashed in.
“You should watch where you're going,” Jake snapped, heading back to the door. “Listen, I need someone to help chase the cattle. Who'll do it if Joe's gone?”
“I will,” Lisbet offered sweetly.
After the other two were gone, Lydia sat gazing at her ruined loaf. “It'll never look right again,” she mourned, trying to poke it back into shape.
“We can eat it anyway,” Mother said. “And look at your five nice loaves.”
Smiling, Lydia propped her chin on her hand. After a while she remarked, “Jake wasn't very nice. He's been like that ever since Father left, it seems.”
“I think he's a bit tense with all the responsibility that's on his shoulders,” Mother replied.
“I thought it's because he wishes he had gone threshing,” Lydia said.
“Well, maybe that too, not that I'm excusing him for his impolite behavior. Remember what Father always says: âEven though you may have a reason for behaving badly, that is still no excuse.' ”
Lydia nodded. She had needed to hear that quite a few times already!
T
he shotgun was always set on two pegs above the kitchen door. One morning, about a week after Father had left, Joe took down the gun and went outside. Though a bank of mist still hung over the creek, the fields were bathed in early morning sunlight.
“What?” exclaimed the thirteen-year-old under his breath. “Somebody's walking in our lane. Why, it'sâ” He turned on his heel and dashed back into the house. “Mother! Father's walking in the lane, and it looks like his arm is all bandaged up.”
Mother dropped her towel, Lisbet dropped her dishrag, Lydia dropped her broom, Joe carefully put down the shotgun, and just like that, all four of them were out the door.
Father's right arm was in a sling. He smiled when he saw all those family members spilling out of the house. He
looked very, very tired as he slumped down on the porch steps and said, “I guess you're surprised to see me.”
“You're hurt,” Mother said, touching the sling.
“Yes. I was careless. I should have watched myself better. I cut my hand while band-cutting on the thresher and had to get it stitched up.” He passed his free hand across his forehead. “Now there's a doctor's bill to pay. I should have been more careful.”
“Accidents can happen,” Mother said. “You should come in and lie down. Joe, please help Father on that side. I'll help him here.” Between them, Father staggered through the kitchen to the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed.
“How did you get home?” Joe asked, standing near the door.
“Took the night train. Walked to the doctor's. Waited until he came out here to see a patient.” Father sounded exhausted. His eyes were closed.
“You mean you got your hand stitched here in Wild Horse by Dr. Crawford?” Lisbet asked.
“No, no. There was a doctor in the town close by where we were threshing. The owner of the thresher paid the bill for me. Now I owe him.”
“Don't worry about that,” Mother said firmly. “You have to rest and get well. Would you like some breakfast before you sleep?”
Father opened his eyes briefly. “Breakfast sounds good. Let me seeâ¦I don't think I had supper last night either.”
The rest of them had eaten breakfast an hour ago, but in minutes Mother had fried two eggs and toasted a slice of bread. After arranging this on a platter with a glass of milk, she took Father's breakfast into the bedroom.
Lisbet looked around the kitchen in a dazed sort of way. “Now, what was I doing, anyway?”
“You were washing dishes. You dropped the dish rag here on this chair,” Lydia said, “and I was sweeping the kitchen.”
“Poor Father,” Lisbet said as she went on with the dishes. “I think he's in pain.”
“I hope it's not too bad,” said Lydia, picking up the broom.
Joe shouldered the shotgun once more. “I'll be off hunting now. Father would like squirrel for supper, I'm sure.”
He headed straight for the creek. Tucking the gun onto the lower branches of a tree, he brought out his pan and began swishing gravel. Panning for gold seemed more urgent than ever, now that Father's plan to make money had failed.
It's up to me
, Joe told himself, making the gravel fly.
If nobody else can make money for the family, then I have to.
Meanwhile, back home in the garden, Lydia was worrying as she helped Mother dig turnips. “I wonder why that had to happen to Father.” She let out a big sigh as she snipped the top off another turnip.
Mother's answer was practical and the same one she gave Father earlier. “Accidents happen.”
Lydia sat back on her heels. “But we hardly have enough money. Why would God let this happen?”
“Oh, Lydia,” said Mother with a shake of her head. “Things like this happen all the time. It's true, God could have prevented it, but the Bible says that God chastens those whom He loves. When trials come our way, we need to keep on being thankful for His love. If we trust Him, something good may come from this happening.”
Just a few days later, something good did come along. It was Saturday morning, and with a clatter of hoofs, John Miller rode up to the Yoders' door.
Spying him from inside the window, Father eased himself out of his chair. “It looks like John doesn't want to dismount. He must have a message that he's taking 'round the community.”
Lydia followed Father to the door. How surprised John looked when he saw Father! “I thought you were gone threshing,” he exclaimed.
Father touched his bandaged hand. “I was. Then this happened.”
“Ach, too bad. Arm broken?”
“No. I cut my hand. Needed stitches.”
“I see. Well, I'm glad you're home, and you will be too when you hear my news. There's to be church at our place
tomorrow. Preacher Aaron Mast arrived from Pennsylvania on the train this morning.”
Father's face lit up. “That is good news indeed. Jake could hitch up the team to bring us to church. Thanks for letting us know.”
“See you then.” John wheeled his horse around smartly and was off to let the next family know.
To think that I would have missed hearing a visiting minister if the accident hadn't happened,
Father thought as he marveled at how this all had happened.
On Sunday morning Aaron Mast stood at a spot in the Miller house where he could look out the window at Pikes Peak glistening blue and white on the horizon. “I am sure you must often think of the words in Psalm 121 as you look at the peak. âI will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the L
ORD
, which made heaven and earth.'
“On our way here on the train, I spoke with a man who said that this mountain seemed like a magnet during the days of the gold rush. From far across the prairies, the gold seekers used the peak to guide them to their destination.”
Aaron's gaze left the window and traveled over the congregation. “Dear brothers and sisters, we must not let our hearts be drawn by a lust for earthly treasure. What an
empty, hollow thing that is! There is something far better that should draw us like a magnet. In John 12:32 we read these words of Jesus: âAnd I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men unto me.' Yes, Christ was lifted up from the earth on the cross, and we must look to Him for our help. Yes, our very life!”
O
n Monday morning Joe's shotgun hung once more in the tree while he knelt at the water's edge with his pan. Joe pannedâunsuccessfully, as usualâuntil the sun had crept up toward the top of the sky. Then he grabbed the shotgun and set off upstream. Today he was lucky. He shot a partridge and a squirrel in less than half an hour.
Slinging the game over his shoulder, he headed downstream again until he caught sight of the door of the prospector's den.
Why not pop in and see if he's at home?
Joe thought, realizing he hadn't seen the old man for a while.
Knock, knock
. Joe waited. No sound from within. He knocked again. He was just about to turn away when he heard a weak voice say, “Come in.”
Joe frowned.
Is that Willie's voice? In a way it sounds like him, and yet it doesn't.
He pulled open the door and allowed the sunlight to spill into the shadowy little room.
The old man lay on the bed, a blanket drawn up partly over his face. Even from the doorway, Joe could see that Willie was shivering. “Is something wrong?” Joe asked, going over to the bed.
Willie's teeth chattered so badly that he could barely speak. “G-guess I h-have a c-cold or something. A b-bit f-feverish.”
Alarm shot through Joe. How thin Willie's face was! The skin was stretched like white paper over the cheekbones. “Have you been sick for a while already?”
“I d-don't know,” admitted Willie. “M-maybe a f-few days.”
Joe offered quickly, “Shall I go for help?”
Such a strange look came into Willie's faded eyes! It reminded Joe of the look he sometimes saw in a wild animal's eyes when it was cornered and couldn't escape.
“Oh, well, I d-don't know,” he stammered.
Joe made up his mind. “I'll go get Father, but before I go, shall I put this other blanket on you?”
Willie actually managed a smile of gratitude as Joe spread the green woolen blanket over him. Apparently he had been too sick to get it himself, even though it was at the foot of the bed.
Forgetting the game he'd shot, Joe loped across the grain stubble. He hoped Father would be able to go and
see Willie. Father had seemed quite well yesterday, but this morning he had been very tired again. “Seems it takes all my strength to heal this wound,” Father had remarked with a wan smile. It made Joe wonder just how bad that cut was underneath those bandages.
He found Father sitting at the kitchen table. “Willie's sick,” Joe announced. “Real sick. Looks like he hasn't been out of bed much for a few days.”
