Wanderville (14 page)

F
rances knelt at the creek bank and splashed her face. She winced at the icy cold of the water, but she reached in and doused her face again and again.

It was the third morning since Jack and Alexander had stowed away in the black wagon, and they hadn't come back with Harold. When there had been no sign of them at all by the end of the second day, Frances's thoughts began to run as fast as the creek rapids she listened to for hours at a time. Had the sheriff caught them on their way back from the ranch? If he had, then the law would have probably come looking for her, too. No, the boys must still be at the Pratcherds'.

It was time for Frances's plan, the one that had come to mind her first night alone in Wanderville. It was almost as if Aunt Mare herself had told her what to do.
Remember how it was on Hester Street?

She splashed her face once more. The cold water was a ritual she'd performed almost as long as she could wash her own face. It hadn't been by choice at first, but by the time she got to the Children's Home, where hot water ran from the taps, she stuck by it. For sure it smarted sometimes, but that was just the lesson she taught herself every day—to do something hard, something that hurt a little, just for practice. And there were days when the practice sure came in handy.

Frances did one thing different today, though. After the cold water, she picked up a handful of dirt and threw that on her face, too.

On Front Street in Whitmore, she was careful not to walk past the mercantile lest she be recognized as a thief. Frances crossed to the other side of the street instead, looking all around as she went. It was near noon and the people of Whitmore were setting out on midday errands.

She studied the storefronts, trying to decide where she'd take
her
business. Obviously the mercantile was out of the question. The bakery? There were several women inside, but would they just take her for a beggar? She turned to check her reflection in the bank window: Her face was grimy, her hair matted, her skirt hem muddy and damp. Aunt Mare would've told her she looked just like Brooklyn Molly, who was famous down on Hester Street for singing the most sorrowful songs to draw a crowd on the sidewalk—a crowd of fellows whose pockets were ripe for picking. Well, Frances wouldn't be doing
that
,
but she was taking a page from Molly's book just the same.

She turned back to scanning the street. She didn't want to risk the post office, because that was where they posted handbills about criminals, and Frances was one, sort of. Then again, it was where the most people were gathered at the moment, probably waiting for the mail delivery that had come on the train to be sorted. She steeled herself. The post office, then; that's where she would go.

Frances started to walk, and then her walk turned into a run. She stopped only to open the post office door, and then she hurtled inside. Nearly a dozen faces turned in her direction. Grown-ups, buttoned-up folks with proper hats and coats.

“Will someone tell me where I can find Sheriff Routh?” she called out. “My brother . . . I think he's dead!”

The office went silent, save for a few whispers.

Frances took a deep breath before she went on. She'd had a bit of a knack getting people to listen to a sad story back in New York, but this was her most captive audience yet.

“I . . . I worked at the Pratcherd Ranch,” she lied. “With all the other orphans. But I ran away because . . . because it's a cruel place.”

A murmur went up among the crowd.

“Another runaway,” Frances heard a man say.

“I heard it's true,” a woman added. “They're quite unkind there.”

A stout woman drew out a handkerchief and began twisting it in her hands. “What happened to your brother, girl?”

“I don't know,” Frances said. “He was going to escape, too. He was going to meet me at the depot, and he was supposed to be here by now. But I think something's happened. . . .” Her thoughts raced as she continued to spin her story. “There are dogs guarding the ranch. Mean dogs . . . I think they got him.”

The woman gasped, as did some of the others in the crowd. “You mean . . .”

“I fear he's been killed,” Frances said.

Someone was trying to get through the crowd from the back of the room. The stout woman looked up to see who it was. “Clarissa,” she called, “did you hear this child's story?”

The person who was apparently named Clarissa had made it through to the front of the crowd at last. She took off her hat. And then Frances saw who it was: Mrs. Routh.

“Yes,” Mrs. Routh said. She looked stunned and pale. “I heard every word. I had no idea. . . .” She looked Frances up and down. Did she recognize her as one of the runaways from the train?

It didn't matter. Frances could tell that Mrs. Routh believed her, even if parts of her story were fibbed.

“Please!” Frances begged. She kept up her act. “I promise I'll go back to the ranch, and I won't try to escape again. But I need to know if . . . if my brother's been killed.”

Mrs. Routh nodded. “I'll get my husband. We'll go out to the Pratcherds' and get to the bottom of this.”

T
he sun was high, and sweat ran down along Jack's nose whenever he bent down to pick up a rock. Harold trudged along a little ways behind him, picking up the stones Jack had missed. They had to slog through the entire beet field today, clearing rocks so the dirt could be plowed.

Behind Harold was Alexander, who stopped every few feet to dig out the biggest rocks. He'd pry them from the ground and heave them over to a wooden pallet pulled by Quentin. The pallet made a scraping noise as it dragged along the dirt. To Jack it sounded like the breathing of a very sick, old beast that needed to be put out of its misery.

But Jack would have to live with
his
own misery. Not since his brother's death had he felt so wretched. Not only was Daniel gone now, but Jack's freedom was gone, too, and every day he had to see the other kids here being worked—and beaten down—like mules.

Quentin looked a wreck, with a black eye on his left side and a gruesome scab under his nose. When he'd found out about the scheme to free Harold, he'd tried to get in good with the Pratcherds by ratting out Jack and Alexander. But Mr. Pratcherd had been so steamed about Tater Thursday that he'd pummeled Quentin anyway.

Alexander had taken a beating as well from the Pratcherds. An even worse one—his bruised eye was nearly swollen shut, and one side of his face had a savage-looking scrape across it. Jack thought it had to hurt, but Alexander wore it stoically, and he seemed sort of proud of the shiner. “Just
one
black eye,” he said. “So I'm in half mourning.” Maybe he was a little crazy, but Jack had to admit that Alexander had become brave. This was a
real
fight now—not the imaginary sort of battle they'd thought up back in the woods—and Alexander was willing to face it.

“Big rock,” Alexander called out. Jack had to walk back and help him dig it out. Quentin was supposed to help, too, but he usually just stood there catching his breath. Truthfully Quentin was the best one suited to lug the pallet, since he was built like an ox, so they were lucky that he was at least willing to pitch in where he was most useful. Or so Jack reasoned as he helped Alexander dig.

The big rock was the size of a muskmelon, and it wasn't easy to pry it out of the dirt—the plank Alexander used was too short and they hadn't any shovels. Jack braced his shoe against the side and tried to wiggle it.

“I wish we had that big spoon with us, the one that you and me and Frances shared,” Harold said. “We could dig that thing out in no time.”

“What spoon?” Quentin asked.

Alexander and Jack exchanged a look. “Oh, just a . . . pretend spoon,” Alexander said quickly. “Right, Harold?”

Harold nodded. Jack managed to loosen the large rock with his foot, and he and Alexander hauled it over to the pallet. Then they went back to the smaller stones.

But Quentin didn't seem convinced. He picked up the towropes again and hauled them over his shoulders so that he could resume his dragging. But he had gone only a few more feet before he dropped the ropes again and turned around to face the others.

“You know I ain't called you Hair-red since the other morning,” he said, looking toward Harold. “I won't anymore.”

Harold smiled a tiny smile. “Thanks.” Jack and Alexander nodded, too.

Quentin wiped at his sweaty forehead with his sleeve. “It's just that I've been thinking.” He looked around, paying particular attention to the edge of the field where Rutherford paced back and forth. Then he leaned in and lowered his voice. “The way you two showed up to get Harold . . . it wasn't just to get him out of here.”

Jack's eyes met with his. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you were trying to get Harold back to a particular place,” Quentin said. “A safe place. Right?”

Jack didn't know what to say, but Alexander spoke up.

“Yes,” he said. “We know a place, all right.”

Quentin's eyes got big. “Can I . . .” He took a quick breath. “Can I come with you?” He shot a sheepish glance in Harold's direction. Harold shrugged. He wasn't scared of the bully kid from the train anymore.

Jack looked at Alexander for confirmation. Alexander gave a nod.

“Wanderville is open to any child in need of freedom,” Jack said. “No matter who they are.”

“Or what they look like,” Harold added.

Quentin's hand shot up, like a reflex to touch his misshapen lip. But then he brought it down again to show that he was smiling. “Thanks,” he said, turning to Jack and Alexander.

“You're welcome,” said Jack. “Only thing is, we don't know how we're going to get there. We have to get out of here first.”

Alexander agreed. “I wish we had another idea.”

“There's Frances . . . ,” Harold began.

“But she's just one person,” Jack said. “What can she do?”

“It's not like she can just come whisk us all away in a wagon or something,” Alexander pointed out.

“You're not
listening
,” Harold said.
“THERE'S FRANCES!”

He pointed across the field to the bunkhouse yard.

There was Frances, shading her eyes with her hands and looking out toward the fields, though she hadn't spotted them yet.

“How did she get here?” Jack said. Something strange was happening, he realized. A wagon and two buggies had pulled up, and now a half-dozen adults were in the bunkhouse yard. He could see from here that one of them was Mrs. Routh.

“There's a whole passel of folks from town,” said Quentin in amazement. “And the sheriff, too.”

“The sheriff's here?” Alexander said, an edge of panic in his voice.

By now Harold was running across the field. “Frances!” he cried.

Frances saw them now, too.

“Harold!” She raced out to her little brother and held out her arms. “I got you,” she whispered. As she hugged him tightly, she looked over at Jack and Alexander and grinned through her tears. “And we're going home.”