Wanderville Page 11

  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.”

  26.

  Rocks and Hard Places

  The 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.”

  27.

  Citizens against Pratcherds

  “Oh my gosh,” Frances said when she saw the bruises on Alexander’s and Quentin’s faces. “What happened to you?”

  “Nothing happened,” said a voice behind them.

  It was Mr. Pratcherd.

  “You boys turn around and go back out to that field and get to work,” he growled. “You hear me?”

  “Now wait a minute!” Jack heard a woman exclaim. He turned and saw a stout lady marching out to the edge of the yard where they stood. She wobbled a bit as her delicate shoes sank into the dirt. She was followed by several others who had come from town, along with the sheriff and his wife.

  Jack blinked in confusion and turned to Frances. “What’s happening?” he whispered.

  “Did you bring the whole town here?” Alexander asked incredulously.

  “I . . . I think so!” France
s replied. “Well, most of the town.” She never imagined she’d be grateful to see Whitmore, Kansas. But here was Whitmore—or rather, its people—gathering in the middle of this beet field.

  “Nobody’s going anywhere until we find out what’s going on!” the stout woman insisted.

  Jack looked around. Mrs. Pratcherd had joined her husband, and she stood with folded arms. “Just what’s this about?” she said, glaring around at the small crowd of adults. “What’s the meaning of your visit, Sheriff Routh?”

  The sheriff held his palms out. “I’m just here to keep the peace. But it seems some folks in Whitmore have questions about the goings-on here at the ranch.”

  An older man in a gray coat, who appeared to be the husband of the stout woman, stepped forward. “This child”—he motioned to Frances—“had reason to believe that her brother was dead. That he was killed on these premises.”

  Mr. Pratcherd sniffed loudly. “You mean this girl here? Never seen her. But clearly you busybodies can see that she’s found her little brother alive and well.”

  “I suppose he must have gotten lost and wandered onto our property,” Mrs. Pratcherd said. She simpered at Harold, who was holding Frances’s hand. “Naughty boy, running away from your sister like that.”

  “Now wait a second,” the sheriff said. “You mean this girl doesn’t live and work on your farm?”

  “No, and don’t believe a word she says,” Mr. Pratcherd said. “I don’t know this little wastrel, and neither does my family.” Rutherford had come out of the barn just then, and Mr. Pratcherd waved him over. “Do you know this girl, son?” he asked, pointing to Frances.

  Rutherford’s eyes lit up. “Miss Vanderbilt! What are you doing here?”

  Mrs. Pratcherd shoved Rutherford so hard he stumbled. “Lying, that’s what she’s doing.” Her eyes flashed in a rage.

  “Actually, Mrs. Pratcherd,” Mrs. Routh said suddenly, “I think you’ve been lying! Lying to me and to the Society for Children’s Aid and Relief! I can’t deny it anymore. You and your husband . . .”

  “Clarissa!” the sheriff exclaimed. He cleared his throat. “Clarissa, you can’t just accuse people. . . .”

  “Virgil,” Mrs. Routh said, “we need to talk. Alone.”

  “Excuse me,” Sheriff Routh told everyone, a little sheepishly. “We’ll be right back.” He steered his wife away from the crowd and around the corner of a nearby shed.

  For a moment nobody else spoke.

  The other young farmhands had sensed that something strange was happening, and they’d crept out from the bunkhouse and in from the fields to watch the apparent standoff between the assorted townspeople and the Pratcherds.

  As Jack watched the adults glaring at each other, he felt strangely invisible. Even when the grown-ups had been talking about Frances and Harold, they hardly even looked at them. Except for Rutherford, who stared curiously at Frances (probably still wondering if she was really a Vanderbilt), the crowd all but ignored the children. It seemed the adults were all busy playing some kind of game with one another where they pretended to be polite.

  One of the women from town, a matronly lady with spectacles, broke the silence. “I do hope you understand why we’re so concerned,” she said in a syrupy voice to the Pratcherds. “It’s just that there have been so many runaways lately, sneaking around town and stealing things.”

  “You can hardly blame us for that,” Mrs. Pratcherd said coldly.

  “Unless they’re running away for a reason!” the stout woman broke in. “Just look at the bruises on those boys over there,” she said, pointing at Alexander and Quentin. “What happened to them?”

  A few of the women from town gasped to see them. Quentin grimaced, but Alexander nodded and pointed at his shiner.

  “They did that to each other!” Mr. Pratcherd sputtered. “They’re slum kids from New York. They’re practically animals!”

  “They’re incorrigible!” Mrs. Pratcherd added. “They need to be reformed!”

  Frances had to keep from grinning at the spectacle that was unfolding. It was better than any uproar that she’d ever seen raised on the Lower East Side. Just then, though, she felt Harold tugging at her sleeve. “What is it?” she said.

  Harold motioned for her to crouch down, and he whispered something in her ear.

  Meanwhile the adults continued to squabble. A man from town spoke up. “I think these little wretches need to be in a proper institution! Not running around our town like wild dogs.”

  “Not dogs!” cried another woman. “Innocent children!”

  More voices joined in.

  “They’re little criminals, these children.”

  “Well, I think the folks running this ranch are the criminals!”

  “Did you see that awful bunkhouse? Shameful!”

  “Why don’t you people mind your own business?”

  The space between the townspeople and the Pratcherds had become smaller. They were closing in on each other even as their voices grew louder.

  Jack turned to see what Frances thought of all this, but she wasn’t there. Neither was Harold. Where were they? He spun around nervously, looking.

  Alexander tapped Jack’s shoulder. “Over there,” he whispered.

  Frances was waving from the doorway of the bunkhouse. Waving for them to come over.

  Alexander slipped away from the crowd, followed by Jack, who pulled Quentin along, too. They kept their footsteps soft as they crept inside the bunkhouse.

  “Look!” Frances exclaimed. She pulled away the oilcloth on the bunkhouse window, and Jack could see what she was so excited about. There, right behind the bunkhouse, was the black wagon.

  28.

  An Opportunity Presents Itself

  “Now’s our chance,” Frances whispered once the boys came over. “The wagon’s already hitched, and the adults are all still in the yard.”

  Jack just gaped. “How did you know the wagon was back here? And what do you aim to do?”

  “A little bird named Harold told me where it was,” Frances said. She motioned to her brother, who was now petting one of the horses. “And it’s how we’re getting out of here.”

  “You can drive a wagon?” Alexander asked.

  “A little,” Frances replied. Truthfully all she’d ever done was hold the reins of the neighborhood rag peddler’s cart whenever he’d needed a whiskey break. But it was better than nothing.

  “I’ll get my things,” Quentin said. “Harold’s, too.”

  Frances blinked in surprise. The creep who’d tormented her brother on the train was now his friend? But she could see from Quentin’s face that he’d been through a lot since she’d last seen him. She nodded. “Hurry.”

  Quentin rushed over to his bunk and pulled his suitcase out from underneath. Meanwhile, Frances pulled herself up onto the windowsill to climb out.

  “Wait,” Jack said. “We need to take the others.”

  “You sure do,” said a boy’s voice from behind them. It was Lorenzo.

  “I saw you run in here,” he explained. “I figured you had a plan. I’ll go get Nicky and Sarah and Fergus. . . .”

  “Get everyone,” Quentin said. “I’ll help.”

  “So will I,” said Alexander.

  Jack held his breath as the other kids began to trickle into the bunkhouse, one at a time, to escape suspicion—though it didn’t seem as if the grown-ups were likely to notice, seeing how their fighting had grown even louder. From the din of furious voices, Jack could only make out what Mr. Pratcherd was saying.

  “Get off my property!” he bellowed. “Sheriff, arrest them for trespassing!”

  Alexander and Lorenzo rushed back into the bunkhouse.

  “Pratcherd’s waving an old musket!” Lorenzo reported in a delighted whisper. “He says he’s going to fire warning shots to make all the busybodies le
ave!”

  “Mrs. Pratcherd’s yelling at him and saying he’ll scare the horses,” Alexander added.

  Jack grinned. “Did you round up everyone else?” So far there were four other kids in the bunkhouse waiting near the window with Frances. Jack had counted at least twenty-two young farmhands at the ranch. Were they all in on the plan yet?

  “Quentin’s getting the word out,” Lorenzo said. “He and the others will meet us around the back.”

  “Perfect. Let’s go.”

  One by one the escaping farmhands crept through the window and then into the back of the black wagon. First Lorenzo, followed by a younger boy, then two girls—one blond, the other with braids— then a skinny boy who was quick as a rabbit. Frances checked on Harold, making sure that he was safely in the back with the others, then crawled up front. Jack and Alexander waited outside the wagon.

  “Where’s Quentin and the other kids?” Jack wondered. He and Alexander crept toward the corner of the bunkhouse listening for footsteps. Finally they heard the sound of running feet, and Quentin appeared.

  “The sheriff’s coming this way,” Quentin told them, nearly out of breath.

  “Looking for us?” Alexander asked.

  “No,” Quentin panted. “His wife. She made some kind of fuss and ran off. The rest of the other kids are in the bunkhouse waiting.”

  Jack thought quickly. “Let’s get in the wagon and hide there until the coast is clear,” he said. “Then we can get the last of the kids and go.”

  “Good idea,” Quentin whispered. “I’ll go back to the bunkhouse and tell them.” He ran back in the direction of the yard, where the adults still argued.

  Jack and Alexander hurried over to the wagon and climbed up to where Frances was sitting.

  “Get down under the seat!” Jack told her. “We have to hide!”

  Frances nodded, but her eyes were wide and frantic.

  “What’s wrong?” Jack asked.