Norton, Andre - Novel 32 (14 page)

"You found all this hidden in a cave?" Father
stared at the mailbag, Lady
Maude's box, and the strongbox where they sat on the long table
in the station house.

"There're some trunks and bags in there,
too," Neal said. "But
they've mostly just got
clothes in them. And a shotgun—"

"But why would anyone wall up luggage and
mail in a cave?" Mother
questioned.

"Pinto told us a story about how once some men going
east offered a lot of extra money to
a
driver to get them through when the Apaches
were
raiding. The driver knocked out the sta
tion man when he said they
shouldn't go. They
might have taken this
extra weight out of the
coach to go
faster. But they were never heard
of
again," Neal continued.

"Why leave luggage in a cave instead of in
the station itself?" Father
wondered. "Well,
no
matter how it got there, you found it. And
this"—tie picked up the mail bag—"will cer
tainly cause quite a stir. Its contents
will be
delivered
quite a few years late."

"Dead letters."
Parky
relished those words.
"Neal
said they're dead letters."

"But Marlene can't have Lady Maude, can
she?" Perks piped up.
"She doesn't own her— or the treasure in there, either—" She pointed
to the strongbox.

"It'll be for the court to decide." Father sud
denly looked very tired.
"Might as well get this
into
town tomorrow."
He put the mailbag on
top of the strongbox.

"Lady Maude, too?"
Christie asked in a
small voice. To have Lady Maude
go out of her
life so
quickly was very hard.

Father hesitated. "Well, we can leave her
and the other things you left in
the cave until
we find out what sort of
claims can be made for those. But even if Toner gets the station, I don't
see how he can claim any of this. We'll wait
and see. This"—he patted the mailbag and the
strongbox—"does have a place to go—the
postal authorities."

"Is the strongbox like mail then?" Neal
wanted to know.

"It probably took the place, in its day, of
registered mail." Father
looked around the
room. "Nothing
more we can do here now until
we know more
about things."

"If the people those letters were sent to
are
all dead now," Christie asked, an idea begin
ning to grow in her mind,
"what will the post
office do with them?"

"They may try to find descendants of those
meant to have them," Father
said. "Finding
such
mail will make exciting news. I remember
reading some years back about a mail pouch that had been
stolen over a hundred years ago
and hidden under the floor of a house that was
just being torn down. They tried
to find the
families
of those the letters had been sent to—
there was a story in the paper about it."

'' Will they put a story in the paper about this,
too?"
Parky
wanted to know.

"Could be.
As for you, Patrick"—Father
looked unsmilingly at
Parky
(to be called Pa
trick meant that Father was going to say something
very serious)—"I think you had better go
to your room and sit and think about what you
did this morning. Do you remember
what we
said the
last time this happened?"

Parky's
face reddened. He looked down at
the scuffed toes of his sandals.

"She—she wouldn't let go," he muttered.

"No excuses," Father answered. "March in
there and think about it,
Patrick. Also, decide
what
punishment meets this."

It
was
serious. Christie felt sorry for
Parky
and glad she was not the one who had to leave
the room. When Father was really upset he expected
you to name your own punishment.
You
gave up something you wanted very much,
generally because you were sorry enough to
make it a stiff one. Or you did something you
simply hated to do.

At least Mr. Toner had not arrived with the
sheriff to arrest
Parky
. Christie had half-ex
pected all afternoon to have that happen and
had been so glad when Father and
Mother got back from town. They had looked so unhappy
and tired that she had made Neal
and the twins
wait
until after supper to bring in the cave
things.

"I think it's bedtime for all of you." Mother
got up slowly, as if she were
very tired indeed.
She
went to the sink pump and filled the big
kettle and put that on to heat wash water. As
she stood by the stove she looked
slowly
around the
room, and Christie wondered if she
were thinking about all the plans they had
made. There had been the motor to
run the
refrigerator
and a big freezer, a new stove, all
the
other things on the list that had been written
out only a day or two earlier.

"Mother," Christie said later, when she was
in her bunk and Mother had come in
to tuck in Perks and say a last good night, "are we going
to have to leave the
station?"

"We don't know, Christie—we honestly
don't know."
Mother sighed as she kissed
Christie
and went out. Shan purred loudly in
Christie's ear and kneaded the
pillow, up down,
up down, with his dark
brown paws, making
a bed to his
liking.

Mother did not know. Christie lay awake,
watching the crack of light under
the door. She could hear her parents still moving around, but
they were not talking to each
other. Then she heard their door shut.

Christie shivered. Perks must be asleep. In
the quiet she could hear her
sister's even
breathing.
Shan must be asleep too—he had stopped purring and his head was flat on the
pillow where he stretched out limp and warm.

Now there were little noises Christie had not
noticed before. A skitter-
skatter
sound on the roof
overhead,
and far off once an
000-000
which might have been a coyote and which
Baron answered from the yard with
a sharp
bark.

When they had first come there Christie had been afraid
of those noises. Back home, if you
awoke in the night, what you could hear was
the
woosh-woosh
of
big trucks along the high
way, or maybe once
in a while one of the neigh
bors
coming in late and closing a garage door
with a bang.

Would
the
Kimballs
now be going back to a house with a
bathroom and water, a small yard,
sidewalks
all around? Christie found suddenly
that
she did not want those things at all. She
wanted to stay right here. Oh,
not as the station was now, torn up and all untidy, but as it would
be when the workmen were through. She
wanted to be able to hunt arrowheads, and learn
to ride
Sheba
or Solomon, or perhaps even
someday
a horse
like
Marlene's.

Marlene—and Lady Maude! Mother had
only just glanced at Lady Maude tonight—she
did not understand
how wonderful she was. But
if Mother would really look at her and all she
had—
And
they had even told Mother and
Father about their plan. If they had to move,
there would be no plan—no one
would ever
come to
see Lady Maude and the other things
from the cave.

What they had said about postmen trying to
find the families of the people to
whom the
"dead
letters" had been written so long ago—
that stuck in Christie's mind now. What if
Maude Woodbridge had had a little
girl of her
own,
and in turn
she
had a little
girl. Why, that
was
who Lady Maude would really belong to!
And that would be better than Marlene getting
her.

Christie felt under her pillow for her flash
light, pressing the button, but
keeping some of
her
fingers over the bulb so only a little light
showed. There was just enough for her to be able to
find her suitcase. In that was the letter
Captain Woodbridge had written. Well, Chris
tie could mail that. Only not
give it to the postmen—no—she would send it in another enve
lope and she would write a letter
to go with it,
explaining
all about the station and Lady
Maude. Maybe there would still be some
Woodbridge
left to get it.

She
did not know, of course, if there was any
little
girl now, or even if there was any such
name or address—she could only use the one
lettered on the box. However, if she put her own return address on the
outside the letter
would come back
and then she could be sure
there were
no
Woodbridges
left.

Do
it now—without telling anyone! She had
the
letter paper Grandmother
Nourse
had sent
her—that with the
Alice-in-Wonderland
picture
on it. Pinto could mail it for
her—or Mrs. Wild-
horse—she
had said she was going to town to
morrow. Then, if there was no one to get the letter,
Christie would be the only one to be
disappointed. She must tell Pinto to send it fast mail—if
the postman had that kind any more.
For if Lady Maude were to
be rescued, it must
be soon.

Christie found her ballpoint and the writing
paper. For a long moment she sat
still on the
lower bunk, listening. Yes,
Perks was sleeping.
She must be careful not
to wake her. Using the paper box for a desk, she held the pen and tried
to think carefully about what to write.

Should she say "Dear Maude Woodbridge"?

Christie Writes a Letter

But it wouldn't be going to Maude now. What
did you put at the beginning of a
letter if you
if
you did not know just who was going to read
it?

Perhaps that was just it. Since she did not know to whom
she was writing, why not say
so? With care Christie wrote at the top of the
sheet: "Dear I do not know
who—" It looked
queer
but it was the truth.

She
had better explain right at the beginning.
It
took a long time to write the letter. First
Christie had to tell who she herself was, then she had to describe
finding Lady Maude and
about the
danger of losing her to Marlene.
Twice
she had to cross out words, and she was
not quite sure about some of the spelling. Fi
nally she had covered five sheets of paper.
Now
the envelope.
For that there was only one pos
sible address. Christie printed it so it would be
extra plain.

"To the Family of Miss
Maude Woodbridge,
Woburnscott
,
Maine
."

Her own
address was in the upper corner
and
then
"urgent"
with two lines drawn under that.

When her five pages with the old letter were
folded together, it made the
envelope so fat
Christie
had to use Scotch tape to seal it shut. She tucked the letter and the
flashlight under
her
pillow and settled down for the second time.
Now she had only to ask Pinto to mail it. What
if he wanted to know why? By this
time Christie
was so sleepy she could not stay awake to
worry about that.

The
next morning she had half-forgotten her
letter.
Mother had to call her twice, and Perks
pulled the covers off her before she sat up blink
ing. But when she was dressing she remem
bered
and hurried through shirt buttoning to get
the
fat envelope. It was so big and thick it might
need two stamps—maybe even three. She still had some of her allowance
left—enough, she
was sure, to buy
those.

All the
family were
already at
the table when
she
came out. Father smiled at her.

"Not like you, Christie, to oversleep. You must have
had a dream too good to lose," he said as she reached for a paper cup of
orange juice.

"I can't remember any dream," she an
swered. "Is Pinto going into
town today?"

"I was wondering," Father said, "how you
and Neal and Perks would like to ride into town
with us—to deliver the boxes and the bag to
the post office and then tell the sheriff about
them."

"
Parky
found them
too," Perks said as she
stirred her cereal around in her bowl.

"
Parky
has chosen to stay
in his room to
day,"
Mother answered.

Perks stared mournfully into her bowl. If
Parky
had chosen that as his
punishment, he
thought
it the worst that could happen to him
now. Perks looked as if she agreed with him— to be
separated from her twin was punishment
for
her also. "I guess, then, I'll just stay here," she said in a low
voice.

Father shook his head. "No, Perks.
Parky
chose this and
you must let him. You know the rules. We shall go to town and next time
Parky
will remember to think before he loses his tem
per."

Perks still looked unhappy as she and Chris
tie went back into their room to
put on clean
jeans
and shirts. She stood staring at the floor as Christie brushed her hair.

"
Parky
was just trying to
keep Marlene from
taking
Lady Maude. He wasn't being bad on
his own."

"He did it the wrong way, Perks. You know
that." Christie hunted for
something to take
her
sister's mind off
Parky's
troubles. "Listen,
Perks, you want to hear a
secret?"

"What?" Perks asked flatly, still staring at
the floor as if nothing mattered
very much.

"I've thought of a way to perhaps keep Lady
Maude from going to Marlene. Even
if the sher
iff says
she can have her."

"How?"
She did have
Perks's
attention now.

Christie showed her the fat envelope. "You have to
promise not to tell—not even
Parky
.
Because if
anyone finds out too soon, maybe it won't work."
She hesitated. Telling Perks
was a risk.

"I always tell
Parky
everything," Perks said.

"Not at Christmas time," Christie reminded
her. "Remember last year
when you went along
with
Father to buy the talking bear? You knew
for a long time that
Parky
was
going to find that
under
the tree, but you never told."

"That was a Christmas secret."

"This is just as important a one. And it may
help us out."

"How?"

Christie could not be sure. But anything that
would keep Lady Maude from going
to Marlene
would
help. "We'll just have to wait and see.
You promise you won't tell, Perks."

"Cross my heart twice over?"

At Christie's nod the little girl thought for a
long minute and then raised her
hand to cross
twice
over. "I promise, Chris. Now—what's
the secret?"

"You remember that letter we found in Lady
Maude's box? Well, I put it in
this envelope
last
night, and I wrote another letter to go with
it, telling about how we found Lady Maude and
what happened. I am going to mail
this today
when we go
into town. We have to go to the
post
office anyway if Father takes the mailbag
there."

"But who are you sending it to?"

Christie turned the envelope over so Perks
could read the printing Christie
had tried to
make so plain. She had traced each letter twice
to make sure.

"Remember what Father said about those
letters going to families of the
people who
should
have gotten them? I'm sending this to the family of Miss Maude Woodbridge, with
the same address that is on the box. I put our
return address on the outside. If no one gets it,
then it will come back here and we'll know for
sure that Lady Maude really belongs to no
one."

"Then Marlene will get her?"

"Maybe not.
We found her. Anyway, it can
be a long time before anyone is
certain."

"Chris." Perks watched her sister put the
letter inside her shirt, count
money out of her
wallet
and tie that into the corner of a hand
kerchief to be stuffed into her jeans pocket.
"Are we really going to move
again?"

"I don't know any more than you do, Perks.
Listen—Mother's calling, we'd
better go!"

Mother waved goodbye from the station
doorway as Father turned the big
car carefully
to
avoid all the things left by the workmen.

"What
made you go looking for this treasure
of
yours?" Father asked as the car bumped and
dipped on the rough road.

Neal told the story of Shan getting lost and
how they had had to dig their way into the cave to
find him.

"So we really have Shan to thank for it. Look,
Perks, there goes a roadrunner!"

The long-legged bird raced along, almost keeping even with
the car for a minute or two,
then
flashed off into the bushes.

"To think"—Father slowed down even more
as they hit another very bumpy
stretch—"this
was considered a
really good road at one time."

"Wonder
what the stagecoach people would have thought of the big highway?" Neal
asked.

"I am afraid they would not have had too
comfortable a ride even on that in
a stage
coach,"
Father said. "No springs—most of the
coaches were slung on heavy leather straps.
Lots of times on steep grades
everyone had to
get out and walk to spare
the horses. Of course,
on flat land they went
as fast as anyone could
in those
days. I heard that the newspaper here in
Gilesburg
still stores the old station books.
Nearest
place
Bright's
heirs could find to keep
them when the old line closed down. Perhaps we
could get them back on loan, display them
in this museum of yours."

Then Father's face changed and the eager
look went out of it. He had just
remembered
,
Christie knew, that perhaps they were not going
to have the station after all.
There would be no guests who would want to learn what life had
been like in the old days.

"Isn't there a good chance of our staying,
Dad?" Neal
must have read Father's expres
sion as
quickly as she did.

"It's a big tangle now. Bright had the franchise
for the stage line under territorial law,
before
Arizona
was a state. He also had the
mail franchise from the
U.S.
government,
which gave him certain
privileges. People were
not so careful about land rights and things of
that sort back in the days when
this was all
wilderness
and there was a lot of
unclaimed
land. Too,
Bright had a slightly different case
with our station than with the rest of his holdings. It
is partly over the border of the Navajo
reservation, so he had a treaty with them later.
Also, the army once used it as an
outpost. So
there
were a number of different regulations.
Colby thought our title to the station was
solid—it came directly from the
liquidation of
the
stage company. We never expected any
trouble, though Colby knew that Toner was
after the water rights. He had
already told
Toner he
would not sell.

"Now Toner thinks he can prove Colby
never had any right here in the
first place. We
can't
count on anything until it's legally de
cided. If we had a year, maybe two, with the
new highway open and tourists
coming through
to the
park, we could make it. Colby has an
idea about opening a side trail up to that ghost town,
Darringer
. He's out in
Hollywood
right
now trying to interest some show
people in re
storing
part of the town as an attraction. It has been done in other places. We could
link the
station to
that also as a part of the old stage
history. That's why we planned to rebuild so
it would look just as it did in
the old days. I've
wired
Colby and he'll be back as soon as he
can.
If Toner is determined to fight this through
the
courts, we might not be able to afford to
stand up to him. Legal help is very expen
sive—"