Wanderville (15 page)

“O
h 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!” Frances 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.

“N
ow'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 leave!”

“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.

“I just realized,” Frances said, “I . . . I don't know how to start the horses.”

“Don't worry about that yet,” Alexander hissed. “Just get down and hide.”

“But what if I—” Frances started to ask. She didn't finish her sentence, though, because just then, two things happened.

The first was a tremendous noise that went
BLAM
!

Mr. Pratcherd had fired his Civil War musket into the air.

Then the second thing: The horse team hitched to the black wagon screeched and thrashed their heads and stomped their feet, and then they began to run.