Wanderville (6 page)

“K
ansas sure is dark,” said Harold as the three of them walked.

They hadn't stayed to watch the train disappear. “We have to put some distance between us and the spot where we jumped,” Jack had explained. So they'd run down an embankment and then headed straight away from the tracks, following the faint half-moon in the sky.

Frances's eyes couldn't make out anything in the dark except a horizon. “What's this we're walking across, a field?” she asked Jack. She was glad to have Harold clutching her hand; without it she would have felt as if she were drowning in all this night.

Jack reached down and felt rough, dry grass and hard ground. “I don't think there's anything planted out here. Just a field of nothing.” Turning to Frances, he whispered, “At least we're not on someone's farmland, which means we won't get caught for trespassing.”

Frances nodded, then added even more quietly, “True, but it also means there's nowhere to hide. No barn or stable or any place where we can go.”

“We'll find something,” Jack mumbled. He couldn't let himself give in to the feeling that maybe he shouldn't have dragged Frances and Harold off the train. “Anyway, it's so dark. Maybe no one will see us, right?”

Frances didn't say anything for a moment. “I guess,” she said finally.

Truthfully, the darkness was unlike any Jack had ever seen. In the city the streets were electric-lit, but out here there weren't even any shadows, just the constant gray-black that felt heavy on his eyes like a haze. He wondered if a person could become deranged walking around in so much darkness. “You're not afraid of the dark, are you, Harold?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“No,” said Harold. “Just wolves.”

“Wolves?” Frances began to laugh, but then her face twisted and Jack was pretty sure she was wondering to herself the same thing he was:
Wolves. Does Kansas have them?
“Well,” she said at last. “I don't see any.”

Jack was the one to laugh this time. “Because, you know, we don't see anything
at all.
Except maybe that tree over there.”

They hadn't given any thought to what direction they'd walk, but they found themselves making their way toward the only tree in the near distance, a crooked thing with a thick trunk.

“It's nice,” Harold said when they finally reached it. He plopped down on the ground beneath it and leaned back against the trunk. By the time Frances and Jack sat down on either side of him, he was already asleep.

“I guess we'll sleep here,” Jack said, idly kicking at the tree stump.

“And then what?”

“Then we walk some more in the morning?” Jack suggested. He wondered what Daniel would have done. He shrugged, pushing the memory of his brother out of his mind. If he let himself dwell on what had happened, he'd never be any good to Frances and Harold—never be able to help them the way he should have helped Daniel back in the factory, and that would mean . . . He took a deep breath. He couldn't allow this train of thought to continue. “Maybe we'll look for food?”

“I've saved a sandwich,” Frances said. “I'll give that to Harold.”

She
knew how to be the big sister, Jack thought. It was a lot like how Daniel had always known what to do. Why couldn't he be more like that?

“Fine, and then we'll look for more food.”

“If that's a plan, it's not much better than the one we had for Sheltonburg, Missouri,” Frances said.

“It
is
better,” Jack shot back. “Because at least we're off the train now.”

Frances folded her arms. Jack knew what she was thinking—that he hadn't a plan at all, only some chicken-headed notion that things were about to get worse. But hadn't he saved them all? Didn't that count for something?

He leaned across to look at Frances. If she'd meant to give him the silent treatment, she'd fallen asleep doing it.

Morning dew sounded pretty when you read about it in poems, but it was wretched to wake up in it, Frances thought. She tried to shake off the clammy feeling on her arms and legs. The sky was so overcast and dim that the damp grass was practically the only way she could tell it was morning.

“Cold,” Harold mumbled. He was awake and huddled inside his big coat.

“That's for sure,” Jack said, over from his side of the tree where he still lay on his side. Slowly he sat up and wiped the dirt from his face.

Frances fished out the cheese sandwich she'd saved and gave it to Harold, hoping that he'd quit shivering if he had some food in him. For once, she found herself craving a bite of the stuff.

Finally Harold let go of his coat and sat up straight, gobbling the sandwich down.

They all looked at one another for a moment.

“Okay,” said Jack slowly. “Let's . . . find something else to eat?” He stood up and pulled Harold to his feet.

Frances stood up, too. “There's something that needs to be done first,” she replied solemnly.

“Uh . . . what?” Jack asked.

“
This!
”
Frances yelled, seizing the hateful lace bow at her dress collar. She yanked at it, hard; and with a few more tugs and a most satisfying ripping noise, she'd pulled it free.

“There,” she said, tucking the lace into her coat pocket with a grin. “Let's go.”

“Can you believe this place?” Frances exclaimed after nearly a half hour of walking. “I feel like we're lost at sea, except it's land.”

Jack knew what she meant. Just days ago he'd felt small in the big train shed at Grand Central, but this tent of sky was immense in comparison. He found himself wishing that Daniel could see it.

Just then, Jack lurched forward, just barely catching himself. He felt the ground carefully with his feet, noticing that it sloped down suddenly to a grove of trees. It seemed to Jack as if the earth had a mouth, a big, jagged grin.

“A ravine,” Frances murmured after Jack had found his footing. She'd read about them in one of her books. As she braced her knees to descend, she realized, in her eleven years of city living, she had never walked down a true hill before. Neither had Harold, who began stumbling forward.

“Whooaaaa!” he called out as he gained momentum. Just as he reached the foot of the slope, he tripped over a log.

“Harold!” Jack called.

Harold fell right over, making an
oof!
sound when he landed on his side.

Frances squinted.

Was it
the
log
that had
made the sound?

The log stood up. No, the log was a kid—a boy. “
Intruders!
”
the boy yelled. “Be off!” And he was holding something, waving it—
a hatchet!

J
ack kept an eye on the hatchet as he stepped forward and faced the stranger. The boy matched Jack's steps, and soon both were circling each other warily, one with a weapon in his hands and the other with a fist poised to strike.

Jack nodded toward Frances and Harold. “Leave them alone,” he said to the strange boy, who seemed to be close to his own age.

The boy turned to look at Frances, who stood by with a rock in her hand, and Harold, who was wiping his nose on his sleeve. Then the kid looked back at Jack. He took a step back and slowly lowered his hatchet.

Suddenly, his face burst into a grin. “You're kids!” he exclaimed. “I've been waiting for you!”

Jack and Frances traded a look.

“
Us?
”
Frances mumbled.

“Yes,
you
,” the boy said. “I mean, children like you and”—he suddenly lowered his voice—“you're on your own, right? No adults with you?”

Frances hesitated, but Jack shook his head. “Nope.”

The kid grinned again. “What about the sheriff? You seen him?”

“Sure,” said Jack. “But we got away,” he added proudly.

“Far away,” Harold chimed in. “He can't find us.”

Frances just shrugged. Truthfully she thought Jack and her brother ought to keep their mouths shut around Hatchet Kid. He was tall and thin and looked just slightly older than Jack and her, with light brown scraggly hair that went past his ears. He had smart-dog eyes, Frances thought—pale blue and alert and a little crooked—the kind of eyes you had to be careful around.

The boy set down the hatchet. “The name's Alexander,” he said, reaching out to shake Jack's hand and then Harold's. Then he tipped an invisible hat to Frances, who half smiled and jabbed out her hand for him to shake.

“I'm Frances, and this is my brother, Harold,” she said. “And you've just met Jack, who's our . . .” She hesitated. What did you call a person whom you just jumped off a train with?

“Our
friend
,” Harold finished.

“Pleased to meet all of you,” Alexander said. “Let me show you around.”

“Around
where
?” Harold asked. Frances and Jack glanced around, wondering the same thing. The place they were in was nothing but a wooded ravine with a tiny creek running through it.

“Oh, there's plenty here . . . ,” Alexander began. “But wait—what's that sound?” He stopped near Harold and listened. “It's like growling.”

Harold's eyes grew wide. “Wolves?”

“No, it's coming from
you
 . . . ,” Alexander told him. “From your . . .
stomach
?”

Jack laughed. “I think Harold's so hungry he could
eat
a wolf,” he explained.

“We all are,” Frances confessed.

Jack took the boy in further as the kid nodded in understanding. This Alexander, whoever he was, seemed all right, he thought. Sure, he was a little scruffy, even for a farm kid, but maybe that's how things were in Kansas. If anything, he reminded Jack of some of the kids back home. “Ever been a newsboy?” Jack asked.

“Me?” Alexander laughed a short laugh. “A newsboy?”

Jack shrugged. “Yeah, you just make me think of them.” Daniel used to say they had a rough life but they were their own masters. Alexander had that same way about him somehow, a cleverness.

“Sheesh! Me, a newsboy?” Alexander chuckled, shaking his head. “What's a newsboy do, anyway? I've no idea!” He gave a big shrug, though somehow he didn't look very confused.

Jack decided to change the subject back to their grumbling stomachs. “Maybe . . . there'd be a bite to eat at your house?” he suggested. “Just some bread maybe, and then we'd be on our way.”

“Of course,” said Alexander, straightening up and motioning with a flourish toward the ravine. “Follow me.”

Frances figured he was going to lead them out of the ravine and to a farmhouse, where he'd sneak them some food. Instead, they went just a few yards to the edge of a creek, where Alexander suddenly crouched down and pulled aside an old blanket covered with leaves.

“Let me check the pantry cupboard,” he said. Beneath the blanket was a hole, dug just deep enough to hold a battered valise, which Alexander flipped open.

“
Oh!
” Harold exclaimed when he saw the contents.

Frances tried to count it all—the stacked sardine tins, the jars containing peaches and jam, the biscuits. There was a wedge of cheese in wax and a basket of eggs, and something wrapped in butcher paper, sausage or maybe salt pork—she could smell it. They all could.

“I'm happy to share,” Alexander told them.

Harold gawked, and Jack looked over at Frances.

“What are the lot of you staring for?” Alexander said. “It's time for breakfast!”