Young Whit and the Traitor's Treasure

by Phil Lollar

  Harold looked grimly at Johnny for a long moment. Then his mouth curled slowly into a smile. He clapped Johnny’s shoulder, shook his hand, and said, “Well done, son.”

  Johnny swallowed hard and could not help himself. He grabbed his father and hugged him tightly around the waist. Harold slowly put his arms around Johnny and hugged him back.

  Deputy Miller emptied the box. The pouch Johnny upended contained 50 twenty-dollar gold pieces, and there were 40 pouches in the box. If each one contained the same number as the first one, that was forty thousand dollars. Harold explained that today, 70 years later, the gold was worth much more.

  Johnny stared at the coins. They were scratched, and some of them had little nicks taken out of them, but they were definitely solid gold—the same gold G.W. McClintock and Thaddeus Knox had gotten from Jefferson Davis 70 years ago.

  The same gold they had buried in the circle of trees on the old Granville House grounds ...

  The same gold they had fought over ...

  And the same gold old Huck had dug up and reburied right here ...

  ... under the water tower.

  As the celebration wound down, Johnny asked Deputy Miller if Ben could be released from jail right away.

  Miller pushed his hat back on his head and frowned. “Well, I don’t know,” he said. “There’s still the breaking and entering charge.”

  “But the back door was practically unlocked! We didn’t break into anything!” Johnny exclaimed. “Besides, he was only there because I was. He took the rap for me!”

  “Yeah,” the deputy drawled. “And you also said you took the photo album.”

  “Borrowed it,” Johnny corrected. “It’s still intact, and I’ll return it right away. I mean, it is part of the public record, right?”

  “Well, it’s certainly about to be,” said Miller.

  Johnny lowered his eyes contritely. “Look, Deputy Miller, I really don’t want to go to jail, but I will if it means you set Ben free. Please?”

  The deputy looked at Harold, who stood behind Johnny. “What do you think, Professor?” Miller asked.

  Harold put his hands on Johnny’s shoulders. “I don’t want my son to go to jail, either, deputy. But he did break the law, and he should be punished for it.” He gave Johnny’s shoulders a slight squeeze.

  Miller rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah ... and that’s the problem. Your son is about to be the biggest hero this town has seen in 70 years. He told that reporter the gold he found should go to the people and the families of the people for whom it was originally intended: General Johnston’s soldiers. That includes a lot of folks here in Provenance. They won’t take too kindly to me lockin’ up their hero.”

  Harold shrugged. “Is there an alternative?”

  Miller took a deep breath and nodded. “I think there might be. Provenance is obviously gonna need a new town hall records clerk.”

  Harold balked. “Uh, I’m not sure Johnny can handle that kind of responsibility—”

  “Actually,” the deputy cut in, “after what I’ve seen today, I think Johnny can handle just about anything. But I have somethin’ different in mind. The records department storage room is a mess. And I think it’d be nice if someone were to clean it up, maybe catalogue some of the loose records and whatnot, to help out whoever the new clerk’s gonna be.”

  Johnny perked up. Harold shook his head slowly and replied, “Sounds like a big job. Could take a long time to complete. Maybe months.”

  Miller nodded. “Maybe the whole summer vacation. What d’you think, Johnny?”

  “Does that mean you’ll release Ben?” Johnny asked.

  The deputy smiled. “Soon as I lock up the gold in the safe at the station house, I’ll set him free.”

  “Then it’s a deal!”

  Johnny and Emmy went with Deputy Miller to the station to see Ben released. The station only had three cells, and they looked out on the main room. So when Ben saw Johnny, Emmy, and Deputy Miller hauling in a big box of Confederate gold, he jumped up, grabbed the cell bars, and said, “Is that—”

  “Proof,” Johnny answered, nodding.

  Ben howled with delight.

  Deputy Miller unlocked the safe in the back room, all three of them shoved in the gold, and he locked it back up. “That’ll do ’til we can get it to the bank on Monday,” he said. He then took the big ring of cell keys, found the right one, and unlocked Ben’s cell door. “All charges dropped,” he told him. “You’re free to go.”

  Ben grinned from ear to ear. “Thank you, sir!” He stepped out of the cell and bounded to Johnny and Emmy. “You gotta tell me all about it! Ever’thin’!”

  Johnny nodded. “Count on it!” he said. “From now on, everyone is going to know the truth about my great-granduncle and about your incredible grandfather!”

  Epilogue

  PART ONE

  Thanks to The Provenance Standard, by Monday, everyone in town knew what had happened. By Tuesday, everyone in the county knew, and by Wednesday, everyone in the state knew. The national news media then picked up the story, and it spread like wildfire. The sheriff’s station was flooded with calls from all over the country.

  And Deputy Miller’s prediction about Johnny was right. He was almost everyone’s hero again. There were still a few holdouts from Wilson’s gang of goons, but Wilson himself was far more contrite, though not completely reformed. He played up his part in the events for all it was worth, showing off the gash on his head and slightly altering the story to make it sound as if he had suspected his uncle all along and sacrificed his own safety to protect Emmy and make sure justice prevailed.

  Johnny scoffed at this, but Emmy was more forgiving. “He did try to protect me,” she said. “I won’t forget that.”

  They presented their science projects at week’s end, and that also resulted in taking Wilson down a notch. Everyone Johnny helped got an A, while everyone who bought from Wilson got to repeat the assignment due to failing it. The projects that stemmed from Wilson weren’t necessarily bad—some were actually pretty good—but Mr. Bustamonte found out that students had bought them instead of doing their own work.

  Johnny and Emmy heard Mr. Bustamonte lecture Wilson about it as they passed by his classroom. “Let me give you a tip, Mr. Knox,” Mr. Bustamonte said. “If you’re going to bully and extort students into buying science projects, don’t do it under the open window of the science teacher’s office. Detention for a week.”

  Late the following morning, Johnny and Emmy sat on the Whittakers’ porch swing, enjoying the lemonade and cookies Fiona had just brought out. “Nothing’s too good for the heroes of Provenance!” she said.

  Emmy bit down on a cookie. “Thanks, Mrs. Whittaker,” she replied.

  “You’re welcome, lass. You sure you don’t wanna go with us, Johnny?”

  He shook his head quickly. “Taking a bus ride into Raleigh to go shopping with you and Charlie? No thanks.”

  “She’s growin’ so fast, seems like she needs a new outfit every other week. Well, we’ll be gone most of the afternoon. And your father’s still at the university. So ... do try to stay out of trouble, m’dear, won’t you?”

  “I always try, Fiona.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Ha! Right, then. Just put your dishes in the sink when you’re through.” She exited into the house. “Charlie! Let’s get goin’, love!”

  They heard Charlie flounce down the stairs as Fiona gathered their things, and then both of them left out the back door for the bus stop.

  Johnny looked at Emmy, who seemed deep in thought. “Whatcha thinkin’ about?” he asked.

  “Hm? Oh, nothing really. There’s just something I don’t get.”

  “Like what?”

  She took another bite of cookie and munched slowly as she talked. “Remember when Deputy Miller first got to the tower after Milo fell, and I yelled that Milo was trying to kill us, and he said he knew because he found Wilson and Arty?”

  “Yeah.”

  �
�Well, how did he find them? They were tied up in the clump of trees, with Milo’s cloak over them.”

  Johnny sat up and faced her. “It’s strange you mention that. See, when I was running to get to Lover’s Circle, Wilson and Arty jumped me at the water tower. They were about to beat me up when they got pummeled by a storm of mud balls and dirt clods from behind the Granville House fence! It gave me time to get away and get inside to the thicket. I thought you threw those mud balls and dirt clods, but you couldn’t have, ’cause you didn’t get there until afterward.”

  “What does that have to do with Deputy Miller finding Wilson and Arty?”

  “I asked Miller about that. He said a boy ran up and told him!”

  “A boy? Not—”

  “Yeah! I think it was the boy! The one I first saw from the water tower! And I think he also threw the dirt clods and mud balls at Wilson and Arty.”

  “Did Deputy Miller know who he was?”

  Johnny shook his head. “No. He said he’d never seen him before. But I think it was one of the reasons he convinced our folks to let us dig up the treasure. Remember, he didn’t believe me when I first told him I saw the boy. I think he felt guilty.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments. Emmy shook her head. “I can’t believe all this happened here in little Provenance!”

  Johnny smiled. “Some of the biggest adventures can happen in the smallest of towns. You just gotta know where to find ’em.”

  “Spoken like a true Sherlock.” She smiled sweetly.

  He groaned. “You know, I really don’t like that nickname.”

  “Okay, okay,” she said. “But Johnny doesn’t fit you, either.”

  “Then how about just John?”

  “Too adult.” She thought for a moment. “What’s your middle name?”

  “Avery.”

  Emmy shuddered. “Ack! Definitely not that.”

  He sighed. “Okay, then what?”

  Suddenly her eyes brightened. “No,” she said, a smile creeping across her face. “Not what, Whit!”

  He looked confused. “Huh?”

  “Think about it,” she explained. “First, you’re a witty fellow. Second, you use your wits to solve problems. And third, your name is Whittaker! It couldn’t be more perfect!”

  Johnny scratched his head. “Whit.” He rolled the word around his mouth. “Whit.” It felt strange saying it. “Whit.” On the other hand, it was way better than Sherlock. “Whit.”

  “Well?” asked Emmy. “Whadya think?”

  He looked at her and smiled. “No.”

  She was taken aback. “No? Why not?”

  “I don’t like it,” he said simply. “’Fraid it’ll just have to stay John or Johnny for now.”

  Emmy frowned. “Okay ... but there’s a nickname out there somewhere for you, and I’m gonna find it!”

  Johnny smiled. “Let me know when you do.”

  When they finished the cookies and lemonade, Emmy said she needed to go. “My mom’s taking me shopping, too,” she explained. She headed to the front porch steps, then stopped suddenly. “Oh!” she said, turning to face Johnny. “I almost forgot!”

  “Forgot what?” said Johnny.

  “I want to invite you to my Halloween party!”

  “Party?”

  “Yeah! We have it every year. We all meet and go trick or treating together, and then we come back to my house and have a party. It’s loads of fun!”

  Johnny hesitated.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Emmy.

  “It’s just that ... my parents don’t want me to go trick or treating.”

  “Why not?”

  “They think it celebrates the wrong things.” Emmy looked confused, so Johnny added, “It’s a long story.”

  “Oh,” she said, disappointed.

  “But I think they’ll let me go to the party!”

  Emmy’s face brightened. “Aces! I hope you’re as good at costumes as you are at science, ’cause we also have a contest for the best one! See ya!”

  And with that, she was gone.

  Johnny didn’t have to think twice. He knew exactly what he was going as—a musketeer, just like the ones in the famous Alexandre Dumas novel The Three Musketeers! He gathered up the tray and raced back into the house. He didn’t realize that a pair of large, brown eyes watched his every move.

  Twenty minutes later, Johnny stood in front of the full-length mirror in his parents’ bedroom, admiring his handiwork. He had raided the sacks of old clothes his parents were giving to the church for charity and found what he needed. The hat was an old, wide-brimmed one of Fiona’s, to which he added an ostrich feather one of his father’s colleagues had given Johnny when he was younger.

  He had a real sword that Uncle David gave him one Christmas. It was a claymore, a large, Scottish sword, and so not really a French musketeer’s dueling sword, though he doubted anyone at the party would notice. He also borrowed one of Fiona’s old, wide belts with a huge buckle to attach to the sword’s scabbard.

  An oversized white shirt from his father took care of the puffy sleeves. Now all he needed was a cape.

  He raced to his room, took the skeleton key from his desk, opened the old, wooden trunk, sifted through its contents, and pulled out the bundle of tied-up rags. He unbound them and dropped them on his bed, sorting through the pile, looking for just the right one.

  There. This one. The cleanest one in the bundle, about the size of a large baby blanket. He carefully poked holes in the corners, threaded the gold chain from the skeleton key through the holes, slipped the blanket over his shoulders, and fastened the chain. He raced back to the mirror.

  The costume was perfect.

  The only thing that would make it better, he thought, was if he could show the kids at the party some real swordplay! To do that, though, he’d need to practice. But not in the house. He might break something, and he didn’t need that kind of trouble.

  The forest!

  He bolted from his room, bounded down the stairs and out of the house, and sped across the lawn and into the woods behind the shed. He ran for several minutes, dodging trees and low-hanging branches until he came to a small clearing surrounded by trees and scrub brush. He turned and looked behind him. He couldn’t see his house at all.

  “Ha!” he yelled, drawing his sword. “So, you’ve sent your men to capture me, eh, Cardinal Richelieu? Most men would quake with fear at being surrounded by your henchmen, but I, d’Artagnan, am not most men! I am a king’s musketeer! En garde!”

  He leapt into action and, for the next several minutes, hacked, parried, stabbed, and dueled Richelieu’s scrub brush. He waded into the thick of the bushes and was so into what he was doing that, when he heard a rustling sound behind him, he yelled, “Sneaking up behind me, eh?” Without thinking, he whirled and thrust his sword into the scrub.

  He heard a screeching “Yiiipe!”

  The sword had struck something solid. Johnny immediately pulled it out of the brush.

  The tip was covered in blood.

  PART TWO

  Johnny stared at the sword for a second, frozen with fear. Then he heard whimpering from the other side of the scrub. He dropped the sword and parted the bushes. What he saw horrified him.

  It was a small, male dog—a terrier of some sort; thin, mangy, with matted brown and white fur, and large, brown eyes. There was also a gaping stab wound on its back left thigh. Blood oozed from it.

  Johnny pushed through the brush and crouched next to the pup, who tried to get away but couldn’t because of his wounded leg. “Oh, no, no, no, no, no!” Johnny cried. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were there! I’m so sorry! Shh, please, shh, I won’t hurt you anymore! I promise! Let me help.”

  The pup seemed to understand him, or he was becoming weak, because he stopped trying to run. He was still whimpering, though, and each pitiful whine tore Johnny’s heart.

  He quickly unfastened his cape, folded it once to make it thicker, and placed it
on the wound. The dog whimpered louder but didn’t move. Johnny lifted the leg gently and wrapped the cape around it once, and then swathed the rest of the cape around the pup’s belly. His hands were shaking so badly, and his heart was thumping so loudly, that part of him was amazed he could do anything.

  “I need to get you back to my house,” Johnny said. He started to pick up the pup, but the dog screeched with pain and tried to get away again. Johnny pulled back his hands. “Okay! Okay! I’m sorry! Shh-shh-shh-shh.”

  The pup looked weaker now. He plopped over and began panting.

  “No! No, no, no, no, no!” Johnny put his hands gently on the pup and bowed his head. “Please, God, please don’t let him die! Please, please, please don’t let him die!”

  The pup whimpered again.

  “C’mon, John, think! If he won’t let you get him to help, you need to bring help to him. Fiona! Yes!” He jumped up and pulled off the rest of his costume. “It’s okay, boy, it’s gonna be okay! I’m gonna go get help! Don’t go anywhere! Just hang on! I’ll be right back!”

  Johnny took off toward his house, running as fast as the trees and brush—and his legs—would let him. He couldn’t help thinking about McDuff, his beloved dog back in Scotland. McDuff had been hit by a car and died just before they moved to the U.S. And now, Johnny may have killed a dog himself! The whole way back to the house, he almost chanted, “Please don’t let him die! Please let Fiona be home! Please don’t let him die! Please let Fiona be home!”

  When he got to the house, however, Fiona hadn’t yet returned. He ran through the place, yelling for her, but he was still alone. What now? he thought.

  Johnny raced to the kitchen and threw open the cabinet where they kept the first aid supplies. He scooped up bandages, Mercurochrome antiseptic, and a needle and thread and put them all in a paper sack. He then retrieved an empty milk bottle from the back porch, rinsed it out, filled it with hot water, put some aluminum foil on the top, and sealed it with a rubber band. He put the bottle in the sack, bolted out of the house, and headed into the forest.