Joe discovered the door in the stream bank.
He tugged on the carved wooden handle, and the door swung outward easily on leather hinges. Joe gasped. In front of him was a room. A regular little room! It was dark, of course, because there could be no windows here under the stream bank. But in the shadows, he could make out a tiny table, two homemade chairs, and a cupboard. And a stove!
Joe stepped gingerly across the packed-earth floor and touched the stove. It was warm. Somebody lives here! Somebody made porridge for breakfast and left some of it in a pot on the back of the stove. Somebody slept in that narrow bed at night, covering himself with a red woolen blanket.
Suddenly Joe couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I’m trespassing in someone else’s house! What if the person comes back right now and catches me here?
In two giant steps, he reached the door, slipped outside, and slammed it shut. He scooped up his pan and shovel and scrambled up the bank. Not caring that he trampled on the new, green shoots of wheat, he dashed across the field as if a bear were after him.
When he was almost home, Joe stopped and threw himself down in the grass. He needed time to think this over. What am I going to do with this discovery? Should I tell Father and Mother?
Even though he wasn’t sure why not, Joe decided he wouldn’t tell. Not right now, anyway. Maybe I’ll go there again, scout around, and find out some more about the mysterious little den. In the meantime, I’ll just keep the whole thing a secret. It all seems a little like a dream, anyway.
Lying there in the grass, watching the white clouds drift by overhead, Joe suddenly remembered. Last fall when he’d come to Colorado with Father to look at the land, he’d seen something that looked like a man’s foot disappearing in the bushes. Maybe that foot belonged to the owner of this den in the creek bank!
10
A Secret Shared
Joe had a big secret, and he felt the secret weighing heavily upon his shoulders. Soon he wasn’t going to be able to stand it anymore. That is how Joe Yoder felt in the days after he discovered that stream-bank home. He thought about it constantly. He wondered who lived there. More than anything else, he longed to tell someone.
Finally he decided to tell Lydia. She would enjoy sharing a secret. She often complained that he never played with her anymore. Maybe she’d feel better if he let her in on his big secret.
Lydia was outside carrying a pail of water from the well to the garden. The women seemed to be doing that a lot of the time. Practically no rain had fallen since the garden had been planted, yet Mother was determined to keep the garden thriving. And the only way to do that was to carry water.
“Here. Shall I carry that?” Joe made the offer after coming up behind Lydia.
She jumped and spilled some water. “You scared me! Look at the water we lost.”
“Sorry. Water’s precious, isn’t it,” he said, taking the pail.
“Mother is afraid that the well will go dry. It’s pretty low already. The water was for the lettuce.”
Joe began splashing each lettuce plant until Lydia protested. “Let me. Mother taught me how to give just enough water but not too much.” Carefully she gave each little head of lettuce a measured splash.
He sat in the hot, sandy soil watching her. “You can’t guess what I found along the creek the other day.”
“A flickertail?” she asked without looking up.
“No. Better than that. I said you can’t guess.”
“Well, then gold?”
“Huh. Who wants gold? No, this is—well, it’s pretty mysterious.”
Lydia poured out the last drop of water and stood looking at her big brother. His yellow hair was all mussed up. Mischief twinkled in his blue eyes. “Well, if I can’t guess, why don’t you just tell me?”
“Either that, or I could show you,” he said. “Want to go for a walk up the creek?”
She dropped the pail and answered, “Sure!”
Joe’s strides were so long that she nearly had to run to keep up with him. It made her feel a wee bit sad because it was just another reminder that Joe really wasn’t her playmate anymore. What fun it was to be doing something with him once more! The farther up the creek they hiked, the more she wondered what he was going to show her. A bird’s nest maybe? But no, he’d said I couldn’t guess.
“Creek’s almost dry,” he commented over his shoulder. “We sure could use some rain.”
“I wish it would rain for a whole week!” she replied.
He pointed to the wheat fields. “The crops don’t look too good.” Some of the small green plants were turning yellow, nearly the color of the parched soil. “Father says it reminds him of the first year they were in North Dakota. It was pretty dry that year too.”
“I hope we get rain. I’m so tired of watering the garden.”
Joe stopped so suddenly that she nearly ran into him. “There. Do you see it?”
At first she noticed nothing unusual—just some crooked cottonwoods sprouting at odd angles from the bank. Then she saw it. “A door! Right in the bank!”
“Shhh!” he said with a finger to his lips. “Maybe somebody’s home today.”
Lydia watched as Joe went up to the door and knocked. “Who would live in a stream bank?”
“I have no idea. There was nobody here when I found the place, but it is definitely somebody’s home. I’ll show you.” Having knocked three times without receiving an answer, he pulled open the door.
Lydia gasped when she saw the snug interior. “It’s like a playhouse! Do you think it is one?” she asked, utterly charmed.
Joe shook his head. “Can’t be. That stove is real. I touched it the last time, and it was hot. Somebody had cooked porridge.”
She clasped her hands. “Can we go in?”
“Better not. We’d be trespassing. We really shouldn’t be standing here spying on somebody else’s place.” He shut the door and looked all around. “Still nobody in sight. Let’s cut across the field to get home.”
Joe walked more slowly so Lydia could keep up easily. “Have you told Father about this place?” she asked her brother.
“No. I figured I’d keep it a secret, but then I decided to tell you.”
“You mean I’m not to tell Lisbet—or Mother?”
He stuffed his hands deep into his trouser pockets. “I guess a fellow needs to enjoy a secret sometimes.”
Lydia felt troubled. “But why wouldn’t we tell?”
Head down, Joe stepped carefully across the rows of new wheat. “Just because. Maybe we’ll tell later on, but for now it’s between you and me. I wouldn’t have told you if I didn’t think you could keep a secret.”
That did it. If he’d trusted her, it was her duty to guard the secret. But she still felt troubled about it.
Joe’s mind was already busy with something else. “I’m going to ask Father if I’m old enough to use the shotgun on my own now. That way I could go off hunting for rabbits and pheasants and other small game. We need the meat, and I’d have an excuse to check on that den in the creek bank every now and then.” Joe didn’t tell Lydia that it would also give him an opportunity to pan for gold.
With the crops looking so poor, Joe was more determined than ever to keep on panning. Yes, Father thinks we should make an honest living by farming; but what if that’s not possible this year? Surely nobody will despise a little gold if I find some.
To Joe’s delight, Father gave him permission to use the shotgun. Now he had an excuse to hike along the creek. He kept his pan and shovel hidden behind a rock, and nearly every day he would pan for gold for a while. Afterward he’d wander in the woods trying to find small game. Rabbits had been plentiful in the spring, but they seemed scarce now. Maybe the dry weather had an effect on them too.
Haying time put an end to Joe’s adventures for a while. “We have to make all the hay we can,” Father said. “If the crops fail, we’ll at least have hay for the horses and cattle.”
“Do you really think the cro
ps will fail?” Jake asked in dismay.
Father smiled, but it was a grave smile. “If we don’t get rain soon—”
It seemed you couldn’t talk with anyone for more than a few minutes without hearing something about the need for rain. People kept staring at the sky as if the rain would come if they stared long and hard enough.
Sunny skies were excellent for hay making, though. Father and the boys got busy cutting the meadow grass the steam tractors had left standing last spring. Once cut, they raked it into windrows. In a matter of days, it was cured, ready to load onto the wagon, and haul to the barn. When the loft was full to bursting, they made haystacks beside the barn.
Lydia was still busy carrying water, but now her job included taking water to the thirsty harvesters as well. It was amazing how much they needed to drink!
It seemed to Lydia that every day she had to let the pail farther down into the well to draw water. The water level was getting lower and lower. “Dear God,” Lydia said as she lowered the bucket, “please don’t let the well go dry. Please let it rain. We need water so badly.”
But no rain came. Big, scary cracks began to open in the sunbaked soil, and the wheat was shriveling up.
“Mother, why doesn’t God send rain?” Lydia asked one day.
Mother kept on trickling water over the bean plants until her bucket was empty. “Are you praying for rain?”
Lydia nodded shyly. “But I don’t get an answer.”
Mother put down the bucket and gazed out at the parched fields. “It’s not wrong to pray for rain, Lydia, but we are not to pray like that without also saying, ‘Thy will be done,’ to God. We have no right to demand that He work a miracle for us. After all, it’s normal for this part of the country to have dry spells, and we knew it when we moved here.”
“Do you wish we hadn’t moved here?”
Mother shook her head. “I’m wishing nothing of the sort. I’m thinking we should start counting our blessings, Lydia.”
“What blessings?”
“Oh, there are so many. We have our family. We have homes. And friends. And work to do. Of course, we can’t forget the greatest blessing of all—the love of God. To think He loved the world so much that He gave His Son Jesus to die for us.”
Lydia took a deep breath. She felt better already.
11
The Prospector
One night it rained. Joe awoke at midnight and heard the drops drumming a beautiful tune on the shingles above him. He smiled to himself, turned over in bed, and went to sleep again.
Lydia didn’t hear the rain in the night. In the morning the sun shone again, so she didn’t know about the rain until she looked out the kitchen window. “The garden is muddy!” she squealed in delight. “Mother, did you know that it rained last night?”
“Yes, isn’t it wonderful?”
“I’m going out there,” Lydia declared. She dashed to the garden and sunk her feet into the squishy mud. The garden plants seemed to be smiling as they drank in the water.
After wiping her feet on the grass, Lydia went in for breakfast. “The mud’s not very deep,” she announced. “There’s dust right underneath.”
Lisbet told her, “The rain didn’t last long. It was over after an hour, I think.”
“We’re thankful for every drop of rain,” Mother said firmly as she put the platter of eggs on the table. “Is everybody ready to eat?”
After breakfast Joe took the shotgun and headed across the field. Deep in thought, he wondered, Will these poor, shriveled wheat stalks be revived by the rain? Some seem to be standing up straighter, grateful for the moisture. Maybe there will be a crop after all. But hardly a good one. It just isn’t possible after all that dry weather.
Joe hadn’t really planned to head for the den in the bank, but that was where his feet took him. Today he noticed a strange thing as he neared the spot. A wisp of smoke was curling up from the grass at the edge of the bank.
He strode over for a closer look. Sure enough, there was the smoke pipe jutting up through the earth. Joe grinned to himself. Anyone who didn’t know about the den would certainly be puzzled by this smokestack. Maybe they’d think a woodchuck was tending a fireplace somewhere underground.
Joe leaned on his gun, thinking things over. Do I have the courage to scramble down the bank and knock on the door? Obviously the owner of the den is at home today.
But he didn’t have to make up his mind because suddenly a thin, wrinkled face peered up at him from down below. The face belonged to a tiny gnarled man, smaller than Joe. “Who’s there?” asked the stranger in a scratchy voice that sounded as if it wasn’t used very often.
The prospector was a small, odd man with a scratchy voice.
“I’m Joe Yoder,” he answered politely, slipping down the bank. Wondering if it was proper to shake hands, Joe timidly stuck out his right hand.
The other’s fingers felt almost like claws, they were so thin. “I’m Willie.” He gestured toward the open door. “Not many people know where I live.”
“I stumbled across your home last week,” Joe confessed. “It’s a nice little place.”
“Come in.” Willie led the way, pointing to one of the chairs.
Joe sat down, enjoying the earthy smell of the place. There was also an aroma of fried bacon. He wondered whether it would be polite to ask the question that was uppermost in his mind.
Again he didn’t need to decide. “I’m a prospector,” Willie told him, “and have been for fifty years. Came out here during the first big gold rush in 1859.”
“Really?” exclaimed Joe. “I didn’t think anybody who came to Colorado during the gold rush would still be alive.”
Willie’s eyes crinkled with laughter. “Now, now. That wasn’t that long ago.”
“Did you find lots of gold?” Joe asked eagerly.
This time Willie laughed out loud. “Look at me. I’m living in a hole in the ground like a rabbit, and you want to know if I found lots of gold!”
“I guess that was a silly question,” Joe admitted, his face warm.
“That’s okay. I didn’t mean to laugh at you. As a matter of fact, I have found a bit of gold over the years. Enough to keep me alive.”
“Recently? In this creek?” The eagerness was back in Joe’s voice.
For an answer Willie got up and went to the cupboard. Placing a tiny wooden box on the table, he opened it and pushed it toward Joe.
The inside of the box was lined with soft blue cloth. On the bottom, glinting in the folds of blue, Joe saw a few flecks of—something. “Is that gold?” he asked in awe.
“The real thing. Found the one flake three months ago. The other could have been a year ago. It won’t be long until I’ll have to take this in to the bank. I need money for coffee, sugar, salt, and such things.” Willie tapped the box thoughtfully. “You should feel honored that I’ve told you all this. Shows I figure you’re an honest boy, not somebody who’ll be back to steal my gold.”
This time Joe felt the warmth rise to the roots of his hair. “I wouldn’t even think of stealing.” He paused, trying to grasp it all. “This means there really is gold in Phillips Creek!”
“Don’t get excited,” chuckled Willie. “As you can see, there isn’t much. I’ll never strike a bonanza, like Robert Womack did nearly twenty years ago at Cripple Creek.”
“What’s a bonanza?” Joe asked.
“When Womack found a big deposit of gold, they called it a bonanza,” explained Willie. “His strike sure brought the excitement back for a while. Triggered a whole new gold rush, though not as many people came as in the rush of the fifties. Ah, those were the days. Whole families traveled across the prairies in their covered wagons, all aiming for Pikes Peak and gold. Somebody coined the phrase, ‘Pikes Peak or bust!’ That became the catchword of the gold seekers. Big old Pikes Peak was like a huge magnet drawing thousands of people to the West.”
Joe closed his eyes and tried to picture it all—the wagon trains, booming towns, an
d excitement when somebody struck it rich. “I wish I’d been here in those days,” he said dreamily.
Willie gave him a queer look. “Maybe you wouldn’t have liked it. Things were pretty rough. I mean, for God-fearing people…”
Joe barely heard him. He was too busy dreaming about the heyday of the gold rush. “Are you going to be panning for gold today, Mr. Willie?”
The old man shrugged. “I do every day. It’s my way of making a living.”
“May I watch you?” Joe asked in the same eager voice.
“Sure. Nothing to see, though. It gets pretty boring.” Willie grunted as he got to his feet. After placing the gold box back in the cupboard, he reached for his hat. “Pan’s outside.”
The old man led Joe quite a distance up the creek. “I have to keep trying new spots, you see. Sooner or later I’ll need to make a new den farther upstream. That’s why I don’t want a real house.”
Joe watched as Willie squatted down, expertly scooped up the gravel, and swished it out again. He didn’t do it any differently than Joe had. Not really. But there was a certain practiced ease about his movements, the kind that comes from having done it thousands of times.
“Want to try it now?” Willie asked, offering him the pan.
Joe’s hands trembled a little at the thought of a seasoned prospector watching him, but when he had finished, Willie said, “Good enough,” and took the pan back.
“What’s your father doing today?”
“Uh, I’m not sure. I was supposed to be out hunting for game.” Quickly Joe realized the old prospector was hinting that it was time for him to go. “Thanks for showing me your house,” he said, shouldering his shotgun.
Willie merely nodded. After Joe had gone a few steps, Willie called after him, “Don’t let gold ruin your life.”
Joe hesitated. Now what did the man mean by that? How could gold possibly ruin anyone’s life? As far as Joe could see, finding gold would bring a big improvement for a poor farmer whose crops weren’t very good.
The Treasure Hunt Page 5
