The Treasure Hunt

by Rebecca Martin

  He almost went back to ask what Willie meant but decided not to. Joe had a feeling Willie had answered enough questions for one day.

  Luckily Joe managed to shoot one squirrel before it was time to head home for dinner. Father might have wondered why he’d been gone so long if he’d brought home no game.

  Joe thought about Willie and asked himself, Why do I want to keep it a secret about Willie, anyway? Suddenly he couldn’t wait to tell Father all about the elderly prospector. Spotting Father near the barn, he ran up and said breathlessly, “There’s a man living in a kind of den in the stream bank.”

  Father looked surprised. “In the stream bank, you say?”

  “Yes. He’s made himself a home underground. I don’t know what he’d do if the creek got really high.”

  “So where is this?”

  Joe told him how far upstream it was and offered to show it to him some day. Right then the thought occurred to Joe, What if Willie tells Father about my interest in gold panning? What will Father think of that? I guess there’s nothing I can do about it now.

  “He’s an old man,” Joe explained, “and he pans for gold.”

  Father’s eyes seemed to bore into Joe’s face. “I see. So there are still some prospectors around.”

  “Not many,” Joe said, matching his strides to Father’s as they went in for dinner. “Willie said there aren’t many left.”

  “Well,” said Father, “I hope this Willie also knows where true riches can be found.”

  Once again, Joe wanted to ask his father what he meant by that, but by this time, they had reached the kitchen door, and the aroma of Mother’s delicious soup wafted out to greet them.

  12

  Father Goes Away

  Irrigation,” Ben said moodily. “That’s what the sugar beets should have had, but there was none available.” Ben, Barbara, and the children had come to visit one Friday evening in August. Supper was over, and the children were playing outside in the dusk.

  Lydia felt sorry for her oldest brother. He looked so dejected sitting there with his elbows propped on the table, and it was no wonder he felt that way. He had so looked forward to raising sugar beets in this warm, sunny climate, but the summer had turned out to be too warm and sunny. The beets were a failure.

  Although many of the other crops had failed as well, some of the community’s wheat and oat fields had produced enough grain to bring in the threshing machine later in the fall. Most of the grain would be needed as food for the people and livestock, and there would be little left to sell.

  “The thing is,” Ben said with more vigor, “I need work to do. I’m thinking of going out to Kansas where the crops are better and I can work on the threshing crew to make some money. We’ll need it to get through the winter.” He looked at Father.

  “I see,” said Father. He did not sound greatly surprised. “How long would you be gone?”

  “I don’t know. A month or six weeks, maybe.” Ben looked at his wife. “Barbara’s brother Aaron said he could come live at our place while I’m gone.”

  Jake spoke up eagerly, “I’d like to go too, Father! I could make some money to help us out.”

  Father turned to look at Jake. “I’m not sure that the threshing crews are a good environment for young boys.”

  “Aw, the fellows who helped with our threshing in North Dakota were nice,” Jake said.

  “Most of those men were Amish. From what I’ve heard, there’s been some drinking among the crews down there. I have an idea. I think I will go myself for a few weeks. That way I can find out what it’s like and whether it’s okay for you to go, Jake.”

  Jake looked a little disappointed, but he said no more.

  Meanwhile, Mother said anxiously to Father, “You’re not so young anymore. Work on the threshing crew is hard.”

  Father smiled at her. “I would try to land one of the easier jobs. Band-cutting maybe. I do feel I need to make some money to support our family through the winter.”

  All this time Joe had been fidgeting in his chair. He couldn’t help thinking of those little flakes of gold he’d seen in Willie’s blue-lined box. Maybe I can find some flakes like that in my own pan soon! That would solve all the family’s problems, and nobody would have to go away for weeks at a time. But Joe said nothing about all this. He just resolved to work harder than ever at his gold panning.

  Two days later Jake hitched up the team to drive Father and Ben to the train station. Lydia stood at the window and watched them go. “I hope we don’t have a prairie fire while they’re gone,” she said, fretting.

  “Father says the conditions are not as dangerous now as they were in the winter,” Mother reassured her. “We must trust in God. Let’s not mope because Father’s gone. Lydia, do you know what I thought you could do today? We’re out of bread.”

  “Oh, bake bread,” Lydia said moodily. “I’m not very good at it.” Other times when she’d tried baking bread, it had turned out hard and dry.

  “I’ll help you if you need it. Your bread wasn’t too bad last time. All you need is practice. And if your bread doesn’t turn out perfect today, remember that mine doesn’t always either, yet I’ve had nearly forty years of practice.”

  “You’re not giving me much hope,” Lydia grumbled as she pulled out the big metal mixing bowl and the flour. While mixing the flour with the lard, salt, molasses, and water, she reminded herself not to forget the yeast. Down to the basement she went to get the sourdough crock.

  Such a lovely yeasty smell rose up when she lifted the lid! From this foamy, frothy mixture, she took one cupful and added it to her bread dough. Later, before returning the sourdough crock to the basement, she would have to “feed” it. The secret to making the yeast was to add a little more flour and milk whenever some was taken out. That way the mixture continued to ferment for the next week’s batch of bread.

  Lydia added the brown flour to her bread dough and then pummeled, turned, and kneaded it until her arms were tired. “Mother, is this good enough now?”

  Mother came over and poked a finger into the dough. “Just right I believe. Now, do you remember the next step?”

  “Yes. I have to cover the bowl with a cloth and put it in a warm place so the dough can rise.” Draping a clean towel over the bowl, Lydia set it high up on the shelf behind the stove. “Now may I go out and play?”

  “Until it’s time to help with dinner,” Mother told her. “The bread won’t be ready to shape into loaves until after dinner.”

  As soon as the dinner dishes were washed, Lydia dusted one end of the table with flour and dumped her big, spongy mass of bread dough onto the floured surface. “How many loaves, Mother?”

  “Six.”

  Using the long butcher knife, Lydia cut the dough into six parts. That was fun. Shaping the loaves was the hard part, and she asked, “Mother, will you please show me how to shape the loaves?”

  Mother showed Lydia how to flatten the piece of dough and then roll it into a cylinder while tucking in the ends to form a lovely, solid loaf. It looked easy when Mother did it, but somehow Lydia’s loaves never looked as nice as Mother’s.

  “Those are nicer than my loaves often are,” Lisbet said admiringly as Lydia set them in pans and put them up on the shelf to rise again. It gave Lydia a glowing feeling of accomplishment to hear her big sister say that.

  Off Lydia went into the garden with Mother to dig some potatoes. Because of the faithful watering, the potatoes had grown well enough. Although some were the size of two chicken’s eggs, many were no bigger than one egg.

  When that job was finished, it was time to go in and fire up the woodstove for baking. The hardest part of all was getting the oven temperature just right, so Mother showed Lydia how to use small pieces of split wood to make the fire burn extra hot at first and a little less so later.

  As gently as if she were carrying a new baby, Lydia brought the round, fluffy loaves to the oven and slid them in. Oh, how she hoped the loaves would stay nice and round t
his time, instead of flopping into a heap the way they had last time!

  Soon the aroma of baking bread filled the kitchen. Every three minutes or so, Lydia wanted to open the oven door to check on her loaves, but Mother warned her not to. “You’d be letting too much heat out of the oven,” she explained.

  At last the tops of the loaves were as brown as a ripe chestnut. “Are they done, Mother?” Lydia asked.

  With her fingernail, Mother tapped one of the loaves. “Hear that hollow sound? That means they’re baked through and through.”

  A beaming Lydia used two hot pads to carry the loaves from the oven to the table. Suddenly the kitchen door opened, and Jake stuck his head inside. “Where’s Joe?”

  “Oh, out hunting I suppose,” Lydia said distractedly, bending down to get the third loaf from the oven.

  “He’s always hunting, and he doesn’t often get anything,” Jake growled, barging across the kitchen. Bam! He bumped into Lydia.

  “Oh, Jake!” she shouted as her precious loaf flew from her hands and landed with a thud on the floor. She dashed to retrieve it. The lovely brown crust was broken and bashed in.

  “You should watch where you’re going,” Jake snapped, heading back to the door. “Listen, I need someone to help chase the cattle. Who’ll do it if Joe’s gone?”

  “I will,” Lisbet offered sweetly.

  After the other two were gone, Lydia sat gazing at her ruined loaf. “It’ll never look right again,” she mourned, trying to poke it back into shape.

  “We can eat it anyway,” Mother said. “And look at your five nice loaves.”

  Smiling, Lydia propped her chin on her hand. After a while she remarked, “Jake wasn’t very nice. He’s been like that ever since Father left, it seems.”

  “I think he’s a bit tense with all the responsibility that’s on his shoulders,” Mother replied.

  “I thought it’s because he wishes he had gone threshing,” Lydia said.

  “Well, maybe that too, not that I’m excusing him for his impolite behavior. Remember what Father always says: ‘Even though you may have a reason for behaving badly, that is still no excuse.’ ”

  Lydia nodded. She had needed to hear that quite a few times already!

  13

  Drawn Like a Magnet

  The shotgun was always set on two pegs above the kitchen door. One morning, about a week after Father had left, Joe took down the gun and went outside. Though a bank of mist still hung over the creek, the fields were bathed in early morning sunlight.

  “What?” exclaimed the thirteen-year-old under his breath. “Somebody’s walking in our lane. Why, it’s—” He turned on his heel and dashed back into the house. “Mother! Father’s walking in the lane, and it looks like his arm is all bandaged up.”

  Mother dropped her towel, Lisbet dropped her dishrag, Lydia dropped her broom, Joe carefully put down the shotgun, and just like that, all four of them were out the door.

  Father’s right arm was in a sling. He smiled when he saw all those family members spilling out of the house. He looked very, very tired as he slumped down on the porch steps and said, “I guess you’re surprised to see me.”

  “You’re hurt,” Mother said, touching the sling.

  “Yes. I was careless. I should have watched myself better. I cut my hand while band-cutting on the thresher and had to get it stitched up.” He passed his free hand across his forehead. “Now there’s a doctor’s bill to pay. I should have been more careful.”

  “Accidents can happen,” Mother said. “You should come in and lie down. Joe, please help Father on that side. I’ll help him here.” Between them, Father staggered through the kitchen to the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed.

  “How did you get home?” Joe asked, standing near the door.

  “Took the night train. Walked to the doctor’s. Waited until he came out here to see a patient.” Father sounded exhausted. His eyes were closed.

  “You mean you got your hand stitched here in Wild Horse by Dr. Crawford?” Lisbet asked.

  “No, no. There was a doctor in the town close by where we were threshing. The owner of the thresher paid the bill for me. Now I owe him.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Mother said firmly. “You have to rest and get well. Would you like some breakfast before you sleep?”

  Father opened his eyes briefly. “Breakfast sounds good. Let me see…I don’t think I had supper last night either.”

  The rest of them had eaten breakfast an hour ago, but in minutes Mother had fried two eggs and toasted a slice of bread. After arranging this on a platter with a glass of milk, she took Father’s breakfast into the bedroom.

  Lisbet looked around the kitchen in a dazed sort of way. “Now, what was I doing, anyway?”

  “You were washing dishes. You dropped the dish rag here on this chair,” Lydia said, “and I was sweeping the kitchen.”

  “Poor Father,” Lisbet said as she went on with the dishes. “I think he’s in pain.”

  “I hope it’s not too bad,” said Lydia, picking up the broom.

  Joe shouldered the shotgun once more. “I’ll be off hunting now. Father would like squirrel for supper, I’m sure.”

  He headed straight for the creek. Tucking the gun onto the lower branches of a tree, he brought out his pan and began swishing gravel. Panning for gold seemed more urgent than ever, now that Father’s plan to make money had failed. It’s up to me, Joe told himself, making the gravel fly. If nobody else can make money for the family, then I have to.

  Meanwhile, back home in the garden, Lydia was worrying as she helped Mother dig turnips. “I wonder why that had to happen to Father.” She let out a big sigh as she snipped the top off another turnip.

  Mother’s answer was practical and the same one she gave Father earlier. “Accidents happen.”

  Lydia sat back on her heels. “But we hardly have enough money. Why would God let this happen?”

  “Oh, Lydia,” said Mother with a shake of her head. “Things like this happen all the time. It’s true, God could have prevented it, but the Bible says that God chastens those whom He loves. When trials come our way, we need to keep on being thankful for His love. If we trust Him, something good may come from this happening.”

  Just a few days later, something good did come along. It was Saturday morning, and with a clatter of hoofs, John Miller rode up to the Yoders’ door.

  Spying him from inside the window, Father eased himself out of his chair. “It looks like John doesn’t want to dismount. He must have a message that he’s taking ’round the community.”

  Lydia followed Father to the door. How surprised John looked when he saw Father! “I thought you were gone threshing,” he exclaimed.

  Father touched his bandaged hand. “I was. Then this happened.”

  “Ach, too bad. Arm broken?”

  “No. I cut my hand. Needed stitches.”

  “I see. Well, I’m glad you’re home, and you will be too when you hear my news. There’s to be church at our place tomorrow. Preacher Aaron Mast arrived from Pennsylvania on the train this morning.”

  Father’s face lit up. “That is good news indeed. Jake could hitch up the team to bring us to church. Thanks for letting us know.”

  “See you then.” John wheeled his horse around smartly and was off to let the next family know.

  To think that I would have missed hearing a visiting minister if the accident hadn’t happened, Father thought as he marveled at how this all had happened.

  On Sunday morning Aaron Mast stood at a spot in the Miller house where he could look out the window at Pikes Peak glistening blue and white on the horizon. “I am sure you must often think of the words in Psalm 121 as you look at the peak. ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the LORD, which made heaven and earth.’

  “On our way here on the train, I spoke with a man who said that this mountain seemed like a magnet during the days of the gold rush. From far across the prairies,
the gold seekers used the peak to guide them to their destination.”

  Aaron’s gaze left the window and traveled over the congregation. “Dear brothers and sisters, we must not let our hearts be drawn by a lust for earthly treasure. What an empty, hollow thing that is! There is something far better that should draw us like a magnet. In John 12:32 we read these words of Jesus: ‘And I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men unto me.’ Yes, Christ was lifted up from the earth on the cross, and we must look to Him for our help. Yes, our very life!”

  14

  Sick Man

  On Monday morning Joe’s shotgun hung once more in the tree while he knelt at the water’s edge with his pan. Joe panned—unsuccessfully, as usual—until the sun had crept up toward the top of the sky. Then he grabbed the shotgun and set off upstream. Today he was lucky. He shot a partridge and a squirrel in less than half an hour.

  Slinging the game over his shoulder, he headed downstream again until he caught sight of the door of the prospector’s den. Why not pop in and see if he’s at home? Joe thought, realizing he hadn’t seen the old man for a while.

  Knock, knock. Joe waited. No sound from within. He knocked again. He was just about to turn away when he heard a weak voice say, “Come in.”

  Joe frowned. Is that Willie’s voice? In a way it sounds like him, and yet it doesn’t.

  He pulled open the door and allowed the sunlight to spill into the shadowy little room.

  The old man lay on the bed, a blanket drawn up partly over his face. Even from the doorway, Joe could see that Willie was shivering. “Is something wrong?” Joe asked, going over to the bed.

  Willie’s teeth chattered so badly that he could barely speak. “G-guess I h-have a c-cold or something. A b-bit f-feverish.”

  Alarm shot through Joe. How thin Willie’s face was! The skin was stretched like white paper over the cheekbones. “Have you been sick for a while already?”