On Track for Treasure by Wendy McClure Page B

them.”
    â€œAnd you thought these children needed to be . . . dealt with?” the Reverend replied.
    â€œExcuse me, Reverend,” said the stationmaster. “We didn’t realize they were with you. Er . . . they
are
with you, is that right?”
    Reverend Carey looked over to his wife just then, who nodded back. “I assure you,” he said. “These children are not alone in the world.”
    Frances thought it was interesting how he answered the question without
really
answering it. She never knew a preacher to be clever—the ones who ran the orphanage back in New York gave dull, glum sermons on Sundays. But Reverend Carey seemed sharp.
    â€œThough they are certainly spirited,” Mrs. Carey said, looking kindly down at George.
    The young women behind them smiled gently. Frances wondered if they were the Careys’ daughters. They had the same thick, chestnut hair as the Reverend, and both had chins like Mrs. Carey. The teenage boy, who looked to be about eighteen, resembled Mrs. Carey, too. Like her, he had stick-straight hair the color of clay.
    Miss DeHaven approached. “Mr. Barron,” she said to the stationmaster. “
Kindly
explain what is
happening
.”
    Mr. Barron looked baffled. “You said these children were orphans, but . . . the Reverend here . . .”
    One of the porters spoke up. “Ma’am, Preacher Carey and his wife have been coming to the depot for years. Once a month or so they come from downstate Missouri to spread the good word and speak out against salooning.”
    It was just as Frances had thought—the Careys preached about the evils of liquor. Well, from what she’d seen of the drunks on the Bowery, there was good reason to do so.
    The porter continued, “They’re decent folks, the Careys. They’ve got a whole passel of children, I believe, all different ages.”
    The other porters nodded at this. The stationmaster shrugged, and Miss DeHaven narrowed her eyes.
    â€œVery well,” she said, her eyes darting up at the lobby clock. “Mr. Barron, the train I’m meeting arrives very shortly.
Some
of the orphans on that train will find immediate placements here in Kansas City. . . .”
    At the mention of
placements
, Frances’s stomach lurched. She knew that those kids would be lined up, and strangers would come and choose them—even separate them from their siblings—and they’d go off to unknown fates.
    Miss DeHaven continued, “And then the remaining children and I will board another train at twelve thirty-five and continue west.
So
, Mr. Barron, if you discover
any
orphans here in the depot before then”—she shot a look straight at Frances—“then there will certainly be room for them to join us.”
    And with that, she turned and strode away down the corridor, glancing once more at the clock.
    The stationmaster tipped his hat in the direction Miss DeHaven had gone. “I’ll be sure to check,” he called. “Sometimes we mistake people’s children for beggar orphans. And sometimes . . . it’s the other way around.”
    He said that last part loud enough for all the kids to hear. Then he walked off across the lobby. The porters, shrugging, followed him.
    Frances felt almost limp with relief.
    â€œThank you, mister,” Jack said. “I mean . . . Reverend.” He approached the minister to shake his hand.
    After a moment, Alexander stepped up, too. But instead of shaking his hand, he hung back. “Reverend?” he asked. “Why did you suddenly just . . .
help
us?”
    â€œI noticed you all when you first came in here,” the Reverend replied. He motioned dramatically toward the water fountain. “You helped each other when you were thirsty, and I could see that you were good children who deserved mercy.”
    â€œIt was as simple as