Treasure on Superstition Mountain

  Henry tried not to imagine what “skinning” was going to involve.

  “That is not a good game for a cat,” Mrs. Barker told him. “Here, give her to me,” she ordered, disentangling Josie from the netting over Jack’s loud protests. “You boys clearly need to get outside. I guess you can go for that bike ride. Be sure you put on sun lotion. You’ll be home for lunch?”

  Simon shot Henry a secret look of triumph. “Sure, Mom. We might go to Delilah’s, but we’ll call from there and tell you,” he promised.

  “Okay. Don’t forget.”

  Josie darted from the room in disgust, and a few minutes later, the boys, well slathered in lotion, were pedaling down Peralta Way toward the cemetery. When they crossed Waltz Street, where Delilah lived, Henry felt a little guilty. He knew how much she wished she could come with them. But at least they’d promised to go directly to her house after the ghost town so they could tell her all about it.

  “What do you think we should be looking for?” Henry asked Simon as they rode past the dusty, rain-starved yards and the flamboyant cactuses, with their long spines.

  “More gold,” Simon said. “But I doubt we’ll find any. Mining equipment? A map would be good. Anything that might have information about the Lost Dutchman’s Mine.”

  They passed the cemetery, with its ornate wrought-iron gates and its stark rows of white headstones. Henry squinted down the long corridors, looking for the section with the older tombstones. When he couldn’t see it, he felt vaguely relieved.

  “You really think there’s GOLD there?” Jack asked before he sucked in a deep breath and held it as they rode by the cemetery.

  “Well, there could be,” Simon said, “but it seems unlikely. Emmett told us the historical society was filled with people looking for gold, remember? Wouldn’t a mining town so close to the mountain be the first place they’d explore?”

  “Hey, isn’t this Emmett’s road?” Henry asked. Now they were crossing a narrow gravel lane, full of ruts.

  Simon nodded. “I think so. Look at the sign—Black Top Mesa. That’s it.”

  Henry glanced to the left, where Superstition Mountain huddled darkly, like an animal waiting to pounce. The dirt road curled beneath it, flanked by a scattering of houses. Emmett Trask’s was at the very end, out of sight. Henry thought back to their trip there in search of Missing on Superstition Mountain, the historical society booklet with its list of the unexplained disappearances and murders on the mountain during the last century—the list that included the three Texas boys whose skulls they’d found. Emmett, a geologist and the former president of the Superstition Historical Society, had gladly offered them a copy of the booklet, but he clearly had nothing but scorn for the way the historical society’s current members had become fixated on—what had he called it?—ghost hunting and treasure seeking. That was when the boys and Delilah had discovered that the historical society’s current president was none other than the librarian Julia Thomas.

  “Wow, there’s nothing out here,” Jack crowed. Clouds of yellow-brown dust rose behind him, so that his bike all but disappeared. On either side of the road were empty fields, rocky ground with brash thatches of grass and the occasional saguaro cactus rising with odd stateliness from the desert underbrush.

  “How much farther?” Henry asked Simon, wiping his sweaty face on his sleeve.

  Simon peered at the road ahead. “I don’t know. It didn’t look far on the map.” Suddenly, he slowed down. “Hey, Jack!” he called. “Wait up!”

  As Jack braked to a halt in a fog of dust, Simon pointed across the field on their left. “See that, Henry? I bet that’s it.”

  Far from the road, Henry could just make out a jumble of buildings … slanting roofs, wood siding, a dilapidated water tower rising among them.

  “But that’s not on the road,” Henry said. “It looks pretty far away. Can we even ride there?”

  Jack pedaled back to them, blithely bumping over the dips and ruts. “What’s the matter? Why are we stopping?”

  “I think we’re going to have to turn to the left,” Simon told him. “Toward those buildings over there. Start looking for a road—or maybe just a path. This side, okay, Jack?”

  “Okay,” Jack said agreeably. He raced ahead again.

  Simon and Henry followed him, going more slowly now. They watched the roadside for breaks in the terrain or any evidence of a trail heading in the direction of the buildings.

  “Here!” Jack yelled, screeching to a stop. “There’s a path here. Is this it?”

  Simon and Henry caught up to him. There was indeed an opening in the brush, where the shrubs and grasses gave way to a wide, rutted path. It led in the direction of the ruined buildings.

  “That must be it,” Simon said. “Let’s go!”

  They steered off the main road and pedaled over the bumpy ground. Ahead of them, the ghost town waited, dark and quiet in the morning sunlight.

  CHAPTER 8

  GHOST TOWN

  “WOW! COOL!” Jack reached the cluster of falling-down buildings first. He dropped his bike in the dirt and charged up the slatted steps to a sagging porch.

  “Jack,” Simon warned. “That wood is all rotted. Wait for us.”

  Henry carefully leaned his bike against the side of the first building. He glanced around. He could see that they were standing in the remnants of a street, with three or four decaying buildings lining either side. These were connected by long wooden porches that formed a kind of sidewalk. Signs hung overhead, but the letters had faded or washed away. The structures were built out of wood so old and weathered that it was in various stages of collapse; roofs sagged, porches had sunk to the ground. Whole planks of siding had fallen off, exposing dark interiors. One of the buildings had a triangular front and a narrow steeple. Henry realized it must have been a church. At the end of the street, the old wooden water tower rose, like a giant barrel propped on stilts. The place was eerily silent.

  “We should stick together,” he said apprehensively.

  “Yeah,” Simon agreed. “Watch out for that broken glass, Jack.”

  Jack was waiting for them on a porch that was covered with shards of glass. All along the street, windowpanes were broken, leaving sharp teeth of glass or empty squares that framed the black interiors of the stores and offices. Where the glass remained, it was so clouded with dust you couldn’t see through it.

  “Hey,” Jack said, “look at the giant wheel!”

  A wagon wheel that was easily five feet in diameter leaned against the corner of the building, with a frayed length of rope coiled at its base. The wheel had sunk partway into the ground, and a tangle of vines grew over it. When Henry looked up the street, he saw tufts of grass growing through floorboards, branches shooting through doorways like grasping fingers. It almost seemed as if the land were steadily reclaiming what had once belonged to it.

  “Let’s see if we can figure out what the different buildings are,” Simon suggested. He stepped carefully onto the porch with Jack and peered through one of the broken panes. “This one must have been a store.”

  Hesitantly, Henry joined him. The flooring of the porch tilted precariously and creaked underfoot. He immediately pictured it falling apart beneath them and the roof burying them alive. He wondered if true explorers worried like this or if the dangers of what they were doing didn’t even occur to them. And did it mean you were more brave if you did worry or if you stayed oblivious?

  Through the window was a large room lined with shelves. It had a counter running the length of one side. A chair with a broken leg rested against the rear wall.

  “What kind of store was this?” Jack wanted to know, squeezing next to them.

  Simon shrugged. “Maybe a grocery store?” He thought for a minute. “Or probably, like, a general store that sold everything. Let’s look around.”

  The wood door was warped and slightly ajar. Gingerly, Simon pushed it. It swung loosely on its hinges. He tapped the floorboards with his foot. “Step exactly
where I do. In case some of these are rotten.”

  Henry and Jack obediently trailed behind him, stepping lightly on the splintered wood. Soon they were standing in the middle of the large, dark room. The only light was confined to two angled squares below the front windows. The air was hazy with dust. The shelves surrounding them were empty.

  “I don’t like this place,” Henry said. The quiet was unnerving. It would be an excellent place for ghosts, he thought. Any sound would be so out of place it would almost have to have a supernatural cause. “It’s so … disheveled.”

  “Does that mean that there’s nothing on the shelves?” Jack asked.

  “No,” Henry said. “It means that nobody’s been taking care of it.”

  Simon shrugged. “It’s just an abandoned building.”

  “I know,” Henry said. “That’s what I don’t like. Look … there’s nothing left behind.”

  “Yep,” Jack declared. “They took everything with them.”

  Henry pictured the people who must have lived in this town so many, many years ago, with their bonnets and floppy hats, beards and petticoats and suspenders. He imagined them bustling into this general store for their weekly shopping, reaching up to the high shelves, collecting goods to fill their wagons. At first, in his mind, they seemed serious and purposeful, fussy in their old-fashioned ways. But really, he decided, they were probably no different from anybody going to the store … chatting with their neighbors, bemoaning the price of sugar or beans.

  “Maybe there’s something behind the counter,” Simon said. He crossed the room to the large counter where the cash register would have been. There were shelves behind it and drawers and cupboards below. Simon started opening them one by one. When Henry walked up behind him, he saw that they too were completely bare.

  “Let’s go to the next one,” Jack said impatiently. “There’s not any gold here.” He turned and ran out of the store, thumping across the sagging porch and jumping to the ground.

  “Jack!” Simon yelled. “What did I tell you? You have to be careful.”

  “I was!” Jack protested, already halfway down the street.

  “Jack’s right,” Henry said to Simon as they emerged into the hot sun. “I don’t think we’re going to find anything about the gold mine here. It looks like this place was cleared out a long time ago.”

  Simon sighed. “I know. But it’s still worth having a look around.”

  They wandered along the street. Next to the store was a building that appeared to be the post office, with a grid of wooden cubbies lining the back wall. Simon started to go in, but stopped when he saw that its floor had a gaping black hole in the center. “Whoa,” he said, backing up.

  “There’s nothing in the cubbies anyway,” Henry told him, glancing around uneasily. In the field behind the buildings, he could see the strange shapes of old farm equipment—a rusted plow, a wagon turned on its side.

  The church was next, with its empty rows of pews. Henry and Simon walked quietly up the center aisle, but nobody had left behind so much as a hymnal.

  “Let’s go in here,” Jack called from across the street. He was standing in front of a three-story building with a squared-off false front. Rows of windows marked the upper floors, and the panes were mostly intact. A large, faded sign hung over the porch, almost bleached to illegibility by the sun. There was a shadowy silhouette of a cat on one side, and Henry could just make out the words “Black Cat Hotel and Saloon.”

  Henry turned to Simon. “Look,” he said. “Like Josie.”

  “It’s the biggest building here,” Simon answered. “We should check it out.”

  They walked over to join Jack, who had climbed the wide stairs and was standing in the front doorway, peering inside.

  “I think it’s a hotel!” he told them excitedly. “Some of the keys are still here!”

  Henry saw a high counter at the back of the main room and a rack of small hooks behind it. Rusty skeleton keys dangled from some of them. There was a narrow staircase in one corner of the room, but the bottom stairs had rotted away.

  “Hey, I think you’re right,” Simon exclaimed.

  They crossed the room to the counter, and Henry stepped behind it. One side had a column of long, flat drawers, many of them missing the handles. He knelt on the sagging floor and began at the bottom, pulling them out one by one. The wood had warped enough to make them stick. Even tugging hard, Henry could sometimes only get a drawer to open partway, though that was enough to see that it was empty.

  He shook his head at Simon and Jack. “I don’t think there’s anything here.” He pulled at the top drawer. It rattled but didn’t budge. “And this one won’t open at all.”

  Simon leaned over the counter. “That’s ’cuz it’s locked,” he said.

  Henry saw that he was right—there was a small metal keyhole in the center of it.

  “Why is it locked?” Jack asked excitedly. “Do you think there’s GOLD in it?” He bounced on the floor, which creaked ominously.

  “Take it easy, Jack,” Simon warned.

  “Well, if it’s locked, there must be something good in there,” Jack reasoned. “Even if there’s no gold, there could be MONEY.” He handed Henry a brown key from the back wall. “Try one of the keys.”

  Henry shook his head. “That’s a room key. It’s too big.”

  “Do you see any other keys back there?” Simon asked. “Maybe on the shelf?” Again, Henry shook his head. “Nope, nothing. And why would someone bother to lock it and put the key so close by?” He grabbed the knob and pulled again, harder this time. The drawer stayed shut.

  “Maybe we can use something to pry it open,” Simon said thoughtfully. “There’s a little gap when you pull on it. Try sticking that key Jack gave you in the gap, and then press down on it. Maybe you can wedge the drawer open.”

  That struck Henry as a remarkably good idea, and he marveled all over again at Simon’s science-y brain, which could always be counted on to figure out a creative use for whatever was on hand.

  “Yeah,” Jack echoed. “Try that.”

  “Okay,” Henry said, pulling the drawer as hard as he could. He slipped the end of the rusty key into the narrow space between the rim of the drawer and the framing, directly above the lock. Then he pushed down on the top of the key with all his might. The wood splintered immediately, and the drawer jolted open.

  “What’s there? What’s inside?” Jack clamored.

  Henry dragged it as far open as he could, peering into the darkness. “It’s just a book,” he said, lifting out a large, flat leather volume. It was wine-colored, and the cover was cracked with age.

  “A book,” Jack moaned. “What good is that? Look and see if there’s any money.”

  “There isn’t, Jack,” Henry told him. “Just the book.” He gently set it on the counter and opened the broad cover.

  The pages were lined, with neat columns, and were covered in dark, cramped script. It took Henry a minute to realize what he was looking at.

  “Hey,” he breathed in wonder. “I think it’s the hotel’s registration book. It has people’s signatures and dates … and look! Their room numbers.” Henry slid the book across the counter toward Simon and Jack. “We can see who was staying here”—he gasped—“in the 1800s!”

  “Wow!” Simon exclaimed. “See when the last entry is.”

  Carefully, Henry turned the fragile sheets, page after page. He stared at the rows of handwritten names … A. J. Holman, Arthur Dimwiddy, James Bracken, Mr. and Mrs. John Perth. Finally, he came to the last page of the ledger. “It goes all the way to 1898.”

  He was just starting to rotate the book to show Simon, and Simon was simultaneously starting to walk around the left side of the counter to see it, when there was a low, creaking noise, followed by a loud crack.

  “Simon, watch out!” Henry cried.

  “No!” Jack yelled, grabbing at him.

  But it was too late.

  The boards gave way in a crash of splinte
ring wood, and Simon tumbled into the blackness below.

  CHAPTER 9

  SIMON IN TROUBLE

  HENRY AND JACK RUSHED to the edge of the shattered floorboards and squinted into the black pit.

  “Simon! Simon, are you okay?” Henry called frantically.

  There was silence, followed by a muted scuffling.

  “SIMON!” Jack yelled.

  They heard Simon groaning, then getting to his feet. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

  “What’s down there?” Jack wanted to know. “Is it a basement?”

  “I can’t tell. It’s too dark to see anything. It was a long way down, though! I landed on a pile of something—old sacks, I think.”

  “We should have brought a flashlight,” Henry lamented. “But I never thought we’d need one during the daytime.”

  He lowered himself to his stomach, flat against the rough, gritty boards. He stretched one arm down into the darkness and waved it through the air, which felt noticeably cooler than the ground floor. “Can you reach my hand?”

  Simon appeared below them, his face pale. He clambered on top of the tangle of sacks.

  “I’ll try,” he said.

  He jumped, then jumped again, swiping at Henry’s outstretched hand. “I’m too far down,” he said. “Let me see if there’s something I can stand on.”

  He disappeared into the darkness, then appeared a few minutes later. “I don’t see anything … and I don’t want to go too far in the dark in case…” His voice trailed off, and Henry realized with a start that Simon was afraid.

  “That’s okay,” he said quickly. “We can reach you. I’ll have Jack hold my legs.”

  He scooted closer to the splintered hole, and Jack obligingly sat on top of his legs, while Henry privately worried that their combined weight might break through another spot in the floor. Trying not to think about that, he strained, reaching his hand as far down as he could.

  “Try again,” he urged Simon.

  Simon jumped again and again. He piled the sacks as high as they would go and jumped from there. Then he decided the pile was too soft to allow much spring, so he pushed the sacks aside and tried jumping from the basement floor.