Ghost Cave (2 page)

Eddie called his house “The Mausoleum,” and the name fit. It even smelled old. Marc knocked, then went on in, knowing that Gramma Sparks couldn't hear much of anything unless it was up close to her ear.

Plug, the Sparkses' bulldog, waddled to greet them. They'd left Bluedog outside, since Plug was too old to tolerate the younger dog's playfulness.

“Hi, Plug,” Hermie said, patting his head. “Is Eddie here?”

Plug was as wrinkled as Pops. He tried to wiggle a greeting, but he had arthritis, too, and didn't move very well. His full name was Sparkses' Plug, but he had little energy and no spark left.

The Sparkses' house was gloomy and full of dark antique furniture and knickknacks. As much as Marc liked Indian relics, he didn't like the collection of old stuff that Gramma Sparks prized. Chairs had white doilies on their backs and arms. Under the glass on the coffee table was a display of her button collection. The air reeked of camphor until they got to the kitchen, which smelled of chocolate and oatmeal. Eddie was lifting cookies off a baking sheet and onto a piece of waxed paper.

“Hi, Gramma Sparks,” said Marc and Hermie loudly.

“Hello, boys,” she said. “Would you like a cookie?”

“I wondered where you guys were.” Eddie shoveled a cookie into Marc's hand and one into Hermie's. Marc tossed his cookie back and forth to cool it, then bit into the chewy sweetness.

“Hey, you make a cute cook, Eddie,” Marc teased. Eddie knelt on a chair, making him almost as tall as Marc. He had a big apron tied around his chest and under his arms.

Eddie wiped one hand across his hair and ignored Marc's remark. He'd gotten awfully vain about his hair, Marc thought, since he'd started greasing it back into a ducktail with a big blob of Brylcream every day. It was a look nobody else in Pine Creek Elementary School had taken up, except Eddie who was a big Elvis Presley fan.

“I notice you didn't refuse the cookies that this cook and Gramma made, Mr. Smarty.” Eddie stood up and slid out of the apron.

Marc laughed and took seconds. “The rain has stopped. Let's go outside before it starts up again.”

“Go ahead, Eddie,” Gramma said. “I can finish these myself. You're looking peaked from so many days inside.”

Eddie didn't hesitate. He never stayed home unless he had to. Marc didn't blame him, with Pops and Gramma as old as the Civil War. Eddie grabbed a handful of cookies and followed Marc and Hermie out of the house.

“Okay, Marc, tell us,” Hermie said, as soon as they were out of Pops's hearing.

“Tell us what?” Eddie slid onto his bike. Eddie's bike was a new Hawthorne tank model with an electric horn and motorcycle headlight. He had added a Hollywood goose horn and sheepskin saddle cover. It left Hermie's old Montgomery Ward model in the Dark Ages. Marc's bike wasn't much better. If they got the reward money for relics this summer, Marc could get a new one with his share.

“There's a reward poster on the bulletin board in the park,” Marc said. “Fifty dollars for newly found relics. Some professor over at the university is offering the money.”

“Fifty dollars! Holy Cow!” Eddie whistled low, then shouted and took off. He rode circles around Marc and Hermie, honking his goose horn. “Whoooeee, could I use fifty dollars!”

“Jumpin” Jehoshaphat!” Hermie grinned. “But my parents will make me put it in the bank.”

“Where'll we find any relics like that?” Eddie said, calming down.

“Let's ride out to Mr. Daniels's place and ask him what he thinks about the reward,” Marc suggested. “He might even have some suggestions for us. He used to tell my dad and me about places he thought we should look.”

“Suits me.” Hermie was almost always agreeable to Marc's ideas.

“Me, too.” Eddie didn't argue. He pulled out a comb and smoothed back his hair on either side. “I could get a new catcher's mitt with fifty dollars.”

Eddie often talked about stuff he was going to buy, as if things would make up for losing his mother. Pops and Gramma had gotten him into that habit, Marc figured. They bought him everything he wanted. Eddie hadn't mentioned his mother in a long time. And he had stopped asking Marc about his. At least Marc could hope his own mother was coming back.

He'd rather think about the fifty dollars. But he didn't want to spend the money before they got it. He did feel, though, that he and Hermie and Eddie had as good a chance of collecting the reward as anyone else in town.

3

T
HREE
-W
AY
P
ACT

The new highway had skirted Pine Creek, taking most of the business on past and into Fort Smith, but not too many people cared. They settled for local business and the few tourists who wandered into town.

People who wanted to trade with Mr. Daniels looked him up. Everyone for miles around knew him. He ran a combination junk shop, Indian store, and pawnshop. As far as Marc, Hermie, and Eddie were concerned, Mr. Daniels had the most interesting store they'd ever seen. Marc, his dad, and Hermie had traded Indian relics with Mr. Daniels as long as Marc could remember. In fact, Mr. Daniels had given him the first tomahawk he had in his collection.

It was a large, double-bladed tomahawk, and probably worth five dollars, Marc's dad had said. Marc couldn't believe Mr. Daniels had given it to him, but now Marc knew he was just like that. If someone, especially a kid, wanted something and really didn't have the money, Mr. Daniels would usually give it to him. Sometimes he cut the price for Marc or let him pay things out over time. He'd paid out some of his best pieces over several months. Mr. Daniels had gained a steady customer by giving Marc that good tomahawk.

One time Marc asked him how he ever made any money, giving stuff away like he did. “I make it up on the tourists, Marc,” he answered. “Tourists will buy anything and usually will pay too much for it. You don't need to worry about my going broke.” He laughed when he said that, and Marc decided he was right.

“Howdy, boys,” Mr. Daniels greeted them from the door when he saw them lean their bikes on the fence. “Howdy, Bluedog,” he said, coming out and leaning on a porch post while they walked past the boxes of mineral rocks that lined the walk leading to the wooden building. “You boys in the market for a peace pipe or some fine little bird points? I did some good trading this morning.” He leaned over and scratched Bluedog.

“Howdy, Mr. Daniels,” Marc said. “I'd sure like to see what you got.”

“Hi, Mr. Daniels,” echoed Hermie and Eddie. “So would we.”

Mr. Daniels was a tall, heavy man. In fact, he looked like an older version of Hermie without the glasses. His eyes were as blue as the big turquoise ring he wore, and they sparkled when he talked to the boys. Marc always had a hard time deciding whether he was teasing or telling the truth.

They spent the next forty-five minutes unwrapping musty old newspapers from around pieces in the box on Mr. Daniels's counter. Marc shook his head, still surprised at how the old man traded. Why, he hadn't even looked at all the relics before making a deal. The box had probably come from a farmer who needed money. All the farmers in the county had relics stacked around that they'd dug up in their fields over the years. And they knew Mr. Daniels was a sucker for local people in need.

“How much did you pay for this box, Mr. Daniels?” Marc asked. “None of these pieces are very good.” He'd be willing to bet that the farmer showed Mr. Daniels the bird points and hinted that the rest of the stuff was as good.

“I didn't pay much. But I'll sell them all. Most tourists don't know the difference between valuable stuff and ordinary pieces.” Mr. Daniels laughed, knowing Marc thought he'd been cheated.

“Tell Hermie and Eddie about selling the bean jar, Mr. Daniels.” Marc wanted to get the old man talking. He knew Mr. Daniels loved to talk even better than he liked to trade.

Mr. Daniels rolled his own cigarettes. Before he told one of his stories, he'd dig into his pocket and pull out his cigarette papers and a little pouch of tobacco. Marc liked to watch him shake just the right amount of golden-brown flakes into the paper and pull the string to close the bag with his teeth. Then he'd run his tongue along one side of the thin paper and seal the cigarette shut with his finger.

Once, Eddie had found a half pack of Camel cigarettes that Pops had lost, and he and Marc and Hermie smoked every one. All night Marc felt as if a mule had kicked him in the stomach. He wanted to die and get it over with.

So he didn't plan on smoking again, but if he ever did take up the habit, he knew he'd roll his own cigarettes. He'd already spent half a day learning to pop the head off a stick match with his thumbnail to light it. That was another of Mr. Daniels's skills. Marc had carried a box of stick matches in his pocket ever since, in case he wanted to impress someone. He wasn't much into impressing girls, but he could get a giggle out of Marcy Lee Wallace by pulling out a match and flaming it up for her. 'Course, some girls will giggle at just about anything. His mother hadn't laughed, though. She liked putting candles on the table at dinnertime. But when Marc showed her his new trick for lighting them, she scolded, worrying he'd set the house on fire.

Marc looked at Mr. Daniels, who'd gotten comfortable in his rocking chair. Bluedog curled up beside him to snooze during story time. Holding the crumpled cigarette carefully, Mr. Daniels took a long drag. He blew the smoke out slowly and began.

“Well, after I'd had my lunch one day, I took and washed the brown glass jar my baked beans came in. I brought it out into the store and blew a little dust on it so it matched the rest of the merchandise. Not ten minutes later, a woman, dressed in real fancy clothes, mind you, came in and browsed around. I saw her looking at the jar.

“‘Is this old?' she asked, bringing it over to me. ‘I don't know that much about antique glass, lady,' I said. Sometimes it pays to act dumb.” Mr. Daniels took a puff of his cigarette, and his blue eyes sparkled. “Customers love to think they know more than you do about your stuff. ‘I think I'll take it,' she said. ‘It just might be old.' ”

“How much did you charge her?” Hermie asked. Mr. Daniels had paused, leaving off that part, knowing that either Hermie or Eddie would ask. Marc already knew, of course.

“A dollar.” Mr. Daniels said. “And I'd only paid seventy-five cents for it when it was full of beans.”

They all laughed. Bluedog woke up and barked to get in on the conversation. Marc wanted to tell Mr. Daniels
he
was full of beans. His mother used to say that to him, meaning he was pulling her leg. She was always easy to fool; she'd believe anything. His dad always called her a city girl. He loved to tease her, too.

“We've got to go, Mr. Daniels.” Suddenly Marc needed to ride his bike really fast. Why couldn't he stop thinking about his mother?

Hermie raised his eyebrows up and down, up and down, to remind Marc he hadn't asked about the reward poster. Eddie poked his finger halfway through Marc's back.

“You boys see the sign out front?” Mr. Daniels asked, before Marc had a chance to question him about where to look for relics. He took one last drag on the cigarette and ground out the stub on his concrete floor. “You three might as well try for the reward.”

Marc looked at Hermie and Eddie in surprise and then looked up at the porch post. Sure enough, they'd passed right by a sign identical to the one hanging in the park. Then Marc remembered that Mr. Daniels had been leaning on that post when they came up to the store. He thought he'd saved a surprise for the boys until they got ready to leave.

“If we found a grave, who would it belong to?” Marc asked as the four of them read the sign again.

“Whoever owned the property, silly,” said Eddie. “Isn't that right, Mr. Daniels?”

“Yes, unless it was in the state park. Then I figure it'd go to a museum or the university so they could study it. I don't reckon there's much left to find these days, but it'd be fun to look.”

Mr. Daniels had been digging Indian relics since he was a boy. That's how he got started in the business. Marc liked to listen to him tell about those days. The farmers would call him when they plowed up stuff, and he'd go over and dig.

“I figure it'd be easy to find some good stuff if we took time to look,” Eddie said, when Mr. Daniels went back inside.

“You heard Mr. Daniels, Eddie,” Marc said. “He's an expert, and
he
doesn't think it'd be easy. You think you'll be good at everything before you try it. Remember the pool table that Mr. Ellis put in the back of the drugstore? He said we could play when it wasn't busy. Well, you said you'd get it in no time.”

“Aw, horse pucky. I'll get the hang of it soon. Mr. Daniels has just gotten too old to get out and look for relics himself, so he says there's not any more good stuff.”

Eddie might have had a point, but Marc wasn't going to waste time arguing with him. Sometimes Marc thought Eddie liked to argue better than anything else—the same way Mr. Daniels liked to tell stories. But Marc got tired of Eddie's bragging.

“I hope we aren't going to spend all summer digging around in the woods,” said Hermie.

“You just want to spend it digging in the library, in a bunch of dusty old books,” Eddie accused Hermie.

“Hey, it sounds as if we're going to spend all summer fighting,” Marc said. “What else have we got to do except look for relics? Think how exciting it'll be if we find something.”

“Let's make it a contest. We'll see which one of us can collect the reward,” suggested Eddie.

“I think we should work together and share the reward.” Marc figured splitting up would take the fun out of it. Being realistic, he knew all they'd probably find would be some arrowheads or some pottery shards. A big find these days was rare. But that's why the reward was so high. “Whatever one of us finds, we'll share and split the reward three ways. Deal?” Marc put out his hand.