avoiding the swish of Dumpster’s cold, wet tail.
Rub him down? As if Camp himself wasn’t soaked. Obviously, the whole incident had amused Maizie. All along she’d known the outcome. But as his unplanned dip had washed off all his soda paste, Camp was not amused.
Once he sat in his wagon again, dry and slathered with paste, he felt more benevolent. He supposed it was funny that of all the horses Megan might have swiped, she’d picked that one.
Poor Emily. She fought an uphill battle with those kids.
Wide-awake now, Camp decided to compile the data sheets Sherry had collected. He pulled out Gina’s. She’d devoted a half page to the invasion of giant mosquitoes at Neff’s Tavern. With uncharacteristic wit, Gina stated that at one point she had to fight them for possession of her camera. Camp shuddered. It was just as well he hadn’t stopped. It hurt to imagine mosquito bites on top of sumac poisoning.
Sherry grumbled about Brittany’s petulance. In between doodles and snide comments, she wrote that she was sick of the same scenery. Camp expected similar criticisms from Emily. Instead, she described the prairie in terms of rich colors and unending vistas. And she wrote eloquently of the sorrow she’d felt visiting the Neff family cemetery, because they’d lost so many children in infancy. Camp imagined tears in Emily’s lovely blue eyes as she poured out her heart.
He tapped his pencil to his lips. Clearly he was going soft on Emily. And he shouldn’t. For the sake of his paper, it was imperative that he remain objective.
An admirable plan, but Camp’s dreams that night and the next were far from objective. Still, Emily’s sympathetic smile and the memory of her soothing touch kept him plodding through the days; her homemade concoction offered him relief from the terrible itch during long, sleepless nights.
The day before they were due to reach Council Grove, Camp noted how everyone’s spirits seemed to lift. He felt it, too. His rash had subsided enough for him to shave at last. This morning, he felt almost human. All in all, Camp thought things were finally looking up.
Mark Benton had quit bugging him and had started hanging out with Jared Boone. Brittany and Megan cloistered themselves each evening, trading books and teen magazines. A much subdued Megan, Camp noted.
His mind still on the youngsters, Camp circled to the rear of his wagon to dispose of the water he’d used for shaving. He startled Mark, who guiltily thrust a stack of shiny metal objects behind his back—so suddenly, that he dropped one.
“What do you have there, Mark?” Camp inquired offhandedly. “Are you and Jared collecting coffee can lids to use as slingshot targets?”
Mark grabbed for the fallen items, and in the process dropped two more. Camp saw they were cut in shapes—like road markers. Rusted stakes protruded from each.
He set his shaving kit and basin aside and went for a closer inspection. Being less encumbered than the boy, Camp bent easily and retrieved two that still lay on the ground. His gaze lit on green Conestogas etched on a white tin background and stenciled letters that said: Santa Fe Trail. They were markers. Shooting the boy a glance, Camp saw that he was poised for flight.
Camp stopped him with a look he reserved for students cheating on a test. “Mark, the historical society spent a lot of time and money placing these markers along the trail route. Removing them is a serious matter.”
“I found them,” Mark said, but he also licked his lips nervously.
“Found them where? The dirt on some of these stakes is fresh.”
Mark dumped the markers he still held at Camp’s feet. “Take ’em. I don’t even want the stupid old things.”
“You need to put them back where they belong, Mark. When did you start this collection?”
The boy’s color drained. He backed away. “Yesterday. But what difference does it make? Nobody but us’ll see ’em.”
“A lot of tourists visit the trail.
Rub him down? As if Camp himself wasn’t soaked. Obviously, the whole incident had amused Maizie. All along she’d known the outcome. But as his unplanned dip had washed off all his soda paste, Camp was not amused.
Once he sat in his wagon again, dry and slathered with paste, he felt more benevolent. He supposed it was funny that of all the horses Megan might have swiped, she’d picked that one.
Poor Emily. She fought an uphill battle with those kids.
Wide-awake now, Camp decided to compile the data sheets Sherry had collected. He pulled out Gina’s. She’d devoted a half page to the invasion of giant mosquitoes at Neff’s Tavern. With uncharacteristic wit, Gina stated that at one point she had to fight them for possession of her camera. Camp shuddered. It was just as well he hadn’t stopped. It hurt to imagine mosquito bites on top of sumac poisoning.
Sherry grumbled about Brittany’s petulance. In between doodles and snide comments, she wrote that she was sick of the same scenery. Camp expected similar criticisms from Emily. Instead, she described the prairie in terms of rich colors and unending vistas. And she wrote eloquently of the sorrow she’d felt visiting the Neff family cemetery, because they’d lost so many children in infancy. Camp imagined tears in Emily’s lovely blue eyes as she poured out her heart.
He tapped his pencil to his lips. Clearly he was going soft on Emily. And he shouldn’t. For the sake of his paper, it was imperative that he remain objective.
An admirable plan, but Camp’s dreams that night and the next were far from objective. Still, Emily’s sympathetic smile and the memory of her soothing touch kept him plodding through the days; her homemade concoction offered him relief from the terrible itch during long, sleepless nights.
The day before they were due to reach Council Grove, Camp noted how everyone’s spirits seemed to lift. He felt it, too. His rash had subsided enough for him to shave at last. This morning, he felt almost human. All in all, Camp thought things were finally looking up.
Mark Benton had quit bugging him and had started hanging out with Jared Boone. Brittany and Megan cloistered themselves each evening, trading books and teen magazines. A much subdued Megan, Camp noted.
His mind still on the youngsters, Camp circled to the rear of his wagon to dispose of the water he’d used for shaving. He startled Mark, who guiltily thrust a stack of shiny metal objects behind his back—so suddenly, that he dropped one.
“What do you have there, Mark?” Camp inquired offhandedly. “Are you and Jared collecting coffee can lids to use as slingshot targets?”
Mark grabbed for the fallen items, and in the process dropped two more. Camp saw they were cut in shapes—like road markers. Rusted stakes protruded from each.
He set his shaving kit and basin aside and went for a closer inspection. Being less encumbered than the boy, Camp bent easily and retrieved two that still lay on the ground. His gaze lit on green Conestogas etched on a white tin background and stenciled letters that said: Santa Fe Trail. They were markers. Shooting the boy a glance, Camp saw that he was poised for flight.
Camp stopped him with a look he reserved for students cheating on a test. “Mark, the historical society spent a lot of time and money placing these markers along the trail route. Removing them is a serious matter.”
“I found them,” Mark said, but he also licked his lips nervously.
“Found them where? The dirt on some of these stakes is fresh.”
Mark dumped the markers he still held at Camp’s feet. “Take ’em. I don’t even want the stupid old things.”
“You need to put them back where they belong, Mark. When did you start this collection?”
The boy’s color drained. He backed away. “Yesterday. But what difference does it make? Nobody but us’ll see ’em.”
“A lot of tourists visit the trail.
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