All-American Adventure Page 5

  I was still feeling pretty queasy. And my legs were kind of wobbly when we finally climbed out of the parked plane and marched across the parched dirt to the storage building.

  But once we stepped inside the building and saw what was inside, I forgot all about the rough landing and started to smile. Because we had two awesome ATVs and the coolest RV I’ve ever seen! But that wasn’t all. Hitched behind the RV was a trailer hauling a backhoe.

  “Now, then,” said Uncle Richie, “who wants to go play with these toys in a giant sandbox?”

  We all shot up our hands.

  Hey, even if we didn’t find the treasure, we’d sure have a ton of fun trying to dig it up!

  CHAPTER 19

  Tommy called “first dibs” on the backhoe.

  Beck and I hopped into the ATVs while Storm checked out the air-conditioning in the RV.

  “It’s perfect!” she reported.

  Which was a good thing, because we were heading west into the Anza-Borrego Desert, where summertime temperatures average over 100 degrees during the day.

  “There’s a state park there,” said Uncle Richie. “And several camping sites. We’ll make that our base as we gather intelligence and pinpoint the precise location of Señor Juan de Iturbe’s lost pearl ship!”

  Tommy and Storm rode with Uncle Richie in the RV. Beck and I took the ATVs, which were basically overgrown go-karts. We could drive them without a license, as long as we stayed off the roads, which we had absolutely no trouble doing!

  We set up camp at the state park in a canyon full of sage brush and scrubby little trees.

  And, of course, Storm immediately launched into a tour guide info dump. She is our walking, talking Wikipedia.

  “Anza-Borrego gets its name from two sources,” she told us. “The eighteenth-century Spanish explorer Juan Bautista de Anza and borrego, the Spanish word for bighorn sheep.”

  “Was Señor Anza a shepherd?” asked Tommy.

  “No,” said Uncle Richie. “He was an explorer. However, this desert is home to many endangered bighorned sheep.”

  Storm babbled on about how the park was the second biggest in the contiguous United States. That means all of them except Alaska and Hawaii. Yep, she explained contiguous, too.

  A park ranger cruised into our campsite in a Jeep.

  “Hi, folks,” he said. “What’s with the backhoe? Don’t see many campers hauling those.”

  “We’re going exploring!” replied Uncle Richie. “We might need to dig up some sand.”

  “Here in the park?”

  “Probably not,” said Tommy. “I mean, if you were a Spanish conquistador back in the 1600s, would you hide your treasure chest in a state park?”

  The ranger stared at Tommy. People do that sometimes.

  “Are you folks looking for the lost pearl ship?” asked the ranger.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Uncle Richie. “But how on earth did you deduce that?”

  The ranger shrugged. “Met an interesting fellow up at one of the resorts last night. We played a few hands of cards together—”

  Uncle Richie’s eyebrows went up. “Cards, you say?”

  “Just a friendly game of hearts. We got to talking. He told me he had a treasure map. Said a strange and mysterious Native American lady just gave it to him because he’s a well-known treasure hunter.”

  “Is that so?” I said. “Do you remember his name?”

  “Dirk McDaniels.”

  We all nodded. Dirk McDaniels was new on the treasure-hunting circuit. But he looked good on TV. He did a lot of shows for the Exploration Channel.

  “The mysterious woman promised Mr. McDaniels that the map would lead him straight to the lost ship of the desert—if he could decipher it. Of course, people have been saying that sort of thing around these parts for centuries…”

  “Of course,” said Uncle Richie. “Do you happen to recall where this intrepid gentleman, this Mr. McDaniels, was lodging?”

  “About thirteen miles north of here. Place called the Borrego Springs Resort. It’s a golfer’s desert paradise.”

  “Is that so?” said Uncle Richie, acting interested.

  “Yep,” said the ranger. “I met McDaniels in their fireside lounge. It was prime rib Saturday.”

  “Sounds marvelous. Perhaps I will venture up that way this evening.”

  “You hoping he might share his treasure map with you?”

  Uncle Richie grinned.

  “Something like that.”

  So, later that night, Uncle Richie stuffed a deck of cards (his lucky ones, he told us) into his safari jacket and rode an ATV up to the resort to meet the map man.

  Meanwhile, the rest of us kicked back, relaxed, and watched the incredible light show twinkling overhead. According to Storm, the nearby town of Borrego Springs was the first International Dark Sky Community in California.

  “To cut down on light pollution, they restricted and modified the lights on public streets, outside businesses, and on people’s porches. That’s why we can see millions and millions of stars and even the murky swoosh of the Milky Way.”

  It was absolutely amazing. The most incredible night sky I’ve ever seen on dry land.

  But our evening’s celestial entertainment was interrupted by a video call from Mom and Dad.

  The stars would have to wait.

  CHAPTER 20

  “How was your flight to California?” asked Mom.

  “Awesome!” said Tommy.

  The rest of us tried not to remember the landing. Or the barrel rolls. Or the loop-de-loops. Or whatever those other things were called when we were upside down and sideways with G-forces stretching our cheeks back to our ears.

  “Did you enjoy that lunch I packed?” asked Dad.

  Beck and I burped a little. We were remembering how we served up that lunch. Twice.

  “We’re safe on the ground,” said Storm. “The stars in the desert are spectacular. We’re enjoying our newfound freedom.”

  “Good,” said Mom. “Where’s Uncle Richie?”

  “Off doing research,” I told her.

  “We have a lead on a pearl ship treasure map,” added Beck.

  “Your first day in the field?” said Dad. “I am impressed.”

  “Guess that’s why Uncle Richie is such a treasure-hunting legend,” said Tommy. Maybe because he hadn’t heard Professor Hingleburt trash-talking Uncle Richie outside that bookshop. Or maybe because Uncle Richie let him land an airplane.

  “How are things back in DC?” I asked.

  “Very interesting,” said Mom.

  “Indeed,” added Dad. “Do you kids remember Professor Hingleburt from that night in the Smithsonian?”

  “Chya,” said Tommy. “Cranky old dude needs to chillax.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Dad, “it’s possible Professor Hingleburt and his associates have just made a remarkable discovery.”

  “If it’s true,” added Mom.

  “What’d they find?” I asked.

  “What they claim is one of the long-lost, handwritten, original copies of the Bill of Rights to the United States Constitution.”

  “Where’d they find it?” joked Tommy. “Kinko’s?”

  “Not exactly,” said Mom. She shifted into history teacher mode. “You see, kids, in 1789, Congress agreed to draw up the Bill of Rights—the first ten amendments to the Constitution. George Washington, who, of course, was president at the time, directed three clerks to write out, by hand, fourteen copies of the bill. One was kept by the federal government. The others were sent to each of the thirteen original states for their ratification. However, some have been missing for years.”

  “What happened to them?” asked Beck.

  “History suggests that Georgia’s and New York’s copies were likely burned,” said Dad. “Georgia’s during the Civil War and New York’s during a fire at the state capitol in 1911. Pennsylvania’s copy was stolen in the late nineteenth century and Maryland is unsure of what happened to their copy.” />
  “But here’s the problem,” said Mom. “The document Professor Hingleburt discovered in an old barn in western Maryland spells out very different rights than the text we’re familiar with.”

  “How so?”

  “The First Amendment,” said Dad, “is almost the exact opposite of the one we all know and love.”

  “You mean…” I looked to Beck and we recited it together fast, without taking a breath (it’s another twin thing). “‘Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances?’”

  Mom nodded. “The First Amendment in Professor Hingleburt’s newly discovered Bill of Rights says Congress shall make laws for all those things.”

  “We’re certain it’s a forgery,” said Dad.

  “It has to be,” said Mom. “Otherwise, everything we’ve taught you guys about America and its freedoms will have been a lie!”

  CHAPTER 21

  “That’s horrible,” said Storm.

  Dad nodded. “Fortunately, your mother is one of the foremost antiquarian handwriting experts in the world. We are insisting that she be given a chance to authenticate the document.”

  “Is Professor Hingleburt cooperating?” I asked.

  “Not exactly,” said Mom. “In fact, he suggested that the document in the National Archives is the forgery. That the founding fathers knew better than to give what he calls ‘the ill-educated rabble’ so much freedom. He thinks America might be stronger if people weren’t allowed to say whatever they felt like saying whenever they felt like saying it.”

  “Ha!” Storm gave that a lip fart. Saying whatever she feels like saying (or lip farting) whenever she feels like doing it? That’s how Storm rolls.

  “Long story short,” said Dad, “your mother and I are going to be quite busy here in DC.”

  “We were hoping to eventually join you kids and Uncle Richie on your treasure quest,” added Mom. “But that’s not going to work out. We’ll be tied up for some time investigating this bogus Bill of Rights while simultaneously honoring our commitments at the Smithsonian.”

  “No worries,” said Tommy. “Uncle Richie is cool. We’re cool. Everything’s cool.”

  We all nodded in agreement (even though three of us weren’t so cool about Tommy flying Uncle Richie’s plane).

  “Good luck on your quest!” said Dad.

  “Make us proud!” added Mom.

  “Love you guys!” said Dad.

  “Love you back!” we shouted in unison.

  We signed off and were about to start gazing up at the stars again when Uncle Richie roared into our campsite on the ATV.

  He was waving a rolled-up scroll of leather over his head.

  “Eureka!” he shouted, as he fishtailed to a sand-spewing stop. “The map is ours!”

  “Wha-hut?” said Beck. “Dirk McDaniels gave you the map?”

  “Of course he did. Just as I would’ve given him one million dollars had the cards gone the other way.”

  “You wagered one million dollars?” I said. “In a card game?”

  “Indeed, I did, Bick. We were playing war.”

  “So, uh, do you have a million dollars?” asked Beck.

  “Of course not, Beck! But I knew I wouldn’t need the money. For I held all the aces!”

  “Did you find out anything about the mysterious woman who gave Mr. McDaniels the map?” asked Tommy.

  “She didn’t reveal her name or her identity,” said Uncle Richie. “But Mr. McDaniels described her as a radiant princess with raven-black hair. A descendant of the Cahuilla tribe, which, of course, is native to this land. Just think—her people were sitting under this same blanket of stars long before Juan de Iturbe sailed up from Mexico, searching for precious pearls. They were also here when the Spaniard’s great white bird flew up from Mexico.”

  In the still of the desert night, huddled around the glowing embers of our flickering campfire, we were all mesmerized by the hypnotic sound of Uncle Richie’s voice as he spun his tale. (The guy’s an amazing storyteller. Even better than me.)

  “You see, children, according to first peoples’ legends, many years ago there were great floods in this desert. When this happened, the native people would climb to higher, drier land and live there until the water finally receded. One day, they saw a great big bird with many tall white wings come floating up on the floodwaters from down Mexico way.”

  “With time, the water went away but the bird was stuck in the sand. Its white wings fell away, leaving nothing but a skeleton of three tall and barren trees. The sand blew and blew, and, before long, the bird was completely covered up. She disappeared into the dunes.”

  “A great bird with tall white wings?” said Storm. “Three tall and barren trees? Sounds like a three-masted sailing ship to me.”

  Uncle Richie grinned. “Indeed. And the young lady’s Cahuilla ancestors drew this map to commemorate exactly where that big bird is buried!”

  CHAPTER 22

  Uncle Richie unrolled the map, which was painted on a thin and crinkly animal hide.

  Uncle Richie pointed a flashlight at a three-winged bird nestled between mountains or sand dunes.

  “X marks the spot!” he proclaimed. “It lines up with legend. Notice the higher elevations. These mountains. That’s where the wise Cahuilla people waited out the flood. Meanwhile, our seafaring friend, the poor pearl poacher Señor Juan de Iturbe, was trapped in the muck as the waters receded.”

  “Check out this pool of water with the crowd of people around it,” said Beck, tapping an illustration. Uncle Richie swung his flashlight down to illuminate the spot.

  “Is that a pair of palm trees?” asked Tommy, peering at the same detail.

  “Dos Palmas,” said Storm. “An artesian spring that was a watering place for Native Americans traveling across the Colorado Desert.”

  Uncle Richie nodded. “And, for many years, the palm-shrouded oasis at the foot of the mountains was also a spot to fill your canteens and water barrels as you made your way along the Bradshaw Trail between San Bernardino and the gold mining boomtowns of Arizona.”

  Storm and Uncle Richie were definitely related. The guy could almost out-nerd her. They probably shared the same “obscure trivia” gene.

  “But,” said Storm, “Dos Palmas is located to the east of the Salton Sea, not the west as indicated on this primitive map.”

  “Maybe because compasses and directions hadn’t been invented way back then,” said Tommy.

  “Or,” suggested Beck, “maybe this is some kind of secret map. And you can only read it correctly if you know the code.”

  “Cool,” said Tommy. “We’ve had secret maps before. Remember?”

  “Totally,” I said.

  “Here’s the key,” said Storm, tapping the hummingbird icon in the corner of the map.

  “Of course!” boomed Uncle Richie. “Well done, Storm! Ha! No wonder Dirk McDaniels thought this map was worthless. Laughed at me when I wagered a million dollars against it. Told me he’s been following this map for weeks and found nothing but sand.”

  “Wait a second,” said Tommy. “This map is no good?”

  “Only if you don’t know how to read it. Which, thanks to your genius sister Storm, we now do.”

  “Awesome!” I said. “So, uh, what did she just figure out?”

  Uncle Richie turned to Storm. He was beaming. “Storm, if you please, enlighten us!”

  “A hummingbird can fly backward,” said Storm with a knowing smile.

  “The map is backward,” said Beck. “It’s been flipped. To hide the secret!”

  “Exactly!” said Uncle Richie. “We just need to flip everything around, orientating the map off the eastern shore of the Salton Sea. We also need to break camp at first light. Our treasure chest filled with black pearls awaits us in the desert sands north of
Dos Palmas!”

  CHAPTER 23

  The next morning, while the sun was still rising, we quickly loaded up our gear. Beck and I would ride our ATVs behind the RV hauling the bulldozer.

  We exited the park and swung north of the Salton Sea until we were headed east on the flat dirt of Box Canyon Road.

  Until we saw the not-so-fun sinister black helicopter hovering overhead. It was tailing us!

  I shielded my eyes from the scorching sun.

  Looking up, I noticed a familiar logo painted on the belly of the black chopper chasing us up Box Canyon Road.

  “NCTE!” I read out loud.

  “Nathan Collier Treasure Extractors,” Beck shouted back at me.

  Nathan Collier was the biggest star on the Exploration Cable Channel. He was also the worst treasure hunter in the world. Collier would have a hard time finding the toy surprise hidden inside a box of Cracker Jack. That’s why he was always following us Kidds around, hoping to snatch our finds out from under us or take credit for discoveries we’d already made.

  And judging by his swooping chopper, Dirk McDaniels, the rising young star at the Exploration Channel, worked for NCTE. Nathan Collier was Dirk McDaniels’s boss.

  “Dirk McDaniels played Uncle Richie!” shouted Beck as we thundered up the dusty road.

  I totally agreed with my twin sis. “McDaniels let Uncle Richie beat him in that card game so we’d decipher the map and lead him right to the ship. I’ll bet he even sent that park ranger over to our campsite—to lure Uncle Richie to that bogus card game.”