“Would you please take me there?” the boy asked.

“Take you there? I suppose I’m to close my shop and hire a rig?”

“My father would be willing to…” He stopped before saying “pay you,” because the phrase made him realize why the men might have stolen Charlie. His father would pay for Charlie’s return-but Andrew, much cast down, certain he would be blamed for all that had gone wrong, wasn’t sure his father would want his willful eldest son back at all.

“I’m sure your father would be willing to take you wherever you like,” the store owner was saying, “but I can’t leave my place of business.”

“Please, sir, how far am I from Jefferson Road?”

“By the main road? About ten miles. Of course, as the crow flies, it’s only about three.”

“Which way does the crow fly?”

The man laughed. “Oh, westward over the oil fields, I suppose.”

Andrew brightened a little at this. His father had taken him to the oil fields twice, most recently just two days ago. The oilmen knew his father. He might see someone there who would help him return home.

He thanked the proprietor and began walking toward the forest of wooden derricks he had seen on the way into town. When he reached them, he again became frightened. Although the paths between the derricks had the same sharp fragrance of oil-soaked wood and earth, there was no sign of the bustling activity he had seen at the other oil field, the one he had traveled to with his father. Here equipment was still and rusty with disuse, the drilling platforms damaged and empty. The wooden buildings attached to the derricks, which he knew to be called doghouses, were rickety and missing boards. Even the small offices and equipment shacks appeared to be abandoned. He remembered his father talking of wells that were dry, and wondered if this was an oil field full of such wells.

He told himself that he would sooner or later find other people, and walked toward the sun. Close up, the distance between the wells was greater, and the derricks seemed much taller. They loomed over him, silent giants which began to look identical.

His feet started to ache, and then to throb and burn, but still he walked toward the sun. That the distance he must travel to reach his home was nearly double the shopkeeper’s estimate would not have mattered to him. He was thirsty and tired, but he continued to place one foot before the other, the sound of his steps a counterpoint to his troubled thoughts. He walked over hills whose shade was welcomed but confusing to his sense of direction. Coming to one rise, he at last saw the more familiar sight of an active field. He could not run, but began to shout for help as he drew closer and closer. One of the men who was climbing high on a distant derrick noticed him and pointed. Soon, two men rode horses to where he stood, swaying on his feet, exhausted more by his emotions than his exertions.

“Why, it’s the Masters boy!” one of the men shouted, leaping down from his horse.

“Charlie,” Andrew said, beginning to cry. “They stole Charlie.”

At first, his parents rejoiced in his return. They had spent several hours alarmed by the discovery that their children were not playing under the tree and could not be located anywhere on the large property. They could not know that by the time the attic and stables had been searched, Jack had already given Andrew his quarter.

They wept over Andrew when the oil field boss brought him home, and had not remonstrated against him. But quickly their alarm returned; their fears for Charlie were expressed in recriminations hurled at his older brother, who should have known better than to get into a strange conveyance, who should have known better than to leave his brother for a quarter.

“Two bits!” Papa shouted. “Even Judas held out for forty pieces of silver!”

His mother intervened then, and separated them by taking Andrew to his room. But soon there were police to be answered, and not much later the detectives from Pinkerton’s, and over time, endless others. Tough men, large men, ill-mannered men, always badgering him for descriptions and repetition of details, making unpleasant suggestions as to how it might have truly happened that Andrew was spared. Under this assault, details became confused in Andrew’s mind, memories shifted, and to his father’s fury, he could not name the town-or be certain of the roads, or how far he had traveled. Eventually the store he had visited was located, but as Andrew could have told anyone who might have listened, no one in that town had noticed Charlie and the two men.

A ransom note, postmarked from Pittsburgh, arrived three torturous days later. The letter, filled with misspellings, was eventually deciphered to be a demand for twenty thousand dollars, details of payment to be forthcoming. Papa declared himself ready to pay.

By now, newspapers were publishing stories of “Little Charlie Masters,” whose brother had abandoned him to kidnappers. This was, of course, not at all what the papers intended to convey, but it was how every story appeared to Andrew.

During this time Andrew slept and ate little, cried easily and was prone to nightmares of the worst sort. He could not help but notice that his parents no longer looked him in the eye, that the servants whispered. Had not Grandpapa arrived to protect him from his persecutors, and threatened to remove their one remaining son from their home, the Masters might not have gone on as a family through the ordeal that awaited them.

The instructions never came. The explanation for the failure of the kidnappers to continue on their course was not uncovered until an enterprising Pinkerton’s man compared descriptions of Jack and Phil with two robbers gunned down by police in Pittsburgh on the day the letter had been received. As he lay dying, one of the men-Jack, it seems-had said, “Never find Charlie now.”

Questioning of the men’s few known associates yielded nothing. The detectives advised the Masters to assume their son was dead.

Never one to give up, Papa announced to the newspapers that he was offering forty thousand dollars-an astronomical sum, twice the amount demanded by the kidnappers-to anyone who returned his son Charlie to him. Other than renewed publicity and attention, nothing came of it.

Over the years following Charlie’s kidnapping, Andrew learned to calmly accept his altered position in the family. His parents could not punish the kidnappers, so they punished the person they had come to view as an accomplice. They used the weapon of choice for persons of their breeding and social stature-civility. Andrew was accorded this, but little more. Charlie, by contrast, took on in memory saintly attributes he never had in life, became the perfect son denied to them. His room was enshrined, his toys left waiting for his return.

On Andrew’s eleventh birthday, the one-hundred-fourth pretender (by Andrew’s careful accounting) arrived at the Masters home. He was easily dismissed as yet another boy put forward by some schemer as “Little Charlie”. There were always stories to go with these pretenders-of how the missing boy’s “adoptive” parents had taken pity on some feverish waif who had then forgotten all of his previous life until just this moment-but Andrew could not bear to listen to another one. He asked Old Davey to saddle his favorite mare, then rode toward the town where Charlie had disappeared.

This time he did not venture into the town itself, where he had become a familiar and pitied sight, but turned off into the abandoned oil field. He rode slowly, and at times dismounted to take a closer look at some object. At last his search was, at least in one sense, rewarded. He spent another hour or two at the site, then rode home. That he was filthy and had ruined his clothes either escaped his parents’ notice, or was (more likely) not thought to be worthy of their comment.