The Man with the Red Bag Read Online Free PDF Page A

his long, dumb jokes—about an old prospector—and I could turn him all the way off. What if I went up to him right now and confided my suspicions? After all, he’d be smarter than Geneva. But I was back to the same old thing. All I had were suspicions, and as Geneva had so rudely pointed out, I didn’t have much to base them on.
    I was thinking hard. “ We’re not important. But suppose one of the other passengers is? Suppose one of them is a…a senator or a…a general in the United States Army…or the vice president of the United States in disguise?”
    Geneva looked thoughtful. “Maybe.”
    We reeled off the names of the people in the tour group. “The Doves?” I said. “Impossible. Buffo and Blessing—the two otters? Couldn’t be. Millie and Beth?”
    â€œIf Millie were the vice president of the United States, she’d have blabbed about it already,” Geneva said.
    â€œBesides,” I added, “she doesn’t trust Stavros, either. Midge? I can’t imagine her being a general in the army.”
    Geneva bristled. “Why? Because she’s a woman?”
    â€œNo. Because she looks after dogs. She doesn’t have time to do army stuff. Could be one of the Texans. Who from Texas would be so important on this trip that a terrorist would want to blow that person up?”
    Geneva shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone.”
    We sat staring at the seat-back in front of us, hoping for inspiration.
    â€œYour grandma, then,” Geneva said at last.
    â€œMy grandma! Get serious! What about your dad?”
    â€œHe’s too busy working for the Africans. He’s too busy even for us.”
    Uh-oh, I thought. Better to stay off the subject of her dad.
    Geneva sighed. “We’re stymied.”
    I stood up, pretending to stretch, grabbing a look at Charles Stavros. I couldn’t see the red bag but I knew it was there, right next to him.
    â€œStill aboard?” Geneva asked.
    I thought she was probably being sarcastic, so I sarcasted right back. “No, he jumped out the window but we didn’t notice.”
    Geneva giggled.
    I hoped she was taking this seriously. “This is not a game, you know,” I said.
    She sniffed in an offended way and said, “Not to me.”
    Then I told her my last idea.
    â€œI think it’s a building he’s after,” I said. “A buildingwe stop at. Or pass.”
    â€œWhat building?”
    I shrugged. “How do I know?”
    Â 
    We crossed the border from Idaho into Wyoming, the forty-fourth state admitted to the Union. Declan told us how the pioneers had streamed west on the California, Mormon, and Oregon Trails. He told us about the great blizzard of 1887, in which thousands of cattle died. When he said part of Wyoming had once belonged to Texas, there was a cheer from the four Texans. I was afraid they might burst into song, but they didn’t. I guessed they were miffed that Texas had ever had to give up anything.
    Geneva and I were quiet, inspiration gone.
    I gazed out of the window at the endless grasslands, the rivers, the cattle grazing peacefully. It was good to give my brain a rest. I let myself imagine how it must have been, back in the days of Jim Bridger, the famous trapper and mountain man, the days of the covered wagons, creaking along the narrow trails. Bison would have been everywhere. It must have been beautiful. And it was beautiful still.
    We stopped in the town of Jackson outside a big, old-time-looking wooden hotel with a porch all the way around it.
    â€œI bet Jim Bridger tied his horse up to one of those posts,” Geneva said.
    â€œYep.” I could just see it.
    â€œOne hour,” Declan announced. “Scotty will pick us up again right where he lets us off. You’re welcome to sit awhile on the porch and have yourselves a cold drink. Or wander the town, if you like.”
    â€œOn guard,” Geneva