The Mystery of the Castaway Children

iron horseshoe onto a shelf and started racing back down the hill.
    A minute later, Jim came whizzing behind her on his bicycle. As he caught up, he called, “Even though I’m not wild about your entrances and exits this morning, I’ll give you a ride home if you give me breakfast.”
    “It’s a deal,” Trixie agreed.
    Balancing on Jim’s handlebars, Trixie enjoyed the cool morning air that struck her face. As Jim coasted down the steep, twisting path, trees and boulders flashed by. They came to the spot where she had picked up the horseshoe. Had Jim hit it at this speed, they would have had a terrible accident. She pointed with her head and said, “That’s where I found it.”
    Jim leaned forward. “Found what?”
    “The horseshoe. Who lost it? Not Susie, I hope.” Susie was the small black mare Trixie loved to ride, even though the beautiful animal really belonged to Miss Trask.
    “All our horses’ shoes are on tight this morning,” answered Jim. “I checked them myself.” “I’ve been searching the path for clues about Moses’ arrival,” Trixie explained.
    “Have you considered that he might have been brought on a motorcycle?” Jim inquired.
    Trixie was thoughtful. “You’re right—the baby could have ridden in the sidecar.”
    “The only thing is, we haven’t seen any tire marks,” said Jim, bringing the bike to a halt as they came near the gate behind the doghouse.
    Inside the Belden house, the day had already begun. Mrs. Belden was bustling about the kitchen, which was filled with the good smells of bacon and coffee. She greeted Trixie with a look of amusement.
    “The baby seems to have gotten everyone up on the early side this morning,” chuckled Mrs. Belden. “Even my daughter.” She called to Bobby, “Set another plate. Jim is having breakfast with us.” With a welcoming twinkle at Jim, she asked, “You are, aren’t you?” She turned back to Trixie. “Mart’s on cloud nine. He’s so positive you’re fast asleep that he’s taking charge of the baby.”
    “That double crosser,” fumed Trixie.
    “Mart didn’t drop him, or stick him with pins, or anything bad,” Bobby declared. “Yet,” he added darkly.
    Trixie rushed into the guest room to see for herself. She found Mart in full control, so intent on dressing Moses that he was not aware Trixie had come in until she spoke.
    At the sight of the child, Trixie forgot her petty irritation. “He’s so little, so thin,” she whispered tenderly.
    “I know,” her brother answered soberly. “Last night, I thought he was just very young and very small, but this morning...”
    “He looks like a half-starved little bird!” Trixie winked back tears.
    During the previous night’s excitement, no one had really studied the tired baby. In the early morning sunlight, Trixie was shocked to see that Moses was smaller than the doll she used to hang by ribbon straps beside her dressing table. A little fuzz of dark hair grew above his ears and on the top of his head, but it was worn to the skin on the back of his head.
    “Oh, my gosh, Mart!” Trixie cried softly. “He— he has bruises! And his hands—they’re just like little bird claws,” she moaned.
    Bobby entered the room and announced, “His feet, too. And you know what, Trixie? One foot is dirty, and Mart can’t get it clean.”
    “Tar,” Mart said briefly. “And some kind of machine oil, but I got that off.” Carefully he moved Moses’ bony legs. “See these abrasions? Brian thinks he must have had a fall several days ago, but I don’t think he fell. Look—the bruises are just under his arms and on his stomach.” Trixie sank down on the bed, weak with sudden anger. “Oh, Mart, do you think someone has actually b-battered Moses?”
    “Batter is pancakes,” said Bobby, puzzled.
    “Batter also means to beat more than once,” his brother explained quietly. “Violent abuse and neglect are now the largest causes of death among American children.”
    Bobby released a shivering sigh. “Then I’m glad somebody quit battering up Moses and stuck him in our doghouse.”
    “What can be done, legally, about child abuse?” Trixie asked her brother.
    Mart was the family clown, but he had a well-stocked mind. It didn’t surprise Trixie that he was able to tell her about the laws that required certain professionals to report abuse and encouraged citizens to report suspected neglect.
    Trixie clenched her hands. “I simply have to find the—the so-called