Hunting for Hidden Gold Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER I - Danger in the Fog

  CHAPTER II - A Suspicious Summons

  CHAPTER III - Shortcut to Peril

  CHAPTER IV - A Painted Warning

  CHAPTER V - The Strange Blue Light

  CHAPTER VI - Ghost Music

  CHAPTER VII - A Rooftop Struggle

  CHAPTER VIII - Tommy-knockers!

  CHAPTER IX - The Crowbar Clue

  CHAPTER X - Ambush Trail

  CHAPTER XI - Shadow of the Bear

  CHAPTER XII - Big Al’s Orders

  CHAPTER XIII - A Fight in the Dark

  CHAPTER XIV - The Broken Knife

  CHAPTER XV - Underground Chase

  CHAPTER XVI - Cliff Hideaway

  CHAPTER XVII - The Secret Listener

  CHAPTER XVIII - North from Lone Tree

  CHAPTER XIX - Wolf Prey

  CHAPTER XX - Windy Peak Prisoner

  HUNTING FOR HIDDEN GOLD

  Timber wolves, a Rocky Mountain blizzard, and a mine cave-in are only a few of the perils Frank and Joe Hardy encounter during their search for the principal members of a notorious gang responsible for a payroll robbery.

  In the old Montana mining camp of Lucky Lode, the young detectives puzzle over a series of mysterious events. A piano-playing ghost haunts the long-abandoned dance hall. Eerie blue lights flash from the hilltop cemetery in the dark of night. Strange men arrange a meeting at Shadow of the Bear. A suspect disappears through a curtain of frozen ice.

  How are these events related to the men who kidnapped the boys in Chicago? Who booby-trapped the helicopter which flew the young detectives to the ghost town? And what ever happened to Bart Dawson who seemingly deserted his gold-mining partners twenty-five years ago?

  Clue by clue, Frank and Joe cleverly fit into place the scattered pieces of this dangerous puzzle and come up with the astonishing solution.

  The wolf pack seemed to sense that its victims were trying to escape

  PRINTED ON RECYCLED PAPER

  Copyright © 1991, 1963, 1956, 1928 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights

  reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam &

  Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. .S.A.

  THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

  eISBN : 978-1-440-67319-1

  2007 Printing

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  CHAPTER I

  Danger in the Fog

  “SOMEBODY’S going to get hurt!” Frank Hardy exclaimed.

  He and his four companions paused in the darkening woods and listened as rifleshots and loud laughter rang out from a nearby ridge.

  “Careless hunters,” Frank’s brother Joe said grimly.

  Joe was seventeen, tall and blond, and a year younger than Frank.

  “Let’s go back to the cabin,” urged plump Chet Morton nervously. “I’m hungry, anyhow.”

  Lanky Biff Hooper agreed. “We can look for a campsite tomorrow.”

  “Unless Frank and Joe are called away to solve a mystery,” Tony Prito needled.

  Frank chuckled. “There’s a chance we will—”

  Smack! A bullet thudded into a tree an inch from Joe’s head!

  For a moment there was stunned silence. Then Frank asked quickly, “Joe, are you all right?”

  His brother gulped and looked at the gash in the bark. “I’m okay. But one inch closer—”

  Biff Hooper’s handsome face flushed with anger. “I’m going after those fellows!” he declared.

  As he spoke, three hunters came into view.

  “Hold it!” Frank hailed them. “You men nearly killed my brother!”

  “Why don’t you be careful?” Joe shouted.

  “Sorry, boys,” one of the men called back casually. He and his companions did not stop; instead, they moved on through the undergrowth.

  “Is that all you’ve got to say?” Chet bellowed.

  “Forget it, kid,” another of the hunters replied. “Nobody got hurt.”

  “Stupid sportsmen!” growled Joe as the trio disappeared. He added to his companions, “You fellows nearly lost one business partner.”

  The five boys had pooled money to build their own cabin and were exploring the deep woods north of Bayport looking for a campsite.

  To relieve the tension caused by the near accident, Tony Prito said jokingly, “We’re used to the idea of losing you and Frank. Every time we start a project, you two get involved in a mystery.”

  Frank and Joe were the sons of Fenton Hardy, the well-known detective. They had solved many mysteries on their own and sometimes cooperated with their father on his cases.

  Biff grinned. “Amazing! We’ve been here one whole day, and you Hardys are still with us!”

  Frank winked at Joe. “We may have to leave,” he admitted. “Dad’s on a case out West and we’re hoping we’ll get a call to go and help him.”

  The others groaned, then laughed. “In fact,” Joe added, “we might even find a clue right around here.”

  “What!” chorused the Hardys’ pals.

  “Remember when Frank and I inquired at the store about a man named Mike Onslow?” Joe went on, “Dad asked us to keep an eye out for him. Onslow lives somewhere in these woods, and he may have some useful information that ties in with Dad’s case.”

  “Come on,” said Chet. “Let’s eat and talk later.”

  The boys pushed on through the growing darkness. Fog was beginning to rise by the time they reached the edge of the clearing where their rented cabin stood. As they crossed to the crude log house, rifleshots sounded in the distance.

  Chet winced. “Those careless hunters are still at it,” he remarked.

  The boys were about to enter the cabin when Joe exclaimed, “Quiet!”

  They all halted, listening intently. “It sounded like a cry,” Joe said.

  The others had heard nothing, and finally went inside.

  “Hope nobody was shot by those fools,” Tony remarked, lighting the oil lamp.

  Frank and Joe built a fire in the fireplace, while Chet started supper on a wood stove.

  “This is a bad place to get hurt,” Biff said.

  The boys were ten miles from the nearest town, Clintville, and the only road was steep and rutted. They had borrowed Mr. Hardy’s car for the trip, but had left it in the Clintville Garage. George Haskins, owner of the town’s one hotel, had rented them the cabin, and his son Lenny had driven the boys to it in his jeep.

  “It wouldn’t be easy to get help here,” Joe agreed.

  “Dinner’s nearly ready,” Chet announced. “Bring chairs to the—” He stopped short. From the clearing outside came the sound of running feet and then a frantic hammering on the door. Tony strode over and opened it. Lenny Haskins, a lanky boy, stood in the doorway, panting.

  “What’s the matter?” Tony asked the youth.

  “Frank and Joe Hardy have a long-distance call at the hotel,” the boy blurted, out of breath.

  “From where?” Frank asked.

  “Don’t know,” Lenny said. “There’s trouble on the line and all I could make out was that the person would call back in an hour or so.”

  “Maybe it’s Dad!” Frank exclaimed.

  “I’ll bet you’re right,” Joe agreed. “We told him he could reach us through Mr. Haskins.”

  “You fellows go ahead and eat,” said Frank. “Joe and I will return to the hotel with Lenny.”

  With the Haskins boy leading the way, the Hardys hurried across the clearing and down a trail through the m
isty woods to the road. There they piled into the rattletrap jeep.

  “Hang on!” said Lenny, as they started a bone-shaking ride downhill.

  Twenty minutes later the car reached Main Street in Clintville and came to a stop in front of Haskins Hotel. The telephone was ringing as the boys rushed in.

  Mr. Haskins seized the receiver from the wall telephone. “Yep!” he shouted into the mouthpiece, then handed the instrument to Frank.

  “This is Hank Shale,” came a voice, barely understandable through the static. “Your pa asked me to call and say he needs your help pronto.”

  “Is Dad okay?” Frank asked loudly.

  The answer was drowned out by crackling noises over the wire. Then the voice said, “Get here to Lucky Lode,” and the line went dead.

  “Hank Shale is the name of the old friend Dad told us he’d be staying with,” Joe recalled. “But how do we know that was really Shale?”

  “I heard the operator say it was Lucky Lode calling,” put in Mr. Haskins.

  “That settles it then,” Frank said urgently. “Something has happened. We must take off right away and help Dad!”

  “There’s a morning flight to the West,” Joe said. “We’ll have to make it!”

  After some difficulty, the boys managed to place a call to Lucky Lode, notifying Hank of their plan to start out the next day.

  “Better eat before you go,” the hotel proprietor said kindly.

  Gratefully the hungry boys joined Mr. Haskins and Lenny at a table in the kitchen. While they ate, Frank and Joe made their plans. They asked Lenny to take them back to the cabin in his jeep and wait while they packed.

  “Then we’ll pick up our car in the garage, drive all night, and make Bayport by sunup. Another car can be sent back later for the other fellows.”

  After the meal, the Hardys thanked Mr. Haskins and hurried out with Lenny. Soon they were riding up the steep hill in the noisy jeep.

  Joe shouted, “We’ll have to move fast to—”

  Crash! The oil pan of the jeep hit a rock in the road. The vehicle lurched into the ditch and stopped against a tree.

  “We can soon push it back on the road,” Lenny said, as they climbed out.

  “No use. We wouldn’t get far, the way it’s losing oil,” replied Frank when he saw the extent of the damage. “We’ll walk the rest of the way and you can go back for help or another car.”

  Lenny agreed and hurried down the hill as the Hardys began hiking up the rugged road. Their flashlights were on, but the beams hardly penetrated the thickening fog. Often they stumbled over rocks and into ruts. The night was raw and damp.

  The jeep lurched into the ditch!

  Suddenly Joe stopped. “What’s that?”

  For a second they both stood still and from the woods came a faint cry. “He-e-elp!”

  “Come on!” Frank said tersely.

  The boys cut into the woods on their right, and felt their way through the mist-shrouded trees. Low branches cut their faces, and once Joe tripped over a huge oak root.

  Again they heard the thin call for help.

  “Over there,” said Frank, “where the fog is denser.”

  Cautiously they moved forward. Suddenly the cry came more loudly—from right below their feet!

  “Careful,” warned Frank, feeling ahead with his foot. “There’s a ravine here.” Half sliding, the boys worked their way down the bank. At the bottom Frank stumbled over something bulky and there came another moan. He beamed his light on a prostrate figure.

  “Here he is, Joe,” said Frank. The two boys knelt beside the victim.

  “My leg,” the man groaned. “I’ve been shot.”

  With extreme care Frank pulled aside the trouser cloth torn by the bullet. “Doesn’t seem to be much bleeding now, but there might be more when we move you.” Quickly the boys wound their handkerchiefs loosely around the man’s thigh to use as a tourniquet if necessary.

  As they lifted the moaning figure, he fainted.

  “No time to waste, Joe. He’s pretty weak.”

  Joe peered around into the blanket of fog. “Suppose we can’t find our cabin?” he asked grimly.

  “We must,” Frank replied. “This man may die if we don’t get him to shelter.”

  CHAPTER II

  A Suspicious Summons

  TOGETHER, the boys eased the unconscious man up the bank. Then Frank hoisted him over one shoulder.

  “Lucky he’s not a big fellow,” Joe commented.

  He went ahead, beaming his light through the fog and leading Frank by one hand. Gradually the white mist grew less dense, and the Hardys could make out the shapes of trees.

  “That looks like the oak where I stumbled,” Joe said. “I think we go left here.”

  Progress was slow and uncertain. Finally Frank said, “If we don’t come to the road soon, we’d better stop. We may have lost our bearings and be heading deeper into the woods.”

  To the boys’ relief, the man’s wound bled little. Just as they were about to turn back, Joe felt rocky ruts underfoot and exclaimed, “Here’s the road!”

  Carefully he and Frank began the climb uphill and struggled to the top. The fog had drifted and lightened in spots. The boys trudged on. Finally, Frank caught sight of the path which led to the clearing. A few minutes later the Hardys found the cabin, and Frank pounded on the door.

  Biff opened it and exclaimed in amazement. Quickly he and the other boys helped carry the man to one of the bunks and covered him. When Tony brought the oil lamp from the table, they saw that the man’s face was deeply seamed by time and weather. Joe removed the man’s worn woolen hat, revealing a thick thatch of grizzled hair.

  While Frank cut away the victim’s trouser leg and examined the bullet wound in his thigh, Joe quietly told the others all that had happened. Meantime, Biff unpacked their first-aid kit, and Chet began heating a can of soup.

  “We must get this man to a doctor,” Frank said as he finished bandaging the leg. “The bullet will have to be removed.”

  The victim groaned and his eyes fluttered open. “Wh-where am I?” he whispered.

  Joe quickly explained what had happened.

  “Sip this soup,” Chet told the patient, “and you’ll feel a lot better. I’ll feed it to you.”

  When the stranger had finished the soup, he said in a stronger voice, “Thank you, boys, for a mighty good turn. I wish I could repay you.”

  “The most important thing is to get you to a doctor. We’re expecting Lenny Haskins to come for—” Frank broke off as the old man gave a start. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Say! Would any of you boys be Frank and Joe Hardy?” the patient inquired in a feeble voice.

  The two brothers identified themselves.

  “I plumb forgot, gettin’ shot by that fool hunter and all,” the man went on, “but you’re the lads I was comin’ to see. The storekeeper in Clintville said you wanted to get in touch with me.”

  “Are you Mike Onslow?” Frank queried.

  “Yep, that’s me.”

  “We asked about you, but the storekeeper told us you’d probably be off tending your traplines,” Frank went on. “He doubted we’d catch you at home, even if we could find your cabin.”

  Onslow nodded. “My shack’s pretty hard to get to if you don’t know these woods. I camp out quite a bit, anyhow, durin’ the trappin’ season.” He gave the brothers a quizzical look. “What you want to see me about?”

  “You’d better not do any more talking till you’re stronger,” Joe advised.

  But the trapper insisted he felt equal to it, so Frank explained that their father was a private detective and had been engaged to track down a gang of criminals in Montana.

  “Dad thinks they may be holed up somewhere in the country around Lucky Lode,” Frank went on. “He heard out there that you had prospected the whole area about twenty-five years ago and once tangled with crooks who had a secret hideout in those parts.”

  Joe added, “He thought you might kno
w of some likely spots to hunt for the gang.”

  The elderly trapper sighed and settled back on the bunk. His eyes took on a faraway look.

  “Yep, I know the Lucky Lode country like the palm of my hand,” he murmured. “Don’t reckon as I can help you much, though. But your pa’s right—I did run up against a gang o’ owlhoots.”

  “Tell us about it,” Frank urged.

  “Well,” Onslow began, “I was partners with two brothers, John and James Coulson, and a big redheaded daredevil, Bart Dawson. We were workin’ a claim in the Bitterroot Hills and we sure ’nough struck it rich.”

  “Gold?” Joe asked.

  Onslow nodded. “Real pay dirt—we thought we were fixed for life. By the time the vein petered out, we had three bags o’ nuggets and one of old gold coins we found stashed behind a rock.”

  “Wow! What happened?” put in Tony.

  “The night we were ready to leave our claim, we were jumped by the toughest bunch o’ crooks in Montana—Black Pepper and his gang. They surrounded our cabin, and we knew we’d never get away with our skins and the gold.”

  “How did you make it finally?” Chet asked.

  “Well, Bart Dawson was an ex-pilot and he had an old, beat-up plane out on the plateau. We’d already put the gold aboard—easier than luggin’ it on horseback. While we lured Black Pepper and his boys around to the front of the cabin, Bart slipped out back and ran for his crate. The gang spotted Bart and chased him. We heard his motor, so we knew he got away okay. Before the varmints came back, the rest of us escaped from the cabin.”

  “You met Dawson later?” Joe wanted to know.

  Onslow’s face became bitter. “We were supposed to meet him up in Helena and split the gold four ways. But we never saw Dawson or the gold again. Funny part of it is, Dawson was a good partner. I’d have staked my life we could trust him. But I was wrong.”

  “Didn’t you ever hear of him afterward, or pick up his trail?” questioned Frank.

  “Nope. Never found hide nor hair o’ him. After that, I got fed up prospectin’. So I come back East and settled down to scratchin’ out a livin’ with my traplines. I lost track o’ the Coulson brothers.”