Showdown at Widow Creek

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  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1: The Holdup

  Chapter 2: Outlaws

  Chapter 3: Move ’Em Out

  Chapter 4: Hold Your Horses

  Chapter 5: Round ’Em Up

  Chapter 6: Scouting Party

  Chapter 7: Water Crossing

  Chapter 8: Mavericks

  Chapter 9: In Cahoots

  Chapter 10: Cattle Rustlers

  Chapter 11: Spooked

  Chapter 12: Get a Rope

  Chapter 13: Badlands

  Chapter 14: Sidewinders

  Chapter 15: Bucket Brigade

  Chapter 16: Bushwhacked

  Chapter 17: Showdown

  Chapter 18: Buzzard Bait

  Chapter 19: Bronc Buster

  About the Author

  1

  THE HOLDUP

  FRANK

  TWO MASKED BANDITS DREW THEIR pistols as they closed in on a stagecoach. The lead desperado steadied himself in the saddle as he took careful aim at his target. The second did the same. Their pistols roared in unison as their horses galloped through white clouds of gun smoke.

  “Heeyah!” shouted the driver. The portly man shook the reins, urging his four horses to run faster. He chanced a glance over his shoulder at the approaching outlaws. The driver turned back and shook the reins harder.

  The man sitting next to the driver spun in his seat and aimed a shotgun at the villains. The gun roared, and flames erupted from both barrels. One of the gunmen flew from his saddle; the masked man tumbled to the ground.

  “And that’s why they call it ‘riding shotgun,’ ” my brother, Joe, announced.

  I rolled my eyes. “I know.”

  The other outlaw aimed his six-shooter and fired. The man riding shotgun dropped his weapon and fell from the top of the stage. He rolled to a stop in the soft dirt as the chase passed him by.

  When the bandit fired again, the driver went down. The man slumped forward, dropping his reins. Now the stagecoach was running wild with no one to steer or stop it.

  Suddenly one of the coach doors flew open. A cowboy wearing a white hat leaned out and blasted a six-shooter of his own. The remaining outlaw tumbled off the back of his horse.

  “Ah! That’s the good guy,” said Joe. “You can tell because he’s wearing a white hat.”

  I shushed him. “Do you mind?”

  The cowboy holstered his pistol and climbed out of the cab. He scrambled up to the stagecoach’s roof and made his way to the front. Without hesitation, the cowboy leaped onto the back of one of the coach’s horses, then carefully stepped onto the rigging between the galloping steeds. Crouching low, he worked his way forward and grabbed the reins. He leaned back and pulled hard on the leather straps. Soon the runaway coach pulled to a complete stop.

  The audience erupted in applause. Joe and I joined in as the cowboy hopped to the ground and gave a long bow.

  “I knew he’d stop the runaway coach,” said Joe. “The good guy always wins.”

  Joe and I weren’t sitting in a movie theater watching a western, though it felt like we were. (My brother likes to make comments throughout movies too, which drives me nuts.) No—Joe, Mom, Dad, Aunt Trudy, and I were sitting with most of Bayport in the bleachers of the high school stadium. We had the rare treat of watching Wally Welch’s Rodeo and Wild West Show.

  “Let’s have another big round of applause for our players,” boomed the announcer’s voice. “And if you want to throw in a couple of yee-haws, we won’t hold it against ya!”

  Several members of the audience were happy to oblige, including my brother.

  The two outlaws, already back on their horses, waved to the cheering spectators. The man riding shotgun had climbed back onto the coach and waved as well. The hero cowboy sat on the back of one of the horses and tipped his white hat to the crowd.

  “And don’t worry, folks, our driver is just fine,” the announcer continued. “In fact, that’s none other than our head honcho himself, Mr. Wally Welch!”

  The driver came out of his slump, reins in hand. “Yee-haw!” he shouted as he slapped the reins onto the horses’ backs. The animals bolted forward into a gallop, pulling the stagecoach around the stadium in a victory lap. As it passed the bleachers, Wally Welch waved to the crowd, a wide grin spread across his gray-bearded face.

  The stagecoach had never been in danger of running wild. During the entire chase, it had made the same wide circle around the dirt-covered center of the stadium. The entire field had been modified for the event. Truckloads of dirt had been carted in, and temporary metal fence panels surrounded the area. A couple of cowboys swung open two of those ­panels, allowing the stagecoach and riders to exit the field.

  “Pretty cool, huh?” asked Joe. “Aren’t you glad I talked you into coming?”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “You have me there.”

  This wasn’t our usual Friday night out. If one of us didn’t have a date, you could usually find my brother and me hanging out with our friends at the Chomp and Chew—the diner with the best hamburgers in Bayport. Of course tonight most of our friends were at the show (a point Joe had made to get me here).

  Plus, how often does Bayport get to see an honest-to-goodness rodeo? Joe had always been more of a westerns fan than me, but I had to admit that I was enjoying the show. We had seen trick roping, bronc busting (cowboys trying to stay atop a bucking horse), and a few other historical reenact­ments like the stagecoach robbery.

  “Next up, folks,” boomed the announcer’s voice, “our top ranch hand and Wally Welch’s daughter herself. Let’s hear a big welcome for Sarah Welch and Hondo!”

  The audience applauded as a young girl rode into the stadium. She looked to be about seventeen and rode a large brown-and-white horse. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a long braid. She kicked her horse into a gallop and began a loop around the field.

  “Hondo’s a pinto,” said Joe. “Or what they call a paint—the same kind of horse Tonto rode in The Lone Ranger.”

  “Uh-huh,” was all I could reply. I have to admit, I was instantly enamored with Sarah Welch. Even from several yards away I could tell she was pretty cute.

  And, as it turned out, she was quite talented, too.

  Once Hondo had reached a steady pace, Sarah kicked her boots out of the stirrups and hopped onto the seat of the saddle. She slowly stood straight as the horse ­continued to gallop. The audience cheered at the sight. Sarah then dropped to a seated position with both legs draped over one side of the saddle. For a few gallops, she rode sidesaddle, the way ladies wearing long skirts used to ride.

  Sarah had a unique saddle. Instead of the usual short ­saddle horn protruding from the top, hers seemed to be about a foot long. It was thin and wrapped with tape.

  She didn’t ride sidesaddle for long. She grabbed the saddle horn with both hands and slid off the horse. Both feet hit the ground and her legs shot up and back. Still holding the horn, she swung her body over the back of the horse until her boots hit the ground on the other side of the horse. Once again, she used the ground to propel herself up. Her legs scissored wide as they flew across the horse.

  The audience cheered even more.

  “Just like a pommel horse,” said Joe.

  He was right. Sarah moved her body around Hondo similar to t
he way a gymnast would train on a pommel horse, only Sarah’s moves were more impressive because a pommel doesn’t gallop around a stadium.

  Sarah continued to perform breathtaking moves atop the loping horse. With her back pressed against the animal’s side, she raised both legs straight out. Then, back on the saddle, she stood on one leg with her other leg pulled up behind her. After each elegant maneuver, she would easily drop back into the saddle as if it were nothing.

  As her performance ended, Sarah put a foot in a stirrup and hooked the other behind the tall saddle horn. She extended her body so that it was perpendicular to the horse. She spread her arms as they moved around the field one last time and waved to the audience.

  “How about another hand for Sarah Welch,” urged the announcer. The audience didn’t have to be asked twice. They cheered wildly as Sarah galloped off the field.

  “I’m going to hit the concession stand,” I said, standing up. “Does anyone want anything?”

  “No, thank you,” said my dad. The rest of my family shook their heads. Everyone but Joe, who also rose to his feet.

  “I’ll join you,” he said with a grin.

  I sighed. There was no fooling him.

  Once we were out of earshot of the family, he leaned in. “So, how are you going to do it?”

  “Do what?” I asked, stepping down the bleachers toward the walkway.

  “Meet Sarah,” he replied.

  “I just want to congratulate her,” I said.

  “Sure.” My brother rolled his eyes. “Welcome her to Bayport. See how long she’ll be in town. Maybe take her out for coffee.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe something like that.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Joe assured. “I’ll just blend into the background. And hey, maybe I can meet one of those stagecoach guys, learn how they did those tricks.”

  We walked past the concession stand toward the back of the stadium. On the way we passed several livestock trailers, a covered wagon, and the stagecoach we saw earlier.

  “She must be close.” Joe pointed. “There’s her horse.”

  Two cowboys led the brown-and-white horse past us. I figured they were performers since they had bandannas covering their faces. However, for such a well-trained horse, Hondo seemed to resist being led.

  After a few more steps, I stopped. Something wasn’t right. The masked men weren’t the same ones we’d seen in the show. These cowboys weren’t dressed in flashy shirts and vests like the ones in the rodeo. And why would the performers still be wearing bandannas over their faces—especially in the midday heat?

  “What’s up, bro?” asked Joe.

  Before I could reply, I heard a horse neigh behind us. Joe and I turned to see the men trying to lead Hondo into a trailer. The horse reared back and shook his head. One masked man held fast to the lead rope, while the other smacked the horse’s rump with his hat.

  “Something seem strange to you?” I asked.

  Joe chuckled. “What? You think those are real bandits just because their faces are covered?”

  The horse neighed once more before finally entering the trailer. The men shut the door behind the reluctant horse.

  “Wait,” said Joe. “Those aren’t the same guys from the show.”

  Finally my brother had reached the same conclusion as I had.

  “I bet those are real horse thieves.”

  2

  OUTLAWS

  JOE

  HEY!” FRANK SHOUTED AS HE jogged toward the men and the trailer.

  I kept pace with my brother. “Can we talk to you for a second?”

  I couldn’t make out anything about the men’s faces but their eyes. And those eyes widened as we moved toward them. They left the back of the trailer and ran ahead to the old pickup truck the trailer was hitched to, quickly jumping inside.

  “Those are definitely horse thieves,” I said as we broke into a run after them.

  The truck tried to start as Frank ran to the driver’s door. “What are you doing?” he asked, beating on the side of the truck. The engine whirred again but didn’t catch.

  Instead of moving to the passenger door, I made a beeline for the front of the trailer. Luckily, I knew my way around trailer hitches. I unhooked the safety chain and popped the clasp locking the trailer’s cup over the ball hitch on the back of the truck.

  The truck tried to start again, but the engine still didn’t turn over. That was good for me. The last place I needed to be was in front of that trailer when it began moving. And that’s where I was. I was busy cracking away, lowering the stand so the trailer’s tongue would be raised above the ball hitch. It’s a painfully slow process—and by painfully, I mean that the muscles in my shoulder were burning as I spun the crank.

  Frank beat on the side of the truck again. “Come out for a second. We just want to talk to you.”

  The truck starter whirred a final time before catching and roaring to life. I leaped to the side as the tires spun out and the truck pulled away, covering me with dirt. Luckily, I had raised the trailer’s tongue just enough so that the trailer stayed put. The horse whinnied and stomped around inside.

  “If that was a thank-you, then you’re welcome,” I told the horse.

  “What’s going on here?” asked a man running toward us. I recognized him from the show as Wally Welch.

  “I think someone was trying to steal your horse,” replied Frank. “Or your daughter’s horse.”

  We explained what had happened to Mr. Welch and a few of his ranch hands who had gathered nearby. Two of the men led the horse out of its trailer, while another went for the police. Luckily, since most of Bayport was at the show that night, the cops had excellent response time. Little did I know that one of those cops was someone we could’ve done without seeing. It was the chief of police himself, Chief Olaf.

  “Well, look who it is,” said the chief as he strolled up to the scene. “The brothers Hardy. Somehow always at the scene of the crime.”

  My older brother and I didn’t have the best relationship with Chief Olaf. Actually, we didn’t have the best relationship with Officer Olaf, way before he became chief of police. See, we’ve been solving mysteries of one kind or another since we were eight and nine years old. Our father used to be a detective, so I guess it’s in our blood. Unfortunately, it didn’t look good for the Bayport Police—or its chief—when their cases were solved by a couple of kids. Frank and I had always had an understanding with the former chief of police. But now that Olaf was in charge, we had to keep our sleuthing way, way under the radar.

  Mr. Welch clapped a hand on each of our shoulders. “These two thwarted the plans of a couple of no-good horse thieves.”

  Olaf eyed us suspiciously. “Is that right?”

  I shrugged. “No big deal. Just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

  The chief stared at Frank. “And just what were you two doing back here, at the right time?”

  I caught my brother’s eye. Dude, don’t say we were on our way to the concession stand. That excuse hadn’t worked on me, and it sure wouldn’t work on Olaf, especially since the concession stand was on the other side of the stadium.

  “I, uh . . . wanted to meet Sarah Welch,” Frank admitted.

  I was surprised that he went with the truth.

  “Who wanted to meet me?” asked a girl’s voice. We turned and saw Sarah Welch walk up with a couple of ranch hands. “And what’s this about someone trying to steal Hondo?”

  Frank raised a hand. “I—uh—we were back here when we saw two guys trying to take him in that trailer.”

  “And these boys stopped them,” Mr. Welch said proudly.

  Sarah took Hondo’s halter and scratched the top of his head. She turned back to us. “If that’s true, then thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome.” Frank held out a hand. “I’m Frank Hardy, by the way.”

  I waved. “And I’m his brother, Joe.”

  Olaf sighed. “All right, boys. Tell us what h
appened.” A uniformed police officer joined the chief. The woman pulled out a pen and small tablet to take notes as Frank and I retold the story.

  “Descriptions?” asked the woman.

  “They both wore bandannas over their faces,” Frank explained. “But the driver wore an orange plaid shirt and had blond hair. He had on a black bandanna.”

  Mr. Welch screwed up his face. “You think it could be Mike Sullivan, Lucky?”

  A tall, thin cowboy with a handlebar mustache nodded. I recognized him as the hero from the stagecoach robbery. “That might be him. You could spot that shirt clear across the ranch.”

  “The other guy had dark hair,” I added. “And he wore a brown shirt and a red bandanna.”

  Lucky sighed and shook his head. “If one’s Mike, then the other would be his brother, Tim.”

  “You know them?” asked Olaf.

  Mr. Welch nodded. “Two of my latest hires.”

  “What about the vehicle?” asked the officer.

  Frank described the old green-and-white truck.

  “That’s one of mine,” said Mr. Welch. “Not only are they horse thieves, but they’re truck thieves too.”

  “That makes us shorthanded for the cattle drive back to the ranch,” Lucky said. “We might have to cancel this one.”

  “Cattle drive?” Frank asked. “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Sarah. “We drive a small herd all the way back to the Double W after every show. It’s about twenty-five miles from Bayport, so this one will be a short, two-day drive.”

  “Cool,” I said. That actually sounded like a lot of fun.

  “Well.” Chief Olaf peered at us. “Have you boys ridden horses before?”

  “Sure,” replied Frank. “A few times back in summer camp.”

  The chief grinned. “Well, Mr. Welch, I think I found a couple of replacements for you.”

  Frank’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “Sweet!” I said.

  “Great idea,” Sarah said, turning to me. “People pay us to ride in a real cattle drive. Not only would you be helping us out, but it would be a way to thank you for rescuing Hondo.”