Without a Trace Read online

  Hardy Boys Casefiles - 31

  Without a Trace

  By

  Franklin W. Dixon

  Chapter 1

  "I hate tiny planes!" Joe Hardy's face was pale under his blond hair as the small commuter plane dipped in midair. Joe looked as if his stomach had been left on the ceiling.

  Across the aisle, lean, brown-haired Frank Hardy grinned. "Cool it, Joe. If you settle down and look out the window, I bet you'll see Lubbock. We'll be on the ground in minutes, and then at the ranch in a couple of hours - if our ride's waiting for us."

  "Great," Joe growled. "We limp over half of Texas in this oversize eggbeater and then have to drive the rest of the way to New Mexico. A nice, big jet would have gotten us there much faster."

  Frank shrugged. "Not the way the schedules run. And look how much more you're seeing than you did on the jet from Bayport to Dallas." He grinned. "And you don't get the feel of flying in a jet. You might as well be riding an elevator."

  Just then the small craft lurched, buffeted by rising warm air.

  Joe's knuckles were white as he gripped the arms of his seat. "Right - this really beats flying in a nice, comfortable jet with cushy seats." He glanced out the window. "Ever since you got your student pilot's license and started to solo, all I hear from you is flying." He turned back from the window. "At least we don't have to worry about plowing into a mountain. It's flat as a tabletop."

  Frank glanced briefly out the window. "Yeah, I bet even I could make an emergency landing down there if I had to."

  Joe shook his head. "I hope the scenery improves in New Mexico. Doesn't sound like it, though, does it? I'm not excited to be looking at a few dead cows. I must have missed something - why isn't the local sheriff handling this, or the vet?"

  "The cows belong to Roy Carlson, and Dad owes him a favor," Frank said as if he'd told him before. "And it's more than a few dead cattle. Roy isn't a guy to lose his cool easily. Anybody who runs a ranch the size of his - fifty thousand acres - " He stopped. "They're reducing power. We're on the final approach to Lubbock."

  The plane banked steeply. Joe saw the runway pavement crisscrossing a field ahead. To the west, the sky was turning a dirty brown.

  "Looks like we're coming into a dust storm," Frank said. The twin-engine plane bounced lightly on the cement as it touched down, taxied down the runway, and stopped. The Hardys waited while the copilot got their bags. Then they crossed the pavement and entered Lubbock Terminal.

  "Frank? Joe?" A woman's voice called out.

  They turned to see a tiny, older woman, wearing jeans and an embroidered western shirt, with snow white hair piled high on her head.

  Frank smiled. "We're the Hardys."

  "I'm Dot Carlson, Roy's wife." She extended her small hand to grip Frank's, which to Frank's surprise was firm and strong. "Roy's sorry that he couldn't pick you up." She lowered her voice. "We've got another problem at the ranch."

  "What kind of problem?" Joe asked.

  "I'll tell you in the car," Dot said. Minutes later the boys' bags were in the trunk of a large white luxury car. Frank sat in the front seat beside Dot, and Joe in the rear. Almost as soon as they left the parking lot, they were in open country. Ahead of them, the storm spread across the western sky like a huge brown stain.

  "I don't like the looks of that dust storm." Dot frowned. "It'll hamper the search."

  Frank raised his eyebrows. "Search?"

  "Roy and Rudy are out looking for Jerry Greene. He didn't show up for work this morning." Dot sounded worried.

  "Maybe he's just taking a long weekend," Joe suggested.

  "Jerry's not like that," Dot said. "His father worked for Roy for thirty years, and Jerry's always treated the ranch as if it were his own. He's been coming up with all sorts of new ideas to run the ranch better." She smiled. "He's just a little older than you boys. In fact, he's more like a grandson than an employee. No, I'm afraid it's more trouble."

  "Who's Rudy?" Frank asked.

  "Rudy Castillo is our other hand," Dot replied.

  "You mean, Roy ranches fifty thousand acres with only two hands?" Joe blurted out in disbelief.

  Dot nodded, amused. "You may think the Circle C is big, but it takes hundreds of acres of this rough country to feed one steer. If we need more hands, we borrow them from other ranchers." Her smile faded. "Ranching isn't going through boom times right now. Even some really big spreads went under when the price of beef dropped."

  "This is where the dead cattle come in?" Joe asked.

  Dot sighed. "Roy will give you the details. But it looks like somebody's trying to drive us out of business. Roy's been trying to get to the bottom of it, but so far, no luck. We hope you can help."

  The dust storm was sweeping over them now, cutting the visibility to a few hundred feet. Swirls of fine soil rippled across the road. After a while they passed a sign that read, Welcome to New Mexico, Land of Enchantment, but it was almost obscured by blowing dust.

  Frank grinned. "Do these storms happen often?" he asked.

  "Too often," Dot said, concentrating on the road as they continued to drive west. "This is a hard land - no trees to break the wind, no surface water. The Spanish who settled Santa Fe over three hundred years ago called the area La Tierra Encantada. State boosters translate it to mean 'enchanted,' but the words also mean 'the bewitched land.' All this open territory pretty much belonged to the Indians and the comancheros - renegade whites - until after the Civil War."

  More miles passed. Finally they pulled up to a rundown gas station and parked beside a dirty, oncered pickup truck. "Where are we?" Joe asked, peering through the fine haze of dust that whirled and covered everything.

  Dot laughed. 'This is the 'town' of Caprock - gas station, post office, and general store. I'm going to pick up the mail. We still have some distance to go." She stepped from the car and with her head down bolted for the door.

  The boys watched her disappear inside. When she started to come out, her hands full of mail, a giant of a man walked up and blocked her exit. With his broken nose and big hands, he towered threateningly over her. But all he did was give her a surprisingly sweet smile and hold the door for her.

  They talked for a moment, then Dot darted back to the car. The giant headed for the pickup with a fancy gun rack in its cab.

  "Who was that guy?" Joe asked curiously when Dot got back into the car.

  Dot was smiling. "He's the new foreman at the Triple O - Nat Wilkin. I hope his boss doesn't hear about him being polite to me. We've had trouble with Oscar Owens, the owner, off and on for years - and we'll have more. Nat just warned me that Oscar's upset about a fence being down." She started the car and backed onto the road.

  "Do most people carry guns around here?" Frank asked.

  Dot shrugged. "There's a bounty on coyotes. You can't tell when you'll meet one."

  "Why is the town called Caprock?" Joe asked as they continued their westbound drive.

  "You'd see the caprock shortly," Dot answered, "if it weren't for this storm. It's a long cliff that runs for miles, north to south. On the east side of it, where we are now, is the Llano Estacado - the 'Staked Plains.' It's almost perfectly flat, and the story is that the Indians marked their trails with stakes because there weren't any other landmarks. To the west are the sand hills - " Suddenly a gust of wind rocked the car, and she struggled for control.

  "Hey!" Joe exclaimed, staring out the window. "Did you see that guy?"

  "What guy?" Frank asked. "Anybody'd have to be crazy to be out in this." He peered out the window. "I can't see anything."

  "But I saw him," Joe insisted. "An old geezer with a Mexican hat and some sort of straw bag. One minute he was standing there, and the next minute he just seemed to vanish."
/>   "Must have been Caprock Charlie," Dot suggested, the car under control again. "Some folks think he's Native American, some Mexican, but most say he's loco. You know," she said, tapping the side of her head, "touched. He appears out of nowhere at the oddest times."

  Dot turned off the highway and onto a dirt road. "Almost there," she said. Through the swirling dust they could just make out a low, white-painted stucco ranch house with a cedar-shingle roof. They pulled up beside several pickups parked in front.

  A tall man with a weathered face, around sixty, opened the front door and stepped out. He wore a jacket and a light gray Stetson. "So these are Fenton's boys, eh?" he said. "Welcome to the Circle C. I'm Roy Carlson."

  "I'm Frank. This is Joe," Frank told him, shaking hands.

  "Any sign of Jerry?" Dot asked worriedly.

  "Nope," Roy replied. "We just got back from his bunkhouse. Looks like he left in a big hurry - food on the table, TV still on, the truck out front. But his horse is gone, so he must've ridden out. I figured we wouldn't have much luck tracking him in this storm. I did call the sheriff, and he'll be out soon." He looked at Frank. "You know anything about telephone answering machines?"

  Frank grinned. "A little. What do you want to know?"

  "Will you excuse us?" Ray asked Dot. He led the way into a small office. An answering machine sat on the desk, its red light blinking. "Jerry set this up yesterday, but I wasn't here before he had to leave, so he didn't explain how it works. Now I'm afraid I'll make the stupid thing erase itself." Outside, a horn sounded, and Roy turned. "Maybe that's the sheriff." He hurried out the door.

  Frank looked the machine over, then pressed a button. The tape whirred. "Hi, Roy," a cheerful voice said. "This is Jerry. I'm back at the bunkhouse and I thought I'd give the machine a try. See you in the morning." The message ended with a loud beep.

  Then a second message came on. "Roy! This is Jerry." The ranch hand sounded worried. "It's ten o'clock, and there's something weird going on near the old homestead. I can see lights. I'm going down to have a look."

  Frank and Joe stared at each other. Was this a lead to Jerry's whereabouts? Suddenly they were aware of angry voices out front, loud and getting louder.

  A threatening voice cut above Roy's, shouting, "I want that fence fixed and I want it fixed pronto. I'm warning you, Carlson. The next critter - four-or two-legged - that wanders onto my place is going to be buzzard bait!"

  Chapter 2

  As Frank and Joe dashed to the front of the ranch house, they heard the slam of a door, the roar of a powerful engine, and the sound of tires sliding on gravel. They reached the porch just in time to see a shiny pickup speed off.

  "Who was that?" Frank asked Roy, who was calmly watching the pickup disappear into the dust storm.

  "Oscar Owens," Roy said. "He owns the Triple O, just south of us." He shook his head. "That old boy's got a short fuse, but he'll get over it. Always does."

  "What was he mad about?" Joe asked, trailing the others back into the house.

  "His foreman spotted some of my cattle on his land before the storm this morning. Turns out a section of the fence was down. He claims my bull did it. I don't believe it, but I promised to round up my stock as soon as the storm cleared. But I can't get to the fence until next week. That's when old Oscar blew up."

  "Fence down, cattle loose - is this the kind of thing that's been happening to you?" Frank asked.

  Roy nodded, deep frown lines cutting his forehead. "It started with gates left open, fences down - or cut - a phone line out. Then a calf or two began to disappear, and the horses showed up lame. It's hard enough making a living out here. Now I've got someone trying to bleed us dry, a drop at a time."

  "So that's why you called Dad?" Frank asked.

  Roy frowned. "No, I called him after Rudy went down to the south tank a couple of days ago and found eleven head dead."

  "Tank?" Joe asked, looking confused.

  "It's like a little lake," Frank told him. He turned to Roy. "You think somebody poisoned them?"

  "I'd bet on it," Roy said grimly.

  "Poisoned them how?" Joe asked.

  "Salt water, that's how."

  "Salt water!" the boys exclaimed together.

  "Where would anybody get salt water around here?" Joe asked. "There's no ocean in a thousand miles."

  "Out of an oil well, maybe," Frank suggested.

  "You've got to be kidding," Joe said.

  "No, Frank's right," Roy cut in. "On some wells, you hit salt water before you hit oil. They pump it out and truck it away. There's a bunch of new wells between here and Armstrong, the county seat. It wouldn't be far for someone to bring a truck full of bad water and dump it into my tank."

  His frown deepened. "And the only clue we found was tire tracks - plenty of them, and plenty wide."

  Frank nodded. "Like a truck's tires."

  Joe changed the subject. "Had Owens seen Jerry?"

  "I didn't have a chance to ask. He just yelled and was out of here."

  "There were two messages on the answering machine," Frank told him. "From Jerry. The first was a test. The second time he sounded nervous, talking about lights at the old homestead. He was going to take a look."

  Roy looked surprised. "This I want to hear," he said, leading the way inside. After he'd heard the message, his look changed to one of worry.

  "What's this old homestead?" Joe asked.

  "It was the first house in these parts," Roy said. "Not much more than a ruin, now. It just happens to be right on the boundary between Oscar Owens's place and mine."

  He went to the window. "Looks like the storm's about over. I've got to wait for the sheriff, but maybe you could check out the homestead for me." He peered at Joe. "Can you handle that beat-up yellow pickup out front? It's got an old three-speed 'tranny.' "

  Joe's eyes lit up. "Sure thing!" he exclaimed, catching the key Roy tossed him.

  The sky was clearing, and as the boys stepped through the front door they took in their new surroundings. The ranch house was on a ridge facing east. Below, at the bottom of the slope, was a sheet-metal barn and a cluster of buildings - a garage, maintenance shop, and various other sheds. Beyond, to the east, lay a vast stretch of rolling treeless country. The lowlands were covered with shrubs and small bushy trees, broken occasionally by bare, light-colored hills. Against the horizon lay a long, curved line.

  "Is that the caprock?" Joe asked.

  "You got it," Roy said. He pointed slightly southeast. "The bunkhouse is a couple of miles in that direction, just off the top of the caprock." He glanced at Joe. "That's an easy place to get stuck, if you don't watch yourself."

  "Where's the homestead?" Frank asked.

  Roy pointed due south, along the ridge.

  "That way, about five miles. If you take the road that you came in on, you'll come to a fork. Take the leg that heads south."

  Frank was staring at something at the foot of the hill - it looked like a wind sock that airports use. The brush on both sides of a flat stretch of road had been cleared away, but the "runway" was too short to handle an ordinary aircraft. "Is somebody flying an ultralight?" he asked.

  Roy gave him an appraising glance. "You know about that new miniplane Jerry's flying?"

  "Jerry's got an ultralight?" Joe asked, surprised. "What does he do with it?"

  "He runs cattle out of the bush with it," Roy explained. "He read somewhere that they use helicopters for that kind of work down south, and he reckoned that an ultralight would do just as good and be a lot cheaper."

  He shrugged. "Thing looks to me about as solid as a butterfly, but he talked me into it. It's easy for him to fly, and he can spot cattle we'd never see from the ground. The thing makes a whale of a racket, so he gets behind the cattle and drives them along like a good cow dog."

  "Where is it now?" Frank wanted to know.

  "Down in the barn." Roy looked at them. "Either of you boys fly?"

  "I'm learning," Frank said. "Can I have a look at it
?"

  Roy nodded. "It sure could speed up the search."

  "But you only just got your student's license," Joe objected quietly so only Frank could hear.

  Frank was already heading down the hill. "Doesn't matter," he said out of the side of his mouth. "Federal regulations don't require a license for flying an ultralight, as long as it's under a certain weight and flies less than fifty miles an hour - and as long as there are no passengers." in the dim light inside the barn, Frank whistled softly, "She's a beauty, Roy."

  The ultralight had long, red, heavy nylon wings with yellow stripes. The aluminum tubes that supported the wings and connected them to the tail and the tricycle undercarriage were also red. The engine was hung under the rear edge of the wing, and the prop stuck out behind it. There were two bucket seats over the wheels.

  "These look like the controls on the trainer I fly," Frank remarked, climbing in from the left. "But it's a lot more open."

  Joe grinned. "Sort of like a motorcycle of airplanes."

  "This would sure help a lot in searching for Jerry." Frank looked at Roy. "Mind if we wheel it outside and try it?"

  "If you think you can handle it," Roy said.

  A minute later Frank was sitting inches above the dirt road, facing into the wind. The engine whined like a chain saw. He tried the hand controls to check the movement of the ailerons. "If I did this in the air, it would make the wings waggle left to right."

  Then he checked the elevators on the tail. "This would make the tail go up or down." Finally, Frank worked the foot controls side to side as the rudder on the tail moved back and forth.

  "Let me guess," Joe yelled over the noise of the engine as he steadied the right wing. "This is for right or left turns?"

  Frank nodded and gave a thumbs-up to Joe. "I'll just take off, circle, and land," he shouted, and pulled back the throttle.

  The ultralight seemed to spring forward. Frank felt the blast of the air rushing past him as he rose. Soon he was even with the ranch house at the top of the hill, at an altitude of a hundred feet or so, and he began his turn to the left, still climbing.

  As he passed over the ranch house, he reduced power and began to glide, continuing his turn. The road was now directly in front of him and a little below. He leveled the wings and eased back on the elevator, slowing his descent and reducing his speed. He was sailing between the scrub on both sides of the road when he felt the wheels bounce. Carefully, he applied the brake and came to a smooth stop.