Lost in Gator Swamp Page 2

  “Could be a man-eater, Dusty,” Homer warned. “If it’s lost its fear of humans, it needs to be hunted down and killed.”

  “We’ll attend to this problem later,” Dusty said. “It’s nearly noon, and we have to be at the rodeo by two o’clock.”

  • • •

  The boys changed into dry clothes, ate a quick lunch of fresh trout and grits, and boarded Dusty’s rectangular, flat-bottomed pontoon boat, which ferried his guests from the fishing camp to the mainland.

  On the way, the Hardys met the other guests who were staying at the camp for the rodeo. Billy and Roy Biggs were a calf-roping team, Trent Furman was a wild-bull rider, and Ashley Walton was a bronco buster.

  When they reached the trading post, Dusty and the others got into the back of Tallwalker’s pickup truck and took off for the rodeo grounds.

  “Have a good ride!” Dusty shouted as the pickup pulled out of the parking lot, kicking up a cloud of dust.

  Chet suggested that he and the Hardys draw straws to see who got stuck riding the mule. A minute later, Chet pulled himself up onto the back of Old Caloosa.

  Stonewall, Paint Can, and Old Caloosa were well trained, and they barely reacted to the cars, trucks, and horse trailers speeding by them on the two-lane highway, all headed for the Swampland Rodeo.

  As the boys road horseback along the narrow shoulder of the highway, Chet lassoed every road sign they passed.

  “Am I a dead-eye roper or what?” Chet grinned as he dismounted to remove the noose from a sign for the sixth time.

  Joe shifted in his saddle. “Chet, if you don’t stop that, we’re going to miss the first day of competition completely.”

  Chet nodded and kept his rope coiled for the rest of the journey.

  • • •

  When the boys met up with Dusty and Homer at the rodeo, Dusty gave them a quick tour. He pointed out that the rodeo grounds were actually a section of a cattle ranch owned by a millionaire named Melvin Deeter.

  Every year, Dusty told his companions, truck-loads of equipment and livestock were brought in for the rodeo. “They set up grandstands around the main rodeo ring and pitch that giant tent beside it.”

  “What’s in the tent?” Joe asked.

  “Farm exhibits, registration tables, concession stands, you name it,” Dusty boasted. “We got us a chili cook-off, a livestock auction, not to mention three days of bronco busting and wild-bull riding. It’s like a big old carnival!”

  “What are those outer buildings beyond the corral?” Frank asked Homer.

  “That’s the barn, and the other is the bunkhouse where the rodeo riders keep their gear,” Homer explained. “At the other end of the parking lot are the trailers where the judges and the rodeo clowns stay.”

  Walking into the main tent, the group joined the line to register Dusty and Homer for the competition. Joe looked over the sea of cowboys and spectators. “Where do most of the contestants come from?” he asked.

  “A lot of them are locals from Frog’s Peninsula,” Dusty explained. “The rest of the competitors come from the rodeo circuit. They travel all over the country from one rodeo to the next.”

  “I’m only ten dollars short, Mr. Deeter,” a tall, thin teenager at the front of the line shouted to a white-haired man with long sideburns.

  “I’m sorry, young man,” Deeter said. “If you come up with the ten dollars before tomorrow night’s bull-riding competition, I’ll let you compete. For now, you’ll have to settle for the bronco busting tonight.”

  “Oh, okay,” the teenager said with a sigh. He stood flipping a coin, while Mr. Deeter signed him up and handed him his official number. As the teenager turned, he caught Joe looking at him.

  “What are you looking at?” he asked, facing Joe squarely.

  “Nothing,” Joe replied, sizing the teen up and deciding not to fight for no reason.

  “Well, I’ll give you guys something to see tonight,” the teen boasted. “I’m going to win the bronco-riding competition.”

  As the teenager flipped his coin again, Joe caught a flash of gold. What is a guy who’s ten dollars short doing with a gold coin? Joe wondered to himself.

  “The name is Randy Stevens. You can look for my name at the top of the board,” the teenager said, sticking his chin in the air. “ ’Cause I’m going to win.”

  Frank saw that Randy had attracted the attention of Trent Furman, who had been watching the scene from a nearby souvenir stand.

  “That’s some mighty big talk for a boy your age,” Furman said, stepping over to Randy.

  “I’m not a boy, mister,” Randy shot back. “Who exactly are you?”

  “The name’s Trent Furman, I’m a bronco buster myself. Did I see you at the rodeo last year in Fargo, North Dakota?”

  “Uh . . . ” Randy suddenly seemed less confident.

  “I won first place,” Furman went on, smiling. “If you’re half as good as you claim to be, I know someone who might sponsor you. He’ll put up the cash for you to compete, in return for a cut of the prize money you win,” Furman said.

  “Well, I’m a rider worth sponsoring,” Randy said, his confidence back.

  “Let’s go find this guy,” Furman suggested.

  “Aren’t you going to register yourself?” Homer asked Furman.

  “I’ll do that later,” Furman replied, putting a hand on Randy’s shoulder and leading him away.

  “That kid is too big for his britches,” Dusty remarked, as he stepped up to the registration table.

  “You’d better get moving,” Deeter told Dusty as he handed him his official competition number. “Your bronco-riding competition starts in fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll see you all later,” Dusty shouted over his shoulder as he headed out of the tent.

  “Good luck!” Joe called after him.

  “I’m thirsty,” Frank said. “Who wants something to drink?”

  “Whatever they have, I’ll take a large,” Chet replied.

  “We’ll meet you in the seats,” Joe called as he and Chet started off toward the grandstands.

  At the concession stand, Frank struck up a conversation with a couple of rodeo contestants in line in front of him. There was still a buzz about how the bank robbers had probably drowned in Florida Bay during the sudden winter storm.

  By the time Frank reached the counter, he had gotten an invitation for him, Joe, and Chet to attend a barbecue behind the main tent that evening after the competition.

  Frank was carrying three large lemonades toward the grandstands when he spotted the guests from the fishing camp engaged in an intense-looking discussion.

  “Well, Billy and I like roughing it in the wilderness,” Roy Biggs was saying, “but an alligator-infested island may be a little too rough.”

  “I’m with them,” Furman added.

  “I can take care of that for you,” came a deep voice from behind them. Frank saw a familiar-looking man with a red beard step forward. “The name is Zack Platt. I’ve been handling alligators my whole life.” Platt held up his right hand, and Frank saw he was missing his pinkie and part of his ring finger. “If you give me two nights and fifty dollars I’ll get rid of your alligator problem,” Platt said.

  “It’s illegal to kill alligators without a special license,” Billy Biggs warned.

  “I didn’t say I was going to kill the alligator,” Platt snapped back. “I’ll trap it and relocate it to another part of the swamp.”

  “For fifty dollars, what do we have to lose?” Furman suggested to his fellow guests as he pulled out his wallet. “In fact, I’ll pay for it.”

  “I have only one request,” Platt said. “I work at night, and I can’t have any of you folks snooping around, scaring off my quarry. Starting at midnight, everyone needs to keep clear of Gator Swamp.”

  As the others nodded eagerly to one another, Frank continued to the main rodeo ring and joined Chet and Joe in the grandstands. “Hey, Joe, you remember the man with the red beard you saw at the trad
ing post? I think Furman just hired him to trap our giant alligator.”

  “He’s an alligator trapper?” Joe asked. “I thought he was a snorkeler.”

  Frank nodded. “I guess he could be both. But didn’t you say he was headed for Key West?”

  Just then the gate opened, releasing the first bronco and its rider from the chute and into the ring.

  “It’s Randy Stevens!” Chet shouted.

  Randy’s body snapped back and forth like a whip as the horse beneath him bucked, kicking up its back legs. But the teenager held tight until the qualifying buzzer sounded.

  Randy flew off the horse’s back, landing with a soft thud on the thick plowed dirt of the ring. Two men dressed in baggy overalls and wearing clown makeup waved their hands frantically, getting the horse’s attention. Then they quickly moved in, grabbed the reins, and got the bronco under control before taking it back to its holding pen.

  “Hey, Chet, if you can’t rope steers, maybe you can be one of those guys,” Joe joked.

  “Don’t knock it,” Chet replied. “Rodeo clowns only look funny. It’s a tough job—tough and dangerous.”

  Randy got up and bowed to the crowd, tipping his hat—a white hat with an orange-and-black feather in the band, Joe noticed.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “Randy must have been the guy with Platt in the boat. I couldn’t see his face, but he was wearing that exact same hat.” He furrowed his brow. “I didn’t see Randy wearing it when we met him in line a while ago.”

  “Me, either,” Frank agreed. “Guess he put it on just before the competition.”

  “Dusty is next!” Chet exclaimed.

  Dusty sat in the chute, high on a black horse named Nightmare. The gate opened, and Nightmare came out kicking, spinning in circles, trying to unseat his rider. But Dusty held on firmly to the reins and qualified easily. He whooped and hollered the whole time as if he were a kid on a roller coaster. As Dusty dismounted, he got a big round of applause. He was obviously a local favorite.

  “And now Reuben Tallwalker, riding Volcano,” Mr. Deeter announced over the public-address system. The crowd quieted instantly.

  “Reuben Tallwalker? Isn’t that the guy you saw watching you from Twin Cypress Key?” Joe asked.

  The gate sprang open, and Volcano raced forward, kicking his back hooves high in the air. It seemed impossible that anyone could hang on, but Reuben rode the bucking horse easily. He jumped gracefully to the ground and landed on his two feet directly in front of the Hardys and Chet.

  Reuben stared at the three boys with his cold dark eyes. As the applause died out, he jumped up on the fence and spoke to the Hardys in an angry whisper: “Stay out of Gator Swamp or else.”

  With that, Reuben made a violent slashing motion across his throat and strode away.

  4 Trouble at the Rodeo

  * * *

  “Wait!” Joe shouted. But Reuben ignored him and kept moving, slipping through a gate on the opposite side of the ring.

  “What was that all about?” Chet asked.

  “I don’t know, but we’re about to find out,” Frank replied as he and Joe bolted for the spectators’ exit.

  When they came out on the far side, Reuben was nowhere in sight. Joe spotted a rodeo clown in a red ten-gallon hat leading Nightmare toward the great barn where the animals were kept.

  “Did you see a guy with long black hair and a brightly colored, striped woven jacket?” Joe asked. The clown pointed toward a field behind the barn.

  “There he is,” Frank said, seeing a figure springing through the tall grass toward a heavily wooded area in the distance.

  “He’s headed for the swamp. I wouldn’t follow him if I were you,” the clown warned.

  “Why not?” Joe replied as he watched Reuben disappear into the woods beyond the field.

  “Because Reuben Tallwalker knows every inch of that swamp. He knows about the snakes and alligator holes and quicksand,” the clown explained. “You’d last about five minutes in there.”

  “He’s right, Joe,” Frank agreed. “It’ll be dark soon. We’d never find him.”

  “How do you know so much about Reuben Tallwalker?” Joe asked the rodeo clown.

  “I know a lot about everyone in these parts—I’ve lived here all my life. The name’s Barney Quick.” Just then Nightmare reared up and whinnied, growing restless. “Excuse me, I have to get him put up for the night,” Quick said, tipping his hat as he led Nightmare into the barn.

  “Something’s going on in Gator Swamp,” Frank said to Joe and Chet.

  “What do you mean?” Joe asked.

  Frank told Joe and Chet about Zack Platt’s promise to capture the giant reptile only if everyone stayed out of the swamp for the next two nights. “I’m going to try to find out something about Zack Platt,” he finished. “Joe, you and Chet see if you can find out anything more about Randy and his connection to Platt.”

  “I have one burning question,” Chet remarked. “Can we stop by the concession stand on the way?”

  • • •

  Frank spent the next hour striking up conversations with strangers, asking each if they knew anything about Zack Platt. None of the locals from Frog’s Peninsula knew Platt, nor did any of the rodeo riders from the circuit.

  Meanwhile, Chet and Joe searched the grandstands, then the main tent, and found Randy at the board where the results of the bronco-riding competition were posted.

  “Hey, Randy,” Joe said, trying to sound as friendly as he could.

  Randy looked at Joe and Chet. “Oh, hi.”

  “How did you do?” Chet asked.

  “Lousy,” Randy muttered.

  Joe studied the board. Dusty Cole had edged out Reuben Tallwalker for top honors. Randy had come in twelfth. “You stayed on until the buzzer,” Joe said.

  “That’s only part of it. You’re also judged on the difficulty of your horse and the quality of your ride,” Randy explained.

  “All they have to do is give you a tougher horse next time,” Chet said.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Randy said, smiling.

  “There you are!” Dusty called as he hurried over. “We’re heading back to the trading post now.”

  “There’s a barbecue for the younger crowd,” Joe explained. “We thought we’d hang out awhile.”

  “I wish you could,” Dusty replied. “But our guests are tired, and if you don’t go back to the fishing camp with us on the pontoon boat, you’ll be stranded.”

  “I could take them back,” Randy offered. “My johnboat is docked at the trading post. If you’re talking about Cole’s Fishing Camp, it’s on my way.”

  “Where’s home?” Dusty asked.

  “Frog’s Peninsula,” Randy replied.

  “And you took a boat all the way across Gator Swamp to the trading post?” Dusty asked, puzzled. “You could have walked to the rodeo from Frog’s Peninsula in half the time.”

  After a slight pause, Randy replied, “I like the scenic route.”

  Dusty gave Randy a suspicious look. Joe could see Randy growing nervous, and he didn’t want to lose the chance to question him further. “Thanks, Randy. Hitching a ride back with you is a great idea.”

  “Be back at the camp by midnight,” Dusty called as he headed for the parking lot. “You all promised Platt you’d stay out of the swamp after that.”

  “I’m going to catch a quick shower in the bunkhouse,” Randy said. “I’ll see you at the barbecue.”

  After Randy was gone, Chet turned to Joe. “I thought you were going to ask Randy what he was doing with Zack Platt?”

  “I am,” Joe replied, “but he won’t open up if he’s suspicious of us right off the bat.”

  Chet nodded. “First,” Joe added, “I want to see what Frank’s found out.” Joe and Chet caught up with Frank by the bull pen, where he was talking with a couple of the rodeo cowhands.

  “I found out that no one here knows a thing about Zack Platt,” Frank said.

  Joe filled Frank in on Randy�
�s odd behavior. “I think Randy and Mr. Platt are doing something illegal in Gator Swamp,” Joe concluded.

  “Maybe they’re poaching alligators,” Frank offered. “They could be hunting them without a license and selling the hides on the black market.”

  Joe scratched his chin thoughtfully. “We might have to go into the swamp to find the answers.”

  “Swamps are scary places,” Chet said. “I’d rather be tracking cold-blooded kidnappers in Bayport.”

  “Relax, Chet,” Joe assured his friend. “For now all you have to do is eat barbecue.”

  “Of barbecue,” Chet said with a smile, “I am fearless.”

  Behind the main tent, a group of young men and women were sitting around a blazing campfire. Rodeo workers were stringing white lights up on poles surrounding the area. Two huge barbecue grills had been set up nearby, and the boys could smell the aroma of spareribs cooking over the hot coals.

  Deputy Miles, who was out of uniform and in a white blouse, blue jeans, and cowboy boots, was talking with Mr. Deeter. She waved to the Hardys and Chet as they approached.

  Frank spotted Randy standing with some girls near the campfire, flipping his gold coin. “I’m not afraid of any wild bull,” Randy boasted. “Watch me tomorrow. I’ll be riding Storm Cloud.”

  “So Mr. Furman found you a sponsor,” Frank said as he approached Randy.

  “Yes, he did,” Randy replied.

  “Is that a good-luck charm or something?” Frank asked, nodding to the gold coin.

  “Huh? Yeah, a good-luck charm,” Randy replied, closing his hand on the coin so that Frank couldn’t see it.

  A tall balding man with black-rimmed glasses stepped from the shadows into the light of the campfire. “Better put that away before you lose it.”

  Randy pocketed his coin. “This is my sponsor, Mr. Salty Hubbard.”

  As Frank shook his rough bony hand, Hubbard added in a loud voice, “I’m a fisherman by trade. I just dabble in this rodeo stuff for fun. Are you boys friends of Randy?”

  “Actually, we just met today,” Frank replied.

  “Is that right?” Hubbard replied. “So you don’t know him any better than I do.”