Hunting for Hidden Gold Page 3

  The plane set down bumpily on a snow-covered landing strip. As the Hardys came out and gazed around, a sharp, biting wind hit their faces.

  “Wow! This sure is different!” said Frank.

  Pine woods surrounded the bleak, windswept field with its Quonset hut terminal and hangar. A helicopter and a tiny single-engine aircraft were parked near the edge of the field. To the west loomed the snowy Bitterroot mountain range.

  “Brr!” Joe shivered. “Lonely looking, eh?”

  “Sure is.” Frank replied.

  As the brothers headed for the terminal, a hatless man in a plaid mackinaw strode toward them. “Frank and Joe Hardy?” he boomed.

  He was a tall, handsome, ruddy-faced man. His white hair blew about in the wind. “I’m Bob Dodge,” he added, shaking hands with the boys heartily. “Your father’s working on a case for me in Lucky Lode. I came over in my helicopter to pick you up.”

  “Why didn’t Dad come?” Frank asked.

  “He had an accident—broke a couple of ribs. Nothing serious,” Dodge added, “but the doctor taped his chest and wants him to keep quiet.”

  Seeing a look of suspicion on the boys’ faces, Dodge took a picture from his pocket. “Your father gave me this.” He held out a snapshot of the Hardys’ house with Aunt Gertrude standing on the lawn. “That’s your father’s sister,” Dodge said.

  “Okay.” Frank knew that if the detective had been forced to hand over the picture, he would not have given Aunt Gertrude’s true identity. Mr. Dodge must be all right.

  “We have to be careful,” Joe explained.

  “I understand.” Dodge smiled. “There’s some stuff in the terminal I want to pick up. You two go on aboard.” He gestured toward the helicopter.

  The boys started across the field. They were still some distance from the craft when a tall, thin man suddenly jumped out of the ship and walked rapidly away.

  “Wonder who he is?” Joe asked.

  “Maybe an airport attendant,” Frank guessed.

  “If so, why is he heading for the woods?”

  Frank frowned. When they reached the helicopter, he said, “I wish we knew what that fellow was doing aboard.”

  Joe pulled back the door and looked inside cautiously. The boys searched the helicopter but found nothing.

  Frank chuckled in relief. “Okay, we didn’t get booby-trapped. Let’s stow our gear.”

  They climbed out and Joe was about to open the access hatch to the baggage compartment, just aft of the cabin, when Frank stopped him.

  “Let’s play safe and check this door.”

  “Good idea.” Frank took a rope from his gear and tied one end to the hatch handle. The boys backed off to one side. Frank tugged the rope.

  Boo-o-om! A deafening blast rocked the craft and knocked the boys off their feet. An acrid smell of gunpowder assailed their nostrils.

  “Good grief!” Joe whispered.

  Pale and shaken, they examined the baggage compartment. A sawed-off shotgun had been wired and propped into position inside, evidently by someone working through a removable panel in the forward wall. The gun had been triggered by a cord tied to the door latch.

  Meanwhile, the explosion had brought Bob Dodge and an older man running from the terminal. “What happened?” they yelled together.

  Frank explained, and the two men examined the deadly setup with dismayed looks. Joe cautioned them not to touch the weapon so it could be checked for fingerprints. Dodge’s companion, who proved to be the airport manager, went off to report the incident to the police.

  Frank and Joe took out their fingerprint kit and dusted the shotgun. No prints appeared.

  “The man we saw at the copter wore gloves,” Frank recalled, “but I was hoping something might show up, anyhow.”

  “The gun must have been wiped clean beforehand,” Joe deduced.

  Soon two police officers arrived. The Hardys described their near-fatal experience, and reported the results of their fingerprint check.

  “You’re detectives?” one officer asked.

  Frank introduced himself and his brother as Fenton Hardy’s sons. “I see,” said the officer. “I’ve heard of him—rarely fails to solve a case. So you’re following in his footsteps. Well, good luck!”

  The brothers turned over the weapon to the policemen, who then, with the boys assisting, made a thorough check of the helicopter. They found no clues, however, so the Hardys stowed their gear and followed Dodge aboard the whirlybird.

  “That scattergun could have been meant for me,” Dodge remarked worriedly, as he started the motor.

  “Or for us,” Frank said.

  As the helicopter rose and soared toward the Bitterroot mountain range, Frank told Dodge of their being kidnapped in Chicago.

  “What is the case Dad is working on for you?” Joe asked.

  “I’ve been running an armored-car service for ten years,” the big man explained. ”Recently one of my trucks was hijacked and a money shipment stolen. Both guards aboard were shot. The money was insured, of course, but I wanted those hijackers caught to avoid any future holdups, so, knowing your father’s reputation for tracking down hijackers, I engaged him to investigate. My men’s safety is important to me. The police have worked on the case, too. They and your father managed to recover the money and catch two of the gang, but the others escaped. Someone reported seeing them in Canada.”

  Boo-o-om! The blast knocked the boys off their feet

  “Then why has Dad stayed here?” Frank asked.

  “Because he believes the leader of the gang, Big Al Martin, is still in this area. Your father refuses to leave until he is found.”

  “How did Dad get hurt?” Joe questioned.

  “He was thrown from a horse yesterday afternoon,” Dodge replied, “while chasing a fellow he thinks is one of Big Al’s men.”

  “And now Dad wants us to try to find the outlaws,” Frank surmised.

  “Yes,” Dodge said, “and the sooner the better. Big Al’s dangerous—he belongs behind bars. The police know he has henchmen in other cities.”

  As Dodge spoke, the helicopter shook and rattled in the wind. Below them, the boys saw wild, rugged country. Snow-covered buttes stood like gaunt sentinels overlooking heavily wooded valleys.

  Presently Dodge shouted, “It won’t be long now!”

  Ahead, in a mountain cleft, the pilot pointed out the tiny town of Lucky Lode. “Over to the left is Windy Peak—the highest in the range.”

  “Have you been flying long, Mr. Dodge?” Joe asked.

  “I started taking lessons a couple of years ago and it came easily to me.”

  “Have you always lived in the West?” Frank asked, but Dodge did not reply.

  “Here we go!” he said, and began setting the helicopter down. Frank wondered if Dodge had not heard his question or did not want to discuss his past.

  The pilot landed expertly in a clearing at one end of Lucky Lode. Then he helped the boys lug their gear to Hank Shale’s cabin at the foot of a steep hill on the outskirts of the town.

  When Frank knocked, the door was opened by a tall, skinny man with thinning red hair. His wrinkled face split into a grin when he saw the trio.

  “Come in and thaw out!” he exclaimed. “I’m Hank Shale. Your pa and I’ve been waitin’ for you!”

  The boys entered to find their father seated before a roaring fire. Fenton Hardy was a trim, athletic-looking man. His keen eyes lighted up when he saw his sons.

  “Hello, boys,” said the detective, and moving carefully, shook hands with them. “Thanks for giving up your camping trip.”

  “We’d rather work with you any day,” Joe said, grinning.

  Mr. Hardy smiled and turned to Dodge. “I appreciate your bringing my sons.”

  Hank announced that he was going to the kitchen and rustle up some grub.

  “I’ll help you,” Dodge volunteered. “The three detectives can sit by the fire and exchange news.”

  In low voices the boys told the
ir father all that had happened since they had left Bayport.

  Mr. Hardy looked grave. “I agree with you that someone here must have informed Al’s Chicago henchmen that you were coming. But who?” He glanced toward the kitchen and called, “Hank!”

  When the red-haired man appeared in the doorway, Mr. Hardy asked him, “Who was in Burke’s general store when you phoned my sons last night?”

  “Just the usual crowd o’ fellers sittin’ around the stove,” Hank replied. “I had to holler on account o’ that bad connection, so they all heard every word.”

  “Someone on the line might have been listening, too,” Joe remarked.

  “I smell somethin’ bumin’!” Hank exclaimed and bolted into the kitchen.

  “We’ll have to be on guard,” said Frank. “Someone probably will be watching every move we make.”

  “Dad,” Joe asked, “what made you so sure Big Al didn’t go to Canada?”

  “I was working with the police,” Mr. Hardy said, “when we caught two of the gang week before last. One of them told us Big Al was hiding out here, and meant to attend to some unfinished business. The police thought he was lying in order to sidetrack us while Al made an escape. I had a hunch it was the truth.”

  “Why?” asked Frank.

  “Because the man seemed scared and appeared to be hoping for a break at his trial. I started riding the hills trying to pick up Al’s trail. Yesterday I followed a rough-looking fellow on horseback. He met another man in a small clearing. I heard them talking and caught the words ‘Big Al‘ and ‘hideout.’ Just then my horse Major whinnied and the men galloped off. I gave chase, but Major stumbled and I took a spill.” The detective smiled ruefully. “Now I’m stuck here! Boys,” he added seriously, “your job is to find that hideout.”

  Frank and ,joe, greatly excited by this challenge, discussed it all during a supper of thick western steaks, beans, and biscuits.

  “We’ll have to get a line on what Big Al’s unfinished business is,” Frank said, when they were seated around the fireplace later.

  “In any event, it’s probably illegal,” his father rejoined.

  Presently Dodge got up. “Guess I’d better get back to the hotel.”

  “Are your offices in Lucky Lode?” Joe asked.

  “No, in Helena. I’ve been staying in town to watch developments on the case. If there’s any way I can help you, boys,” the big man added, “just let me know.”

  After Dodge had left, Mr. Hardy remarked, “Bob strikes me as a fine man. Never mentions his early days, but I’m told he started his business on a shoestring and built it up by hard work.”

  “Speakin’ o’ work, who wants to wash dishes?”

  Laughing, the boys took Hank’s hint and before long the kitchen was shipshape.

  Finally the brothers went to bed in one of two small rooms which led off the big one. Weary, the boys fell asleep immediately.

  Suddenly they awoke with a start. A rumbling noise was coming from behind the cabin, growing louder every moment. The brothers leaped from bed. At the same instant, the cabin was jarred with a deafening crash.

  Frank and Joe heard Hank yell as they rushed into the living room. “Look! Fire!” He pointed to the kitchen where a bright red glow was visible.

  The trio dashed in. By the light of the flames they could see that a huge boulder had crashed through the back wall, overturning the stove and spewing burning firewood over the floor.

  The boys raced back to their bedroom to get blankets. Spreading them over the fire, they began smothering and stamping out the flames. Mr. Hardy had hurried from his room, but the boys would not allow him to help. Meanwhile, Hank had filled a bucket at the kitchen pump and was dousing water over the hot stove. The fire sizzled angrily but gradually died out.

  “Tarnation!” Hank exclaimed. “Nearest thing to an avalanche we’ve ever had around here.” He lighted an oil lamp, and everyone surveyed the damage.

  “What a mess!” Joe grimaced.

  The cabin owner sighed. “A whoppin’ big hole in the wall, and some burnt floorin’. Well, I reckon I can fix it tomorrow.”

  Frank and Joe started to push the boulder out through the hole, then Joe gasped in surprise. On the huge stone were brightly painted red letters. Rolling the boulder a bit farther, the boys made out a crudely painted message:HARDYS—LEAVE TOWN!

  “A warning from Big All” Frank said grimly.

  CHAPTER V

  The Strange Blue Light

  THE three detectives and Hank examined the warning message on the huge rock.

  “Big Al is a rough customer,” Mr. Hardy said, frowning. “Be on your guard at all times.”

  “We’ll watch out, Dad,” Frank promised.

  He and Joe shoved the boulder outside and looked up the hill. The moon had set and the mountainside was shrouded in darkness.

  “No telling if anyone’s up there,” Joe muttered.

  The two brothers shivered in the icy wind, and then squirmed through the hole into the burned kitchen. Meanwhile, Hank pulled on warm clothes, went out to a lean-to, and brought back a tarpaulin. The boys helped him nail it over the hole in the wall, then set the stove up.

  “That’ll do till mornin’,” Hank said.

  Frank and Joe were up as soon as it was light. After a quick breakfast they climbed the steep, snow-covered slope behind the shack, following the trail plowed by the huge boulder. The boys soon found a deep gouge where the stone had been pried out of the hillside.

  “Somebody used a crowbar to get it going,” Joe said, kneeling on the ground.

  “And here are some traces of red paint,” Frank pointed out.

  They scouted around thoroughly, and noticed the snow had been disturbed, as if to cover tracks.

  “Whoever pried that stone loose,” Frank said thoughtfully, “may have come from town rather than from a hideout in the hills.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s not likely that anyone hiding up in the mountains would have red paint on hand. The person who did this probably got it at the village store.”

  “Maybe Big Al has an agent in Lucky Lode,” Joe suggested.

  The boys walked on up the hill. The undergrowth at the top was parted and broken.

  “Someone forced his way through here,” Frank said.

  They followed the trampled brush to a trail which led along the wooded ridge, paralleling the main street of Lucky Lode below them. Soon they spotted a narrow path leading down into the small community.

  “The man we’re after could have come this way,” Frank said. “We’d better scout for clues.”

  Slowly he and Joe walked down the steep, narrow trail. There were footprints, but these were too jumbled to be of any significance. They reached the bottom without finding anything else, then climbed back to the top and continued along the ridge.

  After a while the boys emerged into a clearing. Before them lay an old cemetery. They crawled through a gap in the dilapidated wooden fence and walked silently among the gravestones. From the bleak, windswept spot they could see all of Lucky Lode in the valley below. The old part of town ended directly under the cemetery.

  “Look at these, Frank,” called Joe, from where he knelt beside a double headstone.

  “‘John and James Coulson’!” Frank read. “Mike Onslow’s partners!”

  “I guess they came to Lucky Lode to try for another stake,” Joe said.

  “You’re probably right,” Frank replied.

  The boys decided to go into town and headed for the cemetery gate. Coarse brush grew up around the ornate posts. Frank passed through, but Joe was pulled up short.

  “Wait!” he said. “I’m caught!”

  Big burrs clung to his trousers. Fumbling with heavily gloved fingers, he managed to get free. Together, he and Frank pulled out all the burrs and the brothers scrambled down the slope.

  At the foot they saw the deserted gray-weathered buildings. As they walked along the old wooden sidewalk, the boards creaked and
the wind rattled the loose doors and shutters.

  “This end of Lucky Lode’s a real ghost town,” Frank remarked.

  “Somebody lives here, though,” Joe replied. He pointed ahead to a tumbledown house. A pale stream of smoke issued from the chimney.

  Suddenly the door opened a crack and a rifle muzzle poked out. It was aimed straight at the boys!

  Frank and Joe halted, not knowing whether to drop to the ground or run. But nothing happened. At last they moved forward cautiously.

  The muzzle followed the Hardys until they came abreast of the porch. Then the door was kicked open and an old man jumped out, aiming the weapon at them. Frank and Joe stopped.

  “What are you doin’ here?” the white-haired man demanded curtly, his eyes squinting suspiciously.

  “Just visiting,” Frank said in a friendly tone.

  “We’re from the East,” Joe went on. “Staying with Hank Shale.”

  The old man lowered the rifle. “Oh,” he said, relieved. “Any friend of Hank Shale is a friend of mine. Come on in.”

  “Did you expect somebody else?” Frank asked, as the boys followed the old man into the shack.

  “Don’t know!” he snapped. “A fella can’t be too careful around here now. There’s funny things happenin’ up on Cemetery Hill.”

  The boys found themselves in a plainly furnished room heated by a wood stove. They introduced themselves and their host said, “My name’s Ben Tinker.” He pointed to two wooden chairs near the stove. “Sit down and warm up.”

  “What did you mean by funny things going on in the cemetery?” Frank asked him.

  “It’s haunted,” Ben said flatly. “Has been for the past two weeks.”

  “Haunted!” Joe echoed. “How?”

  “Sometimes, late at night, a blue light blinks on and off up there. I’ve seen it,” the old man explained, “because I’m a night owl and like a breath of air before turnin’ in.”

  “Has anyone else seen the light?” Frank asked.

  “Doubt it. In Lucky Lode nobody’s out late at night. But that’s not all,” Ben went on. “About an hour after the lights show, somebody walks past here. I think it’s Charlie’s ghost. Charlie used to play piano in the Peacock Dance Hall next door. He was killed in a gunfight there forty years ago and buried up on Cemetery Hill.”