The Secret of Skull Mountain Page 3

  “Did you discover where the water is escaping?” he eagerly asked Bob.

  The engineer’s face clouded. “No,” he said. “Dick and I rowed completely around the reservoir dropping shingles in the water. Then we watched to see if any of them drifted so as to reveal a current. We didn’t find a thing. We gave up and brought the shingles back here.”

  “It beats me,” Dick said. “All we know so far is that the water rises during the day and sinks at night. The depth is never more than twenty feet.”

  “Could there be a leak in the dam?” Joe asked.

  Bob shook his head. “No,” he said. “We’ve been over every inch of it.” The tall engineer was silent for a moment. “There’s only one possibility,” he said.

  He told them that when he was a student in college, he had made a careful study of the geology of the Bayport area. In his reading, he had come across a geologist’s speculation that millions of years before, the Tarnack River had been blocked by a moraine, a huge mass of sand, rock, and other debris deposited by a glacier that had covered the entire region.

  The geologist believed that the river had worn an outlet underground to the Atlantic Ocean. Later, upheavals had caused the Tarnack to change its course, eating a path through the moraine and settling into its present bed.

  “If the theory is correct,” Bob finished, “somewhere nearby there’s a subterranean passage to the sea!”

  Frank’s eyes opened wide in amazement. “And you believe that the water from the reservoir is escaping through the ancient outlet?”

  Bob nodded.

  “Wow!” exclaimed Joe. “What a story!”

  “But wouldn’t the men who built the dam have discovered the tunnel when they diverted the river from the valley?” Frank persisted.

  “If the tunnel started from the river bottom, yes,” Bob admitted. “If there is such an outlet, it must be higher up-on one of the slopes.”

  “If we could only find it,” Dick said, “our troubles would be over.”

  “If!” Bob laughed. “That’s the trouble with theories! They’re full of ifs!” He yawned. “I don’t know about you fellows—but I’m going to get some shut-eye!”

  The others agreed that it was time to turn in, and Frank and Joe went to help Chet pitch a pup tent next to theirs. Soon the boys were asleep.

  Some time later a shriek from Chet split the night. “Help!” he yelled. “Take it away!”

  CHAPTER IV

  Sailor Hawkins

  AS FRANK and Joe ducked out of their tents, Bob and Dick burst from the shack.

  Chet was kneeling at the opening to his tent, staring at something inside. He held a flashlight, but his hand shook so violently that Frank took it from him.

  “Chet, what is it?” he asked anxiously.

  Chet was frozen. He lifted his arm slowly and pointed. “There—on my pillow!” he whispered.

  The boys’ eyes followed their friend’s outstretched arm. Staring at them from the cot was a human skull!

  “I woke up when I felt something c-cold touching my cheek,” Chet stammered, “and there it was—right against my face!” He shivered. “Ugh!”

  Joe, shining his flashlight about the interior of the tent, suddenly asked, “Chet what did you do with your clothes?”

  “Clothes? Why, I put them right there—” Chet’s jaw dropped as he looked at the canvas sack which had held his camping duds.

  “Holy smoke!” he yelped. “They’re gone!” Suddenly the boy stared at the soft earth beside the empty sack, and bent down for a closer look. “Hey!” he cried out. “Bring the light here!”

  Frank shone the beam on the spot at which Chet pointed. The ground was marked with the print of a naked foot. One toe was missing!

  “Joe, look!” Frank pointed excitedly. “The mountain man’s tracks!”

  Joe nodded grimly. “We’ve got a lot to settle with that guy! Maybe the landslide and the skulls, the explosion, and now Chet’s clothes!”

  “Do you think the mountain man could be responsible for the smoke, too?” Dick asked.

  “Could be,” Frank asserted. He looked out of the tent toward the shadowy mountain peak. “I’d give up a month of my vacation to know where he is right now!”

  “I don’t want to know,” said Chet. “Every time I think of him sneaking here—” His glance rested on the skull. “What about that thing?”

  “We thought you’d want to keep it,” Frank said with a grin.

  “It’s all yours,” Chet said firmly.

  Frank chuckled and took the skull outside.

  Bob grinned and said, “I’ll put it in my duffel bag with the other two.”

  “A collection of skulls!” remarked Joe. “It’s not so funny, when you figure they stand for danger.”

  Early the next day the brothers again set out to trail the mountain man. Joe had supplied Chet with shirt and pants which fitted like a sausage skin. Frank had contributed socks and a pair of boots, but these were so tight for the plump boy, he had decided to remain at camp.

  The Hardys followed the footprints down and across the mountain through stretches of scrub and shale. Several times they lost the trail, but picked it up again on soft earth.

  After a long, hot scramble they emerged from the trees and saw a cabin situated on the cleared slope above the reservoir. Nothing moved except a column of smoke which drifted lazily from an iron stack.

  As they approached the cabin, Joe plucked at Frank’s sleeve and pointed off to the left. Frank looked in that direction and nodded.

  The footprints led unmistakably to several large fresh-cut tree stumps at the edge of the forest. Nearby were huge piles of neatly split firewood. Why, the boys wondered, had so much been cut? Certainly not just for the tiny cabin’s fireplace or stove!

  “I think we’ll have a talk with the owner of this place,” Frank decided.

  They walked quietly down the hillside, then stopped short. Inside the dilapidated house a hoarse voice was singing a rollicking sea chantey!

  “Sailor Hawkins!” Joe said, grinning.

  The boys winced as the voice went sour on a high note. They stepped onto the porch. Immediately, a parrot chained to a wooden stand screamed at them.

  “Avast, ye lubbers!” The brightly plumed bird craned his neck, then set up a furious squawking. “Man the topsail, me hearties! Lend a hand there—or I’ll keelhaul ye!”

  Frank and Joe laughed loudly.

  The parrot flapped his wings noisily. “Keelhaul ye! Keelhaul ye! Keelhaul ye!”

  A short, squat man with a rolling gait ran out on the porch and lifted his hand threateningly at the parrot. “Pipe down, ye blighter. Or I’ll give ye the back o’ me hand!”

  The bird subsided with several protesting squawks and the man turned to Frank and Joe. “Now then, mateys,” he said, hitching his trousers with a nautical gesture, “who are ye?”

  “I’m Frank Hardy,” the older boy told the man. “This is my brother Joe. We were out walking. You’re Sailor Hawkins, aren’t you?”

  “Captain Hawkins,” the man corrected him with sudden dignity. “Least, I used to be—when I had me own square-rigger.”

  “Isn’t this an odd place for a sailor to be?” Joe inquired.

  “Aye, mate, it is that,” Hawkins assured him. He looked around and shook his head gloomily. “I never would’ve come here if me ship hadn’t cracked up on a reef.” He sighed heavily. “Split every timber of her!”

  “Can’t you go back to sea?” Frank asked.

  Sailor Hawkins sighed again. “Ah, laddie, I wish I could! But I’m too old for them newfangled vessels!” He glared at the boys suddenly. “But I aint too old to fight for me rights!”

  “What do you mean?” asked Joe.

  Hawkins jerked his thumb. “This cabin—that’s what I mean!” he shouted. “I built her meself! Put every board an’ nail in her!” He stepped off the porch and scooped up a handful of dirt. “An’ the land’s mine, tool I been livin’ alone here seven year
s, an’ when ye been squattin’ seven years—the land is your’n!”

  He returned to the porch and stared at the boys suspiciously. “Mark me, mateys,” he said, stubbing a blunt forefinger against Frank’s chest for emphasis, ‘if any o’ them smart-alecky engineers try to run water over me property, I’ll blow ’em higher than a mainmast!” He grabbed up a rifle from the porch to show that he meant what he said.

  The Hardys hastily assured Hawkins that they had no intention of destroying his property. He appeared somewhat mollified. But he was no more helpful than Potato Annie had been when they questioned him about the mystifying events on Skull Mountain.

  Hawkins swore he had no idea what the smoke or explosions meant. He had never seen the shag gy-haired man of the mountain.

  “We noticed someone has cut down a great deal of timber above you at the edge of the forest,” Frank remarked.

  Hawkins glared at him. “Aye,” he said. “I did. A man can cut wood on his own property, can’t he?”

  “It’s an awful lot of wood,” Joe replied.

  “Yes,” Frank added, “and it could make a lot of smoke!”

  The little man glared at the boys. “Sink me if I don’t think ye working with them engineers!” he countered.

  When the brothers admitted that this was true, Hawkins’ face flushed. “Get off me land ’fore I blast ye off!” he roared, fingering his rifle.

  As the boys stepped from the porch, the voice of the parrot screamed after them, “I’ll keelhaul ye! Keelhaul ye! Keelhaul ye!”

  Joe looked at Frank and grinned. “Pleasant customers! Maybe Hawkins is one of those nighttime snipers.”

  “Could be. I don’t think he’s the fellow with the missing toe, though. His feet are too short and wide.”

  Frank and Joe walked up to the tree stumps at the edge of the forest where they had last seen the footprints.

  “We’ll follow these tracks until we find who’s at the end of them!” Frank declared.

  But the trail ended a few hundred feet deeper in the woods. Whoever had left the footprints had vanished over a stretch of sheer rock.

  Disappointed, the boys turned back. They had just reached the clearing above Hawkins’ cabin when Joe suddenly whispered, “Hold it!” He pulled Frank back. “Look—on the porch!”

  CHAPTER V

  The Missing Scientist

  TALKING earnestly with Hawkins on the porch was a tall, thin stranger.

  “Wonder who he is?” queried Joe. He and Frank were crouched behind some shrubs at the edge of the woods.

  Frank shook his head. The visitor looked around uneasily, then bent close to Hawkins and went on speaking.

  Both boys listened intently, but the voices were too far away. Finally the stranger departed down the slope.

  “I sure wish we could follow him,” said Joe as the man’s figure grew smaller and smaller.

  “So do I,” Frank agreed. “But with no trees for cover he’d be sure to spot us. Come on! Let’s get back to the camp.”

  It was noon when the boys arrived at Carpenter’s shack. From there they could see that Chet had joined Bob and Dick in the boat. The youth was standing precariously on one of the seats, probing with a long pole at a part of the slope which was under water.

  “Any luck?” Frank called as he and Joe walked down to the shore.

  “Not yet!” Bob yelled. “If there’s an underground outlet in this valley, we haven’t found it!”

  “Take it easy, Chet,” Joe called, grinning. “That pole’s likely to throw you!”

  As Chet twisted his head to make a retort, the pole caught in some brambles. The rowboat shot out from under his feet. For one agonizing instant, Chet dangled helplessly from the end of the pole. Then the shaft broke with a sharp crack, and the boy plopped into the water!

  Chet rose to the surface, splashing and sputtering. On the shore Frank and Joe were doubled up with laughter. Bob and Dick could not help grinning.

  Chet was indignant. “Don‘t—see—what’s—so—funny!” he spluttered.

  Dick rowed the boat close to the youth, and Bob reached over and hauled him in. As Dick pulled for the small floating dock, Chet sat dejected and dripping in the bottom of the boat. He surveyed himself dismally and lamented, “As if I wasn’t hard up for clothes already, this had to happen!”

  “Never mind, Chet,” Frank reassured him as the rowboat docked, “I’ll drive back to Bayport and bring you some more.”

  “You will?” Chet said, relieved, “Golly, that’ll be swell!”

  Frank turned to his brother. “I’ll look in on Mother and Aunt Gertrude. You’d better stay here and keep an eye on things.”

  Bob looked at Frank. “What happened this morning?”

  “Joe will tell you about it, Bob. The sooner I start, the quicker I’ll get back. See you all later.” He took a sandwich and apple for lunch, eating them on the trail which led to the parked convertible.

  The woods was dim and quiet. Now and then a bird stirred among the branches. Suddenly there came a loud crash from a clump of heavy bushes beyond the path.

  Frank stopped and listened. He wondered if he had startled a deer, and stood waiting for the animal to thrash off into the brush. But all was silent.

  “That was no deer,” Frank decided.

  Stepping softly, he made his way to the clump of shrubs. Cautiously he parted it. Nothing there!

  “Somebody was following me,” Frank thought. “He probably fell down and then sneaked away so I wouldn’t find him.”

  The shaft broke and Chet plopped into the water

  He returned to the path and continued downward, keeping an ear open for his follower. But he heard nothing.

  After a while the trail wound steeply down between tall trees and the light grew dimmer. Not a breath of air was moving. Frank rounded a bend and stopped short with a gasp!

  Swinging lightly in mid-air was a human skull!

  A moment later the startled boy saw the heavy black thread by which the grinning object was hanging from a branch.

  “Whew!” Frank gave a little laugh. “You scared me, Smiley!”

  Then he slipped into the woods to search for the person who had hung up the grisly surprise.

  “He hasn’t been gone long,” Frank thought. “The skull is still moving.” He found no one.

  Frank returned to the path, took down the skull, and placed it next to a tree.

  “Whoever did this trick is a slippery operator,” he thought grimly, and wondered if it were the wild-looking mountain man.

  An hour later, when Frank mounted the steps of the Hardy front porch, his father opened the door. “Dad!” Frank exclaimed. “Gosh, I’m glad to see you! When did you get back? Is your latest case solved?”

  Fenton Hardy laughed and slapped his son on the back affectionately. “One question at a time,” he said. “Where’s Joe?”

  As Frank started to explain, Mr. Hardy led the boy into his study and closed the door.

  “Now,” he said, “suppose you start at the beginning.”

  Frank did so, and Fenton Hardy listened attentively, laughing heartily when his son came to Chet’s misadventure in the rowboat.

  “That’s the whole story, Dad,” Frank concluded. He added gloomily, “So far, we haven’t made much progress toward clearing up the case.”

  The famous detective smiled. “Solving mysteries is pretty much a problem of elimination, son. The more suspects and clues you can eliminate, the closer you are to the real criminals.”

  “That’s just the trouble,” said Frank. “We have too many suspects and clues.” He looked thoughtful. “There’s one thing I feel sure of, though. This is not just a matter of some poor squatters trying to hold onto their land. Keeping the reservoir empty is too big a trick for Potato Annie or Hawkins to pull off alone.”

  “I think you’re right, Frank.” Mr. Hardy leaned forward significantly. “The main thing is to find the motive for the crime. When you know that, you’ll be well on your way to
catching the criminal.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” said Frank. “I’ll remember that. What about your case? Can you tell me about it?”

  Mr. Hardy explained that he was working on an assignment for the Ace Laboratories in Pom-ford, Illinois.

  A month before, Dr. Carl Foster, a scientist-engineer in charge of a project at the laboratories, had been granted a week’s leave of absence. The scientist had not been seen since. The chief of the laboratories was frantic.

  “I questioned all his employees, of course,” Mr. Hardy went on. “I also went to the hotel where Dr. Foster had been living. I found these scraps in his wastebasket. It was made of wicker and these had got stuck in the woven bottom.” He took two torn pieces of paper from his wallet and handed them to Frank.

  “They’re parts of a telegram,” Frank observed. He studied them carefully. On one were the typed letters: LEN. On the other piece was the word BAY.

  “Could BAY be part of Bayport?” the boy asked.

  “It could,” his father admitted. “It might also mean Bay Ridge, Bayview, Hudson Bay, and a thousand and one other cities, towns, villages, and waterways in North America.”

  There was a knock on the study door. It was Mrs. Hardy. “Why, Frank! You’re home!” she exclaimed.

  The youth explained that he had returned to obtain some clothes for Chet. “And I guess I’d better hurry out to the Morton farm,” he went on. “Chet will be in a stew until he is wearing his own things!”

  Mrs. Hardy smiled. “Say hello to the Mortons for me,” she said. “And, Frank,” she called after the retreating boy, “please stop at a plumber’s shop and ask if he can come out here today and repair a leaking faucet!”

  “Tell him it’s an emergency!” Aunt Gertrude poked her head into the hall. “We can’t afford to waste a drop of water in this town!”

  Frank drove to a shop whose sign read “J. P. Kleng, Plumber.” A tiny bell tinkled as he opened the door, and a surly-looking man with red hair came from the rear of the store.

  He studied Frank unpleasantly as the boy told him of the leaking faucet. “What do you expect me to do about it?” he asked.