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  eyed. ''Did you see that? I thought they were going to kill me! They're saying I burned Buster's mill down!"

  Ronnie stared at him with obvious distaste. ''Well," she said, ''did you?"

  "Of course not!" Galen sputtered, glaring first at her, then at the Hardys. "And 1 didn't kill Buster Owens either, if that's what you're thinking. Not that I hadn't considered the idea more than once."

  Frank stared out the window. Half a dozen men were standing in the street outside the newspaper, yelling threats at Galen. Frank recognized Mike Stavisky among them. A man he hadn't seen before—hawk-nosed, with a receding hairline and a muscular build—hung back from the rest of the crowd, watching calmly.

  "They definitely believe you did more than consider it," Frank remarked to Galen. "What do they think—that you and Stan were accomplices?"

  "Stan?" Galen stared at him, not comprehending. "What's he got to do with this?"

  *'He's in jail, Vance," Ronnie said acidly. "They found a crate of dynamite in his truck and now the sheriffs holding him for questioning. Where have you been?"

  "Stan? I can't believe it!" Galen's expression was a combination of shock and relief. "It's a good thing they didn't find it in my car," he added, half to himself. "They'd probably have hanged me by now."

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  Frank could see that the loggers outside were growing impatient. '*Vance Galen, come out here!" Stavisky yelled. ''We want an explanation about where you were today!"

  The other loggers roared their assent. Ronnie turned to Galen. ''Go on," she said dryly. "Tell them where you were this morning—if you can."

  Frank looked at Ronnie. Clearly, she had no sympathy for the overly dramatic Green. But did she think Galen really was capable of murdering Buster Owens?

  "No way I'm going out there," Galen said. "I'm staying put until they get bored and go away."

  Before Ronnie could object, Galen ducked behind the massive press. Frank shook his head, then turned his attention back to the loggers. With Stavisky urging them on, they were getting angrier by the second. "They're not going—" Frank started to say.

  He was cut off by a loud crash that filled the office. The front plate-glass window had shattered into a thousand pieces!

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  Frank instinctively leapt to one side, and the big shards of glass missed him by just inches. Joe had dived behind a stack of newspapers, but Ronnie hadn't taken cover at all. She was striding forward, red-faced, toward the window.

  "Mike Stavisky!" she yelled. "You broke my window! I'm calling Sheriff Ferris!"

  "Sorry, Ronnie." Stavisky's sheepish face appeared in the jagged opening made by the rock. "I got carried away—"

  "I know you did!" Ronnie glared at him. "Who's going to pay for the damage?"

  "We will, Ronnie."

  Frank stood up in time to see one of the other loggers, a tall, thin man with an embarrassed expression, join Stavisky. "We didn't mean to break the window," he tried to explain. "It's

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  just a lot of us lost our jobs because of that fire. Also Buster, who was a friend and a good boss. And then Galen—"

  "Vance Galen is innocent until proven guilty, just like every one of you," Ronnie said evenly as Frank and Joe joined her on either side. "And so is Stan Shaw, for that matter. We've had enough trouble in this town, haven't we? Let's not start it up again."

  "You're right," the tall logger said, though he looked more disgusted than convinced. Then he turned to the others in the group. Frank noticed that the hawk-nosed man in the back had disappeared.

  "Go on, guys," the tall logger said. "Mike and I will get some boards and cover this window until we can get a new one cut."

  "We'll what?" Mike gaped at his friend.

  "You heard him," Ronnie said to Stavisky. "And while you're at it, you'll let Galen get out of here—in one piece."

  The loggers obeyed Ronnie grudgingly. While Frank watched, amazed, Vance Galen stood up from behind the printing press and ventured outside. He skitted off down the middle of the road Uke a gunman in the Old West expecting gunfire at any minute.

  "1 never did like that man," Ronnie mused, turning her back on the street. "Well, I'm going to get a broom. I guess you two want to get back to the darkroom."

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  ''Congratulations," Joe said as the Hardys headed toward their closet. "That was quick work."

  Ronnie blushed. ''Oh, those guys don't scare me," she said. "I grew up with most of 'em. I've been bossing them around since elementary school."

  "Who was that guy standing at the back of the crowd?" Frank asked. "The older one with the receding hairline and the hawk nose? He didn't seem to belong with the others."

  "That's Rafe Collins," Ronnie said. "He's the foreman at Johnson Lumber, and not a nice guy at all, if you ask me. I hear he really knocks heads together if the loggers don't make their quotas by the end of the month. That's how the company stays successful, though—or so Johnson says, anyway."

  "I wonder what he was doing with that mob," Frank said.

  Ronnie paused. "Well, for one thing, Johnson and Galen hate each other's guts," she told Frank. "Galen thinks Johnson's guilty of greed, mismanaging the environment, killing off endangered species, and all kinds of other evils. And Johnson honestly believes the Greens want to put him out of business. Collins probably wanted to find out what happened to Galen so he could report to Johnson later."

  She sighed as she hunted up the broom in a corner closet. "I tell you, if it weren't for Stan

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  Shaw, this town would have blown up years ago."

  Less than an hour later Joe watched as Frank pulled the last of the second set of photographs from the shallow developing tray and hung them on a photo clamp to drain. Turning to Joe, he said, "Let's take the first set over to the sheriff. While he's looking them over, we can try to pry out of him anything he's uncovered."

  "Good idea." Joe gathered up the set of photographs from the stack beside the print dryer. "Callie should still be there."

  The Hardys said goodbye to Ronnie, who was supervising the loggers' window repair job, and headed out into the twilight for the sheriffs office. Main Street was empty, but Joe could hear music and laughter coming from the Potbelly Cafe and saw lights glowing in the Sportsman's Pool Hall.

  At the far end of the three-block town, the sheriffs office blazed with lights as well. Several vehicles bearing the logos of various state and county law enforcement agencies had pulled up close to the front door.

  "Looks like the sheriff is going to be up late tonight," Frank remarked as they entered the office.

  The boys had to wait only five minutes before being ushered into a back office despite the confusion of a constantly ringing telephone and sev-

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  eral uniformed people in conference in the front room.

  ''All right, boys," Ferris said as Frank and Joe sat down facing the desk. ''What have you got for me?"

  Joe handed Ferris the photographs while Frank said, "In some of the pictures you can see a bootprint clearly enough to tell it's from a typical logger's hobnailed boot. It's a good thing there was rain last night."

  Ferris squared the stack of photos on his desk, then cleared his throat. "Thanks. These will help with our investigation. But I don't think—"

  As soon as Joe sensed the sheriff was giving them the brush-off, he jumped in with a question. "Has anyone tested the blood on the cap we found yet, sir?" he asked.

  Ferris turned to Joe with narrowed eyes. "I ordered a test. The results will be back tomorrow. The coroner called me, though. The autopsy's not complete yet, but he did confirm that Buster had a serious head injury before he died in the fire."

  "Was he robbed?" Joe asked, eager to keep Ferris talking.

  "Nope," Ferris replied. He pulled a large plastic bag from the desk drawer. Joe saw that it contained a worn leather wallet, a pocketknife, and a half-empty pack of gum.

/>   "These are his things," Ferris said. "There was over two hundred dollars in his wallet, so I guess we can rule out robbery as a motive."

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  *'But it was definitely murder," Joe said. *'Buster didn't just happen to be in the mill when it exploded. He was dumped there."

  Ferris's hps twitched irritably. 'Td appreciate it if you'd keep me posted on anything else you turn up while you're here."

  Frank stood up, reaching out to shake Ferris's hand. ''Is Callie still here?"

  ''She left an hour ago," he answered gruffly. "One of those Green fellows showed up from headquarters. She said to tell you they were going to pick up your rental car from Stan's place and bring it down here for you. They'll meet you back at the cabin later on."

  "Mind if we see Stan?" Frank asked.

  "Sorry. Visiting hours are over. He'll be here tomorrow morning. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a lot of details to attend to."

  "Some attitude he has," Joe muttered to his brother as they left the building, "He wants all the information we can give him, as long as we stay officially outside the investigation."

  "It makes sense," Frank said. "Look at all the other professionals crawling around this place. Ferris wants to impress them."

  "Well, we don't have anyone to impress, so maybe we'll work faster," Joe remarked, gazing down the short street. "Did anything about Owens's belongings in that bag strike you as weird, Frank? I mean, like something was missing?"

  Frank thought for a moment. "Nothing that I

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  can think of. I only saw the man once, though. What did you have in mind?"

  ''Nothing, really." Joe frowned. ''Just a feeling .. . How about grabbing a snack before we meet up with Callie?" he suggested, heading toward the pool hall, which sported a small neon sign that read Good Eats. "Maybe we can pick up some gossip inside."

  "Good idea," Frank agreed. "We can call Callie from there."

  The Sportsman's Pool Hall was like an old-fashioned hunting lodge, Joe realized as he and Frank entered the large, square room. Stuffed deer, bear, and moose heads studded the rustic wooden walls, and a smoky haze hung over the three pool tables and collection of tables. While Joe sat down at one of the tables and ordered stew and biscuits for two, Frank went off in search of a phone booth to make a call to Callie.

  Joe watched along with a few local people as two men shot some pool. They were talking about the day's tragedy, and didn't seem to notice that Joe was taking in every word they said.

  "What I want to know is, who's going to take over Horizon Lumber," said the short, bow-legged man with a curly brown beard.

  His tall, hefty companion frowned as he aimed at the cue ball. "Buster's daughter, Millie, most likely. She always wanted to run the place, but her dad wouldn't let her. They used to fight about it all the time."

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  "You think she'll pay us while they rebuild the mill?" asked the first man.

  '1 doubt it. Why should she?" his friend replied. '*I don't know what we're going to do. I heard Johnson's not hiring."

  **What'd you hear?" Frank took a seat next to Joe and spoke in a low voice. '*Do they know anything we don't?"

  Joe waited until the waitress had served their food. Then, as they ate, he told his brother, 'They think Buster's daughter is going to run the mill. They say she and her dad used to fight a lot." His expression darkened as an idea came to him. **Do you think she could have had anything to do with his death?"

  Frank frowned. 'Tt seems unlikely. I doubt that the average female could have knocked a three-hundred-pound man over the head and dragged him into a car by herself. And remember, those footprints by the truck were all really big. Besides, she's his daughter—she'd stand to inherit the mill eventually anyway. Why wouldn't she just wait?"

  He chewed thoughtfully for a moment. "Still, it wouldn't hurt to check her out," he added.

  "I still think there's something about that bag of Owens's belongings," Joe said, annoyed with himself. 'T can't put my finger on it, though."

  "Don't worry about it," said Frank. "It'll come to you sooner or later. By the way, Cailie begged us to go rescue her from that Save the

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  Redwoods guy. It seems he's a real jerk—he's asking her so many questions about how Stan got into this mess that she wants to commit murder herself. I say we finish our stew and head up to Stan's right away."

  It was fully dark by the time Frank and Joe stepped outside the Sportsman's Pool Hall. The street was deserted. A full moon had just topped the mountain in back of town, casting the road in a silvery light. Joe's gaze ran down the row of cars parked along Main Street until he spotted their rented jeep. Parked next to it was a flatbed truck loaded with several huge logs. It had a Horizon Lumber logo on its side.

  'There it is," Joe announced, leading the way. When he reached the jeep, he poked his head inside and added, 'The key's in the ignition."

  "What an amazing place," Frank commented as he walked around to the passenger door. "Someone commits murder in broad daylight, but people still leave the keys in their cars."

  "Good thing the rental agent insisted we get four-wheel drive," Joe commented to his brother. "That mountain road up to Stan's is going to be slippery."

  "They probably don't rent anything else to people headed this way," Frank said. He opened the door of the jeep, but then hesitated.

  "Did you hear that?" he asked Joe.

  "What?"

  Joe listened. In the silence he heard a loud,

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  metallic pop. Then, to his surprise, an ear-splitting screech followed, and after that an ominous rumble.

  "Frank!" Joe cried, his eyes wide as he stared at the logging truck behind his brother. ''Watch out! Those logs—they're falling!"

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  Frank and Joe dove for cover—Frank beneath the flatbed truck itself and Joe beneath the car behind the rented jeep. An instant later Frank heard the first of the enormous logs crash onto the ground where he'd been standing. He glanced to his right in time to spot a pair of hobnailed boots land in the street and sprint away.

  ''Joe, are you okay?'' Frank shouted as two more logs rolled off the truck, causing a noise like thunder. The door of the pool hall had swung open and half a dozen customers came out.

  Joe's answer was a long time coming. When the logs finally stopped rolling, Frank heard him say shakily, 'That was no accident. Let's get that guy!"

  Joe must have seen him, too, Frank realized,

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  rolling out from under the truck and rising to a crouch as he inspected the storefronts along Main Street.

  There were a lot of people on the street now, and it would be impossible to identify their attacker. ''Forget it, Joe," Frank said, his voice thick with disappointment.

  ''I guess you're right," Joe said, joining him. "But we can look in the truck. The creep split so fast he might have left something behind to identify him."

  ''You check the flatbed," Frank agreed, "ril explain to the people on the street what happened."

  Five minutes later, after Frank asked someone to call the sheriff about the fallen logs, he returned to the truck and called to Joe. "Find anything yet?" he asked.

  "You bet." Joe emerged from the cab holding a large set of bolt cutters and a pair of work gloves. "These were on the flatbed," Joe explained. "They're probably what he used to break the chain. I guess the gloves mean there won't be any fingerprints. There's an open toolbox in the back of the cab, so I guess he stole them from there."

  "Unless the guy was a Horizon employee and the toolbox was his," Frank pointed out grimly.

  "But why go after us?" Joe protested. "Did someone see us hanging around Buster's truck? Are they trying to keep us from investigating Buster's murder?"

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  Frank shook his head, watching Sheriff Ferris stride angrily toward them from his offices up the street. ''Who know
s?" Frank said. "For now, let's just concentrate on getting through Ferris's interrogation. Then we can go home and sleep on it. Unbelievably, the logs just dented the jeep a little bit."

  '4 doubt if the rental company will see it that way," Joe pointed out. ''It's a good thing we signed up for extra insurance."

  Callie Shaw's cry of "Come and get it!" was the first thing Frank heard the next morning when he awoke. He sat up in bed and glanced out the window at the light rainfall, all the time inhaling the wonderful odor of raspberry pancakes.

  At first Frank thought Stan must be cooking breakfast again. Then he remembered that Stan had spent the night in jail. He sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and looked at Joe asleep in the other twin bed. "Rise and shine," he grumbled good-naturedly. "Today's the day we figure out our case."

  "Right." Joe sat up abruptly. "I dreamed we'd solved it already. Easy come, easy go."

  When Frank and Joe entered the big, well-equipped kitchen in Stan's cozy cottage, they found Callie and Edgar Morrison, the representative from Save the Redwoods headquarters, just sitting down to breakfast.

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  "About time you guys wandered in," Callie scolded. "Edgar's been up since six o'clock."

  "We had a hard day at the office yesterday," Joe kidded Callie. "Thanks for letting us get our beauty sleep."

  "Hurry up and eat." Callie loaded pancakes onto their plates. "Stan wiU be here in about fifteen minutes."

  "What? He's out of jail?" Joe asked through a mouthful of pancake.

  "I got him out," Edgar said. "It wasn't all that easy. But working last night and this morning, I finally wore down the sheriff by pointing out that he didn't really have enough evidence to hold Stan. FinaUy the sheriff agreed to let him go if I stayed out of his face. All Stan had to do was promise to stay in town until the investigation's over."

  "Wow." Joe took a more careful look at the young, well-dressed man. He looked the same as he had when Joe and Frank arrived the night before—small, bespectacled, and extremely serious. "When did all this happen?"