The End of the Trail Page 4

  The first to wake up the next morning was Chet. The aroma of pancakes and sausages filled the air.

  “Smells like an old-fashioned country breakfast!” Chet declared.

  Joe peered out wearily from underneath his pillow. “I feel like I’ve just walked a hundred and fifty miles.”

  “You have,” Frank said. “We all have.”

  Chet leaped out of bed. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m ready to eat.”

  “Has there ever been a time when you weren’t ready to eat?” Joe asked.

  “I hope that shower has lots of hot water,” Frank said. “Even after a shower last night, I’ve stilll got enough dirt on me to grow tomatoes.”

  “Tomatoes sound good,” Chet declared.

  After showering Chet followed his nose out into the hallway and into the dining room, just one door down from where they had been sleeping. Mrs. Hibley was busy setting plates on a large table.

  “Oh, you boys are just in time,” she said cheerfully. “I’ve made a big breakfast for you. Are you hungry?”

  “You’ve got that right,” Chet said, planting himself at the table and looking up expectantly.

  “Watch out for Chet,” Frank said, walking in with a groggy look on his face. “He’ll eat you out of house and home.”

  “I don’t think that’s likely,” Mrs. Hibley said. “I’ve got plenty of food.”

  “You haven’t met Chet,” Joe said, entering with Phil.

  Mrs. Hibley began serving breakfast, bringing in platters filled with scrambled eggs, home fries, pancakes, and sausages. Chet piled large amounts of each item on his plate.

  “Thank you very much, ma’am,” Chet told Mrs. Hibley. “I think I’d like to live here.”

  “It’s a pleasure to feed someone with such a healthy appetite,” Mrs. Hibley responded.

  The other teens joined Chet in digging in. Mrs. Hibley’s breakfast was delicious. Joe and Frank missed their aunt Gertrude’s cooking, but Mrs. Hibley’s was almost as good.

  Chet held out his plate. “Can I have seconds on those pancakes?”

  Mrs. Hibley beamed. “Why, of course you can.”

  “We just love your cooking, Mrs. Hibley,” Joe said. “I’d like some more of these sausages, if you don’t mind.”

  “You’re starting to sound like Chet,” Frank said to his brother. “Actually, I’d like some more scrambled eggs myself.”

  “And home fries?” Phil asked.

  “Coming right up,” Mrs. Hibley said. “Oh, I just love cooking for a roomful of young men.”

  Joe leaned toward Frank. “So, you think we’ll be able to get out of town today?”

  “Hard to tell,” Frank said. “We’ll have to try going back to the trail again, and hope Sheriff Brickfield isn’t there.”

  Frank finally pulled himself up from the table, his stomach full. “Great meal, Mrs. Hibley, but we have to get going.”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Hibley said. “Won’t you stay for raspberry tart?”

  “I’ll stay,” Chet volunteered.

  “No, you won’t,” Joe said. “But, boy, the tart sure smells good.”

  Frank grabbed Chet around the shoulders. “Come on, Chet. We have to go take care of Biff.”

  Chet struggled to break loose from Frank’s grip. “Hey, I was just being polite.”

  “Real polite,” Joe said. “If Mrs. Hibley offered you another course of sausages and home fries, you’d be here the rest of the morning.”

  “There’s more where that came from,” Mrs. Hibley said cheerfully.

  “That’s okay, ma’am,” Frank said. We’ve got to be on our way.”

  “Hey, I was just...” Chet shut up abruptly when Joe tugged on his shoulder.

  “Really, that was a great meal,” Joe said.

  “The best,” Phil agreed.

  Joe gave Mrs. Hibley the money for their night’s stay, promising that they’d be back for their bags soon. The four teenagers walked quickly out of the dining room and through the front door. Main Street glowed brightly in the morning sunlight. Rhonda’s door was unlocked, so they went in. Biff and Rhonda were engaged in a heated conversation.

  “So, how’s it going?” Frank asked.

  “Just great,” Biff said. “It was almost worth getting my leg banged up to talk to Rhonda.”

  “Biff’s doing fine,” Rhonda added. “Oh, Sheriff Brickfield stopped by and said the path and roads are still too dangerous to travel, so it looks like you’ll be here a little longer.”

  “Oh, great,” Joe moaned. “It’s like everything’s conspiring to keep us here.”

  “And that means Mrs. Hibley can keep feeding us,” Chet said happily.

  “At least two people are happy in this town,” Frank said. “Biff and Chet.”

  “Well, the rest of us have to find something to keep busy,” Joe said. “What do you suppose people do for fun around here?”

  “Not much,” Rhonda said. “Visit neighbors, watch TV.”

  “Hey, we could go visit that farmer guy, McSavage,” Chet suggested. “He invited us to see his place.”

  “Doesn’t sound too exciting to me,” Joe said.

  “You never know,” Frank said. “Maybe we should have a look around up there.”

  Frank, Joe, Chet, and Phil left Rhonda’s house and headed up the hill to the McSavage mansion. As they got closer, it appeared even larger than they had thought, but they could see it wasn’t in very good repair. The paint was badly chipped, and a shutter was hanging partially off its hinges. The grass in the front yard burst up in patches, as though much of it had been allowed to die from lack of water while the rest hadn’t been cut in years.

  Bill McSavage had apparently seen them coming up the hill, because he came bounding out the front door with a large grin on his face. “Hello, boys,” he declared. “I’ve been looking forward to showing you around the place.”

  “Nice farm,” Phil said. “What do you grow?”

  “Right now,” McSavage said, “mostly grasses for hay. And we’ve got some cows for milk. Oh, and we’ve got the most wonderful horse.”

  “Cool,” Chet said. “I really like horses. Can we have a look at him?”

  “Sure,” McSavage said. “Formby is real friendly. He’ll just love you boys.”

  “Would you mind if I hung around up here by the house while you guys looked at this horse?” Frank asked. “I’m, uh, something of an architecture buff, and this place seems very interesting.” Joe noticed an odd look cross Frank’s face, though nobody else saw it.

  “Suit yourself,” McSavage said. “This house dates back to the late nineteenth century and I’m sure you’ll find it fascinating. The rest of you, come with me.”

  Joe hung back for a moment and whispered in his brother’s ear. “What was that about? You’re up to something.”

  “There’s something funny about this town,” Frank said. “Those guys with the sack of money, that sheriff who won’t let us get out of here, the storm that may have been, phones that conveniently break, and this old house watching over the whole place. I want to check it out.”

  “Just don’t get yourself in trouble,” Joe said. “Remember, Bill’s got farmhands looking after this place.”

  Joe hurried down the hill after the others. McSavage was leading them toward an old barn. Outside the barn, in the paddock, was a large black stallion, a very impressive-looking horse.

  “This is Formby,” Bill said. “Any of you boys like to ride him?”

  “I would,” Chet said excitedly. “All I need is a saddle.”

  “Got one right inside,” McSavage said. He walked into the barn and returned with a saddle, which he threw across Formby’s back. Chet cinched it and climbed on. Formby seemed to take to Chet immediately.

  “Here you go, young man,” McSavage said, pulling an apple from a barrel and handing it to Chet.

  Chet took the apple and leaned forward to lower it toward Formby’s mouth. “You love apples, don’t you, boy?” Chet asked t
he horse.

  Abruptly Formby reared up. Something about the apple seemed to bother him. He began bucking wildly, then running around in circles. It was almost as though he was trying to throw Chet off.

  Caught off balance, Chet struggled to stay in the saddle. He managed to straighten up and pull hard on the reins, but that only made the stallion buck more. Somehow, Joe knew, Chet had to regain control of the horse and soon. If not, he stood a good chance of being thrown—and trampled.

  6 The Horse Whisperer

  “Somebody do something!” Joe cried as Chet fought desperately to stay on the horse. “Mr. McSavage, you’ve got to stop Formby.”

  McSavage held up his hands. “I don’t know what’s happening,” he said. “I’ve never seen Formby like this.”

  As Joe and Phil watched, frantic to help their friend, Chet managed to get hold of the saddle pommel. Then he grabbed Formby’s mane, one hand after the other, until he was stretched forward in the saddle, his arms wound tightly around the stallion’s neck. To Joe’s and Phil’s astonishment, it looked as though Chet was now talking into the horse’s ear.

  Formby continued to buck but slowly started to calm down. Finally the wild thrashing ceased, and once again he stood calmly with Chet still on his back.

  “I knew we could work things out, Formby,” Chet said to the horse. “You’re a good horse. I knew that all along.”

  “What did you do, Chet?” Phil asked.

  “Yeah, I’ve never seen anything like that,” Joe said.

  “You’re one lucky guy,” Bill McSavage said.

  “It wasn’t luck,” Chet said. “I’ve done a fair amount of riding. I’ve even been told I had a real talent with horses. Sometimes you just have to know how to talk to them.”

  “Well, you’d better get down off there,” Mr. McSavage said. “Wouldn’t want that to happen again.”

  “It won’t,” Chet said, staying in the saddle. “Formby and I are just getting to know each other. He’s going to be fine now, aren’t you, boy?”

  He began to walk the horse in a circle around the barnyard. “You guys can look at the rest of the farm. Formby and I are going to spend some quality time together.”

  Bill McSavage slapped a hand against the side of his head. “I just figured out what happened,” he said, a chagrined expression on his face. “Formby used to be a movie horse. He did stunt work and had big roles in a few westerns. His trainer taught him some tricks that he could do on cue. The apple was the signal for him to start bucking like that.”

  “It was ... the apple?” Joe asked suspiciously.

  “Yep,” McSavage said. “I’m really sorry about that. It was all my fault. If something had happened to your friend, I could never have forgiven myself.”

  Joe whispered to Phil, “If the horse hates apples, how come Mr. McSavage keeps a barrel of apples in the barnyard?”

  “That is really strange, all right,” Phil whispered.

  McSavage didn’t seem to notice their conversation. He waved a hand and said, “Come on up this way. I’ll show you our tractor. It’s got a lot of miles on it, but it can still do the job.”

  “I’m sure not going to sit on the tractor,” Joe whispered to Phil. “Who knows what tricks it’s been trained to do?”

  • • •

  Only a few hundred yards away, Frank was unaware of the commotion that had just occurred down the hill. He was walking around the mansion, examining the crumbling stonework and cracked windows. It must have been quite a place in its day, but its day was long past. It would cost hundreds of thousands of dollars to fix it up, Frank estimated, and the inside was probably worse.

  In fact, Frank was trying to figure a way to get a look inside the mansion. He hadn’t noticed Bill locking the front door on the way out, so he walked up the wide stone steps in front and pushed on the ornate wooden door. It opened easily.

  “Anybody home?” he shouted, in case some of the farmhands were around. But the mansion seemed to be deserted.

  The door opened into a wide but gloomy foyer. There were heavy wooden tables on both sides, with ornately carved legs. Frank had never seen tables like these outside of an antique store or a museum. One had a dusty vase on it, with no flowers in it. The other looked as if it had probably had a vase on it at one time. Frank thought he noticed small pieces of shattered porcelain on the floor around it, probably the remains of that vase. On the left-hand wall hung a large portrait of a distinguished-looking man with muttonchop sideburns and a high, stiff white collar. At the bottom of the portrait was a name on a bronze plaque: Angus McSavage.

  Probably the guy who built this place, Frank thought.

  Beyond the foyer was a huge parlor, with overstuffed, maroon velvet-covered sofas all around it. Because of the amount of dust and cobwebs, Frank deduced that nobody spent much time in this room anymore.

  There was a bookshelf on one wall, with quite a few books on it. Most were covered with dust, but one appeared to be quite clean and looked as if somebody might actually read it from time to time. It was titled The Roaring Twenties: End of an Era. When Frank pulled it down and glanced through it, the book fell open to one particularly well-thumbed page. On it was a picture of the mansion he was now standing inside. The photo had been taken in 1928, and the house had clearly been in better shape than it was now. Women in knee-length flapper dresses with long ropes of pearls and men in well-tailored suits and bowler hats were standing in the front yard and on the steps. A man who looked like the portrait of Angus McSavage was in the middle of the crowd. He was probably about seventy years old.

  On the opposite page the house was mentioned by name as the McSavage Mansion. Frank began reading.

  According to the book, Angus McSavage had bought the granite quarry for which the town was named sometime in the late nineteenth century, from a man named Joshua Morgan. Frank remembered that this was what Loraleigh had told them, which meant her family had been here even longer than the McSavages. The quarry made the McSavages wealthy and allowed them to build this mansion, but the granite ran out in the 1920s. By then, however, Angus McSavage had gotten into another line of business. After Prohibition became law in 1920, he turned the mansion into a speakeasy. It had been quite notorious during the 1920s and early 1930s. It had also been an inn, so rich people would come to spend their weekends there—and sometimes the whole week. Angus McSavage had some political influence, and the police never shut his operation down. But the end of Prohibition in 1933 had ruined his business. Nobody went to speakeasies anymore. The book didn’t mention what had happened to the mansion after that.

  Frank looked around again at the ancient furniture and unvacuumed carpet. The place was a mess, but it looked as if it had been taken care of more recently than 1933. Maybe the McSavage granite quarry had still brought in a little money, though nothing in the book indicated that to be so. Or maybe the McSavage farm had provided enough income, though from what Frank had seen it didn’t look like much of a farm. But obviously the family had continued making money—and at some point, judging from the poor condition of the house, the flow of money had stopped. Since the mansion was probably the economic center of the entire town, the local prosperity must have dried up at the same time.

  A room off to one side of the parlor caught Frank’s eye. It appeared to be an office of some kind. In it was a large desk and rows of ledgers on shelves. This must be where the McSavage family took care of the quarry and the speakeasy business, Frank reasoned. He opened one of the ledgers. Inside was a list of names with a dollar amount next to each one; some had plus signs next to them and some minus signs. The names were those of individuals and the dates next to the transactions were relatively recent, from the 1960s and 1970s.

  “Can I help you?” said an extremely deep voice from behind Frank.

  Frank dropped the book, startled. He turned to see a tall man about sixty years old. He was stiff and imperious looking, like a butler in an old movie. He looked as if he should be wearing a tuxedo inste
ad of the jeans and flannel shirt he did wear. Frank guessed that he probably was a McSavage household employee, though how Bill could afford household help when he couldn’t afford to keep up the house, Frank couldn’t imagine.

  “I was, um, lost,” Frank said, fumbling for an explanation as to why he was prying through the books. “Mr. McSavage said I could look around the house while he and my friends toured the farm. I was trying to find the way out.”

  “Are you sure,” the butler asked, “that Mr. McSavage gave you permission to look around the inside of the house? Perhaps he was referring to the grounds.”

  “Oh,” Frank said, trying to look convincingly puzzled. “I’m not sure. Maybe I misunderstood him. Well, if you’ll show me where the exit is ...”

  “Right through there,” the man said, pointing to a door Frank hadn’t noticed before. “Why don’t you step on through?”

  Frank hesitated. He wasn’t really lost and knew that the door couldn’t possibly lead to the front entrance. But maybe the man wanted him to go out through some kind of side entrance. Frank pulled the door open and walked through.

  There was a grinding noise behind him, as though the man were operating some kind of machine. Frank started to turn, but instantly began to lose his balance.

  The floor slid open beneath him. All at once Frank was falling through the blackness of empty space!

  7 All Bets Are Off

  Frank landed on a hard surface. The force of the fall left him stunned for a moment. He had fallen through a trapdoor, he realized. And the trapdoor that he had fallen through, which was about eight feet above where he was now standing, slid neatly closed. All at once Frank was in total darkness.

  He shook his head, trying to get his senses back. Obviously, the man didn’t want Frank to leave the house. But why? What had Frank seen that he wasn’t supposed to see? The stuff about the house having been a speakeasy during Prohibition? That was apparently well known, since it had been written up in a history book. The old ledgers? Frank had no idea what the ledgers meant.

  Whatever the problem, it was clear that the first order of business was to find his way out of here. Frank reached in his pocket and pulled out a small box of kitchen matches that he had used for lighting campfires on the trail. He lit a match and looked around. He seemed to be in a very large room, and the faint light from the match didn’t reach all the way to the walls. He could make out strange dark objects, some about the size and shape of a small man, some more like large tables. All were covered with drop cloths.