The Secret of Wildcat Swamp (4 page)

The two men snooped around inside for a moment or two. Then one of them picked up the brief case and began to paw through its contents.

“Now!” yelled Cap, and the Hardys and the police officer sprinted from cover.

Although both invaders were big, the policeman's gun held them at bay.

“What were you fellows looking for?” Cap demanded.

“Nothing,” the larger man muttered.

“W-we're just hungry and thought there might be some food in this car,” the other said.

“Looks to me like you had a pretty good idea of what you wanted,” the policeman said sharply. “And it wasn't food.”

“I'm sure you're right,” Frank agreed. “Can we get these fellows into custody around here?”

The officer produced two sets of handcuffs from his saddlebag. Then he asked Joe to ride his horse and ordered the two snoopers into the back of the car. He sat between them with his gun out and ready for action.

The jail was five miles away, but it did not take long for them to cover this distance, even proceeding at a pace slow enough for Joe to canter along behind. Reaching the small wooden structure which served as town hall and jail, they all went inside.

“We didn't do anything. You can't hold us!” the big man protested when they were arraigned before the local magistrate.

“Names, please,” the magistrate ordered.

“Uh—Jake Johnson.”

“Jim Jones. How long you gonna hold us?”

Frank and Joe pulled Cap into a huddle a short distance away.

“Listen, Cap, the thinner chap looks just like a picture that Warden Duckworth showed us of Gerald Flint,” Frank whispered.

“And the other guy sure fits the description of Jesse Turk,” added Joe.

Cap considered. “We don't want to let them know we suspect their identity. How about getting fingerprints from Warden Duckworth?”

The trio called the magistrate aside, explaining their suspicions and the necessity for concealing their identity.

“I can't hold them without a warrant,” the official told them.

“We can prove enough now to give you cause to hold them until the prints arrive,” Frank said.

Going over to the huge man, he asked him to hold out his hands. Unsuspectingly, the man complied.

“You see that blue stain on his hands?” Frank asked the magistrate. “That came off the brief case belonging to our friend. I dusted the case with a special chemical powder before we left the car. It's proof this man was handling it.”

Snarling like trapped animals, the suspects were led away to cells in the rear of the building.

Frank put in a long-distance call to Bayport. Fenton Hardy, delighted that his sons had outwitted the men, promised to have the warden send the fingerprints to the Green Sand authorities.

“Now for Wildcat Swamp!” Joe said elatedly as they left the jail.

“Let's see. From here we can get a train as far as Red Butte,” Cap remarked. “We'll arrive there in the morning, and get our horses and supplies.”

They enjoyed a good meal in the train's dining car and discussed plans for suitable equipment. It was still early morning when they arrived at their destination, and Cap thought they had better use the hotel as a temporary headquarters. He led the way to Red Butte's only hostelry, the Silver Saddle.

“Breakfast for three, hey?” the bewhiskered clerk greeted them. Learning they had just come from Green Sand, he said, “Have ye heerd the big news up there? It was on the radio early this mornin'.”

Frank nudged Joe, smiling, and Cap grinned too.

“Couple o' guys broke outta that there jail,” the old man went on.

Frank's head came up with a start, and Joe and Cap snapped to attention immediately.

“Did you say someone got away?” Joe demanded.

“Two fellas, just stuck in there yestiddy for stealin' outta someone's car, busted clear out last night. Got clean away!”

The three travelers looked at one another gravely. Turk and Flint—if it had been they—were on the loose again !

After some deliberation, the trio decided to leave as soon as possible for Wildcat Swamp.

“While we're waiting for breakfast, I'll send a message to Dad,” Frank said. “He ought to be kept informed of what's going on. Suppose you two buy camp provisions while I contact him.”

“Okay,” Joe and Cap replied.

Frank hooked up the powerful little radio set. Switching to the secret frequency used by the Hardys, he called his home.

Fenton Hardy was disturbed when he heard of the desperadoes' escape. He agreed that there was nothing for the boys to do but to proceed to the swamp as planned.

As soon as Joe and Cap returned to the hotel with their purchases, they all sat down to breakfast. Then the three went out to buy the digging implements they would need. At the general store the obliging clerk said:

“Since you're heading into dangerous country, I'd advise you to take along pistols. Only last week a trapper shot an ugly wildcat out there.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Joe answered. “Do we need permits?”

“Not for pistols carried in plain sight.”

“Then we'll buy three.”

At the livery stable to which the clerk directed them, they were able to hire three sturdy saddle horses and a strong pack mule.

By midmorning they had packed their camping gear onto the mule and were ready to start off. Cap and Joe took the lead, with Frank bringing up the rear holding the animal's rope.

“Wildcats, here we come!” Joe cheered as they cantered from the main street of Red Butte and headed for the desolate-looking country southwest of the town.

“According to Uncle Alex's map, it's a good twenty-five miles to the swamp,” Cap called to the boys. “And this is pretty rugged country!”

The trail followed a swift little stream that wound back and forth through the uneven, rocky ground. The sun became scorching hot.

“We won't reach the first landmark until some time tomorrow morning,” Cap commented when they stopped for lunch. “That will be a big tree near the ridge of a small mountain.”

“Any kind of a decent-sized tree would look good to me,” Joe said, perspiration soaking his shirt.

“You sure get tired of looking at this brush, and sand, and rocks,” Frank agreed.

By late afternoon the extremely slow, steady plodding had brought them to a more fertile area, with scattered trees and lush grass. The long trek had taken its toll of riders and horses. All were tired, irritable, and jumpy.

“Listen to those coyotes howl,” Joe muttered. “They're the spooks of the prairie, all right.”

“We'd better not go more than a couple of miles farther before we bed down for the night,” Cap advised. “Once the sun sets here, it gets dark fast.” A short while later he called a halt.

Cap busied himself getting the sleeping bags unpacked and feeding the animals. Frank and Joe soon had a simple supper ready. After eating, Frank led the horses to the stream which had been their guide all day, and let them drink all they wanted. Then, after tethering them, he stepped back into the little circle of light made by the rekindled campfire.

“All set for the night,” he announced. “Hope it doesn't rain.”

“Not much chance,” Cap predicted. “Look at those stars. You certainly don't see them that bright back in the city, do you?”

“Almost bright enough to travel by,” Frank remarked. “But say, what's that light off there to the left?”

All three stood up and studied the distant glow.

“Someone else is camping out here,” Frank decided. “Maybe Flint and Turk.”

Joe, impulsive as ever, cried, “Let's ride over!”

It took only a few moments to bank their fire and saddle the horses.

Keeping well apart and permitting their mounts to pick their way in the darkness, the trio moved toward the light.

“It's a campfire, all right,” said Joe. “Look!”

He was the first to spot the men crouched around the small blaze. “There must be half a dozen—and horses, too.”

His mount had discovered the presence of other horses, and now let out a loud whinny. Immediately excitement broke out around the campfire. The men scrambled to their feet, ran to their horses, mounted them, and rode away quickly.

The young detectives wanted to follow them, but Cap insisted that it would be unwise since they themselves were not familiar with the territory. They carefully inspected the camp for clues but found none other than the hoofprints.

“Did you notice that one of the riders went off alone?” Joe asked. “I wonder why. The rest of them beat it in the opposite direction.”

“Here are the marks of his horse,” Frank said, turning his flashlight on the ground. “Small hoofprints, too, as if it were only a pony and probably carrying a very light rider. I—”

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” Joe interrupted. “Willie the Penman?”

“Could be,” Frank replied. “And say, the prints lead in the direction of Wildcat Swamp!”

“You're right!”

“We can't be too careful the rest of our trip,” Cap warned as they made their way back to their own campsite. Nothing had been disturbed, and despite their curiosity about the mysterious riders the three soon dropped off to sleep.

Joe was first to awake the next morning, and whipped up a solid breakfast before rousing the others. They paid a brief visit to the mystery camp before setting out for Wildcat Swamp, but gleaned no further information.

“After we cover the next mile or so we ought to start looking for that big tree on the map,” Cap spoke up. Since early morning the three had come quite a distance from the camp on the plain.

They were in hill country now. The trail wound through rugged terrain with patches of woodland. They rode along the rim of one small canyon and through the dry bed of another. After considerable time had gone by, Cap said:

“I certainly expected to see that big tree by this time. If Uncle Alex was right, we should be in sight of it, and there's nothing here but this scrubby pine.”

“There's no sign of a big tree but that old stump by the edge of that ravine,” Frank said, pointing.

Joe jumped off his horse to examine it, while Frank and Cap checked the map.

They were interrupted by a shout from Joe. “Come here! This isn't an old stump. The tree has just recently been cut down!”

When the others reached him, Joe was scraping away at the top of the stump.

“Look! This has been covered with mud to make it look like an old cut.” He pointed.

“But where's the tree?” Cap demanded.

Frank looked over the edge of the ravine. “Down there,” he announced.

“The tree was felled within the last couple of days, maybe only yesterday,” Cap observed.

“By the men we saw at the campfire last night,” Frank conjectured.

“How about the map that was stolen from you back in Bayport—the unfinished copy? Had you put the tree on that?” Joe asked Cap.

“Yes. It was one of the details.”

Frank stared at the teacher. “Then I'm sure, Cap, this was an attempt to remove a landmark we've been counting on to help us find Wildcat Swamp.”

The trio pushed on, stopping only a short time to rest their horses and eat lunch.

As they rode through the heat of the afternoon, Cap asked the boys if they had noticed the formations that looked like giant toadstools made of clay and sandstone.

“Yes,” Frank answered. “I was wondering what keeps them from crumbling.”

“It's the sandstone overhang which prevents the clay column from eroding,” Cap told him. “Back in the glacier age, they were separate deposits, and all the clay except that protected by the sandstone has eroded.”

The cavalcade skirted the edge of a deep ravine, the trail following a bench that dipped gradually toward a stream below and ended in a narrow grassy shelf.

Permitting the horses to drink and to graze on the scanty grass, the riders dismounted to stretch their legs.

Suddenly Joe's voice rang out in alarm. “Frank! Look out!”

But his warning was too late. Before Frank could even get his arms up to defend himself, a tawny streak of fur and muscle launched itself through the air from the rocky ledge above.

It was an enormous wildcat!

 

 

 

THE big cat was in midair before Frank was even aware of it. He had no time to defend himself.