Danger on Vampire Trail (6 page)

The young detective took advantage of the pause. “Is that why you fire-bombed us this afternoon?”

“Fire-bombed! Are you crazy?”

“Don't deny it!”

“I wouldn't try to burn anybody.” Fingers sounded as if his feelings were hurt.

Just then Sherlock started to bark.

“Don't turn that mutt on me!” Fingers cried.

His light retreated to the side of the road and disappeared. A few minutes later Joe heard the whine and staccato of the bike's motor as it came to life, then the sounds gradually faded and the night was still.

“Hey, Joe! What's the matter? Any trouble?” It was Frank.

The boys gathered outside the camper and Joe told what had happened.

“So those stones were really sapphires,” Frank said. “I wonder where he got them.”

“Probably stole them, and now he claims we took them from him,” Joe said.

“I believe the other two guys swiped them,” said Chet. “They didn't strike me as being trustworthy.”

“And he denied the fire-bombing?” Biff asked.

“Downright emphatic about it,” Joe reported. “I think that underneath, Fingers has a soft heart!”

Biff grumbled, “You'd have to prove that to me.”

“Anyhow,” Frank said, “it seems that our three friends don't trust one another.” He pointed out that Juice obviously had not known about the concealed gems when Chet lifted the guitar from the nail in the tree.

“I'm going to phone Dad tomorrow morning and tell him the circumstances,” Frank said as they all settled down for the rest of the night.

At dawn Frank roused the others. By the time the sun had risen, breakfast was over and the camping gear stowed for the next leg of their journey.

At the first town Frank stopped to telephone Bayport. His father was away on his case. Mrs. Hardy, who usually was calm, seemed agitated. “Frank, we got a strange letter,” she said.

“About what, Mother?”

“About you. Wait while I get it.”

Mrs. Hardy returned a few moments later and read the message. It was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Fenton Hardy and said:

“Who sent it?” Frank asked.

“I don't know. It's unsigned and was sent airmail from Indiana,” his mother replied.

“Don't worry,” Frank told her. “We're capable of taking care of ourselves. Someone has been bothering us and now I'm sure that it's Whip Lasher and his gang.”

Frank decided not to mention the fire-bombing. He said that if his father called to tell him that the trail had been cold to medium. When it got hot, Joe or he would phone home again.

It was afternoon when the flat prairie gave way to a clutch of low hills on the western horizon. The boys had not seen Fingers and his pals and hoped that they had turned either north or south.

“That Terrible Trio really bugs me,” Biff said.

At a curve in the road a woman stood beside a disabled car, waving a white handkerchief.

“Okay, Sir Galahad,” Chet told Frank, who was driving. “Pull over and we'll give yon damsel a sample of our superb chivalry.”

“She has a flat tire,” Frank said. “Want to change it?” He braked slowly, stopping on the downgrade some distance ahead of the disabled car. All four got out and walked back.

The woman, attractive and in her twenties, smiled nervously as the boys approached. “Will you please help me?” she asked. “I've never changed a tire in my life.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Joe said. “Chet here has volunteered to do the job.”

“How thoughtful,” the woman replied. “Then I suppose you're a mechanic.”

Chet's look of chagrin turned to one of proud pleasure. “Sure. I can do almost anything with a car. Is your spare in the trunk?”

She nodded and handed him the key.

Chet found the jack and soon had the rear end several inches off the ground. He removed the rim and tried to replace it with the spare. It would not fit!

“Having trouble, Chet?” asked Biff.

The perspiring boy glared and the woman said, “Chet, I think you're putting it on backward.”

“Oh yes. Thank you.” Chet reversed the wheel and it snapped quickly into place.

“I guess the heat got to me,” Chet said, screwing the lugs back on. Then he banged the hubcap in place. While he was doing this, several cars drove past. Joe was on the alert, watching for Fingers' trailer but it did not come by.

As Chet replaced the tools, the woman suddenly put a hand to her mouth and cried, “My goodness, isn't that your car?”

All heads whipped to the spot where they had parked. Their car and the camper were moving slowly down the incline.

“I don't believe it!” Frank shouted. “I'm sure I set the brakes!”

He dashed ahead of the others as the car picked up speed. It was impossible to overtake it! All at once he noticed the young woman driving alongside him.

“I'll help you!” she called out.

Frank flung his arm into the open right-hand window and hung on. The woman put on speed and soon her car and the Hardys' were side by side.

“Closer! Can you come closer?” Frank shouted.

The two vehicles were now hardly more than a couple of feet apart and Frank saw Sherlock looking forlornly out the back window.

Frank made a lunge, releasing his hold on the woman's car and clutching at the steering wheel of his own. A pain shot up along his arm. His fingers nearly lost their grip but he held on. The car was heading off the side of the road toward a deep gully. Frank struggled desperately to control it!

 

 

 

 

FRANK gripped the door and with a mighty wrench pulled his shoulders through the window opening. Then he wriggled onto the seat, jammed on the brakes, cut the motor, and twisted the wheel. The car lurched to a halt on the lip of the embankment.

“The trailer!” Frank thought. He hardly dared to look behind. The camper dangled over the gully! The slightest motion might send it and the car crashing down.

Joe, Chet, and Biff raced to assist Frank. While they grabbed the car so it would not teeter, Frank opened the door and slid out.

Sherlock jumped into the front seat and bounded out into Biff's arms.

“Some camping trip!” Chet muttered. “We spend half of our time rescuing Sherlock!”

Joe said, “This is either more of Fingers' work, or Whip Lasher's!”

“We didn't see Fingers' trailer go by,” Chet remarked.

“Well, if it was Fingers, he and his pals must be somewhere near here,” Frank said. “We'll search for them after we get our camper back on the road.”

As he spoke, a large transcontinental truck moved cautiously down the grade and Joe hailed it. “Can you pull us back on the highway?” he asked.

The truckers said they would be glad to. From their gear locker they pulled out a long chain, which they attached to the front of the Hardys' car. Then carefully—a few inches at a time—the large vehicle eased the car and the trailer up over the edge and back onto the shoulder of the road.

“Thanks a lot!” Frank said.

The truckers replied with a salute and left.

“They're great guys in an emergency,” Biff declared.

Frank turned around and headed back. A couple of miles along the road they saw a rest area they had not noticed before. Two small trailers were parked next to picnic tables, where four people sat, eating and chatting.

“Hi, there,” Frank said as he approached the two middle-aged couples.

“Hello, boys,” one of the women said. “If you're hungry, sit right down and join us.”

“No, thank you,” Frank replied. “We were just looking for a small trailer. We thought it might have been parked here.”

“The one with the Vampire Trail motorbike?”

“That's right.”

“They left a while ago,” her husband added. “After they cooked some grub over a fire.” He pointed to a stone pit about twenty-five feet away.

“Which way were they headed?” asked Biff.

“West,” the other man said.

“Funny,” mused Chet, “we didn't see them on the road.”

“That's because they decided to take a shortcut by a back road. Look, it's here on the map.”

He handed Frank a road map and traced the line of a secondary road. “It might be a little rough,” he added, “but it avoids the traffic on the highway.”

Frank thanked him and said in a low voice to Joe, “I've got it figured. One of them drove past in their car, released our brake, turned around and came back here. Then they high-tailed off through the hinterland so we wouldn't see them!”

Chet, meanwhile, had wandered off to the stone pit. At the edge of the stones lay the charred remains of a camping magazine.

“Oh, Frank! Here's something that might interest you.”

He picked up the magazine and gave it to Frank. In it were the usual stories about good camping sites, a rundown on new models of motorbikes, and a section on house trailers.

Frank turned another page. “Look at this, Joe,” he said. A short article was titled “Sapphire Trek.” The dateline had been burned off, but most of the text was intact. It told of illegal mining of precious stones in the Rockies. The following page had been torn out.

Frank and Joe looked at each other. Both were asking themselves the same questions. Had the sapphires in the guitar been mined illegally? Did Fingers and his gang have anything to do with such an operation?

The Hardys talked it over and decided there must be some connection. They discussed their theory with Chet and Biff.

“If they tore out a page, it proves they were interested in something to do with the mine,” Biff agreed.

Chet said, “So now we have two mysteries. Which one are we going to concentrate on, Frank?”

The Hardys were determined to follow their original case. Scant as clues had been, they had a hunch that Whip Lasher was not only following them for the purpose of harassment, but also was heading for a hideout in the Rockies.

Frank tossed the magazine into a trash can. The boys said good-by to the couples, and continued on their way. Biff was driving, with Joe next to him. Biff said, “I think the Terrible Trio will keep out of our sight from now on.”

“Right,” Joe said. “They'll know we suspect them of releasing the brake.”

In the back seat Chet hooked his thumbs into his belt and heaved a sigh of relief. “If we never see them again, it'll be too soon.”

Frank studied the map as they went over mountainous terrain. “Denver is not far away,” he said. “A couple of hundred miles or so.”

The sun hung red on the horizon and Biff flipped the driver's visor down to cut the glare. Up ahead he could see a car hauling a shiny white cabin cruiser on a boat trailer.

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” asked Joe.

Biff nodded and reduced his speed to follow behind the boat. The boys studied it in detail, comparing it with the one bought with the counterfeit credit card. It fitted the description perfectly.

“But let's not jump to conclusions,” Frank warned Joe.

“We could stop him right away!” Joe said.

“Negative. If we make a citizen's arrest and we're wrong—”

“Frank's right,” Biff put in. “If this fellow is going to camp overnight, how about buddying up?”

“Great idea,” Chet said. “Besides, I'm getting hungry.”

A half mile farther on a huge sign announced that a flood control and hydroelectric power reservoir lay ten miles ahead. Campers were welcome.

Frank consulted the map. “Wow! This place is twenty miles long and about five miles wide!”

“I'll bet that's where our friend's going,” Biff said.

His guess proved correct. The next fork in the road had a sign:
Turn left to Badland Reservoir. State boating laws in effect.

Frank dropped to a discreet distance behind the boat trailer. It headed directly to the shore of the lake and parked in the camping area.

The Hardys pulled up alongside and set up their camper. Frank had warned the others not to pay any attention to their neighbor but to busy themselves around their own trailer.

The plan worked well. Biff unlimbered his fishing rod and began casting it into the reservoir. Joe tinkered under the hood of the car, checking the oil, while Frank and Chet prepared supper. Finally the door of the other car opened. A man got out and warily watched the boys. He was in his middle thirties, stout, with receding black hair, a large nose, and small eyes. His shelving chin added to the general appearance of a sleek beaver.

He approached the steps of the camper, knocked, and when Frank came out, introduced himself as Edward K. Mungo.

“Pretty efficient layout you boys have here,” he said.

“We like it,” Frank replied.

“What's your name?” the man asked.

“I'm Frank. The chef is Chet. The guy fishing is Biff. And the other one is Joe.”

Chet, meanwhile, continued his stint at the stove, cutting up three large onions into a skillet with melted butter.

Frank said, “Mr. Mungo likes the smell of our chow. What do you say we invite him to dinner?”

Chet nodded and the man said, “That's very friendly of you. Thank you. I accept with pleasure.”

When the meal was over, Mungo said, “It's a lucky thing you fellows parked near me. How would you like to help me launch my cruiser?”