Farming Fear (4 page)

“Can you see the gunman?” Joe asked. “Where are the bullets coming from?” He swung his head around, looking in all directions.

“I don’t know,” Frank replied. His keen brown eyes scanned the woods nearby but found nothing. “He must be behind one of the larger trees.”

“Are you sure he’s shooting at
us?”
Iola said. “Maybe it’s just a hunter.”

“Well, I think teenagers are out of season,” Chet quipped.

CRACK!

“C’mon,” Frank said. He sprang up and ran northwest, farther into the forest. The others dashed after him.

“Should we be leaving the horses?” Chet asked.

“The horses are big targets, plus they’re tied up out in the open,” Joe replied. “The sniper could have killed them already if he wanted to. They’ll be fine.” The younger Hardy held tight to Iola’s hand as he ran, making sure she didn’t fall behind.

They sprinted through the soggy winter woods, their boots crunching on pine needles and small patches of snow.

CRACK!

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” Iola asked.

“Not entirely,” Frank replied. “We should split up, instead of giving him one big target.”

“Chet, you and Iola keep going straight,” Joe said. “Frank and I will circle around to the northeast.”

“But I think the shots are coming from there,” Chet said.

Frank nodded. “Hopefully—that’ll give you both a chance to circle back to the horses and go for help,” he said.

“Joe, no!” Iola pleaded. Tears formed at the corners of her gray eyes.

“It’s the only way,” Joe replied. “Don’t worry. Frank and I can take care of ourselves.”

“With luck,” Frank added, “we may be able to ‘take care’ of this sniper, too.” He locked eyes with his friends. “We split on three. Ready? One, two . . . three!”

Frank and Joe veered off to the right while Chet and Iola kept running northwest.

CRACK!

A bullet whizzed through the pine branches somewhere behind the Hardys. It didn’t come anywhere near the Mortons.

“I think our ploy worked,” Joe said as they ran.

“Good,” Frank replied. “Keep your eyes peeled for that sniper. The trees are getting thicker ahead. We’ll be able to find some cover and catch our breath.”

The brothers darted into a thick stand of pines and took refuge behind a boulder. The rock was only shoulder height, but it was wide enough to shield both of them from the rifleman. A small drift of partially melted snow clung to the north side of the rock.

“We don’t want him cutting around behind us,” Joe cautioned.

“We should be able to hear him coming if he tries,” Frank said.

Both brothers held their breath and listened. To the north, the woods thinned out. They caught glimpses of white snow beyond.

“That must be the right-of-way for the power lines,” Joe whispered.

Frank nodded.

“Do you hear something?” Joe asked.

Frank nodded slowly. “It’s coming from near the right-of-way.”

“He’s circling us,” Joe hissed, “trying to cut us off.”

“Let’s beat him to the punch,” Frank said. He scooped up a double handful of the slushy ice and formed it into a hard-packed snowball. Joe grabbed a big stick from the ground nearby.

They paused a moment, trying to further pinpoint the source of the noise. As they watched, a slender figure darted between the trees, heading toward the open area beneath the power lines.

“He’s lost track of us!” Frank whispered. “Now’s our chance!”

Both teens sprinted out from behind the boulder toward the fleeting shape. The pine needles blanketing the forest floor made for almost ideal running conditions. It was no trouble to leap the few fallen branches and small snowdrifts barring their way.

The brothers covered the fifty yards separating them from their quarry in seconds.

Hearing them, the figure turned at the last instant.

Frank launched his snowball, using all the skill
he’d learned as a pitcher for the Bayport High baseball team. The icy mass caught the intruder square on the side of the head. He went down at the edge of the right-of-way, crashing to the snow-covered earth with a muffled grunt.

Before he could rise again, both Frank and Joe cornered him.

“You’ll stay down if you know what’s good for you!” Joe said, brandishing his stick like a club.

The intruder cowered at the Hardys feet, keeping one arm near his head to protect himself in case Joe hit him. The brothers’ foe was a tall teenager with scruffy black hair and a narrow face. A navy blue down jacket, snow pants, and winter boots covered his slender frame.

“Are you guys crazy?” the teen asked angrily. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“We’d like to ask you the same thing,” Frank replied. “Why were you taking pot shots at us?”

“Pot shots?” the teen said. “What are you talking about? I don’t have a gun.” He showed the brothers his empty hands. “I thought
you
guys were the ones shooting.”

Joe’s blue eyes scanned the snow-dappled clearing. “I don’t see any gun, Frank,” he said.

“Who are you?” the intruder demanded angrily.

We’re Frank and Joe Hardy,” Frank replied. “We’re staying with the Mortons.”

“The Mortons!” the teen said. “That explains it.”

“What do you mean?” Joe asked.

“The Mortons have been making trouble for my family for generations,” the teen replied. “I’m Elan Costello.”

“What are you doing on the Mortons’ property?” Frank asked.

“For your information,” Costello replied, “we’re not
on
the Mortons’ property.
You’re
on
our
property. This is the Costello farm, you jerks. The Morton property ends at the edge of that forest.”

“Says you!” came a cry from nearby.

Chet and Iola rode out of the woods toward the Hardys, with Frank and Joe’s horses in tow. Both Chet and Iola glared at Elan Costello.

“Our property may end at the woods,” Chet continued, “but
his
property doesn’t start until the other side of the right-of-way.”

“So, technically, this is no man’s land,” Iola said.

“You’re wrong, Morton,” Costello replied, rising to his feet. “Our property line cuts through the edge of the woods here, and continues on the other side of the lines. You all are trespassing in
my
land.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Chet said to Frank and Joe. “He’s a well-known troublemaker.”

Costello sneered at him. “Big talk from a big man, Morton,” he said. “Why don’t you get off your high horse and say that to my face.”

“Maybe I will,” Chet replied, slipping from the
saddle. Before he could cross the distance separating the them, though, a sound like thunder shook the air.

BLAM!

All five teenagers turned and saw another man, dressed in a blue parka and tall white cowboy hat, striding across from them. In his suede-gloved hands the man carried a pump-action shotgun. The muzzle of the gun smoked slightly.

“Hold it right there, Morton,” the man said. “Don’t take another step toward my boy.”

“That’s Elan’s dad: Vic,” Iola whispered.

“He was taking shots at us as we rode through the woods!” Chet said angrily.

“Well,” Mr. Costello replied dryly, “seems to me that if you were
trespassing,
he had a right to shoot at you. You got your gun with you, Elan?”

“No, Pa,” Elan replied.

“Lucky thing I do, then,” Vic said. “You never know what kind of varmints you might run into on the back forty.”

“This isn’t your land,” Iola said nervously. “It belongs to the power company.”

Vic Costello spat into the snow. “A technicality,” he said. “It was Costello land before they put up these metal monsters, and it’ll be Costello land again once the towers have rusted away.”

“That could take a while,” Joe noted. “You might not want to wait around.”

The elder Costello’s gray eyes narrowed. “I see
the Mortons’ guests are as short on manners as the Mortons themselves,” he said. He spat again.

Elan Costello brushed the snow off his coat. “Go on home, all of you,” he said, “before we call the cops.”

“Call ’em if you want—,” Joe began, but Frank put his hand on his brother’s shoulder, stopping him in mid-rebuff.

‘We’ll leave,” the elder Hardy replied. “But we’ll be keeping an eye out for more intruders on the Morton land. If we see any, then
we’ll
be the ones calling the police.”

The Costellos didn’t reply. They merely glared at the four friends.

“Come on,” Chet finally said. “Let’s get back to the house.”

All four teens saddled up and rode back into the woods, being careful to skirt around the edge of the Costello property.

“No sense giving them another chance to shoot at us,” Chet said angrily.

“Actually,” Frank said, “I’m not sure they
did
shoot at us. Mr. Costello had a shotgun, not a rifle.”

“And it was a rifle shooting at us in the woods,” Joe continued. “We could tell from the sound.”

“But if Elan and his father weren’t shooting at us,” Iola said, “who was?”

Frank and Joe both shook their heads.

“It might be the same person who was lurking
outside the house last night,” Joe said. “But right now, we just don’t have enough clues to form a good hypothesis.”

All four of them rode back to the Morton farm in silence. The sky clouded over and a steady snow began to fall. It was nearly a blizzard by the time they got back to the house.

They put the horses up in the barn, then rubbed the animals down and groomed them. Then the four friends hiked back through the barn toward the big white farmhouse. The snow was falling even more heavily now, and a blustery wind had already begun piling up small drifts all around.

As the teens crossed the driveway, Grandma and Grandpa Morton pulled up in the family station wagon. Huge bags of groceries filled the back of the car. The brothers and their friends carried the food in, then helped to put it away.

“I know your brother eats a lot,” Joe said to Iola as he stuffed another can of tuna into the pantry, “but this much grub could feed a whole army of Chets!”

Chet laughed and slugged Joe in the arm.

“We’re stocking up,” Grandpa explained. “The weatherman says we’re going to get a heap of snow over the next few days. We need to make sure we have plenty of provisions in case we get snowed in.”

“Do you think that’s likely?” Frank asked.

Grandma Morton shrugged. “It’s happened before,”
she said, “and it’ll happen again. If not this winter, then the next, or the one after that.”

“It’s been a while since Bayport’s last big blizzard,” Grandpa noted. ‘We’re due for another.” He finished stocking some bottles of lantern kerosene under a cupboard near the sink.

“That’d make an interesting twist to our vacation,” Joe said.

“It wouldn’t be so bad,” Iola insisted. “We have plenty of candles and lanterns, and all three fireplaces work really well. This old farmhouse can stay pretty toasty, even without modern power and heat.”

“Don’t go counting on a snow day yet,” Grandma replied, laughing. “If this blizzard hits—like the weathermen think it will—we’ll deal with it. Until then, there’s still plenty to do around here.”

“We’ll haul the lamps out and get the extra blankets ready, just in case,” Grandpa said. “Come on. You youngsters can help. The barn needs readying too.”

They finished putting away the supplies, then went back to the stables and made sure the animals were prepared for the coming storm. The clouds were creeping toward dark when everyone finally headed back inside.

“What about Bernie?” Joe asked. “Will he be okay in his doghouse?”

“We’ll take him inside with us for the night, just
in case,” Grandpa said. He gazed up at the iron gray sky. Thick, white flakes tumbled down. He caught one on his tongue and smacked his lips.

The teens all laughed and did the same.

As they did, Grandpa Morton went to the doghouse to fetch Bernie. “Come on, boy!” he called. “You get to spend tonight inside with the rest of the family.”

He pulled on the dog chain lying in front of the small shelter, but it came out of the house empty.

Grandpa frowned. “Now, how could that dog have gotten himself loose?” he asked. He leaned down to the doghouse door and called, “Bernie, where are you, you rag mop?”

When Bernie still didn’t come out, he reached inside and fished around for the dog’s collar. A moment later he pulled out his hand again. In it he held a small piece of white paper. He looked perplexed.

“What’s that?” Iola asked.

“It looks like a note,” Joe said.

Grandpa Morton didn’t reply, but held out the paper so they could read the plain, block letters written on it.

The message read,
IF YOU WANT TO DO WHAT’S BEST FOR YOUR DOG, PACK IT IN NOW, BEFORE THERE’S MORE TROUBLE
.

Grandpa Morton’s eyes narrowed. “Is this some kind of a joke?” he asked the teens. “Did one of you kids hide Bernie in the barn while I wasn’t looking?”

Chet shook his head. “Not us, Grandpa.”

“When was the last time anyone saw him?” Frank asked.

“I tied him up in the doghouse before we left for the store,” Grandpa Morton said.

“I didn’t notice him when you got back,” Iola said.

“I just assumed he was taking a nap in his doghouse,” Grandpa said. “He was up most of last night, so I didn’t think anything of it.”

“We didn’t either,” Joe said. “That means he could have been stolen any time during the afternoon—either
while we were out riding in the woods, or when we were grooming the horses, or even while we were putting the groceries away.”

“You’d have to be a pretty bold dognapper to take him while all of us were in the house,” Frank noted. “We could have heard something if we’d been around.”

“Bernie might be friendly,” Iola said, “but he wouldn’t let a stranger take him away without putting up a fight.”

Frank nodded. “That’s why I think it’s more likely the dognapping happened before Grandpa and Grandma Morton came home.”

“In that amount of time,” Chet said, “Elan Costello could have sneaked back onto our property and done it himself.”