Farming Fear (7 page)

Joe ducked and Red-Stripe stabbed his pitchfork into a support beam behind the younger Hardy. Joe leaped forward, ramming his shoulder into Red-Stripe’s gut. The intruder stumbled backward, letting go of the pitchfork. The weapon remained embedded in the post behind them.

Red-Stripe brought both hands down hard on Joe’s back. Joe grunted and fell onto the straw-covered floor. Red-Stripe twisted away from Joe, trying to retrieve the lost pitchfork.

Black-Helmet pushed his fork at Frank again. This time Frank stepped aside and grabbed the shaft of the weapon as it passed.

The elder Hardy twisted hard and wrenched the pitchfork from Black-Helmet’s gloved hands.
Black-Helmet seemed surprised for a moment, then he lunged forward and grabbed Frank by the shoulders. He smashed his helmet into the older Hardy’s forehead.

Frank reeled back, stunned, still clutching the pitchfork.

Red-Stripe tried to dart past where Joe had fallen. The younger Hardy grabbed the intruder’s shoes. Red-Stripe’s feet came to a sudden halt, and his momentum toppled him forward. He slammed his helmeted head into the pole next to the pitchfork with a resounding crack. The pitchfork shook loose from the beam and fell beside the trespasser.

Black-Helmet kicked at Frank, but Frank recovered in time to block the blow. The elder Hardy smashed the handle of his pitchfork into the boot of the intruder. Black-Helmet lost his balance and stumbled. Frank lunged forward and thrust the butt end of the pitchfork into Black-Helmet’s gut. Black-Helmet exhaled loudly and sat down hard.

Frank stepped forward, still seeing spots from the head butt. He gathered his wits and strength for a final, telling blow.

Red-Stripe’s helmet saved him from injury when he cracked his head. He grabbed the pitchfork from the straw-covered floor and got to his feet. Joe leaped at him before he could turn and attack
again. The younger Hardy grabbed the weapon by the shaft and the two of them struggled, maneuvering for position, holding the pitchfork crossways between them.

Joe and Red-Stripe spun across the barn like dancers in a deadly waltz. They surged forward and backward, each one unable to see where he was going half the time. Joe nearly forced Red-Stripe into a beam post. Then Red-Stripe heaved and Joe backed hard into Frank, hitting his older brother from behind. Both Hardys went down, but they also managed to hold onto their pitchforks.

Disarmed, Black-Helmet and Red-Stripe bolted for the barn’s rear exit. The Hardys scrambled to their feet and gave chase, racing between the animal stalls after the intruders.

The trespassers reached the back door first. They sprinted out and leaped onto waiting snowmobiles. Before the Hardys could catch up, the prowlers fired the engines and roared away into the snowstorm.

“Rats!” Joe snarled. “We’ll never catch them on foot! They’ll disappear into the darkness before we can do anything.”

“Maybe not,” Frank said. “Come on!”

He raced back into the main barn with Joe right behind. The younger Hardy paused only long enough to close the rear door to protect the animals from the cold.

The two of them skidded to a halt next to the defrosted buggy. “The headlights will let us see where we’re going,” Frank said. “Maybe we can still catch them—or at least follow their tracks.”

“Check!” Joe said. He opened the main barndoors while Frank threw the tarp into the back seat, started the vehicle, and drove it outside. Then Joe closed the doors and hopped into the passenger seat beside his brother. “Step on it!” he said.

Frank switched on the headlights and roared off into the storm. They cut around behind the barn and quickly picked up the snowmobile tracks. They couldn’t see the intruders’ taillights, or even hear their quarry over the howl of the wind.

“I guess we didn’t hear them arrive because of the storm,” Frank said.

“These guys have gotten all the breaks so far,” Joe said. “Now its our turn to put the brakes on them.”

Frank chuckled. “I just hope that when we catch them, we find out where they took Bernie.”

The driving snow made it difficult to see. They were forced to use their low-beam headlights, as the high-beams reflected off the swirling powder, turning the night into a blinding white cloud.

Unfortunately using the low-beams meant they couldn’t see very far ahead. Several times Frank swerved at the last moment, barely avoiding a fence or a lone tree standing in the middle of the pasture.

“These bandits know where they’re going,” Frank
said. “They’ve easily skirted around obstacles that nearly took us out.”

“They’re clearly more familiar with these fields than we are,” Joe agreed. “Probably they’re from nearby.”

“Like the Costello farm, for instance?” Frank suggested.

“Maybe,” Joe replied. “I was thinking that anyone wanting to buy this farm would probably become pretty familiar with its layout.”

“So Patsy Stein’s mall consortium is at the top of your suspects list,” Frank said.

“It wouldn’t be the first time a criminal has tried to force owners off their land,” Joe concluded.

The buggy left the pasture and zipped through the stand of pine trees that stretched down from the northern forest. The snow grew worse by the minute, limiting visibility even further.

“I think I see their taillights!” Joe said, pointing through the trees.

Frank nodded and smiled, but just at that moment, the buggy’s headlights flickered. “It must be a loose wire!” the elder Hardy said.

“We don’t have time to fix it,” Joe countered. “If we do, we’ll lose them for sure. And the way this snow is blowing, we might lose their tracks as well.”

The woods gave way to pasture again as the intruders turned south. Snowdrifts sprang up
suddenly across the snowmobile tracks. The Hardys plowed forward without slowing down. The powdery obstacles burst into blinding clouds as the buggy rushed through.

‘We’re off course,” Frank said after a particularly bad whiteout. The bandits rode on their right now, rather than ahead of them.

“They could be cutting back toward the main road,” Joe said, nearly shouting to be heard above the storm and the growl of the buggy’s engine.

“I’ll cut across the field and try to head them off,” Frank said. He turned to the right, angling the vehicle over a patch of clear snow separating them from the intruders. The buggy’s headlights flickered again, but the brothers were too intent on catching their foes to worry about it.

‘We’re catching up!” Joe exclaimed. Then his blue eyes went wide. “Frank! Watch out for that—!”

Before he could finish, they burst through another drift and skidded onto a large farm pond. The ice beneath the vehicle gave way, and the buggy pitched into the cold, dark water.

The chilly liquid burst up all around the Hardys, spraying into their eyes and over their clothing.

The buggy came to a sudden, violent halt, half-submerged in the pond. Frank and Joe jerked forward in their seats; only their seat belts kept them from flying over the stripped-down vehicle’s hood.

“Are you okay?” Frank asked.

“Aside from being soaked, you mean?” Joe replied. “Yeah.”

The buggy’s rear-mounted engine remained above the water and was still running. The drive wheels, also in the rear, were tipped up at an angle and had nothing to purchase on. The tires spun wildly through the snowy air while the
engine roared. Frank switched off the engine and pocketed the key.

With broken ice and chilly water pressing in around them, it took the brothers a few minutes to struggle out of their seat belts. Then they crawled through the marshy, half-frozen edge of the pond back onto the snow-covered pasture.

Joe gazed at the half-submerged buggy. “Think there’s any chance we could pull it out?” he asked.

Frank shook his head. “Not tonight—not before we freeze, anyway.” He grabbed the tarp from the back seat and threw it over the engine to protect it. “What about using the rope? We could run the rope to a tree and drag it out.”

“The rope’s in the trunk, and the trunk’s in front—underwater,” Frank replied. “So unless you feel like ice diving . . .”

“Not without a wet suit.”

“Let’s go,” Frank said. “It’s not getting any warmer. Got your flashlight?”

Joe fished a penlight out of one of his coat pockets and switched it on. “Still works,” he said.

“Good,” said Frank. “We’ll follow the tracks back as far as we can. Hopefully we’ll spot the house before the trail drifts over.”

“If we don’t, I guess the Mortons will be able to use us as lawn ornaments until we thaw out in the spring,” Joe said sardonically.

Frank chuckled, but he was already beginning to
feel chilled. Their waterproof parkas had protected the brothers’ torsos some, but the rest of them was still pretty soaked. “We’d better get moving before we freeze in place,” Frank said. He and Joe trudged back through the snow along the tire tracks.

The heavy snowfall made the landscape gray and surreal. Pale light reflected from everywhere. Most of the time, they didn’t even need the flashlight to see.

“It’d be beautiful if I weren’t freezing,” Joe said.

“We’d turn into Popsicles before we could build a decent fire,” Frank said. “If we keep moving as fast as we can, our body heat should dry off some of the water.”

Joe nodded and the two began jogging through the rising drifts.

They stopped briefly to catch their breath under the shelter of the south-reaching spur of pines. They didn’t stay long, though. Frank’s plan to warm up by running had worked, but their clothes began to freeze again almost as soon as they stopped. In addition both brothers knew the weather conditions were worsening every moment they delayed.

Driving winds and blowing snow made it nearly impossible to follow the buggy tracks once they left the forest. Fortunately both brothers had wilderness scout training, so they had a pretty a good idea where the Morton farmhouse lay, even if they couldn’t see it.

They forged ahead, moving as quickly as they could, plowing through the growing snowdrifts. They avoided several farm ponds: wide, flat expanses of snow-covered, treacherous ice. Ahead, solitary hedge evergreens poked up through the drifts like pointy-hatted sentries trying to block the brothers’ way.

Taking shelter from the wind behind one of the larger trees, the Hardys took a moment to catch their breaths and reorient themselves. As they did, Joe’s flashlight went dark.

“The water must have shorted it out,” he said. “I just put in new batteries.”

“Don’t worry,” Frank said. “We can’t be far from the house now.”

“I hope not,” Joe replied, shivering. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep going.”

“We’ll walk as long as we need to,” Frank said. “I’d hate to come this far only to freeze to death within site of the barn.”

But they couldn’t see the barn or the house from where they were. The rolling pasture and blizzard conditions made every direction look the same. They steeled themselves and forged on.

Their lungs began to burn from the cold. Their legs felt as though icy needles poked them at every step. Joe stumbled and fell face-first into a drift.

Frank pulled him up again, but he seemed exhausted too.

“M-maybe we sh-should have built that f-fire instead,” Joe said.

“T-too late . . . n-now,” Frank replied.

A row of wild hedge pines rose up before them, attempting to trap the brothers in the deadly winter wonderland. The Hardys staggered to the trees and leaned against the trunks, trying to rally, trying to muster the strength to continue. Joe pressed his face to the cold, snow-covered branches. Incongruously, they felt warm to him.

Joe had heard that feeling warm was a sign of hypothermia. Your body gets so cold it can’t tell it’s freezing anymore. He longed to close his eyes and rest, just for a minute.

The trees shuddered and Joe realized without looking that Frank must have collapsed.

The younger Hardy forced his eyes open and peered through the pine needles at his brother lying in the snow. Something glistening in the distance caught his eye.

“A light!” he cried. “I see the house!”

He grabbed Frank’s shoulder and shook it. “I see it!” he repeated. ‘We’re almost home!”

Wearily, Frank opened his eyes. Ice and snow crusted his eyelashes and eyebrows. He looked more frozen than alive.

Joe helped his older brother to stand, and they leaned against each other. Together, they staggered through the drifts toward the beckoning lights. It
took them nearly fifteen minutes to cross the remaining three hundred yards to the house.

Exhausted, they wrenched the back door open, and stumbled inside.

“Joe! Frank!” Iola cried. Worry filled her pretty voice.

The brothers were picked up by warm hands and steered into chairs by the stove. The old cookstove was warm and had coffee and cocoa simmering on a burner.

The Hardys stripped off their freezing clothes while the Mortons wrapped them in blankets. Grandpa brought buckets of tepid water to warm the Hardys’ feet while Grandma plied them with cocoa.

An hour later, the brothers felt much better.

“Thanks for all your help,” Frank said sleepily.

“If you hadn’t been up,” Joe added, “you might have found us passed out on the kitchen floor come morning.” He yawned.

“The back door slamming woke us,” Grandpa said. “Then we spotted a commotion out by the barn. Before we could get dressed to help you, we saw you boys drive off into the snowstorm.”

“Not your brightest move ever,” Chet noted.

“Where’s the buggy?” Iola asked.

Frank shook his head ruefully. “We got blinded by the storm and drove it into a pond.”

“No wonder you were soaked!” Iola exclaimed.

“It’s swamped but not completely sunk,” Joe said. He looked at the Morton grandparents and added, “We’re
so
sorry. We’ll drag it out tomorrow if we can.”

“We’ll fix any damage, too,” Frank added.

“Now, don’t you worry about that,” Grandpa Morton countered. “What’s done is done.”

“Eat this,” Grandma said, handing each Hardy a bowl of homemade chicken soup.

Joe and Frank ate the soup gratefully, feeling more and more like their old selves with every passing minute.