Farming Fear (9 page)

“Where are you going?” Joe asked.

“Home,” Costello replied. “You don’t think I
want
to stay on Morton land any longer than I need to, do ya?”

“Thanks again,” Frank said as Costello tramped off. The farmer didn’t reply, though his dogs continued to shoot hungry glances toward the brothers as Vic and the pack disappeared back into the woods.

“That was lucky, him coming along when he did,” Joe said.

“If luck had anything to do with it,” Frank replied.

Joe’s blue eyes narrowed. “You think he might have let the dogs free on purpose?”

“I can’t rule it out,” Frank said. “Doing so would give him a good excuse to prowl around the Morton property—and maybe cause a bit of mischief himself. We have only his word about those snowmobile tracks.”

“That’s true,” Joe said, “and I doubt we’ll be visiting his farm to corroborate the story.”

“With the way this storm is picking up,” Frank said, “I don’t think we’d get the chance, even if he and the Mortons were best friends. Come on, let’s get back before we turn into snowmen.”

Joe nodded, and he and Frank slogged back to the Morton farm through the escalating snow.

•  •  •

By the time they returned to the old farmhouse, the storm had reached blizzard proportions. They could barely see twenty yards in any direction through the blowing snow.

They met Chet and Iola returning from the barn.

“Boy, are we glad to see you guys,” Chet said as they all headed for the house.

“We were starting to get worried,” Iola added.

“We spotted some dog tracks in the woods,” Joe explained.
“We
thought they might be Bernie’s, but it turned out they belonged to a pack owned by Vic Costello.”

“Costello said someone set the dogs loose from his kennels,” Frank added.

“Do you think it could have been the same person that took Bernie?” Iola asked.

“Might be,” Joe said.

They took off their snow gear in the mudroom and went into the kitchen. Just as they got inside, the power flickered and then went out.

“That’s been happening all afternoon,” Chet said. Gray, ghostly light from the snow blowing outside filtered through the old house’s windows. The Mortons had been busy while the Hardys were gone; all the windows in the house were now covered with clear insulating plastic.

“Usually the lights came right back on, though,” Iola added. “Maybe this time they’re out for good.”

The phone rang, and a minute later Grandma Morton came into the kitchen. “That was J. J. Zuis,” she said. “Some fool hit a telephone pole up the highway. The power’s out in this whole area until they can get a crew to repair it.”

“Which, in this weather, might not be any time soon,” Grandpa Morton added as he entered the room. “You Hardy boys have a nice walk?”

Joe and Frank glanced at each other, then said, “Yes.” It seemed easier not to go into details of their adventure right at that moment.

“Let’s get some lamps lit and the fire going,” Grandpa said. “It’ll be dark soon, and even with the plastic on the windows, this old house still leaks heat like a sieve.”

They all did as Grandpa suggested. Then the Hardys went out to the old water tower and filled up buckets with fresh water. The tower’s foam insulation kept it from freezing for most of the winter.

“There’s an old pump back near the horses that’ll keep the animals in good stead,” Grandpa told the brothers as they returned. “Us, too, if the tower runs low. Its a long haul from there to the house, though.”

With their preparations to weather the storm finished, there was nothing to do but sit by the fire and enjoy “roughing it.” They could light the stove by hand, so there was still plenty of hot food and drinks to go around. They warmed up the remainder of Grandma Morton’s chicken soup for dinner and ate by candlelight. Then they snacked on cookies and played games by the fire. Frank came dangerously close to beating Grandpa Morton at chess. In the end, though, the elder Hardy had to concede defeat.

The wind howled loudly around the drafty old house, reminding Frank and Joe of the baying of the dogs circling their pine trees earlier in the day.

Chet got up and stretched. “I’m grabbing some more cocoa,” he said. “Anyone want some?”

Everyone did, and his grandparents wanted more coffee. “I’ll help you carry the mugs,” Frank said, rising and following Chet into the kitchen.

The two puttered around the stove, preparing the drinks. Frank fetched everyone’s mugs from the living room so they could refill them. As he returned to the kitchen, he found Chet staring out the window overlooking the backyard.

Frank stopped beside his friend and followed Chet’s gaze.

Chet gasped. “Fire!”

Yellow flames licked up the side of the red barn. They weren’t very big, but they were growing rapidly.

“Fire!” Frank yelled. He dropped the mugs on the table and followed Chet out the rear door. They paused only long enough to grab their parkas and put them on as they rushed outside. Joe dashed out a moment later, just behind his brother. The rest of the Mortons followed.

“We’ll take care of the animals!” Grandma cried, hurrying around the barn toward the pens with Iola.

Grandpa threw a garden hose from the main house to Joe, then went to turn it on. “There may not be much pressure left ‘cause the electricity is out,” he said. “If it fails, we can hook a line to the water tower.”

Joe ran to where Chet and Frank were throwing
snow on the fire. He opened up the hose’s nozzle. For a minute water sputtered out of the hose, stanching the flames a bit. Then, just as Grandpa had predicted, the pressure gave out.

“Maybe I’ll invest in a generator next year,” Grandpa Morton said ruefully.

Frank and Chet had run to the nearby water tower as Joe used the garden hose. Chet threw open a wooden bin that had been sheltered by the aging structure’s stout legs. “There’s an old fire hose in here,” he said. “They only use it for filling up water trucks to take to the field, so it doesn’t have a great nozzle on it.”

“With luck, it’ll be good enough,” Frank said.

As the garden hose drizzled out, Joe came and helped Frank and Chet hook up the water tower to the old fire hose. The Hardys lugged the heavy tubing toward the fire while Chet connected the end to the water tower tap and prepared to turn on the spigot.

Grandpa fetched a blanket out of the back of the station wagon and tried to beat the flames down. But the fire had climbed up higher than he could reach.

“Let ’er rip!” Frank called as they came within range of the burning barn wall.

Chet twisted the valve on the water tank spigot and water shot through the hose and out of the nozzle. Chet had been right; the nozzle wasn’t very
good and as much water squirted out the sides as the front. Frank and Joe fought to direct the spray toward the burning wall.

The water pressure from the tower left a lot to be desired, though it was better than they’d gotten from the fire hose. Fortunately the weather was with them. The wind and snow seemed to be taking a breather. None of the group believed that would last, though.

As they worked frantically to extinguish the blaze, two pickup trucks skidded into the driveway, coming to a halt near the back door. Bill Backstrom and J. J. Zuis leaped from their vehicles and ran to help the Mortons and their friends. They grabbed some buckets from beneath the water tower and filled them from the wild spray sloshing out of the old fire hose.

“Glad you two dropped by,” Grandpa said as he gave up on the blanket and fetched a bucket for himself.

“I was heading home from town when I saw the light and you folks running around out here,” Backstrom replied.

“I spotted the fire while working in the fields near my place,” J. J. added. “With the power out, this blaze is the brightest spot for miles around. If the storm hadn’t cleared a bit, though, I never would have seen it.”

“Whatever the reasons you came,” Chet said, “we’re glad you showed up to help.” He grabbed a bucket of his own and joined the brigade.

“Did either of you call the fire department?” Frank asked.

Both Backstrom and Zuis shook their heads. “I tried, but the phones were out at my place,” J. J. said. “And I don’t have a cell phone.”

“Me either,” admitted Backstrom.

“Cell phone!” Joe said, slapping his forehead. He let Frank handle the old hose, got out of side-splatter range, and pulled the phone out of his pocket. He punched 9-1-1, then listened. “Rats. Nothing!”

“Service is pretty bad out here,” J. J. explained. He sloshed another bucket of stray water onto the fire. “That’s why I don’t have a cell phone.”

“They’re talking about putting a cell tower in that new mall complex they want to build,” Backstrom added.

“Well, that ain’t gonna help us now,” Grandpa said. “Keep bailing!”

Between the Hardys, the Mortons, and the two volunteers, they soon brought the blaze under control. The wall of the old barn was badly scorched in places, but not entirely burned through.

The impromptu firefighters breathed a collective sigh of relief. Chet twisted the aging water
tower’s spigot closed. The storm began to build again. The wind picked up and fresh drifts snaked across the driveway.

“Thank you, each and every one,” Grandpa said. “We might have lost the barn without you.”

“What are neighbors for?” J. J. asked rhetorically.

“Hey,” Bill Backstrom said jovially, “I was just savin’ my own job. I certainly don’t want to be lookin’ to Stein’s mall for work, and J. J.’s not hiring.” He smiled at farmer Zuis.

J. J. shook his head. “I think the Mortons need you here, Bill.” Both of the men chuckled.

“You smell that?” Joe asked, sniffing the air. “Smells like gasoline.”

“You didn’t leave one of our gas cans near that side of the barn while you were working, did you Bill?” Grandpa Morton asked.

“Not me,” Backstrom replied. “I haven’t touched the can since I worked on the tractor the other day.”

“If the phones are working inside the house, we should call the fire department and have them check it out,” Frank said. “It looks like arson to me.”

Grandma Morton and Iola came around the side of the barn, dusting hay and snow off of their clothes. “Call in more people? Tonight? In this weather?” Grandma said. “It looks to me like we’ve got this under control. Let the professionals go where they’re really needed . . . or stay at home—which is where all sensible people should be tonight.”

“We got all the animals safely outside,” Iola said, “just in time to move them back, I guess.” She sighed.

“Better to be safe than sorry,” Grandpa said.

“Don’t worry,” J. J. added, “we’ll help you get them back inside.”

He and the rest went to help relocate the animals and bed them down for the night. Grandma Morton and Iola coordinated the effort, and soon the rear of the barn was full of the sounds of contented horses and cows once more.

“I think it’s time for more cocoa,” Chet said.

“My grandson’s right,” Grandpa agreed. “Coffee and cocoa for everyone.”

J. J. Zuis and Bill Backstrom looked around at the escalating snow. “Thanks, Dave,” J. J. said, “but I think I better be getting home.”

“Me too, boss,” Backstrom said. “This storm is getting pretty nasty. Like Marge said, all sensible people should be safe at home tonight.”

“We’ll take a ‘snow check’ though,” J. J. added, smiling.

“You could stay the night if you like,” Grandma suggested. “We’ve got plenty of blankets and space. It’d be safer to go home in the morning, probably.”

“No, thank you, Marge,” J. J. said.

“I really have to go too,” Backstrom added. “Gotta feed my dog.”

“Suit yourselves,” Grandpa replied. “Can’t say I blame you. Drive safely.”

J. J. and Backstrom said their good-byes, got back in their trucks, and headed off into the storm.

“They don’t have far to go,” Grandma said, watching them drive away. “They should be all right.”

The Mortons and the Hardys tidied up as best they could around the barn. The side where they’d been fighting the fire was all ice and rapidly freezing slush.

“You all watch your steps around here for the next few days,” Grandpa cautioned. “I don’t want anyone slipping and breaking their neck.”

The storm grew even worse as they shoveled slush, and the group was soon forced to retreat back into the farmhouse. They stripped off their sopping wet gear in the mudroom at the back door, then went to warm themselves by the fire.

Iola and Joe put themselves in charge of the hot beverages and took turns ferrying drinks from the kitchen to the living room. Soon everyone was feeling toasty and warm once more. Grandma set up an old-fashioned wooden drying rack near the fire. Frank brought in their wet clothing and hung them up to dry.

Fighting the fire had drained most of the energy from the Morton grandparents. Dave and Marge Morton retired early, first making sure all the teenagers had extra blankets to keep warm during the night.

Joe and Frank decided to sleep in the living
room. Their room on the second floor was far enough away from the fireplaces to be pretty chilly.

“I’d rather wake up with a stiff neck from sleeping on the couch than a stiff body from freezing,” Joe joked.

The rooms Iola and Chet had were warmer because they were closer to the central chimney. The Morton teens turned in not long after their grandparents.

Outside, the wind howled relentlessly and the snow began to climb higher up the clapboards of the old farmhouse.

Frank and Joe sat by the fire, listening to the storm and thinking about the troubles at the farm.

“I’m betting the fire was the work of those guys who jumped us last night,” Joe said.

“Hit-and-run does seem to be their M.O.,” Frank agreed. “And the smell of gasoline around the fire seems to rule out any kind of an accident. The question remains, though, who’s behind it all?”

“Backstrom and J. J. Zuis came to help,” Joe said, “but they could still be in on it. They’ve known the Mortons a long time. Maybe there’s some kind of grudge there. Plus, they arrived awfully fast. Maybe one of them set the fire to begin with.”