Lost in Gator Swamp (2 page)

The saw grass was as thick as a meadow of wheat and seven feet high in some places. Once in it, Frank couldn't see a thing.

“Help!” a voice cried. The jagged edges of the long blades nicked Frank's arms as he pushed through the saw grass toward the voice.

Frank came upon a man in a small rowboat, holding a smoking shotgun. He had a short gray beard and was shaking like a leaf.

“Homer!” Dusty called to the man as he and Chet caught up.

“Alligator!” the man exclaimed, pointing to one half of a splintered wooden oar in his boat. “It had teeth like razors. Must have been fifteen feet long. One eye was big, white, and ugly.”

“That oar's good for nothing now. We're not far from shore. We'll pull you through this saw grass and back to safety, pronto.” Dusty said.

Once on land, Frank and the others turned back, half expecting to see a giant alligator pursuing them through the saw grass. But the water was still. Then Frank noticed something strange in the distance. On a neighboring island were two cypress trees standing side by side and identical in size. Sitting high in the branches of one of these trees was a lone figure, who appeared to be watching them.

“Dusty, does anyone live on the next island?” Frank asked.

Dusty followed Frank's gaze. “You mean on
Twin Cypress Key? No, not for a hundred years. Why?”

“Because there's someone—” Frank had only taken his eye off the tree for a moment. But in that time the figure had disappeared.

“Well, there was someone there a second ago, sitting up in the branches of that cypress.”

“That's probably Weird Reuben,” Homer replied.

“Who?” Frank asked.

“He's a strange one who—” Homer started.

“He's not strange, except to you and some of your tale-telling friends,” Dusty said hotly. “Reuben is Angus Tallwalker's grandson,” he explained to the others, “I'll admit he's not very sociable. But he's not strange. He lives off the land—by the old ways, like his ancestors did. He doesn't like all the fishermen and tourists who have started overrunning the area. Twin Cypress Key was a special island to his people.”

“Wait a second,” Frank said, looking around. “Where's Joe?” The younger Hardy was nowhere in sight.

“Joe!” Chet yelled. “Where are you?”

“I'm over here!” Joe called back. “The question is, where are you?”

Joe had set out a minute after the others had gone to investigate the shotgun blast and was now waist-high in saw grass, unable to see any of his companions.
He had spotted a floating piece of wood and grabbed it. It was half of a wooden oar.

Just then the head of a giant alligator broke the surface. With its great jaws open and ready to snap, it was lunging right at Joe!

Joe held out the half-oar, hoping it would keep the alligator at bay long enough for him to get to safety. The alligator jerked its head to the side and snapped the wood into bits.

Joe stumbled as he tried to run through the thick saw grass. He made it to shore seconds ahead of the alligator. He shuddered as the alligator's cloudy white eye seemed to look at him before it disappeared in the murky water of the swamp.

“Over here!” Frank shouted as he tramped down the shoreline toward his brother. Dusty, Chet, and Homer were a few steps behind him.

“Are you okay, Joe?” Chet asked.

“I'm not alligator chow, if that's what you mean,” Joe replied.

“This is Homer Janes, the camp caretaker,” Dusty said. “He's also my steer-roping partner.”

“Call me Homer,” the man insisted. “If you ask me, Weird Reuben had something to do with that big alligator coming after us. He has magic power over swamp creatures.”

“Oh, quit it, Homer!” Dusty exclaimed, swatting him with the brim of his hat.

“Who's Weird Reuben?” Joe asked. Frank filled him in on Tallwalker's grandson and how they had spotted him on Twin Cypress Key.

“What happened here?” A blond man with a mustache and sky blue eyes called from the direction of the fishing camp, followed by three other men and a young woman.

“An alligator attacked us, Mr. Furman!” Homer blustered. “It was as long as two canoes strung nose to nose. Me and that boy were nearly eaten alive!”

Frank saw Furman walk to the water's edge. “Here's your problem,” Furman said, carefully pulling back an armful of saw grass to reveal a mound of dead plants and leaves.

“An alligator mound!” Frank exclaimed, recognizing it from a picture he had seen in his book.

“It was just a mother alligator protecting her eggs,” Furman explained.

“That's strange,” Dusty said. “Alligators don't usually lay eggs this close to the bay. The water's too salty. They like it farther back in the swamp, away from people and boat traffic.”

“Usually,” Furman remarked. “But the fact is, this alligator seems to have made this key into her nursery.”

“Could be a man-eater, Dusty,” Homer warned. “If it's lost its fear of humans, it needs to be hunted down and killed.”

“We'll attend to this problem later,” Dusty said. “It's nearly noon, and we have to be at the rodeo by two o'clock.”

•  •  •

The boys changed into dry clothes, ate a quick lunch of fresh trout and grits, and boarded Dusty's rectangular, flat-bottomed pontoon boat, which ferried his guests from the fishing camp to the mainland.

On the way, the Hardys met the other guests who were staying at the camp for the rodeo. Billy and Roy Biggs were a calf-roping team, Trent Furman was a wild-bull rider, and Ashley Walton was a bronco buster.

When they reached the trading post, Dusty and the others got into the back of Tallwalker's pickup truck and took off for the rodeo grounds.

“Have a good ride!” Dusty shouted as the pickup pulled out of the parking lot, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Chet suggested that he and the Hardys draw straws to see who got stuck riding the mule. A minute later, Chet pulled himself up onto the back of Old Caloosa.

Stonewall, Paint Can, and Old Caloosa were well trained, and they barely reacted to the cars, trucks, and horse trailers speeding by them on the two-lane highway, all headed for the Swampland Rodeo.

As the boys road horseback along the narrow shoulder of the highway, Chet lassoed every road sign they passed.

“Am I a dead-eye roper or what?” Chet grinned as he dismounted to remove the noose from a sign for the sixth time.

Joe shifted in his saddle. “Chet, if you don't stop that, we're going to miss the first day of competition completely.”

Chet nodded and kept his rope coiled for the rest of the journey.

•  •  •

When the boys met up with Dusty and Homer at the rodeo, Dusty gave them a quick tour. He pointed out that the rodeo grounds were actually a section of a cattle ranch owned by a millionaire named Melvin Deeter.

Every year, Dusty told his companions, truck-loads of equipment and livestock were brought in for the rodeo. “They set up grandstands around the main rodeo ring and pitch that giant tent beside it.”

“What's in the tent?” Joe asked.

“Farm exhibits, registration tables, concession stands, you name it,” Dusty boasted. “We got us a chili cook-off, a livestock auction, not to mention
three days of bronco busting and wild-bull riding. It's like a big old carnival!”

“What are those outer buildings beyond the corral?” Frank asked Homer.

“That's the barn, and the other is the bunkhouse where the rodeo riders keep their gear,” Homer explained. “At the other end of the parking lot are the trailers where the judges and the rodeo clowns stay.”

Walking into the main tent, the group joined the line to register Dusty and Homer for the competition. Joe looked over the sea of cowboys and spectators. “Where do most of the contestants come from?” he asked.

“A lot of them are locals from Frog's Peninsula,” Dusty explained. “The rest of the competitors come from the rodeo circuit. They travel all over the country from one rodeo to the next.”

“I'm only ten dollars short, Mr. Deeter,” a tall, thin teenager at the front of the line shouted to a white-haired man with long sideburns.

“I'm sorry, young man,” Deeter said. “If you come up with the ten dollars before tomorrow night's bull-riding competition, I'll let you compete. For now, you'll have to settle for the bronco busting tonight.”

“Oh, okay,” the teenager said with a sigh. He stood flipping a coin, while Mr. Deeter signed him up and handed him his official number. As the teenager turned, he caught Joe looking at him.

“What are you looking at?” he asked, facing Joe squarely.

“Nothing,” Joe replied, sizing the teen up and deciding not to fight for no reason.

“Well, I'll give you guys something to see tonight,” the teen boasted. “I'm going to win the bronco-riding competition.”

As the teenager flipped his coin again, Joe caught a flash of gold. What is a guy who's ten dollars short doing with a gold coin? Joe wondered to himself.

“The name is Randy Stevens. You can look for my name at the top of the board,” the teenager said, sticking his chin in the air. “ 'Cause I'm going to win.”

Frank saw that Randy had attracted the attention of Trent Furman, who had been watching the scene from a nearby souvenir stand.

“That's some mighty big talk for a boy your age,” Furman said, stepping over to Randy.

“I'm not a boy, mister,” Randy shot back. “Who exactly are you?”

“The name's Trent Furman, I'm a bronco buster myself. Did I see you at the rodeo last year in Fargo, North Dakota?”

“Uh . . . ” Randy suddenly seemed less confident.

“I won first place,” Furman went on, smiling. “If you're half as good as you claim to be, I know someone who might sponsor you. He'll put up the
cash for you to compete, in return for a cut of the prize money you win,” Furman said.

“Well, I'm a rider worth sponsoring,” Randy said, his confidence back.

“Let's go find this guy,” Furman suggested.

“Aren't you going to register yourself?” Homer asked Furman.

“I'll do that later,” Furman replied, putting a hand on Randy's shoulder and leading him away.

“That kid is too big for his britches,” Dusty remarked, as he stepped up to the registration table.

“You'd better get moving,” Deeter told Dusty as he handed him his official competition number. “Your bronco-riding competition starts in fifteen minutes.”

“I'll see you all later,” Dusty shouted over his shoulder as he headed out of the tent.

“Good luck!” Joe called after him.

“I'm thirsty,” Frank said. “Who wants something to drink?”

“Whatever they have, I'll take a large,” Chet replied.

“We'll meet you in the seats,” Joe called as he and Chet started off toward the grandstands.

At the concession stand, Frank struck up a conversation with a couple of rodeo contestants in line in front of him. There was still a buzz about how the bank robbers had probably drowned in Florida Bay during the sudden winter storm.

By the time Frank reached the counter, he had gotten an invitation for him, Joe, and Chet to attend a barbecue behind the main tent that evening after the competition.

Frank was carrying three large lemonades toward the grandstands when he spotted the guests from the fishing camp engaged in an intense-looking discussion.

“Well, Billy and I like roughing it in the wilderness,” Roy Biggs was saying, “but an alligator-infested island may be a little
too
rough.”

“I'm with them,” Furman added.

“I can take care of that for you,” came a deep voice from behind them. Frank saw a familiar-looking man with a red beard step forward. “The name is Zack Platt. I've been handling alligators my whole life.” Platt held up his right hand, and Frank saw he was missing his pinkie and part of his ring finger. “If you give me two nights and fifty dollars I'll get rid of your alligator problem,” Platt said.

“It's illegal to kill alligators without a special license,” Billy Biggs warned.

“I didn't say I was going to kill the alligator,” Platt snapped back. “I'll trap it and relocate it to another part of the swamp.”

“For fifty dollars, what do we have to lose?” Furman suggested to his fellow guests as he pulled out his wallet. “In fact, I'll pay for it.”

“I have only one request,” Platt said. “I work at night, and I can't have any of you folks snooping
around, scaring off my quarry. Starting at midnight, everyone needs to keep clear of Gator Swamp.”

As the others nodded eagerly to one another, Frank continued to the main rodeo ring and joined Chet and Joe in the grandstands. “Hey, Joe, you remember the man with the red beard you saw at the trading post? I think Furman just hired him to trap our giant alligator.”

“He's an alligator trapper?” Joe asked. “I thought he was a snorkeler.”

Frank nodded. “I guess he could be both. But didn't you say he was headed for Key West?”

Just then the gate opened, releasing the first bronco and its rider from the chute and into the ring.

“It's Randy Stevens!” Chet shouted.

Randy's body snapped back and forth like a whip as the horse beneath him bucked, kicking up its back legs. But the teenager held tight until the qualifying buzzer sounded.

Randy flew off the horse's back, landing with a soft thud on the thick plowed dirt of the ring. Two men dressed in baggy overalls and wearing clown makeup waved their hands frantically, getting the horse's attention. Then they quickly moved in, grabbed the reins, and got the bronco under control before taking it back to its holding pen.

“Hey, Chet, if you can't rope steers, maybe you can be one of those guys,” Joe joked.