Lost in Gator Swamp (4 page)

It was too late. Joe stepped on the low wall of the fire pit and leaped.

Joe was in midair before he realized he might have made a dumb move. He could feel the intense heat on his legs and feet, but he soared through the flames so quickly that it didn't burn him.

He hit the other side of the eight-foot pit running and would have caught Randy if he hadn't tripped on someone's boot.

“I'm sorry,” Salty Hubbard said, pulling Joe up off the ground. “Are you okay?” Joe didn't respond as his eyes scanned the area for Randy. Had Salty tripped him on purpose, Joe wondered, or was it just an accident?

Beyond the light of the fire, the night was pitch-black. Fifty yards ahead, Joe saw a car screech to a halt to avoid hitting a figure in the road. In the
headlights, Joe spotted Randy in his telltale white hat as the teenager quickly opened the passenger door and climbed in.

The car drove on just as Frank ran up. “What happened?”

“When Deputy Miles let on that I was an amateur detective, Randy took off like a shot,” Joe said.

Chet caught up to his friends. “What's going on?”

“Randy hitched a ride with someone and got away,” Joe replied.

“There goes our ride,” Chet joked.

“Come on,” Frank said. “We'd better tell Deputy Miles what we've found out.”

The boys quickly told Deputy Miles about everything that had happened since the afternoon.

“It all seems very odd,” Deputy Miles said. “I don't know Zack Platt or Randy Stevens, but I'll check with headquarters. And I definitely want to question Reuben about his threatening you. Finding him is the problem.”

“If he's going to compete in the bull riding, he'll have to be here tomorrow night,” Frank pointed out.

“Right,” Deputy Miles said. “I'll meet you boys tomorrow evening at five o'clock, right here by the fire pit.”

“By the way, Deputy Miles, did you ever find the robbers' getaway boat on Frog's Peninsula?” Frank asked.

Deputy Miles frowned. “Not yet. Florida Bay is huge, and with that storm—”

“The loot probably wasn't on board the sunken airboat.” Joe finished the sentence for her.

“We haven't even found the robbers' bodies. The storm probably swept them out to sea,” Deputy Miles explained.

“And the money could be floating somewhere in the Caribbean by now,” Frank said.

“No. That's one thing we don't have to worry about,” Deputy Miles said.

“What do you mean?” Frank asked.

“I mean this particular loot wouldn't float,” Deputy Miles replied. Before Frank could ask her to explain, she checked her watch and said, “Well, looks like the night's activities are winding down. Good night, boys. And don't worry. The Coast Guard has all kinds of high-tech equipment. They'll recover the bodies and the money.”

After Deputy Miles left, Chet said, “We'd better get our horses.”

As they approached the barn, Barney Quick was leading out Stonewall, Paint Can, and Old Caloosa.

“Here're your two horses and your, uh, mule,” Quick said with a grin. “I was beginning to think you boys had left without them.”

“Well,” Chet said with a sigh as he pulled himself up onto Old Caloosa's back, “we've got ourselves another mystery.”

“I've got an even bigger mystery we have to solve,
Joe said. “How are we going to get across Gator Swamp tonight?”

•  •  •

The highway was empty. The road was visible only because of the light of the half-moon reflecting off it. The boys rode in silence for a while. Joe and Frank were quiet because their minds were deep in thought. Chet was quiet because he was concentrating on staying on Old Caloosa.

“What if Zack Platt and Randy Stevens found something in Gator Swamp that they don't want anyone else to know about?” Frank ventured.

“Like that stolen loot?” Chet asked. “But where does Reuben Tallwalker fit in?”

Frank shrugged. “Deputy Miles said something odd about the money. She said that this particular loot wouldn't float.”

“Another weird thing,” Joe said, “was the way Randy and Mr. Platt acted when they met. I really don't think they knew each other.”

“But if Randy doesn't know Mr. Platt, how could you have seen them together at the trading post this morning?” Frank pointed out.

“Maybe it wasn't Randy who was wearing the white hat this morning,” Joe offered. “It's possible someone else could have the same one as Randy.”

“Good point. Or maybe Randy and Mr. Platt are just both good liars,” Frank suggested.

“If they were lying, they're the
best
liars we've ever run across,” Joe concluded.

Suddenly Joe heard a twig snap. The Hardys reined in their horses and looked toward the thick undergrowth beside the road.

Without a word, Frank signaled for Joe and Chet to dismount. He pointed to himself and toward the woods in front of them. Then he pointed to Joe and toward the woods behind them.

Joe nodded, understanding that they were going to come at the sound they had heard from opposite directions.

“Stay with the horses,” Joe whispered to Chet as he headed into the thick underbrush. Joe felt his foot slip into something soft and wet. Looking down, he discovered that he was standing in a foot of water and muck. He wondered if there was solid ground anywhere in the Everglades.

Headed in the other direction, Frank was finding the going just as tough. He was also slogging through mud and, on top of that, seemed to have attracted a large family of mosquitoes. He couldn't even see them to shoo them away. He only knew they were there because he felt them biting him.

Finally Frank was able to make something out in the darkness—something white, hanging on a branch, catching the moonlight.

Frank stretched out his hand, but just as he grabbed the white object, someone jumped him from behind. Frank and his assailant tumbled forward into the muck.

On the road, Chet could hear branches shaking
and the sound of a scuffle. “Frank? Joe! Are you okay? What did you find?” Chet shouted.

There was a pause. “We found each other,” Frank's voice came from the brush. Joe and Frank emerged wet and muddy, looking a bit annoyed with each other.

It was too dark for Frank to tell exactly what he had grabbed off the branch. He could tell it was a piece of cloth. “It could be a handkerchief or a torn patch off a shirt,” he told the others.

The three boys agreed that their best bet was to get to the trading post as soon as possible. If someone wanted to follow them through the muck and mosquitoes beside the road, they were welcome to do so.

It was nearly midnight when they arrived at the trading post. It was closed, and Angus Tallwalker had gone home. He had left the door to the stable open, though, so the boys put their mounts into their stalls. The only light came from the soda machine by the stable door, and Frank held the piece of white cloth in front of it.

“It's a rodeo rider's number!” Joe exclaimed.

“Number forty-five. Wasn't that Reuben's number?” Frank asked.

Joe snapped his fingers. “Yes. That means Reuben didn't run off. He must have circled around and waited for us outside the rodeo so he could follow us.”

“Reuben warned us not to go into Gator Swamp,”
Frank recalled. “Maybe he was making sure we didn't.”

“Well, I hate to disappoint him,” Chet remarked, “but that's the only way home.”

“I don't think Angus Tallwalker would mind if we borrowed a boat,” Frank suggested.

Unfortunately, they discovered that all the boats were chained to the dock for the night. Frank tried to pick the lock with the penknife that he always kept handy, but the locks were too strong and the lighting was too dim.

“Sorry, guys,” Frank said, closing the penknife.

“Wait a second,” Chet said, snapping his fingers. “I just remembered something. Follow me.”

The Hardys followed their friend around the back of the trading post and into Angus Tallwalker's junkyard. “There's our ride home,” Chet said, pointing to an odd-looking watercraft.

Joe frowned. “It looks like a cross between an aquatic bicycle and a Stone Age jet-ski.”

“It's a pedal boat! We used to rent them at a place I went to as a little kid,” Chet explained.

“Where's the engine?” Frank asked.

“There is no engine,” Chet replied. “You pedal it with your feet.”

“It'll take us hours to get back to the fishing camp,” Joe complained.

“I'm not even sure it's seaworthy,” Frank added.

“Who knows,” Chet remarked. “But do we have a choice?”

“You're right, Chet,” Frank said. “We should be grateful you remembered it was here.”

Dragging the pedal boat down to the dock, they set it in the water and climbed aboard. Chet took the only seat, pumping the pedals with his feet, while the Hardys kneeled down, trying to keep the tiny craft balanced.

They churned through the water at about one mile per hour.

“In this tub, we'll never get to the fishing camp before the midnight curfew,” Joe said.

“What better excuse to nose around Gator Swamp when we're not supposed to?” Frank replied, smiling.

The boys took turns pedaling. Even so, after nearly an hour, they were all exhausted.

“Hey, Joe,” Chet said, “you stopped pedaling.”

“My calves are cramping,” Joe moaned.

“I think we're almost there,” Frank assured him.

Joe nodded, “No pain, no gain.” He took a deep breath and started pedaling again.

“Wait!” Chet said suddenly. “Look over there!”

Off the starboard side of the craft, the shadowy silhouette of an island marked by two trees rose out of the swamp. Just in front of it, the boys saw an eerie light, moving slowly back and forth, like a single wandering eye.

“Maybe it's Zack Platt in his airboat,” Joe said.

“There's no boat,” Chet shot back. “That light is beneath the water.”

“Listen!” Joe said in a loud whisper. “Whatever it is, it doesn't sound human.” They heard the faint sound of raspy gurgling breathing and a muffled humming noise.

Joe got the boat as close as he could. They were only forty yards from the light when the light went out. The only illumination now was the half-moon reflecting off the surface of the water.

“Bubbles!” Chet said in a choked voice. Sure enough, Frank and Joe could path of small bubbles rising to the surface and headed in their direction.

“What do you think it is?” Joe asked.

“Whatever it is,” Frank replied, “it's going right underneath our boat.”

“It's the alligator!” Chet shouted.

Suddenly something struck the bottom of the boat with tremendous force, and the boys felt the craft begin to tip over.

“Jump!” Joe shouted.

When the pedal boat flipped, the three boys were sent flying into the swamp.

“Swim for it!” Frank ordered, doing his best freestyle toward the two trees on the nearby island.

Joe kicked his legs violently behind him, hoping to drive away the alligator if it was pursuing them.

Suddenly Joe's knee hit something. Mud. The water was only a few feet deep. Joe rose up and slogged through the water and onto the shore. He gave Chet and Frank a hand, and all three quickly climbed into the limbs of one of the tall trees. There was no sign of the alligator or the mysterious light.

“What do we do now?” Chet asked.

“We'd better stay here until daybreak. Then we can figure out where we are,” Joe replied.

The boys tried to make themselves comfortable in the tree. Frank, Joe, and Chet were beyond tired. Despite the occasional mosquito bite or cry of a passing egret, they slept through the rest of the night.

Joe woke up briefly, thinking that he felt something cold on his forehead. But everyone else was asleep. Joe figured he must have been dreaming and fell quickly back to sleep.

The next time Joe's eyes opened, it was morning and something was poking him in the ribs. Joe was relieved to see it was Homer, standing in the pontoon boat beside the shore, prodding Joe up in the tree with the end of a cane fishing pole.

“What in the world happened to you three?” Homer asked. “We've been worried as a fat hen in a fox's den.”

“Homer!” Chet said, waking up. “Boy, are we glad to see you. How did you find us?”

“It wasn't too hard,” Homer replied, pointing across the water with his pole. No more than a hundred yards away was an island, dotted with cabins on stilts.

“The fishing camp?” Joe exclaimed. “We're on Twin Cypress Key.”

“Wow, Frank,” Chet said, “you really did know where you were going.”

“What's the joke?” Homer asked. “Who knows the Seminole language?”

The boys exchanged confused looks. Then Frank said, “Joe, your forehead!”

Joe's forehead had been painted with mud. “Yours, too,” Joe replied. Frank also had something written in mud on his forehead, and so did Chet. The boys climbed down from the limbs of the tree.

“Did you say these were Seminole words?” Frank asked.

“Yep,” Homer replied, pointing first to Frank. “Yours says ‘Last,' Joe's says ‘Your,' and Chet's says ‘Warning.' ”

“Last your . . . ” Joe said, before it hit him. “Your last warning.”

“Or, rather, our last warning,” Frank said, giving Joe a knowing look. “From none other than Reuben Tallwalker, no doubt.”

“Couldn't be anyone else,” Homer agreed.

“How could he climb that tree and do this without waking us up?” Chet asked as he dipped his hand into the water and began rubbing off the mud.

“Folks say he can move in, out, and around as quietly as snowflakes falling,” Homer replied in a warning tone.