The Hidden Valley Mystery (2 page)

Mike shifted the binoculars. “Yeah, I can see more buildings where that gravel road turns along the house, then veers north. One looks like a garage, and beside the garage there’s a kennel. Yikes! Look at those two big brutes pacing up and down.”

“Whew!” Gunnar whistled softly. “Glad I didn’t stick around to meet them.” He stared through the lenses at the dogs.

“So when did you find this place?” Mike asked.

“A couple of days ago.”

“Why didn’t you call me then?”

“To say what? Just that some rich guy has a big house in a hidden valley?” He handed the binoculars back to Mike.

“Sure,” Mike insisted. “I mean, I never even knew about this valley, and I’ve lived here all my life.”

“That’s only half of it,” Gunnar’s voice lowered. “Look at this.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled something out. “I found them yesterday evening, scattered around that gnarled tree.”

Mike stared. He couldn’t believe his eyes. “You gotta be kidding!” he croaked. He’d never seen anything like it before. 

CHAPTER 3 – A Discovery

Crouched down, Mike leaned closer. He stared at Gunnar’s palm. On it lay three brown $100 bills. “E-mazing!” Mike sputtered. He plopped backward onto the ground. Why, that much money would buy him a genuine
Explorer
sleeping bag. He imagined the guys at the September camp, all bedded down beneath the pines, listening to night sounds under a full moon. Would they hear a wolf howl again—perhaps even see one?

“Can you believe it?” Gunnar broke in, sitting down beside him.

Mike blinked. “Believe it? Nope, but who cares! I’ve never been this lucky before.”

“Me neither,” said Gunnar. “You know how many old golf balls I’d have to sell to make this much money?”

Mike grinned. He imagined the second green covered with old golf balls, and tall skinny Gunnar stuck in the middle like the flagpole, yellow shirt-tail flapping in the wind.

“It’s not funny, you know,” Gunnar flipped the bills over in his palm. “This is too much money to be flying around the woods.”

“What do you mean?” Mike pulled in his knees. He felt his excitement cool.

Gunnar held the bill up to the light. “Ever since last night, the more I thought about it, the more I wondered. How could $300 wind up here? Why not on the golf course, where lots of people are around?”

“Oh, sure,” said Mike. “Every golfer just happens to carry big bucks in his pocket.”

“Well, there might be one or two who are rich “

“ Or crazy,” Mike blurted. “Who’d keep a $300 with his loose change? Besides,” he nodded in the direction of the golf course, “how could the bills blow through all these trees?”

“Exactly!” Gunnar slapped his knee. “That’s why I figured the money didn’t come from the golf course at all.”

“So?” said Mike, “Where did it come from?”

“There.” Gunnar pointed at the house.

Mike leaned forward. “Yeah, maybe,” he said. “Whoever lives there must be rich. And a wind could easily blow the money across a wide open valley to here.” He studied the ground and bit his lip. “If we know the owner, I guess we have to return the cash.”

“Wait a minute.” Gunnar spat on one of the bills and rubbed it with his thumb. “Take a close look.”

Mike stared. Where Gunnar rubbed the bill back and forth, some silver had come off. Gunnar held up his thumb. The skin was smudged grey.

“Here, give me the money for a minute,” Mike said. He spat on his finger and rubbed it hard over the crisp paper. “It is too good to be true,” he groaned. “Look, the silver’s coming off on my skin too.”

“Right.” Gunnar’s voice dropped.

Mike jumped up. “Then you knew all along the money was fake?” he cried. He closed his eyes. Poof! In his dream, a new sleeping bag vanished from under the pines.

“Not so loud!” Gunnar tugged on Mike’s tank top. “Get down!”

Mike ground his heel into the mossy earth. “What good are phony $100 bills?” he whined.

“Sh!” Gunnar hissed. “Don’t you see? This isn’t from a
Monopoly
game. Somebody’s trying to counterfeit money.”

“You’re nuts,” Mike pouted.

“Think about it.” Gunnar shoved the bill into his back pocket. “Some rich guy lives in a big house, in a hidden valley, protected by nasty guard dogs. It’s a perfect set up.”

“Aw, come on,” Mike ground his heel deeper, “you watch too many detective shows on T.V.”

Again Gunnar yanked Mike’s tank top. “Sh! Listen,” he whispered.

Mike turned his ear toward the distant house. “Barking.” He raised his binoculars. “Yikes,” he gasped. “Some guy with a dog is running this way!”

Gunnar scrambled to his feet. “We’d better get out of here. Follow me!”

Hunching low, Mike and Gunnar raised their arms to protect their faces and crashed into the tangled brush. Branches whipped Mike’s bare arms and legs. He longed to slow down, to clear his way. But he couldn’t stop. The barking was louder!

“Run, Mike, Run!” Gunnar cried.

“Gunnar this way,” Mike grabbed Gunnar’s arm, trying to drag his friend sideways to where the trees thinned.

Gunnar yanked him back. “No! Poison ivy!”

Mike gulped. Let twigs and bushes scratch his legs. That was better than a stinging wet rash, any day.

Moments later they burst through the bushes and broken wire fence onto the golf course. Past the dogleg and down a slight slope, straight to the river they dashed. Under a huge willow tree they threw themselves flat on the cool sand, gasping for breath.

“We ... are safe here,” Gunnar panted. “No dogs ... allowed ... on the golf course.”

Mike’s puffing calmed. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the willow overhead. Like long, green hair, its strands drooped around them. He listened. “Hey, there’s no more barking.” Instead, he heard the stream trickling. He rolled onto his side and gazed at the water. A few metres away, four flat stones gently broke its flow. Mike sat up. “Look, Gunnar,” he pointed at the stones, “I bet we can cross right there. We don’t have to walk all the way to the footbridge at the fourth green.”

Gunnar pushed himself up. “You’re right.” On his feet, he brushed the sand off his beige pants and yellow shirt. “Let’s go!” he shouted and ran. Hop, jump, jump, jump, his long legs took him easily across the stones. He stood grinning on the other side.

Mike tried to follow. He hopped to the first stone. He tottered, swinging his arms in the air to get his balance back.

“Hurry up, slowpoke!” Gunnar shouted.

Mike sucked in his breath. He studied the next three stones. They sat much further apart and were smaller. He had to take them fast, or really lose his balance and fall into the water. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Then he leaped. “One! Two! Three!” he shouted, and landed beside Gunnar.

Gunnar gave him a friendly smack on the back. Up the shallow bank they strode together.

“Hey,” Mike waved toward their left, “that looks like a path.” In and out, through birches, evergreens, and tall bushes, a trail wound up the ravine slope.

“So, let’s find out what’s on top,” Gunnar replied. “Last one up is a rotten egg.”

“You stink already!” Mike laughed, but Gunnar dashed ahead.

Mike ground after him. His legs might be shorter than Gunnar’s, but his muscles felt like pistons from racing his bike. Especially going uphill, he could outlast his friend. One, two, three. One, two, three. His running shoes beat a steady rhythm along the path.

Half way up, Gunnar puffed, “This is ... slower ... than I thought!”

Steady and sure, Mike’s pace was closing the distance between them. Ahead, the path grew steeper, then veered out of sight, around a clump of birches. If he burst forward, right where the path turned, Mike could cut in front of daddy longlegs.

Gunnar’s strides lagged. Now Mike had his chance. He steeled his muscles. Heaving his shoulders forward, Mike leaped across the bend in the path, ahead of Gunnar. But as his feet hit ground, the loose soil crumbled beneath him.

Falling! He was falling!

CHAPTER 4 – A Close Call

Mike’s running shoe shot through thin air. “AAGH!” he screamed, as down, down, he plunged until, like a bag of flour, he flopped against a small ridge of grassy soil. The ridge crumbled under his weight. Down again he hurtled, twisting and sliding lower through loose gravel. His knees burned. Flailing, his fingers strained for a root, a rock, a bush—anything to grab. His palms scratched on twigs and stones. Lips and tongue thickened with dust. He closed his eyes against the grit. Faster and faster, down he sped. Would he never hit bottom, never stop tumbling, helpless as an ant hosed down a wall?

THUMP. Mike sprawled onto his back. Had he really stopped moving at last? The ground beneath his arms and legs felt cool. He opened his eyes. Above him, across the blue puffed a cloud shaped like a lamb.

From far away, Gunnar’s voice echoed. “Mi-ike! Mi-ike! Are you O.K.?”

Slowly Mike turned his head to the right. He gaped.

“Ho lee!” he gulped. A cliff towered above him. It was steep, alright. No wonder he couldn’t stop falling and sliding. Thank goodness the jutting earth was sandy and loose. It slowed his drop, kept his bones from smashing.

“Mi-ike!”

Mike raised one hand to shade his eyes. Further right of the cliff face, midway down, Gunnar sprang through the trees.

Mike lay back on the damp sand. Again he heard the stream’s trickle. He rolled his head to the other side, toward it. He was lying less than a metre from the water’s edge, near jagged rocks that broke the shallows.

“Whew!” he thought, easing up on one elbow, “A few more centimetres, and I would have smashed my head.”

He sat up and leaned forward. He breathed deeply, in and out, a few times. He looked at his knees. No wonder they burned. Two wide scrapes bubbled with blood. He upturned his stinging palms. Both were laced with bright red scratches where he’d grasped for a root, a stone, to stop his fall. He pulled his ankles toward him. His running shoes weighed like cement blocks. Bending low, he yanked off his right shoe. Out cascaded a little mountain of pebbles and sand. Painfully, he bent to the left and tugged off his other shoe. “Yuk,” he muttered, as dirt grated between his wiggling hot toes.

He glanced at the stream. That water looked so fresh and cool! Leaning sideways, he took a deep breath, heaved himself up on one arm, and tottered to his feet. He breathed deeply again, then stepped into the bubbling current. The ankle-deep water sent a delicious chill up his burning legs.

“Mi-ike! Mike!” Out of the trees, along the cliff base, Gunnar raced toward him. Stumbling to the river bank, he stopped and panted. “Are you ... O.K.?”

“What took you so long?” Mike joked. “Scared of the fast way down?”

“Don’t kid around, Mike,” Gunnar grabbed his friend’s arm. “You’re lucky you’re only messed up with scratches and scrapes. If you’d hit those rocks, you’d be a dead man.”

“Yeah,” Mike muttered, leaning on Gunnar. He was glad his friend steadied him. He looked again where the gravelly wall of earth and sand towered above. “‘Dead Man’s Cliff’ that’s a good name, alright.”

“We’d better get you back to my house. Those hands and knees need first aid.”

“Right,” Mike answered. He slung an arm over Gunnar’s shoulder and hobbled out of the stream.

“You sure you can walk all the way?” Gunnar asked.

“I’ll be O.K.,” Mike replied. “Nothing’s sprained or broken. I just feel a little dazed and sore.”

Gunnar picked up Mike’s shoes and led him along the river bank. “We’d better go home our usual way,” he said. “We’ve had enough adventure.”

“Enough?” Mike managed to laugh. “At least until after lunch.”

CHAPTER 5 – Time Out

In the shade of Gunnar’s front porch, Mike was glad just to sit in the high canvas chair. He leaned back comfortably. Up he eased one stiff leg, then the other, until the heels of both running shoes rested on the wooden railing. Two soft squares covered his knees, glowing white against his tan. After washing Mike’s scrapes with disinfectant, Gunnar had patched them with gauze.

“Your mom will freak out when you walk in with these,” Gunnar had chuckled. All Mike’s friends knew how much Mrs. Steriou fretted. Gunnar was lucky both his parents worked Saturdays.

“No way,” Mike had snorted back. “I’m whipping these patches off before I even get up the driveway!”

For now, though, while Gunnar was in the house making sandwiches, Mike could relax. No more shows of bravery. He closed his eyes. Down the street he heard a distant lawnmower
rrrr
to a start. A car hummed past. Near his right ear, something small buzzed, then brushed away. A breeze rustled the lilac bushes surrounding the porch. He breathed in their scent....

He was floating, floating so high his arms encircled a white cloud shaped like a lamb.

“Baa,” said the cloud.

Mike looked down. Miles and miles below shone the earth, no bigger than a blue golf ball. He tightened his hug on the lamb.

“Baa!” it bleated again and started to buck.

Mike tried to lock his grip. The lamb only bucked harder. Its soft whiteness grew dark, hard, like a big rock. As the rock rumbled and shook, its sharp edges cut into Mike’s flesh. Blood streamed over his hands. His slippery fingers couldn’t hold on. The rock wrenched from his grasp, hurling him into space. Falling—he was falling

“Hey, dreamboat, wake up.”

Mike felt something tug at his shoe. He opened his eyes. A shadow bent over him.

“Hey, dreamboat, it’s me, Freddy.”

Mike blinked. “Oh, Freddy. Hi there. Was I asleep?”

Freddy eased his solid hips back onto the railing. His navy shorts and light blue shirt looked as neat and fresh as his freckled face and trim orange hair. “Sure you were asleep,” Freddy answered, “if you call moaning, and waving your arms around, sleep.”

A third voice joined in. “You looked real funny, Mike. Were you having a nightmare?”

Mike turned. Beside him squatted Tuan, his thin almond skinned arms poking like matchsticks from a baggy green T shirt that reached to his knees. Of all Mike’s friends, little Tuan looked the youngest, even though he was half a year older.