The Mystery at Bob-White Cave (6 page)

“We’re at the top of the hill that leads to the lodge,” Linnie said, “but it’s too late now to go cave hunting,

Trixie, even if Slim has shown up.”

Slim
had
shown up.

When the Bob-Whites piled out of the wagon at the back door of the lodge, their future guide was half sprawling, half sitting on the porch step. He didn’t change his position until Uncle Andrew invited him inside and introduced his guests from New York.

Even then, Slim stood looking down, one toe scraping the living room floor. He didn’t offer to shake hands till the boys offered theirs. He didn’t even look in the direction of the girls until Trixie stepped up to him and announced, “I’m Trixie, Brian and Mart’s sister, and this is Honey Wheeler.”

“Evenin’, miss,” Slim drawled.

He came to life, though, when the Bob-Whites spread their purchases around on the living room floor. The carbide lamps seemed to intrigue him. He picked one up, fooled with it a minute, then put it down. His eyes narrowed at the accumulation of candles, waterproof plastic cases, pickax, shining nylon ropes, and hard helmets.

“What do you aim to do with all this truck?” he asked.

“It’s all gear that has been recommended by the National Speleological Society for cave explorers,” Uncle Andrew explained.

Slim snorted, passed a worn, frayed rope between his hands, then picked up his lantern. “These are all anyone needs,” he said. “See you in the mornin’. I’d figured to get goin’ this afternoon, but it’s too late now. Is eight o’clock too early for you dudes?”

Trixie bristled. “All of us
dudes
are strong enough and healthy enough to start out right now. We’re ready if you are.”

“See you at eight o’clock tomorrow mornin’,” Slim repeated and ambled toward the back door. “An’ go slow on packin’ all that dude stuff along with you. I don’t want to have to carry one of the womenfolk.” Trixie was speechless—that is, till she closed the door after Slim. Then she exploded.

“Do we
have
to go exploring with that—that—”

“Now, now, Trixie,” Uncle Andrew said. “Slim’s probably all right. He’s just like any other young fellow around here would likely be—not afraid to grapple a wildcat with his bare hands and thinking all official equipment is sissy. Hold your ammunition for a while.”

“I think first impressions are best,” Trixie said confidentially to Honey when they went upstairs to get ready for dinner. “I’ve hardly ever been wrong on first impressions, and there’s something sneaky and odd about that Slim.”

“Oh, Trixie, I don’t think so. If you think back, you’ll remember several times when you've both suspected people and were wrong about them.”

“Name just one.”

“Spider Webster’s brother, Tad. You thought the brother of our very favorite policeman in Sleepyside wasn't to be trusted.”

“You thought so, too, at first.”

“That’s why we should both be more trusting.”

“You don’t catch criminals by being trusting.” Trixie Belden of the Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency was talking. “All right, Honey, I’ll give Slim the red-carpet treatment as long as he has it coming. Are you ready for dinner?”
A

At the table the talk reverted to Slim. All the Bob-Whites except Trixie had been amused at his attitude.

“Missouri is the ‘Show Me’ state, you know,” Uncle Andrew said. “It’ll be up to you Bob-Whites to show Slim you aren’t dudes and can take the hardships of cave exploring as well as he can.”

“Maybe we can’t do it,” Mart suggested. “The girls, anyway.”

Both Trixie and Honey started to sputter, then realized that Mart was teasing them.

“I don’t care!” Trixie said, her face red. “I just don’t trust him completely.”

Mrs. Moore passed a platter of crisp fried chicken to Uncle Andrew. “What’s wrong with Slim?” she asked Trixie in a serious tone of voice.

“I don’t think he likes us,” Trixie answered.

“I doubt if he likes or dislikes. He doesn’t know you. As far as trusting him is concerned, I’ve never heard of Slim having any brush with the law, unless it was for hunting out of season. Every man around here does that. They figure the woods belonged to them long before laws about hunting seasons were passed, and they have to hunt to eat.”

“Do you think that your mistrust of Slim could arise from your insuperable aversion to any kind of supervised activity?” Mart inquired, lifting his mouth from an ear of buttered sweet corn.

“Maybe it could.” Trixie surprised Mart so that he dropped the corn. “I guess I don’t go for any kind of restraint. Uncle Andrew, I
am
anxious to find those specimens. I
am
eager for us to be the first ones who do find them so we can get the reward and help the handicapped children.”

“I’m for you one hundred percent. Slim may eat his words, too, about the equipment. I wouldn’t trust that frayed rope of his to hold up a two-week-old kitten, much less Slim. Well, let’s forget him, and cave hunting, too, till morning. I’m going to go over some papers, and then maybe we can have some music in the living room. Linnie and her mother are quite a singing team.”

Honey and Trixie carried the dishes from the table to Mrs. Moore in the kitchen. She separated the scraps that were to go to Jacob from those meant for the chickens and handed the pans to the boys. They carried them out, then fed and watered the mules. While the girls were helping Linnie and her mother wash the dishes, Mart and Brian took turns milking gentle Martha, who waited in the cow shed. Milking was one skill Jim knew nothing about. He played throw-and-fetch-stick with Jacob and then laughed amusedly as the coon dog caught a strange scent and Went off into the woods, baying plaintively.

When the shadows fell and logs in the great fireplace crackled, Mrs. Moore drew down the hanging kerosine lamps and lighted them. Uncle Andrew settled into his easy chair with a sigh of contentment. “Is your guitar tuned up?” he asked Linnie.

“Yes, sir. I don’t know what you want us to sing.”

“One of your real mountain songs. That one about Peter Degraph. The song is called ‘Come All Ye,’ ” Uncle Andrew explained to the Bob-Whites. “A man is about to be hanged for the murder of his sweetheart. He sings this song from the gallows as he protests his innocence. Sing it for us please, Linnie.”

“If Mama will help me. I may need prompting on some of the words.” She sang,

“Come all ye good people my story to hear,

What happened to me in the June of last year;

Of poor Ellen Smith, and how she was found

Shot through the heart, lyin’ cold on the ground.

“It was my intention to make her my wife,

And I loved her too dearly to take her sweet life.

I never did think that we ever would part—

Now people all say that I killed my sweetheart.

“Yes, I choke back my tears, for you people all said

That I, Pete Degraph, shot Ellen Smith dead.

My love’s in her grave, with her hand on her breast,

But the bloodhounds and sheriff won’t let me have rest.

“My Ellen sleeps sound in the lonely churchyard,

And I stand on the gallows, heaven knows it is hard!

They’re goin’ to hang me. The law says they can,

But whoever hangs me hangs an innocent man.

“The man that is guilty had better beware,

For my spirit will haunt him by land and by air.

Some wild, scary night I’ll come out of the gloom

And send his mean soul bleeding off to its doom.”

As Linnie twanged the last mournful notes on her guitar, something swished in the air outside and crashed, then rolled down the rough shingled roof. Startled, Honey and Trixie jumped from their chairs. The boys turned and stood there motionless, listening intently.

“It was just a rock,” Uncle Andrew said. “They break loose from the ledge up there and fall once in a while. It was timed just right, wasn’t it? It really wasn’t Peter Degraph’s ghost, Trix!”

“Nobody knows it wasn’t,” Mrs. Moore said positively, a quiver in her voice.

Uncle Andrew chuckled. “You’ve never shown me a ghost yet.”

“I hope I don’t,” Mrs. Moore answered. “Mostly they come to warn people of bad things that will soon happen.”

Honey shivered. “Do you know any funny songs, Linnie?”

Linnie ran her fingers up and down the strings and began to sing in a lilting voice,

“Jaybird died with the whoopin’ cough,

Snowbird died with the colic.

Met a froggie with a fiddle on his back

A-goin’ to the frolic.

“He played fiddle dee dee.

He played fiddle de fon.

And the bees and the birds and

The jolly little fleas

Danced till the break of dawn.”

Jim pulled his harmonica out of his pocket and caught the melody of Linnie’s song, and they all clapped and stomped their feet in rhythm.

Suddenly the screen door snapped shut. The young people jumped to their feet. Trixie ran ahead and pulled back the curtain.

“I see someone—a dark shape out beyond the cow shed!”

In a moment, Uncle Andrew was outside, rifle in-, hand—the Bob-Whites, Mrs. Moore, and Linnie close after him. They looked everywhere and saw nothing. Jacob came sniffing around Mrs. Moore’s skirts, whining in the back of his throat.

“Jacob didn’t bark!” Mrs. Moore said wonderingly.

“He wasn’t here—just came in through the woods,”! Uncle Andrew said. “Are you
sure
you saw someone, Trixie?”

“She’s always imagining she sees things,” Mart said. “We were having so much fun. Let’s go back in the house so Linnie can sing some more.”

“Who slammed the screen door?” Mrs. Moore asked. “It didn’t slam itself.”

“It probably snapped shut with the wind,” Uncle Andrew said.

Mrs. Moore looked skeptical. Trixie didn’t believe it at all. She was sure she really had seen someone outside. The mystery deepened when, as they finally went back into the house, Linnie found a little crippled bird on the back porch.

“Matthew always brought anything hurt home for me to look after,” Mrs. Moore said. “It was his spirit was here. Oh,
why
couldn’t I talk to him?”

“Nonsense, Mrs. Moore,” Uncle Andrew said brusquely. “When the stone rolled off the roof, it hit the little bird, and it fell to the porch. It’s simple. There just isn’t any such thing as a ghost.”

Mrs. Moore took Linnie by the hand and said soberly, “We’ll bid you good night, Mr. Belden. Come, Linnie.”

Upstairs, when they were getting ready for bed, Trixie cupped her hand over the chimney of the kerosine lamp, ready to blow it out. “Gosh,” she said, “do you really think it could have been Linnie’s father’s ghost?”

‘Who’s the one with the imagination now?” Honey asked.

Maybe it is imagination. I guess it is.” Trixie climbed into her bunk. “But the queerest things keep happening here in these woods.”

Swim to Safety • 6

I HEARD SLIM ride up a while ago,” Trixie said as she put on her blue jeans. “I suppose he’s waiting for us downstairs. We’d better hurry. He doesn’t think too much of
dudes,
anyway.”

“It’s only seven o’clock.” Honey glanced at her wristwatch. “I thought we were going to forget about what Slim said.”

“You’re right. I’ll forget it. The big thing is to get that reward. The last one down is a four-eyed catfish!” Slim, at the breakfast table, answered the Bob-Whites’ greetings with an unintelligible grunt. He’d just finished a plate of Mrs. Moore’s cornmeal pancakes and wiped the syrup from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ready?”

“When we finish
our
breakfast,” Trixie answered, “and when we get our things collected.”

“Where do you expect to head for first?” Mrs. Moore asked Slim.

“I been thinkin’ Bascomb’s Cave would be the likeliest place. Then maybe that old cave over near Turkey Knob.”

“Are they caves that have already been explored?” Trixie asked.

“Sure they have. I’ve been through them dozens of times. Ain’t nothin’ there could hurt you.”

“Are there underground streams in either one of them?”

“Never saw none.”

“Then we won’t go!” Trixie banged her fork down on her plate. It seemed to amuse Uncle Andrew. “Don’t you know anyplace where we could find a cave that hasn’t been explored?”