Danger on Vampire Trail (9 page)

The young man was immediately interested. “I think we might have some information on that,” he said. “You'll have to talk to the general manager. Follow me, please.”

They went up a flight of stairs to an office located off the mezzanine. There they were introduced to a thin, balding middle-aged man named Jerrold Morris.

“They have a question about a Magnacard,” the clerk said and excused himself.

Morris motioned the boys to be seated and looked at them suspiciously. “Now what was that about a Magnacard?” he asked.

The Hardys identified themselves, explaining they were on the trail of Whip Lasher. “We're sure he bought a pair of shoes here,” Frank concluded.

“Well, I don't know if it's the same man or not,” Morris said, “but a fellow calling himself Robert Wheeler bought a pair of shoes a couple of months ago. Besides that, he outfitted himself with some of our best merchandise.”

“On a phony Magnacard?” Frank queried.

“That's right. There was another man with him. I wish we could lay our hands on those twol The police are working on the case.”

“Did you get a description of Wheeler and his companion?” Joe asked.

Morris nodded. “Our shoe clerk remembered Wheeler quite well.”

Frank showed him the photograph.

“This could very well be the same fellow,” Morris said.

“Did he leave any clues?” Joe wanted to know.

“No. We questioned our salesmen. They have no idea where the man was from or where he was going.”

“What about the wrappers?” Frank asked.

Much to the Hardys' surprise, the packers had not been questioned.

“We would like to talk with them,” Frank said.

“Sure.”

Morris rose and led the way downstairs to an aisle in the back of the store where several women were busy packing merchandise. He asked if anyone remembered wrapping an order including a buckskin jacket and Mountain Dogie shoes, bought with a Magnacard charge plate. “This might be the man who purchased it,” he said and passed the photo around.

One woman, Mrs. Jones, identified Wheeler from the picture. “Whenever I see Magnacard on the sales slip,” she said, “I'm interested in the customer. We don't get millionaires down here very often.”

“What did the other man look like?” Frank asked.

“Well, he was kind of chubby, and had dark hair. That's all I remember about him.”

“Did they talk to each other while they were waiting?”

The woman frowned. “They mentioned a place called Foot Meadow a couple of times.”

“Where's that?” Joe asked Morris.

“Never heard of it,” the man replied.

“Neither have I,” Mrs. Jones added.

“Well, thank you for your information,” Frank said. “You may have been a big help to us.”

“If you should capture those fellows, let me know,” Morris said.

“Will do,” Frank promised.

The boys returned to their car, then drove out of the store's parking lot into a busy street which led past the Brown Palace Hotel. Farther on, as they passed a jewelry shop, Frank jammed on the brakes.

“Joe, look!”

In front of the shop stood three familiar characters. Juice, Rip, and Fingers!

“Oh-oh,” Joe said. “They followed us to Denver!”

“Wonder what they're doing in front of that shop,” Frank said. He pulled up to the curb.

“I'd say they're trying to case the place.” Joe glanced back and saw Fingers walk into the store while the others waited outside.

Joe looked at his brother. “Frank, do you suppose this is a stick-up?”

 

 

 

 

FRANK and Joe looked around for a policeman, but there was none in sight. So they hastened toward the jewelry store.

Frank said, “I'll go inside just in case there's trouble. You stay out here to cover me if those two guys try anything funny.”

When Juice and Rip saw them coming, their mouths dropped open in surprise. Juice held a bottle of orange soda in his hand. Trying to be casual, he took a swig.

“What are you guys doing here?” Rip asked.

The Hardys did not reply. Joe stayed outside while Frank strode into the shop. Counters lined both sides and the far end, where Fingers, his back to the door, was talking to the clerk.

Quietly Frank stepped forward. Fingers reached into his jacket and pulled something out.

Frank edged closer. “Thank goodness,” he said to himself, “it's not a holdup.”

Fingers had a pouch in his hand. He opened it and shook several sapphires onto the velvet pad covering the glass counter. “Want to buy them?” he asked the clerk.

“Where'd you get these?”

“In the mountains. Blackfoot country.”

The clerk picked up the stones one by one to examine them. “These weren't stolen?”

“No.”

Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, Fingers spied Frank. He wheeled around and blanched. “What're you trailing me for?” he said.

“Who's trailing who?” Frank shot back.

Fingers looked at the clerk and said, “Excuse me a minute.” He motioned Frank toward the front of the store.

“Look, you're going to spoil this whole deal for me!” he hissed.

“How can I spoil anything if you're on the up-and-up?”

“We'll talk about that later,” Fingers replied “Now leave me alone. I need some money.”

“Okay.” Frank stepped out into the sunlit street. There he found Joe being heckled by Juice and Rip.

“You've got nothing on us,” Juice was saying.

With an innocent look, Joe said, “Of course not. You three guys are model citizens.”

“Don't be wise,” Rip said. “You'll get what's coming to you if you keep following us.”

Frank spoke up. “It's a free country. We'll go anywhere we please.”

Just then Fingers came out of the door, glowering. His forehead was lined with anger. “You blew it for me!” he muttered at Frank.

Joe noticed that Rip was edging closer to him. Suddenly Rip kicked viciously. Joe hopped nimbly aside and Rip's foot went through the plate-glass window.

It shattered as if hit by an explosion. The whole pane fell in, splintering over the display of jewelry and setting off the burglar alarm.

“Beat it!” Fingers cried out.

The trio raced down the street, dodging passersby. A patrol car appeared and screeched to a halt. The clerk came racing from the store and a crowd hemmed in Frank and Joe.

An officer pushed through the milling throng and began to ask questions.

Joe related what had happened, and a man stepped forward to corroborate his story.

“Do you know where those fellows were headed?” the policeman asked the Hardys.

“No, sir.”

“Okay, you can go. We'll look for them.”

On their way back to the campsite, a thought suddenly leaped at Frank.

“Joe, Fingers mentioned Blackfoot country in the jewelry shop!”

“So?”

“Remember that wrapper in the Mountain Dogie Store said that Lasher and his pal had mentioned Foot Meadow?”

“Blackfoot Meadow!” Joe exclaimed.

“That could be it,” Frank said. He pulled to the side of the road, grabbed the camping guide on the dashboard, and thumbed through the book. “Look, here it is!”

Frank pointed to the name Blackfoot Meadow. It was a public camping spot maintained by the State of Colorado, located in extremely rugged mountainous country.

“Just the place for a hideout,” Joe said.

“We ought to drive there right away,” Frank said.

“But what about Biff and Sherlock?”

“Guess we'd better wait here for them.”

By this time Biff and his dog had already left the animal hospital and were on their way to the campsite. The two had not been able to get on a bus. On Biff's back was a cleverly devised sling made of an old bedsheet and in it rested Sherlock.

The hound's lugubrious visage looked out over Biff's shoulder as the sturdy young athlete walked along, trying to thumb a ride.

Several cars slowed down to look at the unusual sight, but continued on without stopping.

“Don't worry, Sherlock,” Biff said. “We'll get there. But I wish this was Be-Kind-to-Animals Week.”

After several miles Biff put the dog down and Sherlock walked for ten minutes. The hot sun and the weakness caused by his recent illness brought the panting animal to a halt. Biff poured some water from his canteen into a tin dish and Sherlock lapped it up. Then the boy hoisted his pet onto his back again.

His right arm had gotten tired of thumbing when a car slowed down and stopped. In it were a man and a woman. “You poor boy!” the woman said after rolling down the window of the air-conditioned Ford. “What are you doing out here?”

“Trying to get to Denver with my dog,” Biff replied.

“We'd like to give you a lift, but my husband is allergic to dogs.”

“Anyway, it's nice of you to stop, ma'am,” Biff said.

“Here, maybe this will help,” the woman said. She reached into the back seat and pulled two sandwiches from a bag. Smiling, she handed them to Biff.

“Thank you,” the boy said. “This will come in real handy.”

The woman rolled up the window and the car sped on. Biff ate one sandwich, Sherlock the other. “Okay, old chum,” the boy said. “We're off again.”

He trudged on under the blazing sun, but no one offered him a lift. Biff was beginning to feel discouraged when he spotted a car parked beside the road in a clump of cottonwood trees a quarter of a mile ahead.

As Biff approached, he saw that the hood was up and a man was tinkering with the motor.

He looked up and smiled at Biff. “Excuse me, I don't mean to laugh,” he said with a thick German accent. “But I've never seen a boy before with a dog knapsack!”

“Man's best friend,” Biff replied with a grin. “I'm sure Sherlock would do the same for me if he could. But he's just recuperating from a recent illness.”

Biff put the dog down and looked at the motor. “Overheated?” he asked.

“No. I don't know what's the matter. Something in the ignition system, I think.”

Biff had taken his own car apart and put it together several times. He studied the maze of wires carefully. “Sometimes a loose connection will cause trouble,” he said.

“Ja,
I was thinking that. Except that I cannot find anything loose.”

“Tell you what,” Biff suggested. “If I fix your car, will you take me to Denver?”

“And the
Hund,
too,” the man said, smiling.

“Sure. He's my baggage.”

Biff introduced himself and told his story. Then he found out that the stranded motorist was Fritz Burger from Austria. He was on a tour of the United States.

“I do a lot of climbing in the Alps, and I intend to see if your Rockies are as great a challenge,” Burger said, watching Biff as he checked the automobile's wiring.

Finally Biff found the trouble. A cable beneath the low-slung car had been cut, as if by a sharp knife.

“Have you been over some rough ground?” Biff asked.

“A sharp flying stone could have done this. I'll fix it.”

“Thank you,” Burger said with a grin. “Good thing you came along. Now we all go to Denver.”

Biff expertly repaired the damage and soon they were on their way.

It was late afternoon when Burger pulled into the Hardys' camping spot.

“Biff, you made it!” Joe called out when he saw his friend approaching.

Frank and Chet came out and introductions were made. Burger said he would stay for the night and continue on the next morning.

“Where are you going?” Frank asked.

The Austrian explained that there were two mountains he wanted to climb. “One is Eagle Ridge, the other Blackfoot Peak.”

“That must be near Blackfoot Meadow!” Joe said. “We're headed there too!”

As he spoke, an object whizzed through the air, just missing Joe's head. It crashed into the side of the camper and burst to pieces!

 

 

 

 

AT the sound of the crash everybody ducked. Splinters of glass fell on Joe's hair and he gingerly combed out the pieces.

The Austrian said, “You have enemies?”

“A few,” Frank replied. He bent down to examine the larger pieces of glass. “Just as I thought!” he muttered. “An orange soda bottle. Juice probably threw it.”

Leaving Biff and Burger, the Hardys and Chet fanned out over the area in an effort to locate the assailant.

“He's a pretty slippery guy,” Frank remarked as they came to the edge of the camping area beside the highway.

“Look!” Chet said, pointing. “There's his trail bike!”

The motorcycle was parked a hundred yards away. As the Hardys approached, they could see the name Vampire Trail on it.

But before they had a chance to advance farther, a figure darted out of a huge drainpipe laid under the highway.

“There he goes!” Joe cried.

Juice was closer to the bike than the Hardys. Joe was only ten feet behind when Juice gave the machine gas, sending up a spray of dirt and gravel into Joe's face. He sped off down the road, waving defiantly.