Danger on Vampire Trail (10 page)

“No use to chase after him now,” Frank said as the youth zigzagged through the traffic and finally disappeared from sight.

When they returned to the camper, Biff was feeding Sherlock and chatting with Burger. The boys invited the Austrian to have supper with them and he gratefully accepted.

As they ate, the Hardys plied Burger with questions, mainly about his country. The man said he was an engineer and that his hobbies were travel and mountain climbing. “So now I try your American mountains,” he said.

Biff remarked, “Fritz says Blackfoot Peak is dangerous.”

“In what way?” Frank wanted to know.

Burger shrugged. “That I don't know, but I'll find out.”

“Thanks again for helping Biff and Sherlock,” Joe said. “In German I believe you say
—Danke schön!”

“Bitte schön,”
Burger replied with a grin.

“Gosh,” Chet said, “I didn't know you could speak German, Joe.”

Joe chuckled. “Picked it up on TV.”

Burger said good night, adding that he hoped to see the boys again. But by the time they awakened the next morning, the Austrian's car was gone.

“Now let's see if we can have a peaceful day,” Biff said, after he had exercised Sherlock and they were ready to depart.

“If we don't have any more trouble with that dog of yours, we should reach Blackfoot Meadow this evening,” Frank said. He pulled out of the parking area and joined the sparse traffic on the mountain road.

After a short stop for lunch they set off again. The road led higher and higher, and the boys breathed deeply of the thin, exhilarating air.

“By the way,” said Chet, who was munching a spare sandwich in the back seat, “when you find this guy Whip Lasher, what will you do with him?”

“Turn him over to the police,” Joe said.

“Don't count your chickens before they've hatched,” Frank put in. “We'll have to catch him first, and that won't be easy.”

In the middle of the afternoon they drove down the main street of the village of Snowcap.

“Pretty snazzy,” Biff remarked as he looked at the elegant stores lining both sides of the street.

Joe studied his guidebook. It stated that Snowcap was an exclusive ski village in the winter, and in summer catered to vacationists at the many luxury dude ranches located in the surrounding area. It had a number of smart shops and fine restaurants.

“This is no place for us,” Biff said. “Too rich for our blood.”

“Who wants this ritzy stuff, anyhow?” Chet said. “We're the camper type. Let's go on.”

The road switched back and forth as they climbed even higher. Finally it dipped into a broad, flat valley spreading open like a wide green carpet between two towering peaks. A sign announced:
Blackfoot Meadow State Park.

All types of trailers dotted the cozy sites laid out along a stream shaded by willows and cotton-woods.

“What a great view,” Frank said.

At the park entrance were a cluster of rustic shops and modern facilities for campers. Joe eyed the grocery store since they needed to stock up. Chet pointed to a laundromat.

“Look, you guys,” he said. “I've got a couple of shirts that are a little gamey. Think I'll do some laundry.”

“Okay, go ahead,” Frank said. “I've got a few things to be washed, too.”

“Same here,” the others chimed in.

After they had found a pleasant camping spot, the boys uncoupled the trailer tent and quickly set it up. While Frank and Joe went to the grocery store for supplies, Chet gathered up the clothes and took them to the laundromat.

He pushed through the door and looked around. Two women sat on folding chairs, watching their laundry tumble behind the glass doors of the machines. At the far end, a girl about Chet's age was bending over a half-filled basket of clothes.

Chet got a packet of soap powder from a vending machine and approached a machine with its door half open. Paying more attention to the girl than to the clothes in his hand, he stuffed them into the machine, tossed in the detergent, and closed the door. The machine began to whirl.

Suddenly the girl turned about. An expression of indignation covered her pretty face.

“You can't do that!” she cried out.

“Wh-what do you mean?” Chet asked. “Can't boys do laundry in this place?”

“Not in
my
machine!”

Chet looked bewildered as the girl chided him.

“Half of my laundry was in the machine you're using!” she told him rather sharply.

Chet blushed. “Gee, I'm sorry. I didn't see it!” He was embarrassed and sat down on the bench, looking glum.

“Oh, don't take it so hard,” the girl said finally. “There's no harm done.”

Encouraged, Chet brightened and began to tell her about his friends and the camping trip. “You see, we're detectives,” he said importantly. “And we're looking for a crook called Whip Lasher.”

“What an odd name,” the girl said.

“He's one of the country's most wanted swindlers.” Chet went into great detail in describing the suspect, including the buckskin jacket.

The girl said, “Several men around here wear buckskin jackets. One of them could be the one you're looking for.”

“Oops, the wash is done,” Chet said.

“I'll dry it for you,” the girl offered.

When it was ready, Chet raced back to the camper. Frank and Joe were stowing away the canned goods they had bought.

“We've got hamburgers and hot dogs too, Chet,” Joe said.

“And I've got a clue!” Chet exulted. “A couple of guys in this camp are wearing buckskin jackets. One of them could be Whip Lasher!”

“Calm down,” Biff said. “Buckskin jackets are a fad right now, Chet old boy. Don't jump to conclusions.”

Chet passed out the laundry. “Okay. But I'll bet if you let old Sherlock smell that inner sole he'll pick up the scent!”

“Good idea!” Frank replied.

He produced the inner sole and the sad-eyed hound sniffed at it. Then Biff attached a leash and led Sherlock outside.

They walked leisurely about the meadow, chatting briefly with some of the campers who made admiring comments about the dog. Sherlock paused to sniff several spots, but then disdainfully padded away. As they passed an equipment store which sold and rented trail bikes, Sherlock became interested in a new scent and strained at the leash.

“He's on the trail, Frank!” Biff exclaimed.

They walked rapidly behind the hound who kept his nose to the ground, with ears flapping. He stopped beside the steps of a small trailer. It was weirdly painted in psychedelic colors.

The dog moved around in circles as if he had lost the scent. Did Lasher get into a car at this spot or was he inside the trailer? Joe pressed close to the screen door and looked in. What he saw of the dim interior was even more weird than the exterior.

The walls were covered with paintings and tapestries. Colored tassels hung down from the comers of the ornate picture frames. Two rows of bookshelves were set high above a silk-covered couch laden with embroidered pillows.

Joe turned to the others. “This is fantastic,” he said.

Just then a voice boomed out, “Who's there?”

The Hardys gulped and Frank stepped forward. “Just some curious visitors, sir.”

“Then come in.”

Frank motioned to the others to wait, then he opened the door and stepped inside. As his eyes became accustomed to the dimness, he saw the robed figure of a man seated in a thronelike chair at the rear of the trailer.

He had a full beard, squared off at the bottom. His mustache was waxed, with each end standing straight up like a spear. On his head was a jewel-studded Norman-style helmet made of cloth. Several medals were pinned to his velvet jacket and rings sparkled on his fingers.

Frank's gaze met the keen blue eyes of the regal-looking occupant. “I'm—I'm Frank Hardy,” the boy said.

“Pleased to meet you. My name is Prince Cuthbert de Solo Prudham du Paris.”

“Oh. Do you always dress like this?”

“Indeed I do, as befits royalty.” The man's piercing eyes never wavered. “You see, I'm a direct descendant of King Arthur and the lawful prince of the British Isles and Normandy.”

“That's quite an honor,” Frank commented with a straight face. He glanced about, but saw no sign of Whip Lasher. “Nice to meet you, Prince,” Frank said as he backed toward the door.

“I suppose you're a camper, too,” the prince went on. “New to these parts?”

“Yes, sir. We'll be here for a day or two.”

“My advice is to beware of Vampire Trail!”

“What's Vampire Trail?” Frank asked casually.

Prince Cuthbert explained that it was a path leading to the top of Blackfoot Peak. “Don't go there,” he warned. “It's very dangerous—vampire bats and the like!”

“Thank you,” Frank said and hastened outside.

He beckoned Joe, Chet, and Biff to follow him. When they were a discreet distance from the trailer, Frank burst out laughing.

“Wow! You should have seen that guy who lives in there! A real wacky eccentric who thinks he's related to King Arthur!” Frank told the boys about his conversation with the man and they chuckled.

“Did you ask him about Whip Lasher and show him the picture?” Joe asked.

“No. He might be in with Lasher, for all we know.”

“And what about Vampire Trail?”

Frank shrugged. “We'll have to find out what's going on there.”

Biff spoke up. “Suppose I rent a trail bike and explore that Vampire Trail while you look for Whip Lasher.”

“Okay,” said Frank.

Biff left the bloodhound with Chet and hurried off to rent a motorbike.

“Don't be too long,” Chet called to Biff. “Dinner's at seven!”

A further search of Blackfoot Meadow turned up no trace of Lasher. Questions put to shop-keepers and campers elicited only negative replies.

“How about rustling up some grub?” Frank asked Chet when they returned to the trailer.

Biff had not come back yet. Chet cooked the hamburgers and set out the tasty repast. “If Biff doesn't show up soon, he just won't get any,” he declared.

It was after dusk when a car pulled up beside the boys' camper. A trail bike was lashed to the top. Out stepped Fritz Burger. He walked around to the other door, opened it, and helped Biff to his feet.

“Biff! Fritz! What's the matter?” Frank exclaimed.

“Your friend was attacked on Vampire Trail,” Burger said.

Biff shook his head groggily, and Chet noticed a red welt on his neck.

“A vampire bite!” Chet moaned.

 

 

 

 

By the time Biff had completely recovered, Fritz Burger was on his way again to Blackfoot Peak.

Biff said, “I was dry-gulched by somebody. Wow! I didn't know what hit me!”

“It was the vampire bat!” Chet said. “Remember what Prince Cuthbert told Frank.”

“There aren't any vampire bats in this part of the world,” Frank declared. “They're found in warmer climates like Central America. I think this vampire bat had two legs!”

The Hardys were determined to pursue the matter further. Next morning they sought out a forest ranger who had an information booth next to the grocery store. He was brown-haired and slender, and told them he was a graduate student who worked there in the summer. His name was Herb Johnson.

Frank brought up the subject of Vampire Trail and asked if there had been any previous trouble in that area.

“Why, what happened?” Johnson asked.

“One of the fellows with us got clobbered there last evening,” Frank replied.

Johnson shook his head. “Funny thing about that place. You know, the real name is not Vampire Trail at all, it's Grizzly Trail. But alleged recent vampire bat attacks prompted the nickname.”

The ranger shook his head. “I thought the bats were merely a figment of the campers' imagination.”

“The attack on our friend was not imaginary,” Frank said and mentioned the welt on Biff's neck.

“Could it have been a mosquito or spider bite?”

“Hardly. By the way, have you ever been up there?” Joe asked.

“Yes, a couple of years ago. Two other students and I went up on a grizzly bear survey.”

Herb related his experience. They had anaesthetized several bears with darts and tagged them for future observation.

“We'd like to go up, too,” Frank said.

“I suppose you could make it. But look out for those grizzlies. One swipe with a paw and you've had it!”

The ranger promised to report the attack on Biff to his supervisors. “We'll have to send a group up and see who's prowling around,” he said.

When Frank and Joe returned to the camper, they found Chet in a peevish mood. “This place is getting too crowded,” he complained. “Trailers here, trailers there. Didn't we come out here to enjoy the wide-open country?”

“You've got a point,” Biff agreed. “I'm afraid Sherlock might get run over in all this traffic.”

“Okay,” Joe said. “Let's pull out.”

They decided to drive up Blackfoot Pass Road until they found an isolated spot not too far from the main camping facilities. Quickly the trailer was folded up. Then the rented bike was secured over the trailer hitch. The caravan moved slowly out of the park and onto the highway leading through Blackfoot Pass.