Hunting for Hidden Gold (7 page)

“Come on!”

The boys ran around to the front of the store. There were no lights showing. Joe grabbed the doorknob and shook it. The door was locked.

Frank knocked. The sound echoed loudly in the quiet of the deserted street. The boys waited for a few moments. When no one answered, Frank repeated his knock. He kept hammering on the door.

At last there was a response. From inside came the call, “Just a minute! Hold your horses!”

Presently a light showed, and a moment later Jim Burke came to the door, holding an oil lamp. He had pulled on a bathrobe over his long underwear.

“Well? What's all the excitement about?” From the look on his face, Burke was not pleased at being disturbed at so late an hour. Frank explained why they had roused him.

“Nope.” Burke's expression was puzzled as he shook his head. “I haven't seen or heard anyone —except you two.”

“Could the fellow we're after have slipped in your back door?” Joe asked.

“Not a chance,” Burke replied. “I sleep right in the back room.”

As Burke spoke, the front door suddenly burst open and Bob Dodge strode in out of the windy darkness.

Frank and Joe stared at him. Dodge's outer garments were wet with snow, and his coat sleeves and trouser legs were covered with burrs!

CHAPTER VIII

THE same thought struck the Hardy boys. Did the burrs on Dodge's clothes mean he had been one of the people in the cemetery—perhaps even the man they had chased? Excited, Frank and Joe watched the big man's face closely.

But Dodge displayed no outward signs of guilt. “What's all the shooting about?” he asked while brushing the snow off his coat.

Burke raised his eyebrows. “You heard it?”

“I sure did,” the big, white-haired man replied. “I couldn't sleep tonight, so I went for a stroll up on the hillside. Then I heard two gunshots and I came down to investigate.”

“Did you see anybody, Mr. Dodge?” Frank put in.

“Well, not too clearly. I thought I glimpsed two people running in this direction. But when I got down to the street, there was no one in sight.”

“Must've been these two lads,” the storekeeper said. “They woke me up and told me some gun-slinger had been chasin' 'em through the ghost town. Didn't hear anythin' myself,” Burke added, “but I guess I was pretty sound asleep.”

Frank repeated the story they had told Burke. “We were investigating what Ben Tinker had told us about the old dance hall being haunted,” Frank explained. “While we were inside the place, someone shot at us.”

“He chased us for a while, and then we turned the tables and started chasing him,” Joe added. “Whoever the man was, he headed for the store.”

Dodge frowned worriedly. “You boys seem to attract danger. I hope you won't take any unnecessary chances on this case.”

“We'll try not to,” Frank said. “There isn't much more we can do tonight, anyhow.”

The Hardys started to leave. Just before they reached the door, Frank turned and said casually, “By the way, does either of you know what's meant by a ‘slip gun'?”

Dodge and Burke looked surprised, but otherwise their expressions seemed innocent enough.

“It's a gun that's been fixed in a certain way so it can be fired by thumbing the hammer,” Dodge explained.

“You mean like fanning?” Joe asked.

“No. Fanning is when you hold the gun in one hand and keep knocking back the hammer with the other,” Dodge replied. “But in slip shooting you fire the gun by simply wiping your thumb back over the hammer. It's a bit slower than fanning, but more accurate.”

“How would a gun be fixed for slip shooting?” Frank put in.

Dodge shrugged. “Oh, often the trigger's taken out, and the hammer spur lowered. Sometimes a slip shooter may cut off part of the barrel so he can carry the gun in his pocket.”

“Sounds like a real gunfighter's trick,” Joe said.

“You boys aimin' to try it?” Burke grinned.

“No,” Joe replied. “I just meant that a slip gun isn't something a law-abiding person would be apt to have around.”

“Ever seen one?” Frank asked the two men.

Burke promptly shook his head. Dodge looked a bit startled, then answered slowly, “No. Stop to think of it, I don't even recall where I acquired that information. One of those things you pick up in the West, I suppose.”

The boys said good-by and went out. The night was chillier than ever and the wind biting.

“Where to?” Joe asked, pulling his jacket collar up for protection. “Back to Hank's?”

“Not yet,” Frank said. “Let's see if we can find that gun the hooded man dropped.”

“Hey, that's right!”

As the two headed back toward the ghost town, Frank said thoughtfully, “Looks as though we now have two prime suspects, Joe.”

“Right—Burke, or Bob Dodge, which is hard to believe. But those burrs on his clothes sure looked suspicious.”

“Dodge admitted he was on the hillside,” Frank pointed out. “I suppose the cemetery isn't the only place they grow.”

“You'll have to admit, though, it's a real coincidence,” Joe argued. “On the other hand, Burke took a long time to open the door for us.”

Frank nodded. “Long enough to yank off a hood and get out of wet clothes. I wish we could have searched his back room.”

“Another thing,” Joe went on, “the general store would be a perfect setup for a spy of Big Al's in Lucky Lode.”

“It sure would,” Frank agreed. “Burke has a chance to learn everything that goes on. What's more, he could relay telephone or telegraph messages between Big Al and members of the gang in other spots—even handle mail for them.”

“He could provide Big Al with supplies, too, including that red paint.”

The boys trudged along in silence.

“We can build just as strong a case against Dodge,” Frank said after a while. “It seems strange to me that he keeps hanging around Lucky Lode, instead of tending to his business in Helena.”

“I've wondered about that, too,” Joe conceded, “even though he claims to be staying here on account of the case Dad's working on. If Dodge is in cahoots with the gang, he may be keeping an eye on the gang's doings. Also, he could be using the copter to transport supplies to the crooks.”

“And don't forget that shotgun booby trap at the airport,” Frank added. “Dodge sent us to the copter alone—which could mean he wanted to make sure he wasn't in range when the gun went off.”

Joe frowned. “But would a company president plot with a crook to rob his own truck?”

“Why not? The money was covered by insurance. And he might have hired Dad to allay suspicion.”

As the boys neared the old abandoned hotel, they watched the display of northern lights sweeping across the sky.

“You know, Frank,” Joe said slowly, “there's one big thing in Dodge's favor.”

“What's that?”

“Dad likes him.”

“You're right,” Frank agreed. “From the way Dad spoke last night, he really admires Dodge—and Dad's a good judge of character. He never would have talked about Dodge as he did if he suspected him.”

Making their way through the side yard to the back of the hotel, the Hardys switched on their flashlights and began searching for the gun.

Presently Joe exclaimed, “Here it is!” The revolver lay in a clump of undergrowth. Joe picked it up carefully by the trigger guard.

“It's a slip gun, all right,” Frank commented. “No trigger, and the barrel's been cut short.”

“That means Slip Gun is the man we followed from the cemetery! He's Big Al's spy.”

“Yes,” Frank agreed. “You know, Joe—Dodge might have been the person we heard following
us.”

“Maybe, but there's no way to be sure,” Joe pointed out. “Slip Gun is a husky fellow, and Dodge and Burke are both big men. Either one would answer the description.”

“True enough,” Frank conceded. “Besides, if Dodge did follow us, why didn't he admit it?”

When the Hardys got back to the cabin, both their father and Hank were sleeping soundly. Frank and Joe checked the slip gun for fingerprints, but found none clear enough to photograph. Evidently the hooded man's gloved hand had smudged any that might have existed before the night's events.

The brothers undressed quickly and crawled into their bunks. As Joe blew out the oil lamp, Frank yawned and said sleepily, “Wonder what ‘Shadow of the Bear' means?”

“Me too. Something else to track down—” Joe's voice trailed off and he was fast asleep.

Neither boy needed an alarm clock. They got up at dawn without disturbing the men and had a quick breakfast. Then they went outside, saddled up their horses, and mounted.

“Do you have Hank's sketch of the mines?” Joe asked as they started up the hill.

“Right here.” Frank patted his pocket. “I wish we still had Mike Onslow's map.”

“Poor Mike!” Joe reined in his skittish horse. “I wish we could find at least some of his missing gold.”

“So do I.” Frank added with a chuckle, “I'll bet Aunt Gertrude is fussing over him right now like a mother hen.”

When the boys reached the top of the hill, they could see the sunlight starting to work its way over Windy Peak. “Lucky Slip Gun didn't stop us,” said Joe as they halted to study the map.

Brady's Mine, they found, was located to the north, not far away. Half an hour's ride brought them to a point somewhere below the mine site. Here the boys dismounted and led their horses carefully up the slope.

Frank and Joe scouted the area, but could see nobody, nor any tracks in the snow.

“Let's take a look inside,” Joe suggested.

The boys tied their horses to a clump of bushes a hundred yards from the mouth of the mine. After making sure their flashlights were working, they cautiously approached the dark hole in the edge of the hill.

The mine entrance was big enough for them to walk erect. Inside, the Hardys paused to listen, then snapped on their flashlights. They were in a fair-sized cavern, which had been hacked and blasted out of the mountainside. Just ahead, a tunnel sloped downward into darkness.

Among the rubble on the floor were some lengths of rusty iron pipe and a discarded pick with a broken handle.

“Doesn't look as if anyone has been here in a long time,” Joe murmured. His voice echoed weirdly in the chilly cavern.

Frank was about to reply when suddenly both boys stiffened. “Did you hear something?” he whispered.

“I sure did!”

As the brothers froze into silence, the sound came again—
tap
...
tap-tap
...
tap.

“Spirits!” Joe gasped. “Tommy-knockers!”

CHAPTER IX

THE tapping noises from within the mine died away. Frank and Joe looked at each other uncertainly.

“You don't really believe that superstition about spirit rapping?” Frank muttered.

“Of course not,” Joe whispered. “It did sound spooky, though.”

“More likely it's Big Al's gang,” Frank said, peering around intently.

Joe's face took on a troubled frown. “But there were no prints outside showing that anyone else had come here.”

“Maybe there's another entrance,” Frank argued. “Let's find out.”

The two boys started forward into the tunnel. Its walls and ceiling were shored with ancient timbers that gave out a smell of moldy dampness. The passageway not only sloped downward, but turned and twisted. Evidently it had been tunneled out to follow the vein of ore.

Presently the floor of the passage leveled off. The Hardys probed the darkness ahead with the yellow glow of their flashlights. Still there was no sign of the tunnel coming to an end or opening out into a large excavation.

“How far does this go?” Joe said tensely.

“It has to end somewhere,” Frank replied.

Both boys felt their nerves tauten. The eerie stillness was broken only by the sound of their footsteps echoing hollowly through the tunnel.

Suddenly Frank came to a halt and pointed to the handle of a crowbar protruding from between two of the wall timbers. The bar was painted with bright-red markings. The Hardys bent close to examine them.

“‘All'” Joe read. “This may be a code message from Big Al to the gang!”

“Or maybe a message to Big Al,” Frank countered. He tested one of the red daubs with his finger. The paint was dry but looked fresh enough to have been applied recently.

Joe tried to puzzle out the meaning of the message. “Any ideas, Frank?”

The older boy shook his head. “Beats me—unless,” he added slowly, “the crowbar was put here to mark a certain spot in the mine.”

“Maybe something's hidden behind the timbers!” Joe conjectured excitedly.

Frank doubted this. “These shorings look as if they've been here forever.”

“Let's make sure,” Joe urged. “We'll want to take the crowbar along with us, anyhow, so we can check it for clues. Hold my flashlight, will you?”

Gripping the handle carefully, so that at least part of the surface could be tested later for fingerprints, Joe yanked hard on the crowbar. It gave scarcely at all. He threw his whole weight into the effort and began forcing the bar from side to side. The timbering creaked ominously.

“Hey, be careful!” Frank warned. “This tunnel isn't shored up too solidly along here!”