Hunting for Hidden Gold (2 page)

Crash!
The oil pan of the jeep hit a rock in the road. The vehicle lurched into the ditch and stopped against a tree.

“We can soon push it back on the road,” Lenny said, as they climbed out.

“No use. We wouldn't get far, the way it's losing oil,” replied Frank when he saw the extent of the damage. “We'll walk the rest of the way and you can go back for help or another car.”

Lenny agreed and hurried down the hill as the Hardys began hiking up the rugged road. Their flashlights were on, but the beams hardly penetrated the thickening fog. Often they stumbled over rocks and into ruts. The night was raw and damp.

The jeep lurched into the ditch!

Suddenly Joe stopped. “What's that?”

For a second they both stood still and from the woods came a faint cry. “He-e-elp!”

“Come on!” Frank said tersely.

The boys cut into the woods on their right, and felt their way through the mist-shrouded trees. Low branches cut their faces, and once Joe tripped over a huge oak root.

Again they heard the thin call for help.

“Over there,” said Frank, “where the fog is denser.”

Cautiously they moved forward. Suddenly the cry came more loudly—from right below their feet!

“Careful,” warned Frank, feeling ahead with his foot. “There's a ravine here.” Half sliding, the boys worked their way down the bank. At the bottom Frank stumbled over something bulky and there came another moan. He beamed his light on a prostrate figure.

“Here he is, Joe,” said Frank. The two boys knelt beside the victim.

“My leg,” the man groaned. “I've been shot.”

With extreme care Frank pulled aside the trouser cloth torn by the bullet. “Doesn't seem to be much bleeding now, but there might be more when we move you.” Quickly the boys wound their handkerchiefs loosely around the man's thigh to use as a tourniquet if necessary.

As they lifted the moaning figure, he fainted.

“No time to waste, Joe. He's pretty weak.”

Joe peered around into the blanket of fog. “Suppose we can't find our cabin?” he asked grimly.

“We
must,”
Frank replied. “This man may die if we don't get him to shelter.”

CHAPTER II

TOGETHER, the boys eased the unconscious man up the bank. Then Frank hoisted him over one shoulder.

“Lucky he's not a big fellow,” Joe commented.

He went ahead, beaming his light through the fog and leading Frank by one hand. Gradually the white mist grew less dense, and the Hardys could make out the shapes of trees.

“That looks like the oak where I stumbled,” Joe said. “I think we go left here.”

Progress was slow and uncertain. Finally Frank said, “If we don't come to the road soon, we'd better stop. We may have lost our bearings and be heading deeper into the woods.”

To the boys' relief, the man's wound bled little. Just as they were about to turn back, Joe felt rocky ruts underfoot and exclaimed, “Here's the road!”

Carefully he and Frank began the climb uphill and struggled to the top. The fog had drifted and lightened in spots. The boys trudged on. Finally, Frank caught sight of the path which led to the clearing. A few minutes later the Hardys found the cabin, and Frank pounded on the door.

Biff opened it and exclaimed in amazement. Quickly he and the other boys helped carry the man to one of the bunks and covered him. When Tony brought the oil lamp from the table, they saw that the man's face was deeply seamed by time and weather. Joe removed the man's worn woolen hat, revealing a thick thatch of grizzled hair.

While Frank cut away the victim's trouser leg and examined the bullet wound in his thigh, Joe quietly told the others all that had happened. Meantime, Biff unpacked their first-aid kit, and Chet began heating a can of soup.

“We must get this man to a doctor,” Frank said as he finished bandaging the leg. “The bullet will have to be removed.”

The victim groaned and his eyes fluttered open. “Wh-where am I?” he whispered.

Joe quickly explained what had happened.

“Sip this soup,” Chet told the patient, “and you'll feel a lot better. I'll feed it to you.”

When the stranger had finished the soup, he said in a stronger voice, “Thank you, boys, for a mighty good turn. I wish I could repay you.”

“The most important thing is to get you to a doctor. We're expecting Lenny Haskins to come for—” Frank broke off as the old man gave a start. “Is anything wrong?”

“Say! Would any of you boys be Frank and Joe Hardy?” the patient inquired in a feeble voice.

The two brothers identified themselves.

“I plumb forgot, gettin' shot by that fool hunter and all,” the man went on, “but you're the lads I was comin' to see. The storekeeper in Clintville said you wanted to get in touch with me.”

“Are you Mike Onslow?” Frank queried.

“Yep, that's me.”

“We asked about you, but the storekeeper told us you'd probably be off tending your traplines,” Frank went on. “He doubted we'd catch you at home, even if we could find your cabin.”

Onslow nodded. “My shack's pretty hard to get to if you don't know these woods. I camp out quite a bit, anyhow, durin' the trappin' season.” He gave the brothers a quizzical look. “What you want to see me about?”

“You'd better not do any more talking till you're stronger,” Joe advised.

But the trapper insisted he felt equal to it, so Frank explained that their father was a private detective and had been engaged to track down a gang of criminals in Montana.

“Dad thinks they may be holed up somewhere in the country around Lucky Lode,” Frank went on. “He heard out there that you had prospected the whole area about twenty-five years ago and once tangled with crooks who had a secret hideout in those parts.”

Joe added, “He thought you might know of some likely spots to hunt for the gang.”

The elderly trapper sighed and settled back on the bunk. His eyes took on a faraway look.

“Yep, I know the Lucky Lode country like the palm of my hand,” he murmured. “Don't reckon as I can help you much, though. But your pa's right—I did run up against a gang o' owlhoots.”

“Tell us about it,” Frank urged.

“Well,” Onslow began, “I was partners with two brothers, John and James Coulson, and a big redheaded daredevil, Bart Dawson. We were workin' a claim in the Bitterroot Hills and we sure 'nough struck it rich.”

“Gold?” Joe asked.

Onslow nodded. “Real pay dirt—we thought we were fixed for life. By the time the vein petered out, we had three bags o' nuggets and one of old gold coins we found stashed behind a rock.”

“Wow! What happened?” put in Tony.

“The night we were ready to leave our claim, we were jumped by the toughest bunch o' crooks in Montana—Black Pepper and his gang. They surrounded our cabin, and we knew we'd never get away with our skins
and
the gold.”

“How did you make it finally?” Chet asked.

“Well, Bart Dawson was an ex-pilot and he had an old, beat-up plane out on the plateau. We'd already put the gold aboard—easier than luggin' it on horseback. While we lured Black Pepper and his boys around to the front of the cabin, Bart slipped out back and ran for his crate. The gang spotted Bart and chased him. We heard his motor, so we knew he got away okay. Before the varmints came back, the rest of us escaped from the cabin.”

“You met Dawson later?” Joe wanted to know.

Onslow's face became bitter. “We were
supposed
to meet him up in Helena and split the gold four ways. But we never saw Dawson or the gold again. Funny part of it is, Dawson was a good partner. I'd have staked my life we could trust him. But I was wrong.”

“Didn't you ever hear of him afterward, or pick up his trail?” questioned Frank.

“Nope. Never found hide nor hair o' him. After that, I got fed up prospectin'. So I come back East and settled down to scratchin' out a livin' with my traplines. I lost track o' the Coulson brothers.”

Everyone was silent and thoughtful for a moment. Then Joe asked Mike Onslow, “Have you any ideas as to where Dad might look for the criminals he's after?”

The woodsman chuckled dryly. “Son, there's a heap o' places he might look—awful big country out Montana way. Them mountains is full o' spots for a gang to hole up in.” The trapper frowned. “One likely place was in the Lone Tree area—a box canyon part way up Windy Peak. Accordin' to rumors, that was Black Pepper's hideout.”

The Hardys were excited by this information. “Thanks for the tip,” said Frank. “It's tough luck, your getting shot tonight. It wouldn't have happened if you hadn't started out to see us. But maybe we can make up for it.”

“Right!” Joe chimed in. “When we're out West, we'll try to find a clue to Dawson and your missing gold.”

“That's kind of you, boys,” said the trapper, “but I don't think there's much use. If Dawson really stole that gold, there wouldn't be much left after twenty-five years. All the same,” he added spunkily, “if you're willin' to try, I'll help you if I can.”

Onslow scratched his head and was thoughtful for a moment. “Don't know if it'll do any good, but I'll draw you a map of our claim.”

“That'll be a starting point, anyhow,” Frank said.

While the boys packed the Hardys' gear, Onslow drew a map for Frank and Joe. “Here's where the claim was,” he said, marking an X. “This region was called the Lone Tree area because of a giant pine which stood all by itself on a cliff. Every body out there knows Lone Tree,” he added.

As Joe tucked the map into his pocket, someone pounded on the door. It was Lenny. “Are you ready?” he asked, panting. “The jeep's fixed.”

Frank told him about finding Onslow with the gunshot wound. Then the boys improvised a stretcher, and Frank and Joe carried the injured trapper out to the jeep. While they were placing him on the back seat, Tony, Chet, and Biff collected and stowed the Hardys' gear. A few moments later Lenny started the engine and they took off.

“So long!” Frank and Joe called from the jeep.

“Good luck!” chorused Chet and the others.

When Lenny reached town, he drove straight to the local doctor's office. Despite their hurry, the Hardys waited to hear Dr. Knapp's report after the bullet had been removed.

“He'll have to stay off that leg and have nursing care,” Dr. Knapp advised as he washed his hands. “He ought to go to the hospital.”

“I have no money for that,” Mike spoke up. “I'll look after myself.”

“No, you won't,” Frank said with a smile. “We'll take you back to Bayport with us.”

“You bet!” his brother added. “Mother and Aunt Gertrude will like having somebody to fuss over.”

The injured man protested that he did not want to be a nuisance, but the boys won their point. After picking up their car at the garage, they drove all night and arrived in Bayport at dawn. Quietly they carried Onslow up to their room. Then Frank awakened his mother and explained what had happened. She smiled understandingly and soon she and Mr. Hardy's sister, Gertrude, were welcoming the woodsman warmly.

“You look as though you're in need of a good meal,” Miss Hardy stated. She was a tall, spare woman with a tart tongue but a warm heart.

“We'll fix something right now,” agreed the boys' slim, attractive mother.

As Frank and Joe hurried downstairs after the women, Aunt Gertrude clucked disapprovingly. “Flying around in airplanes, traipsing about the Wild West chasing outlaws! You boys are headed for trouble again.”

“We hope so, Aunty.” Joe laughed as his aunt sniffed and bustled into the kitchen with Mrs. Hardy.

Frank called the airport to check on their plane time and reported to Joe. “We have one hour to shower, dress, drive to the airport, and buy our tickets.”

“We can take our camping gear just as it is,” said his brother.

The boys wasted no time getting ready, and soon were on their way. They pulled up in the parking lot outside the air terminal with ten minutes to spare. Frank paid for their tickets and checked the baggage through to Cold Springs, the closest airport to Lucky Lode. Meantime, Joe wired their father.

As the brothers sank into their plane seats, Joe exclaimed with a grin, “We made it!”

“But we have to change at Chicago and Butte,” Frank reminded him.

As soon as the plane was airborne, a hot breakfast was served. After eating, the boys napped for a couple of hours. When they awoke, Joe took out the map Onslow had drawn.