Lost in Gator Swamp (6 page)

“As for your alligator problem,” Willow continued, wiping off his hands on a rag, “it sounds as if she was protecting her nest. My only guess is the alligator's usual breeding area is polluted or has dried up. Otherwise, she wouldn't want to lay her eggs on your island.”

“What about the second attack on our pedal boat?” Frank asked. “We weren't near her nest.”

Willow shrugged. “Could be she's sick or starving. Without checking the alligator myself firsthand, I can't give you one clear answer.”

They were walking past another pit now, and curiosity made Frank take a look. He saw a sign that read Big Bertha, Largest Alligator in Florida. There appeared to be no alligator in the pit.

“Where's Big Bertha hiding?” Frank asked.

Willow frowned. “Strangest thing . . . I opened up two days ago and the pit was empty. Fifteen feet of alligator, gone. Her eggs were gone, too. The locks were still on the gates. I can't figure it out.”

“Sounds like a lot of trouble. Who would take such a big risk to steal one alligator?” Dusty asked.

Willow shrugged. “Big Bertha was the meanest alligator I've ever seen. It would take an expert handler to get her out. Could have been someone from another alligator farm.”

Frank's eyes widened, as he began connecting things in his mind. Zack Platt's missing fingers, a stolen alligator, the locks on the gates still intact. Things were falling into place.

Willow continued, “But they'll never get away with it. Bertha is easily identified.”

“She has one white eye,” Frank blurted.

Willow looked stunned. “Yes, she's blind in that eye. How did you know?”

“Did a man named Zack Platt ever work here?” Frank asked.

“Yeah, briefly,” Willow replied. “I fired him last winter because I caught him stealing from the cash register.”

“And Humphrey bit off two of his fingers?” Frank guessed.

Willow looked at Dusty. “Is Frank psychic?”

“No, he's just the smartest sleuth since Sherlock Holmes!” Dusty responded proudly.

“I think Zack Platt planted Big Bertha on your island to keep people away from that part of Gator Swamp,” Frank said with excitement in his voice.

“Why?” Dusty asked.

“He's hunting for something, and I don't think it's alligators,” Frank concluded.

“What is it, then?” Dusty demanded.

“A sunken treasure,” Frank replied.

“From an old Spanish galleon?” Willow asked.

“No, from a bank vault in Miami,” Frank replied. “But I don't want to make more accusations until I have some proof,” he added. “Dusty, could you take me to Frog's Peninsula? I want to talk to Deputy Miles as soon as possible.”

Willow escorted Dusty and Frank back to the shore of the lake and helped them slide the hydroplane off the grass and back into the water.

“Here's your chance,” Dusty said, opening the door to the hydroplane and pointing to the pilot's seat. “Ready to try a takeoff?”

Frank was excited, but nervous. “Sure.”

He climbed into the pilot's seat and quickly reviewed the controls and flying procedures with Dusty. He started the engine and taxied away from the dock and began his takeoff run. It felt more like he was water skiing than getting ready to lift off.

“Pull up on the controls,” Dusty instructed. “A little more . . . a little more.”

Frank felt the plane lift off the surface of the water. He aimed the nose of the plane for the tops
of the trees bordering the lake. Frank gasped as the plane barely cleared the treetops, but Dusty just gave an excited holler.

Looking below, Frank spotted a white pickup truck parked at the side of the road leading to the alligator farm. A man was standing beside the truck, looking up at the hydroplane. It was a man in a white hat.

That was when Frank heard the hydroplane's engine sputter. The engine sputtered again and then cut off. The nose began to dip. The plane was going down!

“I'm taking over, good buddy!” Dusty shouted, grabbing the controls. “I've got to set her down as soon as possible.”

Frank remained calm, scanning the ground for a makeshift landing area. “What about that big meadow?”

“That's saw grass. There's probably a few feet of water beneath it,” Dusty said.

Dusty pulled back on the controls as far as he could, trying to get the nose of the plane to rise, but it was no use. The tips of the pontoons hit the saw grass at an awkward angle. The plane skipped off the shallow water like a flat stone.

Dusty took the split second he had to bring up the nose of the plane enough so it touched down
squarely on the pontoons when it dropped back down again. The plane shuddered and shook as it tore through the saw grass and finally came to rest, tilting to one side.

“Are you okay?” Dusty asked.

“I think so,” Frank replied.

“Now you know what it's like to ride a wild bull,” Dusty said, winking.

“Next time there's an emergency, I'll be able to land it myself,” Frank said.

Dusty and Frank climbed out of the plane. Considering what it had been through, the hydroplane didn't look too badly damaged. Frank took a look at the engine and quickly found the problem. “Someone severed the fuel line. We've been sabotaged!”

Frank and Dusty slogged through the saw grass until they finally reached a clearing and an unpaved road covered in broken seashells.

Frank heard a car approaching. It was a pickup truck but not a white one. It was older and painted dark green.

“Willow!” Dusty shouted, taking off his hat and waving it down.

Willow stopped the truck and jumped out. “I heard the airplane's engine sputter and die. I thought you were goners!”

“We would have been if Dusty wasn't such a good pilot,” Frank replied. He told Willow about
the white pickup truck and about the sabotaged fuel line.

“No one I know around here drives a white pickup,” Willow replied.

“I didn't think so,” Frank said. “It was Zack Platt's accomplice, Randy Stevens.”

“The kid from the rodeo?” Dusty asked in disbelief.

“He was wearing the white hat,” Frank replied.

“A white cowboy hat? That's not so unusual in these parts,” Willow said with a chuckle.

“Not like this one. It has a black-and-orange feather,” Frank said firmly. “Of course, I couldn't be sure about the feather from that distance,” he added.

Dusty looked up at the sky. “Whoever or whatever, you boys must be sniffing pretty near the fox's den for them to risk sabotaging our aircraft.”

“Listen, I know a fellow in Fort Myers. I can get him out here to fix the fuel hose this afternoon,” Willow offered. “Meanwhile, you can borrow my pickup to get to Frog's Peninsula.”

“Thanks,” Dusty replied. “But we're so isolated out on Cole's Key, I need the hydroplane in case there's an emergency and I have to get help.”

“How long will it take to get the plane fixed?” Frank asked.

Willow frowned. “You'll be stuck here at least five hours.”

Dusty and Frank checked their watches and
exchanged worried looks. The wild-bull-riding competition was to start at seven, and it was already three o'clock.

“I'll tell you what,” Willow said. “I'll fly the plane down to you myself tomorrow. Tonight, if I can.”

“That's too much to ask, partner,” Dusty replied. But Willow insisted, and five minutes later Dusty and Frank were in the pickup, rumbling down the dirt road that would connect them to the highway leading to Frog's Peninsula.

•  •  •

Back in Gator Swamp, Joe and Chet were making good time tracking down Reuben Tallwalker. The airboat could really move, skimming right through the algae and reeds in just a few inches of water.

“It should be down this next creek to the left!” Chet shouted.

Joe spotted the old wooden shack in the distance, at the edge of the creek. Its tin roof was rusty and sagging. The screens in the windows were torn. Inside, it looked dark and foreboding.

“Maybe we should hide the boat in the tall saw grass here and walk up through the woods so we're not seen,” Chet suggested.

“Good idea,” Joe said as he cut the motor. After securing the boat to a mangrove tree, Joe and Chet slipped quietly through the heavy growth beside the creek. To Joe's relief, the ground was relatively solid.

Joe motioned for Chet to stop. Through an opening between two mangroves, Joe had an excellent view of the shack. All was quiet and still, with no sign of Reuben Tallwalker.

“You stay here, Chet. I'm going inside,” Joe instructed. “If anyone comes, give me some kind of signal.”

Joe crawled on all fours to the back of the poacher's shack and peered through a window. It was pretty dark inside, but Joe could see that no one was home, so he climbed through the window.

Joe sniffed the air. It was damp and smelled of mildew. Flies buzzed in and out the window. There was a straw mattress on the floor and a jug of water, but not much else. Then Joe spotted a plastic bag in a corner.

Inside the bag, Joe found a snorkel and swim mask and some kind of portable mechanical device. Its small, square control box had a handle and dial on it. A four-foot-long metal pole protruding from the bottom of the control box had a small metal hoop at the end. Joe turned the dial, and the device hummed to life.

As he passed the device over the metal rim of the swim mask, it whirred loudly. “It's a metal detector,” Joe said quietly. He remembered the whirring sound they had heard in the swamp the night before. He recalled another odd sound they had heard—the raspy breathing.

Joe placed his hand on the snorkel and smiled. It
wasn't a conjured spirit we saw in the swamp, it was a person snorkeling, he thought, searching for something underwater with a flashlight and a metal detector.

Joe's train of thought was broken by another strange sound. It took him a second to realize what it was: the call of a wood duck. Chet was warning him that someone was coming.

Through the screen of a front window, Joe could see that a canoe had been pulled up onto shore. He also saw Reuben Tallwalker walking toward the shack carrying a large heavy-bladed knife.

“A machete,” Joe said under his breath. He knew he had only a second to act. Taking one giant step, he jumped through the back window of the shack.

Hitting the ground on his shoulder, he rolled down an embankment, coming to rest in a large puddle of water. Joe was soaking wet again, but at least he had escaped unnoticed.

He quietly circled around to the side of the shack where Chet was hiding.

“He's inside,” Chet whispered. “Are you okay?”

Joe nodded. “I found a snorkel, a swim mask, and a metal detector. It probably wasn't an alligator we encountered in the swamp last night. I'm guessing it was Reuben, and he was using that equipment to search for something.”

“What do you think he was searching for?” Chet asked. Joe shook his head.

The screen door of the poacher's shack creaked open. Reuben stepped out, holding the metal detector and snorkeling gear.

Joe and Chet ducked down behind some thick bushes, lying on their stomachs to avoid being spotted.

Reuben walked down beside his canoe and then, to Joe's surprise, hurled the metal detector into the middle of the creek. He hacked the snorkel and swim mask into bits with his machete.

Stepping into his canoe, the young Seminole paddled down the creek, around a bend, and out of sight.

Chet waited until the coast was clear before he spoke. “Why would he wreck all that stuff? Was he destroying evidence?”

“No,” Joe replied. “He'd have to be pretty dumb to leave the remains right in front of a shack where he's known to stay.” Joe paused. “I wish Frank were here. We could sure use his brainpower right now.”

“He and Dusty should be back at the fishing camp by now,” Chet said. “And we've got to get back there, too, before they leave for the rodeo.”

•  •  •

When Chet and Joe returned to Cole's Fishing Camp, Homer rushed to greet them. He had a grim look on his face.

“I just overheard a local news flash on the shortwave,” Homer said. “A small private plane made a
crash landing in Big Cypress Swamp this morning. It was a hydroplane.”

“Frank,” Joe muttered.

“What happened?” Trent Furman asked, as he joined them on the dock.

“A crash landing in Big Cypress Swamp,” Homer replied. “I think it might have been Dusty and Frank.”

“Oh, no. That's terrible,” Furman responded.

“Don't act innocent!” Joe shouted. “I heard you on the radio telling someone ‘they'll be there in less than an hour.' And your accomplice said he would ‘take care of it.' ”

“Accomplice?” Furman smiled. “I was talking to a friend at the rodeo who has a buyer for a couple of my horses. I told my friend that ‘they'—the horses—would be there in an hour.”

“What friend?” Joe challenged.

“Simmer down, Joe. You have no right to go accusing one of the guests of such nonsense!” Homer scolded.

Billy Biggs stepped out of the lodge. “Homer,” he called, “you've got someone trying to reach you on the shortwave radio. It's Dusty.”

Joe, Chet, and Homer were in the lodge in no time flat. “Dusty! Are you alive?” Homer released the button on his hand receiver.

“Unless this is my ghost talking, I would say, yes, I am alive,” Dusty responded. “Frank and I are at the police station in Frog's Peninsula.”

Joe grabbed the receiver from Homer. “Frank? Are you all right?”

“Yes, little brother, I'm fine.” Frank's voice came over the radio strong and clear. He quickly covered the events of the afternoon.

Joe breathed a sigh of relief as Frank told the story of crash-landing the sabotaged hydroplane.