Lost in Gator Swamp (7 page)

“One more thing, Joe,” Frank said. “I'm almost positive that giant alligator and her eggs were planted by Zack Platt to scare people away from the area.”

“We'll check it out,” Joe assured Frank. “Chet and I have a lot to tell you about Reuben, too. Is Deputy Miles there?”

“No, the sergeant here said she was on her way to the rodeo grounds. We're supposed to be there in less than an hour, too,” Frank reminded Joe.

Joe checked his watch. It was five minutes after four, and they had planned to meet with Deputy Miles at the rodeo at five o'clock.

“We're on our way, Frank,” Joe replied. “Over and out.”

•  •  •

Frank and Dusty thanked the desk sergeant for letting them use the phone, then climbed back into their borrowed pickup truck.

As they drove down the single main street through Frog's Peninsula, Frank checked out the little seaside town. It was set on a long narrow stretch of land less than half a mile wide, bordered
on one side by the Gulf of Mexico and on the other side by Florida Bay.

As they passed the marina, someone waved to them from beneath a shaded patio deck of a restaurant called the Dockside Grill. Frank squinted, trying to recognize the person. It was Salty Hubbard, the rodeo sponsor. Frank waved back.

“Do you know Salty Hubbard?” Dusty asked, seeming concerned.

“I just met him at the rodeo—” Frank started to reply.

“He's an unsavory sort,” Dusty broke in. “He owns a charter boat. Local fishermen say he swindles tourists right and left. First he charges one price, then he gets the tourists out in the gulf and starts to add all these outrageous fees for bait, tackle, you name it.”

As Frank caught the reflection of the Dockside Grill in the sideview mirror of the truck, he saw that Salty Hubbard had moved to the edge of the patio and was watching them drive away.

At the edge of town, they drove past a gas station called Steven's Hop and Shop. From there, it was nothing but marshland and a few scattered houses the rest of the way to the rodeo grounds.

•  •  •

Back at the fishing camp, Joe and Chet hurried out of the lodge. “Wait,” Joe said. “I want to check out the alligator mound where I was attacked.
There might be some proof that the eggs were planted.”

“I don't think we have time for that,” Chet said anxiously.

“Frank can meet with Deputy Miles, and we'll catch up with them later,” Joe said as he headed toward the mass of saw grass on the western end of the little island.

Joe recognized the spot where Frank had dragged him to safety. “And then Mr. Furman walked over here and pulled back the saw grass.”

Joe repeated Furman's actions, pulling back the saw grass. There was the alligator mound, all right, but something was different.

“What's going on?” Joe muttered. “The mound is starting to move!”

“Let's get out of here, Joe!” Chet pleaded.

Joe backed away from the pulsing mound of earth and turned to run. Suddenly he stopped, grabbing his fleeing friend by the shoulder. “Wait, Chet,” Joe said, breathing a sigh of relief. “It's an alligator mound. Some of the eggs are probably hatching, that's all.”

Joe knelt down to look more closely at the mound. He pushed aside the dead leaves and saw grass. The eggs were in a wide shallow hole with smooth walls. Joe noticed small orange flecks in the mud.

Inspecting one of the orange flecks, Joe realized what it was. “Rust! If an alligator dug this hole, Chet, my guess is that it used a shovel.”

“Then the eggs
were
planted,” Chet said. Just then, a tiny head pushed through its shell and took its first look at the world.

“Hey, little guy.” Joe touched the baby alligator with his finger.

“They're cute when they're little,” Chet said.

“No wonder some people want to take them home as pets.” Joe smiled. Suddenly the baby alligator made a strange grunting noise.

“Why is it doing that? Is it trying to scare us off?” Chet asked.

Joe started to laugh, then got a hunch that stopped his laugh cold. “My instinct tells me we should get out of here and quick.”

There was the sound of something swishing through the water to their left. As Joe and Chet turned to run, a giant alligator with one white eye emerged from the saw grass and headed for its nest—and the two boys.

“Run for it!” Joe shouted. The boys sprinted the whole way back to the fishing camp.

“We're not eaten! I mean, we're okay,” Chet said, catching his breath.

“We're okay,” Joe said, “but Mr. Furman has some explaining to do about how that alligator nest got where it is.”

Joe looked around. Furman was the only guest missing. When they returned to the cabins, Furman was nowhere to be found.

By airboat, the ride to the Swampland Trading Post took only fifteen minutes.

Joe offered to ride Old Caloosa for the next part of their trip, but Chet had grown fond of the mule. So Joe quickly mounted Paint Can and led Frank's horse, Stonewall, behind him down the narrow highway leading to the rodeo grounds.

Joe thought that the crowd at the rodeo looked even bigger than it had the day before. He and Chet found Frank by the fire pit where the barbecue had been held.

“Where's Deputy Miles?” Joe asked.

“That's what I'd like to know,” Frank replied. “She hasn't shown up, and it's already five-thirty.”

While they waited, Joe told Frank all about the equipment in the poacher's cabin, the flashlight that had sunk the pedal boat, and the apparent culprit behind it all—Reuben Tallwalker.

Frank rubbed his chin. “I was certain that Zack Platt's partner was Randy Stevens. You saw them together at the trading post.”

“I saw someone in a white hat with an orange-and-black feather,” Joe pointed out. “Could there be two identical hats?”

Frank shook his head. “Doubtful.”

“Maybe all three men are involved,” Chet offered.

“And what about Trent Furman?” Joe added, filling Frank in on the conversation Joe overheard
between Furman and a mystery man on the shortwave radio.

“Speaking about suspicious behavior,” Joe asked, “have either of you seen Randy or Reuben?”

“The wild-bull-riding competition is going to start soon,” Frank replied. “Unless they're no-shows, we should find them gearing up in the bunkhouse.”

“Okay, let's head over,” Joe suggested.

“You two go ahead. We can't wait for Deputy Miles any longer,” Frank said. “I'm going to call in the cavalry.”

“The cavalry?” Chet asked.

“Dad,” the Hardys said together.

•  •  •

Over the years, Frank had come to the conclusion that his father, a private investigator, knew just about everyone in the detective game. If anyone could find out quickly about a bank vault that was robbed in Miami, Fenton Hardy could.

While Frank placed the call to Bayport, Joe and Chet headed to the bunkhouse where the riders dressed and prepared for their events. The place was bustling with activity when they entered. Cowboys were pulling on their boots, tying on their chaps, or rubbing ointment on their sore spots from the opening day's events. Others were playing cards at a table at the back.

Randy Stevens stepped up to one of the lockers.
When he saw Joe, he started to walk away, but Joe grabbed him by the shoulder and stopped him.

“Hey, Joe!” Randy said. “I lost track of you guys at the barbecue. What happened?”

Joe wanted to say, Cut the baloney, I saw you run away, but he was afraid to tip his hand too early. “Yeah, I don't know what happened either. By the way, Frank saw you today at the Big Cypress Alligator Farm.”

“No, he didn't,” Randy replied.

“That wasn't your white truck?” Joe pressed.

“I can't—” Randy stopped himself. “I mean, I don't own a truck. I've been working at the gas station all—” Randy stopped himself again, flustered.

“What gas station?” Joe asked.

“Forget it,” Randy said quickly. “Listen, I've got to get to the ring. I'm riding a bull named Storm Cloud, and I need to get prepared mentally.”

“Bull riding is the most dangerous competition in the rodeo,” Chet pointed out. “Aren't you kind of young for that?”

“I'm eighteen!” Randy said angrily. “You just watch me.”

Randy spun the dial on his combination lock and opened his locker. He began quickly searching for something, growing distressed. “Hey, where's my—”

“What?” Joe asked.

“My good-luck charm,” Randy said, giving Joe and Chet an accusing look. “Someone's stolen it.”

“Hey, we just got here,” Chet said defensively.

“Somebody must have picked the lock.”

“Who would do that?” Joe grilled Randy.

Randy didn't respond. Instead, he grabbed his hat out of his locker and turned to leave.

“Your hat!” Joe exclaimed.

“What about it?” Randy asked, puzzled.

Joe was too surprised to speak for a moment. Randy was holding a black Stetson hat with a red feather. “Where's your white hat with the orange-and-black feather?”

“Huh?” Randy was clearly confused. “Look, I've got to go.” Randy pushed by Joe and out the side door leading to the bull pens.

“Why would Randy change hats?” Joe wondered aloud. “Does he know that we're on to him?”

“He must know,” Chet remarked. “A few simple questions about his driving a white truck and being too young for bull riding and he practically jumped out of his skin.”

“Joe!” Frank shouted, rushing in. “Dad just gave me some incredible news. I think I know what they're looking for in Gator Swamp. It turns out the robbers didn't steal currency from that bank vault in Miami.”

“What did they steal?” Chet asked.

Lights went off in Joe's head. Frank opened his
mouth to respond, but Joe beat him to it. “Gold coins.”

Frank stared at his brother, baffled. “Yes! Half a million dollars in rare gold coins. How did you know?”

“Reuben's metal detector, Deputy Miles saying she didn't have to worry about the loot floating off, and then the gold coin Randy was flipping last night,” Joe explained. “It suddenly all fits together.”

“Yeah,” Frank said. “We need to get a closer look at Randy's coin, and pronto.”

Chet and Joe glanced at each other, frowning.

“Randy says somebody stole his coin out of his locker,” Joe explained.

“He said they picked his lock,” Chet added, pointing to Randy's locker.

Frank examined the lock. “This is a heavy-duty lock. To pick a lock like this, you'd have to know your stuff.”

“You mean you'd have to be a locksmith?” Chet asked.

“A locksmith,” Frank said with a grin, “or a safecracker!”

“You're right! One of the robbers who drowned must have been a safecracker,” Chet said.

“What if the robbers didn't drown?” Frank asked his companions.

“If their stolen airboat was found at the bottom of Florida Bay,” Joe pointed out, “it's safe to assume they drowned.”

“And if they survived, what would they be doing back in Gator Swamp?” Chet asked.

Frank was ready with a hunch. “The robbers knew they were being pursued. What if they ditched the evidence? What if they hid the coins in the swamp?”

“Then they wouldn't have to search,” Joe said. “They could have gone right back to the spot and
recovered them, unless—” Joe stopped midsentence as an idea struck him. “With the wind and rough water of the winter storm, the coins could have been knocked overboard!”

“Little brother, sometimes your hunches surprise even me,” Frank said, slapping Joe on the shoulder.

“Wait a second,” Chet argued. “What makes you think Randy's telling the truth about his coin being stolen? We're pretty sure he's lied to us about everything else.”

“Chet's right, Frank,” Joe admitted.

“Hmm.” Frank thought it over. “If anyone would know who Randy Stevens is, I'm looking at him,” he said, eyeing a card player at the back of the bunkhouse. Joe turned to look. It took him a moment to recognize Barney Quick, the rodeo clown, without his white makeup and red ten-gallon hat.

“Mr. Quick?” Frank said, approaching the table. “We're sorry to interrupt your game, but we were interested in one of the rodeo contestants. What can you tell us about Randy Stevens?”

“Nothing,” Quick replied.

“Nothing?” Chet repeated.

“Well, I know an Ernie Stevens,” Quick recalled, playing a card. “He moved to Frog's Peninsula a year ago. Runs the all-night service station. He has a boy at the junior high, I think. But the boy wouldn't be old enough to ride rodeo.”

“Randy must have ridden rodeo somewhere,” Joe insisted.

“I'd say no,” Quick replied. “But if you don't believe me, check the book.”

“The book?” Chet asked.

“The rodeo book. Mr. Deeter's got it,” Quick explained. “It'll have names and statistics on any rodeo in America.” Quick tossed his cards on the table. “If you'll excuse me, boys, I have to get into my makeup.”

The boys thanked Barney Quick as he headed out through the side door.

“I'll ask Mr. Deeter about that book,” Frank suggested. “You and Chet better get into the grandstands. We don't want to miss Dusty's ride.”

“But we still haven't found Reuben,” Joe said.

“Maybe he's afraid to show up,” Chet reasoned.

“Reuben, afraid?” Joe shook his head. “No way. He's got to be around here someplace. Go ahead, Chet, and save us some good seats.”

The three boys split up. Frank caught Melvin Deeter just as he was leaving his trailer and asked about looking at the rodeo book.