The Clue of the Screeching Owl (5 page)

“Right.” Frank nodded. “We'll wait till morning. If no searchers arrive, we'll hunt up this Mr. Donner.”

“Do you suppose he lives in the queer little house?” Joe asked.

“Could be,” Frank answered. “We didn't see any other cabin through the field glasses.”

Frank had started the car and he followed Chet's directions to a diner. It proved to be an excellent eating place. Hot, juicy hamburgers and milk soon revived the boys' energy. Frank spoke with optimism.

“I've been thinking about the search,” he told the others. “I have an idea for going ahead on our own.”

Eagerly Joe and Chet gave him their attention.

“We're going to an animal auction,” Frank announced.

“An animal auction!” Joe echoed. “Where?”

“On the outskirts of the next town. I saw the advertisement in the window of Giller's store as we went by. The auction is being held today, and ought to be starting in half an hour.”

“But what are we going to buy?” Chet wanted to know. “Not an animal!”

“We sure are—a dog,” Frank answered. “A dog to bait a trap. We'll take him back to Captain Maguire's cabin. If somebody's been stealing dogs, I just hope he tries to take ours, because we're going to be ready for him!”

“Great idea!” Joe said enthusiastically.

“Well, okay,” agreed Chet doubtfully, “as long as we're careful. I'd hate to see harm come to any dog.”

“Don't worry, Chet,” Frank assured him. “We'll be on guard.”

A few minutes later the boys started off once more. As they left the tiny village, the ride became increasingly bumpy.

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “This sure is a washboard road. Must've been built in horse-and-buggy days.”

Recent heavy rains had gullied the roadbed and left large exposed stones that pounded the tires unmercifully.

“We're going to crash through!” Chet yelled

After descending a long hill in a series of hairpin turns, the car approached a small iron-railing bridge across a deep chasm. The waters of an overfull mountain river churned below. A sign at the bridge read:

“Guess you'll have to swim over, Chet,” Frank said jokingly.

The plump boy snorted indignantly as the big convertible rolled onto the planks of the bridge. When it was halfway across, a splintering, cracking sound gave warning that the wooden planks were giving way!

“We're going to crash through!” Chet yelled.

As Frank Hardy heard the crunching sound of the planks collapsing beneath the car, the thought flashed through his mind: “Keep going! It's our only chance!” Instantly he pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

There was a whine of rubber on wood and a splintering sound. The back end of the convertible seemed to shudder and sink. Then at the last second the spinning tires caught hold. The convertible lurched forward and was out of danger on the other side of the bridge.

“Whew!” exclaimed Frank, stopping the car. “What did I tell you, Chet? We should have let you cross the bridge by yourself!”

But Chet was too thankful for their narrow escape to retort. Joe was already out of the car. “Let's have a look around,” he urged.

Firmly taking hold of the iron railings, the brothers ventured out onto the bridge. Two planks dangled toward the dark water, and one was missing entirely.

“We'll have to do something,” Joe declared, “to warn other drivers.”

Crossing to the opposite bank, Frank and Joe set up a temporary roadblock by rolling some logs down from the wooded hillside. Meanwhile, Chet arranged a line of good-sized rocks to close off the bridge on the other end.

“We must report this as soon as we come to a phone,” Joe remarked.

For more than a mile the road continued through wooded hills. At last the boys reached a farmhouse. On the rural mailbox was the name Wynn. Frank explained the situation at the bridge to the family, who had just sat down to an early supper. Immediately the father left the table to phone the police.

“Such a narrow escape, boys!” the mother declared sympathetically. “Won't you sit awhile and eat something with us?”

Frank answered courteously, “Thanks a lot, Mrs. Wynn. But we want to make the animal auction in town before it closes.”

The boys said good-by to the friendly family and resumed their trip. Fifteen minutes later they passed a large sign:

In a moment Frank had pulled into a parking area next to several red buildings and pens. The trio jumped from the car and entered a high building with ramps of seats rising steeply to the roof. Men in working clothes occupied the seats, and from a platform at one end of the building a skinny man in vest and shirt sleeves was speaking in a loud, ringing voice.

The auctioneer was showing his audience the good points of a young work horse. Next, the assistant led out a brown-and-white heifer.

“These are the larger animals,” Frank observed. “The dogs must be in another building.”

Frank, Joe, and Chet made their way to the door. Suddenly Joe clutched his brother's arm. Without speaking, he pointed up into the tiers of seats. Among the farmers and stockmen sat a tall man with alert, piercing eyes and a full mustache. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, and a well-cut sports jacket.

“Don't you recognize him?” Joe insisted.

For a moment, all three boys stared up at the tall, commanding figure. Suddenly the man's sharp eyes encountered their own. Feeling that they had embarrassed the man by staring at him, the boys went outside.

“That was Colonel Thunder, the puma trainer at Klatch's Carnival!” declared Joe. “What's he doing at an auction of domestic animals?”

“Search me,” Chet answered. “Let's try here!”

He led the way into a long, low building filled with assorted sounds. Chickens cackled, dogs barked, pigs squealed, goats and lambs bleated. The long-eared rabbits hopped about in cages, watching the commotion with twitching noses.

The dogs, mostly working and hunting breeds, were at the end of the room. Chet passed the collies and shepherds that might be used for herding, and headed for the hounds, with their long ears and soft, expressive eyes.

“Always wanted a good hound dog!” he said enthusiastically. “Let's see. What shall we get? Coon hound? No—too big. Bloodhound? Too gloomy. Basset? Too fat, and its legs are too short.”

“Look who's talking,” Joe teased.

But Chet was too busy to hear. “Say, will you look at that, fellows?” He pointed.

In one corner stood a boy about eleven years old. Six fat, half-grown puppies were scrambling around his legs.

“Beagles,” Chet commented, indicating the broad backs, short legs, and pointed tails.

Suddenly one of the pups bounded across the floor and began to nuzzle Chet's trouser leg. As the boy bent down, the beagle's long red tongue licked his hand frantically.

“This has to be the one,” Chet declared happily, lifting the pup in his arms. “Come here, little fellow!”

“We'll take him,” said Frank to the young owner. “How much?”

“Five dollars,” the boy replied.

“Sold,” agreed Frank, and took out his wallet.

As he selected a bill, his attention was distracted by his brother, who quietly touched his elbow. With a nod, Joe indicated a transaction taking place a few stalls away. The man they had seen in the other building, Colonel Thunder, seemed to be buying a sheep.

“Friend of yours?” asked the boy with the pups.

“No. We've just seen him some place before.”

“Well, he's gettin' cheated.” The boy snickered. “That sheep's so old it can hardly stand on its legs. Why would anybody buy a critter like that?”

“Just what I'm wondering,” Joe murmured, as the boys walked out with their puppy. “Why does Colonel Thunder need a sheep? To feed his pumas?”

Once in the car, the little beagle began to tremble violently. “He'll be all right,” Chet assured them. “Just the first time he's been away from his brothers and sisters.” Kindhearted Chet allowed the new pet to snuggle up inside his sweater.

As Frank started the car he said, “I want to get back to the cabin. There's just a chance Captain Maguire may have returned.”

They had traveled a few miles over the bumpy road when Frank suddenly stopped the car and exclaimed in annoyance. “What's the matter with me? We can't go back this way! The bridge is out!”

“We'll have to find another route to Black Hollow,” Joe said.

After turning around in a farm lane, Frank consulted the road map for a few minutes. Then he headed back toward the auction. At the next town the boys stopped to eat. As they set off again, the roads improved. It was now about seven o.'clock. The sun was still high, but the air was pleasantly cool. Traffic became increasingly heavy. Many cars were filled with entire families, all going in the same direction.

“I wonder where these people are headed,” mused Joe. “Most of them are dressed up.”

“There's your answer,” returned his brother.

Just ahead of them beside the highway appeared a familiar line of tents. Soon the wind brought the sound of loud-speakers to their ears. “Klatch's Carnival has a new location,” Frank observed.

“Good! Let's stop in,” Chet proposed. “I could use some peanuts and popcorn!”

Frank looked sternly at their chunky friend from one side. Joe looked sternly at him from the other. “Aw, I was kidding, fellows,” he said. “What I really want is to see that puma act again!”

“Well, that's better,” Frank admitted. “I'd like to see it again myself.”

After parking, the three friends made their way to Colonel Thunder's show tent. Chet carried the now-contented puppy inside his sweater. “I just thought of something,” he said. “Do you suppose the colonel will be here? We just saw him at the auction.”

“Don't worry,” Joe answered. “He had time to get here while we were driving in the wrong direction.”

Sure enough, the colonel's amazing act was already in progress when the trio entered. The tall trainer, wearing the same white outfit, managed the dangerous cats with the same daring disregard for the puma that remained always directly behind his back. This time, however, the performance went off without a hitch.

As the rest of the crowd climbed down from the bleachers and filed out, Joe pushed forward to the cage for a closer look at the pumas. They were sleek beasts—young, strong, and well fed.

At this same moment Colonel Thunder emerged from the cage through a small door right next to Joe.

“Some animals you have there,” Joe remarked to the man. “What kind of food do you give them to eat?”

“Raw meat that we get from local butchers,” the colonel replied. He spoke politely, but his manner was distant, and he walked away immediately.

“But we saw him buying that sheep at the auction!” Joe protested as the boys drove homeward. “If it was to feed his pumas, why didn't he mention it?”

When Frank pulled up to the cabin it was almost nine o'clock. The sun was gone and the woods were dark, but overhead the sky remained luminous in the afterglow.

The boys, half hopeful that their host had returned, entered the cabin. But the place was silent. Frank's note lay undisturbed on the kitchen table. Captain Maguire had not returned.

“Where is he?” Joe burst out. “We
must
find him—and soon.”

Suddenly Frank held up his hand. “Listen. Outside—a car!”

The boys ran to the porch. In the clearing an automobile's parking lights gleamed. A plump little man in a business suit got out, slammed the car door, and walked rapidly toward them.

“Where's Maguire?” he demanded in an irritable voice that matched his rather dour face.

“Not here just now,” Frank answered noncommittally.

“Not here! Where is he, then? He owes me some money!”

“I'll tell him you were around,” said Frank. “What is your name?”

“Webber—Wyckoff Webber—He knows. I'm an attorney in Forestburg.”

“An attorney?” Joe spoke up. “Maybe you can tell us about Black Hollow, Mr. Webber. It belongs to the Donners, doesn't it?”

“Yes. They used to have a summer cottage in it, but the place burned down. Haven't seen a Donner around here since.”

“What do you make of the witch story?” Frank asked.

For a second the lawyer's eyes shifted away before he replied, “A lot of nonsense. The hollow has peculiar reverberating qualities. Somebody screaming miles away could be heard here, and clearly, too.”