Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER I - Prison Break
CHAPTER II - Escape by Train
CHAPTER III - A Hazardous Take-off
CHAPTER IV - Fingerprint Tip
CHAPTER V - Into Perilous Country
CHAPTER VI - Deadly Danger
CHAPTER VII - Skeletons and Schemes
CHAPTER VIII - Ordered Out
CHAPTER IX - Lost!
CHAPTER X - Three Odd Letters
CHAPTER XI - Underground Snare
CHAPTER XII - Ambush
CHAPTER XIII - An Icy Dungeon
CHAPTER XIV - Thieves’ Camp
CHAPTER XV - The Wreck
CHAPTER XVI - The Rough Ride
CHAPTER XVII - A Friendly Outlaw
CHAPTER XVIII - Trapped!
CHAPTER XIX - To the Rescue
CHAPTER XX - The Roundup
THE SECRET OF WILDCAT SWAMP
An invitation from Cap Bailey, science teacher at Bayport High, to accompany him out West to Wildcat Swamp on an archaeological expedition triggers off a series of dangerous events for Frank and Toe Hardy.
Just before they leave, a ruthless criminal breaks out of prison. Their famous detective father, who is tracking down a gang of freight-train robbers, suspects the escapee is part of the gang. Investigation leads him to believe that the robbers might be hiding out in Wildcat Swamp!
On their way West the boys and Cap have a near-fatal accident in a private plane which has been sabotaged. When they start digging for fossils, a giant boulder comes hurtling straight toward them as if guided by an invisible hand. Though warned to leave the area, Frank, Joe, and Cap doggedly remain until they have caught the cunning ex-convicts they are up against in this swift-paced adventure.
“Nice cave mates you pick for yourself!”
Frank remarked
Copyright © 1997,1969, 1952, by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset
Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.
THE HARDY BOYS® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 69-14267
eISBN : 978-1-101-07645-3
2008 Printing
http://us.penguingroup.com
CHAPTER I
Prison Break
“IF SOMEBODY doesn’t toss a mystery our way, fellows, we may actually be swimming in this pool one of these days.”
Frank and Joe Hardy stopped digging and leaned on their shovels. The boys grinned as they studied the perspiring, chubby face of Chet Morton.
“Shall we tell him, Joe?” Frank asked with an exaggerated lift of his eyebrows.
“Tell me what?” Chet demanded. “Aw, listen, fellows! Long before school closed for the summer you promised me you’d come out here to the farm and help me clean out this bog.”
Eighteen-year-old Frank Hardy, with a wink at his brother, who was only a year younger, gazed thoughtfully at their best friend.
“Well, aren’t we helping?” he said. “But how would you like to help us catch a couple of train robbers, Chet?”
“No kidding!” Joe added. “Last night Dad was talking about one of his cases, and said maybe we could help him.”
The brothers, sons of Fenton Hardy, an internationally known private detective, frequently assisted their father. Their first mystery had been The Tower Treasure, and not long ago they had solved The Wailing Siren Mystery. Chet Morton had often shared their exciting adventures, but he preferred the enjoyment of a good meal to such strenuous activity.
“Tr-train robbers! I’d rather dig,” Chet retorted.
He sent his long-handled shovel deep into the mire. Then, with a heave, he hoisted a load of muck and shale to the high ground behind him.
“Say, look at that shale you just tossed up!” Joe exclaimed. “It cracked open, and there are funny-looking marks inside it!”
Curious, Frank picked up a piece of the shale and inspected it more closely.
“Looks like indentations from old clamshells, doesn’t it?” he remarked.
“Oh, you find all sorts of queer marks on rocks and things which have been under water,” Chet answered. “That’s nothing at all. Throw the silly thing away and let’s get on with this job!”
Just then a voice sounded behind him. “Wait! Don’t throw that away. It’s valuable!”
Turning, the three boys discovered Thomas “Cap” Bailey, popular track coach and science teacher at Bayport High, standing on the rim of the excavation. He was not much older than his students, who held the twenty-five-year-old instructor in high regard.
“Wait! Don’t throw that away!”
“That’s a brachiopod!” he exclaimed, examining the piece of shale.
“A w-who?” Chet stuttered.
“It’s a valuable fossil—maybe millions of years old,” Cap said with a smile. “They turn up every now and then in different corners of the world, and scientists use them to trace the development of man and animals through the ages.”
Crouching down, he showed them what a perfect specimen the brachiopod was.
“You ought to take this to the Bayport Museum, Chet. I doubt that there’s one like it in their collection.”
Then Cap spoke directly to the Hardys. “How would you fellows like to combine some detective work with fossils?”
“I knew it!” Chet moaned. “Here goes our pool. It’ll never be finished now.”
Frank and Joe eagerly questioned the science teacher for more details.
“A week before school closed,” he said, “I received a letter from an aunt who lives out West. Her husband, Alexander Bailey, died recently, just when he was on the verge of an important discovery.”
“Was he a scientist, too?” Joe inquired.
“Yes, a geologist. It seems that about a year ago he uncovered part of what appeared to be the giant fossil of a prehistoric camel that once roamed the western United States. Soon after his discovery, one of those terrific western storms hit the spot and completely obliterated all of his work. Then he was taken ill and never recovered.”
“Too bad,” Frank murmured.
Chet asked how Cap’s aunt expected him to find the camel since all trace of his uncle’s work was lost in the storm.
“I haven’t told you all the story,” Cap replied. “Before he died, my uncle scratched out a rough map of the section, with the location of his original discovery indicated on it. It’s a place called Wildcat Swamp.”
That was all Chet needed. “Wildcats!” he exclaimed. “They’re dangerous!”
“Probably it’s called Wildcat Swamp,” Cap Bailey went on, “because not far from the site of his discovery he had found a sign reading: ‘Here lie the bodies of twenty wildcat.’ ”
“That’s strange,” Joe remarked. “Their killer must have been a mighty hunter.”
Bailey nodded, “I guess anyone going into the area would have to keep his eyes open. And, incidentally, I’ve already found out there is some danger to even starting for the spot.”
“What do you mean?” the boys chorused.
“Well, after school closed I started for Wildcat Swamp alone, in my car. Any number of people must have heard me talking about what I intended to do. I hadn’t driven far when I was held up by two masked men and all my money was stolen. I was told to go back home and stay there.”
“You think they meant to discourage you from going after the fossil?” Frank asked.
“Of course I’m not positive, because they di
dn’t mention the fossil, and didn’t take the map. That might have been because another car came along and scared them away. But they seemed to know who I was, and mentioned that it would be healthier for me in the East than out West.”
“It does sound as if they wanted you to give up that trip,” Joe commented. “But why? They sound more like thugs than scientists.”
Cap Bailey nodded soberly. “The reason I came out to see you Hardys is this: How would you like to make the trip with me? I think you could be a big help. What do you say?”
“It sounds wonderful to me,” shouted impulsive Joe. “How soon do we leave?”
Frank was just as enthusiastic as his brother, but more realistic in his approach.
“Three of us together should certainly be able to handle more trouble than one man alone, but first we’ll have to get Dad’s and Mother’s okay.”
As it turned out, that was no problem at all. When they reached home, their quiet, pretty mother said she would leave the decision to their father. After the situation had been explained to him that evening, the tall, well-built detective said:“I think such a trip would be a good experience for you boys, and besides, it might even work in with the case I asked you to help on.”
“You mean the train robbers? How?” Frank asked.
“I had my operative Sam Radley tailing a fellow named Gerald Flint after he was released from Delmore Prison. Once Sam overheard Flint use a phrase that sounded like ‘twenty wildcat’ in such a way that he’s sure it has some special significance. And now Flint has disappeared.”
“Wow!” Joe cried out. “You don’t mean he’s in Wildcat Swamp?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” his father answered. “But a good detective never misses a clue. If you boys can find out more about the ‘twenty wildcat,’ it may help me.”
Cap Bailey was pleased to hear that Frank and Joe could go with him.
“I’ll give you a couple of days to pack up,” he told them.
Next morning Frank and Joe went to see Warden Duckworth at Delmore Prison. Their father had suggested that perhaps they could find out something about Flint’s associates in jail. The officer was a friend of Mr. Hardy and he gladly spent some time telling the boys about Gerald Flint, an old-timer with a long record. Flint was described as a tall, loudmouthed man, who could be soft-spoken and persuasive when he wanted to be.
“Here’s his picture,” the warden said, and handed them a photograph.
“His best friends at our prison,” the warden went on, “were Willie the Penman and Jesse Turk. Willie’s a short, wiry fellow with a high-pitched voice, and one of the most cunning forgers in the country. He was released at the same time as Flint.”
“What about the other fellow—Turk?”
“Jesse is still here. He’s a mountain of a man—a former locomotive engineer, and an expert electrician, but not popular. He has a mean look about him—always frowning at something.”
Frank and Joe were just bidding the warden good-by when they heard a clanging, followed by the deafening roar of a siren.
“There’s been a break!” Duckworth shouted.
Seconds later, the ringing of the telephone added to the din. Duckworth grabbed the phone. Frank and Joe could hear excited chatter on the other end of the line. The warden turned to the boys, his eyes wide.
“It’s Turk—he’s escaped!”
CHAPTER II
Escape by Train
HIS face grim, Warden Duckworth ordered his car, then dashed from the office.
“Come on, Frank!” Joe urged, starting down the long, low-ceilinged corridor after the warden.
“I wonder how Turk got out!” Frank cried.
Reaching the outer prison yard, they saw guards everywhere, on the alert with rifles in case more of the prisoners should try to make a break.
“I was told,” Duckworth said to the man at the gate, “that Turk may have escaped by jumping into a butcher’s truck as it left the prison. Did you see which way it headed?”
“Yes, sir. North on Route 403. It was a National Meat truck.”
Three emergency trucks came roaring up, followed by the warden’s car. As the Hardys climbed in, Duckworth advised them to remain at the prison, but they assured him that they would keep out of harm’s way.
At his direction, the trucks split up to comb the countryside. Other armed guards tramped on foot in search of the fugitive, while the motor crews toured the nearby roads.
“Follow 403,” Duckworth told his driver.
The road passed through a wooded section, and the tires of the warden’s car squealed as it took the curves at almost full speed.
“Do you think the truck driver planned this with Turk?” Frank asked.
“I’m not sure,” the warden replied. “Usually an escape involves more than one prisoner. I’d be more inclined to think—”
“Look!” Joe cried. “There’s a delivery truck—It’s a National Meat truck!”
“You boys stay below windshield level,” Duckworth ordered. “I’m going to force him to stop.”
With a burst of speed they raced past the truck, sounding the siren. The driver slowed and came to a stop.
Warden Duckworth jumped out, gun in hand.
When the driver saw the gun, his jaw fell. “What’s the big idea?” he shouted.
“You may be carrying an escaped prisoner!”
The driver went white as the warden approached the rear doors of his truck and flung them open.
“If Turk was ever in here, he’s gone now,” Duckworth said disappointedly. “I’ll radio the other men.”
Frank and Joe got out and spoke to the driver. “Do you mind if we have a look inside your truck?”
“Go ahead.”
Climbing into the cool interior, the boys began examining it carefully for clues.
“Here’s something!” cried Frank as he picked up a small wooden box. “It looks like a homemade radio.”
It proved to be a miniature receiving set, so small that it fit snugly in the palm of Frank’s hand. As he turned a knob, the gadget began to sputter.
“Repeating, Turk,” it announced. “Freight delayed. Hook 138576 at three Rock Spring.”
The voice broke off.
“That was Flint’s voice,” said the warden, who had just jumped into the truck.
“But what did all the gibberish mean?” queried Joe. “Was Flint in on Turk’s escape?”
“Might have been,” Duckworth retorted tersely. “Turk worked in the electrician’s shop in the prison. He may have rigged up this communications system as part of a planned break.”
“So when Flint and Willie the Penman got out they could tip him off on how to get away,” Joe suggested.
“ ‘Freight delayed. Hook 138576 at three Rock Spring,’ ” Frank repeated. “Sounds as if a railroad freight may be part of the plan. You said Turk was a locomotive engineer at one time, didn’t you?”
“That’s right!”
“Three Rock Spring might mean time and place. It’s almost three o’clock now—and Rock Spring isn’t far from here!”
“Let’s get moving. Rock Spring in a big hurry!” Duckworth shouted to his police driver, and they piled into the car. One of the warden’s men stayed behind to query the truck driver further.
“There’s a water tower on the line at Rock Spring,” Joe recalled. “But the road doesn’t go in that far, Warden.”
“We’ll have to make the last half mile on foot.”
Reaching the end of the bumpy road, they all jumped out of the car and headed for the rail line. Frank and Joe, still in good condition from track work during the spring, soon outdistanced the others. But before they reached the right-of-way they could hear the rumble of a freight train.
“Maybe we’re too late,” Frank said, puffing. “Hey! Here comes a car numbered 138576! I’ll bet that’s what the message meant!”
Before Joe could answer, the car had passed them. Suddenly the sliding door of the boxcar opened. T
hen, as car 138576 moved still farther ahead of the boys, a large hook was extended from the interior.
“Look, Frank!” Joe shouted. “That man!”
Out of the bushes alongside the right-of-way dashed a burly figure. Timing his sprint perfectly, he halted just as the hook reached him. With a desperate grab he caught it, and was immediately drawn inside the car. The freight thundered on.
“That must have been Turk!” Frank exclaimed.
By the time the Hardys reached the rails, the caboose had rolled by. There was no trainman in sight to hear their shouts or see their frantic signals.
Minutes later, Warden Duckworth and the driver caught up with them. Frank explained the strange getaway of the fugitive they believed to be Turk.
“I’ll phone from my car,” the warden said, “and have the freight stopped and searched.”
He phoned the prison and instructed the telephone operator to relay the message to the railroad authorities. Then they drove back and waited in his office for word. When the report came, it was discouraging. The railroad police had opened car 138576 ten miles ahead, but had found it empty.
“Turk and his buddy inside may have seen you boys. They must have left the train somewhere along the stretch between where Turk got aboard and the next town. But we’ll catch him. Prisoners don’t break out of here and stay out—very long!”
The Hardys remained in the warden’s office for a while, hoping that there would be further news of the fugitive. None was forthcoming except that the driver of the National Meat truck was cleared. Finally they agreed that they should get home as quickly as possible and tell Mr. Hardy of Turk’s escape.
“This convinces me that Flint is up to his old tricks again,” Mr. Hardy said. “There has been a series of freight-train robberies throughout the country, and it’s up to me to figure out how to put a stop to them.”
“Who engaged you, Dad?” Joe asked.
“The North American Railroad League, a group of railroad executives. They’ve been losing a lot of property in train robberies, and believing that the thefts were the acts of a single gang, they think I can break up the racket.”
The Secret of Wildcat Swamp Page 1
