Danger on Vampire Trail

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Come on. We’re wasting too much time,” he said, and walked toward the car which was parked off the bridge on the side of the road.

  As the others ambled along behind Biff, a sedan pulling a small trailer, squealed past them and drove up directly in front of the Hardys’ convertible. Juice’s trail bike was lashed to the rear of the sedan.

  The doors opened and out jumped Juice Barden and two others. One was a youth about Juice’s age, who had frizzy hair, droopy eyelids, and a sullen expression. The other was a man in his twenties, thin, agile, and as tall as Biff.

  “These are the ones,” Juice said to the tall man.

  Frank looked at him. “I suppose you’re Fingers.”

  “I’m Fingers, all right.” The man turned to the droopy-eyed youth. “Rip, you and Juice look for my guitar.”

  “Oh no you don’t!” said Joe. “This buddy of yours crushed mine with his trail bike!”

  “Juice is no responsibility of mine,” Fingers replied coldly.

  “Don’t be tough!” Biff spoke up and stepped forward. “You’ll get your guitar when you pay Joe for his.”

  “Oh yeah? How much?”

  “Fifty dollars,” Joe replied.

  “Out of sight,” retorted Fingers as his two pals slowly walked to the Hardys’ car.

  “Touch that and I’ll flatten you!” Biff thundered.

  “We’ll see about that!” snapped Fingers. His right hand flew to his pocket. He pulled out a knife, pressed a button, and a switchblade flashed in the sunlight. “Okay now, we’ll take my guitar,” he said with a menacing sneer.

  Frank’s mind whirled. “Better not push this too far,” he thought, “or somebody’ll really get hurt.” Aloud he said, “Okay, Fingers, I guess you win this time.” He walked to the car, got the guitar, and approached Fingers. As he did, Biff edged closer.

  “Here, take it,” Frank offered.

  As the man reached for the instrument, Biff lashed out with a karate kick. The toe of his boot caught Fingers’ wrist, sending the knife flying.

  Biff followed up with a chop and Fingers landed on his back. As he struggled to his feet, Rip jumped on Frank and wrestled him to the ground. Juice threw a punch at Joe.

  “You asked for it,” Joe muttered. With a lefthand feint and a right-hand cross to the jaw, he sent Juice sprawling. The battle was short. Without his knife, Fingers was no match for Biff. Chet picked up the knife and the seven stood there glaring at one another.

  Fingers’ guitar lay broken.

  “Okay,” Frank said. “That evens things up. One broken guitar a piece.” He bent over to pick up Fingers’ smashed instrument and his eyes widened. Inside were some blue stones, glued to the wood.

  “What are these?” Frank asked.

  Wincing, Fingers reached out for the guitar. “None of your business,” he muttered. He took the fractured instrument, turned, and climbed into his car. Juice and Rip followed and they drove off. The Hardys passed them a few miles down the road.

  Frank, meanwhile, had been thinking about the stones. Obviously they had been hidden for a reason. “Sapphires are blue, aren’t they, Joe?” he asked.

  “Sure. Don’t you remember, Mother’s birthstone?” Joe shook his head. “You missed a chance to get her a present, Frank!”

  Shortly afterward they stopped at a rest area to have lunch, then rode on for the balance of the afternoon. It was four o’clock when they reached a sparkling lake. Its sandy beach had accommodations for a few trailers and Joe eased their camper to a shady spot close to the water.

  “How about a swim, fellows?” he asked.

  They were all eager to get into the cool water and soon had put on their swim trunks which they kept handy in the car.

  “What’ll we do with Sherlock?” Biff asked, reaching into the car’s trunk for a towel.

  “Tie him to the bumper,” Frank advised. “We’ll let him have a dip when we’re finished.”

  The boys raced into the water, their arms and legs flying. Strong strokes carried them far out. Chet rolled over and floated on his back, spewing a plume of water into the air.

  Frank chuckled. “There’s good old Chet the whale.”

  Encouraged by this remark, Chet dived and surfaced like a porpoise. As Joe watched him, he looked back and saw another car parked near the water’s edge. Two men got out.

  Biff sent the knife flying

  “Look, fellows!” Joe cried in alarm.

  One of the men produced a bottle from his car, then lighted a wick at the mouth of it.

  “It’s a Molotov cocktail!” Frank gasped.

  With swift strokes the boys churned toward shore. But they were not in time to prevent the men from hurling the bottle at the camper. It burst in a sheet of flame as the pair jumped into their car and sped off.

  The bloodhound, unable to get away, strained at the leash and howled pitifully.

  Biff yelled, “Sherlock’s going to get burned!”

  Midnight Stakeout

  REACHING shore, the boys dashed to the camper. Flames were blazing close to the terrified bloodhound.

  Biff untied the dog while Frank, Joe, and Chet threw sand on the fire. Then Biff grabbed the fire extinguisher from the Hardys’ car and doused the last of the flames.

  The boys assessed the damage. Paint had been burned off the side of the trailer and one of the tires gave off a pungent odor. But the damage was slight.

  “Thank goodness Sherlock wasn’t hurt,” Frank said, bending to scratch the dog’s ears.

  Chet said, “Somebody’s really out to get us.”

  “And you can bet it’s Fingers,” Biff added.

  As they dressed, Frank said, “Biff, I doubt that it was Fingers who did this.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he would have done it himself. Neither of those men was Fingers, or his pals. It looks more like Whip Lasher’s mob.”

  “Another one of his practical jokes?” Biff said.

  Frank nodded.

  The boys hit the road again. Two hours later the low hills they were passing through flattened out to rolling prairie as far as the eye could see.

  “Where are we going to camp tonight?” Joe asked.

  “We’d better stay away from a popular trailer court,” Frank said.

  “Let’s get a secluded place,” Biff suggested.

  “Right,” Joe agreed. “I’ll take my sleeping bag and station myself a distance away in case we should have more visitors.”

  As the sun began to set, Chet was at the wheel. He noticed a cleared area in a cornfield which seemed to stretch for miles. “How about this?” he asked.

  Frank and Joe looked about for any sign of habitation. There was none. Chet pulled off the road close to the green stand of head-high corn. The trailer was unhitched, and the camper set up.

  “Let me take the galley tonight,” Joe said. “You look kind of pooped after that long drive, Chet.”

  “Okay,” Chet said and stretched himself out on one of the bunks.

  After sundown, darkness dropped like a blanket over the warm prairie. Joe took his sleeping bag, walked toward the road, and found a nook between rows of corn.

  He slept intermittently, an occasional passing car stirring him to semiwakefulness. Shortly after midnight he heard the distant noise of a motorbike. Then the bike stopped.

  Joe crept out of the sleeping bag, crouched, and listened. From the side of the road someone with a covered flashlight was approaching. There was no beam, just an eerie red eye searching through the cornstalks.

  Joe decided to surprise the prowler. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  The challenge stopped the prowler in his tracks. A voice from the dark said, “You know who I am. You palmed some of my sapphires. Now give them back!”

  Fingers again! What was he up to now?

  “We didn’t take any of your sapphires. Maybe you dropped them along the road,” Joe said.

  “Impossible.”

  “Perhaps Juice or Rip took them.
”

  Fingers did not advance. It seemed obvious that the man was thinking over what Joe had said.

  The young detective took advantage of the pause. “Is that why you fire-bombed us this afternoon?”

  “Fire-bombed! Are you crazy?”

  “Don’t deny it!”

  “I wouldn’t try to burn anybody.” Fingers sounded as if his feelings were hurt.

  Just then Sherlock started to bark.

  “Don’t turn that mutt on me!” Fingers cried.

  His light retreated to the side of the road and disappeared. A few minutes later Joe heard the whine and staccato of the bike’s motor as it came to life, then the sounds gradually faded and the night was still.

  “Hey, Joe! What’s the matter? Any trouble?” It was Frank.

  The boys gathered outside the camper and Joe told what had happened.

  “So those stones were really sapphires,” Frank said. “I wonder where he got them.”

  “Probably stole them, and now he claims we took them from him,” Joe said.

  “I believe the other two guys swiped them,” said Chet. “They didn’t strike me as being trustworthy.”

  “And he denied the fire-bombing?” Biff asked.

  “Downright emphatic about it,” Joe reported. “I think that underneath, Fingers has a soft heart!”

  Biff grumbled, “You’d have to prove that to me.”

  “Anyhow,” Frank said, “it seems that our three friends don’t trust one another.” He pointed out that Juice obviously had not known about the concealed gems when Chet lifted the guitar from the nail in the tree.

  “I’m going to phone Dad tomorrow morning and tell him the circumstances,” Frank said as they all settled down for the rest of the night.

  At dawn Frank roused the others. By the time the sun had risen, breakfast was over and the camping gear stowed for the next leg of their journey.

  At the first town Frank stopped to telephone Bayport. His father was away on his case. Mrs. Hardy, who usually was calm, seemed agitated. “Frank, we got a strange letter,” she said.

  “About what, Mother?”

  “About you. Wait while I get it.”

  Mrs. Hardy returned a few moments later and read the message. It was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Fenton Hardy and said:I KNOW THAT YOUR SONS ARE ON THE WAY WEST TO TRACK DOWN THE GREAT WL. KEEP THEM OUT OF THE ROCKIES OR THEY WILL NEVER GET BACK ALIVE.

  “Who sent it?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s unsigned and was sent airmail from Indiana,” his mother replied.

  “Don’t worry,” Frank told her. “We’re capable of taking care of ourselves. Someone has been bothering us and now I’m sure that it’s Whip Lasher and his gang.”

  Frank decided not to mention the fire-bombing. He said that if his father called to tell him that the trail had been cold to medium. When it got hot, Joe or he would phone home again.

  It was afternoon when the flat prairie gave way to a clutch of low hills on the western horizon. The boys had not seen Fingers and his pals and hoped that they had turned either north or south.

  “That Terrible Trio really bugs me,” Biff said.

  At a curve in the road a woman stood beside a disabled car, waving a white handkerchief.

  “Okay, Sir Galahad,” Chet told Frank, who was driving. “Pull over and we’ll give yon damsel a sample of our superb chivalry.”

  “She has a flat tire,” Frank said. “Want to change it?” He braked slowly, stopping on the downgrade some distance ahead of the disabled car. All four got out and walked back.

  The woman, attractive and in her twenties, smiled nervously as the boys approached. “Will you please help me?” she asked. “I’ve never changed a tire in my life.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Joe said. “Chet here has volunteered to do the job.”

  “How thoughtful,” the woman replied. “Then I suppose you’re a mechanic.”

  Chet’s look of chagrin turned to one of proud pleasure. “Sure. I can do almost anything with a car. Is your spare in the trunk?”

  She nodded and handed him the key.

  Chet found the jack and soon had the rear end several inches off the ground. He removed the rim and tried to replace it with the spare. It would not fit!

  “Having trouble, Chet?” asked Biff.

  The perspiring boy glared and the woman said, “Chet, I think you’re putting it on backward.”

  “Oh yes. Thank you.” Chet reversed the wheel and it snapped quickly into place.

  “I guess the heat got to me,” Chet said, screwing the lugs back on. Then he banged the hubcap in place. While he was doing this, several cars drove past. Joe was on the alert, watching for Fingers’ trailer but it did not come by.

  As Chet replaced the tools, the woman suddenly put a hand to her mouth and cried, “My goodness, isn’t that your car?”

  All heads whipped to the spot where they had parked. Their car and the camper were moving slowly down the incline.

  “I don’t believe it!” Frank shouted. “I’m sure I set the brakes!”

  He dashed ahead of the others as the car picked up speed. It was impossible to overtake it! All at once he noticed the young woman driving alongside him.

  “I’ll help you!” she called out.

  Frank flung his arm into the open right-hand window and hung on. The woman put on speed and soon her car and the Hardys’ were side by side.

  “Closer! Can you come closer?” Frank shouted.

  The two vehicles were now hardly more than a couple of feet apart and Frank saw Sherlock looking forlornly out the back window.

  Frank made a lunge, releasing his hold on the woman’s car and clutching at the steering wheel of his own. A pain shot up along his arm. His fingers nearly lost their grip but he held on. The car was heading off the side of the road toward a deep gully. Frank struggled desperately to control it!

  CHAPTER VII

  Charred Evidence

  FRANK gripped the door and with a mighty wrench pulled his shoulders through the window opening. Then he wriggled onto the seat, jammed on the brakes, cut the motor, and twisted the wheel. The car lurched to a halt on the lip of the embankment.

  “The trailer!” Frank thought. He hardly dared to look behind. The camper dangled over the gully! The slightest motion might send it and the car crashing down.

  Joe, Chet, and Biff raced to assist Frank. While they grabbed the car so it would not teeter, Frank opened the door and slid out.

  Sherlock jumped into the front seat and bounded out into Biff’s arms.

  “Some camping trip!” Chet muttered. “We spend half of our time rescuing Sherlock!”

  Joe said, “This is either more of Fingers’ work, or Whip Lasher’s!”

  “We didn’t see Fingers’ trailer go by,” Chet remarked.

  “Well, if it was Fingers, he and his pals must be somewhere near here,” Frank said. “We’ll search for them after we get our camper back on the road.”

  As he spoke, a large transcontinental truck moved cautiously down the grade and Joe hailed it. “Can you pull us back on the highway?” he asked.

  The truckers said they would be glad to. From their gear locker they pulled out a long chain, which they attached to the front of the Hardys’ car. Then carefully—a few inches at a time—the large vehicle eased the car and the trailer up over the edge and back onto the shoulder of the road.

  “Thanks a lot!” Frank said.

  The truckers replied with a salute and left.

  “They’re great guys in an emergency,” Biff declared.

  Frank turned around and headed back. A couple of miles along the road they saw a rest area they had not noticed before. Two small trailers were parked next to picnic tables, where four people sat, eating and chatting.

  “Hi, there,” Frank said as he approached the two middle-aged couples.

  “Hello, boys,” one of the women said. “If you’re hungry, sit right down and join us.”

  “No, thank yo
u,” Frank replied. “We were just looking for a small trailer. We thought it might have been parked here.”

  “The one with the Vampire Trail motorbike?”

  “That’s right.”

  “They left a while ago,” her husband added. “After they cooked some grub over a fire.” He pointed to a stone pit about twenty-five feet away.

  “Which way were they headed?” asked Biff.

  “West,” the other man said.

  “Funny,” mused Chet, “we didn’t see them on the road.”

  “That’s because they decided to take a shortcut by a back road. Look, it’s here on the map.”

  He handed Frank a road map and traced the line of a secondary road. “It might be a little rough,” he added, “but it avoids the traffic on the highway.”

  Frank thanked him and said in a low voice to Joe, “I’ve got it figured. One of them drove past in their car, released our brake, turned around and came back here. Then they high-tailed off through the hinterland so we wouldn’t see them!”

  Chet, meanwhile, had wandered off to the stone pit. At the edge of the stones lay the charred remains of a camping magazine.

  “Oh, Frank! Here’s something that might interest you.”

  He picked up the magazine and gave it to Frank. In it were the usual stories about good camping sites, a rundown on new models of motorbikes, and a section on house trailers.

  Frank turned another page. “Look at this, Joe,” he said. A short article was titled “Sapphire Trek.” The dateline had been burned off, but most of the text was intact. It told of illegal mining of precious stones in the Rockies. The following page had been torn out.

  Frank and Joe looked at each other. Both were asking themselves the same questions. Had the sapphires in the guitar been mined illegally? Did Fingers and his gang have anything to do with such an operation?

  The Hardys talked it over and decided there must be some connection. They discussed their theory with Chet and Biff.

  “If they tore out a page, it proves they were interested in something to do with the mine,” Biff agreed.

  Chet said, “So now we have two mysteries. Which one are we going to concentrate on, Frank?”