“Be careful!” Joe called back. “Iola, you stay put—we might need to send for help!”
“Check,” Iola called. “I’m so glad you’re not hurt!”
While Joe and Frank continued trying to work themselves free, Chet fetched the rope from the buggy and tied it to the vehicle’s bumper. The big teen slipped a couple of times on his way down, but he finally reached the brothers.
“We’re lucky I didn’t cause another avalanche,” Chet said. He wiped a damp lock of blond hair out of his eyes and began digging with his hands. Unfortunately the slide had compacted the snow, making the digging very difficult. “Remind me to put a shovel in the buggy’s trunk when we get home,” he said.
Frank and Joe tried to help Chet, but they didn’t have much leverage. “We should have brought a cell phone, too,” Frank noted.
“Should we send Iola back to the farm for help?” Chet asked.
“Driving through this storm alone would be dangerous,” Joe replied. “If something happened to her, it’d be horrible.”
“Joe’s right. We don’t know if the dognappers are still out there,” Frank said, “and we don’t know what else they’re capable of. It’s best to stick together as long as we can.”
Chet and the Hardys dug for fifteen minutes, but Joe and Frank’s lower bodies remained embedded in compacted snow. Ice crystals had formed in the hair of all three boys. They looked like refugees from an Antarctic expedition.
“Hey!” Joe exclaimed. “There’s someone walking over there, near the old factory!”
“Hey! Help!” Frank called to the figure. “We’re stuck!” The figure paused and peered through the blizzard.
“Give us a hand!” Chet shouted. “We’re stuck in the snow!”
For a moment, it seemed the figure might not come to help. Then, slowly, a middle-aged man with graying hair and black plastic glasses trudged toward them out of the snowstorm. “What are you kids doing out here?” he asked suspiciously.
“We got caught in a snowslide,” Joe said.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Funny time to be running around,” he said.
“Someone stole our dog,” Chet explained. “We were out looking for him.”
The man scratched his head. “Who are you boys?”
“I’m Chet Morton,” Chet replied. “My family owns the farm on top of that ridge.” He pointed back the way they’d come. “And these are my friends, Frank and Joe Hardy.”
“We’d really appreciate it if you could help us out here, whoever you are,” Frank said.
“I’m Leo Myint,” the stranger replied. “I run a business out of that factory down there. Let me fetch a shovel from the building.”
He trudged back to the factory and returned a few minutes later with a couple of shovels.
“Thanks,” Chet said, taking one.
Myint nodded and helped Chet dig the brothers out. “So, who took your dog?” Myint asked.
“Some goons driving snowmobiles,” Chet replied. “Seen any around here?”
“I’ve seen a lot of strangers mucking about the place lately,” Myint replied. “They’ve been buzzing circles around the factory at all hours—day and night. I suspect they’re to blame for the troubles I’ve had recently—broken windows, missing tools, that kind of thing.”
“We’ve had similar problems at the farm,” Chet said.
“Sorry to hear it,” Myint said. “This economy is tough enough without burglars and thieves prowling around. Things have been so bad lately, I’m tempted to sell out and move on.”
Joe and Frank exchanged a knowing glance, but didn’t say anything.
Working with the shovels, Myint and Chet freed the Hardys in a matter of minutes.
“Hey, thanks a lot,” Joe said, shaking Myint’s hand.
“Don’t mention it,” Myint replied. “If you don’t mind, I’m heading inside before I freeze!”
“Good plan,” Frank said. “We’re heading for home too.”
“I hear some hot cocoa calling me,” Chet added, shivering.
“Good luck with your business,” Joe said. “What is it you do, by the way?”
“Small plastics manufacturing,” Myint said. “Holder trays, bins, that kind of thing. Like I said, though, I’m thinking about selling. Good luck getting home.”
“Thanks again,” Frank said. Myint hiked back to his factory while Chet and the Hardys slowly climbed upslope to the buggy.
“I was so worried!” Iola said when they finally reached the top. “I felt helpless waiting up here.”
“I’m just glad you weren’t caught in the snowslide,” Joe said, giving her a quick hug.
“No sense searching further,” Frank said. “The snowfall will have wiped out all the tracks by now.”
“We need to get home before we all freeze, anyway,” Joe said.
The near-blizzard made it difficult to see, and the howling wind made it impossible to carry on a conversation during the ride home. The teens could barely even hear the chugging of the buggy’s four-cylinder engine over the wail of the wind. They drove cautiously through the woods, then skirted a half-dozen farm ponds as they retraced their course back to the barn.
When they finally arrived, all four of them looked more like abominable snowpeople than teenagers. Icicles hung like daggers from the buggy’s front and rear bumpers, and the rest of the vehicle looked as though it had been sprayed with thick white frosting.
“This part of the barn isn’t too well heated,” Chet said, “but the buggy should still melt off pretty quickly.” They brushed the snow off the vehicle and dried the engine as best they could, then covered it with the tarp.
“It’ll dry out more quickly than we will, I bet,” Iola said. “Let’s get inside and warm up.”
As they walked from the barn to the house, they spotted an unfamiliar pickup truck in the driveway. The truck was a green late-model vehicle with a small snowplow attached to the front.
The teens took off their soaked snowsuits in the mudroom and went into the kitchen. “Oh, hey, it’s J. J.,” Chet said, indicating a round-faced, blond-haired man seated at the kitchen table with the Morton grandparents.
Iola introduced the stranger to the Hardys. “J. J. Zuis, these are our friends Joe and Frank Hardy.”
The man rose and shook hands with the brothers. “Hi,” he said. “John James Zuis—J. J. to my friends. Pleased to meet you.” He offered a place at the table where he and the Mortons had just been having coffee. “Take a seat and warm up.”
“Land’s sake!” Grandma Morton exclaimed. “You all look half frozen. Let me get you some cocoa.”
She started to stand, but Joe waved her off. “We can get it,” he said. “Standing at a warm stove for a couple of minutes would do us all some good.”
The Hardys and their friends made hot chocolate for themselves and warmed up a bit. By the time they sat down at the table to join the conversation, they felt almost human again.
“So, J. J.,” Chet said, “what brings you out in this weather?”
“Just checking on your grandparents, Chet,” J. J. replied, “making sure they were ready for the big storm. The weather bureau is calling for ten inches or more over the next few days.”
“Did you kids have any luck looking for Bernie?” Grandma Morton asked.
“No luck at all,” Frank replied. “We saw some snowmobile tracks, but that was about it.”
“We met one of your neighbors, too,” Joe added. “Leo Myint—he runs a plastic manufacturing business in that old factory.”
J. J. nodded. “I met Myint once,” he said. “He keeps to himself, pretty much—only has a couple of workers. He tried subletting areas of the factory to other small businesses, but it didn’t fly. I think he’s the only one left now.”
“Patsy Stein’s combine has their eye on that land,” Grandpa Morton said. “I’m sure she’s as eager to buy that old factory as she is to get hold of our farm.”
Joe and Frank looked at each other, both thinking along s
imilar lines.
“On a day like today,” Grandma said, “I’m half tempted to sell to her. I’m getting too old for blizzards and missing dogs and the like.”
J. J. chuckled. “Don’t let these two old birds fool you,” he said to the Hardys. “They may complain a lot, but they love this place. Mortons have been on this land for five generations, and I expect they’ll be here for another five.” He stood. “Well, I better be goin’. I’ve got hatches of my own to batten down. I’ll check back in a day or two, make sure everything’s all right.”
“We appreciate that, J. J.,” Grandpa said. “Thanks.”
He showed Mr. Zuis to the door, then returned to the table. The Morton family and the Hardys chatted for a while, then they all helped make dinner. The lights flickered as they watched TV afterward, so they broke out the hurricane lanterns, just in case, and built a fire in the fireplace.
The wind howled outside, but they all kept snug and warm, reading beside the crackling blaze.
When the fire burned low, they all decided to turn in. They’d called the police to check about Bernie, but learned nothing new. The storm, it seemed, was keeping the department too busy to look for stray dogs.
The brothers volunteered to clean up when the others went to sleep. They put away the books, gathered all the trash, and finished cleaning the few dishes they’d dirtied since dinnertime. Then both brothers decided to have a glass of warm milk before heading upstairs and changing for bed.
They heated the milk on the stove and sat at the table, sipping from mugs and watching the storm blow outside.
Frank got up to refill their mugs. As he did, Joe said, “I just saw a flashlight outside. There’s someone prowling around the barn.”
7 Pitched Battle
* * *
Frank and Joe put down their mugs and peered out the window. From the kitchen, the brothers had an unobstructed view of the driveway and the barn beyond. Blowing snow, however, made it difficult to see.
“I don’t see anything now,” Frank said, staring into the stormy darkness. “Do you think it could be the cops?”
“There’s no patrol car in the driveway,” Joe replied. “And the police wouldn’t be poking around at this time of night—especially without telling anyone they were here.”
“You’re sure about what you saw?”
“Dead certain.”
“Let’s go check it out.”
“Should we tell the Mortons?” Joe asked.
“I’d hate to wake them,” Frank said. “They’ve all had a long day. Besides, for all we know it could just be Bill Backstrom working late.”
“In this weather?”
“Maybe not, but still . . . ,” Frank said. “I’ll suit up while you keep watch, then we’ll switch.”
Joe nodded and kept looking out the window while Frank donned his snowsuit. Then Frank watched outside while Joe did the same.
“See anything?” Joe asked after he’d finished.
“Maybe a light inside the barn,” Frank said. “With the blowing snow, it’s hard to tell.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Joe said. The brothers zipped up their parkas, pulled on their gloves, and went outside.
The wind howled as they stepped through the back door into the snow. Drifts had piled up across the path, and they had to push their way through the snow just to get to the driveway. Joe turned and said something to Frank, but Frank couldn’t hear him above the storm.
“What?” he asked, leaning closer.
“I saw the light again,” Joe said. “There’s definitely someone in there. I hope it’s the dognappers. Wrapping up this case and spending the rest of the night in a warm bed would feel great about now.”
Frank nodded his agreement. The two of them trudged forward, moving as quickly as they could without losing their footing on the snow and ice.
They stopped and listened at the barn’s double door. The door creaked loudly as Joe put his hooded ear against it.
The younger Hardy grimaced and whispered, “Sorry!”
Frank shrugged. “I don’t hear anything,” he said. “Let’s go in.”
They threw the latch, swung the doors open, and hurried inside. The barn was dimly lit. A small compact florescent bulb hanging from a cord near the far wall provided the only illumination. The empty stalls and the hayloft looked weird and eerie in the dim light. Joe pulled the doors shut behind them.
“See anything?” he whispered.
Frank shook his head. The wind outside continued to howl, nearly drowning out the grumblings of the sleepy horses and cows in the barn’s rear addition. “Let’s look around,” the elder Hardy said.
He and Joe moved away from the door, past the thawed-out buggy, and toward the storage bins on either wall. As they did, two intruders jumped from behind the stalls and attacked.
The prowlers were dressed in black snowmobile outfits and wore helmets with ski masks underneath. Each assailant held a pitchfork, apparently taken from a rack against the wall. They jabbed the implements’ deadly tines in the direction of the brothers.
Joe stepped back, nearly slipping on the loose hay under his boots. His attacker, who had a red stripe down the middle of his black helmet, threatened his pitchfork at Joe’s head.
Frank hopped aside as the second man came at him. The elder Hardy swung his foot in a martial arts block. He kicked the metal head of the pitchfork and the weapon jerked up. The black-helmeted assailant held on, though, and swiped sideways at Frank. Frank stepped back, and the fork’s points passed in front of him, mere inches away from his chest.
Joe ducked and Red-Stripe stabbed his pitchfork into a support beam behind the younger Hardy. Joe leaped forward, ramming his shoulder into Red-Stripe’s gut. The intruder stumbled backward, letting go of the pitchfork. The weapon remained embedded in the post behind them.
Red-Stripe brought both hands down hard on Joe’s back. Joe grunted and fell onto the straw-covered floor. Red-Stripe twisted away from Joe, trying to retrieve the lost pitchfork.
Black-Helmet pushed his fork at Frank again. This time Frank stepped aside and grabbed the shaft of the weapon as it passed.
The elder Hardy twisted hard and wrenched the pitchfork from Black-Helmet’s gloved hands. Black-Helmet seemed surprised for a moment, then he lunged forward and grabbed Frank by the shoulders. He smashed his helmet into the older Hardy’s forehead.
Frank reeled back, stunned, still clutching the pitchfork.
Red-Stripe tried to dart past where Joe had fallen. The younger Hardy grabbed the intruder’s shoes. Red-Stripe’s feet came to a sudden halt, and his momentum toppled him forward. He slammed his helmeted head into the pole next to the pitchfork with a resounding crack. The pitchfork shook loose from the beam and fell beside the trespasser.
Black-Helmet kicked at Frank, but Frank recovered in time to block the blow. The elder Hardy smashed the handle of his pitchfork into the boot of the intruder. Black-Helmet lost his balance and stumbled. Frank lunged forward and thrust the butt end of the pitchfork into Black-Helmet’s gut. Black-Helmet exhaled loudly and sat down hard.
Frank stepped forward, still seeing spots from the head butt. He gathered his wits and strength for a final, telling blow.
Red-Stripe’s helmet saved him from injury when he cracked his head. He grabbed the pitchfork from the straw-covered floor and got to his feet. Joe leaped at him before he could turn and attack again. The younger Hardy grabbed the weapon by the shaft and the two of them struggled, maneuvering for position, holding the pitchfork crossways between them.
Joe and Red-Stripe spun across the barn like dancers in a deadly waltz. They surged forward and backward, each one unable to see where he was going half the time. Joe nearly forced Red-Stripe into a beam post. Then Red-Stripe heaved and Joe backed hard into Frank, hitting his older brother from behind. Both Hardys went down, but they also managed to hold onto their pitchforks.
Disarmed, Black-Helmet and Red-Stripe bolted for the barn’s rear exit. Th
e Hardys scrambled to their feet and gave chase, racing between the animal stalls after the intruders.
The trespassers reached the back door first. They sprinted out and leaped onto waiting snowmobiles. Before the Hardys could catch up, the prowlers fired the engines and roared away into the snowstorm.
“Rats!” Joe snarled. “We’ll never catch them on foot! They’ll disappear into the darkness before we can do anything.”
“Maybe not,” Frank said. “Come on!”
He raced back into the main barn with Joe right behind. The younger Hardy paused only long enough to close the rear door to protect the animals from the cold.
The two of them skidded to a halt next to the defrosted buggy. “The headlights will let us see where we’re going,” Frank said. “Maybe we can still catch them—or at least follow their tracks.”
“Check!” Joe said. He opened the main barndoors while Frank threw the tarp into the back seat, started the vehicle, and drove it outside. Then Joe closed the doors and hopped into the passenger seat beside his brother. “Step on it!” he said.
Frank switched on the headlights and roared off into the storm. They cut around behind the barn and quickly picked up the snowmobile tracks. They couldn’t see the intruders’ taillights, or even hear their quarry over the howl of the wind.
“I guess we didn’t hear them arrive because of the storm,” Frank said.
“These guys have gotten all the breaks so far,” Joe said. “Now its our turn to put the brakes on them.”
Frank chuckled. “I just hope that when we catch them, we find out where they took Bernie.”
The driving snow made it difficult to see. They were forced to use their low-beam headlights, as the high-beams reflected off the swirling powder, turning the night into a blinding white cloud.
Unfortunately using the low-beams meant they couldn’t see very far ahead. Several times Frank swerved at the last moment, barely avoiding a fence or a lone tree standing in the middle of the pasture.
“These bandits know where they’re going,” Frank said. “They’ve easily skirted around obstacles that nearly took us out.”
Farming Fear Page 5
