The boy opened his eyes slowly and saw the face of a friendly fox terrier. He reached up, patted the dog, and called to the others. “Look, fellows. We’ve got a mascot.”
Joe and Evan crawled out of their sleeping bags, skinned into dungarees and shirts, and combed their hair. The terrier continually jumped up and down, and Joe said, “Hold still while I look at your collar.”
Attached was a small tag. Joe studied it and whistled. “Hot dog! If this isn’t luck. Little Bozo belongs to Buster Buckles!”
“Which means,” Frank said with a whoop, “that he’s close by.”
“Come on, pooch,” Joe said. “Take us to your master!”
The dog yapped several times, then headed up the hill through a stand of trees.
“If we ride our bikes, we might scare the daylights out of the old boy,” Frank said. “I don’t think he’d appreciate that. Let’s go on foot.”
The dog cavorted around, yapping at his newfound friends, and led them over a small hill. Down the other side, not more than three hundred yards, was a camper. Several shirts had been hung on the roof to dry.
The boys followed the dog to the door and Frank called out, “Hello, Mr. Buckles!”
Someone stirred inside. Then the door opened and a wrinkled face poked out. The gray hair was disheveled, and the eyes were full of sleep.
The face showed annoyance at being rudely awakened. The man retreated for a minute, then reappeared, wearing glasses,
“What in thunder!” he growled. “Where did you find my dog?”
“In our camp,” said Joe and introduced himself, Frank, and Evan.
“Hello and good-by,” Buster Buckles said churlishly. “Look, I came out in the wilds here to be alone. If you want my autograph, I’ll give it to you, and then you can buzz off.”
“Please wait a minute, Mr. Buckles,” Frank said, trying to soothe the old fellow. “We’re very sorry to bust in on you this way. But it’s very important.”
“What’s more important than a good night’s sleep? I don’t usually wake up till nine.”
Frank laughed. “Well, your dog woke us up at daylight.”
“Teddy, you shouldn’t have done that!” Buster scolded the dog. “His name’s Teddy—after Teddy Roosevelt.”
A smile appeared on the comic’s thin lips. “All right, boys, I’m over my morning grouch. Now you may call me Buster. Let’s have coffee. I’ve got to fix myself some breakfast. Will you join me?”
“Sure thing,” said Joe. “We’re hungry, too!”
Buster brought out a gasoline stove, lighted it, and put several slices of bacon in a large frying pan. It started sizzling, and a mouth-watering aroma scented the brisk morning air.
The actor did not talk much, and the Hardys decided not to ask any questions until they had finished eating. They sat down on the ground after Buckles declined their offer to help. He removed the bacon, cracked eight eggs into the pan, and brought a loaf of bread from his larder. Then he passed around paper plates.
“Dig in,” he said simply.
After they had eaten, Buster said, “Now, tell me, what brings you here?”
Frank explained about their quest for the helmet and The Persian Glory.
“So you’re old movie bugs, eh?” Buster said. “Let me tell you, there was more guts in those pictures than there is today. Why, these young upstarts—”
“But do you know where we can find a copy of The Persian Glory?” Frank asked impatiently.
“I thought you might be coming to that,” the actor said, leaning forward on his camp stool. “I think—”
Just then a thunderous explosion rent the air and shook the ground!
CHAPTER XI
Cheese Bait
“IT’s an earthquake!” Buster Buckles cried out, and dived headlong into his camper. Tail between legs, Teddy slunk in after him.
At first the boys looked at each other in stunned silence. Then Frank exclaimed, “Something’s happened over the hill!”
They raced up the slope toward their campsite. When they reached the brow of the hill, they looked down on a scene of utter devastation!
At the place where the bikes had stood there were now three shallow holes in the ground. The machines had been blown to bits! Parts dangled from the pine trees. A wheel had smashed into a rock, and a handlebar stuck out of the ground. Only the sleeping bags were still intact and lay crumpled on the ground about thirty feet away.
In stunned disbelief, the boys walked down the hill to the site of the demolition.
“This is terrible!” Evan whispered. “We’ve been dynamited!”
“Our enemies are really desperate to get us out of the way,” Joe said.
“Somebody must have been spying on us,” Evan conjectured, “and when we disappeared over the hill, set up the explosives.”
Frank nodded. “Good thing they didn’t go off while we were sleeping!”
The three boys poked around the debris for clues. After searching in vain, Frank said, “Remember what Cole said in the restaurant? ‘The kid’s gone for the big stuff.’ That kid could have been Leon Saffel going for the dynamite!”
The boys made one more round of the area. This time they picked up their sleeping bags and the motorcycle license plates, one of which had become embedded in the trunk of a pine tree.
“I think the police and insurance company will need these for evidence,” Frank remarked as they trudged back over the hill.
Waiting on the other side was Buster Buckles, a rifle on his shoulder.
“Hey, Buster!” Joe called out. “Put the shooting iron away. The varmints are gone!”
“Oh, it ain’t real,” Buster replied, explaining that the gun was an old comedy prop he carried along to scare off snoopers.
The actor plied them with questions about the explosion. Upon hearing the details, he blanched.
“Listen, I’m getting out of here!” he declared.
“But the bad guys are gone!” Frank insisted.
“How do you know they won’t come back? Maybe they’ll blow up my camper next! The whole world’s gone cuckoo. You can’t even find peace in the wilds of Arizony.”
Frank agreed they should leave and report the bombing to the police.
“Could you give us a ride to the next town?” he inquired.
Buster nodded. Then he said, “Hey, what was that you were asking about The Persian Glory?”
“We are looking for a copy of the film,” Joe said. “That’s why we’re here. Do you have one?”
Buster shook his head. As the boys moaned their disappointment, he added brightly, “I think I have an outtake, though.”
“What’s that?” Evan asked.
Buster explained that an outtake was film footage that had been clipped out for one reason or another.
“It might have been a poor shot,” he said, “or cut to tighten the action. Or, perhaps, the film was just too long.”
He went on to say that one old Hollywood movie had been eight hours long. “They edited out six hours of it. “Boy, was the director ever mad!”
“But how come you have outtakes of films?” Frank asked.
Buster explained that his hobby had been to collect them. “I used to splice them all together,” he said. “It made a very funny movie. You could hardly follow the plot.” He slapped his knee with delight. Suddenly his face turned serious again.
“We’re getting out of here, boys,” he said, and carried the little stove back into the camper.
Frank pressed for more information. “Do you really have some footage on The Persian Glory?”
“I think I do. I’m not sure.”
“Where is it?”
“At my place.”
“You mean your home in California?”
“That’s right. I have cans of film in the back of the garage. They’re under a pile of junk, but I’m sure I could find them.”
“Then let’s go!” Joe cried.
Buster looked reproachful. “What’s the hurry? I cam
e here to fish!”
“But—but Mr. Buckles, this is important,” Joe said. “It can’t wait!”
Frank signaled his brother to be quiet. Then he said, “All right, Buster. It’s your vacation and up to you how long you want to stay. But after that, may we go to California with you?”
“Sure.” When Buster was certain that every scrap had been picked up from the campsite, he spoke again of the fishing trip.
“I tell you,” he said, “those trout are that long!” He indicated the size with his hands.
“Please,” Frank pleaded, “can you drop us off at the police so we can make the report while you go fishing?”
Arms akimbo, Buster gave them a look of annoyance. “The fish are in a little lake at the top of this mountain. It’s nowhere near town. We’ll fish first, then find the cops!”
The boys stepped to one side and discussed the plan. Traveling on foot in these wilds, they reasoned, was almost impossible. They would have to go along with the old man’s wishes.
Buster climbed behind the wheel. Frank sat beside him, while Joe and Evan rode in the back.
It was a bumpy ride over the trackless ground to the summit of the nearby ridge.
“Only a few Apaches and cowboys know about this lake,” Buster said. “And those little rascals are waiting for their cheese!”
“Who? The Apaches or the cowboys?” Frank asked.
“The trout, of course. They love cheese. That’s what I use for bait.”
“Fish also like bread. Maybe we can give them a whole cheese sandwich,” Frank quipped.
“Okay, wise guy. You’ll see!”
Soon a small blue lake came into view. It lay in a crater, reflecting the cloudless sky overhead.
Buster parked the camper beside a boulder and they got out. “I’ve only got three rods,” he said. “You can use two of ‘em.”
“Go ahead, fellows,” Evan said. “I’ll walk around the lake.” He wandered off along the rocky shoreline.
Buster sliced off a piece of American cheese and cut it into small cubes. “Put these on your hooks,” he said to Frank and Joe, “and watch the fun.”
The Hardys did. They flicked out their lines and the cheese dropped into the lake. Joe’s bait had sunk no more than six inches when he felt a swift strike.
“Wow! I’ve got one!” he yelled.
Buckles was already reeling in a fat, flopping trout. “What did I tell you?” he asked with a happy grin.
In a short time the three fishermen had caught all they could possibly eat in one meal. Frank had just unhooked a shimmering beauty when the mountain silence was broken by a sharp cry.
“That’s Evan!” Frank said, alarmed.
The cry came again.
“He must be in trouble! Come on, Joe, Let’s go!”
The Hardys dropped their rods and set off among the boulders until they caught sight of Evan. He stood with his back against a slab of brown rock, tense and motionless, staring at something.
“Good grief!” Joe whispered. “Look at that rattler!”
The sidewinder slithered toward the Greek boy, its tongue flicking. Quietly Frank and Joe picked up stones. Joe hurled his. It missed.
Frank dashed in close and the snake turned its head, weaving from side to side.
“Watch it!” Joe cried.
Crash! Frank’s rock hit the reptile directly on the head. As the creature writhed, Joe finished it off with another blow.
“Thanks,” Evan said weakly. He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “It really is dangerous in America. Say, how’s the fishing?”
“Tremendous,” Joe said. “We’ll have some for lunch.”
The three walked back to the camper cautiously, watching for sidewinders. But they had no more trouble.
Buster had already set up his stove. The boys cleaned the fish, and soon a delicious aroma filled the air. After the meal, Buster caught some more trout which he stored in the small freezer of his camper. Finally he pulled in his gear.
“Have you had enough fishing now?” Frank asked.
The man tilted his straw hat and grinned. “Yep. Let’s go find the sheriff.”
He turned the camper around and started back. Suddenly another car appeared, bouncing over the rough terrain.
“It’s the State Police,” Frank exclaimed.
The vehicle stopped nose to nose against the camper and two officers stepped out. Buster and the boys did the same.
The policemen identified themselves as troopers Jones and Olivio and studied the four travelers.
Frank said, “We were just going to look—”
Olivio interrupted and pointed a finger at Joe. “We want you to come with us for questioning!”
CHAPTER XII
Suspect Joe
“ME? For questioning?” Joe stepped forward. “What seems to be the trouble?”
Olivio advised Joe of his legal rights. “You don’t have to tell us anything,” he said. “And we can get you a lawyer in town.”
“We don’t need any lawyer,” Frank said hotly. “We’ve done nothing wrong. Now will you please tell us what this is all about?”
Trooper Jones searched the camper, while Olivio explained why Joe Hardy was under suspicion.
“There was a theft of dynamite at a construction job near here,” he said. “A blond boy was seen slipping away with three sticks. The watchman got a good look at him.”
“But what makes you think it was me?” Joe asked.
The officer said the police had been on the lookout for a blond youth, and a rancher had reported seeing such a person in the area.
As his partner spoke, Jones stepped out of the camper holding something in the palm of his hand.
“Where did you get this blasting cap?” he asked sternly. “What was it doing in one of your sleeping bags?”
“Listen,” Frank said, “if you’ll give us a chance to explain, we can clear the whole thing up.”
“Go ahead.”
Frank told about the bombing episode, which had destroyed their motorcycles. “Come with us,” he concluded, “and we’ll show you the place.”
“All right,” Olivio said. The police car followed the camper to the site of the explosion.
After the lawmen had looked around, Jones said, “Dynamite all right. But how do we know that you didn’t steal it and the stuff went off by accident?”
“We wouldn’t be here if it had,” Evan said. “We’d have been blown up.”
“Well, you’ll have to come to headquarters,” Olivio said. “Stay right behind us and don’t try to get away.”
The town, twenty-eight miles distant, was the county seat. It comprised a courthouse, a movie theater, garage and a dozen shops, surrounded by a scattering of frame houses.
The troopers entered their office, where a bronzed man in his thirties was seated behind a desk. He had jet-black hair and eyes to match. A plaque on his desk read Captain Popovi.
Jones said, “Captain, we found a blond boy who answers the description Callahan gave us.”
The captain, whom the Hardys figured to be an Indian, rose from his desk, sat on the edge of it, and looked keenly at the impatient quartet.
“Have a seat.” He pointed to a long bench, and turned to Olivio and Jones. “Go get Callahan.”
Then he listened quietly while the boys related what had happened on the mountain.
Captain Popovi said that he had read about Buster Buckles touring the area. He was glad to meet him, and also a visitor from Greece.
“But what brought you three boys out here?” he asked.
Frank smiled. “It’s a long story, Captain.”
“Go ahead, tell it. It’ll be some time before Callahan gets here.”
“Who’s he?” Buster asked.
“A witness. Now go on with your story.”
Frank told about their search for The Persian Glory and how they had come to find Buster Buckles.
“We’ve been harassed all along,” Frank sai
d. “But this bombing is the worst yet.”
The captain said he was well-acquainted with the machinations of the Gerrold gang. He also knew of Mr. Hardy’s reputation and concluded, “If you’re innocent, we’ll know soon enough.”
After nearly half an hour Olivio appeared with a man even older than Buster Buckles. The fellow had a flowing white mustache, gnarled brown hands, and walked with a decided stoop.
“We have a suspect, Callahan,” the captain said.
“Where?” The old man looked into the faces of the four seated on the bench.
“Stand up, Joe Hardy,” the captain said.
Callahan took a long look at Joe. “He’s young, and he has blond hair. But he’s not the kid that ran off with the dynamite.”
“Are you sure?” Popovi asked.
“Positive. The thief was sort of fat in the middle, even though he was about the same height.”
“All right, that does it,” the captain said. He stepped forward and shook hands with each of the four. “Sorry to detain you like this. But you understand.”
While Callahan was driven back to his job, the Hardys chatted briefly with Captain Popovi. He promised to be on the lookout for Cole and the Greek suspect, as well as the dynamite thief.
“Good-by and take care!”
Outside headquarters, the Hardys urged Buster to head for California immediately.
“The way you boys eat,” he protested, “we have to get more supplies.”
They chipped in some money and bought groceries to stock the larder. “That ought to hold us for a while,” Buster said.
After an overnight stop, they continued on the straight highway, with Frank and Joe spelling Buster at the wheel.
The miles could not fly fast enough to suit the Hardys as they neared their destination. Finally they crossed the border and drove through the jagged mountains at the western edge of the state.
It was evening when the little camper pulled up in front of the home of Buster Buckles. It was an old-fashioned bungalow located in a run-down area. A small one-car garage stood in the rear of the weed-covered lot.
Joe was all for plunging directly into a search for the film. But Buster said, “What’s your hurry? It’s late. We’ll look for it in the morning.”
The Shattered Helmet Page 7
