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talking in the far corner of the lot. He recognized several of them from the general store that morning. Mike Stavisky was easy to recognize, with his muscular build and heavy black beard. Skinny Freddy Zackarias stood beside him, nodding at everything Mike said.
*'Let's wander by there," Frank said softly. ''I want to hear what they're saying."
It didn't take long for Stan's name to come up in the conversation. "There was dynamite in Stan's truck," he heard Mike tell the others. ''He must have heard that the Forest Service was going to let Horizon cut down his precious redwoods after all. Him and his assistant have been causing trouble around here for years. I knew sooner or later one of 'em would pull something Hke this."
''But Stan Shaw?" a short, baby-faced logger interrupted. "If it was Galen I'd understand. He's threatened to blow up every mill in the state. But Stan's kinda reasonable for a tree hugger."
"There's no such thing as a reasonable tree hugger!" Mike boomed. "What's bad for logging is bad for your wallet, Nat, and don't you forget it. Stan lost his patience, that's all, and now he's going to pay for it."
"What's his problem?" Joe whispered to Frank as the brothers moved away before they got spotted.
"He probably believes what he's saying, but he's not making things any easier for anybody,"
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Frank replied grimly. 'The trouble is, the others are listening to him. Let's hurry up and get those packs. I want to get a look at Buster's truck."
"I'm not up to walking across those logs just now. What do you say we jog down to the bridge," Joe said.
The packs were right where they had left them. They shouldered theirs, and Frank carried Callie's as they made their way back across the bridge and along the riverbank toward the abandoned truck.
"There it is," Joe said after a short while, pointing through the trees. Where there was no mud the red paint gleamed in the afternoon sun. It was parked in the same spot where Callie and the boys had spotted it earlier. "It's at kind of a weird angle. Do you think Buster could have been forced off the road?"
"I don't know, but don't touch anything," Frank reminded him. "If Sheriff Ferris is such a by-the-book cop, we don't want to mess up any evidence for him."
"Don't worry," Joe replied. "I'll be sure and— Hey, look," he said, stopping abruptly near the driver's side. He pointed to the trampled muddy ground around the driver's door. "It looks like there was some kind of struggle here," he said. "See the tracks?"
Frank appeared beside him, inspecting the mess of footprints. "Men's feet, definitely. Look how big the prints are," he said. "It looks like they were wearing boots."
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* Those hobnailed boots the loggers wear?" Joe ventured excitedly.
Frank nodded. ''Maybe. It sure was good it rained last night."
As Frank knelt down to inspect the footprints more closely, Joe's gaze swung down the length of the truck. His eyes caught on a flash of bright lime green color a short distance away. ''What's that?" he asked, walking toward the bushes.
"What?" Frank asked.
"It's a cap. Buster was wearing a cap just like this." Joe whipped out a handkerchief and picked the duck-billed cap off the bush. It had the orange-and-purple Horizon Lumber insignia on it.
"Yep, I bet this is it," he called to Frank as he walked back to join his brother. "Oh, wow. It's stained or something—" Joe stopped dead in his tracks.
"What's the matter?" Frank asked, staring at him.
Joe held up the cap and slowly turned it to show his brother. "Blood!" was all he said.
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"Let me see that." Frank reached for the cap. He took it, holding on to the handkerchief, and examined it more closely. The entire back of the lime-colored cap was dark with blood.
"Whoever wore this could have been slugged hard from behind," Frank remarked.
"There's a black hair here on the inside," said Joe. "Buster had black hair, right? This is his truck, so it's probably his cap, too."
"Or his attacker's," Frank pointed out. "Several guys were wearing these at the general store and at the fire." He handed the cap back to Joe and put down his pack. "I'm going to take some pictures of these footprints," he said. "There are a couple of clear impressions here. The sheriff might be able to use them."
"Let's just hope they're not Stan's," Joe said, and wandered off to search for more clues.
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Frank had snapped half a dozen shots when he heard his brother cry out again. '*Hey, Frank! Look over here!"
Frank joined his brother a short distance down the logging road. At Joe's feet was a different set of tire marks. From their depth it looked as if the vehicle had pulled out in a hurry.
'That's not all," Joe said. "Look at that."
Frank squatted down to inspect the ground surrounding the tire tracks. A pair of furrows were cut into the mud, flanked by a single bootprint on either side. **It looks like someone dragged something to the truck," he said slowly, '*and probably loaded it into the vehicle here."
''What if it was a body they were dragging?" Joe asked, examining the furrows. "These marks could be made by the heels of someone's shoes. Someone could have loaded Buster into a car, driven back to the mill, then dumped his body in the main building. Then the guy set a few sticks of dynamite on fire with a long fuse."
"You think Buster was already dead when the explosion was set?" Frank asked.
"What difference does it make? Dead or just out cold, he wouldn't have a chance to save himself." Joe shook his head in disgust. "This is murder, Frank. I have a real gut feeling about it."
"I'm with you," Frank admitted. "But if we're right, the question is, why? I don't care how weird Stan was acting, he's not about to start murdering loggers. There have got to be
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other people who had grudges against Buster Owens—after all, he owned a mill and had to hire and fire people.
''We really don't know enough yet to make a list of suspects," Frank continued. "We'd better take this evidence to the sheriff. Maybe it'll help spring Stan, at least. But first let me finish my roll of film on these bootprints. This one over here is almost perfect."
'TW take care of the hat." Joe produced a plastic bag from his backpack. "It can't hurt to keep any possible fingerprints clean."
"I'll tell you what," Frank said. "If the sheriff says you did a good job with the evidence, I'll buy you lunch."
"Yeah, right." Joe followed Frank onto the logging road. "It'll be dinnertime by the time we get back to town. Lunch won't even be a possibility."
Frank and Joe decided to go back to the mill to catch a ride into town. When they got there the fire appeared to be completely out. All that remained of the morning's crowd were a couple of fire fighters casually hosing down the jagged, black rubble—the remains of Horizon Lumber. Frank spotted two men in suits leaving the ruins for the parking lot. "Those must be the fire investigators the sheriff called," he said.
"Maybe we can hitch a ride with them," Joe replied.
The boys approached the edge of the burned
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central building where the strangers had stopped to talk to the two fire fighters. 'There are still hot spots in there that want to burst into flames," Frank heard the taller of the two tell the volunteers. 'The only way to make sure it's dead is to keep hosing it down."
The fire fighters agreed, and the investigators continued on toward the parking lot. As they stopped beside a car with an emblem on the door, Frank and Joe ran up to them.
''Excuse me, sir?" Frank caught up with the taller man just as he was opening the car door. "My name's Frank Hardy and this is my brother, Joe. We were helping fight the fire and seem to have missed our ride back to town. We were wondering if we could catch a ride with you."
"Sure, Frank," said the tall man as he dusted some ash off his pants. "I'm Jerry, and this is my partner, OUi
e. If you boys helped fight this you earned a ride. But we have to hurry. We need to get a package ready for the state crime lab as soon as we can."
Frank and Joe climbed in the backseat as the two men got into the front.
As the car headed back for town, Frank spoke up. "Are you the guys sent to investigate the building?" They both nodded. "Did you find out how the fire started?"
"Well, we're not supposed to talk about it, but I guess you deserve an answer or two," Jerry said, glancing amiably at Frank in the rear-
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view mirror. ''Unfortunately, the answer is yes and no. We found out where the fire started— close to a tangle of hydraulic lines by one of the big saws—and we could see that it spread fast, real fast. What we don't know yet is what caused it, and that's what the lab's going to tell us."
''How?" asked Joe.
"Easy," OUie replied. His voice was a husky bass that sounded as if all his high notes had been burned out. "You may not know this, but explosives manufacturers are required to include microscopic amounts of certain materials in their products. That means every explosive leaves behind a signature. All we have to do is scrape up some of the debris, analyze it for specific elements, and—ta-dah—we got you. If you ask me, we're going to find some explosives here. The hoses weren't worn out. They were blown off the rigging. And that spells explosives to me."
Frank glanced at his brother. The chances seemed excellent that the debris would match the dynamite in Stan's truck. That might be all the evidence the sheriff needed to file charges against the environmentalist.
"How long does it take to get the lab results back?" he asked Ollie, trying to sound calm.
"Four to five days, usually," Ollie replied. "We'll put a rush on this one, though, since there may be a murder involved. We should hear from the lab in seventy-two hours, max." Ollie
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turned toward Frank and Joe. "Why are you boys so curious?"
'*No reason," Frank said lamely. He stared out the window and saw the town of Crosscut swing into view. '*We can get out here," he told Jerry. 'Thanks again for the ride."
''Anytime." Jerry stopped the car to let the boys out. ''Don't play with matches now, hear?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Joe asked, annoyed, as the brothers crossed the street toward the sheriff's office.
"I think it means quit asking questions because it makes us look suspicious," Frank replied. He eyed the modem exterior of the sheriffs office, set at the opposite end of Main Street from the general store. "If that's the case, Sheriff Ferris is going to be enormously suspicious in about five minutes," he added as they walked through the door.
Sheriff Ferris's desk was just inside the entrance. When Frank and Joe entered, the sheriff was talking quietly into the phone. A look of impatience flickered across his face when he saw the Hardys. He placed a hand over the mouthpiece. "May I help you boys?" he said. "I'm kind of busy right now."
"We have something you might be interested in," Joe said, holding up the plastic bag with the bloodstained cap inside. "We found Buster Owens's truck about a quarter mile from the mill. This was near it. We think he might have been in some kind of struggle."
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Sheriff Ferris said something into the phone and hung up. Then he motioned the boys to sit down. **What makes you think that?" he asked brusquely as the boys removed their backpacks.
Joe set the bag with the cap on Ferris's desk. "It's bloodstained," he said. '*We think it's Buster's."
"You moved a piece of evidence?" Ferris said angrily. "Don't you boys know I could have you arrested for that?"
Frank cleared his throat. "We wanted you to see this as soon as possible, because if that is Buster's blood, then he didn't just happen to be in his mill when it exploded. He could have been murdered. And, while you may think Stan Shaw started that fire, we think the real murderer may be getting away."
"Oh, so you're sure it couldn't be Callie's uncle." Sheriff Ferris shook his head. "Look, boys," he said finally. "I know your father's a famous detective. But Crosscut is my town, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't mess around with my crime scenes. The job's tough enough as it is. You got that?"
Frank held his gaze steadily for a moment. Then he said reluctantly, "Yes, sir. But I think you should know, there were some prints around the truck. It looked like there'd been a scuffle, and one guy apparently dragged the other a short distance to another car. I took pictures of the prints in case you needed them."
"Then hand them over!" the sheriff snapped.
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"I'd prefer to develop them myself," Frank said calmly. ''Also, Joe and 1 would like to see Stan Shaw."
The sheriff stared at Frank in amazement, but finally he laughed. *'A11 right, you win," he said. "I'll go check out the truck. You get me those prints by the end of the day. Eight by tens, understand? Stan is in a holding cell at the end of the hall. Ronnie Croft and Callie are with him."
Frank and Joe thanked the sheriff, picked up the backpacks, and headed toward the holding pens. "Not bad, Frank," Joe commented as they opened a heavy door with a wire-covered window. "I was sure we were going to get arrested in there."
"You just have to know how to talk to people, Joe," Frank said with a grin as they entered a room with a central hallway leading past a couple of empty cells. At the end of the hall stood Callie and Ronnie. They were talking to Stan, who was standing with his shoulders slumped forward and his head hanging, in the last cell.
"Frank!" Callie said. "We thought you'd never get here. Did you find out anything?"
"A little," Frank said with a nod to Ronnie and Stan. "Have you been charged with anything?" Frank asked Stan.
"Not yet," Callie answered for her uncle. "The sheriff has just questioned him. We don't think Ferris has enough evidence to make any formal charges. But someone from Save the Red-
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woods headquarters is on his way here to help out if necessary. Now, what about you?"
Frank and Joe brought the others up to date on what they had found on the mountain. CalUe, Stan, and Ronnie reacted with surprise and shock. "Who would purposely murder Buster Owens?" Stan blurted out when Frank had finished. "Everyone in town liked Buster."
"I hate to say it, but right now you're the only suspect, Stan," Frank advised him.
"We'll do anything we can to help prove your innocence, but we'll need a lot more information—especially from you—first," Joe explained.
Stan nodded. "I know. Callie's told me what good detectives you two are." He grinned wearily. "What do you need to know?"
"Is there any way you would profit from Buster's death?" Frank asked bluntly.
Stan's eyes widened. "Just the opposite," he replied simply. "Buster and I were just starting to make progress on an agreement concerning some timberlands around Crosscut. It was important to me, because Buster had been so stubborn about conservation for years."
"Who else knew about the agreement?" Joe asked.
Stan thought for a moment. "Walter Ecks, Buster's foreman, knew. And maybe Millie, Buster's daughter. Buster wanted to keep it as hush-hush as possible until he got all the details worked out."
Frank nodded. "At least there are one or two
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witnesses," he said. 'They can help prove you had no motive to kill Owens. Just one more question. What was your meeting with Buster about this afternoon?"
Stan drew back as though Frank had slapped him. "The meeting? That—that was a personal matter. It had nothing to do with what happened later. It's nothing that concerns you."
"It would help, though, if we knew more," Joe emphasized, watching him.
Stan shook his head. "No. I swore I wouldn't discuss it. Buster's dead now, and I don't believe I should—" Unexpectedly, Stan's eyes teared up.
Frank glanced at Callie and cleared his throat. "Uh, we have some photographs to develop here," he said briskly. "Is there a dark
room in town?"
"There's one at the newspaper," Ronnie Croft volunteered. "If it'll help Stan, it's all yours. Are you guys hungry?" Frank and Joe nodded. "I'll order some sandwiches from the Potbelly and you can eat before you work. Okay?"
"I'll stay here with Uncle Stan," Callie said. "You guys go ahead."
The offices of the Crosscut Guardian were small but cozy, Frank discovered—tucked into a storefront on Main Street near the Potbelly Cafe. "Not a bad operation," he commented as he inspected Ronnie's printing equipment, police
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scanner, computer, piles of paper, and other signs of an active and successful community newspaper. ''It must be fun, running a paper, with no boss to tell you what to do."
"Yeah, I like it," Ronnie admitted, opening the door of a converted closet to show the Har-dys her tiny darkroom. "Of course, when the fights over forest land get going I have to be careful to stay neutral. Otherwise," she added with a grimace, "I'm likely to lose half my subscribers. Oh well, I guess you can't please everybody."
Half an hour later the sandwiches were eaten, and Ronnie had started writing about the fire on her computer. As Frank and Joe were pouring chemicals into developing trays, they heard a commotion outside the darkroom. Frank stuck his head out of the room to see Ronnie standing at the front window, peering out at a mob scene in the street.
"What's going on?" Frank asked, stepping out of the darkroom. Joe followed him.
"A bunch of loggers are chasing Vance Galen down the street." Ronnie was very tense. "They're throwing things at him. They must think he's responsible for Buster's death."
"Come on. We'd better help him," Joe said.
"No need to hurry," Ronnie said grimly. "He's heading straight here."
Just then the door flew open and Galen ran in. He slammed the door behind him and leaned against it, panting. "Wow!" he shouted, wild-
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